A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity 2021009916, 2021009917, 9781444350012, 9781119072072, 9781119072089, 9781119071754, 1444350013

Table of contents :
A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity
Contents
Illustrations
Preface
North Africa Maps
List of Abbreviations
Notes on Contributors
Part I Setting the Stage
1 The Historiography of North Africa in Antiquity: An Overview
2 Archaeology
3 The Environment of North Africa
Part II Africa in the First Millennium BCE
4 Libyan Culture and Society
5 Beyond Barbarians: The Garamantes of the Libyan Sahara
6 Punic Carthage
7 Africa under the Roman Republic
Part III The Roman Period (146 BCE–439 CE)
8 African Rome. The City of Carthage from its Roman (Re-)foundation to the End of the Byzantine Period
9 Roman Imperial Administration
10 The Army
11 Roman North African Urbanism
12 Rural Settlement, Land Use, and Economy
13 The African Economy: The Ceramic Evidence
14 Prose Literature
15 Architecture and Art
16 Transforming Religion under the Roman Empire: The Case of Africa
17 Society and Culture in Late Roman Africa
18 The Mauri in Late Antiquity
19 Imperial and Late Latin Poetry from North Africa
20 Christian North Africa in Antiquity
Part IV From the Vandal Kingdom to the Arab Conquest (439–711 CE)
21 The Vandals
22 The Byzantine Period
23 Late Roman, Vandal, and Byzantine Coinage in Africa
24 The Arab Conquests and the End of Ancient Africa?
Index
EULA

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A COMPANION TO NORTH AFRICA IN ANTIQUITY

BLACKWELL COMPANIONS TO THE ANCIENT WORLD This series provides sophisticated and authoritative overviews of periods of ancient history, genres of classical literature, and the most important themes in ancient culture. Each volume comprises approximately twenty-five and forty concise essays written by individual scholars within their area of specialization. The essays are written in a clear, provocative, and lively manner, designed for an international audience of scholars, students, and general readers.

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A COMPANION TO NORTH AFRICA IN ANTIQUITY Edited by

R. Bruce Hitchner Tufts University Medford, MA

This edition first published 2022 © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except as permitted by law. Advice on how to obtain permission to reuse material from this title is available at http://www.wiley.com/go/ permissions. The right of R. Bruce Hitchner to be identified as the author of the editorial material in this work has been asserted in accordance with law. Registered Office John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, USA Editorial Office 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, USA For details of our global editorial offices, customer services, and more information about Wiley products visit us at www.wiley.com. Wiley also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats and by print-on-demand. Some content that appears in standard print versions of this book may not be available in other formats. Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty While the publisher and authors have used their best efforts in preparing this work, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this work and specifically disclaim all warranties, including without limitation any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives, written sales materials or promotional statements for this work. The fact that an organization, website, or product is referred to in this work as a citation and/or potential source of further information does not mean that the publisher and authors endorse the information or services the organization, website, or product may provide or recommendations it may make. This work is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering professional services. The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a specialist where appropriate. Further, readers should be aware that websites listed in this work may have changed or disappeared between when this work was written and when it is read. Neither the publisher nor authors shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Hitchner, R. Bruce, editor, writer of introduction. Title: A companion to North Africa in antiquity / edited by R. Bruce Hitchner, Tufts University, Medford, MA. Description: Hoboken, NJ : John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 2022. | Series: Blackwell companions to the ancient world ; 126 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2021009916 (print) | LCCN 2021009917 (ebook) | ISBN 9781444350012 (hardback) | ISBN 9781119072072 (adobe pdf) | ISBN 9781119072089 (epub) | ISBN 9781119071754 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Africa, North--Antiquities. | Africa, North--Antiquities, Roman. | Africa, North--Colonization. | Africa, North--Historiography. | Africa, North--History--To 647. Classification: LCC DT191 .C65 2022 (print) | LCC DT191 (ebook) | DDC 939/.7--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021009916 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021009917 Cover image: © Image courtesy of Lawrence Earley Cover design by Wiley Set in 9.5/11.5pt ITCGalliardStd by Integra Software Services, Pondicherry, India. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Contents

Illustrationsix Prefacexiii R. Bruce Hitchner

North Africa Maps List of Abbreviations Notes on Contributors Part I  Setting the Stage 1 The Historiography of North Africa in Antiquity: An Overview R. Bruce Hitchner

xv xxiv xxv 1 3

2 Archaeology9 David L. Stone 3 The Environment of North Africa  Philippe Leveau Part II  Africa in the First Millennium BCE

24 39

4 Libyan Culture and Society Joan Sanmartí

41

5 Beyond Barbarians: The Garamantes of the Libyan Sahara David J. Mattingly

64

6 Punic Carthage Iván Fumadó Ortega

81

7 Africa under the Roman Republic Matthew S. Hobson Part III  The Roman Period (146 BCE–439 CE) 8 African Rome. The City of Carthage from its Roman (Re-)foundation to the End of the Byzantine Period Ralf Bockmann 9 Roman Imperial Administration Jesper Carlsen

101 117 119 142

viii

Contents

10 The Army Patrice Faure

152

11 Roman North African Urbanism J. Andrew Dufton and Elizabeth Fentress

173

12 Rural Settlement, Land Use, and Economy Mariette de Vos Raaijmakers

202

13 The African Economy: The Ceramic Evidence Michel Bonifay

220

14 Prose Literature Stéphanie Guédon

233

15 Architecture and Art Niccolò Mugnai

247

16 Transforming Religion under the Roman Empire: The Case of Africa Matthew M. McCarty

285

17 Society and Culture in Late Roman Africa Julio Cesar Magalhães de Oliveira

299

18 The Mauri in Late Antiquity Andy Merrills

317

19 Imperial and Late Latin Poetry from North Africa Helen Kaufmann

332

20 Christian North Africa in Antiquity Anna Leone

354

Part IV  From the Vandal Kingdom to the Arab Conquest (439–711 CE)

373

21 The Vandals Jonathan P. Conant

375

22 The Byzantine Period Andy Merrills

391

23 Late Roman, Vandal, and Byzantine Coinage in Africa Cécile Morrisson

410

24 The Arab Conquests and the End of Ancient Africa? Corisande Fenwick

424

Index439

Illustrations

Maps 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8 

Ecological Landforms. xvi Peoples and Cities. xvii Area of Detail. xviii Africa before 146 bce.xix Early Roman Provinces. xx Late Roman Provinces. xxi Vandal Kingdom. xxii Byzantine Africa. xxiii

Figures 2.1 The commonly shown plan of Thamugadi (Timgad) dating from 1951 in the context of the full extent of the site, including excavated and unexcavated areas. 2.2 Geophysical survey at Simmithu. 4.1 Complex megalithic monument of Ellès. 4.2 The Thugga mausoleum, looking north. 4.3 The Medracen. 4.4 Bas-relief found at Bordj Helal, close to Simmithu (Chemtou). 5.1 The Garamantian heartlands in their Saharan context. The dark squares represent Roman forts and light circles fortified sites of the frontier zone and beyond.  5.2 Garamantian settlements in Fazzan. 5.3 Monumental stone buildings from the Garamantian capital at Jarma: left, the temple with stepped facade; right, architectural fragments recovered from this building. 5.4 Garamantian settlements: top, the Early and Proto-Urban Garamantian hillfort of Zinkekra; below, Late Garamantian fortified towns and villages. 5.5 Map showing the relationship between Garamantian foggara irrigation systems, settlements, and cemeteries near Taqallit.

13 17 52 55 55 56 65 65 68 69 71

x

Illustrations

6.1 Carthaginian peninsula and pre-Roman sites in geographical context. 83 6.2 The site of ancient Carthage and its main features. Roman cadaster in light gray, Punic urban layout in dark gray. 83 6.3 Locations of archaeologically identified Punic structures. Figures in black are dated between the eight and fourth centuries bce, gray ones thereafter. Dots indicate structures following an archaic orientation (± 45º), squares, a magonid/Roman orientation (30º), and triangles, various orientations. 86 6.4 Quartier Magon with seawall. 87 6.5 The military harbor of Late Punic Carthage. 88 6.6 Evocative reconstruction of the urban landscape of Punic Carthage during the fourth century bce.89 6.7 Model exhibited at the Musée national de Carthage representing four Punic insulae from Quartier Hannibal, partially covered by two rows of pillars and other Roman foundations, as part of the southeast corner of the Augustan Forum complex. 90 7.1 Map of Africa Vetus and Africa Nova, showing features mentioned in the text. 102 8.1 Urban layout of Carthage and location of its main monuments at the time of the Byzantine period. 127 10.1 Funerary monument to Balaterus, who hailed from Dalmatia, was an auxiliary soldier of the cohors VI Dalmatarum, and died in Cherchell in the second half of the first century ce.160 11.1 Civic promotions to colonia or municipium under Augustus. 179 11.2 Civic promotions to colonia or municipium under the Severans. 180 11.3 The correlation between civic promotion and entertainment structures. 182 11.4 The city of Thamugadi at its greatest extent. 184 11.5 The original plan of the colony at Thamugadi. 186 11.6 The city of Cuicul at its greatest extent with a detail of the forum. 188 11.7 The city of Thugga at its greatest extent with a detail of the forum. 192 11.8 The topography of Thugga, facing east toward the Licinian baths (center). 193 11.9 The city of Tiddis at its greatest extent. 194 11.10 The sloping topography of Tiddis. 195 12.1 Thugga survey, map of farms with press(es) and extension of olive groves based on the measurements of the counterweights. 208 12.2 Lameria, Parc National of El Kala, Algeria, one of the 40 rock cut wine presses. 209 12.3 Site 205, 2.3 km to the West of Thugga, central Medjerda valley, Tunisia, oil press with two lever beams, basins, and counterweights. 209 12.4 (a) Henchir Godmet, 1 km South of Tabarka, now Tunis, Bardo Museum. Mosaic representing a villa surrounded by vines alternating with olives. The landlady is spinning wool near a flock of sheep, a Berber horse is tied to the entrance door of the villa, and behind the villa is a sandstone outcrop with thrushes. Near the right border is a creek (wadi). (b) Detail of the beehive along the creek. 210 12.5 Henchir Godmet, 1 km south of Tabarka, now Tunis, Bardo Museum. Mosaic representing the villatica pastio on an estate: pheasants, partridges, thrushes, and, behind a wicker fence (saeptum), in the foreground, a duck and white and grey geese picking myrtle and pomegranate. 210 13.1 Roman Africa. Main recognized areas of amphora and tableware production. 226 15.1 North African fora. a: Thamugadi. b: Thugga. c: Sabratha. d: Lepcis Magna, Old Forum. e: Lepcis Magna, Severan Forum. 250 15.2 North African capitals. a: Lepcis Magna, Temple of Milk’AshtartHercules, Ionic capital. b: Carthage, Antonine Baths, RomanoCarthaginian Corinthian capital. c: Lepcis Magna, Severan Forum,



Illustrations xi

lotus-and-acanthus capital. d: Ptolemais, Colonnaded Palace, figured capital. e: Volubilis, piazza of the Capitolium, Volubilitan Corinthian capital. f: Ghirza, Tomb North A, Ionic capital. 252 15.3 North African arches. a: Musti, “Double Arch”. b: Lepcis Magna, Arch of Trajan. c: Volubilis, Arch of Caracalla. d: Lepcis Magna, Tetrapylon of Septimius Severus. 256 15.4 North African theaters and amphitheaters. a: Caesarea, theater/ amphitheater. b: Lepcis Magna, theater. c: Sabratha, theater. d: Cyrene, theater/amphitheater in the Sanctuary of Apollo. e: Thysdrus, amphitheater 259 15.5 Marble relief of Sabratha and Roma from the theater of Sabratha. 260 15.6 North African baths. a: Carthage, Antonine Baths. b: Lepcis Magna, Hadrianic Baths. c: Mactar, Large East Baths d: Bulla Regia, Baths of Julia Memmia. e: Cyrene, Baths of Trajan. 263 15.7 North African markets. a: Lepcis Magna; b: Thugga; c: Hippo Regius. 266 15.8 North African military forts and fortresses. a: Lambaesis, legionary fortress. b: Bu Njem, auxiliary fort. c: Thamusida, auxiliary fort. 268 15.9 North African houses and palaces. a: Utica, House of the Cascade. b: Volubilis, House of Venus. c: Cyrene, House of Jason Magnus. d: Ptolemais, Colonnaded Palace. e: Volubilis, Palace of Gordianus. 270 15.10 Mosaic with the Indian Triumph of Dionysus from Sitifis. 271 15.11 North African funerary monuments. a: Thugga, Monument of Atban. b: Sabratha, Mausoleum B. c: Cillium, Monument of the Flavii. d: Gasr ed-Dueirat, Mausoleum. e: Ghirza, Tomb North A. f: Ghirza, Tomb South A. 274 16.1 Votive stele to Saturn. From Nicivibus (N’Gaous). Second or third century ce. Limestone. 292 16.2 a: Temple B, Thugga. Second century ce. Plan: author, after Ramming and 294 Ritter (2002). b: Temple of Saturn, Thugga. 195 ce, with later modifications. 17 Carthage, Dominus Julius mosaic. 302 20.1 Map with the location of all the Donatist Bishoprics attested in urban areas attending the Conference in Carthage in 411 ce.356 20.2 Map of the bishoprics along the Medjerda river in Africa Proconsularis in the mid-third century. 359 20.3 Map of the bishoprics along the Medjerda valley in Africa Proconsularis between the fourth and fifth centuries. 360 20.4 Map of the bishoprics along the Medjerda valley in Africa Proconsularis in the Byzantine period. 361 20.5 Maps showing the transformation of the city of Sbeïtla/Sufetula from the Roman to the Byzantine period. 363 20.6 Map showing the distribution of churches in the city of Haidra/Ammaedara. 364 23.1 Vandal silver and copper coins. 412 23.2 Byzantine and Arab-Byzantine coins from the Carthage mint. 416 23.3 Distribution of Byzantine coins from Carthage found outside the province of Africa. 418 23.4 Comparison of platinum to gold (Pt/Au) ratios for Byzantine Carthage,  Constantinople, and Sardinia, Muslim North Africa, and Aghlabid Ifriqiya. 419 24.1 Map showing major towns in early medieval North Africa. 427

Tables 23.1  The Vandal monetary system. 23.2  From Vandals to Byzantines: the adaptation of the monetary system.

413 416

Preface

The need for a volume on ancient North Africa in the Wiley–Blackwell Companion series is selfevident. Apart from the survey article in the 1995 Journal of Roman Studies by David Mattingly and myself, which focused chiefly on the archaeology of Roman Africa and single-authored narrative histories, there is no thematic volume on ancient North Africa that covers the period from the early millennium bce to the eighth century ce in English. Over the last 25 years, moreover, there has been much new research and fieldwork that has substantially enriched our understanding of the region’s rich history and archaeology. Thus, it seemed apparent when I first approached Haze Humbert at Wiley-Blackwell some years ago that students, scholars, and general readers would benefit from an up-to-date multiauthored volume covering a broad range of themes on North Africa in Antiquity. This volume is divided into four parts comprising 24 chapters. Part I (Chapters 1–3) introduces the reader to the historiography and archaeology of North Africa in antiquity, as well as its complex and dynamic physical environment. Part II (Chapters 4–6) examines the polities, cultures, and societies of the region, including the Sahara, in what has sometimes been called the proto-historic period in North Africa, generally the first millennium bce. Part III (Chapters 7–20) treats the complex institutions, structures, economy, cultures, and peoples of Africa under Roman rule. Finally, Part IV (Chapters 21–24) is dedicated to the late antique world of Vandal, Byzantine, and early Islamic Africa. Despite the broadly diachronic structure of the volume, there is considerable overlap in themes and topics within the chapters. Carthage, the largest and most important polity/metropolis, for example, is treated in two distinct chapters covering the Punic and later the Roman through Byzantine periods. Likewise, there is no stand-alone treatment of the enormous economy of North Africa in Antiquity; rather it is addressed within the framework of various chapters throughout the volume. Finally, the geographic scope of this book covers chiefly the area from the ancient Syrtes in modern western Libya to the Atlantic in Morocco, as well as the Sahara Desert. The decision not to dedicate a chapter to ancient Cyrenaica was not an easy one, but reflects the fact that the latter has its own distinct history, one that is more closely aligned with Egypt and the Eastern Mediterranean than western North Africa. Inevitably, readers will find some themes and topics more fully investigated than others. The objective throughout has been to provide as broad an introduction to Ancient North Africa as possible within the limits of a multiauthored Companion volume. I wish to warmly thank the entire production team at Wiley–Blackwell, and in particular the managing editor, Andrew Minton, and the former editor, Haze Humbert, for their encouragement and patience in seeing this volume through to publication. At Tufts University, Carolyn Talmadge produced the primary maps. My graduate students, Nicholas Trcalek and Cody Sharma, assisted most helpfully with the difficult task of proofreading both the chapters and the index, the latter produced by Rudy Leon. Finally, I appreciate the support provided by Tufts toward the production of this volume. The cover photograph was taken by Lawrence Earley, a close friend dating

xiv

Preface

back to our time in Tunisia many years ago. I am especially indebted to the many distinguished international scholars in this volume for the time, dedication, and hard work to produce their chapters. I am grateful to John W. Eadie, my mentor at Michigan, for introducing me to ancient North Africa many years ago. Special thanks to David Mattingly, Philippe Leveau, and Mariette de Vos Raaijmakers for their advice and encouragement throughout. Finally, and most importantly, I am grateful beyond measure to my wife, Becky, for her deep love and support, as well as that of our three children, Brett, Katherine, and Robert. R. Bruce Hitchner Tufts University, USA

North Africa Maps Data Sources Citation: ESRI and Natural Earth

Map 1  Ecological Landforms.

Map 2  Peoples and Cities.

Map 3  Area of Detail.

Map 4  Africa before 146 bce.

Map 5  Early Roman Provinces.

Map 6  Late Roman Provinces.

Map 7  Vandal Kingdom.

Map 8  Byzantine Africa.

List of Abbreviations

Abbreviations of the names and works of ancient authors and collections of inscriptions are cited as found in the Oxford Classical Dictionary (3rd edition, 1996). Abbreviations of journal titles are as found in the online abbreviations of the American Journal of Archaeology (www.ajaonline.org). The following is a brief list of abbreviations for works of particular relevance to Ancient North Africa. AE L’Anneé Épigraphique BAA Bulletin d'Archéologie algérienne BAAA Bibliographie Analytique de l'Afrique antique BAM Bulletin d'Archéologie marocaine BCTH Bulletin archéologique du Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques BNSAF Bulletin de la Societé Nationale des Antiquaires de France CIL, VIII Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum CRAI Comptes Rendus de l'Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres DAI Deutsche Archäologische Institut EB Encyclopédie Berbère JAM Inscriptions antiques du Maroc ILAfr Inscriptions latines d'Afrique ILAlg I and II Inscriptions latines de l'Algérie ILTun Inscriptions latines de Tunisie IRT Inscriptions of Roman Tripolitania LibAnt Libya Antiqua LibSt Libyan Studies MDAI(R) Mitteilungen des deutschen Archäologischen Instituts (Rom) MEFRA Mélanges d'Archéologie et d'Histoire publies par /École Française de Rome (Antiquité) QAL Quaderni di Archeologia della Libia

Notes on Contributors

R. Bruce Hitchner is Professor of Classical Studies and International Relations at Tufts University. He has directed archaeological projects in Tunisia and France and is a specialist on Roman Africa. He is currently preparing the final publication of the Kasserine Survey for Archaeopress, and working on a book for Princeton University Presss on parochial altruism and the rise of the Roman empire. David L. Stone is Associate Research Scientist in the Kelsey Museum of Archaeology at the University of Michigan. He is the main author of Leptiminus (Lamta), Report no. 3, the Field Survey (2011), and Mortuary Landscapes of North Africa (2007), along with many articles on the economy and epigraphy of North Africa. Since 2014 he has directed a field survey analyzing the city and countryside of Olynthos in northern Greece. Philippe Leveau is Professor Emeritus at Aix Marseille University (Centre Camille Jullian CNRS UMR 7299), France. He taught previously at the University of Algiers (Algeria). He has published extensively on the archaeology and history of Gallia Narbonensis (Southern Gaul) and the Roman provinces of the Western Alps and North Africa in the Roman period. His publications include:  Caesarea de Maurétanie: une ville romaine et ses campagnes  (1984) and with P. Sillière and J.-P. Vallat, Campagnes romaines de la Méditerranée Occidentale (1993). Leveau has also directed interdisciplinary research on landscape archeology in collaboration with geomorphologists

and ecologists (among other works, P. Leveau, F. Trément, K. Walsh, and G. Barker, eds.; P. Leveau, Environmental Risk in the Lower Rhône Valley: High Water Levels and Floods, and Tyler Franconi, ed., Fluvial Landscapes in the Roman World (2017), 47–67, JRA supplementary series no. 104). He has also contributed to the history of technology in his work on urban aqueducts (P. Leveau, “Conduire l’eau et la contrôler: l’ingénierie des aqueducs romains” and M. Molin, Archéologie et histoire des techniques du monde romain (2008), 133–163), and on drainage and irrigation (G. Sürmelihindi, P. Leveau, C. Spötl, and V. Bernard, “The second century CE Roman watermills of Barbegal: Unraveling the enigma of one of the oldest industrial complexes,” Science Advances, 5 September 2018, 4. Joan Sanmartí (Barcelona, 1955) is a full Professor at the University of Barcelona. He has also lectured as a Visiting Professor at the University of Chicago in 2009, the University Paul Valéry Montpellier III (2013), and the University of Aix-en-Provence (2016). He is a member of the Institute of Catalan Studies (International Academic Union) since 2007. He has also been a member of the Committee of Archaeology of the Autonomous Government of Catalonia since 1997. His research has mainly focused on the formation and development of complex societies in preRoman Iberia and northeastern Maghreb, and the evaluation of the respective roles in those processes of endogenous evolution and

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Notes on Contributors

the relationships with the Greek and Phoenician societies. This activity has involved important fieldwork in central and southern coastal Catalonia, the Balearic Islands, and Tunisia.

Proconsularis III. Regional Studies in the Segermes Valley of Northern Tunisia (2000), Landuse in the Roman Empire (1994), and Agricoltura e scambi nell’Italia tardo-repubblicana (2009).

David Mattingly is Professor of Roman Archaeology at the University of Leicester. He is author of numerous books and articles relating to Roman Africa and to the Garamantes. His most recent fieldwork, supported by the European Research Council and the UK Arts and Humanities Research Council, is in the Wadi Draa in southern Morocco, exploring another of the neighboring peoples of the Sahara.

Patrice Faure is a lecturer in Roman history at the Université de Lyon. He is the author of L’aigle et le cep, Les centurions légionnaires dans l’Empire des Sévères (2013) and of various articles on the Roman army and the Western Roman Empire.

