THE DESERT CAPITAL
Just half-way along the ancient caravan route which runs northeast
from Damascus to the Euphrates River are the ruins of one of the most
remarkable cities of history; for here, in the midst of the desert,
Palmyra attained a wonderful degree of wealth and culture, and a military
power which for a time rivaled that of Rome itself.
The road thither is nearly always in the desert. This is not, however, a
level waste of sand; on the contrary, it is often quite a hilly country,
where for hours at a time the traveler passes along narrow valleys
between steep, rugged heights. The trail has been beaten so hard by the
tread of innumerable caravans that one could ride all the way to Palmyra
on a bicycle. In fact, tourist agents used sometimes to take parties
there by automobile. But this practice was soon abandoned, because
break-downs were frequent, and there were no garages where repairs might
be made. Our own party traveled on horseback, with the heavy luggage
carried by several donkeys and one very lively pack-camel who took
advantage of every possible opportunity to run away across the desert.
However you may go to Palmyra, it is not an easy journey. In summer the
sun is fearfully hot, and in winter the wilderness wind is piercingly
cold; the water along the route, while perhaps not actually unhealthful,
is warm and evil-tasting and full of animal life; unless you carry your
own tent you must sleep in hovels which are filthy and insect-ridden, and
marauding bands of Bedouins hover about, watching for a chance to rob the
luckless traveler.
Two days’ journey from Damascus, near the ancient and now very squalid
village of Karyatein, are a number of ruins which date from Græco-Roman
times. One of these, an extensive sanitarium, is known as the “Bath of
Balkis”—the traditional name of the Queen of Sheba. Within the enclosure
is a vaulted room with a paved floor, in the middle of which an opening
some ten inches in diameter sends forth a current of moist, hot,
sulphurous air. The heat of this room was so suffocating that we could
endure it only for a moment; but the air is believed to be beneficial
for certain diseases, and in Roman days the place was very popular as a
health resort.
From Karyatein the trail strikes across a broad plain between two
mountain ranges. This plain is about fifty miles, or eighteen
camel-hours, long, and its springs are very few and very poor. The
Syrian Desert shows no vegetation in summer except a low salsolaceous
thorn-bush, which the Arabs burn for its soda ash. This plant is called
_al-kali_, whence comes our word “alkali.” It was formerly extensively
used in the manufacture of soap; but on account of the importation of
cheaper materials it no longer has any commercial value.
In the middle of the day the heat was intense. Our heads were protected
from the direct rays of the sun by thick pith helmets, but the reflection
of the cloudless sky upon the whitish marl of the plain scorched our
faces and the flies were a torment to all except the camel, whose thick
hide seemed proof against their attacks.
We had planned to replenish our canteens at Ain el-Wuʿul; but the wells
there proved to be choked with locusts, and at Ain el-Beida, which
we reached after fourteen hours in the saddle, we found the water so
strongly impregnated with sulphur that it tasted like a dose of warm
medicine. This was the last spring in the district, however, so we had no
choice but to drink the nauseating stuff.
A small garrison of Turkish soldiers was stationed in this out-of-the-way
place to protect caravans against the Bedouins, who roam the desert in
the hope of plundering unwary travelers. These robber tribes view their
nefarious occupation as a legitimate business, a feature of desert life
which has become, so to speak, legalized by immemorial custom. They
regard the traveler exactly as the hunter does his prey—a bounty sent by
Providence, which it would be ungrateful for them not to accept. They
will strip their victim to the skin, but are careful not to take his life
unless resistance is offered. They leave him naked in the wilderness
under the protection of Allah, who must take the responsibility, should
the poor fellow perish from hunger and thirst and exposure.
Early the next morning we saw a band of such Arab raiders passing across
the plain a few miles west of us, and all day we proceeded with the
greatest caution, for fear they might swoop down upon us. We afterwards
learned that their last foray had been unsuccessful, and consequently
they were returning to their encampment in an unamiable frame of mind
which would have boded ill to us if we had happened to cross their path.
Midway between Ain el-Beida and Palmyra, we made a détour to visit some
mountains a little distance to the left of the trail. We found here two
altars about six feet high, bearing bi-lingual inscriptions in Greek and
Palmyrene, which related that they had been erected on March 21 of the
year of Palmyra 425 (114 A. D.), and were dedicated to the “Most High
God.” Near by could be seen the broken base of a third monument, but
there were no other indications of human handiwork. We concluded that
these altars must mark the course of the ancient highway, which the city
was under obligation to maintain and protect.
The hills on either side of the plain now drew very much nearer to us
and, as we approached the narrow pass which leads to the desert city,
we saw beside the road several strange mortuary towers. These are as
characteristic a feature of the environs of Palmyra as are the tombs on
the Appian Way of the approach to Rome. Several of the structures are in
a fair state of preservation and show clearly the original form and use.
