Death in a Desert Land Page 7

  “That must have put you in a difficult position, the fact that your wife and Miss Bell didn’t get on.”

  “You could say that, yes,” he said, striding forwards through the sand.

  As we moved nearer to the excavation then under way, I heard a strange chanting, followed by the sight of two hundred or so men digging, sifting, clearing, all singing as they worked. The image reminded me of a colony of ants who worked not singly but together to achieve their aim. Woolley noticed the expression of wonder and admiration on my face and went on to outline the system under which the Arab men operated. They were overseen, he said, by a foreman, Hamoudi, or, to use his more formal title, Mohammed ibn Sheikh Ibrahim, whom Woolley had first met on the archaeological site of Carchemish.

  “I wouldn’t work anywhere in the Near East without Hamoudi,” he said. “He taught me the most important lesson there is here: in order to be loved, one must also be feared.”

  It was not a motto I subscribed to, but perhaps it was the nature of things here, in this foreign land.

  “We’ve had no trouble with the men as a result—no thieving, no insolence. They rise in the middle of the night, walk across the desert from their homes a few miles away, and work all day shifting sand, bricks, and stones in the heat. Of course, we pay them well and give them baksheesh if they find anything of value; that’s only fair. But Hamoudi keeps a careful watch over them.” A smile broke over his impish face and his blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “The funny thing is, the person who keeps Hamoudi in check is none other than my wife. The Arab is in awe of her, as are all the servants. There’s no doubt that she is the one who strikes fear into their hearts.”

  After passing through one of the gates of what he said was the temenos wall—a divider between ordinary land and something approaching royal or sacred territory—Woolley led me towards what looked like an enormous hole in the ground. He helped me as we walked down a series of steps dug out of the earth, and with each step I felt as though I were descending into an underworld. I knew before Woolley told me that I was passing into a burial site. The hairs on the back of my neck rose ever so slightly, and although it may have been my imagination, it seemed as though the temperature dropped a few degrees. This was a site I felt should never have been disturbed.

  “What is this place?”

  “We’re calling it the Great Death Pit,” he said. “A rather melodramatic name, but it will certainly capture the public’s imagination.”

  “Indeed it will,” I said, remembering the relish with which I had read of Woolley’s discoveries. As I saw the partly excavated site, robbed of its treasures, I felt guilty for regarding the unearthing of the tomb as a source of entertainment. I should have known better. This was a burial site, a sacred place. My very presence here was questionable.

  “You are one of the first people, outside the team here, to actually see this,” said Woolley, looking more like a boy than ever. “When we dug down we discovered the clean-cut earth sides of a pit, sloping inwards and smoothly plastered with mud. As we worked down we discovered the largest death pit in the cemetery, measuring twenty-seven feet by twenty-four feet at the bottom.”

  “And what did you find in the pit, Mr. Woolley?”

  “There were the bodies of six male servants, who lay along the side by the door, as well as sixty-eight women, all closely laid together, found with their legs slightly bent and their hands brought up near their faces. We also discovered four musical instruments, including a silver lyre, and two statues of rams in a corner. But what was fascinating—as we discovered in the tombs of Queen Shub-ad and her husband—was that there was a total absence of any signs of terror or violence.”

  “Which suggests that . . .”

  “Yes, that the men and women walked down into the pit of their own accord. They were willing victims of human sacrifice. I think it’s likely that these men and women took their places in the grave and then ingested some drug or poison—perhaps something like opium—which induced sleep and then death before the pit was filled in.”

  Despite the heat from the late afternoon sun, the image made me shiver.

  “We’ve made a map of the pit, showing each of the bodies in situ.”

  The comment reminded me of the drawing Gertrude Bell had received just before her death.

  “Is this mapping something you do yourself?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s a group effort. No one single person. Katharine and I noted down the exact position of the bodies, our photographer Harry Miller took some snaps, while Lawrence McRae and his nephew helped with some of the final sketches.”

