In the year 503, after the disastrous campaign which witnessed the fall of Amida and the failure to recapture{49} 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 (2d.)[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 Cœur de Lion proudly as he gazed on Chateau Gaillard: and to build Chateau Gaillard in one year was certainly a fine{50} 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{51} lime deposit, thus proving conclusively the purpose for which it was designed.

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{52} 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{53} 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;{54} 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{55} 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{56} 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,{57} 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{58} 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.{59}

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.

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{60} 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{61} 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{62} 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{63} 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,{64} 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!{65}

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,{66} 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{67} 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.{68}

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.{69}

CHAPTER IV

THE BURDEN OF NEWER NINEVEH

(MOSUL)

Mosul is not a seaport, though the Government of his Britannic Majesty would seem to be invincibly ignorant {70}on this point. When the Consulate was re-established here a few years ago, the gentleman appointed asked for a grant for the furnishing of his reception-room, but was refused, on the ground that his only guests would be “a few old sea captains”; to this day his successors are required to make an annual return of the British shipping that has discharged cargo here, though nothing except a “keleg” (the local type of raft, of which we shall hear more) ever comes within three hundred miles of the place!

Mosul boasts one vice that is at least unusual in the land, for it is a smoky town. A pall hangs over much of the city, from the kilns where the local marble is burnt into lime. Nearly the whole city is built in what is known as jess construction. This is a primitive type of building, the walls of all houses being formed with rough blocks of stone, “balled” in lime cement, and so put together. The roof is domed in the same way, but to save material the spandrils are usually filled in with large earthenware pots, which may or may not stand the weight put upon them. As a style, it is deceptive, for it looks solid, enduring, and weather-proof, and yet is none of the three: a house built in it seldom stands for eighty years, the thrust of the dome normally bringing the walls down by the end of that period.

The construction, which cracks freely, has a way of absorbing much of the rain that falls upon it, so that a house is seldom really dry in winter; and the cement has a delightful trick (which is appreciated during a Mosul summer) of storing up heat during the day and gradually releasing it during the night.

The town is composed, like most Oriental cities, of a maze of winding featureless lanes, all of the same white cement, and rarely of a width that forbids a cat to jump across from one roof to the opposite; they are innocent of lamps, or rather were so till the late Nazim Pasha (then Vali of Baghdad, and superintendent of this province also) visited the place; when paraffin lamps were put up in his honour, and now stand unlighted on their brackets. The pavement is of large cobble-stones, worn smooth by many generations of slippers and bare feet; and the whole town is, of course, innocent of drains. Hence, in the rainy season{71} it is well to put a portable bridge across the street if you propose to visit your neighbour, or to wear wooden pattens some six inches in height.

Only the doorways break the blank walls in the street fronts of the houses, but the courtyards within are undeniably picturesque, and are of a plan that is at least ancient, for it is identical with that found in the cities of ancient Assyria, unearthed by the German excavator of to-day. An entry, carefully constructed so as to prevent the passer-by from seeing within even when the door is open, conducts into a courtyard, surrounded by a two-storied cloister, carried on monolithic pillars of the local grey alabaster. The court is usually paved, and the house-front often cased, with the same material. A deep open recess at one side provides a summer lounge. A water conduit usually runs through the court itself, and the central part is often used as a garden.

The house of a rich man invariably has its serdab, or underground summer-parlour, where you may get any coolness that is going in the fierce summer heats. The thermometer then goes up regularly to 120°, and seldom sinks below 95° by night or day—a fact attested by a certain British Consul, who tried the experiment of hatching out a sitting of eggs, left uncovered in a disused (and perhaps rather specially hot) room of his Consulate.

Resident Europeans say that the serdab may be cool, but that, unless very well seasoned, you are apt to pay for the use of it by a dose of the country fever.

