THE MARCHES OF ANCIENT ROME
(DARA AND NISIBIN)
From the eastern gate of Mardin the road decants itself plainwards in a
skein of curves and zigzags--a vertical descent of 2000 feet, spinning
out its gradients to a length of five or six miles. It is not at all a
bad road. One could easily bicycle down it--and perhaps even bicycle up
it if in specially strenuous mood. But it is, as it were, the swan-song
of the modern Ottoman Telfords, and as soon as it reaches the level it
reverts into a sheaf of footpaths. Henceforth to the end of our journey
we saw no more metalled roads.
We had now, too, a further reminder of the fact that we were quitting
civilization, for a couple of _zaptiehs_ rode with us to escort us over
the stage to Nisibin. Hitherto such protection had been deemed needless:
but in these remoter districts the Government prefers to have some
tangible assurance of a European traveller's safety, seeing that it is
liable to be held responsible if he is unfortunate enough to come to
grief. Thus that modest intruder finds himself passed on from city to
city with all the pomp and circumstance of an armed cavalry escort; and
afflicted at every stage with the consciousness that he is passing
current at a face value vastly in excess of his intrinsic worth.
The _zaptiehs_ are a sort of military police, analogous to the Spanish
Civil Guard or the Royal Irish Constabulary; though we fear that these
two _corps d'elite_ would not be likely to feel gratified at a
suggestion that such deplorable ragamuffins should "march through
Coventry" with them. Personally, for the most part, they are
good-humoured and obliging fellows; accepting rough weather and hard
lodging with the utmost philosophy. Also they rather welcome the chance
of a little escort duty. It is a pleasant change from the monotony of
garrison life; and there is a tip to look forward to finally, though
this must be "under the rose." "You have not mentioned that you've given
us a present?" said one of our fellows with engaging _naïveté_ when we
asked him to carry back a letter--"Because it isn't allowed!"
But though Western civilization extends thus far no longer, there is not
wanting tangible evidence to prove that it was here long ago. In the
midst of one of the first plain villages there rises, like a lofty
_aiguille_, the angle of a Roman watch tower. It seems impossible that
such a slender fragment should be able to withstand wind and weather
much longer; but hitherto the huge square blocks have stood firm though
all support has fallen away. A Roman church (or more probably a Roman
house converted into a church) stands in another village; and at the end
of a short day's journey we turned aside to visit some yet more striking
remains.
The mountains at this point ravel out on to the plain in a line of
gently sloping spurs, and from between two of these issues a broad and
shallow but never-failing stream. The spurs immediately westward of it
are conspicuously gashed across with wide deep transverse trenches; and
as we draw nearer we perceive that the ridge on each side of the river
is crested with a ruined rampart, and that the hollow enclosed between
them is a regular sugar bowl of huge disjointed stones. Here and there
out of the chaos rises the fragment of a mighty tower or a massive
skeleton archway, and presently we can descry a few wretched Kurdish
hovels half hidden among the débris of the great devastated city.
Such is now the fortress of Daras, once the Metz or Belfort of its age.
[Illustration: SHEIKH ADI.
The upper end of the buildings showing the forecourt and entrance
gateway: and (apparently) "the Proprietor," seated on the wall above.]
In the year 503, after the disastrous campaign which witnessed the fall
of Amida and the failure to recapture Nisibis, the Emperor Anastasius
took his generals severely to task "for that they did not prosper nor
succeed in the war according to his will under the Lord." The
unfortunate generals protested that they could not reasonably expect to
defeat a potentate who was manifestly commissioned by Providence to
chastise the backsliding Romans--especially when he had such a large
army. But they closed their jeremiads with one eminently practical
suggestion viz.--that it was quite hopeless to attack Nisibis unless
they had a strong base of operations close by. This notion appealed to
Anastasius--a great believer in fortification, and the builder of the
famous "Long Walls," the Byzantine Lines of Tchatalja. After some
consideration he fixed upon Daras as the site of his new fortress; and
(as it was church property) he bought it honestly, and commissioned
Thomas, the Bishop of Amida, to undertake the contemplated work. The
commander of the covering army was one Felicissimus, of whom it is
significantly chronicled that "he was not at all covetous;" but all the
engineering work seems to have been supervised by the bishop. Anastasius
supplied him with money freely, and engaged that neither he nor his
successors should demand any accounts of the expenditure--which seems
rather an extreme test even of a bishop's integrity. He specially
stipulated, however, that none of the workmen should be defrauded of
their wages, having ascertained (no doubt by a system of trial and
error) that "cities (on the frontier) got built quicker that way." It is
worthy of remark that a day's wage at that time was 4 _keratin_
(2_d._)[32] and that the services of an ass were rated as precisely
equivalent to a man's. Upon these principles the work progressed
rapidly, and the city was finished in three years; Kobad being engaged
upon his eastern frontier, and quite unaware of what was going on.