Iván Fumadó Ortega is the Ramón y Cajal Researcher at the University of Valencia (Spain). He is author of Cartago fenicio-púnica. Arqueología de la forma urbana (2013) and coeditor of Ancient Waterlands (2019) and Mortiers et hydraulique en Méditeranée antique (2019). He is currently co-directing a field project on the Carthaginian hinterland with Hamden Ben Romdhane. Matthew S. Hobson is Associate Director of Archaeology at Wardell-Armstrong LLP and Honorary Visiting Fellow at the University of Leicester. He is author of The North African Boom: Evaluating Economic Growth in the Roman Province of Africa Proconsularis (2015). Matthew has taught Ancient History at the University of Leiden (2013–2017) and delivered training courses in GIS and remote sensing across North Africa and the Middle East for the EAMENA Project (2017–2020). Ralf Bockmann is the Director of the Photo Library of the German Archaeological Institute in Rome. He has worked and directed several archaeological projects at Carthage. He is a specialist on Late Antiquity and is currently working on a book on Byzantine North Africa. Jesper Carlsen teaches ancient history at the University of Southern Denmark. He has written extensively on Roman managerial slaves and Roman North Africa, and is the author of several books, including Land and Labour. Studies in Roman Social and Economic History (2013). He is also the co-editor of Africa

J. Andrew Dufton is a Lecturer in Roman Archaeology and History in the School of History, Classics and Archaeology at the University of Edinburgh. His research asks questions of how cities – ancient and modern – shape the daily experiences of their inhabitants, with a particular focus on the long-term dynamics of urban change in North Africa. He also has a longstanding commitment to the role of digital and spatial technologies in the collection, communication, and teaching of archaeological data. Elizabeth Fentress has worked as a field archaeologist since graduating from the University of Pennsylvania, earning her MA from the University of London and DPhil from Oxford. Her chief interest is in the archaeology of the longue durée in the Mediterranean; to this end she has directed and published excavation and survey projects in Italy (Cosa, The Albegna Valley, Marsala, Alatri, Villa Magna), Tunisia (Jerba, Utica), Algeria (Sétif, Diana Veteranorum), and Morocco (Volubilis), collaborating in almost all cases with local partners. She served as Mellon Professor at the American Academy in Rome (1995–1998) and as president of AIAC, the International Association for Classical Archaeology, and director of the Fasti Online, winner of the first AIA award for outstanding digital archaeology. She is currently coordinating the North African Heritage Archives Network (NAHAN), a project uniting 22 European and North African institutions. Mariette de Vos Raaijmakers (Eindhoven, 1944) was full Professor at the University of Trento until 2014. She was awarded fellowships



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by the Dutch Institutes of Rome and Cairo, the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, and the  Center for Landscape Architecture, Dumbarton Oaks. Residing in Rome since 1968, her research focused on aegyptiaca in the Roman context and on iconography and techniques of pavement and wall decorations in Rome, Tivoli, the Vesuvius region, and Sicily. In 1994 she started a systematic field survey in rural archaeology in the central Medjerda valley in Tunisia, and since 2003 also in north-eastern Algeria (Parc National d’El Kala, Ouled Driss region and Madaure-city and environments) and eastern Cilicia campestris. She is a member of the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut.  Michel Bonifay is Director of Research, Aix Marseille Univ CNRS, CCJ, Aix-en-Provence, France. He has participated in several archaeological missions in Algeria (Lambaesis), Libya (Leptis Magna), and Tunisia (Carthage, Oudhna, Nabeul, Pupput, Sidi Jdidi), and undertakes research on Roman African ceramics and their contribution to the economic history of the Roman world, from the Republican period to the seventh century ce. Stéphanie Guédon is maîtresse de conférences habilitée at the Université de Limoges (France) and a specialist in Roman Africa. She is the author of two books: Le voyage dans l’Afrique romaine (2010) and La frontière romaine de l’Africa sous le Haut-Empire (2018). Niccolò Mugnai is a Leverhulme Trust Early Career Fellow at the University of Oxford and a research member of Wolfson College. He held two fellowships at the British School at Rome and an AHRC Cultural Engagement Fellowship at the University of Leicester, where he received his doctorate. His main research interests encompass Greco-Roman architecture and the archaeology of North Africa. He is the author of Architectural Decoration and Urban History in Mauretania Tingitana (2018) and, together with Julia Nikolaus and Nick Ray, he edited De Africa Romaque: Merging Cultures across North Africa (2016). Matthew M. McCarty is Assistant Professor of Roman Archaeology at the University of British

Columbia. His work focuses on the intersections of cult practices, imperial hegemony, and marginality in the Roman Empire, especially in North Africa and Dacia. Julio Cesar Magalhães de Oliveira is Professor of Ancient History at the University of São Paulo, Brazil. He is the author of Potestas Populi:  Participation Populaire et action collective dans les villes de l’Afrique romaine tardive  (2012) and  Sociedade e Cultura na África Romana: oito ensaios e duas traduções (2020). Andy Merrills is a Senior Lecturer in Ancient History in the School of Archaeology and Ancient History at the University of Leicester. He is the author of History and Geography in Late Antiquity (2005), Roman Geographies of the Nile. From the Late Republic to the Early Empire (2016), and (with Richard Miles) The Vandals (2010). He edited the volume Vandals, Romans and Berbers: New Perspectives on Late Antique North Africa (2004) and is currently working on a study of Moorish North Africa in late Antiquity. Helen Kaufmann currently holds a Humboldt research fellowship at the University of Erlangen. She has taught Classics in Switzerland, the United States, and the United Kingdom and has published a commentary on Dracontius’ Romul. 10 (Medea) (2006) as well as articles on various aspects of late Latin (and Greek) poetry, such as the reception of Statius in late antiquity, intertextuality in late Latin poetry, and poetic unity. Anna Leone is Professor in Archaeology at the Department of Archaeology, Durham University. She has been working in the field in North Africa, in particular in Libya and Tunisia, and is currently directing a project at Iunca, in the south of Tunisia. She has been publishing extensively on the transformation of cities from late Antiquity to the Arab Conquest in North Africa and on various aspects of Christianization of North Africa. Jonathan P. Conant is Associate Professor of History at Brown University. His research focuses on the inter-regional integration of the Mediterranean and the transition from antiquity to the middle ages. He is the author of Staying Roman: Conquest and Identity in

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Africa and the Mediterranean, 439–700 (2012) and co-editor (with Susan Stevens) of North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam (2016). Cécile Morrisson is Director of Research Emerita at the CNRS, former Advisor for Byzantine Numismatics at Dumbarton Oaks (1998–2018), and a permanent member of the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres. She is the author of The Byzantine Economy (2007, with A. Laiou), of Byzance et sa monnaie (2015), editor and contributor of two of the three handbooks Le monde byzantin (I 330–641; III 1204–1453; 2004–2011) and

of some 250 articles, including a score devoted to Vandal and Byzantine Africa monetary history. Corisande Fenwick is Associate Professor in Mediterranean Archaeology at University College London and Director of the Society for Libyan Studies. She is the author of Early Islamic North Africa: A New Perspective (2020), co-editor of the Aghlabids and Their Neighbours (2017) and the Oxford Handbook of Islamic Archaeology (2020). She codirects field projects at Bulla Regia and the Medjerda Valley in Tunisia, and at Volubilis and in the Wadi Draa in Morocco.

PART I

Setting the Stage

CHAPTER 1

The Historiography of  North Africa in Antiquity: An Overview R. Bruce Hitchner

The historiography on Ancient North Africa is massive and still predominantly in French, though scholarship and archaeological research published in Italian, Spanish, English, German, and Arabic has increased notably since the 1970s. The main challenge facing those who wish to work in the field comes from the association of its historiography with European, especially French and Italian colonialism and its legacy. Having conquered and annexed Algeria in the mid-nineteenth century, the French authorities were deeply concerned with the long-term success of their colonial mission, which they saw as continuing in the footsteps of Rome in Africa. One avenue to this end was considerable investment in the discovery and analysis of the process – dubbed “Romanization” – by which the Roman state was believed to have imposed its imperial culture and civilization on the polities, peoples, and landscape of the region. North Africa in the Roman period had seemingly much to lend to this program: an imperial history not dissimilar to that of Roman Gaul and the importance of its Christian past through the great African fathers of the Church, Cyprian and Augustine. There was likewise an implicit concern, very much suited to the age of European imperialism and empire in the Middle East and North Africa, in succeeding where the Romans had obviously failed with the Arab conquest of the seventh century ce. This was especially important in Algeria. Napoleon III wanted an “Arab Kingdom” in his empire, but following his defeat in the FrancoPrussian War and the advent of the French Republic, Algeria became a French Department. Henceforward the Arab identity of Algeria was to be denied and the Roman past deployed to justify the negation of Algeria’s history after the Arab conquest. The impact of this is still evident in the ambivalence felt by contemporary Algerian scholars and archaeologists of antiquity towards the Roman period in North Africa. The establishment of the French protectorates in Tunisia (1881) and Morocco (1912), on the other hand, did not negate the official personality of either country, where the Bey of Tunis and the King of Morocco, a descendent of the prophet, remained in power. Tunisia and Morocco absorbed the Numidian, Carthaginian, and Roman past, into their national heritage. Italy’s entry into Libya (1911) was founded on the same premises and can be traced back to the Congress of Berlin in 1878 when Italy sought imperial possessions in North Africa alongside Britain and France. Italy’s power in Libya remained tenuous until the execution of the rebel Omar Mukhtar in 1931, after which the country was fully integrated into Italy as its

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“fourth shore.” Libya’s Roman past became central to the maintenance of Italian colonial power in the process. Prior to the French conquest, most of what was known of North Africa’s ancient past was derived from the ancient sources and, to a lesser degree, the accounts of occasional travelers such as JeanAndré Peyssonnel, and Thomas Shaw, and those interested in acquiring ­antiquities (Fevrier, 1989: 23–66). The establishment of French authority in 1830 was followed in 1837 by the foundation of the Commission d’exploration scientifique de l’Algérie, comprised of French officials trained in the humanities and other specialists (Brian-Ponsart and Hugoniot, 2005: 8). The Brigades Topographiques of the French army produced reports, drawings, maps, and plans of ancient cities, fortifications, villas, farms, tombs, and other remnants mainly of the Roman period in the context of their responsibility to prepare topographic maps of Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco (see Stone, Chapter 2). Various learned societies were also founded: the Société de Constantine (1853), l’Académe d’Hippone (1860), and la Société historique algérienne (1856–1857). These journals reported on reconnaissance visits to local ancient sites or newly discovered Latin and other inscriptions. The newly established French School in Rome also sent scholars to North Africa from the time of its foundation in 1873–1874. The surprisingly large number of inscriptions recovered – more than any other region of the Roman Empire, some 60,000 at present – led Theodor Mommsen to dedicate a special volume of the Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (Volume 8) to the African provinces. Indeed, the study of Roman Africa has long been defined by this enormous epigraphic legacy, as the admirable L’Africa Romana series demonstrate. At the instigation of Cardinal Lavigerie, Archbishop of Algiers, Pére Delattre of the Péres Blancs carried out extensive archaeological work at Carthage under the new protectorate, primarily on the Christian monuments of the Roman city, but also of its Punic predecessor (see Fumadó Ortega, Chapter 6, and Bockmann, Chapter 8). The French authorities also created the Commission de l’Afrique du Nord antique as part of the Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques, which remained in existence until 2000. Greater attention was devoted to archaeology, especially in Algeria, with the foundation of L’École supérieure des Lettres d’Alger in 1880 and the Faculté des Lettres in 1890. Stéphane Gsell, a member of the latter, wrote the monumental Histoire ancienne de l’Afrique du Nord (1913–1928; Leveau, 2020). The late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were also the period of the great French excavations at Thamugadi (Timgad), Cuicul (Djemila), Lambaesis, Madauros, Thugga (Dougga), among many others. The Italians, in a similar vein, launched the excavation and publication of Lepcis Magna and Sabratha in Tripolitania, work that continued with the support of the Fascist regime under Mussolini. French scholarship in the colonial period also took an interest in the Berbers, partly with the view – at least on the part of the authorities – of re-Christianizing them, especially in Kabylia in eastern Algeria in hopes of counterbalancing the political and religious reality of a largely Arab and Islamic Algeria. Indeed, the word Berber became attached to French colonialization and was replaced after decolonization by the term “Amazigh.” It is within this ideational framework that the concept of la permanence Berbère and of indigenous resistance to outsiders emerged. This can already be observed in Charles Diehl’s still influential, L’Afrique Byzantine (1912), but its fullest expression was achieved in Christian Courtois’s Les Vandales et L’Afrique (1955), who advanced the idea of the opposition between the Romanized plains and the unRomanized and hostile uplands and mountains, which eventually contributed to the collapse of Roman power in a region less fully Romanized than long imagined (a view echoed in W.H.C. Frend’s the Donatist Church, 1952). This thesis reached its culmination in Margeurite Rachet’s Rome et les Berbères. Un problème militaire d’Auguste à Dioclétien (1970; Faure, Chapter 10). Berber resistance, as early as the third century, was also deployed as an explanation for the supposed decline of African cities in Late Antiquity, reflected in the decline in both building activity and dedicatory inscriptions found in towns. The work of Claude Lepelley (1979–1981) showed otherwise, but it must not be forgotten that the preferential interest in early Roman urban monuments often led to the partial or complete destruction of the archaeology of the Late Roman, Vandal, and Byzantine periods.



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Another concern of historiography in the colonial period was the question of whether the climate and environment of modern North Africa was broadly similar to that of antiquity, and especially the Roman period. This prompted a careful study of Roman investment in hydraulic technology and farming in Africa. Believing that little had changed, Stéphane Gsell (1913–1929: 40) concluded that Roman land management was a model that could be adopted for agricultural development by the colonial regime. However, this thesis also promoted the misplaced view that the Arab invasions were responsible for environment change, thus providing yet another exogenous explanation for the empire’s failure in the region (Despois, 1953: 194; Leveau, 2020 and Chapter 3). The study of Phoenician, Punic, and Libyo-Punic cultures in North Africa can be traced back to the early years of the twentieth century with the work of the Pères Blancs and others on Punic Carthage, including the excavations of Francis Kelsey in the Tophet in 1925. However, most scholarship and archaeology, such as it was, was mainly channeled through Near Eastern and Semitic programs in European and North American institutions and was thus divorced, to some degree, from the historiographical tradition of ancient North African studies, which remained solidly oriented toward Roman Africa. While the Punic Wars and Carthage’s relations with the Western Mediterranean long remained a subject of interest for classical historians, it was only in the 1960s with the work of Gabriel Camps and the UNESCO Save Carthage Campaign, with its increased attention on Punic Carthage that the study of the Phoenicians in the Western Mediterranean and Punic and indigenous pre- and protohistoric North Africa began to attract greater attention (Doak and López Ruiz, 2019). Camps was interested chiefly in the society and material culture of the Neolithic and the Bronze and Iron Ages, and included Libyan epigraphy, the Berber kingdoms, and their interaction with Punic communities, the great pre-Islamic funerary monuments, and the various ceramic traditions of these periods (Bazile, 2002). One of the challenges to archaeological work on these societies and cultures lay in the fact that pre-Roman archaeological levels at many ancient urban sites in North Africa lay below the Roman layers and thus were more difficult to access and threatened the destruction of the more privileged Roman remains. As Sanmartí (Chapter 4) demonstrates, interest in the archaeology and history of North Africa prior to the Roman period has expanded significantly in recent years. The achievement of independence for the states of North Africa, the emergence of academic paradigms framed by decolonization, and new theoretical models in the social sciences and sciences, ushered in a new phase in the historiography of the field in the 1960s and 1970s. Perhaps the most groundbreaking and controversial among new studies was Marcel Benabou’s La résistance africaine à la Romanisation (1976). Benabou advanced the thesis of a distinctly African–Roman civilization alongside a profound cultural and military resistance to Roman power. While his monograph generated criticism as an oversimplified and inverted dualist African versus Roman perspective, it had the catalytic effect of destabilizing Romanization as the dominant paradigm for understanding the world of ancient North Africa. Henceforth, historians and archaeologists would pay greater attention to the more complex and intrinsic forces at work in the region (Conant, 2012). Post-colonialism also fostered an interest in appropriating the ancient history of North Africa in ways that strengthened the ancient roots of national identity for the states of the Maghreb; greater preference was given in scholarship and archaeology by local scholars and culture ministries to the study of Libyan, Numidian, Punic, and Amazigh (Berber) cultures. One of the more notable examples of this shift in emphasis was the excavations, beginning in 1956, of the Punic town of Kerkouane on Cap Bon undertaken by the new Tunisian National Institute of Art and Archaeology (INAA). The appearance of national journals devoted to Ancient North Africa in each of the new states of the Maghreb was also a by-product of the immediate post-colonial period. That said, French and Italian researchers continued work on Roman North Africa, and in the case of archaeological projects now in tandem with their Libyan, Tunisian, Algerian, and Moroccan counterparts. Most notable among these, reflecting the emergence of Late Antiquity as a new field of study, was Lepelley’s Les Cités de l’Afrique romaine au Bas-empire (1979–1981), and the major archaeological investigations of Christian basilicas and ecclesiastical studies by Noël Duval at

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Sufetula (Sbeïtla) and Ammaedara (Haïdra), and at various other sites chiefly in Tunisia (Leone, Chapter 20). Peter Brown’s seminal biography of Augustine in 1969 (2nd edition, 2013), along with the discovery of new letters of Augustine, were soon followed by much new scholarship (the publications of Brent Shaw in particular) and archaeology on the Christian Church and community in North Africa, and the rich corpus of Late Antique Latin literature (Guédon, Chapter 14, Kaufmann, Chapter 19, and Leone, Chapter 20). It was also in this period and thereafter that the initial groundbreaking research on North African wares (pottery and amphora) appeared, led by the work of Jan Willem Salomonson, Andrea Carandini, Clementina Panella, and John Hays. A watershed moment in ancient North African studies came with the UNESCO Save Carthage Campaign in the 1970s in which Tunisian and international teams undertook major archaeological programs on the site of the ancient city from its Phoenician foundation in the early first millennium BC to its demise in the late seventh century ce. The various excavation reports, monographs, and subsequent studies added substantially to knowledge and understanding of Punic Carthage and opened up a new chapter in the archaeology of the Late Roman, Christian, Vandal, and Byzantine city (Fumadó Ortega, Chapter 6, and Bockmann, Chapter 8). This was followed in the 1980s (and in some ways as a by-product of the Save Carthage Campaign) by the first major archaeological prospection or survey projects of selected landscapes in the interior of the Maghreb as far as the Sahara, a trend that has continued to the present, albeit in a limited way, up to the present (Mattingly, Chapter 5, Stone, Chapter 2, and de Vos Raaijmakers, Chapter 12). While the scale and scope of these projects – which could arguably have been said to commence with Philippe Leveau’s remarkable solo survey (1992) around Iol-Caesarea (Cherchel) – has sometimes been constrained of necessity by political, diplomatic, and other factors, particularly in Algeria and more recently in Libya. The results of this new avenue of field research have nonetheless yielded a vast trove of new research and data on the ancient environment and climate, flora and fauna, settlement and migration, land use, agro-pastoral, maritime, finished goods (ceramics in particular) production, irrigation and hydraulic works, and fortifications and defensive systems. Perhaps most importantly, in the case of the Saharan projects in the Fazzan and now Morocco, they have moved research beyond the northern coastal parts of North Africa and demonstrated the long-term connectedness of North Africa with the East and Sub-Saharan Africa. The work of these surveys generated renewed interest and publication on ancient texts, administration, laws, and inscriptions related to land and labor relations, and new investigations of pottery production, trade, monetary policy and society and culture in Roman and Late Antique North Africa (Stone, Chapter 2, Hobson, Chapter 7, Carlsen, Chapter 9, de Vos Raaijmakers, Chapter 12, Bonifay, Chapter 13, Magalhães de Oliveira, Chapter 17, and Morrisson, Chapter 23). In the early part of this century, as studies of ancient North Africa began to expand in many different directions, Brent Shaw advanced a new perspective on the region’s antiquity that emphasized its insularity and particularity. “As an expansive human living space configured in significantly different ways from other Mediterranean lands and isolated by immense expanses of desert and water – the Maghrib is arguably a Mediterranean island, although a rather peculiar one. It is more isolated than a Cyprus or a Sicily, and yet it is larger in area than all of the real islands of the Mediterranean combined” (Shaw, 2003). This vision – echoed in the Arab definition of the region – the Maghreb, “the island of the West,” a world of many islands each defined by their own “insular environments,” is further reflected in its climatic and meteorological and topographic variability, and the influences of the sea, ocean, and desert and even plate tectonics acting upon them (Leveau, Chapter 3). While it is clear that North Africa’s connections with the Mediterranean World and Africa as a whole were considerable, extending back into pre-history, Shaw’s thesis has been amplified, in works such as Yves Modéran’s massive study of the Mauri (2003) and in more recent studies of late Roman, Vandal, and Byzantine Africa, which have shown the varying degrees to which “becoming,” “staying,” and even moving beyond Roman was a process of constant negotiation, nourishing both a middle ground between Roman and African cultures in every sphere and sometimes outright opposition between them (Dufton and Fentress, Chapter 11, McCarty, Chapter 16; Mugnai, Chapter 15, Conant, Chapter 21,



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and Merrills, Chapters 18 and 22; and Conant, 2012, and Fenwick, Chapter 24). Similarly, Elizabeth Fentress’ studies of ancient Amazigh/Berber culture and David Mattingly’s work on the Garamantes have uncovered a rich, distinctive, discrepant, and complex world – a Saharan koine in his words – engaged with communities across North Africa and the Mediterranean throughout Antiquity. The issue for historians and archaeologists going forward is how to mediate and interpret the distinctions and interactions between the material–cultural relicts of Ancient North Africa in all of its many contextual and new manifestations (and thus still in interpretive formation) alongside those introduced by ancient Mediterranean states, peoples and cultures, the complex meaning, nature, and evolution of which has become significantly destabilized in recent decades both in North Africa and elsewhere. This reality should remind us of the contingent and evolving history of the region throughout Antiquity and beyond.

FURTHER READING The primary literature on the history of North Africa in Antiquity is not extensive. For the fullest accounts see Herodotus Books 2–4, Strabo Book 17; Pomponius Mela 1.34–38; 5.8–9; Pliny’s Natural History 5.1–40; Ptolemy’s Geography, Sallust’s Jurgurthine War, Caesar’s Bellum Africum; Procopius, Wars, 3–4 (The Vandal War). The Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World (Talbert, 2000), maps 28–36 cover North Africa. For the various collections of inscriptions, see the bibliography in Lassère (2015):15–16. Burns and Jensen (2014) provide a good introduction to the Christian literature from Roman and Late Antique North Africa. The works of Augustine, of course, stand apart for the range and depth of information they provide on many aspects on North African society, not just Christianity, in the fourth and early fifth centuries. Ponsart and Hugoniot (2006) is a useful introductory French textbook to Ancient North Africa. For an introductory review in English to scholarship and archaeology on Roman Africa prior to 1995, see Mattingly and Hitchner (1995). A good general bibliography in French for Roman period Africa, including primary sources, inscriptions, numismatics, periodicals, see Lassère (2015: 15–18). The Bibliographie analytique de l’afrique antique provides a summary of secondary literature, but its publication rate is currently some five years behind schedule. Fevrier (1989) provides an introduction on travelers, explorers, and researchers in the Maghreb. For the Phoenician and Punic West, including Carthage and North Africa, see now Doak and López-Ruiz (2019), and on the problem of Phoenician identity in particular, Quinn (2019). For ancient peoples, tribes/peoples, and specifically the Berbers, see the multiple entries in the Encyclopédie Berbère; Desanges (1962), Brett and Fentress (1997), and Fentress (2006). Guides to further readings on specific themes and aspects of the historiography of North Africa in antiquity may be found in each of the chapters of this volume.

