Chapter XXXIII: Timgad

The road, on leaving Biskra, runs due north over a land which usually looks barren, but which in periods of rain produces a plentiful crop of cereals. Very soon a ridge is topped, and Biskra and the Sahara are lost to sight. Some people will heave a sigh of relief at leaving for the last time these desolate expanses; others will look back longingly, and these will return sooner or later. Once the Sahara has gripped the heart there is nothing in the world which will free it from its hold.

Just over fifty kilometers from Biskra the oasis of El Kantara is reached, and of all the beauty-spots in North Africa it is one of the most attractive. It is really better to approach it from the north, descending from a high level toward an apparently unbroken barrier of rock. Some trees proclaim the few houses which cluster about the little Hotel Bertrand, nestling under the towering cliffs while the river gurgles at its feet.

Then suddenly a cleft appears in the rocks, and the road and the railway creep out side by side into the plain beyond. It is the complete contrast of the north and south—of winter and summer. On one side of the mountain the soil is dark and fertile, and on the other it is rosy and desertic. The Arabs say that all rain stops north of the Gorge of El Kantara.

Arriving from the south the first thing we shall see will be the oasis: a long array of palm-trees shading a river which is more than often full of water. If time permits, it is well worth the trouble to cross over an iron bridge and visit the curious little villages. There are some interesting Roman remains and a series of views of the palmery, which, even if one is not an artist, furnish material for beautiful photographs.

Proceeding through the Gorge of El Kantara, which incidentally means the bridge, we come to _the_ bridge, built by the famous Third Legion which garrisoned this part of North Africa. Unfortunately it has been badly restored, but the stones used by the Romans are still there.

The Hotel Bertrand is a restful place, a paradise for painters, and, if one is interested in climbing or shooting the elusive moufflon, there is plenty of this sport in the district.

The road climbs on, winding up the steep gradient on to the cereal plains of Batna. The tall peaks of the Aurès Mountains rise up, covered with pines and cedars, and in winter often deep in snow. It is a great contrast after the Sahara. The rest of the road is uninteresting, as is also the modern town of Batna, where one will find all comforts as usual at the Transatlantic Hotel.

The traveler will, of course, make his plans before starting, but it seems opportune to put in some suggestion for the visit to Timgad. If time presses it is advised to leave Biskra early, lunch at Batna, or, better still, picnic at Lambèse, go to Timgad, and return to sleep at Batna. If time is not of importance it would be far pleasanter to leave Biskra later, spend some time at El Kantara, lunch there, sleep at Batna, and spend the whole day at Timgad, and sleep again at Batna.

Or, if Roman ruins do not attract one, go to Timgad in the morning, lunch there, leaving about three in the afternoon, and arrive at Constantine for dinner.

As stated in the note at the end of Chapter XXV, it is possible to do Biskra, Batna, and sleep at Sétif in one burst, which permits one to be in Algiers the following day.

The road from Batna to Timgad runs over a rolling, inhospitable country dominated on the right by the frowning Aurès Mountains. The first place of interest is Lambèse, the Roman Lambæsis. It was founded at the end of the first century as the headquarters of that amazing Third Legion which garrisoned North Africa at that period. It is one of the best existing examples of a military camp, with its magazines, parade ground, officers’ quarters and military church. It has also an amphitheater and a few temples, but their remains are not so interesting as in many other Roman cities. The prætorium, or rather its entrance, built of massive blocks of stone, is in a very good state of preservation; through the middle passed the main roads which ran straight across North Africa—north, south, east and west. Traces of this masterpiece of engineering are continually being unearthed.

Leaving Lambèse, the same scenery continues, a triumphal arch is passed, a few relics of Roman houses, then at the thirtieth kilometer there appear in the distance two tall pillars, which seem to leap up out of the plain to a great height and stand pointing to the sky in solitary grandeur. Straining the eyes, one soon discerns buildings and more pillars. A great arch defines itself—we are arriving at the dead city of Timgad. Two thousand years ago the Emperor Trajan decided to found a settlement for the Roman soldiers who had fought in the Parthian campaigns, and he commanded that Thamugadi should be built by the men of the Third Legion.

Thus Timgad did not grow up according to the needs of the settlers, but was conceived and born in its entirety. For this reason it is one of the most perfect examples of a Roman town of the period. Some writers have called it the African Pompeii, but, though the drifting sand preserved it as did the ashes Pompeii, this is the only thing analogous about the two places. Pompeii was a seaside resort, a town of pleasure and luxury; Timgad was an outpost of a mighty empire. Everything was done to make it resemble as much as possible the settlers’ homes in the mother country, and it must have been a strange sensation for the Berbers of the Aurès who ventured down from their mountain homes to see all the civilized organization going on in the middle of this desolate land. Timgad was, however, never an important nor even a large city. Its area did not exceed one hundred and fifty acres and, though it is interesting to us because it escaped the total destruction meted out by the Vandals and Arabs to most of the other Roman cities, it never created anything in particular.