"Is she not fair, my daughter of a year?" cried Coeur de Lion proudly
as he gazed on Chateau Gaillard: and to build Chateau Gaillard in one
year was certainly a fine achievement, yet it was as nothing in
comparison to the building of Daras in three. It gives us a great idea
of the resources of the Byzantine Empire that Anastasius, an
undistinguished, albeit a conscientious, ruler should have been able to
bequeath to us so superb a monument of his power. Dara is very similar
in site, as it is accidentally similar in name, to another Roman
foundation, the town of Daroca in Aragon. It lies pooled in a cup-like
depression between the two rims of high ground which are crested with
its formidable ramparts; and through the midst of it flows the little
river, which cannot be diverted anywhere and thus ensures a constant
water-supply. At either end of the depression the ramparts stoop from
their opposing heights and join hands with each other across the stream.
At these points the water is admitted and discharged through cunningly
contrived water-gates consisting of several small arches, once defended
by metal grilles the mortices for which may still be seen. Formerly no
doubt these arches could be closed by sluices. Thus a wide and deep
inundation could be formed without the walls at the upper gate, which
would provide additional protection; and a similar reservoir could be
collected within the walls at the lower gate, and discharged to
overwhelm any battering engines that might be advanced against the city
from the plain.
The walls which crown the flanking heights are of singularly massive
construction, and defended by a deep wide moat cut out of the solid
rock. As at Diarbekr and Urfa (and in Spain at Lugo and Astorga) they
are strengthened at frequent intervals by solid projecting round towers.
Within the city itself are some even more notable monuments. The
builders of the fortress did not rely exclusively on the river for their
water-supply, but provided a huge underground cistern, fed by a
rock-hewn conduit and capable of storing nearly five million gallons at
need. This cistern consists of ten parallel vaulted tunnels, each about
150 feet long and 13 to 14 feet wide, with an internal height of 40 feet
from the floor to the crown of the vault. The division walls of this
structure are thickly encrusted with lime deposit, thus proving
conclusively the purpose for which it was designed.
[Illustration: CROSS SECTION
_GREAT GRANARY OF DARAS_]
A little distance away is a sort of square platform of masonry, rising a
few feet above the general level of the ground. We penetrated into it by
a dark and narrow passage, and groping our way gingerly down a steep
descent by the light of a couple of candles we found ourselves at last
in a titanic cellar, 60 feet long and 50 wide, divided by a massive
arcade into two naves, and roofed by a double barrel vault 50 feet above
the level of the floor. This is doubtless the Great Granary mentioned
by Zachariah of Mitylene; but (being underground) it is of course now
deemed to have been a dungeon, and is known locally as "the Big
Oubliette." The prodigious size of the stones employed in building it,
and the extreme solidity of the masonry, made us think of the famous
cisterns at Constantinople as very inferior structures indeed.[33]
The use of such very large stones is a notable feature of Dara and gives
a more grandiose character to ruins magnificent in themselves. Two
average sized blocks on the ramparts, which still lay conveniently _in
situ_, afforded ample area for the accommodation of a camp bed; and each
of the two taken separately must have weighed not much short of a ton.
Even the houses appear to have been built of stones as large as those
used in the fortifications. It would seem that they were employed in
sheer bravado, as was undoubtedly the case with the yet bigger stones of
Baalbec. Now all lie scattered at random over the whole area of the
city, and it puzzles us not a little to conceive how such singularly
solid buildings can have been so utterly overthrown. Earthquakes or
battering rams might have demolished them; but then one would expect to
find the débris lying in heaps as it fell. The stones might have been
removed to construct new houses and enclosures; but then they would be
disposed in some sort of regular lines. Did some Timour deliberately
give order that no stone should be left upon another? Even he might have
been daunted at such an undertaking, when the removal of each several
block could employ a file of men for a day.