  I thought of the fragment of conversation I had overheard between Mr. McRae and Cecil earlier: “If I can’t have her, then no one will. I can make sure of that.” The boy had been referring to Sarah, the daughter of the rich American I had yet to meet. But if he harbored thoughts such as these, who was to say what he was capable of?

  “As you can see, we’re still in the process of excavation, but we’ve already unearthed some treasures. I’ll show you when we get back to the house. They’re safely locked up in the antika room, and then they’ll be securely shipped back to London, Philadelphia—or Baghdad, of course.”

  “How do you go about deciding which items stay in Iraq and which ones go to the museums?”

  “An interesting question. When Miss Bell was alive, she and I would hold regular meetings and we would just argue our respective cases. Occasionally it would get heated, and I seem to remember once we had to toss a coin over who would take possession of an extremely beautiful—and valuable—gold scarab. Much to my annoyance, Gertrude won that one.”

  However, Woolley did not look that upset, and the idea that he might have killed Miss Bell over such a thing seemed unlikely. Or could Leonard Woolley be that very dangerous thing: a master dissembler?

  “Of course, it’s only right that certain objects remain in Iraq, but also I have a duty to the trustees of the British Museum, and to the British public,” he said. But, as I had heard from his own lips, he also had a duty to his wife, who he believed was suffering from some sort of mental condition. Was he covering up for something she had done? “Look,” he said, pointing at the horizon, “the sun will be going down soon. Shall we walk up to the top of the ziggurat? The view from up there is magnificent.”

  “That sounds like a splendid plan,” I said.

  “This is the courtyard of the Temple of Nannar,” said Woolley. “The whole complex was devoted to the worship of a moon god. We know this because of certain inscriptions found on cylinder seals here.”

  “Are they awfully difficult to read?”

  “What? Cuneiform? Yes, quite tricky. Of course, they have to be cleaned first, using a diluted solution of hydrochloric acid. If you’re interested, I’ll ask Father Burrows to give you a crash course.”

  “Yes, I’d like that very much,” I said.

  As we walked up the steep incline of one of the structure’s three staircases, Woolley explained a little of the history of the building. The ziggurat was built, he said, by King Ur-Nammu in around 2100 BC. The people who built it wanted to erect a structure so they could feel themselves nearer to the sky and to the god they worshiped. By the time I had reached the first level I was out of breath, but Woolley, as nimble and lithe as a mountain goat, skipped ahead. I took a moment to look out across the empty, desolate desert plain.

  “It’s extraordinary,” I shouted so that Woolley could hear. “There’s absolutely nothing here for as far as the eye can see.”

  Woolley turned and retraced his steps so that he stood by me. “But there, Mrs. Christie, you are quite wrong,” he said, smiling. “Come with me and I’ll show you what I mean.”

  A few minutes later, and now considerably out of breath, I stood at the top level of the ziggurat. The setting sun was creating its magic across the sands, casting the desert in an ever-changing palette of colors, one moment mauve, the next apricot or rose pink.

  “You may think there
is nothing, but as with all things it’s a matter of adjusting one’s perception. In the east,” he said, gesturing for me to turn around, “one can see the dark tasseled fringe of the palm trees at the river’s bank. Of course, the Euphrates has changed its course since the ancient days. Can you see?”

  I squinted until I could make it out. “Yes, just about,” I replied.

  “And there, in the distance,” he said, pointing to the southwest, “you should just be able to see the ruins of the staged tower of the sacred city of Eridu.”

  “That’s where the Archers have visited today?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m sure they will be full of enthusiasm for it when they return.” He shifted his position so that he was facing northwest. “And there, although it’s difficult to see, you can just discern the low mound of Tall al-’Ubaid, which I excavated a few years back. But, yes, apart from this there is nothing but the empty desert.”

  I stared across the vast plains that stretched for miles before me. The thought of being so cut off from the world thrilled and terrified me in equal measure. Perhaps I should have listened to the advice of Madge and Carlo when they had told me not to venture to the Near East. And of course neither my sister nor my secretary knew anything of my real purpose in Iraq.