Entering by the northern gate, we find on our right the big baths. Built with the utmost care and paved with marble brought from Italy, they contained every improvement of the day, and were practically identical with the baths of Caracalla at Rome. They are in a high state of preservation, and it is most interesting to examine the various devices for bringing in water and for heating the many chambers.

Walking up the street from the baths, one passes what must have been shops; only the lower parts of the walls remain. The first building of interest discloses itself on the left. There is a pillared portico and a kind of altar with shelves around; the inscription suggests that it was the public library, but this is not certain. It may have been the shrine of the Lares—household gods.

The street now leads into the Decumanus Maximus, the main thoroughfare. Graceful columns line either side, leading into what must have been large houses. The paving-stones, placed diagonally to prevent their being worn away by the chariots, are nevertheless deeply rutted. Between the chinks can be seen the drain which ran beneath the middle of the way. Immediately opposite this intersection are the steps leading up to the forum: a white-paved court with many pillars, some fifty yards long, with at one end a tribunal where sat the judge. There must have been many statues, but they are no more.

Just below the forum, on the north side, are the public latrines which, with their carved hand-rests, are interesting and worth examining.

On the south side of the forum there is a charming inscription: _“Veneri, lavari, ludere, ridere—occe est vita!”_ “Hunting, bathing, gambling, laughing—this is life!”

Climbing out on an eminence above the forum, we come to the theater. The auditorium is hollowed out of the hill and is in a fine state of preservation. The seating accommodation makes the modern play-goer think, as from every stall the stage is fully visible and the acoustic properties are faultless. Looking across from the theater can be seen the tall pillars we first espied from the road; they are the ruins of the Temple of Jupiter on the capitol. The pillars are immense, fifty feet high, with each capitol three feet, making a total of fifty-six feet. In the middle was a gigantic statue of Jupiter, now in the Louvre in Paris. There is nothing so drearily desolate, so terribly silent, as the two pillars of this temple. It seems as if they stood there to warn the people who pass of the vanity of human things.

Near by are some interesting villas of a more luxurious conception than those we saw before. The rooms are more numerous and spacious, and there is a reservoir for keeping fish.

On the hill behind the capitol, stand the remains of a Christian church, with a baptistery of which the mosaics are in a perfect state of preservation. Leaving this Christian church, we now retrace our steps, leaving the capitol on the right, and make for the triumphal arch of which we have already caught a glimpse from the Decumanus Maximus. Before reaching it there is an interesting market-place. The large court is surrounded by a colonnade, and the stone counters of the shops are just as they were at the time. Opposite the market-place is a small temple, but what strikes the attention at once is the triumphal arch of Trajan. It has three openings, and niches for statues, and is certainly the most imposing monument of Algeria.

Hence we can wander back through narrow streets to the gate by which we entered, and near which stands the museum which is well worth a visit. In addition to all sorts of curiosities such as hair-pins, needles and implements for dentistry of the time, it contains some of the fine mosaics which have been unearthed from the houses and pieced together. If we look at them for a moment and imagine what they looked like up there near the capitol, we can get a small idea of how charming the residences must have been. There are also drawings of what it is supposed Timgad was like in the days of its glory, and certainly, if the artist was not carried away by his imagination— and there is no reason to suppose this—it must have been indeed a noble city. And yet its aspect now leaves the traveler with a feeling of sorrow. The silence is, first of all, appalling; the atmosphere of desolation is impossible to convey in words, and, as one sits in the forum or on the stone steps of the theater and tries to conjure up the gay figures who once frequented these now silent spaces, one is filled with an unspeakable awe. All this luxury, all this amusement, all these habitations—for what? For the future planned by Imperial Rome, since it is evident that no nation would have built the great town, with all in it, as a mere pastime. They intended to stay; they believed in their unshakable greatness; they believed in the power of the sword.

But Rome fell, as had fallen other empires, and as others will also fall. And Timgad is left to the jackals and to the hyenas, to a few intelligent excavators, and to the host of chattering tourists who rush through these ruins of a glorious past without a thought for the cultured race who once lived there.

“Vanity, vanity—all is vanity!”

For this reason I have said as little as possible on this city of the dead, and I leave it to the traveler to go himself and feel the atmosphere which no painter or writer can reproduce.