It is ever a futile task to prop a falling empire by the construction of
prodigious defences; but at least Daras filled the gap long enough to
witness the dawn of a more prosperous day. In the year 529--twenty-five
years after the building of the city--Belisarius faced the Persian army
on the flat ground just outside the lower water-gate. Perozes, the
Persian commander, led a host of 40,000 soldiers; and the young Roman
general had but 25,000, a motley agglomeration of Goths, Huns, and
Heruls--for at this period it was the Romans' custom to impress their
Gothic captives to fight against the Persians, and their Persian
captives to fight against the Goths. Belisarius distrusted his army; and
with very sufficient reason. So great had been the decay of Roman
"virtue" that over a generation had elapsed since last they had won a
victory in the field! He drew up his troops behind a strong line of
entrenchments, so close under the walls of the city that they
constituted rather an outwork of the permanent fortifications than
regular field works of the orthodox type. Indeed, but that he had some
scope for counter attack, he seemed rather preparing for a siege than
for a battle. Remarkably timid tactics for a general who was soon to
prove himself the most dashing commander of his age!
The Persians must have been pretty confident to venture upon attacking
such a position. But Perozes felt no doubt of the issue, and sent in an
arrogant message to the city ordering the baths to be made ready for his
use that night. His troops attacked the Roman left so strongly as
actually to force the trenches; but, disordered by their success, they
offered an opening to the Herul cavalry, and a furious charge drove them
back in complete disarray. Thus, freed from anxiety for his left,
Belisarius was able to employ his whole reserve in a decisive charge on
the flank of the Persian left who were endeavouring to envelop his
right. This wing, the flower of the Persian army, was cut off and
annihilated; but Belisarius, true to his prudent tactics, would not
trust his raw troops in a prolonged pursuit. Perozes was thus enabled to
carry off most of his wounded; cunningly inviting the citizens of
Nisibis to come for the plunder of Daras, and thus obtaining the use of
enough wagons to convey his maimed soldiers away.
We outspanned our caravan for the night on the very site of Belisarius'
entrenchments just outside the lower water-gate; for the city enclosure
itself is so cumbered with its own ruins that it is actually impossible
to take wheeled vehicles inside. We might have carried our baggage in;
and the Armenian priest of the village (for there are about fifteen
Armenian families living there) offered us the use of his house most
pressingly, representing that our so honouring him would "increase his
name" among the Kurds. But on this occasion we judged it better to keep
all our possessions together, and stay ourselves to watch over their
safety; and so (as already hinted) we spread our beds on the ramparts,
just high enough up to avoid the mists which might be expected to rise
from the stream. It proved rather a draughty lodging, but this fact did
not trouble us greatly; and we slept undisturbed until the morning star
was high enough to give warning of the coming of the sun.
There is a side-show attached to Dara which is scarcely less interesting
than itself; and as soon as we found ourselves in full possession of
breakfast and daylight (two events which were practically
contemporaneous) we decided that, before continuing our journey, we
would turn back a mile or so westward to visit the tombs and caves.
These make those conspicuous scars which had already attracted our
attention as we approached the city--the wide deep transverse gashes
which are scored across the neighbouring hill sides.
The rock-cut moat of the city could supply but a small part of the
material required for all the buildings, and accordingly shoulder after
shoulder of the hills to the westward has been pierced with quarries for
more stone. When the masons had finished their job these quarries were
promptly appropriated by a flourishing colony of hermits,[34] who
honeycombed all the exposed faces with hundreds of cells and tombs. The
cells are mostly cut into the vertical faces; the standard pattern
having a round-arched recess for a porch, with a seat on either side of
it, and a small square-headed doorway in the middle admitting to a cell
about eight feet square. One of the seats in the porch is often hollowed
out to form a grave for the occupant of the hermitage or sometimes this
niche has been cut out in the floor or wall of his cell. Other graves
are above the quarries, sunk vertically into the horizontal surfaces.
These have an oblong opening, and widen out below beehive-wise so as to
form two or more tombs. The opening was covered in with a gable-shaped
sarcophagus lid, and many of these are lying about though none are
actually in position. No doubt they have been removed by searchers after
buried treasure.
The biggest of all the caves must have served as the anchorites' church.
It has an elaborately carved doorway with bas-relief panels over it
representing apparently the Nativity and the Descent into Hades. The
interior is irregularly quadrilateral, and must measure about
thirty-five feet across. It has a flat ceiling, and is partly surrounded
by a gallery, about eight feet wide and eight feet below the ceiling,
supported on a range of rock-cut corbelled arches. There is nothing to
indicate the position of the altar, and the eastern side is occupied by
the doorway; but the altar may have stood in the centre of the floor.