They were each of three or four stories, the upper floors being reached
by inside stairways. Each story consisted of one square room surrounded
by _loculi_ for the reception of the dead, and before these, or standing
within the room, were statues of the persons entombed in the niches.
The statues either have been badly mutilated by the Arabs, who have a
religious aversion to all such “idolatrous” representations, or have been
destroyed by the vandalism of ignorant dealers in antiquities who, when
they found it inconvenient to carry off whole figures, would break them
and smuggle away the fragments. Many such heads, arms and feet have found
their way to the coast cities of Syria, and some few have been sold to
European palaces and museums.
Our long journey down the pass ended at a low saddle between the hills,
and we at last looked down upon Palmyra itself. Just below us stretched
a vast, confused mass of broken, reddish stones, from which rose here and
there a group of graceful columns or the massive wall of a ruined temple.
Back of the city were the desert hills; before it lay the desert plain.
Built by a spring at the crossroads of the wilderness—surely no other of
the world’s great capitals had so strange a site as this one!
The thrilling story of Palmyra’s rise and fall has been enshrined in
poetry and romance and has inspired the painter’s genius. The city lay,
as has been said, midway between Damascus and the Euphrates, on the most
fertile oasis along the ancient caravan route. It thus early became the
center of the trade between the Mediterranean countries and the heart of
western Asia. If, as is probable, the Tadmor or Tamar (Palm City) of the
Bible[42] is the same as Palmyra, then it was built (or, more probably,
rebuilt) by Solomon; but it does not again emerge into historical notice
until about the beginning of the Christian era, when Mark Antony led
an unsuccessful expedition against it. Still later, the Roman emperors
recognized Palmyra as an important ally and buffer-state against the
inroads of the Parthians. In the third century the Empire was thrown into
a state of anarchy by continual contests between rival claimants for the
throne; so, though in theory distant Palmyra was only a “colony,” it was
in fact given, or better, allowed to assume, a practical independence.
Its ruler Odenathus II. bore the title of Augustus, which was inferior
only to that of Emperor. After his death he was known as the “King of
kings.” In reality, he was the absolute ruler of a sovereign state.
When Valerian had been put to rout by Sapor of Persia, it was Odenathus
who decisively defeated the invaders, saved the Roman Empire from what
seemed certain overthrow, and incidentally added Mesopotamia to his
own royal domains. This king of Palmyra would doubtless have proved a
formidable rival of the emperor, had not his life been cut short by
assassination in the year 266.
Odenathus was succeeded by his son Vahballathus; but the real ruler
was his widow Bath Zebina, better known to the Western world by the
Greek form of her name, Zenobia. If we consider her intellectual power,
administrative ability and personal character, Zenobia ranks as one of
the greatest, if not the greatest, of all queens. She was as gifted
in military affairs as Semiramis, as strong a ruler as Elizabeth, as
beautiful as her ancestor Cleopatra, more learned than Catherine, and her
private life was never touched by the breath of calumny.
[Illustration: A few of the ruins which crowd the site of ancient
Palmyra]
[Illustration: The Triple Gate and the Temple of the Sun]
She is described as of surpassing loveliness, according to the Oriental
type of beauty, with sparkling black eyes, pearly teeth and a commanding
presence. She spoke Greek and Coptic fluently and knew some Latin, in
addition, of course, to her native Aramean. She drew up for her own use
an epitome of history, delighted in reading Homer and Plato, and beguiled
her leisure by discussing philosophy with the famous scholar Longinus,
whom she persuaded to take up a permanent residence at her court.
Her physical endurance was remarkable. While her husband was living,
she was accustomed to accompany him on his hunting expeditions. After
the death of Odenathus, she habitually rode at the head of her armies
on a fiery stallion, from which, however, she would often dismount, so
that she might share the fatigue of the march with the common soldiers.
It is no wonder that such a leader—beautiful, pure, brave, queenly
yet friendly—inspired in her armies an intense personal loyalty and
an unquestioning assent to her most daring plans. Without a murmur
they followed their beloved queen into the fearful struggle with the
world-empire.
At the very beginning of her reign, she threw down the gauntlet to Rome.
The sway of Palmyra already extended over Armenia and Mesopotamia. An
army of 70,000 men now defeated the Roman legions by the Nile and annexed
Egypt. Zenobia next pushed her victorious banners northward to the very
shores of the Bosphorus. When the newly elected emperor Aurelian insisted
that she should formally acknowledge his sovereignty, her answer was a
bold defiance and a proclamation of herself and her son as supreme rulers
of the whole East.
Aurelian, however, was of different stuff from his weakling predecessors.