Hot winds blow in from the desert which comes up to the very walls, and the dust from the kilns and pounding-yards (where mules drag rude rollers over the lime to grind it to powder) flies on their wings all over the city; so that, from this cause, and from the glare of the white walls ophthalmia is even more prevalent here than in most Oriental cities, and lung disease of various kinds abounds. Another local plague is the famous “button,” which is found from Aleppo to Baghdad, and is believed to go back to the days of Job. This is sometimes called “the date,” from its appearance, and is no more than a{72} painless, but very unsightly, boil; which refuses to heal for twelve months and leaves a permanent scar behind. The infection is believed to be carried by flies, and the disease certainly manifests itself, as a rule, on the face or hands, while those who shave are particularly liable to it. Local scandal tells of a certain German Consul who despised all precautions and slept on the roof of his house without curtains, and (the night being hot) without pyjamas also; an imprudence for which he paid the penalty in thirty fine “buttons” scattered all over his consular person!

Thermantidotes, ice supplies, and all other luxuries of English life in India are unknown in Mosul, though an enterprising Christian resident in the town did once introduce an ice-machine. This was certainly welcomed by the Vali, as the only sign of the new régime that he had found in Mosul (it was shortly after the revolution), and as the only token of progress of any sort that he could note as a result of the fifty years that had elapsed since he had formerly been in the place as a very junior civil officer.

There was strong conservative opposition to the introduction even of such a mild instalment of progress; though perhaps it might have been mollified, had the pioneer been a little more liberal with his distribution of bakhshish! As it was weird accusations circulated against the new engine; it smelt so abominable that the whole neighbourhood of the factory was unhealthy (as though one stink more or less could make any difference in Mosul); it turned out its ice red-hot, and materially increased the heat that it was proposing to alleviate; and it was an impious interference with the decrees and arrangements of Allah. The ice-merchant, however, had not been born in Mosul, and bred in America, without learning a thing or two; and he craftily put the general commanding the garrison on the free-list for ice. He calculated that, after the first week or so, a gentleman, who did not keep the law about total abstinence too strictly, would not tolerate any interference with the coolness of his drinks. That expedient worked admirably, and all interference was summarily squashed, for so long as the machine continued to work at all. That, however,{73} was not many weeks, for no machinery that is not absolutely and completely “fool-proof” can stand the handling it gets from an Arab, and in Mosul the simplest repair may necessitate months of delay. There will be no market for machinery in the interior of Turkey, until good repair shops can be provided as well.

As capital of the province Mosul is the residence of a Vali, but the town is administered under him by an “administrative council of reputable citizens,” who are popularly believed to be the most corrupt gang of the sort in all Turkey. And we devoutly hope that the imputation is true, for any clique which is more corrupt than they are must be black indeed. Their leader is one Haji Ahmed, “son of the soap-seller,” ibn Sabonji; a large landed proprietor who has accumulated his estate by the simple process of ordering any unhappy Naboth whose land bordered on his own to sell to him at any price that his big neighbour cared to name. If the small man consented, well and good; if not, then an accusation against him, accompanied with a trifle of bakhshish to the investigating judge, secured that the imprudent Naboth should live untried in the town prison till such time as he should see reason.

This worthy has had ups and downs in his life, and once fell very foul of a Vali, who was seized with natural zeal to check the plundering of the public purse when he found that Sabonji Pasha had laid hands on certain funds that he had intended to appropriate himself! Thus that distinguished member of the town council was pilloried; i.e. was put on a donkey with his face blackened and turned to the tail, and so led round the town; being thereafter put into the cesspool of the Government “Serai” to pass the night. “Iyba” (shame) such as this would end the career of most men, but Sabonji has some unusual gifts, and intrigue and bribery soon brought him into power again.

The fact that one of the finest and largest houses in the town was built by one of the smaller legal officials, nominally out of fifteen months’ saving of a salary which, when paid, amounted to sixty pounds per annum, may perhaps be evidence of what “pickings” amount to in the trade of{74} law; and the story of a recent episode (occurring in the year of grace 1910) in the career of a prominent and highly respected citizen of the town will speak more clearly than long descriptions.