The level of the floor itself is also a matter for conjecture, as at
present it is deeply covered with débris. The place is now used as a
sheep shelter, and is known as the _khan_ or "Inn." It is lit by a
single small window immediately over the door.
There is interest enough at Dara to occupy an archæologist for weeks
together--for months if he sees fit to excavate--but we had to resume
our journey, and we knew that if we wanted more archæologizing we should
have no difficulty whatever in finding opportunity on the road. About
three hours eastward of Dara stands another Roman fortalice--a big
square castle standing in lonely grandeur amid the desolate plain. The
walls are now sadly shattered, excepting the great round bastion which
is planted at one of the angles; and within the ruined enclosure is
hutted a squalid community of miserable half-naked Kurds. This is
doubtless the castle between Nisibis and Daras which Justinian ordered
to be built in the first year of his reign. It was not auspiciously
founded, for Kobad's army descended upon the builders before the work
was completed, and the Romans were crushingly defeated, leaving most of
their commanders[35] on the field. The future course of the war was,
however, more favourably influenced by the fact that a certain junior
general, of the name of Belisarius, escaped.
Another three hours of slow progress, and we find ourselves approaching
another township. The first indication of its neighbourhood is the
apparition of a cobble-paved causeway, which gradually consolidates
itself out of the dust of the desert, and holds its course steadily
onward in a straight undeviating line. Probably it too is Roman, and if
so the Romans were the last people who troubled to repair it; for it is
so appallingly bumpy, and so frequently intersected by irrigation
ditches, that the vehicles tactfully ignore it and keep to the unpaved
ground. It leads us at length to a village which is somewhat larger than
Dara, but which lacks all Dara's evidences of bygone wealth and
grandeur. This place boasts a _khan_ and a market, and is the seat of a
local governor. But if it has not fallen so low as its neighbour, it has
fallen infinitely farther: for this wretched hamlet is Nisibis, once the
impregnable fortress which marked the furthest limit of the power of
Imperial Rome.
Nisibis was won for Rome by the conquering arm of Lucullus. It was known
then as Antioch in Mygdonia, because its fertile fields and shady groves
irresistibly reminded the Graecian colonists of their lovely Antioch of
Daphne. What a satire on Plutarch's explanation are the grim wastes
which now environ it, and the barren hummocks of drift sand which have
covered its ruins like a shroud! The Romans fortified the city with a
triple rampart and a deep moat, and esteemed it (as it often proved
itself) the principal bulwark of the east. They maintained a strong
garrison in it; and the inhabitants, living in a state of constant
warfare with the Parthians and Sassanid Persians, made almost as
reliable soldiers as the regular legionaries themselves.
When Sapor II made war on Constantius it was Nisibis that checked his
invasions. Between the years 338 and 350 it sustained no fewer than
three sieges, and on each of those three occasions it repulsed the
invader from its walls. The last siege was also the greatest. Sapor
advanced to the attack at the head of an enormous army drawn from all
parts of Persia and India, and pressed his assaults most vehemently for
a period of over three months. The garrison was ably commanded by Count
Lucilianus, but the soul of the defence was the celebrated bishop St.
James of Nisibis; and Sapor, finding that he could make no impression by
ordinary methods, conceived the idea of raising an enormous dam to
obstruct the Jag-jag river (the ancient Mygdonius) and so flooding the
place out. As the city lies in a slight depression this Gargantuan
scheme was just feasible; and Sapor did actually contrive to create such
an inundation that he could launch a fleet upon it and assail the
defenders of the walls on level terms. The combined effect of the flood
and the floating batteries opened a breach 150 feet wide, and the Great
King ordered an immediate assault: but the attacking columns were bogged
in the deep mud, and environed by invisible pot-holes; and to cap all,
the elephants stampeded and trampled them underfoot by scores. At
nightfall the Persians drew off, and the breach was repaired before
morning. Sapor had lost 20,000 soldiers and broke up the siege in
despair. Legend asserts that his retreat was much expedited by a
prodigious plague of flies which descended on the Persian camp in
response to the sainted bishop's orisons: but a sceptic might argue that
when you have an Oriental army, with its usual disregard of every
possible sanitary precaution, encamping in a marsh for three months
during the height of a Mesopotamian summer, it needs no miraculous
interference to account for something phenomenal in the way of flies!
