Come, Tell Me How You Live: An Archaeological Memoir. Agatha Christie

says Aristide, all injured innocence, ‘did you not tell me that you yourself would not use it this afternoon? Naturally, then, I have the chance to make a little extra money. I arrange with a friend, and he drives this party round Palmyra. How can it injure you, since you do not want to sit in the car yourself?’

      ‘It injures me,’ replies Max, ‘since in the first place it was not our arrangement; and in the second place the car is now in need of repair, and in all probability will not be able to proceed tomorrow!’

      ‘As to that,’ says Aristide, ‘do not disquiet yourself. My friend and I will, if necessary, sit up all night!’

      Max replies briefly that they’d better.

      Sure enough, the next morning the faithful taxi awaits us in front of the door, with Aristide smiling, and still quite unconvinced of sin, at the wheel.

      Today we arrive at Der-ez-Zor, on the Euphrates. It is very hot. The town smells and is not attractive. The Services Spéciaux kindly puts some rooms at our disposal, since there is no European hotel. There is an attractive view over the wide brown flow of the river. The French officer inquires tenderly after my health and hopes I have not found motoring in the heat too much for me. ‘Madame Jacquot, the wife of our General, was complètement knock out when she arrived.’

      The term takes my fancy. I hope that I, in my turn, shall not be complètement knock out by the end of our survey!

      We buy vegetables and large quantities of eggs, and with Queen Mary full to the point of breaking her springs, we set off, this time to start on the survey proper.

      Busaira! Here there is a police post. It is a spot of which Max has had high hopes, since it is at the junction of the Euphrates with the Habur. Roman Circesium is on the opposite bank.

      Busaira proves, however, disappointing. There are no signs of any antique settlement other than Roman, which is treated with the proper disgust. ‘Min Ziman er Rum,’ says Hamoudi, shaking his head distastefully, and I echo him dutifully.

      For to our point of view the Romans are hopelessly modern—children of yesterday. Our interest begins at the second millennium B.C., with the varying fortunes of the Hittites, and in particular we want to find out more about the military dynasty of Mitanni, foreign adventurers about whom little is known, but who flourished in this part of the world, and whose capital city of Washshukkanni has yet to be identified. A ruling caste of warriors, who imposed their rule on the country, and who intermarried with the Royal House of Egypt, and who were, it seems, good horsemen, since a treatise upon the care and training of horses is ascribed to a certain Kikkouli, a man of Mitanni.

      And from that period backwards, of course, into the dim ages of pre-history—an age without written records, when only pots and house plans, and amulets, ornaments, and beads, remain to give their dumb witness to the life the people lived.

      Busaira having been disappointing, we go on to Meyadin, farther south, though Max has not much hope of it. After that we will strike northward up the left bank of the Habur river.

      It is at Busaira that I get my first sight of the Habur, which has so far been only a name to me—though a name that has been repeatedly on Max’s lips.

      ‘The Habur—that’s the place. Hundreds of Tells!’

      He goes on: ‘And if we don’t find what we want on the Habur, we will on the Jaghjagha!’

      ‘What,’ I ask, the first time I hear the name, ‘is the Jaghjagha?’

      The name seems to me quite fantastic!

      Max says kindly that he supposes I have never heard of the Jaghjagha? A good many people haven’t, he concedes.

      I admit the charge and add that until he mentioned it, I had not even heard of the Habur. That does surprise him.

      ‘Didn’t you know,’ says Max, marvelling at my shocking ignorance, ‘that Tell Halaf is on the Habur?’

      His voice is lowered in reverence as he speaks of that famous site of prehistoric pottery.

      I shake my head and forbear to point out that if I had not happened to marry him I should probably never have heard of Tell Halaf!

      I may say that explaining the places where we dig to people is always fraught with a good deal of difficulty.

      My first answer is usually one word—‘Syria’.

      ‘Oh!’ says the average inquirer, already slightly taken aback. A frown forms on his or her forehead. ‘Yes, of course—Syria…’ Biblical memories stir. ‘Let me see, that’s Palestine, isn’t it?’

      ‘It’s next to Palestine,’ I say encouragingly. ‘You know—farther up the coast.’

      This doesn’t really help, because Palestine, being usually connected with Bible history and the lessons on Sunday rather than a geographical situation, has associations that are purely literary and religious.

      ‘I can’t quite place it.’ The frown deepens. ‘Whereabouts do you dig—I mean near what town?’

      ‘Not near any town. Near the Turkish and Iraq border.’

      A hopeless expression then comes across the friend’s face.

      ‘But surely you must be near some town!’

      ‘Alep,’ I say, ‘is about two hundred miles away.’

      They sigh and give it up. Then, brightening, they ask what we eat. ‘Just dates, I suppose?’

      When I say that we have mutton, chickens, eggs, rice, French beans, aubergines, cucumbers, oranges in season and bananas, they look at me reproachfully. ‘I don’t call that roughing it,’ they say.

      At Meyadin le camping begins.

      A chair is set up for me, and I sit in it grandly in the midst of a large courtyard, or khan, whilst Max, Mac, Aristide, Hamoudi and Abdullah struggle to set up our tents.

      There is no doubt that I have the best of it. It is a richly entertaining spectacle. There is a strong desert wind blowing, which does not help, and everybody is raw to the job. Appeals to the compassion and mercy of God rise from Abdullah, demands to be assisted by the saints from Armenian Aristide, wild yells of encouragement and laughter are offered by Hamoudi, furious imprecations come from Max. Only Mac toils in silence, though even he occasionally mutters a quiet word under his breath.

      At last all is ready. The tents look a little drunken, a little out of the true, but they have arisen. We all unite in cursing the cook, who, instead of starting to prepare a meal, has been enjoying the spectacle. However, we have some useful tins, which are opened, tea is made, and now, as the sun sinks and the wind drops and a sudden chill arises, we go to bed. It is my first experience of struggling into a sleeping-bag. It takes the united efforts of Max and myself, but, once inside, I am enchantingly comfortable. I always take abroad with me one really good soft down pillow—to me it makes all the difference between comfort and misery.

      I say happily to Max: ‘I think I like sleeping in a tent!’

      Then a sudden thought occurs to me.

      ‘You don’t think, do you, that rats or mice or something will run across me in the night?’

      ‘Sure to,’ says Max cheerfully and sleepily.

      I am digesting this thought when sleep overtakes me, and I wake to find it is five a.m.—sunrise, and time to get up and start a new day.

      The mounds in the immediate neighbourhood of Meyadin prove unattractive.

      ‘Roman!’ murmurs Max disgustedly. It is his last word of contempt. Stifling any lingering feeling I may have that the Romans were an interesting people, I echo his tone, and say ‘Roman’, and cast down a fragment of the despised pottery. ‘Min Ziman… er Rum,’ says Hamoudi.

      In the afternoon we go to visit