by Alan Gold
And so she set her mind to travel through the wastelands of Arabia, usually sleeping alone, and eating with her faithful servants who treated her like a monarch. And no matter how she adjusted her body, the mean-spirited, spiteful, spitting and growling camel reminded her that English people were born to ride horses, not these implausible beasts of burden.
She rode onwards, whipping the camel’s flanks to encourage the stupid beast to pace more quickly. But its spindly legs trod the ground at its own pace, unimpressed by her imprecations. It was both the ship and the captain, and she was merely its temporary voyager.
It would take her another day of travel before she arrived at her destination. Then she would spy the glistening waters of the Euphrates and, after satisfying the thirst of her camels and her servants, she’d wash herself in its sparkling waters and order an immediate continuation north until she reached the dig site.
Ancient Carchemish. It was so exciting that Englishmen were digging in Carchemish, kingdom of Shalmaneser and Sargon and the site of the most famous battle of the ancient world when, six hundred years before Christ, Nebuchadnezzar expelled the marauding southerners and put an end, once and for all time, to the glory of Egypt. All history was at Carchemish. All was to be revealed by the archaeological dig. She could barely restrain herself from seeing what was hidden beneath the whispering sands of time, listening to the now-silent voices of the ancients and finding out what would be revealed when the stones were uncovered.
In her explorations of Arabia, she’d developed her interest in the new science of archaeology to such an extent she’d given an occasional address to her old college at Oxford where, she was delighted to find, there was a sizeable number of women students. Many years earlier, she’d seen what was beneath the sand when she was with Henry Cadogan riding to Persepolis. They’d dug and revealed massive stone walls, but the more they exposed, the less adequate she had felt revealing the hidden truths of ancient civilizations. So she’d studied books on archaeology and undertaken digs in the desert until she was now considered one of the most able archaeologists England had ever produced. Her papers on ancient cities and peoples had been published extensively in The Times. Now she was interested in two Oxford men who were apparently digging in the middle of the desert.
On returning to Constantinople the Beys had laughed at the idea of Englishmen burrowing below the sands of the desert until she reminded them of the fortune uncovered by Mr. Schliemann not forty years earlier in Hissarlik on the Asiatic coast of Turkey. He’d sold Helen of Troy’s jewellery to the Germans for a king’s ransom, and when she told them precisely how much Schliemann’s find would be worth in gold today, the Beys had stopped laughing and, in between their cups of coffee, hawked their spit into the ground in contempt.
The following day, after fitful sleep, she sensed they were close to Carchemish. It had been rediscovered after two millennia only thirty years earlier, and been largely forgotten until the damned Germans began to build the Berlin to Baghdad railway—a danger to British influence in both trade and the oil of Persia. This monstrosity had now reached the Upper Euphrates and the area was, she was certain, soon to be overrun by sightseers or amateur part-time archaeologists incapable of comprehending the difference between a pile of stones and a rare and beautiful monument. So the haste to uncover the miracle of Carchemish and to protect it from amateurs was all the more urgent.
Riding over a crest she saw, down in the valley, the unmistakable constructions of an archaeological dig. Her heart pounded as she recognised the mounds of discarded sand and gravel and earth, the reinforcement walls which were needed to prevent collapse of the exposed trenches, the tents which the archaeologists used to store their finds, the living quarters, the crudely made toilets, and the enclosure for the animals. She took out her binoculars and looked carefully. There must have been a hundred Arabs scurrying around the site, climbing into and out of pits, pushing wheelbarrows, carrying panniers full of rubble and dumping them onto huge mounds.
Gertrude felt a tingle of delight, the same excitement she’d felt beside Henry all those years ago when they’d reached Persepolis. Today, she had found another ancient city, Carchemish. She looked at the mounds of earth and sand, and saw that they had yet to be sifted for any further treasures. Gertrude continued, and eventually came to a halt at the edge of one of the channels which had been carefully dug into the ground.