Alas! all these efforts were wasted. Thirteen years later the Emperor
Julian was killed in his famous expedition against Ctesiphon. Jovian, in
order to extricate the army, was compelled to sign an ignominious
treaty; and one of the chief conditions that Sapor insisted upon was
that Nisibis should be ceded into his hands. The inhabitants implored
the emperor's pity. Let him but give them leave to defend themselves,
they would ask for no external aid. But Jovian was cowed by defeat, and
afraid of offending the conqueror: and the townsfolk, well aware that
they could expect no mercy from a potentate whom they had thrice
discomfited, withdrew with all their possessions and left an empty city
in the Persians' hands.
Nisibis under its new masters proved as impregnable a fortress as ever;
but it won a new title to fame while under Sassanian rule. In the year
489 the Monophysite Emperor Zeno suppressed the great College of Edessa
on the ground that it was tainted with Nestorianism. The Christian
bishop of Nisibis was at that time a certain Bar Soma; a prelate of the
type which asserted itself more prominently in the Middle Ages, in such
men as Henry Despenser the martial bishop of Norwich, or Carillo the
turbulent primate of Toledo. Bar Soma was a personage of some
consequence at the Persian Court, and in fact seems to have held a
position somewhat akin to Warden of the Marches. He had himself been a
scholar at Edessa, and had remained on intimate terms with most of the
professors; and he conceived the idea of re-establishing the college in
his own cathedral town.
The college thus refounded prospered exceedingly, and remained for many
generations the most important educational centre in the East. It
boasted about 1000 students (for Oriental students pack close), and
though its course was primarily theological, yet it did much to keep
alive profane knowledge as well. Thus it forms a not unimportant link
between ancient and modern learning. The wisdom of the Greeks, which it
received from Edessa, it handed on in its turn to Baghdad and Cordova
and Salamanca; and perhaps even Oxford and Cambridge and Paris and Padua
may owe to the college of Nisibis more than they are quite aware.
There may well be good booty at Nisibin for an archæologist with a turn
for excavation, for the mounds and hillocks which encircle it are
manifestly piled on ancient walls. But there is little enough above
ground--a bridge which is so badly battered that the carts prefer
fording the river; a fragment or two of old walling; and a group of five
monolithic columns, about two-fifths buried in débris, which are known
as the columns of weighing, and which probably formed part of the
peristyle of the forum. There remains, however, one special monument of
even more interest to the ecclesiologist than to the antiquarian--the
Church of St. James of Nisibis, one of the oldest Christian edifices in
the world.
[Illustration: _CHURCH OF SAINT JAMES AT NISIBIS_]
Few indeed are the Christian churches of earlier date than the fifth
century. Even the famous basilicas at Ravenna and Parenzo were only
erected in the sixth. With the possible exception of Sta. Pudentiana at
Rome there is no fourth-century church remaining in Europe, and even in
Asia and Africa the examples may be counted on the fingers of the hand.
But the date of St. James' church at Nisibis cannot possibly be later
than the year 363, when the city was ceded to the Persians; and as it
was built to receive the tomb of the saint (who died shortly after 350),
it may be not improbably regarded as the citizens' thank-offering for
their deliverance from the great siege.
The church was originally triple, dedicated no doubt to the Holy
Trinity, and consisting of three square _cellæ_ placed side by side.
Each _cella_ measured about twenty-five feet in width, and had a small
semicircular recess in the centre of the eastern wall. A pair of arched
openings, each about four feet wide, gave access from _cella_ to
_cella_; and a wider archway in each of the western walls opened into a
triple narthex, furnished with three double doorways which opened into a
courtyard.
The central _cella_ is almost perfect as high as the cornice; but is
roofed with a modern dome and pendentives, and has nothing to indicate
conclusively the form of the original roof. The northern _cella_ has
been more damaged and restored; but still retains the narthex doorways
(now blocked) which the central narthex has lost. The southern _cella_,
with its narthex, has been entirely destroyed.
The side openings are spanned by heavy stone lintels, as also are the
doorways in the narthex; but the western arches, and these over the
apses, are open. Around them all internally runs a bold and richly
carved architrave, which is also continued intermediately as a string
along the walls. The foliage and mouldings throughout are thoroughly
classical in feeling, and the work has all been executed in very
finished style.
The tomb of St. James is in a tiny crypt under the altar in the centre
of the central _cella_. It consists of a stone sarcophagus covered with
a heavy ridged lid; and it is highly probable that his bones have never
been disturbed.