Seyyid Ullah was the principal burglar of Mosul, having inherited a practice in that profession from his father, as naturally as son may follow sire in the medical business in England. Housebreaking was what he specialized in, and the usual mode of procedure was to dig through the wall of a house with pickaxes from the street; it having been found, by experience, that this was less laborious than breaking down an iron-bound door. Of course, arrangements had to be made that the police should be well away on the other side of the town (if they were not engaged, as sometimes happened, in securing the ends of the street against any interruption), but there was seldom any difficulty about that. It was an understood thing, seemingly, that you must not interfere with the trade by which a man earned his bread; and Seyyid Ullah was only held to have over-stepped his legitimate rights once—when he cut off a woman’s hands! Even then, it was admitted in extenuation that there really was no other way of getting her gold bangles.

Having, acquired a competence in his profession, Seyyid Ullah retired as he grew older; but, like other energetic gentlemen, found that he really needed something to do. For this reason, he took to smuggling tobacco, a profitable occupation, but one that brought him into collision with the Government in a way that mere burglary had never done—for tobacco is a Government monopoly. So one night a caravan of mules on their way to his house were attacked by the guards of the “Regie,” and not only were the loads lost, but there was a dead policeman to explain. He had died of a Mannlicher bullet; and there was only one rifle of that type in Mosul—the property of Seyyid Ullah; who notoriously allowed nobody else to handle it. Moreover the bullet had apparently come from a roof where that poor man was standing at the time.

Some unscrupulous enemy put all these coincidences before the Government, with the result that Seyyid Ullah{75} was arrested, and even ordered into gaol. Not that he entered it, for gaol is not for such as he; he merely sat in the coffee-shop outside, and when that enemy who had given the information went past on his way to market, he was mobbed and hustled by the Seyyid’s followers, till a formal petition had to be sent in to the Vali that he should be requested to go inside. Of course they gave him the best room, with a window looking over the street; and the governor of the prison used to give him his company to dinner and pass the time over a backgammon board; but he complained that the damp was bad for his rheumatism.

At last the worthy man was tried; and acquitted without a stain upon his character. The court held (so far as foreign residents could understand) that the policeman had been guilty of contributory negligence, in that he got in the way of a bullet that was travelling about on its lawful occasions; and that all facts about the make of the rifle, and so on, were irrelevant details.

A free man again, Seyyid Ullah came at once to call upon the British Consul, to explain that he quite understood that his release from the machinations of his enemies was due solely to the influence of his Excellency the Bey; and that he was more than ready to undertake any job the Consul desired, in the way of removing any objectionable person, for he must own that the expenses incidental to his acquittal had made a sad hole in his savings!

Some time previous to this, there had been great complaining among the merchants of Mosul over the depredations of a certain gang of thieves, all of whom were well known to the police, and who were plundering peaceful citizens apparently at their own sweet will.

Authority, though most unwilling, was prodded into some sort of activity, and that particular gang was arrested and stowed in gaol. The robberies, however, did not diminish a whit; and after a while the governor of the prison pointed out this fact to the Vali. Evidently “those poor men” had been wrongly arrested after all, and ought in fairness to be released—seeing that they had never been{76} tried. This seemed reasonable, but there was the usual delay before doing anything, and in those few days the true explanation came to light. The honourable the governor of the prison was in the habit of letting the gang in question out of the gaol every night, “to go and sleep at their own houses.” They returned again before dawn, thus getting the most satisfactory alibi any man could desire; while, in consideration of his complacency, the governor was taking half their plunder! It is true that this official was dismissed from his post in consequence, but apparently he received no further penalty of any sort.

This may, perhaps, sound a “tough yarn”; yet we may find a fairly recent parallel for it in England. The memoirs of William Hickey record an even worse scandal of one of the London bailiffs in the latter half of the eighteenth century. Our boasted superiority to this sort of thing is of very recent date, and perhaps will not be of very long duration.

The Governor-General or Vali, who ruled this city of confusion and corruption, was perhaps as good a man as could have been selected for a job where his powerlessness to effect any real improvement would have broken the heart of anyone who still had any enthusiasms or delusions left.