REFERENCES Bazile, F. 2002. Gabriel Camps (1927–2002) Revue d’archéologie préhistorique. 9–10 (openedition.org). Benabou, M. 1976. La résistance africaine à la Romanisation. Paris. Brett, M., and Fentress, E. 1997. The Berbers: The Peoples of Africa. Malden. Brian-Ponsart, C., and Hugoniot, C. 2005. L’Afrique romaine de l’Atlantique à la Tripolitaine. 146 av. J.-C – 533 ap. J.C. Paris. Brown, P. 2013. Augustine of Hippo: A Biography. Berkeley. Burns, J.P., and Jensen, R.M. 2014. Christianity in Roman Africa: The Development of Its Practices and Beliefs. Grand Rapids. Conant, J. 2012. Staying Roman: Conquest and Identity in Africa and the Mediterranean, 439 – 700. Cambridge. Despois, J. 1953. “Géographie et histoire en Afrique du Nord, retouche à une thèse.” In Éventail de l'histoire vivante. Hommage à Lucien Febvre, ed. F. Braudel, 187–194. Paris. Desanges, J. 1962. Catalogue des tribus africaines de l’antiquité classique à l’ouest du Nil. Dakar. Doak, B., and López-Ruiz, C. 2019. “Introduction.” In The Oxford Handbook of the Phoenician and Punic Mediterranean: 3–9. Encyclopédie Berbère. 1984. Edisud.

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Fentress, E. 2006. “Romanizing the Berbers.” Past & Present 190.1: 3–33. Fevrier, P.-A. 1989. Approches du Maghreb romain. Aix-en-Provence. Gsell, Stéphane 1913–1929. L’Histoire ancienne de l’Afrique du Nord. Paris. Lassère, J.-M. 2015. Africa, quasi Roma. Aix-en-Provence. Lepelley, C. 1979–1981. Les Cités de l’Afrique Romaine au Bas-Empire: Tome I: La permanence d’une civilisation municipale. Paris. Leveau, P. 1992. Caesarea de Maurétanie. Une ville romaine et ses campagnes. Rome. Leveau, P. 2020. “L’économie domaniale romaine dans les Némemcha. ‘Forts byzantins,’ ‘salles à auges.’ L’apport des Ostraca aux époques vandale et Byzantine.” Bulletin d’Archéologie Algérienne 8: 241–307. Mattingly, D.J., and Hitchner, R.B. 1995. “Roman North Africa: An archaeological review.” Journal of Roman Studies 85: 165–213. Modéran, Y. 2003. Les Maures et L’Afrique Romaine (IVe–VII siècle). Rome. Quinn, J. 2019. In Search of the Phoenicians. Princeton. Shaw, B. 2003. “A peculiar island: Maghrib and the Mediterranean.” Mediterranean Historical Review 18.2: 93–125. Talbert, R., ed. 2000. The Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World. Princeton.

CHAPTER 2

Archaeology David L. Stone

This chapter presents an overview of archaeological research on ancient North Africa (c. first millennium bce–seventh century ce). After briefly covering historiographical issues, significant attention will be paid to the current state and potential future direction of the discipline in the Maghreb.

Historiography Archaeological research on Ancient North Africa traces its origins to French and Italian colonialism in the mid-nineteenth century. Initially, much of this work was carried out by amateurs, including priests, doctors, soldiers, teachers, and civil servants. Their results were presented to and published in prestigious national journals in both France (BCTH, CRAI) and local society publications in the Maghreb (for example, the Bulletin de la Société Archéologique de Sousse and the Bulletin de la Société de Géographie et d’ Archéologie de la Province d’Oran in Tunisia and Algeria, respectively). The colonial or protectorate authorities established antiquities services, created museums, and determined research initiatives. French officials in Algeria and Tunisia conducted excavations and landscape studies with a view towards enhancing the colonial enterprise. They focused in particular on rehabilitating infrastructure (e.g., fortifications, ports, aqueducts, and cisterns: see Leveau, Chapter 3), and on drawing connections between Roman rule and modern colonization. Colonial authorities and publications emphasized the perceived success of the Roman empire in North Africa in order to discover which resources were most profitable to exploit. René du Coudray de la Blanchère, who served in both Algiers and Tunis, wrote that his studies focused on drawing models for the present from the past: It is important to know if the problem that faced Roman colonists is not the same that present-day French settlers and local people face: we will conclude that we don’t need to imitate the past. But if, on the other hand, the conditions are more or less the same, what a precedent and model we can find in their works and success! (du Coudray de la Blanchère, 1897: 12; trans. author).

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At the same time as they fostered connections with the past, colonial-era scholars sought to identify distinctions between the past and present inhabitants of the Maghreb. Investigations of cemeteries in Morocco and Tunisia attempted to distinguish racial traits in past populations by taking cranial measurements. Exponents of this work included well-known experts of the nineteenth century – the pioneering brain scientist Pierre-Paul Broca wrote an article in 1876 on “Les peuples blondes et les monuments mégalithiques dans l’Afrique septentrionale” (“Blond people and megalithic monuments in North Africa”). An emphasis on Africa as one of the cradles of early Christianity led to excavations at Carthage, Hippo Regius, and other sites made famous by Augustine and the early Church fathers. Not far from the surface was the subtext of the profound religious and cultural differences between the Christian colonizers and the contemporary Islamic and Berber population of the Maghreb. The main interpretative paradigm during this period was “Romanization,” a model that regarded cultural change as occurring in only one direction, as expressed in publications by Camille Jullian (1908) and Francis Haverfield (1912). Empirical approaches to data were common; systematic approaches to more complex modes of cultural change and to the study of differences were manifestly lacking, and the majority of investigations focused on Roman remains, while little attention was paid to Berber and Arab sites. As with Italy, Greece, and Egypt in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the colonial era in the Maghreb was the period of “big digs,” excavation projects that lasted for many years. Major urban sites including Bulla Regia, Carthage, Lambaesis, Lepcis Magna, Mactar, Sufetula, Thamugadi, Thuburbo Maius, Thugga, and Volubilis were subject to extensive excavation often focused on Christian basilicas, Punic and Roman cemeteries, private houses, and most conspicuously many public spaces. Subsequent reconstruction has made these cities into picturesque examples of the classical past, with their arches, temples, fora, aqueducts, and bath buildings. Sculptures, mosaics, and inscriptions were removed to become the centerpieces of museum displays rather than being left in situ. Popular outlets today highlight these sorts of images as the quintessential relics of North African archaeology. Scholars regard the large-scale excavation of North African cities during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in different ways. Brent Shaw has argued that the great urban excavation projects have contributed to knowledge of North Africa in only “superficial” ways (Shaw, 1980: 34), because their focus lay mainly on detailed architectural and art-historical analysis, and prosopographic and juridical studies of towns largely drawn from inscriptions, at the expense of more nuanced archaeological investigations of the lifeways of the inhabitants acquired through careful stratigraphic excavation. In the countryside, where colonial-era scholars did little more than hunt for inscriptions and mark the position of rural sites, the data are the proverbial “dots on a map.” The quantity of data from cities, however, is somewhat better and presents today’s researchers with more than just a backdrop for book jackets. Some ideas for analyzing these “legacy data” will be addressed later. North African countries gained independence from European powers during the twentieth century, with the latest country (Algeria) achieving self-rule in 1962. This transition figures prominently in the historiography of the discipline, and is perhaps most visible in the works of Abdallah Laroui (1970) and Marcel Bénabou (1976), who argued for deep-seated “resistance” to Roman rule in North Africa. Bénabou’s perspective revolutionized the fields of Roman history and archaeology, shaping the critique of “Romanization” and other concepts. Although some scholars initially criticized his ideas as anachronistic, Bénabou’s positions significantly shifted the debate toward post-colonial approaches (Février, 1989; Leveau, Chapter 3; Mattingly, 2011; Hobson, 2015; Faure, Chapter 10). That imperialism (Mattingly, 2011) and identity (Quinn, 2017) rather than acculturation form the essential starting points for discussion in the discipline is an important measure of change during the last 50 years. However, a new synthesis of North African archaeology has not yet arrived. Consideration of a wider range of subjects and themes emerged in the scholarship on ancient North Africa in the aftermath of the colonial period. Greater attention was given to indigenous peoples, as exemplified by studies of the Numidian kingdoms, Punic Kerkouane, and Islamic



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Ifriqiya. Gabriel Camps’ promotion of Berber studies through many books and articles (Camps, 1960, 1961), and above all through his collaborative Encyclopédie Berbère, deserves special recognition for helping to shift attention to new subjects (see also Sanmartí, Chapter 4). M’hamed Fantar brought to publication years of excavations at what is still the most completely known Punic city, Kerkouane (Fantar, 1984–1986). The movement away from culture-historical approaches toward the recognition of interaction between Numidia and Carthage has been a particular focus of some Maghrebi scholars (Ferchiou, 1989; Ghaki, 1999; Krandel-Ben Younes, 2002). Early Islamic North Africa stands as an excellent example of a research field almost totally ignored during the colonial period that has now attracted considerable attention via new excavations and synthetic studies (Pentz, 2002; Fentress and Limane, 2019; Bockmann et al., 2020; Fenwick, 2020). From the volley of new publications undermining the colonial-era view that it was a period of decline, it is clear that new perspectives on the period are flourishing. Field survey research began to tackle questions about occupation in the rural landscape (Leveau, 1984; Hitchner, 1988, 1990; Dietz et al., 1995; Barker et al., 1996). Ceramic evidence provided a basis for understanding the role of African products in the Mediterranean economy that continues to be a strength of North African archaeology today (Zevi and Tchernia, 1969; Carandini, 1970; Hayes, 1972; Bonifay, 2004; Bonifay, Chapter 13). The inauguration of new journals (e.g., Antiquités Africaines; Africa) and regular conferences (e.g., L’Africa Romana) brought awareness to these new key issues, as well as added to the volume of publications. At the same time as new research themes appeared, it was not the case that others disappeared; there is still an emphasis on topics popular in earlier decades such as civic architecture, early Christianity, and mosaics.

Current Approaches Turning from the historiography of the discipline to areas of current research, there have been a number of model approaches to current excavation and survey research that represent some of the directions in which I think North African archaeology should progress.

Excavations It is now widely recognized that excavations should conduct research designed to address specific questions, or rescue work aimed at preventing loss of heritage threatened by modern construction. The Fazzan and Althiburos Projects stand as examples of excavations with notable success in targeting specific research questions. Work around Jarma in the Libyan Fazzan sought to understand social development that could be identified through several key markers: social hierarchy, written language, agricultural intensification, wheeled transport, urbanism, commercial exchange, and population growth. This work resulted in the identification of Garamantian civilization as one of the earliest African states (Mattingly, 2001, 2013). Excavations at Althiburos have examined whether important social changes occurred independently or as a consequence of Punic influences. By focusing on the earliest strata in an occupation sequence from the tenth century bce to the seventh century ce, researchers have concluded that agricultural techniques (and probably metallurgy as well) developed independently of Punic contact (Kallala and Sanmartí, 2011; Sanmartí et al., 2012; Sanmartí, Chapter 4). The outcome of both the Fazzan and Althiburos projects has been a new understanding of the achievements of North African civilizations prior to the colonization of this region by Phoenicians, Greeks, and Romans. Other researchers have made important contributions to our picture of these North African civilizations. Both the Fazzan and Althiburos projects show how it is possible to produce important conclusions today by focusing on questions that have been relatively unexplored. It is encouraging to see that work at Fazzan and Althiburos has inspired current investigations to pursue similar questions

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about the origins of urbanism on Jerba (Ben Tahar, 2016, 2018). This is precisely the sort of research that will bring North African material into dialogue with archaeological work, not only in the Mediterranean but in other parts of the world (as examples, see Gatto et al., 2019; Sterry and Mattingly, 2020). On the other hand, some North African excavations appear oriented towards the investigation of additional examples of well-known sites or monument types, such as Roman baths or Christian basilicas. As important as it may seem to characterize the variety of sites or to document a particularly outstanding new example, these excavations often achieve little more than adding another instance to the list of previously known sites. Instead projects should be encouraged to pursue underexplored questions and adopt multiscalar goals when new research plans are being drawn up. New field research is taking place in some areas of North Africa, notably Morocco and Tunisia, but has been stalled for many years in Algeria, and for the last decade in Libya, on account of political instability. When fieldwork must be put on hiatus, as may be the case for the foreseeable future, archaeologists must devise strategies to continue their research endeavors. Many opportunities may exist in the examination of “legacy data.” The term refers to data gathered in an outmoded manner, but which nonetheless may be valuable for analysis today. In North Africa, it particularly applies to many of the results produced by the large-scale urban excavations of the colonial era. Karen Stern has modeled an effective way to study such legacy data in her examination of the evidence for Jewish populations of ancient North Africa discovered during the late nineteenth century (2008). This evidence includes a hypogaeum outside Carthage, a synagogue in Hammam Lif (Naro) near Tunis, and about 60 burial stelae containing Jewish names or insignia from across North Africa. Colonial officials and clerics, including Père Delattre and other White Fathers, considered these Jewish artifacts first and foremost as tangible evidence of the ancestors of North Africa’s early Christian population at the time of their discovery. Other scholars have subsequently evaluated them for the parallels they provide with material from the Levant, and have disconnected them from their local surroundings. By prioritizing the archaeological context of each “Jewish” artifact, Stern instead has shown how Jewish populations in North Africa were closely linked to their surroundings. Their integration can be seen in epigraphic conventions common to Jewish and non-Jewish burials, in parallels between the architecture and mosaic floors of the synagogue and contemporary churches, and in the choice of names that Jews gave their children (Donatus, Victorinus, Iulia, Flavia, and other common African praenomina). Stern’s monograph ends with discussion of a fifth-century African Red Slip ware bowl depicting the sacrifice of Isaac on its interior. Images like this have for decades so commonly been categorized as “Early Christian” that one is surprised when she raises the possibility that it could have had a Jewish owner. She is correct, however, and her ability to overturn the long-held view of Jews as “separate,” or “other,” in their North African milieu suggests that there is much more material available for revision. During the current lull in fieldwork projects in some regions, what is needed is a recognition that opportunities abound to revisit legacy data, to synthesize earlier research, and to generate targeted questions for future research. For example, Touatia Amraoui has drawn attention to the need for further research at Thamugadi (Timgad), where the most extensive excavations in Algeria have taken place. The 1951 plan of this city is presented as typical of Roman urban design in many textbooks, but reveals only about one-quarter of the city, which spread beyond the borders of the commonly reproduced plan at least 200  m in all directions (Figure 2.1). Aerial mapping could relatively quickly produce a plan of the excavated but unpublished areas; if combined with geophysical investigation of the unexcavated areas, our understanding of a city we think we know well would be revolutionized, at limited expense. Carthage is another site where earlier work could be synthesized. The international project begun in the 1970s produced a huge volume of data, now largely published in individual reports, but with only initial attempts at synthesis (Ennabli, 1992; Docter et al., 2015). It presents an excellent chance to take stock of what we know, and of what remains unknown, about perhaps the most important North African city, and to develop the most pressing research questions, be these about ceramic production, domestic space, cultural identity, environmental conditions (Leveau, Chapter 3), or bioarchaeological markers. The important challenge is figuring out how to make sense of the voluminous data at the same time as addressing where and how future scientific excavation and survey projects should be focused.



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Figure 2.1  The commonly shown plan of Thamugadi (Timgad) dating from 1951 in the context of the full extent of the site, including excavated and unexcavated areas (after Amraoui 2017: 349).

Beyond work at specific sites, there are many opportunities for inter-site comparison. Here, too, the existing legacy data can be profitably studied, with ideas for further research conceptualized. One model for this is a study of architectural decoration in Mauretania Tingitana (Mugnai, 2018). A plethora of opportunities might be found to study the iconography and architecture of cemeteries, even if the material assemblages of sites have never been published in full (e.g., Stirling, 2007). Likewise, specific artifact classes, such as stamped pottery, have often been well recorded by earlier excavations, but considered individually rather than synthesized. Kilns are mentioned in numerous early excavation reports, for example, though they have been incompletely presented and analyzed. Undertaking innovative research on legacy data, especially when fieldwork plans must be put aside due to political instability, is a clear desideratum.

Survey Archaeology Field survey, which began in North Africa in the late 1970s, has taken advantage of the extraordinary nature of site preservation in inland regions to yield much valuable new information on many aspects of landuse, settlement, production, and culture in North Africa during antiquity. The “fossilized agricultural landscapes” (Hitchner, 1995: 133) in many thinly populated rural

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areas of the Maghreb have made it possible to record detailed plans of farms and field systems, without excavation, most notably around Cherchel (Iol Caesarea), Kasserine (Cillium), the Libyan Valleys, Segermes and Dougga (Thugga) (Leveau, 1984; Hitchner, 1988; Dietz et al., 1995; Barker et al., 1996; de Vos Raaijmakers, 2013). These landscapes have revealed estatebased agricultural systems with abundant evidence for olive oil production, along with wheat, perhaps the main cash crop of North Africa. The Tunisian High Steppe had plentiful olive cultivation, but here semi-arid conditions allowed farmers to build terraces, rural aqueducts and other water works, and to space trees more closely. A mixed agricultural regime of olives, vines, and grain characterized the Tunisian Tell. In each area, farmers aimed to produce quantities far outstripping local needs (de Vos Raaijmakers, Chapter 12). Inland landscapes have to date been surveyed most often in Tunisia, but elsewhere their great promise is apparent. Archaeologists have demonstrated how rural villages and farms specializing in the cultivation of olives for export appeared in the Libyan Valleys from the first to fifth centuries, with a peak around 200 ce (Barker et al., 1996). These settlements clearly followed and related to the coastal cities of Tripolitania, which had become prominent earlier. What is perhaps most interesting about these rural settlements, as demonstrated for example by their funerary monuments, is their interesting mix of local and imported elements (Brogan and Smith, 1984; Nikolaus, 2016). Such choices represent the “glocalized” responses to imperial incorporation and increased connectivity with outsiders that can be found in these regions. A small-scale survey at Zana (Diana Veteranorum) near the southern frontier of the province of Numidia may present a parallel situation. This fieldwork has revealed a landscape oriented to surplus production of olives and animal products for urban centers and the Roman army; distinctions in the percentage of handmade ceramics found in upland and lowland zones suggest that we can see differences in cultural affiliation at the local level (Fentress, 2016: 324). Coastal landscapes in the Maghreb are not as well-preserved as interior ones, having been consistently inhabited for the last two millennia and subjected to pillaging for building materials. Surveys here have highlighted the harnessing of marine resources and the production of ceramics for export (Slim et al., 2004; Fentress et al., 2009). These studies have enabled us to understand better the packaging and shipment of North Africa’s agricultural products destined for Rome and other Mediterranean cities. The results have complemented surveys in the interior by emphasizing a more varied agricultural regime comprising oil, wine, grain, and fish, rather than mainly olives. Small rural settlements can often be detected in coastal landscapes in the late Punic period, prior to their appearance inland. The Tunisian government initiated numerous field survey projects in the context of heritage management initiatives. This resulted in the Carte Nationale des Sites Archéologiques et des Monuments Historiques, which attempted to survey the entire country of Tunisia within 20 × 30 km rectangles. The aim was to create an inventory of sites, encourage public awareness of local heritage, and protect against destruction at the hands of modern development (Ben Baaziz, 1992). More than 20 surveys have been published recording in excess of 4000 sites, many of which were known, but poorly published in earlier topographic investigations. The documentation in the Carte Archéologique publications is much more extensive and useful than was previously available, but most fieldwork lacked rigorous fieldwalking methodologies and collections procedures that make them difficult to compare to the more “systematic” ones discussed above (Stone, 2004). The Carte Archéologique surveys are useful as heritage management tools, but there is a need for more detailed procedures to produce quantifiable results on which “big data” analyses can be conducted. Despite the many achievements of surface survey in parts of the Maghreb, follow-up excavation is urgently needed. Appeals to this end have been made at regular intervals in the past generation (cf. Mattingly and Hitchner, 1995: 189–196). Rural excavations have been undertaken to a limited extent at sites such as Aïn Wassel and the Wadi Demna (Ghalia, 2005; de Vos Raaijmakers and Maurina, 2019), but often on a small scale and without deploying the full range of scientific techniques. This is not due to a lack of interest but to local resource and institutional constraints on the ability to carry out excavations on a regular or systematic scale.



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Future Directions Although the direction a discipline will take is not always predictable, some measure of self-reflection is healthy, unless one regards the compilation of data as the principal purpose of the discipline (Mattingly and Hitchner, 1995; Leveau, 2005). The following section aims to show how current efforts in the larger discipline of world archaeology could make constructive contributions to research in North Africa. The approaches considered here do not constitute an exhaustive list and reflect this author’s own point of view rather than any consensus opinion. In some areas North African archaeologists have taken steps to implement new approaches that are yielding results, but in others it will be necessary to build a strong foundation.