The central _cella_ is still used for Christian worship, and has
probably been so used continuously ever since the church was built. The
northern _cella_, however, is not at present used. The Christians who
live at Nisibin are Jacobites, and their Qasha inhabits a sort of little
prophet's chamber built up against the northern wall of the church.
A change had to be made in our personnel for the ensuing section of the
journey. The _zaptiehs_ who had accompanied us from Mardin had reached
the end of their beat, and we had to apply for a fresh escort to carry
us on to Mosul. One of our two new protectors had travelled with "Rabbi
Mr. Wigram" before and "knew him to be virtuous and generous," so
relations promised to be harmonious. They were instructed to call for us
at the _khan_ at daybreak, "as soon as there was light enough to
distinguish between a black thread and a white." They turned up fairly
punctually; but it then transpired that two of our horses needed
shoeing, and that the drivers (of course) had not considered it
necessary to attend to the matter until it was time to start. Thus the
day was quite two hours old when we forded the Jag-jag river, and bumped
off along the causeway which leads from the end of the bridge.
Eastward from Nisibin to Mosul--a distance of 120 miles as the crow
flies--lies a stretch of unmitigated desert which is known by the
expressive name of the _Chôl_. For a journey of four or five days
(according to the conditions of travelling) you pass no permanent human
habitation, and the same monotonous level lies before you at every
stage. You must carry your own provisions with you, your own shelter for
your nightly bivouacs, and (if you are prudent) your own furnace for
boiling the water. Even that water itself is only found at rare
intervals in stagnant muddy puddles or intermittent and starveling
streams.
The _Chôl_ is no sandy desert like the Obi or the Sahara. It is rather
what the Spaniards would call a _dehesa_ or _despoblada_--a waste which
might be made fertile by the expenditure of a little pains. It is
covered with sparse grass and stunted shrubs, and thistles which are by
no means stunted; and a little desultory cultivation which is carried on
along the outskirts proves that, with the re-establishment of
irrigation, it might again be converted into one of the granaries of the
world. Once it supported an immense population, for it was the home of
the ancient Assyrians; and though the nucleus of that nation was
concentrated at Nineveh and the adjacent townships, yet there must have
been thousands of surrounding villages to supply food for the crowded
cities and recruits for the mighty armies which dominated the whole
Eastern world.
They have left some trace of their handiwork, for the whole extent of
the desert is studded with gigantic _tels_ spaced six or seven miles
apart--huge mounds of earth as big as Silbury Hill. What purpose these
can have originally served is a matter of much conjecture. Possibly they
were sepulchral tumuli, possibly the mounts of village castles, possibly
high places for the performance of sacrificial rites; but in any case it
is evident that they cannot have been erected without a vast amount of
human labour, and that the whole of the present population would not
suffice to raise one. Now they serve chiefly as landmarks by which the
faintly marked road can steer its course towards the horizon; and in
several instances they still form burial places, possibly from some
vague feeling that they must have been sacred long ago.
The more direct southerly road from the Euphrates ferry to Mosul
traverses this desolate region for a journey of fully ten days; but the
three or four days extra entailed by the divergence through Diarbekr
bring with them their own compensation in the shape of greater interest
on the way. Moreover the _Chôl_ has its dangers. In summer it is a
veritable furnace, and tall awe-inspiring dust devils stalk about it
like wandering Jann. But the chief terror of travellers is the "Poison
Wind" or _Sâm_, a faint invisible eddy of scorching air, which will pick
out a single man or beast from the midst of a caravan and strike him
down instantly senseless, sometimes even killing him on the spot.
At the other end of the scale the district is not exempt from blizzards.
In the extraordinarily severe winter of 1910-1911 the northern part of
the _Chôl_ was visited by a prodigious snowstorm--a most unusual
phenomenon--and many parties of Arabs were positively snowed under in
their encampments and perished of cold and hunger before they were able
to extricate themselves.[36] A wandering Kurd related to us how he had
stumbled on such a camp after the visitation was over. His suspicion
that something was amiss was first aroused by the fact that he
encountered no challenge either from man or dog. When he came to the
tents he found them full of dead bodies. The only living creatures among
them were one old woman and a mare. Feeling sure that the old woman must
die in any case he only brought the mare away with him; "but she died
too," he said plaintively, "before I could get her to my camp."
