THE CARTHAGE AQUEDUCT
The larger group is quite ruinous, and is broken down in the midst, forming an open space on to which the cisterns face, built as they are in parallel rows. Here the Bedawin dwell who have turned the Punic cisterns into the Arab village of La Malga. These underground homes are supposed to be far superior to tents or huts, as they are cool in summer, and warm and dry in winter. They look like vaulted halls, as the lower half has become filled with soil, and they are closed at the ruinous ends by rough wooden walls and doors. At any rate if not quite ideal dwellings, they are picturesque and at least unusual. Though there are many theories on the subject, the design and much of the actual work is considered to be Phœnician, though considerably restored and in part rebuilt by the Romans. Some authorities find traces of Punic work in the aqueduct also, others suppose that the Carthaginians used the cisterns merely to store rain-water, and think that the Romans, when they defied the curse and rebuilt the city, found the water-supply insufficient, and therefore made an aqueduct in the reign of Hadrian, A.D. 117-138. It underwent many disasters, and was partially destroyed and rebuilt over and over again. First, the Vandals, under Gilimer, did their worst to it, and Belisarius restored the damage; then the Byzantines had their turn, and it was put in order by their Arab conquerors, only to be again injured by the Spaniards. Finally, some part of it began useful life once more under a French engineer in the reign of Sidi Saduk, the late Bey.
One spring still rises in the Nymphea, or temple of the waters, amongst rocks and trees and flowers at Zaghouan, Mons. Zeugitanus, and the other is brought from Djebel Djouggar, Mons. Zuccharus. The great aqueduct stretches out like a chain connecting the mountains and the plain—a chain of massive links, sadly broken and often interrupted in its long course of over sixty Roman miles. The channel is carried down the mountain-side, sometimes over and sometimes under the ground, and on the plains it is often raised on immense piers. Near Carthage it has been broken up and entirely destroyed, and the water has then to find its way through ordinary modern pipes.
There is a look of grandeur and beauty about the ruined arches, as they are seen rising from the sunny, flowery fields, that is usually wasted on an unappreciative world, as few drive far enough out from Tunis to enjoy the sight.
At Carthage the masses of flowers give a certain charm to ruins of no intrinsic beauty. Brilliant marigolds crowd every nook and cranny in the Punic tombs, shedding the glory of their golden life over the dreary maze of catacombs, where formerly the dead rested, but which are now bare and empty; though in another district one curious tomb, formed of three solid blocks of stones, in form like the beginning of a house of cards, is built with a few others in the side of a shadeless, barren cliff. Flowers fringe and cover the Basilica, surround the newly excavated Roman villa, contrasting daintily with the broken columns and mosaic pavements, and touch with their brightness the elliptical outlines of the Roman amphitheatre, where many Christian martyrs suffered for the Faith. Of these St. Nemphanion was the first (A.D. 198), though the best known and most loved are Saint Perpetua, and Saint Felicita, to whom the little chapel in the centre is dedicated.
The flowers harmonise with thoughts of the young and beautiful widow who gave up child and wealth, and who herself wrote of her joy and suffering in prison. She tells us of her vision of a golden ladder, beset with swords and lances, and guarded by a dragon, whom she quelled in the name of Christ, and so mounted to a heavenly garden, where a white-haired shepherd, surrounded by his flock, gave her a welcome and a piece of cheese, whilst thousands of forms in white garments said “Amen.” The vision foretold her martyrdom, which took place between A.D. 203 and 206. According to a custom peculiar to Carthage—a relic of old Phœnician days when human sacrifices were offered to Baal-Moloch, and men worshipped the horned Astarte—the men were expected to wear scarlet robes, like the priests of Saturn, and the women yellow, after the fashion of the priestesses of Ceres—a reason perhaps for the wealth of scarlet and yellow blossoms that now flourish so abundantly. The Christians refused, saying that they suffered in order to avoid such rites, and the justice of the plea was allowed.
A cross marks the spot on a little hill between La Malga and the Byrsa where St. Cyprian was beheaded in A.D. 258. An interesting fact, to which Archbishop Benson calls attention in his Life of Cyprian, is that long before any Bishop of Rome appears with the title of Papa, or Pope, in any sense, it was used as a formal mode of address to Cyprian by the clergy of Rome. And it is clear from the history of his times that there was then no idea of Papal supremacy, but that, on the contrary, the Bishop of Carthage once at least overruled the decision of the Bishop of Rome.
Strange as it seems now, with Mohammedanism all around, Christian Carthage became in its turn a great power, with a long line of bishops, whilst North Africa not only counted some six hundred Episcopal sees, but also produced such famous men as Tertullian, Cyprian, Lactantius, and Augustine. Nothing is now left anywhere except the ruins of three or four basilicas, some lamps with Christian emblems, and a few inscriptions.