Tahir Pasha was an Albanian by blood, though he had grown grey in the Sultan’s service, and had certainly never seen his own mountains since boyhood. Still, “once an Arnaut, always an Arnaut,” and, as a general rule, men of that very striking race are the best possible Ottoman officials; particularly in places where their duty is (or is supposed to be) the preservation of an even balance between the various Christian and Mussulman races.

It is impossible for an Arnaut to despise all Christians just because of their religion; for a large proportion of his own race are of that creed, and it is an axiom that every Arnaut is congenitally superior to every other specimen of manhood. That being so, he may despise all his subjects equally (and very probably does so), but at least he does not despise any one set specially, and there is always a chance of his doing some justice among them.{77}

And this Tahir Pasha did, to the limits of his not very extensive power. He had no great belief in Reform, or for that matter in anything else (except the straightness of certain English gentlemen whom he knew, and in the genius of his favourite hero, Admiral Nelson): and he held shrewdly that “you cannot build very high, when your bricks are made of wet mud”—and of Mosul slime at that he might have added, though he did not say so in words. Still, under his rule nobody’s lot was intolerable if it was impossible for anybody to be really comfortable; and he had absolutely nothing to learn in the art of keeping a simmering province from boiling over, when the Government had no force to back its orders, and did not wish to have any open row. He was an elderly man, tall and portly; with a “short” face, framed in a close-cropped, white beard, and a shrewd and humorous expression. Nature had given him a most attractive manner; and by virtue of it he had survived two revolutions in the country, being the only man of his rank to do so. When things went amiss, “he sat on the stile and continued to smile,” and almost always found that the method softened the heart of the most furious of cows.

Further, he was singularly cleanhanded, as Ottoman officials go. Even those who declared that he took bribes in his youth admitted that he refused them in his old age—“unless they were very big,” they added. Well, for the bribes, what is an official to do, whose salary, is in the first place, wholly inadequate; and in the second, not paid? When he did not need them, he ceased to take them. “How otherwise? I liked him, I confess,” as Browning put it, of a character that much resembled the old Albanian; whose name (by the way) is, being interpreted, “Innocent,” and who had the reputation throughout his province of never sending a petitioner away dissatisfied, and yet of never making a promise that it was inconvenient to keep.

Moreover, there were times when Tahir Pasha could insist on justice; and the fact is rare in Turkey. In 1910 a particularly dastardly murder was committed in Mosul, the murderer being a Christian by race, a member of the “Chaldaean” or “Uniat Nestorian” Church; while{78} the victim was of the older and independent Nestorian body.[38] The murderer was, most deservedly, sentenced to death; but that does not at all necessarily imply execution in Turkey. To begin with, Ottoman law lays it down that in a murder case the next of kin of the victim has the right to require the remission of the death sentence if he desires it. This is no doubt a relic of the days when every man could avenge or forgo his own quarrels as he chose; but in practice, it works out very inconveniently for the man in question, who, in addition to losing his own nearest relative, has to undergo a lot of “peaceable persuasion” from the murderer’s relations, till he chooses to exercise the right. In this case, however, the next of kin, also a Nestorian, stood firm, and claimed his legal revenge.

On this the murderer showed the real depth of his Christianity by sending word to Tahir Pasha that if his life were spared he would turn Moslem. Whether the Mollahs were desirous of obtaining so doubtful a convert does not appear, but at least the Pasha was not eager.

“Of course, I am bound to be glad that he proposes to turn Moslem,” he said grimly. “It may even be better for him in the next world. Still, his head has got to come off in this.”

But now a third difficulty arose, from the fact that the lawful executioner refused to act. Like Koko in “The Mikado,” this Monsieur de Strasbourg declared that he “had never cut off a gentleman’s head in his life, and did not know how it was done.” Under these circumstances, there was nothing for it but to call for a volunteer; and another relative of the murdered man generously offered to do his best, if they would lend him a sabre. “You had better do your best,” said some official, “for if you fetch the head off with one chop you shall have thirty pounds, but if it takes a second blow you go to prison for five years!” Under this stimulus the amateur executioner did his part to admiration, and took the head off finely.