More than one carriage load of travellers perished on the road in that
catastrophe; but our only discomfort on this occasion was a steady
downpour of rain. We were told that we ought to feel grateful for
it--that at least it would ensure us against any shortage of water. But
no one can be expected to feel very grateful for five successive rainy
bivouacs: and even our _zaptiehs_ grumbled a little--three wet days they
were prepared for, but no one ever expected to get more! Our horses were
the principal sufferers, for the wheels bit deep into the sodden ground
and picked up huge dollops of loam which festooned themselves around the
felloes. We walked many miles to relieve them; but it was like walking
over wet plough-land in England, and we were obliged to pause every few
paces in order to disburden ourselves of the lumps which had balled on
our feet. Stiff European boots are not nearly so good for such work as
the flexible brogues of the natives; and the spongy pads of the camels
are apparently the best things of all.
Some of the wild life of the desert showed itself in a herd of gazelle,
which cantered across our pathway a mile or so ahead. We roused, too, a
flock of herons, several sheldrake, a wild goose or two, and an
occasional covey of larks. After dark we became aware of the jackals,
which began whining dolefully around us; and on one occasion at
nightfall, loping along the skyline just over our bivouac, we espied a
solitary wolf. Human beings were a very great rarity, despite the fact
that we were following a recognized highway, and for two consecutive
days the only sign of their neighbourhood was a solitary black Arab tent
which we spied some four miles to the right. Twice, however, we
encountered a caravan of camels--about seventy strong in one instance,
and about thirty in the other. Camels are preferred to mules on the
plains as they carry much heavier burdens. Moreover one man (with a
donkey) can look after seven or eight camels, whereas a caravan of mules
requires about a man apiece.
Our choice of camping-grounds was dictated each night by the presence of
water; for despite the steady downpour very little remained upon the
surface, and the rain apparently soaks through immediately into the
underlying strata, as on the _Causses_ of Auvergne. The water was always
muddy and sometimes bitter; but as we invariably boiled it, and kept the
beasts away from it till we had filled our kettles, we believe that we
swallowed nothing worse than sterilized mud. We used to spread our beds
on the lee edge of our waterproof ground sheets, and draw the outer edge
over us as an additional protection. But the rain sometimes penetrated
everything, and in the morning we would find great pockets of water
between the double thicknesses of the waterproof sheets. Decidedly
camping-out is an amusement to be practised in the summer when the
nights are short, for nights in the open are very tedious. You turn in
about seven-thirty, and awake (thinking it nearly dawn) to find that it
is eleven. You wake again about two; and then at gradually diminishing
intervals, till at last you are rejoiced to find it five-thirty--breakfast
time. Once in the middle of the night we were disturbed by one of
the horses breaking picket; and the owner arose and gave chase, with
frequent ejaculations of _Mashallah_! (Praise God!)--hardly the sort of
comment that one would expect from a British dragoon!
In the afternoon of the fourth day the _zaptiehs_ began to hold out
hopes to us of lodging that night under shelter; for a big
semi-permanent Arab encampment was generally to be found at this stage.
And sure enough a little later we were able to make out some eight or
nine big black tents, grouped around the remains of a ruined village
with the wreck of a castle on its _tel_. Several such ruined villages
are found here and there about the desert, but the inhabitants have long
since been badgered out of them by Turkish tax-collectors and Arab
raiders. The Arabs, though delightful hosts and most romantic features
in a landscape, are not desirable neighbours. They submit to no control
whatever; and, only a few months before, they had pillaged a Government
caravan, which was conveying a big pumping engine to Mosul, and carried
off all the gun-metal bearings under the delusion that they were
gold![37]
We dispatched a _zaptieh_ ahead of us to announce our approach and to
bespeak hospitality; but dusk had already fallen before we ourselves
arrived. The jaded horses had heavy work to drag the carriages forward;
and we walking on in front of them, reached the outskirts of the camp a
considerable distance ahead. Here, however, we were met by our returning
_zaptieh_, who would not hear of our proceeding further. The _Sheikh
Birader Effendi_ (Milord Brother Esquire) had already caused him great
scandal by walking so much and so needlessly when he had hired a
carriage to ride in; and now he insisted that we should fatally
compromise our dignity if we did not drive up like gentlemen to our
entertainer's tent door.
We drove the last 200 yards accordingly, and dismounted at one of the
largest tents; where we were courteously welcomed by Sheikh Ahmed Agha,
a fine-looking elderly Arab of medium height and active build, with a
pointed grizzled beard and a nose like the beak of an eagle. He shook
hands with us _à la Franga_, and led us into his tent, where he made us
sit down opposite to him on mattresses spread on the ground.