Environmental and Scientific Studies During the last 30 years our picture of the environment of ancient North Africa has become less a compilation of ancient textual sources and more the product of hard scientific data (Davis, 2007; Leveau, Chapter 3). This results in part from partnerships between archaeologists and environmental scientists that have manifested the benefits of including detailed environmental analyses along with archaeological fieldwork. The central aim of the Libyan Valleys Survey was to understand how an inland region with an annual rainfall averaging below 100  mm could have been productive in antiquity. The project demonstrated that ancient farmers built dams across wadis to slow flood waters, limit erosion, and channel water to soils around olive trees (Barker et al., 1996). The Coastlines Survey in Tunisia had a balanced geoarchaeological approach, leveraging information from coastal locations to understand both history and the environment. Its findings indicated significant coastal changes along 80% of the Tunisian shoreline since antiquity, with the primary cause of these changes attributed to climatic rather than human factors (Slim et al., 2004). These are not the only cases in which archaeologists and environmental scientists have joined forces in North Africa, but there is still a need for greater collaboration, and also for the collection of more environmental data outside archaeological projects. Palynological research at inland salt flats has provided one means of revealing the history of vegetation during much of the Holocene in Tunisia, for example (Jaouadi et al., 2016). Scientific studies, including radiocarbon dating, gas chromatography, isotopic analysis, and neutron activation analysis (NAA), have come to play an important role in archaeology across the world during the last 50 years. North African archaeologists working on the Numidian, Punic, Greek, Roman, Vandal, and Byzantine periods have not been quick to subject the results of their fieldwork to laboratory analyses and have fallen far behind colleagues in other regions. When employed, however, these methods have exhibited considerable potential. As early as 1973 radiocarbon testing on cedar beams in the Medracen tomb indicated that Numidian civilizations had formed complex hierarchies much earlier than text-based chronologies had indicated, illustrating the important contributions that scientific analyses could make to North African archaeology (Camps, 1973). Nevertheless, it was 40 years before additional radiocarbon studies were attempted on Numidian materials; the stunning results from Althiburos once again disproved long-standing text-based interpretations, this time showing that agriculture and metallurgy may both have arisen independently of Phoenician influences (Sanmartí et al., 2012). Despite these demonstrable successes, scientific techniques have been performed at only a small number of North African archaeological sites; increasing this number could benefit the discipline considerably. For example, there are very few geoarchaeological reports on North African sites. With the exception of sites such as the Haua Fteah cave studied by prehistorians, it is difficult to think of a single North African location where soil micromorphology has been employed, although this is now an important technique in other parts of the world. Likewise, osteological analyses of bones

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before and after ancient colonial episodes have contributed significantly to assessing the impact of conquest on local peoples (cf. Klaus et al., 2009). Palaeobotanical studies of North African sites have contributed to recognition of olive pressing residues as fuel sources (Smith, 1998), but more detailed studies of environmental change and agricultural sustainability, as conducted elsewhere through wood charcoal remains (anthracology), could be a productive avenue to develop (cf. Marston, 2017). Ceramic analyses represent the area in which North African scientific studies are most advanced. Organic residue analyses of the interior linings of amphorae have determined the contents of vessels exported from North Africa to Rome and other parts of the Mediterranean (Bonifay, 2007). NAA has characterized the fabrics of ceramics from Sullecthum and Leptiminus, among others (Sheriff et al., 2002). The Dressel 26 amphora, initially thought to have originated in Southern Italy, has now been reassigned to North Africa on the basis of petrographic analysis (Contino et al., 2016). These findings represent the success of the research on ceramics undertaken by Michel Bonifay and several collaborators since the 1990s, a program that expanded upon the typological advances achieved in the 1970s and 1980s (cf. Hayes, 1972; Bonifay, 2004). The picture of ceramic wares from Numidian and Punic settlements of the early first millennium bce is growing thanks to detailed attention to early phases of these sites (Mansel, 2007; Ben Jerbania and Redissi, 2014). Likewise, our understanding of early Islamic pottery has improved (Cressier and Fentress, 2011). Although detailed ceramic reports have yet to be produced by some excavation and survey publications from North Africa, this work has given archaeologists a clear model to follow.

Geophysical Surveys North African field archaeology in the future may be expected to be different from recent projects in a number of ways. Greater emphasis on non-invasive geophysical survey techniques, heretofore little employed in this region, but which have revolutionized urban archaeology in the Mediterranean and beyond in the last 15  years, can be predicted. Leptiminus was the first North African city where magnetometer and electrical resistance surveys made a substantial contribution to the understanding of spatial organization (Clarke and Robinson, 2011). The city center was characterized by uniformly high densities of potsherds and building materials, but resistivity identified a broad open space of 40 × 50 m that has been interpreted as a possible forum, surrounded on one side by a structure on a platform (a possible temple) and on other sides by domestic areas. In the periphery of the city, seven kilns were visible on the surface or were documented through excavation, but magnetometry identified the location of as many as 43 more kilns. Geophysical research also helped to characterize urban phases at Leptiminus, including three successive shifts in the grid plan, probably as the city expanded. Equipment, software, and techniques for geophysical survey have improved tremendously since the research at Leptiminus was conducted in the mid-1990s. A recent project at Simmithu (von Rummel et al., 2013) has exploited these developments in geophysics with great success, discovering public and residential areas over an area of 16 ha. The results document great variety in the character of neighborhoods at Simmithu, including a workers’ quarter, residential districts, a ­double-apsed Christian basilica, all set within at least five different orientations (Figure 2.2). The potential of geophysical techniques to provide a picture of spatial organization on a city-wide scale is well demonstrated here. As these techniques proliferate due to refinement of methods, reduction in cost of equipment, and improvements in software, we might expect them to be very common in the future, and especially valuable in the less well-preserved coastal locations of North Africa, where subsurface prospection is essential to determine a plan.



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Figure 2.2  Geophysical survey at Simmithu (von Rummel et al. 2013: 213, figure 11). © Arbeitsgruppe ArchäoGeophysik des Archäologischen Instituts der Universität zu Köln/Deutsches Archäologisches Institut. Reproduced with permission.

Satellite Imaging Satellite imaging is a second non-invasive technique that can be predicted to achieve excellent results in view of the landscape visualization opportunities noted by recent surveys in North Africa. It too has been used sparingly in this region. A certain amount of ground-truthing is required to verify the patterns present in satellite imagery, but the technique offers archaeologists an opportunity to undertake research on largely inaccessible sites. Such imagery could be used to locate field systems, roadways, watercourses, and other surviving traces of the ancient North African countryside. Satellite imagery can also be employed to combat the destruction and looting of archaeological sites, which has resulted in the loss of considerable scientific information about the past. “Crowdsourcing” imagery is another potential route to gain information quickly, and prevent the destruction of archaeological sites in the course of modern development, as a recent debate has made clear (Parcak et al., 2016; Fradley and Sheldrick, 2017). Other types of aerial imagery, such as that from unmanned aerial vehicles, can also be expected to play important roles in the future.

Archaeological Theory As with scientific approaches and linked open data, there is great potential for introduction of archaeological theory to influence our understanding of ancient North Africa. Studies of public spaces such as Roman fora or Christian basilicas in North Africa have regularly taken empirical

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approaches, considering the measurements of a building, the deity to which it was dedicated, the design of a mosaic pavement, or the text of an inscription. These studies would have much to gain from employing a theoretical perspective. One positive development along these lines is Paul Scheding’s application of the concept of “micro-region” to the territory of Carthage in the late second and early third centuries ce (Scheding, 2019: 20). A micro-region is “a locality with a distinctive identity derived from the set of available productive opportunities and the particular interplay of human responses to them found in a given period” (Horden and Purcell, 2000: 80). Scheding has used the concept to make a clever observation: the many small (20–30 km2) cities in the territory of Carthage lack large fora or basilicas where administrative and marketing activities were carried out for a substantial rural population, as found in many North African regions. Instead he posits that in the territory of Carthage the inhabitants of these approximately 30 smaller cities did not create the sort of monuments often seen in North African cities, but constructed a narrower range of inward-facing buildings where local elites performed activities that reinforced their social positions (Scheding, 2019: 173–220). His observation about how ideas for urban architecture and social activities circulated throughout this micro-region at this particular time represent the sort of productive theoretical approach that North African archaeologists should aim to develop. Current studies of other Roman provincial contexts could also be applied here. How, for instance, did inhabitants with varied identities and social status experience these Roman public spaces, which were not simply locations in which people acted, but dynamic environments constituted by the presence of different people and things situated within them? The use of agency or identity theory, as employed in similar contexts in other Roman provinces by Revell (2009), could suggest some helpful ideas. A range of imported goods with seemingly utilitarian purposes, such as brick (Tomber, 1987), pumice (Lancaster et al., 2010), millstones (Peacock, 1980), and iron bars have been identified at many North African coastal sites. Many of the same sites have also yielded luxury consumer goods, including marble sculpture or sarcophagi (Ward-Perkins, 1951), colored marbles, bronze statuary (Boube-Piccot, 1969), fine pottery, and wine containers (Callegarin, 2000). Quantifying these for big data analyses is one way to examine them, but a theoretical approach examining the contexts in which they were discovered and engaging them in a debate about materiality or consumer theory would be another. Archaeological theory today stands far from the center of approaches to North Africa, and while it need not ever be at the core of the research agenda, a greater engagement with it would address a range of questions beyond empirical ones and yield a more comprehensive picture.

Local Archaeologies North African archaeology could benefit from engagement with a very successful movement in which local communities play important roles in the discovery and interpretation of their heritage. Begun in the 1990s as a response to the plight of indigenous peoples and the colonial legacy of anthropology, the “indigenous archaeology” movement has today diversified and expanded to many regions of the globe (Watkins, 2005; Bruchac et al., 2010). It has links to many theoretical approaches in the ambit of post-processualism (notably feminism, Marxism, and post-colonialism), but is equally focused on connecting communities to their heritage. The phrase “indigenous archaeology” is admittedly fraught with multiple meanings and connotations that would translate poorly to a North African context, but the topic is an important one to address in North African scholarship. The region has witnessed colonialist exploitation of heritage in some of the same ways as other areas of the world where this movement is prominent today: North America, Central America, Australia, and sub-Saharan Africa. Such issues were acknowledged in North African scholarship as early as anywhere else in the global archaeological community (Laroui, 1970; Bénabou, 1976). What has been missing, however, is the engagement of the



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broader North African public as partners in the study, protection, and promotion of heritage. The establishment of a post-colonial archaeology with broad public engagement might bring to North Africa an experience similar to that of other regions of the world in which such perspectives have in practice “decolonized” archaeology (Atalay, 2006). Education, involving the training of students, the revision of textbooks, and the “deconstruction” of museum displays dating – in their conceptual framework, if not in actuality – to the colonial era, could be one component of a local archaeology. An equally crucial element is the participation of local residents in the study of their community’s ancient heritage. The involvement of local communities in the study and promotion of local history is a vital tool to ensure the transmission of cultural heritage. It helps communities to oppose groups threatening to loot or even destroy cultural heritage, or to endanger the lives of those who protect it. Fostering popular support for cultural heritage can also be attempted on a national scale, though the movement has been most successful at a local level. In the opinion of this North African archaeologist, all those who work here – foreign, as well as local – should expand their efforts to engage local communities to participate in the study and valorization of nearby archaeological sites.

Linked Open Data Large datasets of archaeological discoveries have become much easier to compile and analyze as a result of advances in computing during the last 30 years. These datasets – especially when combined with spatial mapping – provide a level of granularity not regularly achieved in earlier studies. An online database of 35,000 North African coins from the first to third centuries ce offers one example of the sorts of results one can expect North African studies to achieve with large datasets in the future (Hoyer, 2018). This resource shows that most of the coins found in North Africa come from non-military contexts, suggesting that the Roman state minted coins as much to enable civilians to trade as to pay wages to soldiers. Quantitative analysis of the number of coins that remained in circulation throughout the third century ce indicates that the region had greater economic stability than Britain, Gaul, and some other regions of the Roman empire at this time. North African archaeologists should be encouraged to create large datasets that can be shared with other researchers as linked open data. By sharing data, one allows other researchers to avoid duplicating the process of data collection, and to focus on conducting their own analyses, thereby speeding up the ability to make new discoveries. If many researchers are engaged in shared endeavors, one can expect “big data” approaches to North African archaeology to make many contributions and bring swift advances to the field in the future.

Conclusions As a source for understanding the complex history of North Africa, archaeological investigations have a critical role to perform. They have the potential to shed light on all aspects of North Africa in antiquity. This ability makes archaeology attractive as a source to balance textual narratives written by and for the upper classes. The historiography of North African archaeology shows that, for approximately its first 100 years, many of its endeavors served as a means of legitimizing colonial rule. Subsequently, some of its proponents have presented an influential critique of this tendency. An affinity for descriptive or empirical approaches has also characterized much of North African research, but groundbreaking studies are today moving away from these practices and are challenging such approaches. More recent developments in fieldwork on North African cultures of the first millennium bce, in geophysical research, and in ceramic analysis have made important contributions. A range of other avenues is available to bring North African archaeology into the mainstream of archaeological practices around the globe, if its practitioners wish to pursue them.

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FURTHER READING Archaeology in North Africa began during the modern colonization of the Maghreb, and was from approximately 1830 to 1960 closely associated with colonial rule. The historiography of the discipline shows that the subjects investigated during this time were those that buttressed the perspectives of the colonizers by emphasizing Roman (or Christian) religious, artistic, military, or civic ideals and neglect of Punic or Berber cultural features (see Oulebsir, 2004; Gutron, 2010). When the first wave of post-colonial scholarship broke, it exposed the bias inherent in much of the research undertaken by French, Italian, and Spanish authorities (Laroui, 1970; Bénabou, 1976). Février (1989: 23–90) has drawn the connections between ancient and modern imperialism especially well, and Munzi (2001), Effros (2017), and Díaz-Andreu (García 2015) consider these subjects in relation to Libya and Morocco, respectively. The thirteenthth L’Africa romana conference (Khanoussi et al., 2000), dedicated to the theme of “Geographers, travelers, and soldiers in the Maghreb: On the origins of archaeology in North Africa” contains many papers on the subject. For those beginning to read about North African archaeology, one review article stands out as especially relevant (Mattingly and Hitchner, 1995). Studies worthy of consultation for others interested in specific topics include: ceramic analysis (Bonifay, 2004); economy (Hobson, 2015); environmental history (Davis, 2007); Berbers (Brett and Fentress, 1996); osteological research (MacKinnon, 2007); late antiquity (Modéran, 2003); population (Lassère, 1977); Punic sites (Quinn and Vella, 2014); rural archaeology (Leveau, 2005; Fentress and Docter, 2008); Vandals (Merrills and Miles, 2010); and urbanism (Sears, 2011; Leone, 2013).

REFERENCES Amraoui, T. 2017. “L’artisanat dans les cités antiques de l’Algérie: Ier siècle avant notre ère – VIIe siècle après notre ère.” In Archaeopress Roman Archaeology 26. Oxford. Atalay, S. 2006. “Indigenous archaeology as decolonizing practice.” American Indian Quarterly 30: 280–310. Barker, G.W., Gilbertson, D.D., Jones, G.D.B., and Mattingly, D.J., eds. 1996. Farming the Desert: The UNESCO Libyan Valleys Archaeological Survey. Volume 1. Synthesis. Paris and London. Ben Baaziz, S. 1992. “La Carte Nationale des sites archéologiques et des monuments historiques.” Bulletin des travaux de l’Institut National du Patrimoine 6: 1–15. Ben Jerbania, I., and Redissi, T. 2014. “Utique et la Méditerranée centrale à la fin du IXe siècle et au VIIIe siècle avant J.-C.: Les ensiegnements de la céramique grecque géométrique.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 42: 177–203. Ben Tahar, S. 2016. “Henchir Tawrirt (Jerba): une site Libyque aux origines protohistoriques.” Antafr 52: 9–52. Ben Tahar, S. 2018. “Henchir Bourgou (Jerba) à la lumière des nouvelles recherches archéologiques.” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 124: 311–351. Bénabou, M. 1976. La résistance africaine à la Romanisation. Paris. Bockmann, R., Leone, A., and von Rummel, P., eds. 2020. AFRICA – IFRIQIYA: Continuity and Change in North Africa from the Byzantine to the Early Islamic Age. Papers of a Conference held in Rome, Museo Nazionale Romano – Terme di Diocleziano, 28 February – 2 March 2013. Palilia 34. Wiesbaden. Bonifay, M. 2004. Études sur la ceramique romaine tardive d’Afrique. British Archaeological Reports International Series 1301. Oxford. Bonifay, M. 2007. “Que transportaient donc les amphores africanes?” In Supplying Rome and the Empire, ed. E. Papi, 8–31. JRA Supplementary Series 69. Portsmouth, RI. Boube-Piccot, C. 1969. Les bronzes antiques du Maroc. 4 volumes. Etudes et travaux d’archéologie marocaine. Direction des monuments historiques et des antiquités. Rabat. Brett, M., and Fentress, E. 1996. The Berbers. Oxford. Broca, P. 1876. “Les peuples blondes et les monuments mégalithiques dans l’Afrique septentrionale.” Revue d’Anthropologie 5: 393–404. Brogan, O., and Smith, D.J. 1984, Ghirza: A Libyan Settlement in the Roman Period. Libyan Antiquities Series 1. Tripoli.



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Bruchac, M., Hart, S., and Wobst, H., eds. 2010. Indigenous Archaeologies: A Reader on Decolonization. Walnut Creek, CA. Callegarin, L. 2000. “La Maurétanie de l’ouest et Rome au Ier siècle av. J.-C.: Approche amphorologique.” L’Africa romana 13: 1333–1362. Camps, G. 1960. Aux origines de la Berbèrie: Massinissa ou les débuts de l’histoire. Libyca (ArchéologieÉpigraphie) 8. Algiers. Camps, G. 1961. Aux origines de la Berbèrie: Rites et monuments funéraires. Paris. Camps, G. 1973. “Nouvelles observations sur l’architecture et l’age du Médracen, Mausolée royal de Numidie.” CRAI: 470–517. Carandini, A. 1970. “Produzione agricola e produzione ceramica nell’Africa di età imperiale. Appunti sull’economia della Zeugitana e della Byzacena.” Studi Miscellanei 15: 95–124. Clarke, S., and Robinson, D. 2011. “Geophysical survey.” In Leptiminus (Lamta). Report No. 3: The Field Survey, eds. D.L. Stone, D.J. Mattingly, and N. Ben Lazreg. JRA Supplementary Series 87, 91–119. Portsmouth, RI. Contino, A., Capelli, C., Milella, M., Pacetti, F., Ungaro, L., and Bonifay, M. 2016. “L’anfora ‘Dressel 26’ del Castro Pretorio.” AntAfr 52: 145–155. Cressier, P., and Fentress, E., eds. 2011. La céramique maghrébine du haut Moyen Âge VIIIe-Xe siècle: état des recherches, problèmes et perspectives. Collection de l’École française de Rome 446. Rome. Davis, D. 2007. Resurrecting the Granary of Rome: Environmental History and French Colonial Expansion in North Africa. Athens, OH. de Vos Raaijmakers, M. 2013. “The rural landscape of Thugga: Farms, presses, mills and transport.” In The Roman Agricultural Economy: Organisation, Investment, and Production, eds. A.K. Bowman and A.I. Wilson, 143–218. Oxford. de Vos Raaijmakers, M., and Maurina, B., eds. 2019. Rus Africum IV. La fattoria Bizantina di Aïn Wassel, Africa Proconsularis Alto Tell, Tunisia: Lo scavo stratigrafico e i materiali. Archaeopress Roman Archaeology 58. Oxford. Díaz-Andreu García, M. 2015. “The archaeology of the Spanish Protectorate of Morocco: A short history.” African Archaeological Review 32: 49–69. Dietz, S., Ladjimi Sebai, L., and Ben Hassen, H., eds. 1995. Africa Proconsularis: Regional Studies in the Segermes Valley of Northern Tunesia. 2 volumes. Copenhagen. Docter, R., Boussoffara, R., and ter Keurs, P., eds. 2015. Carthage: Fact and Myth. Leiden. du Coudray de la Blanchère, R. 1897. “L’aménagement de l’eau et l’installation rurale dans l’Afrique ancienne.” Nouvelles archives des missions scientifiques et littéraires 7: 1–109. Effros, B. 2017. Incidental Archaeologists: French Officers and the Rediscovery of Roman North Africa. Ithaca Ennabli, A., ed. 1992. Pour sauver Carthage: Exploration et conservation de la cité punique, romaine, et byzantine. Paris. Fantar, M. 1984–1986. Kerkouane: Cité Punique de Cap Bon (Tunisie). 3 volumes. Tunis. Fentress, E. 2016. “Diana Veteranorum and the dynamics of an inland economy.” In Local Economies? Production and Exchange of Inland Regions in Late Antiquity, ed. L. Lavan, 315–342. Leiden. Fentress, E. and Docter, R. 2008. “North Africa: Rural settlement and agricultural production.” In Rural Landscapes of the Punic World, eds. P. Van Dommelen and C. Gómez Bellard, 101–128. Monographs in Mediterranean Archaeology 11. London. Fentress, E., Drine, A., and Holod, R., eds. 2009. An Island Through Time: Jerba Studies. Volume 1. The Punic and Roman Periods. JRA Supplementary Series 71. Portsmouth, RI. Fentress, E., and Limane, H., eds. 2019. Volubilis après Rome les fouilles UCL/INSAP, 2000–2005. Arts and Archaeology of the Islamic World 11. Leiden. Fenwick, C. 2020. Early Islamic North Africa: A New Perspective. London. Ferchiou, N. 1989. Décor architectonique d'Afrique Proconsulaire (III e siècle avant J.C. - Iere siècle après J.C.), 2 volumes. Gap. Février, P.-A. 1989. Approches du Maghreb romain: Pouvoirs, différences, et conflits. Volume 1. Aix-en-Provence. Fradley, M., and Sheldrick, N. 2017. “Satellite imagery and heritage damage in Egypt: A response to Parcak et al. (2016).” Antiquity 91: 784–792.