  A series of images came into my mind. Gertrude Bell’s terror on receiving those threatening letters and the map of a grave pit with her initials. My nasty encounter with the boy in the backstreet in Baghdad, an incident which could have ended in violence. The mania that haunted Katharine Woolley’s eyes, a look suggestive of madness. The fear that gripped poor Miss Jones when she had realized she had said too much. The unsettling, queer song of those Arab workers who sifted through the rubble for signs of a past civilization. And the dread I had felt when I had descended those steps into the “Great Death Pit.”

  My feelings of unease were not helped by what Woolley said next. “Do you know the original Sumerian meaning for the Great Ziggurat at Ur, Mrs. Christie?”

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  “It went by the name of ‘Etemennigur,’ ” he said, hesitating for a moment. “Or ‘Temple Whose Foundation Creates Horror.’ ”

  7

  By the evening Katharine Woolley’s spirits seemed to have improved. In fact, she looked an altogether different woman. Her hair was shining and tidy, combed into a neat bob, and she was wearing a stylish dress of a shade my mother would have called vieux rose, complete with gloves of the same color that ran up to her elbows.

  She had taken it upon herself to direct a special supper to welcome me to the site. She oversaw the cooking, frequently dashing into the kitchen to supervise the Arab chef and watch the progress of our meal of food I had never tasted before: cheese pastries, fried chickpea balls, a spicy salad, skewers of meat, a rice and aubergine casserole, and cooked lentils. She smoothed a white linen cloth over the table and in the center she placed a small vase filled with yellow chamomiles. Then she set the table for ten with a makeshift collection of plates and not-quite-matching knives and forks, but she did so with such style that in the end it looked charming.

  She had delegated various tasks to Miss Jones, who busied about the sitting room sweeping and rearranging the furniture, but Katharine seemed to find fault with virtually everything she did.

  “Do you really think that the armchair should be placed quite so near the far wall?”

  “It seems you’ve missed a good deal of dust under that side table just there.”

  “I can see some smears on those glasses, dear. Would you mind cleaning them once again, just to make sure?”

  Miss Jones met each of these requests with grace and as much good humor as she could muster, but I still felt sorry for her. Yet, whenever I tried to help Cynthia, Katharine would send me back to my chair with the words “You are our guest here; you must do nothing but try and enjoy yourself.”

  At six o’clock Leonard Woolley appeared, dressed in a dark suit and tie, and at his wife’s request started to mix drinks. Gradually the rest of the party arrived. There was Father Burrows, who I noticed behaved awkwardly in company, still wearing the clothes I had seen him in earlier; Lawrence McRae and his nephew, neither of whom had made much of an effort to dress for dinner; and, the last to join us, the Americans, Mr. and Mrs. Archer and their daughter, Sarah.

  In contrast to Father Burrows and the McRaes, the Archers had pulled out all the stops. Ruth, a small, rather overweight woman, had donned a dark silk dress which unfortunately did her no favors. But she had made up for this with a dazzling array of jewels: a diamond-and-emerald necklace, complete with earrings to match, and a beautiful diamond-and-platinum brooch. Her daughter, a slight figure with blond hair, blue eyes, and the face of an angel, was wearing a shimmering silver-beaded dress—which she later told me was Lanvin—and a long string of pearls. The father, Hubert, a huge haystack of a man with a bald head, graying mustache, and prominent sideburns, had dressed in a dinner suit and stepped into the room with the confidence and swagger typical of the very rich.

  After making sure that the Archers were served with soda water and lemon—the father said that none of them touched alcohol—Leonard Woolley brought the family over to me to be introduced. Hubert, on hearing that I was a novelist, proclaimed that he didn’t believe in works of fiction. The only book he and his family read, he said, was the Lord’s book—the Bible.

  “That is the only truth I need to know,” he said, puffing up his chest. “Sorry, Mrs. Christie, I don’t mean to embarrass you or slight you in any way. But I think it’s worth setting out one’s principles, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, I do indeed,” I said, not quite telling the truth.