Even so there was an afterpiece to the play, for many folk made the conduct of this murderer a ground for a most{79} unfair attack on the Patriarch of the Chaldaean Church, saying, “Now we see what sort of Christian Mar Immanuel trains.” The retort that his Grace made, if not exactly scrupulous, was at least effective. Ignoring the offer to turn Moslem altogether, he declared, “Pupil of mine? He certainly was, and I am proud of him. He is a Christian martyr, for he would not have been executed if it had not been for that wicked Nestorian heretic!” And he cited in proof of his saintliness the “miraculous” light above the grave.

The light was there certainly, a form of phosphorescence that is seen at times above a fresh grave in that dry air, and which is usually taken as a proof of the sanctity of the occupant. We suppose that we may be thankful that this rather doubtful character was not enrolled among the saints.

It will be inferred from the foregoing incident that religion in Mosul is of a somewhat militant type. It is in fact one of the most fanatical towns in the empire; and was surely the only place where men wept openly in the streets on hearing of the deposition of Abdul Hamid, and exclaimed, “Now is the pillar of Islam fallen.”

The establishment of a British Consulate there, after a long interregnum, was either the cause or excuse for an outbreak. Certain Dervishes fastened on the fact that the flagstaff on the Consulate was higher than the crescent on the dome of a certain tomb, called the tomb of Cassim, where a descendant of the Prophet was interred. It was, of course, intolerable that the accursed red-cross flag should flaunt itself above the crescent, and a mob assembled at the Consul’s gates, shouting under the leadership of a Dervish of some fame, “O Fatima, Fatima, daughter of the Prophet, will you not avenge the shame of your descendant?”

Rather strangely it had never occurred to them to resent the fact that a Christian Church had been standing higher than the tomb for centuries; yet the Consulate was in fact an empty monastery, rented from the authorities of the “Jacobite” Church by its present occupier.{80}

Of course, the British official respects the monastic churches, which number two; and they are used for service on certain festal days.

As for the tomb which caused the emeute; if Fatima, or somebody else, does not see to it soon, it will disappear into the Tigris, on the bank of which river it stands. The current is eating into the bank under its foundations, and the whole fabric is leaning over dangerously. Its fall would be a loss, for it is a fine specimen of Arab architecture; and besides, the British Consul would be blamed. Obviously, the cause of the disaster will be Cassim’s desire to be rid of such bad company.

As a city Mosul is singularly well be-bishoped. No fewer than three Roman Catholic prelates exercise jurisdiction in it over their various flocks; and there is, in addition, at least one “Jacobite” bishop; one Nestorian (who is at present in exile on the charge that his presence is a cause of disturbance to other people), and sundry Armenian, Greek, and Anglican Christians who render obedience to none of the resident bishops at all. The facts will bear a word of explanation; particularly as the existence of more than one Roman Catholic bishop in one diocese seems strangely contradictory to the discipline of that Church elsewhere.

In the days of the Byzantine Empire the attempt to enforce Greek uniformity on all nations resulted in various national stocks (Syrian, Armenian, and Egyptian, for instance) adopting any “heresy” that chanced to be on the tapis, as a protest against what they regarded as “Greek dictation.” While the dispute, both doctrinal and national, was still being fought out, the great Mussulman invasions began; and the nationalities in question cheerfully accepted the Mohammedan rule, which gave to them a religious freedom which the Greek Christian Empire had denied. The Arab, and the Turk who followed him, were perfectly willing to see their Christian subjects divided as much as they liked; and recognized the Armenian, Syrian, Chaldaean, and Coptic nations as “millets” in their empire; a “millet” being the technical term for a subject nation of Christians,{81} organized (as they always were) in a church, under their own hierarchy of Patriarch, bishops, and clergy. Thus these various national churches, all called heretical by both Greeks and Latins, continued to exist under Turkish rule.