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Gatto, M.C., Mattingly, D.J., Ray, N., and Sterry, M. eds. 2019. Burials, Migration and Identity in the Ancient Sahara and Beyond. Trans-Saharan Archaeology 2. Cambridge. Ghaki, M. 1999. Les haouanet de Sidi Mhamed Latrech. Tunis. Ghalia, T. 2005. “La villa romaine de Demna-Wadi Arremel et son environment. Approche archéologique et projet de valorisation.” Africa n.s. 3: 53–86. Gutron, C. 2010. L’archéologie en Tunisie (XIXe-XXe Siècles): Jeux généalogiques sur l’antiquité. Paris. Haverfield, F. 1912. The Romanization of Roman Britain. 1st edition. Oxford. Hayes, J. 1972. Late Roman Pottery. London. Hitchner, R.B. 1988. “The Kasserine Archaeological Survey, 1982–86.” AntAfr 24: 7–41. Hitchner, R.B. 1990. “The Kasserine Archaeological Survey, 1987.” AntAfr 26: 231–260. Hitchner, R.B. 1995. “Historical text and archaeological context in Roman North Africa: The Albertini Tablets and the Kasserine Survey.” In Methods in the Mediterranean: Historical and Archaeological Views on Texts and Archaeology, ed. D.B. Small, 124–142. Leiden. Hobson, M.S. 2015. The North African Boom: Evaluating Economic Growth in the Roman Province of Africa Proconsularis (146 B.C.–A.D. 439). JRA Supplementary Series 100. Portsmith, RI. Horden, P., and Purcell, N. 2000. The Corrupting Sea. London. Hoyer, D. 2018. “An overview of the numismatic evidence from Imperial Roman Africa.” ISAW Papers 13. http://doi.org/2333.1/76hdrfz3. Jaouadi, S., Lebreton, V., Combourieu-Nebout, N., Bout-Roumazeilles, V., Siani, G., Lakhdar, R., Boussoffara, R., Dezileau, L., Kallel, N., and Mannai-Tayech, B., 2016. “Environmental changes, climate and anthropogenic impact in South-East Tunisia during the last 8 kyr.” Climate of the Past 12.6: 1339–1359. Jullian, C. 1908. Histoire De La Gaule. Paris. Kallala, N., and Sanmartí, J., eds. 2011. Althiburos I. La fouille dans l’aire du Capitole et dans la nécropole méridionale. Barcelona. Khanoussi, M., Ruggeri, P., and Vismara, C., eds. 2000. L’africa romana: Atti del 13 convegno di studio: Geografi, viaggiatori, militari. Rome. Klaus, H.D., Larsen, C.S., and Tam, M.E. 2009. “Economic intensification and degenerative joint disease: Life and labor on the postcontact North Coast of Peru.” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 139: 204–221. Krandel-Ben Younès, A. 2002. La présence punique en pays numide. Tunis. Lancaster, L., Sottili, G., Marra, F., and Ventura, G. 2010. “Provenancing of lightweight volcanic stones used in ancient Roman concrete vaulting: Evidence from Turkey and Tunisia.” Archaeometry 52: 949–969. Laroui, A. 1970. Histoire du Maghreb, un essai de synthèse. Paris. Lassère, J.-M. 1977. Ubique Populus: Peuplement et mouvements de population dans l’Afrique romaine de la chute de Carthage à la fin de la dynastie des Sévères (146 Av.C.–235 P.C.). Paris. Leone, A. 2013. The End of the Pagan City: Religion, Economy, and Urbanism in Late Antique North Africa. Oxford. Leveau, P. 1984. Caesarea de Maurétanie: Une ville romaine et ses campagnes. Collection de l’École française de Rome 70. Rome. Leveau, P. 2005. “À propos de l’huile et du vin en Afrique romaine ou pourquoi ‘déromaniser’ l’archéologie des campagnes d’Afrique.” Pallas 68: 77–89. MacKinnon, M.R. 2007. “Peopling the mortuary landscape of North Africa: An overview of the human osteological evidence.” In Mortuary Landscapes of North Africa, eds. D.L. Stone and L.M. Stirling, 204– 240. Phoenix Supplementary Series 43. Toronto. Mansel, K. 2007. “Handgemachte Ware und Schwerkeramik. Speise- und Haushalstgeschirr.” In Karthago: die Ergebnisse der Hamburger Grabung unter dem Decumanus Maximus, eds. H.G. Niemeyer, H. Baldus, R. Docter, and K. Schmidt, 432–448. Hamburger Forschungen zur Archäologie 2. Mainz. Marston, J.M. 2017. Agricultural Sustainability and Environmental Change at Ancient Gordion. Gordion Special Studies 8. Philadelphia. Mattingly, D.J. 2001. “Nouveaux aperçus sur les Garamantes: Un état saharien.” AntAfr 37: 45–61. Mattingly, D.J. 2011. Imperialism, Power, and Identity: Experiencing the Roman Empire. Princeton, NJ. Mattingly, D.J., ed. 2013. The Archaeology of Fazzan 4. Survey and Excavations at Old Jarma (Ancient Garama) by C.M. Daniels (1962–69) and the Fazzan Project (1997–2001). London. Mattingly, D.J., and Hitchner, R.B. 1995. “Roman Africa: an archaeological review.” JRA 85: 165–213. Merrills, A., and Miles, R. 2010. The Vandals. Chichester, UK.



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Modéran, Y. 2003. Les Maures et l’Afrique romaine (IVe-VIIe Siècle). Bibliothèque des écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 314. Rome. Mugnai, N. 2018. Architectural Decoration and Urban History in Mauretania Tingitana. Rome. Munzi, M. 2001. L’epica del ritorno: Archeologia e politica nella Tripolitania italiana. Saggi Di Storia Antica 17. Rome. Nikolaus, J. 2016. “Beyond Ghirza: roman-period mausolea in Tripolitania.” In De Africa Romaque: Merging Cultures across North Africa, eds. N. Mugnai, N. Ray, and J. Nikolaus, 199–214. London. Oulebsir, N. 2004. Les usages du patrimoine: Monuments, musées et politique coloniale en Algérie, 1830–1930. Paris. Parcak, S., Gathings, D., Childs, C., Mumford, G., and Cline, E. 2016. “Satellite evidence of archaeological site looting in Egypt: 2002–2013.” Antiquity 90: 188–205. Peacock, D.P.S. 1980. “The Roman millstone trade: A petrological sketch.” World Archaeology 12: 43–53. Pentz, P. 2002. From Roman Proconsularis to Islamic Ifriqiya. Göteborg. Quinn, J. 2017. In Search of the Phoenicians. Princeton. Quinn, J., and Vella, N., eds. 2014. The Punic Mediterranean: Identities and Identification from Phoenician Settlement to Roman Rule. Cambridge. Revell, L. 2009. Roman Imperialism and Local Identities. Cambridge. Sanmartí, J., Kallala, N., Carme Belarte, M., Ramon, J., Maraoui Telmini, B., Jornet, R., and Miniaoui, S. 2012. “Filling gaps in the protohistory of the Eastern Maghreb: The Althiburos Archaeological Project (El Kef, Tunisia).” Journal of African Archaeology 10: 21–44. Scheding, P. 2019. Urbaner Ballungsraum im römischen Nordafrika: zum Einfluss von mikroregionalen Wirtschafts- und Sozialstrukturen auf den Städtebau in der Africa Proconsularis. Studien zur antiken Stadt 16. Wiesbaden. Sears, G. 2011. The Cities of Roman Africa. Stroud. Shaw, B.D. 1980. “Archaeology and knowledge: The history of the African Provinces of the Roman Empire.” Florilegium 2: 28–60. Sherriff, B., Court, P., Johnston, S., and Stirling, L. 2002. “The source of raw materials for Roman pottery from Leptiminus, Tunisia.” Geoarchaeology 17: 835–861. Slim, H., Trousset, P., Paskoff, R., and Oueslati, A. 2004. Le Littoral de la Tunisie: Étude Géoarchéologique et Historique. Paris. Smith, K.W. 1998. “Fuel for thought: Archaeobotanical evidence for the use of alternatives to wood fuel in Late Antique North Africa.” Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 11: 191–205. Stern, K. 2008. Inscribing Devotion and Death: Archaeological Evidence for Jewish Populations of North Africa. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 161. Leiden. Sterry, M., and Mattingly, D.J., eds. 2020. Urbanisation and State Formation in the Ancient Sahara and Beyond. Trans-Saharan Archaeology 3. Cambridge. Stirling, L.M. 2007. “The Koine of the Cupula in Roman North Africa and the transition from cremation to inhumation.” In Mortuary Landscapes of North Africa, eds. D.L. Stone and L.M. Stirling, 110–137. Phoenix Supplementary Series 43. Toronto. Stone, D.L. 2004. “Problems and possibilities in comparative survey: A North African perspective.” In Sideby-Side Survey: Comparative Regional Studies in the Mediterranean World, eds. S. Alcock and J. Cherry, 132–143. Oxford. Tomber, R. 1987. “Evidence for long-distance commerce: Imported bricks and tiles at Carthage.” Rei Cretariae Romanae Fautorum Acta 25–26: 161–174. von Rummel, P., Broisch, M., and Schöne, C. 2013. “Geophysikalische Prospektionen in Simitthus (Chimtou, Tunesien). Vorbericht Zu Den Kampagnen 2010–2013.” Kölner und Bonner Archaeologica 3: 203–216. Ward-Perkins, J.B. 1951. “Tripolitania and the marble trade.” Journal of Roman Studies 41: 89–104. Watkins, J. 2005. “Through wary eyes: Indigenous perspectives on archaeology.” Annual Review of Anthropology 34: 429–449. Zevi, F., and Tchernia, A. 1969. “Amphores de Byzacène au Bas-Empire.” AntAfr 3: 173–214.

CHAPTER 3

The Environment of North Africa Philippe Leveau

Historians rely on scientific data from the abiotic environment, studied by their geologist and physical geographer colleagues, the biotic environment, the work of phytogeographers, ecologists, and paleoecologists, and research in the relatively new field of environmentalgeology or geoecology to describe the natural conditions facing societies in Ancient North Africa. All of these disciplines work with spatiotemporal scales different from that of historical geography. Nonetheless, these differences in scales allow historians to effectively integrate this scientific data with textual and archeological sources. This chapter will draw on all of these types of evidence. That said, it will challenge a long-standing paradigm that attributes to human societies responsibility for the degradation of different environments and, more cogently for our purposes, the question of whether in the case of North Africa the Roman Empire was responsible for a vast degradation of the environment or was simply a consequence of the industrial era.

The North of Africa: A Transitional Zone The region extending from the Straits of Gibraltar to the bottom of the Gulf of Gabes, through the Anti-Atlas Mountains and the north-east of Tunisia, is perhaps best described as a transitional zone in terms of the climatic, relief, and societal factors that have effected its environment over time. It is African in that it is situated on the northern edge of this continental shelf, but southern European in its pleated geography, which is a direct consequence of the shelf’s slide under the Eurasian one. Likewise, rainfall is provided by low-pressure systems circulating from west to east between the high-pressure systems of northern Europe and the Saharan anticyclone. During the summer, in a normal year, the Saharan high-pressure systems travel northwards, to the Mediterranean zone, bringing heat and drought, while during the winter the Saharan front heads south, allowing the oceanic low-pressure systems to water the north of the continent. The same notion of transition accounts for the geographic conditions that allow for two distinct areas when it comes to the possibilities offered to agricultural and sedentary life. The first is a clearly Mediterranean area extending from the Moroccan Atlantic coast to the north of the Tunisian Ridge, via the Tell Atlas of Algeria and the High Plains of the Algerian region of Constantine. The area encompasses maritime regions, mountain ranges, and semi-continental plains benefiting from rainfall, with yearly averages equal to or higher

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.



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than 400 mm. A second area brings together inland steppic high plains with a cold and arid continental climate in the winter, with its Moroccan and Tunisian extremities bordering on the Sahara Desert. Finally, for the past 6000 years these areas have been deeply impacted by a third factor, which is societal. The instability of precipitation that characterizes both of these areas in combination with the sensitivity of the mountain ranges to river erosion and wind erosion in the plains create fragile and discontinuous pedological stretches that worsen the effects of agricultural and pastoral activity. Their formation and preservation of these two zones thus depends on the vegetation protecting them. The damage caused by land clearing, harvests, and grazing increase their vulnerability to droughts and promote the process of desertification.

Geographical Relief North Africa is largely an area of uplands, apart from the coastal plains of Morocco and Tunisia. The levelling of its geographical relief leads to average altitudes of 900 m in Morocco, 800 m in Algeria, and 400 m in Tunisia. Geographers distinguish two mountain ranges flanking the high plains, extending over a 2400 km distance from west to east: the first running in a parallel manner to the sea from the mouth of the Oued Souss (Souss River) in the southwest of Morocco to Cap Bon and the Gulf of Gabes in Tunisia and the second defined by the Tell Atlas in the north and the Saharan Atlas in the south (Despois, 1964). From Tangiers to Bizerte, the Tell Atlas forms a 70 to 150 km wide strip running along the Mediterranean coast for close to 1200 km. The range is made up of a series of massifs separated by valleys. It begins at the Straits of Gibraltar, with the Moroccan Rif Mountains, culminating at 2452 m, and ends on the east coast of Tunisia, at Cap Blanc, the northern tip of Africa. To the east of the Rif Mountains and of the Moulouya valley, in the Algerian region of Oran, the coastal range drops in altitude and breaks up into small massifs, the most important of which, the Tessala and Tlemcen Mountains, dominate the inland plains of Tlemcen, Sidi-Bel-Abbès. and Mascara. Beyond, the Tell Atlas is divided by two longitudinal ranges running parallel to each other. To the west, the Chelif Valley, which extends into the Habra and Sig Plains, stretches over 350 km from the Sebkha of Oran, separating the Dahra and Zaccar coastal massifs from the inland Beni Chougrane and Ouarsenis massifs. To the east, a great syncline separates the Greater Kabylia from the Titteri massifs, and then the Biban Range from the Babor Mountains. Further to the east, the range extends beyond the Algerian region of Constantine into the Tunisian Kroumirie (1000 m) and Mogod (500 m) Mountains. The latter directly dominate the coastline, which includes the Mitidja and Annaba Plains. To the south of the Tell Atlas, the high Algerian–Moroccan plains extend over 700 km to the east of the Middle Atlas Mountains, from the Moulouya River to the Hodna depression. With a width of 200 km and an altitude of 1200 to 1300 m at their western extremity, the plains narrow and drop to an altitude close to 700 m towards the east. They form a series of closed basins interspersed by salt-pans, which separate the Hodna Mountains from the High Plaines of Constantine (Hautes Plaines Constantinoises). The altitude is considerably lower, around 1000 m, and small mountain ranges, separating the Setif, Ain Beda, and Tebessa depressions, are scattered within. Even further to the south, the South Atlas ranges that extend for over 2000 km between Agadir and the Gulf of Tunis above the Saharan Platform are larger and more diverse than the ranges of the Tell Atlas. We can distinguish three areas of differing dimensions. To the west, the High Atlas culminates at the Djebel Toubkal (4165 m). It is flanked on its south side by the Anti-Atlas and on its northeast side by the Middle Atlas. The Saharan Atlas itself begins on the east side of the Moulouya River (Wadi Mouloya), which flows into the Mediterranean close to the Algerian border. The Saharan Atlas comprises a series of southwest–northeast oriented ranges bordering the AlgeroMoroccan high plains and the Saharan shield. These are, running from west to east, the Ksour Range, the Djebel Amour, the Ouled-Naïl, and the Ziban Mountains. Beyond the Hodna depression, the Saharan Atlas extends to the south of the High Plains of Constantine with the Aurès Mountains, culminating at more the 2300  m, and the Nemenchas. To the east of this second system, the intermediary high plains disappear and the folds emanating from the Saharan Atlas join

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those of the Tell Atlas, with which they form a third system: The Great Tunisian Ridge. The ridge begins in Algeria with Djebels Chambi (1544 m), Semmama (1314 m), and Zaghouan (1295 m), ending at the Cap Bon range (637 m). Further to the south, the Atlas is reduced to mountain clusters scattered above high plains. Towards the east and the coast of the Gulf of Gabes, the altitude decreases in the lower and upper steppes of west-central Tunisia. To the east of the Gulf of Gabes, in Tripolitania, the mountainous bulge of the Atlas ranges is interrupted and gives way to the Saharan Metacraton, which extends the coast. The transition between both is underscored by the sunken area stretching from the west of the Chott El Djerid to the Chott Melghir, lying 40 m below sea level, and further west, via the Wadi Djedi. Further to the east, beyond Gabes and the island of Djerba, the Djeffara Plain is bordered by a rugged coastline, along which alternate oases, lagoons, and sandy areas. This plain straddling the Tunisian–Libyan border forms a transition between the desert and the coastal steppe. The Djebel Nefousa, a long dissymmetric range culminating at 968 m and at a distance of 120 km from the coast, stretches above the coastal plain, which it dominates in a semi-circular bluff, over a length of about 190 km. To the south, the plain is prolonged by the Hamada Al Hamra desert plateau from where we reach Fezzan, a point of convergence of three series of parallel low areas: the Wadi Ash-Shali, the Wadi Al-Ajial Hayaa, and the Murzuq Basin, which are prolonged by small oases.

The Current Climate and Vegetation The coastal Tell belongs to the Mediterranean climate zone, which is defined by a succession of hot and dry summers (25°C on average) and relatively mild and wet winters (10°C on average). There is considerable variation in climate: in the higher latitudes droughts last from seven to nine months a year, in contrast to the lower ones where droughts rarely exceed four months. The Tell Oranais represents an exception, however, with a cumulated yearly rainfall that is lower by a third from that of Algiers, Annaba, or Tunis: 375 mm instead of 600 mm in an essencea semi-arid Mediterranean climate (Louanchi, 2011). The strong interannual weather variations of these climates is explained by the fluctuations of the Saharan front. The Tunis Manouba weather station recorded an annual minimum rainfall of 221 mm and those of Annaba, Algiers, and Oran 276 mm in 1961, 318 mm in 1989, and 172 mm in 1983, respectively. Nonetheless, torrential rains of more than 200 mm can fall in a few hours. A maximum level of 808 mm was reached in Tunis and a maximum level of 1100 mm in Algiers in 1973 and in Annaba in 1984. Minimum and maximum levels of rainfall determine whether a region belongs to the Mediterranean climate zone or to the arid Saharan zone (Henia, 2008). High-pressure areas centered on the African continent are not always stable and tend to fracture longitudinally. Thus, in certain barometric configurations, the combined effects of the barrier of the Moroccan Atlas and of an anticyclone located above the Iberian Peninsula and Morocco push aside the low-pressure systems coming from the west. The combination of these factors explains the non-conformity of the climates in the historical Mediterranean regions, between Morocco and Libya, in comparison with the climate model defined as “Mediterranean” by biogeographers. For that reason, climatologists place these regions in the north supratropical zone. In the mountain ranges and on the southern high plains, by contrast, the climate is continental. The dryness of the air increases the differences between day and night temperatures. Altitude lowers winter temperatures to averages ranging between 0 and 5°C, which contributes to freezing on more than 50 days per year. Summer temperatures rise to averages between 30 and 40°C. Dustfilled dry winds, blowing from the Sahara to the coast – the chergui in Morocco and the sirocco in Algeria – drive temperatures up to 50°C and intensify drought. Depending on the humidity level, we can distinguish two types of climates: one that is semi-arid, on the High Plains of Constantine and the eastern Atlas ranges; the other that is arid, on the high Algerian-Moroccan plains. Only the Djebel Amour, with a permanent snow cover, enjoys a yearly level of rainfall of more than 400 mm. To the south and in Tripolitania the climate is desert-like regulated by a stable subtropical high-pressure system and characterized by the quasi-absence of rain: less than 100 mm per year.



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Phytogeographers distinguish four areas of vegetation, which correspond to the dominant to Mediterranean and steppe climates. The former covers a great portion of the Moroccan Atlantic coastline, the Tell Atlas regions of Algeria, the greater part of the High Plains of Constantine, and the portion of Tunisia north of the Tunisian Ridge. In its natural state, the area’s vegetation is essentially forests and scrublands, characterized by Mediterranean shrubs (olive trees, pine trees, pistachio trees, and green oaks). In the steppe, grasses dominate. Vast stretches are covered by esparto grass as well as Artemisia and dotted with Jujube bushes forming forest clusters. These stretches cover the southwest of Morocco, the greatest part of the Algerian-Moroccan high plains and the portion of Tunisia south of the Tunisian Ridge Le Houéro (Le Houérou, 1969). Two other areas of vegetation are more limited in size. The largest of the two is a pre-desert steppe characterized by thin and scattered vegetation where Esparto grass is missing. It covers the Hodna depression, the plains of the Gulf of Gades, and the Djeffara. A fourth alpine area is limited to mountain clusters in Morocco.

Natural and Cultural Borders in the Geography of North Africa The strong influence of climate on the conditions of agricultural production has led geographers to propose two main geographic zones. The first, the 400 mm annual rainfall isohyet separating the regions, where it is possible to farm without irrigation, and those regions that depend on it. However, this isohyet circumscribed the regions where it is possible to farm in accordance with the profitability criteria first advanced by European colonization from those that required cultivation techniques specific to an arid environment, including dry-farming, which is practiced in the southwest of the United States. This divide was treated by geographers as a “climate boundary” separating sedentary farmers from farmers whose movement is determined by the availability of grazing resources. Modern authors have used this climate boundary when describing the geography of Roman Africa, which extended from the coast to the pre-desert marking the southern boundary of the province of Africa. This boundary was defined by the Roman military frontier or limes. Historians who have adopted this principle define this boundary as a transition area, the Tell/Sahara interface, rather than as a line (Trousset, 1986). The delineation of the second boundary corresponds either to the Algiers longitudinal meridian, sometimes called the Algiers-Biskra diagonal, which apparently separated the Arab speaking populations from the Berber speaking populations. The former settled in the more fragmented, drier, and hotter western Tell Atlas and the latter in the massive, extended, and humid eastern Tell Atlas. Yet G. Camps showed that the north–south boundary that effectively separated political structures in the Maghreb has a historical origin that goes back to proto-history with no natural forces justifying such a separation (Camps, 1999). In both cases, the aim of the considerations inspiring these divisions was to preserve over time the boundaries set during the French colonial period; in the first instance to mark the southern extension of the colonization and in the second the decision to divide Algeria into three départements: Oran, Algiers, and Constantine. French colonization, guided by an ideology that emphasized the restoration of the ancient prosperity of Africa, imposed upon French historians of the colonial period the vision of Roman territorial dynamics as a model that could be studied and replicated. However, it is difficult, if not impossible, to achieve a correspondence with the climate boundaries noted above and Roman policies toward the African provinces. The same holds true for the thesis that the extension of olive cultivation coincides with the advances of the Roman army.