In the year 272 he brought an immense army to Syria, defeated the forces
of Zenobia at Antioch and then, following quickly after the retreating
Palmyrenes, routed them again near the city of Emesa (modern Homs) and
demanded of Zenobia that she surrender. The haughty answer was that her
enemy had not yet even begun to test the valor and resources of Palmyra.
So the great army of Rome laid siege to the desert stronghold. The winter
and spring wore on, and Zenobia was still unconquered. Whenever Aurelian
summoned her to capitulate, she responded with another bold defiance.
But at last it became clear that her capital was doomed; so the queen,
escaping the vigilance of the Roman sentries, slipped away from the city
and fled across the desert toward the Euphrates. Just as she reached the
bank of the river, however, she was overtaken and brought back captive.
Yet her proud spirit remained unbroken. When Aurelian reproached her
for her obstinate and useless rebellion, she answered with calm dignity
that the course of events had indeed proved his supremacy, but that the
previous emperors had not shown themselves to be superior to her, and she
had therefore been justified in opposing their authority.
In spite of the stubborn resistance of the city, Aurelian did not now
destroy Palmyra or treat its inhabitants cruelly. But when he reached
the Bosphorus on his way back to Rome, word came that the Palmyrenes had
already revolted and had slain the Roman garrison left by the conqueror.
Thereupon he quickly retraced his march and recaptured the city without
difficulty. This time the enraged emperor ordered the beautiful capital
to be razed and allowed his soldiers to engage in an awful massacre.
Neither women nor children were spared, and when the avenging army
finally left the unhappy city, its splendid buildings were but heaps of
dusty rubbish, among which hid a miserable remnant of its heartbroken
inhabitants. Thus departed forever the glory of Palmyra.
The heart of the world has been touched by the pathetic spectacle of
proud, beautiful Zenobia led captive through the streets of Rome to grace
Aurelian’s triumphal procession. Yet the emperor seems to have treated
his captive with unusual consideration and respect, and he generously
bestowed upon her a large estate near Tivoli. There, in the company of
her two sons, she passed the rest of her days quietly, though we dare not
hope happily.
Palmyra was afterwards partially rebuilt by Diocletian and was fortified
by Justinian, who made it a garrison town; but it never regained its
former prosperity. The city was overrun by the desert Arabs, and suffered
severely during the conflicts among the rival Moslem conquerors of
Syria. In the year 745 it was again destroyed; in the eleventh and
twelfth centuries it suffered from severe earthquakes; in 1401 it was
plundered by the Tartar Tamerlane; in the sixteenth century it was taken
by the Druses, and in the seventeenth it was razed by the Turks. For many
generations the ancient city on the oasis was completely unknown to the
Western world, though the wandering Bedouins delighted to talk of the
marvelous ruins in the midst of the great desert.
Modern Tadmor—for it has taken again its old Semitic name—is but a
wretched Arab hamlet of perhaps three hundred inhabitants, whose
mud-plastered hovels lie in the midst of imposing ruins. Fully a square
mile of the plain is strewn with the débris of temples, palaces and
majestic colonnades. Many columns are still standing, after having braved
the wars and earthquakes of sixteen centuries; but by far the greater
number of them lie prone on the ground, half buried by the drifting dust.
The most prominent object that meets the eye is the Great Temple of Baal,
the sun-god, which stands on a high platform overlooking the plain.
Although Aurelian himself had this edifice restored after the final
subjugation of Palmyra, it has since been badly damaged by earthquakes
and defaced by the fanaticism of Moslem iconoclasts. Yet eight of its
tall fluted columns and practically all of one side-wall enable us to
guess what must have been the beauty of this structure when it was the
chief sanctuary of Zenobia’s capital.
Other ruins rise above the intricate mass of fallen columns which cover
the area occupied by the ancient city. This huge pile of carved stones
surmounted by a broken portico was once the royal palace. Yonder curving
colonnade includes the fragments of the theater. Smaller temples are
recognized here and there, and on the hillside at the edge of the oasis
can be seen a number of the tall, square towers which were built as
burial-places for the wealthier families.
But the chief architectural glory of ancient Palmyra was its far-famed
Street of Columns. This imposing avenue stretched from the western edge
of the oasis to the Temple of the Sun, a distance of about three-quarters
of a mile. On each side of it was a continuous, elaborately carved
entablature, supported by nearly four hundred columns of reddish-brown
limestone. About two-thirds of the way up these columns were corbels
which, as the inscriptions still show, bore statues of prominent
citizens. At every important crossing, whence other colonnaded avenues
stretched to the right and left, four massive granite pillars supported a
vaulted _tetrapylon_ or quadruple gate.
Over a hundred of the columns of this beautiful avenue are still standing
in their places, and large portions of the entablature remain unbroken.