  I listened as Hubert Archer proclaimed his views on religion and the sorry state of the modern world. I shared his opinion on certain subjects—the very real threat that came from evil, for instance—but we differed wildly on others, such as the creation of the world in seven days.

  “You may not choose to support my view, but I believe that every word—every word, mind—of what is written in Genesis is true,” he said.

  “And we’ve come to Ur to find proof, isn’t that right, Hubert?” said Ruth Archer, beaming, her eyes shining as brightly as her jewels.

  As the couple continued to talk about original sin and the biblical flood, I noticed that their daughter, Sarah, seemed to show more interest in Lawrence McRae than our conversation about the Old Testament.

  “Mr. Woolley has found evidence of a flood that he thinks could be linked to the flood of Noah’s time,” Ruth said. “That’s right, Leonard, isn’t it?”

  “Without a doubt,” Woolley replied without hesitation as his wife announced that it was time for dinner. “As I’ve told you, we know that the Flood as related in the book of Genesis is based on the older Sumerian legend and that—”

  “What tosh,” whispered Father Burrows to me as I moved away from the group.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That nonsense about Woolley finding traces of the Flood here,” said the clergyman, pushing his wire spectacles back up the bridge of his nose. “He’s just saying that to get hold of their money.”

  “I see,” I replied.

  “Of course there was a flood, but a local one, nothing to do with Noah at all,” he said, his voice still low. “And I doubt we’ll find evidence of Abraham ever living here. But those fools will believe anything they’re told.”

  I looked at Miss Archer as Lawrence McRae held the chair back for her. As she sat down, a look of triumph came into her eyes. Across the room, sulking in the corner, Cecil McRae watched his uncle, his face burning with anger, his eyes dark with jealousy.

  “Yes, please sit anywhere you like,” said Katharine. “We’re very informal here.”

  Leonard Woolley sat at the head of the table, with Hubert Archer and his wife next to him; Lawrence McRae took a place next to the American millionaire and opposite Sarah; and I pulled out a chair next to the girl.

 
; “I was admiring your dress,” I said as I sat down. “It looks so lovely in the candlelight.”

  “Thank you,” said Sarah, pleased that I had commented on her appearance. She told me a little of a recent shopping trip to Paris and her love of art and music, topics which, she said, were dismissed as frivolous, if not out and out sinful, by her father. In turn, I shared a few memories of my own time in the French capital when I had been a girl. Of course, I had been without her considerable resources, and my time at Mademoiselle T’s school was a miserable one. I remembered the raw gnawing in my stomach which I gradually came to realize was homesickness: I had never really been away from my mother before and to be parted from her caused me to suffer. Gradually, however, I came to enjoy my time in Paris—oh, the opera, the music, the fashions! I had improved my French—my grammar was awful, but my accent not so bad—and some basics of arithmetic, history, and deportment.

  “You must have had quite a time there, in Paris,” said Sarah.

  “It was wonderful, and I made many friends with girls from all over the world,” I replied. “Particularly American girls, like you. I always enjoyed their breezy way of talking, so refreshing after the rather stuffy drawing rooms of England.”

  “Not all Americans can talk quite so freely,” she said, casting a quick glance at her parents. “The only reason I’m allowed to wear this dress tonight is because I’m about to come into my own money.”

  “Your own money?”

  “Yes. You see, I’m about to be wealthy in my own right,” she said. “I know the English think it’s terribly vulgar to talk about such things, but, yes, I will soon have my own money, nothing to do with father or mother. My grandmother on my mother’s side left her entire fortune to me, due to be made over to me on my next birthday. It drives father crazy, because I know he’d like to threaten to cut me off without a cent.”

  “So that makes you—”

  “Yes, quite the catch,” she said, her eyes sparkling. She turned her attention to the man sitting opposite her and said, “Mr. McRae, would you please pass me the salad?” while I started talking to Cynthia Jones on my right and Katharine Woolley at the foot of the table.