Climate During Antiquity Recent improvements in Carbon-14 dating have permitted a better understanding of the evolution of vegetal environments and the formation of different geographic reliefs. Relying on the relationship established by phytogeographers between plant groupings and climate areas, palynologists are

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able to assess the periodicity of climate phenomena – rainfall, thermal conditions, and evaporation – and to determine succession conditions in the different regions presented above. Working within the time scales of historical societies, the different fields of paleoecology – pollen analysis, dendroclimatology, pedoanthracology – have identified climate fluctuations over the past millennia through their effects on vegetation (Ballouche, 2003). Geomorphologists likewise have been able to determine the sedimentation patterns forming foothill deposits in river valleys. The hydrological processes that are at the origin of these patterns constitute the second source of information regarding climate history. Indeed, during a period of “hydrologic rest,” rain falling on a slope protected by vegetation is retained, and then seeps into the soil and fosters its development. Only the fine sediments are carried away and accumulate at the bottom of the slopes. However, during periods of “meteorological forcing,” the absence of vegetation or its scarcity multiplies the erosive potential of the climate and erosion becomes more efficient as precipitation becomes scarcer and harsher, interrupting pedogenesis. On the basis of this conceptual model, Claudio Vita Finzi carried out systematic observations of the sedimentary filling of the valleys of Tripolitania and of Cyrenaica, which led him to distinguish two main phases of infilling: an ancient phase (Older Fills), at the end of the Pleistocene era, and a recent phase (Younger Fills), at the beginning of the Holocene era (Vita Finzi, 1969). The deposits that characterized these phases had a climatic origin. They made it possible to notice a humid fluctuation in the climate, which began in the Neolithic age (Shaw, 1981, 1995). These new tools have not diminished the value of textual and archaeological evidence, but it is no longer necessary to rely on them alone to reconstitute the environmental conditions in antiquity, as it was difficult to describe on this anecdotal basis, the variations of the main climate parameters: temperature, rainfall, and wind. To be sure, rock engravings and archeological data clearly indicated the desiccation of the Sahara since the Neolithic age. The inventory of ancient hydraulic works established by French administrators also provided an idea of the available hydraulic resources. This suggested that the climate of Africa during the period stretching from the fifth century bce to the seventh century ce was not fundamentally different from that of today. It was, however, slightly more humid, in particular in the mountains bordering the desert, according to Stéphane Gsell who dedicated the third of his general chapters opening his monumental Histoire Ancienne de l’Afrique du Nord to the climate of Antiquity (Gsell, 1913). In the first decade of this century, paleoclimatologists revealed, in addition to other “proxy data” used in the reconstitution of climates from the past, the presence of bridges built over rivers that are currently dried up, Roman cities in quasi-desert or steppic areas, or texts and representations of animal species that have disappeared (Reale and Dirmeyer, 2000; Reale and Shukla, 2000). The evolutionary pattern over the last 20 millennia is linked to the variations in the quantities of heat reaching Earth, determined by the fluctuation of its orbit. These variations act on the position of the air masses that are at the origin of weather phenomena. During the Würm glaciation, which reached its peak 21,000 years bp, the desert enjoyed its maximum extension. Later on, the increase of sunshine, which reached its peak approximately 10,000 years bp, led to a shrinking of the high-pressure areas centered on the Sahara. This stimulated rain-bearing low-pressure systems thanks to the westerly winds, which explains the retraction of the Sahara desert and a vegetal recapture reaching its peak around 6000 years bp (Magny et al., 2011, 2013). The vestiges of Saharan Neolithic settlement are contemporary with the quasi-disappearance of the desert. To the north, in the steppe area, a hydric and thermal optimum explains the development of olive and pistachio tree (Oleo-lenticetum) clusters. In the Middle Atlas, the Rif Mountains, the Algerian Djurdjura, and the Kroumiria Mountains of northwestern Tunisia, deciduous oak forests experienced a remarkable expansion. Later on, as of 4500 calendar years bp (before the present), the edge of the intertropical zone moved northwards in latitude, leading, in turn, to a proportional northwards shift of the Mediterranean climate zone, causing a modification of the bioclimatic zones, which in turn launched a phase in the development of arid patterns, giving way to the current zoning. The extended displacement of the isohyets triggered a repetition of drought periods and, thus, a broadening of the steppe. In the northeast, the deciduous oak forests remained until around 2500 years bp,



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but experienced a regression of woody species as well as the replacement of deciduous oak forests by sclerophyllous oak forests, with holm and cork oaks. To the south, the growth of the steppe can be seen in an extension of the Artemisia coverage, which is the steppe’s marker (Ballouche, 2001). However, factors other than solar intensity contribute to climate fluctuations. The climate’s evolution is not regular and amidst the general trend towards aridification we can recognize periods of higher humidity whose alternation is seen in the formation of soils (pedogenesis). This is why North Africa seems to have enjoyed a more humid climate in the period between the second century bce and the second century ce. This was observed in Tripolitania, in the Graret D’nar Salem alluvial basin, where sediment cores collected below a Romano-Libyan farming settlement provided a sedimentary and palynological sequence demonstrating the existence of a slightly more humid period than that of today (Gilbertson and Hunt, 1997: 67–79 and 271). In the midMedjerda Valley, a team from the universities of Dresden and Seville identified four phases of aridification, around 4700, 3000, 1600, and 400 calendar years bp, respectively (Faust et al., 2004). The first corresponds to the end of the Neolithic age, the second extends down to the late first millennium bce, and the third, beginning in the fifth century ce, was a period of Saharan expansion that seems to have established the climatic framework for a millennium, lower intensity variations notwithstanding. These observations have been corroborated by geomorphology. Thus, in the Plain of Sfax, in Tunisia, where cooperation between archeologists and geomorphologists was particularly fruitful, the morphogenesis of the Chaal Charfaoui watershed suggests that the “autumn rains were most probably more intense than those of today” (Ballais et al., 2003; Ferhi et al., 2007). Elsewhere, systematic investigations have made it possible to identify several phases of erosion that apparently correspond to concentrated and a more torrential precipitation pattern than at present. They are at the origin of sedimentary accumulations, inverting the trend that prevailed between the tenth and fourth millennium bp, a time when the post-ice age rise in sea level, which is tied to climate warming, led to an infiltration of the valleys carved out by the rivers and to a general retreat of the shoreline. Influenced by the deceleration of the rise of the sea level, the accumulation of sediments in the river mouths wrested from the basins of the wadis, followed by their carriage, resulted in a clogging of the river mouths and to a general advance of the coastline. Thus, Utica, a Phoenician settlement at the mouth the Medjerda River, is now located more than 10 km inland. This process continued until an unspecified date before a reversal in trends that caused a quasi-general retreat of the shoreline (Slim et al., 2004; Wilson, 2017). Analogous observations in the Aurès Mountains show that the period running from 250 bce to approximately 250 ce is characterized by a stabilization of the environment in which alluvial accumulation variations are moderate. During the period that follows up until approximately 600 ce, accumulation reaches its maximum point, three times that of the early-mid Holocene (Ballais, 2009). It is, however, necessary to note the many uncertainties that remain derive in part from the manner in which the question is treated by paleoclimatologists. Research favors the creation of long sequences, allowing us to fill the databanks that are necessary to build climate models, erasing the climate fluctuations over the past millennia. The limits of this research, however, are also linked to the difficulties in applying to North African environments methods that were developed in Northern European countries, rich in peatlands favorable to the preservation of pollens that are destroyed by the yearly alternations of floods and droughts characterizing the Mediterranean climate. Thus, the ancient environment in the humid mountain areas of western Morocco and of eastern Tunisia remains largely unknown at present. The only detailed study dealing with this history was carried out in the 1980s on the basis of marine sediments from the Holocene period, from 5000 years before to the present, in the Gulf of Gabes, an area subjected to a semi-arid climate (Brun, 1992 bp). High-resolution analyses of marine core samples from the central Mediterranean (the Strait of Sicily) demonstrate continuity with lake core samples along a transect running from the Alps to the Praola Lake in southern Sicily. These analyses draw attention to a change that occurred in the yearly distribution of rainfall following the variations in solar

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radiation intensity that was observed by astrophysicists. Rainfall, which reached its peak during the summers and winters prior to 4500 years bp, apparently declined during those seasons in the period that followed (Magny et al., 2013). However, the effect of drought is not the same depending on the period when drought occurs. If drought occurs during the vegetative period, the absence of rainfall in the spring has direct consequences on agriculture, whereas during the fall and winter its effects are on groundwater levels. Aridification is a result of multiple periods of drought, which have lasting effects on the soils. The distinction between drought and aridification is fundamental for regions extending from 36°N latitiude, where Mediterranean winters characterized by the humidity of the cold season are the rule, to 34°N latitude, where they are the exception. Finally, the question of temperatures is particularly significant. In 1956, X. de Planhol and M. Tabuteau tried to shed light on this by using the geography of the olive tree whose tolerance threshold reaches an average of –8°C for extreme minimum lows (Planhol and Tabuteau, 1956). A comparison between the current map of olive tree distribution and its ancient expansion, documented by archeological vestiges, made it possible to disregard a thermal degradation tantamount to that observed in Anatolia. Especially during Antiquity, where there were no olive trees, a milder climate was apparently enjoyed, which may explain a lessening of its continental nature, due to the Eurosiberian anticyclone. This observation was verified in an investigation undertaken in the Nemencha Mountains by J.-P. Chabin, a geographer. The olive tree, present in Antiquity up to about 1300 ce on terrains with the most runoff waters, does not grow at altitudes above 1200 m. This small difference leads us to believe that the diminution or different distribution of the rainfall was the main climatic factor (Chabin, 1988; Chabin and Laporte, 2016).

Climate Variability The distinction between drought, which is a temporary weather phenomenon, and aridity, which is caused by a repetition of periods of drought, is at the heart of the question of North Africa’s environmental evolution during Antiquity. This distinction should condition the assessments of the lasting droughts and of the disastrous floods noted by S. Gsell in the ancient sources. The mentions of drought are not frequent and they are not always reliable in climatic terms. Hence, when Saint Cyprian writing in the mid-third century ad wrote that “in the winter there is not such an abundance of showers for nourishing the seeds” (Ad Demetrianum, 2), his statement is simply a product of the eschatological worldview of a Christian for whom the misfortunes of his age were the warning signs of the expected and longed for end times. However, when Arnobius of Sicca Veneria explains in his treaty against the pagans, in the year 297 or 298 ce, that drought is afflicting the Gaetuli and Mauretania Tingitana, whereas the Moors of Caesarea and the Numidians are enjoying prosperous harvests (Adversus gentes or Adversus nationes, 1.16), this suggests that an anticyclone must have settled above the western Mediterranean. The few other accounts that mention droughts suggest that they probably did not last more than one or two years. On the other hand, the five-year drought that preceded Hadrian’s arrival in North Africa in 128 ce is of particular interest (HA.Hadr., 22.14: “it rained upon his arrival after five years of drought which earned him the affection of the Africans”). Modern commentators have interpreted this as explaining the imperial propaganda of the time, showing that the Gods blessed the arrival of the Emperor. The reality of this episode is evidenced by two altars built in 128 ce by the commander of the legion stationed in Lambaesis, at the foot of the Aurès, Mountains: one dedicated to Jupiter (CIL 8. 2609 = ILS 3061), the other to the winds bringing beneficent rain (CIL 8.2610 = ILS 3935). Furthermore, Italian archaeologists believe that they recognized in the stratigraphy of the La Malga cisterns at Carthage that this episode, or at least the sequence of events of which it was part, namely the presence of gypsum crystals, was similar to those found in the soils of desert environments, suggestings that the aqueduct abutting the cistern was built during an arid climatic period during the second to early third century (Di Stefano, 2009: 162). This episode, in itself, is not a sign of a climate change. Rather it may be explained as the result of Saharan high-pressure systems



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that moved up into the Mediterranean area during the summer but did not move down during the winter, a barometric situation that prevented the low-pressure systems from watering the north of Tunisia. There is nothing exceptional about this phenomenon (Leveau, 2018). The accounts of destruction caused by floods and water are more frequent, but these are weather accidents whose destructibility does not match the flood damage in the city of Rome at the beginning of our era and show instead climate fluctuations affecting central Italy. There is little to conclude from the mention of torrential rains in the ancient as they are simply characteristic of Mediterranean weather. While there third century epigraphic documents – military documents in particular – mentioning the repair of roads and bridges damaged or destroyed by the floods (Salama, 1951), this can be explained by the attention given to the maintenance of the road network. Thus, by adding a new document to the list that P. Salama had established, German archeologists reproduced a fragmentary inscription found in the excavations of the Gheriat-el-Garbia fort located on the limes tripolitanus: ab impetu aqu[arum- - -]\multa loca ed[ucta (?) - - -]. The impetus aquae is a fierce current that the authors believe designates the flooding of the wadis caused by the torrential rains that fell “in numerous locations” (Haensch and Mackensen, 2011). However, it does not have any more climatic significance than the whirlwinds that would sweep away herds crossing a ravine and which was commemorated by a rock inscription in Kabylia: cuius voragine semper attrita s[u]nt pecora, nunc providentia bonorum lucet felix strata gurgus (Gsell, 1899).

Climate and Society: The Debate on Climatic and Anthropic Causalities Agropastoral activity becomes increasingly important from the Neolithic period onward. In the second half of the first millennium bc forests retreated in the face of urbanization, which increased the need for more agriculture, timber extraction for firewood, and of softwood for urban worksites and shipbuilding. The former non-desert and forested environment becomes colonized by species adapted to arid geographies, which was followed by a process of soil degradation in arid, semi-arid, and sub humid areas. In sum, endogenous human forces combined with exognenous climate factors to transform the environment. In the historiography on Ancient Africa, mention is made of a doubly harmful effect, first the degradation of a fragile natural environment and second the­ cause-and-effect relationship of three historical movements: the Roman period, the invasions of the eleventh century, and European colonization. Geomorphologists have postulated that the overpopulation of the mountainous zones, rather than climate, was the determining factor in an erosive crisis responsible for the sedimentary accumulations in the foothills. In the 1950s and 1960s, the geographer R. Benchétrit (1955, 1972; see also Bravard, 2006) established a close relationship between European colonization, which pushed the Arab peasants back into the mountains, and the environmental crisis that was subsequently observed by geographers. Building on a similar observation regarding Antiquity in the south of Italy and Sicily (and more generally to the second half of the Holocene period and the whole of Mediterranean), R. Neboit argued that this was a period when the threshold of anthropization was crossed (NeboitGuilhot, 1983, 1984). Occurring three or four millennia after an earlier Neolithic anthropization, this event was related to a societal model defined as “Roman.” Roman colonization in Africa, in this model, had two aims relating to land cultivation: maximizing profits coming from state-owned farms and the massive production of wheat to feed the capital of the Empire. Consequently, Rome built a centralized empire ruling the totality of the Imperial Occidens and in so doing implemented true spatial planning policy, which is abundantly illustrated by the road network, Roman centuriation, the drainage systems, the construction of canals, the port developments, etc. The six centuries of the Roman era thus seem to correspond to a moment in history characterized by robust spatial planning. As if in anticipation of the reality of European colonization, the Romans apparently seized the land and pushed the indigenous populations into the mountains.

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It is further argued in this model that in the eleventh century Africa was subjected to a new invasion, by the Arab Hilalian tribes, who apparently ruined its agriculture by imposing a mode of subsistence based on pastoralism. This is based on a passage from the work of Ibn Khaldoun who, basing himself on a Quranic comparison, wrote in the fourteenth century that nomadic tribes, the Banu Hilal, “raided Ifriqiya like a plague of grasshoppers, damaging and destroying everything on their way.” According to an Egyptian geographer from the beginning of the fourteenth century, before their arrival “[…] the entire country from Tripoli to Tangiers was only hedges and a continuous succession of villages” (Ibn Khaldoun, 1863: 341). The thesis of the responsibility of the Arab tribes in the degradation of the environments had already been criticized by geographers who condemned its ideological bias. Yet the debate on the climatic or anthropic origins of the steppe’s extension, at the expense of the forest, was reactivated by the interpretation of the pollinic data from the sediment cores taken in the Gulf of Gabes and studied by A. Brun. Working with her, M. Rouvillois-Brigol, the author of a study on the Ouargla oasis in the Algerian Sahara, raised the question of the origin of the steppization of Tunisia that occurred in the Punic era (Rouvillois-Brigol, 1985). The pollen analyses showed that, since the Roman period, the vegetal landscape experienced a gradual increase of Artemisia steppes, which then accelerated. These analyses provided evidence of an aridification phase that reached its peak around the fourteenth century and preceded a more humid phase corresponding to the Little Ice Age, running from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries (Brun, 1992). It was therefore necessary to overturn the causal system and the “presumption that the nomad followed Artemisia much more than making Artemisia grow along his way.” This thesis favoring climatic causality was confirmed by the studies that followed.

Forms of Anthropization The debate on the respective place of climate or human factors in the changes of North African environments has at present taken on a new form involving the convergence of two historiographic currents, post-colonial and environmental history. The US geographer, Diana Davis, for example, demonstrated how the French colonial administration justified the fight against native practices and the plundering of their populations by relying on the ecological and forest sciences of the period. Apparently, a kind of colonial science created the “great narrative” of the decline of nature’s prosperity, which the colonizer was seeking to restore. This science based itself on the thesis that the Bedouin tribes were responsible for this decline; i.e., the development of nomadic pastoralism following the Hilalian invasions were at the origin of the degradation of the environment whose fruitful exploitation during the Roman era had made Africa one of the richest and most urbanized provinces of the Empire, as well as its breadbasket (Davis, 2007). The post-colonial rejection of the argument advanced by the colonial period historians treats as a historical reality what in reality is a historiographic construct. This rejection is little more than a permutation of values. Its followers seem unaware that the Roman province of Africa, Proconsular Africa, only represented the eastern part of North Africa and, even if it did supply Rome with wheat, it did not supply wheat to the empire, but only to its capital. This region was only the second provider, after Egypt, and what was at issue were monthly wheat supplies for the 200,000 registered Roman citizens, first at a discounted price and then for free, without prejudice to the existence of an important free wheat market in other provinces. The theory also ignores the fact that Africa remained a cereal exporter beyond the Roman period. From approximately 1725 ce, Algeria became the main exporter of North African wheat to Marseille. It is only in the course of the nineteenth century that vegetable oil became more important than grains among Tunisian exports. In reality, the cultivation practices developed by the latter administrations in support of decolonization do not give any more value to native practices either. From the time in which the idea that forest dwellers had imposed themselves by mastering mountain terrains in Europe, geographers complained about the underestimation of the climate’s role and of the technocratic



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repression of local population practices. The geographers J. Despois and J. Dresch had already condemned the misinterpretation of language of authors accusing the Arab invasions and nomadism for having ruined most of the North African forests. In this perspective, as well as in light of the objectives of modern societies and of the ideologies positioning themselves in relation to productionism, it is necessary to break away from such an assessment of the cultivation practices of ancient North African societies. When geographers introduce the criterion of profitability, this is done in relation to current economic conditions. The error consists in equating the current era to the ancient eras without paying appropriate attention to the introduction of new harvesting techniques. The first appeared in the nineteenth century, with the introduction of the turning plow “equipped with a front axle, a coulter blade, a ploughshare and a moldboard that the swing plough does not have, so it can plough the earth at twice a greater depth” (Dresch, 1986). The second is tied to the mechanization characterized by the use of polydisk and gang plows, which was adopted in large farms regardless of the political, economic, and social regimes.

The Adaptation of Societies to the Evolution of Environments From a critical perspective, it is necessary to comment on the various ways in which landscapes were shaped by rural populations in Antiquity. We are not speaking here about the great land developments that have grasped the attention of historians of “Romanization” but of humbler installations that ensured harvesting in arid and in subarid zones. These installations share with those of the Mediterranean zone a reliance on hydraulics, which provide to plants the necessary quantities of water for their growth in order to compensate for an insufficient or deficient climate impact. We can distinguish three types of installations responding to different situations. The first is the classical irrigation installation transporting water from a spring or diverting water from a waterway to an arable plot. This, of course, has no African or even Mediterranean specificity. With regard to Ancient Africa, Pliny the Elder in Tacape (Gabes), “in the middle of the sands,” describes the distribution of water coming from a spring (HN 28.51 [188]). This technology is described in detail in Lamasba by a famous inscription (Shaw, 1984). The fertile Belezema Plain is located in the High Plains of Constantine between the Aurès Mountains in the east and the Hodna depression in the west, which enjoys an annual rainfall ranging from 400 to 500 mm. Only a few kilometers away lies the region where Procopius (Bell. Vand. 4.19) described irrigation in the following terms: “The Abigas River flows from Aurasium, and descending into a plain, waters the land just as the men there desire. For the natives conduct this stream to whatever place they think it will best serve them at the moment, for in this plain there are many channels, into which the Abigas is divided, and entering all of them, it passes underground, and reappears again above the ground and gathers its stream together. This takes place over the greatest part of the plain and makes it possible for the inhabitants of the region, by stopping up the waterways with earth, or by again opening them, to make use of the waters of this river as they wish.” A legal document dating from the eleventh century shows the persistence of the regulation of these practices in southern Ifriqiya during the Middle Ages (Ben Ouezdou and Trousset, 2009). Installations of this kind in the foothills of the eastern massifs were mentioned in it. Hence, B. Hitchner, in relating the intense development that the Kasserine region in central Tunisia enjoyed during the Roman era, described the traces of installations of this kind southeast of the Djebel Chambi and on the right bank of the Wadi El Darb (Hitchner, 1995). Yet the preservation of this kind of installation is not guaranteed. This is what occurred in the foothills of eastern Algeria where the growing of cereals is done by spate irrigation. Thus, M. Cote described the regressive erosion process in the Nemenchas, where J. Birebent had mapped the ancient agricultural spreading that, by deepening the riverbeds of the wadis, forced farmers to capture water elsewhere (Cote, 1968: 226). Two other kinds of installations guarantee the farmer’s independence with regard to the climate by mobilizing, in one case, the water reserve contained in the soils and, in the other, in deep

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aquifers. The first is called jessour in the south of Tunisia and faïd irrigation in Morocco (Roose et al., 2001). Geographers and agronomists who have worked in this region have provided precise descriptions of these. A jessour is a small trapezoidal dam raised at the bottom of an wadi in order to trap the sediments carried by the runoff waters, to retain an arable soil upstream, and to store a body of water that is protected from evaporation. Downstream, surface water flow is concentrated on the surface area that is the best suited for cultivation. The lower layers of the soil that store these waters are shielded from evaporation by capillarity, thanks to plowing techniques maintaining a powder layer on the surface. Pliny, who stresses the importance of preparatory plowing, explains that up to nine passes are done (NH 28.48 [180]). Columella specifies that in Africa powdery soil is more fertile than all the others, provided we make sure to make it brittle (Praef., 1.24: In Africa Numidiaque putres arenae fecunditate vel robustissimum solum vincunt). He recalls that Virgil recommended four tillages (Columella 2,2: et cui putre solum; namque hoc imitamur arando; referencing Georgics, 1.43–49). Hence the provision of an annual quantity of 200 mm is equivalent to 500 mm/year, making it possible to plant trees and to harvest cereals. This technique takes into account harvesting conditions in an arid environment, a practice that lies behind modern dry farming in the southwest of the United States. More generally speaking, this technique makes use of the sandy sedimentary accumulations of the foothills that are poor in organic elements but rich in mineral elements coming from the rocks from which they originate, whereas the soils of the humid regions are naturally washed by the rains. Low walls that collect water, hence lowering the runoff water speed, reducing the effect of erosion, and stabilizing the slopes that can reach an incline of up to 25%, are associated with the jessours. We owe to archeologists the material proof of the existence of this phenomenon. It was described under the name of Walls and Floodwater Farming by a pluridisciplinary team of British archaeologists who studied between 1979 and 1989 the Libyan plateau drained by the Zemzem, Sofeggin, and Bei al Kébir wadis that flow into the Gulf of Sidra. This region, extending over an area of 75,000 km2 and constituting the hinterland of the coastal Roman cities of Sabratha, Tripoli, and Lepcis Magna, is located between the isohyets of 25 to 100 mm of annual rainfall (Barker, 1996). Further to the west, in Tunisia, Trousset (1995) and B. Hitchner (1995) described the agricultural development of southern Tunisia as resulting from the spreading of flood waters conjugating with the building of farming terraces, the former in the desert area of the limes tripolitanus between Gafsa and the Chott El Djerid and the latter in the region of Kasserine. The generalization of these practices in the southeast of Tunisia, however, is now well demonstrated in the work of A. Mrabet (2018) and those in the western part of the Hodna in the work of S. Slimani (Slimani and Kherbouche 2018). The third kind of installation is known in Saharan Africa as foggara in Algeria and khettara in Morocco, two terms that also translate as qanat. The installation is made up of a series of vertical wells connected to a drainage gallery transporting the water to an oasis. The waters that are captured are either waters circulating under the beds of the former courses of rivers flowing down from the Saharan Atlas or waters from aquifers, some of which were left behind from the pluvial period of the early Holocene when the monsoon would travel as far in the Sahara as approximately 30 degrees of latitude, or ten degrees to the north of the current limit. This is the case in Fezzan, a region of the Libyan desert with an average annual rainfall that is lower than 10 mm, making any form of non-irrigated agriculture impossible and where several years can go by without the slightest downpour. On the basis of written sources, it has been argued that the foggara was introduced in the Saharan oases only in the eleventh century. However, the technique of the drainage gallery, known in French as “mine d’eau,” or water mine, is universal (Leveau, 2015). The technique is used in the subdesert and steppic areas of the Middle East but it has been suggested that it originated in Iran. In reality, an African tradition of building these hydraulic works is clearly demonstrated in Fezzan by the Garamantian civilization (Wilson, 2006a, 2006b). This civilization, which enjoyed remarkable growth beginning in the fifth century bce and extending into the Roman era, gave birth to a state-level political organization. According to geologists who acknowledged the existence of immense reserves in the Albian groundwater, stretching from the northern Atlas to



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the central Sahara and to the Nubian groundwater, the sources flow in a dessicated pattern. Their use is favored by the importance of sandstone in the geology of the Saharan Atlas. Sandstone, which is made up of an infinity of small sand grains, has a storage capacity that is higher than that of any other sedimentary rock formation, in particular limestone. The use of groundwater thanks to the galleries dug in the aquifers and to the wells represents the Saharan societies response to the dessication of the climate and follows a principle similar to the one described in the Ayn Manâwir qanats of the Kharga oasis of the western Egyptian desert. The flows of the fossil aquifer accumulated in the Nubian sandstone during the last Saharan pluvial episode made the continuation of agriculture possible. The drying up of these artesian flows at the end of the third millennium led to the abandoning of this part of the depression. Its reoccupation was due to the excavation of a network of qanats and then to its prolongation and deepening over the course of one millennium, until the second or third centuries (Wuttmann, 2001). In the urbanized regions of the northeast, it is possible that the construction of urban aqueducts was an adaptation to the increase of drought periods during the winter when the groundwater is replenished. These aqueducts addressed new needs and ensured a regular water supply at the end of the summer period.