Crouching in the trench were two white men, one slouched over a mound of stone, the other on his hands and knees, scraping away at the earth to reveal what it concealed.
The camel belched and growled, and both men looked up at the unexpected noise to see a lady high above them, dressed in what appeared to be the latest fashions of London or Paris, yet seated on a camel and staring down at them.
“Good God,” said one of the men.
“What the devil . . .” said the other.
“Good morning. My name is Miss Bell. Miss Gertrude Bell. I’ve come to see what you’re doing.”
They remained silent, just staring up at the apparition until the kneeling man said, “Well I’m damned!”
The men stood, and adjusted their clothing. One, incongruously, raised his hat in greeting.
“Good morning,” he said, his refinement absurdly out of place.
“Good morning. I am Miss Gertrude Bell. I’ve ridden here to see what you gentlemen are digging. May I ask you to introduce yourselves.”
“Thomas Edward Lawrence, madam,” said the younger of the two. He was fair-haired, with extraordinary piercing blue eyes, of thin face and slightly built with a fey expression. He had a high-pitched voice which made him seem somewhat effeminate. By his look, he was a born-and-bred Englishman, more suited to the cricket pitch at Marlborough or the banks of Cowes than the oven of Mesopotamia. Yet Gertrude was instantly struck by something about him. It was as though the desert was made for him, and he for it; as though by some unaccountable association, it had become a part of his being, in his sand-yellow hair and his sky-blue eyes.
The other man looked particularly out place in an Arabian desert. He was rotund, sweating profusely, and unlike Mr. Lawrence who had a wonderful tan, had developed a ruddy, rough, and sand-blown complexion. He raised his hat, and said, “Mr. Campbell Thompson, ma’am. At your service. Miss Bell? Well I never! I assume that you are the Miss Gertrude Bell?”
She smiled at the recognition, and declined to answer. The two men straightened their backs, and adjusted their clothing, climbing out of the trench as Gertrude dismounted.
They met at the edge of the excavation, and shook hands solemnly.
“Miss Bell, may I ask what you’re doing in Carchemish? In the middle of the desert? An Englishwoman on her own.”
“Mr. Lawrence,” she said, “I’m not on my own. My men have temporarily deserted me, following their camels to the river after the long journey from Aleppo. They’ll return soon, but in the meantime, I wonder, after I’ve rested, if you could explain more about this excavation of yours.”
Campbell Thompson again raised his Panama and shook her hand for a second time.
“I just can’t believe that you’re here. The famous Gertrude Bell? The famous mountaineer, the translator of the poems of the Divan of Hafiz, the author of Safar Nameh and the woman who wrote that marvellous work The Desert and the Sown? I’ve read everything you’ve written, and all your articles in The Times. I just can’t believe we have the honor of entertaining you in our camp.”
She smiled again; Campbell Thompson was sounding like a sycophant for some ancient Mesopotamian Tyrant, and when he realized it, he flushed an even deeper red. He looked her up and down as though inspecting a mare he was considering purchasing. His jaw was slack, and Gertrude wondered if she was inappropriately dressed. Yet she had dressed carefully for the desert just that morning, a long and divided royal blue skirt in the form of trousers for riding, a brown linen jacket and an Arabic Keffiyeh headdress to protect her from the sun on top of which was a cheeky beret from th
e new Parisian fashion house of Chanel. She was pleased that her appearance had bemused them and couldn’t help but smile. Having lived so long out of England, having traveled around the world and sojourned in Arabia for so many years, she was only vaguely aware, and indeed, largely uninterested in the reception her literary outpourings had received and who might know of her.
“Despite your amazement, I am Gertrude Bell,” she said modestly, “and yes, I wrote those works.” She carefully manoeuvred between the camel and the excavation trench, assisted by Mr. Thompson, and stood close to him. Like so many men, she was considerably taller than he was.
“Good grief,” said Thompson. He turned to Lawrence. “Good God! Do you realize in whose presence we stand, Lawrence?”