The tent was some forty yards long and twelve yards wide; about twelve
feet high at the ridge and three to four feet at the eaves. It was
supported upon a row of seven central poles, and the guy ropes were
exceedingly long, the pegs being three dozen yards beyond the overhang
of the eaves. The space between the eaves and the ground was filled up
partly by hanging cloths, and partly by piles of dried thistles, which
come in useful as fuel. The tent cloth was of black goats' hair, very
loosely woven like coarse English sacking. We could see daylight through
it everywhere; particularly at the (horizontal) seams, where it gaped
like an old umbrella. The smoke oozed freely through it; and next
morning every tent in the camp was veiled in a sort of blue nimbus, the
combined effect of smoke and evaporation. Such a texture can afford but
indifferent protection against rain, but is needed chiefly as a shelter
from the sun.
At the further end of the tent were about a dozen shackled camels, which
we could hardly see in the darkness, but heard grunting and gurgling all
night. Next the camels were four or five mares tethered to a manger.
White mares and flea-bitten greys are most in demand in this country, as
they are considered to feel the heat less than bays or browns. Black
horses are reputed unlucky, and may consequently often be bought cheap.
Next, in the centre of the tent, sat the Sheikh; with his back against
one of the poles, and the fire burning on the ground before him: and
opposite him, with our backs against the next pole, sat we. Behind us
was a reed partition shutting off the women's quarters, and with them
(to judge by the sounds) lived the poultry and the sheep. A sort of
enclosed yard, hedged in with piles of dried thistles, had been formed
for their special benefit outside their end of the tent.
There was no light except the fire and our own imported candle. When the
inmates wanted a blaze they threw on an armful of thistles; but their
principal fuel consisted of cakes of dried camels' dung which an old
fire tender built up in the form of a hollow cone. Our _zaptiehs_ and
several of the Sheikh's tribesmen sat with us; and two small boys, his
grandsons, cuddled themselves up against his knees. The Sheikh of course
spoke only Arabic, and we had to converse through an interpreter; but
one of the _zaptiehs_ was a great chatterbox, so the conversation did
not flag. The women naturally did not show, but (like Sarah, Abraham's
wife) they were by no means inattentive listeners; and the Sheikh got
frequently prompted by a shrill "Ask him so and so!" from behind the
screen.
From time to time we were served with tiny cups of black coffee
containing about a tablespoonful each; and our supper consisted of a
dish of fried eggs and dates. We have been told by a travelled Syrian
(though we will not vouch for his authority), that an uninvited guest
should be cautious when he is offered coffee by an Arab chief. He may
accept the first two cups--that is just conventional politeness--but the
offer of a third is a hint that he had better be going, and if he is too
obtuse to take it, the next hint may be given with a gun! We, however,
drank several cups and experienced no resentment; and our night in the
black tents of Kedar was one of the pleasantest on the road.
We made a late start the next morning, for it would have been
discourteous to hurry; and apparently Arabs, when camping, are not
particularly early birds. Our host bade us farewell at his tent door,
and accepted with great amiability the trifling present which we offered
to him in recognition of his hospitality. Any suggestion of payment
would of course have been an insult; but a present is often expected,
and always well received.
It was a brighter morning; and the _zaptiehs_ hazarded an opinion that
"Allah would be merciful." Far to the north we could see once more the
mountains of Kurdistan, with gleams of sun sparkling on their
snow-fields; and nearer to us on the southward lay the long barren
ridges of the Sinjar. But this promise of better things was of very
short duration, and before mid-day the rain had recommenced.
At nightfall we reached our last camping-ground, overlooking the river
Tigris; and here we underwent our last drenching--the longest and
heaviest of all. We lay dozing under our waterproofs listening to the
patter of the raindrops, and fondly hoping that the dawn might bring us
just five minutes respite to enable us to pack up and stow away in the
dry. But at last we started up desperately--bundled our beds on to the
carriages--and dashed away dripping and reckless without even waiting
for food. We knew that just twelve miles ahead we should find real
houses with roofs to them--that an hour would bring us to cultivated
fields again, and two hours within sight of Mosul. We passed through the
city gate with as much relief as the snail and the tortoise must have
felt when they entered Noah's Ark at the tail of the procession; and
descended joyfully from that weary _araba_ in which we had been cooped
up like Bajazets for a journey of seventeen days.