Conclusion: Environmental Changes and History The sharp contrasts that characterize the physical environments of North Africa, as well as the fragility of the vegetation coverage and of the soils, justify the role historians have accorded to environmental pressures. North African societies have responded to droughts, which are a constant in Mediterranean climates, with appropriate agricultural techniques: fallow in dry cultivation areas and irrigation. However, the excessively frequent reoccurrences of episodes of drought have had a fragilizing effect on them. Historiography shows that, in this general context, different interpretations regarding the importance of environmental pressures have evolved in relation to the scientific knowledge of the period and the historical context in which these interpretations were formulated. At the beginning of the twentieth century, S. Gsell believed, as all scientists did at that time, that the climate had only marginally changed, if at all, since the Roman period. In the first chapter of l’Histoire de l’Afrique du Nord, he introduced the question in the following terms: “the point is to know whether the prosperity [of Roman Africa] was caused mainly by a climate that was more favorable to cultivation than today’s or if it was essentially the product of human intelligence and energy; whether we are to limit ourselves to regretting a past that will never come back or to ask of it, on the contrary, to provide us with lessons that are useful to the present” (Gsell, 1913: 40). He concluded that land management during the Roman period could serve as a model that the colonial authorities should adopt. Forty years later, the geographer J. Despois highlighted the curse that the physical geography of North Africa had inflicted on its history: “between the formidable nomad owing to his mobility and the inaccessible uplander, the peasant of the plains and of the Mediterranean hills almost always succumbed” (Despois, 1953: 194). This interpretation of the constraints exercised by the geographic relief mirrored the anxieties of the French community with respect to the emerging decolonization (Leveau, 2020a). A century later the perception of the relations between the societies and environment of North Africa during the Roman period has greatly changed. Under the influence of historians working in the proto-historic period, archaeological excavations and explorations have returned to the preRoman African kingdoms their deserved role in the development of North Africa (Mattingly, 2019). New dating and analysis tools make it possible for environmental geosciences – the earth and life sciences as well as atmospheric physics – to write a climate history aligned with the time scale of societies. It appears that the prosperity enjoyed by Roman Africa benefited from more abundant and better distributed precipitation than today and that the [subsequent] decrease in precipitation, linked to a rise in temperatures, was a factor behind the transhumant pastoralism in areas where irrigation was impossible. During the fifth and sixth centuries, the multiplication of episodes of drought led to a worsening of the level of aridity. However, aridity varied by region. The

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penetration of the Mediterranean inside the Euro-African landmass and the effect of geographical relief on the circulation and distribution of both air masses and precipitations created a regional diversity that makes it impossible to consider North Africa as a homogeneous climatic entity.

FURTHER READING At the beginning of the twentieth century, the French historian S. Gsell (1913) concluded from available data – mainly written sources – that the climatic conditions of the Roman era had great similarities with those of his time. Since then, environmental geosciences – Earth and Life Sciences and Physics of the Atmosphere – and isotopic dating have made it possible to write a history of climate at the time scale of historical societies. In the absence of a tree ring for this period in the African region, the evaluation of the amount of precipitation received is based mainly on geomorphological and paleoecological data. In 1996, drawing conclusions from his work on the Libyan valleys, G. Barker (1996) argued that the most reasonable interpretation of the data collected by the team he was leading is that over the past 3000 years the climatic conditions were close to that experienced in the region at the end of the twentieth century. In this sector, geomorphological and paleoecological surveys do not allow establishing a coincidence between the transformations of the population and a significant improvement or deterioration of the climate (Barker, 1996). D. Faust et al. (2004) observe that, 700 km to the northeast, the Medjerda basin and the north of Tunisia were affected in the fifth century by a drying phase. This played a major role in the geomorphological process and that its impact on the settlement was decisive. These observations are not contradictory. Indeed, one cannot treat as a homogeneous climatic whole a space that extends over more than 2000 km at the transition between the Mediterranean and subtropical climatic zones to the south of a sea that deeply penetrates the continental mass. It is therefore necessary to take into account the observations of M. Magny and his colleagues (2011, 2013) who underline the consequences of a modification of the seasonal regime of rainfall for agriculture and pastoralism during the last two millennia. In this chapter, I offered a history of the question, progress on which depends on a multiplication of regional studies taking into account the effect of relief on the circulation of atmospheric depressions that bring rains from the ocean and the Mediterranean. This is the approach that I applied to the relations between societies and the environment in the Saharan margins of the Maghreb (Leveau, 2018, 2020b).

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Camps, G. 1999. “Essai de cartographie culturelle: à propos de la frontière de Numidie et de Maurétanie.” In Frontières et limites géographiques de l’Afrique du Nord Antique, eds.C. Lepelley and X. Dupuis, 43–69. Paris. Chabin, J.-P. 1988. “Climatologie et géographie. Exemple d’une région présaharienne de l’est algérien.” In Climat et Climatologie, Volume d’honneur offert au professeur Pierre Pagneux, 63–77. Dijon. Chabin, J.-P., and Laporte, J.-P. 2016. “Aridification et désertification des Nemencha, de l’Antiquité à nos jours: changements climatiques et pression anthropique sur la Nature.”In Peuplement, territoire et culture matérielle dans l’espace méditerranéen, eds. N. Boukhchim and J. Ben Nasr, 115–152. Kairouan Cote, M. 1968. “Géomorphologie et dynamique des bassins versants élémentaires en régions méditerranéennes.” In Etudes méditerranéennes, 221–227. Poitiers. Davis, D.K. 2007. Resurrecting the Granary of Rome: Environmental History and French Colonial Expansion in North Africa. Athens: Ohio University Press. Despois, J. 1953. “Géographie et histoire en Afrique du Nord, retouche à une thèse.” In Éventail de l’histoire vivante. Hommage à Lucien Febvre, ed. F. Braudel, 187–194. Paris. Despois, J. 1964. L’Afrique du Nord. Paris. Di Stefano, G., 2009. Nuove ricerche sulle cisterne de “La Malga.” In Contrôle et distribution de l’eau dans le Maghreb antique et médiéval, ed. V. Bridoux, 143–164. Tunis and Rome. Dresch, J. 1986. “Remarques sur l’homme et la dégradation des écosytèmes naturels au Maghreb.” La Pensée 252: 89–95. Faust, D., Zielhofer, C., Baena Escudero, R., and Diaz Del Olmo, F. 2004. “High-resolution fluvial record of Late Holocene geomorphic change in Northern Tunisia: Climatic or human impact?” Quaternary Science Review 23: 1757–1775. Ferhi, N., Ballais, J.-L., and Bonifay, M. 2007. “Morphogenèse, climat et sociétés dans la plaine de Sfax (Tunisie) depuis le Pléistocène supérieur: l’exemple du bassin de l’oued Chaâl-Tarfaoui.” Physio-Géo – Géographie Physique et Environnement 1: 61–77. Gilbertson, D.D., and Hunt, C.O. 1996. “Romano-Libyan Agriculture: Walls and floodwater farming.” In Barker, ed., 191–225. Gsell, S. 1899. “Une inscription de Dellys.” Bulletin Archéologique du Comité des Travaux Historiques: CLXXXI–II. Gsell, S. 1913. Histoire Ancienne de l’Afrique du Nord, t. 1, Les conditions du développement historique. Les temps primitifs. La colonisation phénicienne et l’Empire de Carthage. Paris. Haensch, R., and Mackensen, M. 2011. “Das tripolitanische Kastell Gheriat el-Garbia im Licht einer neueun spätantiken Inschrift: Am Tag, als der Regen kam.” Chiron 41: 263–279. Henia, L., ed. 2008. Atlas de l’eau en Tunisie. Tunis. Hitchner, R.B. 1995. “Irrigation, terraces, dams and aqueducts in the region of Cillium (mod. Kasserine). The role of water works in the development of a Roman-African town and its countryside.” In Trousset, ed., 143–158. Ibn Khaldoun 1863. Les Prolégomènes traduits en francais. par W.M. Guckin, Baron de Slane. Paris: Institut de France. Le Houérou, H.N. 1969. La végétation de la Tunisie steppique. Ariana: Institut National de Recherche agronomique tunisienne. Leveau, Ph., 2015. “Qanâts, hyponomoi, cuniculi et specus. Une contribution à l’histoire des techniques hydrauliques.” In La technologie gréco-romaine entre restitution et reconstitution. Lire entre les lignes, mettre entre les mains, eds. Ph. Fleury, C. Jacquemard, and S. Madeleine, 149–176. Caen Leveau, Ph. 2018. “Climat, sociétés et environnement aux marges sahariennes du Maghreb: Une approche historiographique.” In La frontière méridionale du Maghreb et ses formes: essai de définitions (AntiquitéMoyen Âge), ed. S. Guédon, 19–106. Bordeaux. Leveau, Ph. 2020a. “Lectures coloniales et post-coloniales de l’histoire de l’Afrique romaine. Histoire et constructions mémorielles.” Anabases: 193–210. Leveau, Ph. 2020b. “L'économie romaine dans les Némemcha. Forts byzantins, salles à auges. L'apport des ostraca aux époques vandale et byzantine.” Bulletin d’Archéologie Algérienne: 241–307. Louanchi, F. 2011. “Repères géographiques et hydro-climatiques de l’Algérie.” In Le patrimoine de l’eau en Algérie: mémoire et permanence, études et témoignages, eds. S. Hellal, S. and M. Bencharif, 15–28. Alger.

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Magny, M., Combourieu-Nebout, N., Beaulieu, J.-L. de, Bout-Roumazeilles, V., Colombaroli, D., Desprat, S., Francke, A., Joannin, S., Ortu, E. and Peyron, O. 2013. “North–south palaeohydrological contrasts in the Central Mediterranean during the Holocene: Tentative synthesis and working hypotheses.” Climate of the Past 9: 2043–2071. Magny, M., Peyron, O., Sadori, L., Ortu, E., Zanchetta, G., Vanniere, B., and Tinner, W. 2011. “Contrasting patterns of precipitation seasonality during the Holocene in the South- and North-Central Mediterranean.” Journal of Quaternary Science 27: 290–296. Mattingly, D. 2019. “A road less travelled? The Society for Libyan Studies and the landscape archaeology of Libya’s early civilisations.” Libyan Studies 50: 35–46. Mrabet, A. 2018. “Les aménagements hydroagricoles antiques de la Tripolitaine occidentale.” In L’eau dans les villes du Maghreb et leur territoire à l’époque romaine, eds. V. Brouquier-Reddé and F. Hurlet, 153–162. Bordeaux. Neboit-Guilhot, R. 1983. L’homme et l’érosion. L’érosion des sols à travers le monde. Clermont-Ferrand. Neboit-Guillot, R. 1984. “Érosion des sols et colonisation grecque en Sicile et en Grande-Grèce.” Bulletin de l’Association des Géographes français 476: 5–13. Planhol, X. de, and Tabuteau, M. 1956. “Le recul de l’olivier depuis l’Antiquité dans les hautes plaines du Maghreb oriental.” Les Cahiers d’Outre-Mer 9: 412–415. Reale, O., and Dirmeyer, P. 2000. “Modeling the effects of vegetation on Mediterranean climate during the Roman Classical Period. Part I: Climate history and model sensitivity.” Global and Planetary Change 25: 163–184. Reale, O., and Shukla, J. 2000. “Modeling the effects of vegetation on Mediterranean climate during the Roman Classical Period. Part II. Model simulation.” Global and Planetary Change 25: 185–214. Roose, E., Sabir, M., and Laouina, A. 2001. Gestion durable des eaux et des sols au Maroc: valorisation des techniques traditionnelles méditerranéennes. Paris. Rouvillois-Brigol, M. 1985. “La steppisation en Tunisie depuis l’époque punique: déterminisme humain ou climatique.” IIIe Colloque International sur l’Histoire et l’Archéologie de l’Afrique du Nord (Grenoble, 5–9 April 1983). Bulletin archéologique du CTHS, Nouvelle série 19.8: 215–224. Salama, P. 1951. Les voies romaines de l’Afrique du Nord. Alger. Shaw, B.D. 1981. “Climate, environment, and history: The case of the Roman Africa.” In Climate and History. Studies in Past Climates and Their Impact on Man, eds. T.M.L. Wrigley, M.J. Ingram, and G. Farmer, 379–403. Cambridge. Shaw, B.D. 1984. “Water and society in the Ancient Maghreb: Technology, property and development.” Antiquités Africaines 20: 121–173. Shaw, B.D. 1995. Environment and Society in Roman North Africa. Study in History and Archaeology. Aldershot. Slim, H., Trousset, P., Pascoff, R., and Oueslati, A. 2004. Le littoral de la Tunisie. Étude géoarchéologique et historique. Paris. Slimani, S., and Kherbouche, H. 2018. “Les formes d’occupation antique dans le Hodna: un état des lieux”. In La frontière méridionale du Maghreb et ses formes: essai de définitions (Antiquité-Moyen Âge), ed. S. Guédon, 193–206. Bordeaux Trousset, P., ed. 1986. “De la montagne au désert. Limes et maîtrise de l’eau.” Revue de l’Occident musulman et de la Méditerranée 41: 90–115. Trousset, P., ed. 1995. L’Afrique du Nord Antique et Médiévale. Productions et exportations africaines. Actualités archéologiques. Paris. Vita-Finzi, C. 1969. The Mediterranean Valleys: Geological Changes in Historical Times. Cambridge. Wilson, A.I. 2006a. “Foggaras in Ancient North Africa or How to marry a Berber princess.” In Contrôle et distribution de l’eau dans le Maghreb antique et médiéval, ed. V. Bridoux, 19–39. Tunis and Rome. Wilson, A.I. 2006b. “The spread of Foggara-based irrigation in the Ancient Sahara.” In The Libyan Desert: Natural Resources and Cultural Heritage, eds. D. Mattingly, S. McLaren, E. Savage, Y. Al-Fasatwi, and K. Gadgood, 205–216. London. Wilson, A.I. 2017. “Rivers, wadis and climate in North Africa: Torrents and drought.” In Fluvial Landscapes in the Roman World, ed. T. Franconi, ed. 111–125. Portsmouth. Wuttmann, M. 2001. “Les qanâts d’Ayn Manâwir (Oasis de Kharga, Égypte).” In Irrigation et drainage dans l’Antiquité: qanâts et canalisations souterraines en Iran, en Égypte et en Grèce, ed. P. Briant, 109–135. Paris.

PART II

Africa in the First Millennium BCE

CHAPTER 4

Libyan Culture and Society Joan Sanmartí

Introduction A synthetic chapter such as the present one has the potential to deceive the reader into believing that our knowledge and understanding of Libyan culture and society is fuller and more stable than it is. Nothing could be more misleading. Except for the logical differences in approach and for the results obtained in a few recent research projects, mainly in the Fazzān, the Tunisian High Tell and Morocco, which were not available 20 years ago, this chapter does not present substantial differences in information from the fine synthesis by Fentress (1996). Current knowledge is seriously limited, especially when compared with the state of research for the same period on the European shore of the Mediterranean Sea. This situation can be summarized by the fact that only in the Fazzān region of modern Libya a complete, though small, habitation site has been fully investigated (Mori, 2013), while throughout the Mediterranean area of the Maghreb, from Tunisia to Morocco, only a few pre-Roman houses have been completely excavated at Tamuda, close to Tétouan (Tarradell, 1960: 109–111; Bernal et al., 2012). Any attempt to approach the social and economic life of these societies is thus seriously hampered by the limited data on material culture, urbanism, architecture, settlement patterns, environmental conditions, and natural resources exploitation. The situation is a bit better with regard to funerary archeology, but the fully scientific study of such an important matter as the great megalithic necropolises – among other possible examples – is relatively new. To this dearth of evidence we can also add the extremely poor state of information on the second millennium bce, in particular in Tunisia and Central-Eastern Algeria, where the data gap is almost absolute. This situation reflects the traditional lack of interest in the study of the North African autochthonous civilizations, not only in colonial times – Roman archaeology was then the priority field of research – but over the more than 50 years since then. Similarly, the Berbers have continued to be a forgotten people in historiographical terms, as observed by G. Camps (1979: 43), despite their being manipulated by colonialist political strategies.

Ancient Peoples, Modern Theoretical Disquisitions Indigenous people of North Africa are designated in the ancient sources with different names. The Greeks called the autochthonous (i.e., not of Greek or Phoenician lineage) inhabitants of the regions located to the west of Egypt up to the Atlantic “Libyans” (Λίβυες). This seems to be a

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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hellenized version of a local word, since the Egyptian sources of the late second millennium bce refer to people called Rebu, or Lebu, who lived west of the oasis of Ammon (Colin, 1999). The Romans used the term Africa to designate the same area, but initially referred only the province created in 146 bce from Carthage’s territory, and the word Afri was applied to the indigenous people who lived in it, perhaps originally only to the inhabitants of the region close to the cities of Sua and Uccula, between Utica and Vaga (Béja) (Peyras, 2012). Its meaning, however, ended up spreading to the whole region and became synonymous with Greek Libya. There are several other names that designate human groups living in more restricted areas. Most important are the Numidians (Greek Νομάδες, Latin Numidae), the Moors (Greek Μαυρούσιοι, Latin Mauri), and the Gaetulians (Gaetuli). The first occupied, at the end of the third century bce, the area between the territory of Carthage and the Mulucha (Moulouya) River, while the Moors stretched westwards to the Atlantic. The name Gaetuli designated people located further south, in the steppe and sub-Saharan areas ranging between the Syrtes and the Atlantic (Fentress, 1982; Cherry, 1998). Other ancient ethnic names denominate large human groups of the Saharan region, the most important of which were the Garamantes, in the Fazzān region of modern Libya (Mattingly, 2003, 2005). Classical texts and the inscriptions of the Roman imperial era cite the existence of a large number of entities of lesser, but variable, size. For example, there were two main groups within the Numidians: the Massyli, to the east, and the Masaesyli, further west. The number of attested ethnonyms, however, is much larger (Gsell, 1927: 82–87; Camps, 1960: 51–52; Desanges, 1962). We will only mention the group called Μάξυες by Herodotus (Hdt., 4, 191, 1) and Μάζυες by Hecataeus of Miletus (FHG I: 23, n. 304); this is probably equivalent to the MZK and MZG and the Mazices and Mazaces attested, respectively, in some Libyan and Roman inscriptions and textual sources. This word has persisted in the term “amazigh”, currently used by the berberophone populations to designate themselves (Gsell, 1927: 115–117; Camps, 1960: 26–28, 1979: 44). To sum up, the rich textual, epigraphic, and archaeological documentation indicates the presence in North Africa during the first millennium bce of human groups of either autochthonous or foreign origin that can be differentiated on the ground of their language (Greek, Phoenician, Libyan), their sociopolitical organization (Libyan monarchy, Carthaginian republic, strong tribal organization among the Libyan population), ideology, and many different aspects of material culture. Some scholars, however, have problematized this issue, by pointing out that a number of cultural traits were shared in geographical areas that transcend the borders traditionally assigned to each ethnic entity. A moderate version of this view has presented the point mostly as a terminological problem. Fentress, for example, has found difficulties in clearly defining the notion of “Punic” because some cultural features that are typically Carthaginian are also attested in the African territory controlled by Carthage, which, as we shall see below, was mostly inhabited by an indigenous population (like the Afri mentioned above) (Fentress and Docter, 2008: 103–105). For this reason, Fentress considers that “the term ‘Punic’ should be used with a wide cultural connotation rather than in a narrow racial sense, so that it could apply to all North African inhabitants who had adopted Punic or Carthaginian cultural traditions,” including regions “mostly inhabited by indigenous communities, even if the cultural traditions of the latter are defined by varying combinations of preexisting traditions and Carthaginian customs in both urban and funerary contexts.” An important problem, however (at least in our view), is that this is not the sense given to the word “Punic” in the ancient texts, where “poenus” is strictly equivalent to φοɩ˜νιξ (Prag, 2013: 131-4, 17). On the other hand, this would involve erasing in some way the personality of these indigenous communities. Ardeleanu claims that notions like “‘Punic’, ‘Numidian’ or ‘Roman’ … should convey a precisely defined political, juridical, chronological or geographical meaning” (Ardeleanu, 2014: 477; see also Ardeleanu 2021). However, there is a well-established tradition of study and an impressive corpus of publications produced by scholars who believed that these terms were reasonably distinct and well defined in all or most of the aspects mentioned by Ardeleanu (to which we would add the linguistic one). Still further on, Quinn adopts an almost nihilistic stance by affirming that “it is hard to sustain these [‘Punic’ or ‘Libyan’ ethno-cultural groups] as meaningful cultural categories in the face of abundant evidence for long traditions of local variety and hybridity