Lawrence smiled at her and interrupted the older man. “Thompson. Stop blathering. You’re sounding as if you’ve just stepped into a Buckingham Palace Garden party. I’ve read all of Miss Bell’s works like you, and she was in part my inspiration for coming to Arabia.”
“Gentlemen! I’m becoming embarrassed by all this praise. I’ve ridden halfway across the country to see what you’re doing here. May we at least proceed to an explanation of the dig, and what you’ve achieved so far? Is this dig undertaken by just the two of you and natives?”
Thompson smiled. “No, ma’am, this is a British Museum archaeological site, though I’m an assistant at the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford. We’re merely the first of a dozen members of staff and volunteers from London. We’re preparing the ground so in a month, when the heat is less fierce, the others can come out and assist us.”
He turned to explain the dig, but was interrupted by Lawrence. “Where are your manners, Thompson? Miss Bell has just arrived after a long journey, and being in Arabia, it’s incumbent upon us to offer her hospitality. Come away from the trenches, Thompson, and assist me in entertaining her. Might I offer you a cup of coffee, Miss Bell? A cup of tea?”
She smiled at the attractive young man as he clambered out of the trench to join them. She noticed he was wearing a red tasselled sash as a belt, the Arabic sign that he was a bachelor. He was a strange, yet somehow magnetic fellow. In any other circumstances, she would likely ignore him, but here, in the desert, his yellow hair and flamboyant blue eyes were fascinating her. He seemed to be examining her, inspecting her, almost piercing her, rather than just looking at her. She knew of him by repute, even though he was only twenty-three years old. He was some sort of Oxford man, educated in medieval pottery. But something about his looks fascinated her. Initially she wondered whether it was because he was dressed so garishly in Arab slippers and an eclectic mix of Middle-East and Western dress. She instinctively felt that Mr. Lawrence would turn out to be less of an Englishman than a traveler through space and time. Like herself. But more than just his attire, there was something about him, some intrinsic quality which she picked up immediately, which made her look at him again and again. Others might see an effeminate and delicate individual, but Gertrude looked into Lawrence’s very being and thought she caught a glimpse of a leader.
They took tea before examining the site, and although she kept it to herself, what she saw didn’t impress her. There was a lack of professionalism, and most certainly a lack of discovery. Whole areas seemed to have been overlooked, obvious formations below which must be walls and pathways left uncovered, and trenches made where it would have been apparent to a more professional archaeologist they would only find a dead end. And the lack of artefacts after so many days of digging, was surprising. Her first task would be to go through the mountain of rubble and extract what priceless relics had been tossed away with the rocks and dust and sand.
She slept very well that night, and during the following couple of days, worked with them in establishing timelines for the artefacts and survey lines for future dig directions.
Gertrude particularly enjoyed being in their camp during the few days she helped them with classification, with digging, and with interpretation of their finds. During this time Thompson and Lawrence showed her all the artefacts which they’d so far uncovered and Gertrude, although dismayed by the quantity, was impressed by the importance of what they had so far discovered. But simply by going through the mounds of rubble, she was able to treble the number of statues, idols, jewellery, shards, and inscriptions.
She examined numerous clay tablets and seals, a bulla used for storing records, idols of gods and goddesses, stamps, unidentifiable figurines which could have been idols of unknown gods, exquisite jewellery, and much that it would not be possible to categorize without reference to the collection at the British Museum. She’d wandered the trenches, helped them uncover further walls of houses, and ordered her men to assist those employed by Lawrence and Thompson in carting the earth and debris from the site.
After the better part of a week in the camp, it was time for her to return to civilization. She had much to do. As the sun was setting over the Syrian Desert, descending into the distant Mediterranean, she spent her last evening sitting by the banks of the wide and slow-flowing Euphrates river, sluggish in the heat of summer, resting her feet in its cool waters. She had brought with her a book, and was reflecting on whether she should alter her timetable and stay here another few days or journey back to Damascus and perhaps take a train to Constantinople. Earlier in the day, she’d told Thomas Lawrence and Campbell Thompson that she was thinking of moving on, but now she had to determine when would be a suitable time. Lawrence had done his best to dissuade her, but she was determined to leave, although in the short time she’d been at the camp, she’d built a very real friendship with him. Despite his often girlish mannerisms and his fey appearance, he had a superb mind and was happy and willing to learn from her. Had he been considerably older, she’d have been attracted to him, but she felt certain his tendencies lay in other directions.