One can easily follow the course of the colonnade and understand its
relation to adjoining structures; and the traveler must be sadly lacking
in imagination who cannot sometimes, as the light of the twentieth
century day grows dimmer, see a dream city of wondrous, unbroken beauty
stand proud again beneath the calm, still gleaming of the desert stars.
Not shattered stones but well-built homes and busy bazaars spread far
outward from the foot of the mountain; a multitude of graceful pillars
stand upright around the palaces and temples of a mighty capital, and
between the long lines of statues on the reddish shafts of the great
colonnade a splendid vista reaches to the triumphal arch and then,
through its triple portals, to where the Temple of the Sun keeps silent
watch over a city of imperial grandeur and a queen who sees visions of
world-wide dominion.
The few hundred residents of Tadmor are of Arab blood, but the Bedouins
of the surrounding desert consider them a poor, degenerate race, as
doubtless they are. Shortly before we visited the village, its sheikh
had made a wonderful trip to Paris as guest of a French lady who had
previously traveled through the desert under his guidance. It seemed
very strange, in this lonely little hamlet among the ruins of a
vanished people, to hear an Arab sheikh tell stories—and he loved to
tell them—about his adventures in the most modern of twentieth century
capitals.
We were so fortunate as to be invited to a great feast which the sheikh
gave the entire village in honor of his birthday. Feeding the poor in
this wholesale way is regarded by the Arabs as a deed of great merit. A
slaughtered camel provided the _pièce de résistance_ of the banquet. In
the center of the room was placed an enormous tray piled with a mountain
of _burghul_, or boiled wheat, into which had been inserted huge pieces
of camel’s meat. A large funnel-shaped depression had been scooped out
in the top of the pile and filled with melted butter. This percolated
through the mass and added the final touch of flavor to what was—if you
liked it—a most rich and delicious repast. The anxious villagers were
then admitted in groups of eight or ten. They immediately squatted around
the tray, thrust their hands into the mass, grasped as much as they
could, plunged it into their mouths and, in order not to lose any time,
swallowed it with as little mastication as possible. One greedy fellow
got an unusually large chunk of camel’s meat into his throat and, as a
consequence, nearly choked to death before his comrades relieved him by
strenuous blows upon his back.
In order to visit Hama, we returned from Palmyra by another route; and,
as a large part of this journey was to be across a trackless, waterless
and absolutely uninhabited desert, we engaged a Bedouin to act as our
guide.
Not long after setting out, we passed through a gap in the hills a
quarter of a mile wide, whose sides were almost as perpendicular as if
they had been walls shaped by the hand of man. The locality is called
_Marbat Antar_, that is, “Antar’s Hitching-place.” Antar is the hero of
many a fabulous exploit among the Arabs, much as was Hercules among the
Greeks; and the prodigies of valor which he performed in defense of his
tribe are celebrated in song and story. Among other wonderful feats, he
is said to have leaped his horse across this deep ravine from cliff to
cliff.
The first day’s journey homeward brought us to el-Wesen, a well where we
had expected to lay in a supply of water for the long ride across the
arid wilderness; but, to our intense disappointment, we found the water
foul with dead locusts. Our Arabs, however, swallowed the nauseating
fluid with great gusto, apparently rejoicing that they could obtain both
food and drink in the same mouthful; and, as it was a case of necessity,
we managed to cook some food with the water, and even drank a little of
it in the form of very strong tea which disguised somewhat the insect
flavor.
The next morning we were ready for the start at four o’clock and
traveled all day through a rolling, treeless country, which in summer is
absolutely bare of vegetation. At sunset we halted for two hours in order
to rest and feed the animals. Then we mounted again for an all-night
ride; for we did not dare sleep until we had come to water. There was
no trail visible to us, but our guide held steadily on through the
darkness. During the long night we could see ahead of us his white camel,
keeping straight on the course with no apparent aid save the twinkling
stars above. There was such danger of falling in with one of the robber
tribes which infest this district that we were warned not to speak above
a whisper. The poor donkeys also received a hint not to bray. Each of
them had a halter looped tightly around his neck. As soon as an animal
was seen to raise his nose in preparation for an ecstatic song, some one
would quickly tighten the noose and, to our amusement and the donkey’s
very evident disgust, the only sound to issue from his throat would be a
thin gurgling whine.
As the night drew on we became so sleepy that we could hardly sit in the
saddles, and before morning dawned we were burning with thirst. Our guide
led us to another spring. Not only was it full of long-dead locusts, but
a wild pig was wallowing in the filthy water! Even the Arabs refused to
drink from the pool that had been defiled by the unclean beast. There was
nothing to do but to push on again. We had been twenty-six hours in the
saddle, with nothing to drink save “locust-tea,” when at last we came
to a little village by a running stream of clear, limpid water—and our
desert journey was safely over.