Since Italy looked as though it would declare war on Turkey at any moment, and since the Moroccan crisis looked as though it was going to escalate, it was almost certain the damned Italians would attack Tripoli and Benghazi, making the whole area of the eastern Mediterranean fraught and dangerous. She’d risked coming here, but after a few months in the wilderness with little information and almost no up-to-date intelligence, Gertrude had only a scant idea of how things lay to the west.
Perhaps she should take her camels directly north, out of reach of the Italians, and head over the mountains for Turkey’s Turquoise Coast? Or perhaps she should head directly south, down the Euphrates towards the Gulf, risking the dangers inherent in traveling through the land of the Marsh Arabs, and if she survived, take a ship out of Umm Qasr or Al-Basrah or even Abadan, back to Constantinople.
Her musings were disturbed by an elongated shadow which appeared beside her. She turned, and looked upwards. The figure’s features were dark against the setting sun, but by its grace and slimness, she immediately recognised it as Mr. Lawrence.
Without a word, he sat beside her, took off his shoes, and his feet joined hers in the river.
They sat there, looking at the opposite bank at least a mile away, as the torpid water slowly flowed over their ankles and toes.
“I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you came to our little excavation, Miss Bell. These few days have been quite the most marvellous I’ve spent since leaving England.”
“And they’ve been very enjoyable for me as well, Mr. Lawrence,” she said, resuming her interest in the book.
Lawrence remained silent, but the silence was of such a nature Gertrude realized she had to give him her attention, like a mother gives to a child.
She closed the book, placed it in her lap, and jiggled her feet in the water. “Mr. Lawrence, are you here to pass the time of day, or is there intent in your unexpected appearance?”
It took him some time before he admitted “Intent, I’m afraid, as well as to pass the time of day with a charming and intelligent companion. Thompson’s busy classifying and the men are clearing, and my back’s about done in with the bending, and I just n
eeded some time to reflect.”
“Reflection is normally an act accomplished on one’s own, often with a vanity mirror.”
“Would you like me to leave?”
She looked at him. He was a pretty man lacking the muscular physique of the Arab or the dusky hues of the Mediterranean, but pleasant for all that. But his way of dressing! Having washed up from the day of digging, he was now dressed for the evening in a gray flannel blazer with pink piping and white flannel shorts as though he was about to step out onto a cricket pitch or engage in a game of tennis.
Yet for all his mannerisms, he was interesting to look at and be with. Not, of course, that Gertrude was in any way entertaining the idea of a liaison with him, because there was a twenty-year age gap between them, and at forty-two, she was certainly old enough to be his mother. And anyway, she was so busy with her archaeology and her writing and numerous other pursuits that any time she had for her own personal life couldn’t be squandered on romance. Those days, she knew, were starting to be behind her, brightened by the occasional illicit and thrilling romance with a middle-aged gentleman, sometimes with a journalist in some hotel, more often with one of the British or European diplomats with whom she came into contact. Marriage may have provided her with much more physical satisfaction, but the societal strictures it would have imposed would have driven her insane. But even the physical nature of marriage was uncertain. While Gertrude was free to travel and explore, to meet and greet whomsoever her fancy desired, many of the women friends in England for whom she’d been a bridesmaid now lived their lives like shrivelled fruit in an arid desert of a home, spending every day alone with their children while their husbands were gallivanting around the fleshpots of Soho entertaining mistresses or actresses in some sordid atelier in London.
And if the truth be told, after her conspicuous failures to attract suitable men and the disappointments of seeming to have desultory affairs only with older, married men, she was growing more interested in minds than in bodies.