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in Africa,” and that the existence of “a number of separate peoples or ethnic groups in Africa in this period [from the mid third century to the end of the Republic], with, crucially, separate cultural practices” is just a hypothesis (Quinn, 2003: 24–25). Unless – and despite the repeated use of the word “Africa” – these statements reflect solely the limited area in which her study focuses (“the area northeast of the fossa regia, the ‘royal ditch’ that marked the boundary of Numidian territorial claims in 146”), they seem difficult to support, if we compare the data of every kind (from pottery to houses and burial customs) of sites like Carthage, or Kerkouane, with those recovered at Althiburos and its surroundings, a site located far inland, in a territory that the ancient sources allow us to consider as part of Numidia (Kallala and Sanmartí, 2011). This does not mean that we endorse the discredited notion of “archaeological culture” to identify and delimit prehistoric ancient peoples, which has been rightly criticized (Shennan, 1989, among many others), but we still think that material culture can help substantiate the indications in this regard derived from the ancient written sources (Kallala et al., 2021). The many difficulties found in archaeologically demarcating specific human entities whose real existence in the past is otherwise demonstrated or strongly suggested by independent (textual and epigraphic) data should not lead us to deny their existence. Nor should it cause the rejection of the names with which they are designated in a long and well-established academic tradition by extending their meaning to other particular situations, such as the hard colonization attested in Carthage’s African territory. Needless to say, since all cultures have contacts with their neighbors and pick cultural traits from them, they are all hybrid to some extent, to which must be added that they internally adopt different forms depending on a number of factors such as class, age, or gender, among others. However, it does not follow from this that there were no clearly differentiated human groups (call them “peoples,” “societies,” “ethne,” or “social formations”), which, in spite of their continued adoption and re-elaboration of foreign traits, their internal diversity, and their ever-changing nature, were felt as such by their members, were recognized as such by contemporaneous exterior observers, and can presumably be identified as such by modern researchers (if enough data are available, which is not always the case in North Africa). That said, this kind of debate is of limited interest; the focus of research and debate should shift (or rather return) to issues related to power, social organization, and social change. For example, what really matters in terms of the region discussed by Fentress and by Quinn regarding Carthage’s African territory is not how it should be labelled or if it was “Punicizied.” If we are to believe the ancient texts, it is probably a typical case of hard forcible conquest, implying subjugation, marginalization, and exploitation of the indigenous population in ways that we would like to understand much better than we currently do, given the extremely limited archaeological evidence. Very interesting phenomena must have taken place there; in particular, one may expect to find some evidence of assimilation of the local ruling class to the dominant Carthaginian culture, and also evidence regarding the ways in which the subordinate population was subjected and exploited, as well as indications of discrepant identities (Mattingly, 2011: 204–218) and processes of intentional hybridization (Dietler, 2010: 50–51); that is, the creation of new cultural forms as a means for contesting the dominant Carthaginian culture and political power, which is far more relevant, in our view, than approaches centered mainly on cultural issues. In the same way, the fundamental point in relation to the adoption of certain Punic and Greek cultural features by the populations of the Numidian kingdoms (basically the elites) is to assess why they were embraced and how they were used in the strategies of social control and domination. This approach is fundamentally different from the traditional notions of “Punicization” or “Hellenization,” which involved the idea of passive autochthonous societies that were led to civilization by the “civilizing action” of Carthaginians and Greeks. Instead, we claim that the emergence of the Libyan states was both the result of internal processes and political pressure by Carthage. On the one hand, population growth and the widespread use of iron, allowing for a dramatic increase in the carrying capacity of the territories, would have played a key role, by enhancing more complex forms of organization, which in turn would have led to the emergence of institutionalized inequality. On the other hand, militaristic expansionism of Carthage from the

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late sixth century bce would have favored the formation of larger, stronger competing polities. These will be the central points of this chapter, dealing with the social and political organization of the Libyan kingdoms, followed by other sections devoted to specific aspects of life and death among the ancient Libyans.

The Libyan Kingdoms Historical information is relatively abundant from the third century bce, when the Libyan states and peoples are referenced in the Greco-Latin sources in relation to their involvement in the conflicts between Rome and Carthage, and, still later, to the war with Jugurtha. These sources refer to three important states, considerably populated and ruled by powerful monarchs who, from the second century bce, touted themselves – and were considered by the most important coeval powers – as Hellenistic kings (Fentress, 1996: 27; Quinn, 2013). Their territories covered very large areas: on the eve of the Second Punic War, the Massylian state extended over an area of around 80,000 km2, the Masaesylian over some 150,000 km2, while the Mauretanian kingdom may well have stretched over approximately 160,000 km2. A few centuries later, the Garamantian kingdom extended its authority over some 250,000  km2, though certainly with a population density many times less than in North Africa’s temperate zone (Mattingly et al., 2003: 351). As indicated below, these large entities were in reality probably federations of minor local powers, but this was not atypical of other large states in the Western Mediterranean. The size of the Libyan polities can be compared to that of other large Mediterranen states. At the beginning of the First Punic War, in 264 bce, Rome controlled a territory of some 130,000 km2 in Italy and the African territory of Carthage covered some 25,000 km2. This contrasts notably with the area of Greek poleis, including Syracuse, which sometimes ruled most of eastern Sicily, altogether more than 10,000 km2 (Hansen, 2000: 152), and with small Iberian and Etruscan citystates, whose size did not exceed 3000 km2 (Sanmartí, 2004: 24, Figure 4.4; Guidi, 2008: 176– 178). This could indicate particular formation processes, different from those that took place in most of the Western Mediterranean during the first millennium bce, but it is also possible that the Libyan macro-states emerged from constellations of previously formed city-states, which is a frequent and well-attested process (Yoffee, 2004: 42–48 and 60). Unfortunately, the long history of urbanization and state formation in North Africa is almost completely unknown, due to the paucity of the information contained in the literary sources and, in particular, to the very limited number of archaeological projects aimed at improving our knowledge of this formative period. That little can be said about these issues will be discussed later, after analyzing the organizational structures of the Libyan states in the third to first centuries bce. Justin (Epit. 21, 4.7) mentions the existence of an anonymous Moorish king who supported the revolt of Hannon the Great against Carthage in the mid-fourth century bce. This indicates that monarchic polities of some kind may have already existed by that time. The same conclusion follows from the fact that, by the late third century bce, the Massylian king Gaia, father of Masinissa, was heir to a dynasty that had reigned for at least four generations (Camps, 1960: 176–177). Among the Massyli, the royal power was transmitted according to the “tanistry” rule, which establishes succession by birth order among male siblings and cousins, and then, in the same order, the sons and nephews of the ruler (Gsell, 1927: 121–122: Lassère, 2001: 152). Following Gsell, it is possible that the same system governed the royal succession in the other Libyan kingdoms, given its relative frequency in Antiquity and even in the modern world, but there is no positive evidence in this regard (Gsell, 1927: 122). The subsequent history of the Libyan monarchies is largely known to us through their participation in the conflict between Rome and Carthage, the consequences of their involvement in the Roman civil wars, and by their progressive integration into the Roman Empire, culminating in 40 ce in the eclipse of the kingdom of Mauretania. This process began with the absorption of the



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Masaessylian kingdom by the Massyli in 202 bce, as a result of the alliance of its last king, Syphax, with the Carthaginians. This made possible the creation by Masinissa, with Rome’s support, of a large unified Numidian kingdom that stretched across the central Maghreb, from Carthage’s territory to the Mulucha river. After the long reign of Masinissa, who died in 148 bce at the age of 90, his son Micipsa maintained the unity of the kingdom. His death in 118 bce led to a succession dispute between his sons, Adherbal and Hiempsal, and his nephew, Jugurtha. Having eliminated his rivals, Jugurtha came into conflict with the Romans, who, in collaboration with Bocchus I, king of Mauretania (ca. 120–80 bce), defeated him in 105 bce, after a long and difficult war recounted by the Roman historian Sallust. As a consequence, Numidia was reduced to a Rome vassal state, whose territory was delimited by the extension eastwards of the Mauritanian kingdom as far as the Chelif river, and still later to the wadi Soummam. The process of dissolution of the old Numidian kingdom was completed in 46 bce by Caesar in retaliation for its support to Pompey in the civil war. The eastern half became a new Roman province (Africa Nova), while the western half was incorporated into the kingdom of Mauretania ruled by Bocchus II (Lassère, 2015: 101–112). After Bocchus’ death in 33 bce, Rome established 13 colonies between 30 and 26–25 bce on the territory of the kingdom. In 25 bce, Mauretania was entrusted to Juba, a young prince of Numidian ancestry who had been captured in 46 bce. Educated in the Imperial Court, he became a Roman citizen (Caius Iulius Iuba) and a reliable ally of Rome, who promoted the Romanization of his kingdom. Juba’s son Ptolemy (24–40 ce) participated in a conspiracy against the emperor Caligula, leading to his execution and the conversion of his kingdom into two Roman provinces: Mauretania Caesariensis and Mauretania Tingitana, separated by the Mulucha river (Coltelloni-Trannoy, 1997; Lassère, 2015: 131–140). This was the end of the last independent Lybian kingdom.

Forms of Political and Social Organization The process of urban formation in North African polities belongs at least to the fourth century bce. On the occasion of Agathocles’ African expedition, Diodorus (20.57.4) mentions the existence of several cities beyond the territory of Carthage, and gives the names of three of them: Phelline, Tocca (probably Roman Thugga) – which he says was of considerable dimensions (εύμεγέθη) – and Meschela. We also know that, in 247 bce, Theveste gave the Carthaginians 3000 hostages to avoid being assaulted, suggesting a considerable population (Diod. Sic.: 24.10.2.; Camps, 1960: 42–43). References to Cirta during the Second Punic War are also important, since the sources mention the defensive walls of the city and the royal palace of Syphax (Livy: 30.12.10–22). After the capture of the capital, Livy also states that the Romans, with Masinissa’s help, took over the remaining Numidian cities that were still held by Syphax’s troops. Among these was Siga, on the coast of Oran, which was the capital of the Masaessyli. The center of the Mauri may have been at Tingi (now Tangier), or perhaps Volubilis (Ghaki, 2012: 626). Archaeologically the best known of these cities is Tamuda, near Tétouan, apparently founded in the early second century bce and employing a basically orthogonal layout. Its area can be estimated at about 3  ha and some architectural fragments suggest the existence of an Ionic temple. However, most of the currently excavated remains correspond to houses, which were frequently razed to the level of foundations due to the construction of a Roman castellum (Tarradell, 1960: 101–107). It has been traditionally assumed that the eastern Numidian cities that carried the epithet regia in Roman times (Thimida, Bulla, Hippo, and Zama) had previously been royal Numidian residences; some scholars, however, think they were just towns owned in some way by the kings (Ghaki, 2012: 627). Given that Latin authors often designate African towns as oppida – rather than as urbes – it is a reasonable assumption that they were fortified (Fumadó Ortega, 2013). This hypothesis is strengthened by the recent discovery of an important defensive wall at Althiburos dated to the fourth century bce (Belarte and Ramon, 2016 : 23–25). Similar concern for defense is also

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demonstrated by their frequent location on naturally well-protected hill-tops or promontories as, for example, at Sicca Veneria and Thugga, or at Cirta, the Numidian capital, which was protected by deeply incised water courses (Mattingly, 2016: 15). Most Roman towns in Africa Proconsularis – one of the most intensely urbanized areas of the Roman Empire – bear Libyan or Punic names, but this does not prove that they already existed in pre-Roman times; this may be due no more than to the topography of the site, or an indication that there existed some sort of settlement, not necessarily urban, at that location (contra Lassère, 2005: 149 and Mattingly, 2016: 13–14). However, the existence of fully urban sites in pre-Roman times is confirmed by epigraphic evidence. A well-known bilingual Libyan-Punic inscription from Thugga (RIL 2), dated to 138 bce, mentions the construction of a temple dedicated to Masinissa and gives the names of the town’s offices. There is no agreement among scholars about the precise meaning of the office names, especially when they are not translated into Punic, but the inscription demonstrates the existence of a complex municipal administration that included a council of citizens and was presided over by an eponymous “king” (GLD) (distinct from the head of the state, of course). There were also two MWSN and one GLDMSK (“Head of the Hundred” and “Head of the Fifty,” respectively, in the Punic translation), as well as other positions of an even more uncertain nature (Février, 1964–1965; Chaker, 1986). This system most probably already had a long history in the second century bce. The same holds true for the inscriptions of peregrine cities of late Republican and early Imperial times that give the names of city offices, frequently under the Punic form shophetim, while others use the Latin term magistratus. The indigenous character of these offices and the municipal organization to which they belong is indicated by the few cases where three shophetim are mentioned (Althiburos, Mactar, and perhaps Thugga), while in the Punic tradition these magistrates are always two (Belkahia and Di Vita-Évrard, 1995). The existence of a council of citizens (principes Cirtensium) is also attested at Cirta under Masinissa (Livy: 30, 12, 8). Below the urban level, the existence of villages, farms, and smaller dwellings is attested for the late third and late second centuries bce by brief references in the literary sources, where they are designated with the Greek terms πύργοs (Diod. Sic. 3.49), φρούριον (App. Pun. 101), and κώμη (App. Pun. 12), and the Latin ones castellum (Jug. 2.6; 6.6; 26.6; 54.6; 86.1; 89.1; Livy: 42.23; Just. Epit. 22.5–5; NH 5.1), vicus (Livy: 29.30.7), villa (Jug. 40.1), tugurium (Jug. 12.5; 19.5; 46.5; 74.4), and mapalium (Jug., 18.8; 46.5, Pompon. 1-41) (Gsell, 1927: 240). Apart from the recent archaeological evidence from the Fazzān (Mattingly, Chapter 5; Mori, 2013), there has been no excavation of such sites, though some have been surveyed (Peyras, 1991; Ferchiou, 1994). St. Gsell (1927: 62–66) and, later, Fentress (2006: 13–22) have formulated interesting hypotheses on their nature, social organization, and relationship to the state, drawing on mostly modern historical and ethnological data. The picture that emerges is one of relatively isolated local communities, held together by kinship obligations and reciprocity, in which individual families exploited communal land and paid taxes to more powerful families that ruled over wider areas and linked this rural world with the state and the monarch. There is also evidence of the existence of smaller political entities inside the large monarchic states. Appian (Pun. 10), for example, wrote that among the Numidians there were many princes, the most powerful of whom was Syphax, thus indicating, perhaps, that the king was a kind of primus inter pares. The political fluidity of this situation is reflected in the figure of Naravas, a young Numidian noble who in 240 bce, during the Mercenaries War, joined the Carthaginians with a force of 2000 cavalrymen (Polyb. 1.78). In the same vein, but in Roman times, Pliny (5.1.29–30) reports the existence of 516 populi in the area between the Cyrenaic border and the Ampsaga River; of these, 53 were urban and the rest were rural. However, the size and precise nature of these political entities (called civitates and also nationes by Pliny) are unknown, since classical sources give no further information, except for a number of ethnic names to which we have already referred (Gsell, 1927: 82–87; Camps, 1960: 51–52; Desanges, 1962), while archaeological research, as already stated, is almost non-existent. The lack of data explains the fact that they have often been interpreted in the image of the Maghreb’s tribes as they were known in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (Gsell, 1927: 82–87). It is for the same reason that these



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sociopolitical units have been labelled as “tribes,” although the little we know about them suggests that they were some sort of chieftaincies, each of which must have grouped a number of smaller tribal units, probably subdivided in their turn into subtribes or septs (Mattingly, 2005). Indeed, chiefs or headmen such as Naravas had to rule over sizeable territories, since this was a necessary condition for gathering important military contingents such as the cavalry body he commanded. It is also logical to assume that they had their seats in cities, since, as we have seen, these are attested from a relatively early date. From the cities they must have controlled agricultural surplus, as well as the key elements of craft production – in particular iron tools and weapons – and regional trade, which had become particularly important since the fourth century bce (Bridoux, 2014; Ramon et al., 2016: 49–52). Archaeological evidence in this regard is the presence in the vicinity of Althiburos of an important group of tumuli and bazinas, as well as some other large funerary monuments; it is very likely that they were the collective tombs of important families (Kallala et al., 2017a: 71–72 and 80–81; 2017b: 48–53). The internal political complexity of the Libyan states is consistent with the fact that the kingdoms are not designated with ethnic names that would originally apply to their whole population, and neither with geographical terms. Instead, ethnonyms like Mauri or Masaesyli designated the leading communities that managed to constitute vast confederations of peoples, and extended to name the whole kingdom (Gsell, 1927: 79). In this way, they overlapped many other ethnonyms, but did not eliminate them, as suggested by their persistence in Roman times (Camps, 1960: 161; Lassère, 2001: 150–151). We can assume that the power of the kings was supported largely on the manpower and prestige of their own group, in addition to their ability to maintain the loyalty of the others. The epithet regianus applied in Roman times to some ethnic groups (Musuni Regiani, Suburbures Regiani) could be reminiscent of the existence of such close relationships (Lassère, 2001: 150). The fluid and evolving nature of North African kingship is reflected in the absence of a specific title to designate monarchs alone. Indeed, in the aforementioned bilingual inscription from Thugga, the title GLD applies to Masinissa and to Micipsa, and is translated into Punic as (H) MMLKT (“king”); but it is also part of some municipal office names attested in the same text and it also appears in a stela from Lakhdar (GLDMSK) where, as we shall see below, a local or regional chief is represented. The counterpart of the monarch’s primacy must have been the persistence, to an important extent, of the regional leaders’ power, and their participation in the management of the government affairs. These must have been the king’s philoi and amici mentioned in the literary sources (Gsell, 1927: 141–142), whose titles (MSWi, RSi, MWW), though poorly understood, are clearly attested in the Libyan inscriptions (Rebuffat, 2014: 54–63). It is noteworthy that the family of Masinissa occupied the throne for several generations, probably from the late fourth century bce – if not before – until the end of the Libyan monarchies. Leaving aside the role played by Rome in this dynastical continuity after the War of Jugurtha, perhaps it is also explained by deep-rooted personal and collective adhesion to the king and his family, as attested by Masinissa’s followers who joined him after his defeat by Syphax in 204; or, mutatis mutandis, by the defection of the Gaetulians who joined Caesar’s side during the civil war, arguing that they were clients of Caesar’s uncle, Marius, who had given them land (Fentress 1982).

The Formation of the Libyan States As mentioned previously, we may assume that the Libyan kingdoms already existed in the fourth century bce, but the long process of internal evolution and cultural contacts that explain their formation remain largely unknown, due to the very limited archaeological research. Fortunately, however, recent work in Libya, particularly in the region of Fazzān (Mattingly, 2003; Mattingly et al., 2019) and in the Tunisian High Tell, in and around Althiburos – where an important stratigraphic sequence that extends from the eleventh–tenth century bce to the sixth century ce has

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been identified (Ramon and Maraoui Telmini, 2011; Sanmartí et al., 2012) – has provided important data. In the latter site, stone buildings are attested from the tenth century bce, but the walls were rather carelessly built until the seventh century bce (Belarte and Ramon, 2016: 16). From the sixth century bce, however, straight walls were erected, which suggests the existence of a more carefully structured urban plan. During the same period, a double apse cistern was built of a similar design to contemporaneous reservoirs found at Carthage (Rakob, 1998: 28 and fig. 7; Belarte and Ramon, 2016: 32). In the fourth century bce a defensive wall of 2.40 m average width was constructed (Belarte and Ramon, 2016: 23–25). These discoveries point to a sustained process of urbanization whose roots date back, at least, to the transition from the second to the first millennium, but which seems to gain in strength and complexity in the central centuries of the latter. Let us add that, significantly enough, recent work at the Mauretanian site of Ceuta has attested, by the mid-seventh century bce, the transition from curvilinear huts to quadrangular buildings separated by streets of substantial width (Villada et al., 2010). Still in Mauretania, the excavation trials at Rirha have documented a succession of structures constructed in sun-dried bricks that go back to the fifth century bce but the origins of the site could date back to the seventh century bce (Callegarin et al., 2016). It should also be noted that in Tamuda there are some indications of a settlement prior to the second century bce, probably dating back to the fifth century bce (Bernal et al., 2012: 2449–2450). Unlike habitation sites, a very large number of tombs and funerary monuments are known, as we shall see, all over the Maghreb and the Saharan region. In fact, a prudent estimate would number them in the tens or rather the hundreds of thousands (Camps, 1961: 118–119; Bokbot, 2019: 316; Mattingly et al., 2019: 54, 64). Ten dolmens from the necropolises of El Ksour (close to Althiburos) (Kallala et al., 2014), Mididi (Marras et al., 2009: 188; Ferjaoui, 2010: 343–344) and Djebel Mazela (Kallala et al. 2014: 55) have been reliably dated, all of them to the central centuries of the first millennium bce. This may suggest that quite a number of the many thousands of dolmens known in eastern Algeria and Tunisia could also belong to this period. Likewise, in the Moroccan Pre-Sahara, the few excavated funerary monuments are dated from the seventh century and, above all, the fifth century bce (Bokbot, 2019: 332–333). In Fazzān, too, funerary monuments became more frequent from the Proto-Urban Garamantian Period, dated to the second half of the first millennium (Mattingly et al., 2019: 57–60, 71–77). The percolation in burials may reflect general population growth across the Maghreb in this period. Significantly, archaeobiological data from Althiburos indicate economic intensification and increasing human pressure on the environment from the eighth century bce. The relative frequency of bovines decreased significantly, indicating a diminution of pasture grassland, which was probably dedicated from that moment to agricultural production. In addition, the age of slaughter of bovines increased, which may be due to the need of using cattle for a longer period working in the fields. Meat supply tended to depend to a progressively larger extent on sheep and goats, better adapted to low-quality pastures, typical of dry environments, and pigs, which can be fed with scraps of human food (Valenzuela, 2016). Anthracological remains also indicate the exploitation of new ecological niches, perhaps because increasing agricultural activity had reduced the extent of the forest (Cantero and Piqué 2016) and carpological data witness the diversification and increase of fodder plants, which supports the idea of a landscape with less grassland and large areas of crops (López and Cantero, 2016; Sanmartí et al., 2020). All this can be reasonably attributed to population growth, which in our view is a precondition for the formation of cities and the rise of states, since it triggers the development of the political economy – that is, a higher institutional complexity, necessary to manage the problems of the subsistence economy – and, in the end, it makes possible the co-evolution of social inequalities (Johnson and Earle, 2000: 27–32; Sanmartí et al., 2012). Increasing social hierarchy is also suggested in the Numidian region by the differences in size, complexity, and ritual between two roughly contemporary tombs excavated in the necropolis of El Ksour (tombs 53 and 647), dated to the central centuries of the first millennium bce (Kallala and Sanmartí, 2014). Likewise, the macroscale spatial analysis of the same necropolis indicates



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that a limited number of complex large dolmens structure the distribution of the remaining ones (Kallala and Sanmartí, 2017a). In addition, the construction of some very large funerary mounds, dated presumably to the second half of the first millennium bce, has been shown to require a very substantial labor input, suggesting control of a labor force by the elites, which is a characteristic trait of incipient states (Stone, 2016). Other indications of social differentiation in necropolises can be deduced from the differences in the size and wealth of funerary goods that have been observed in the Moroccan Pre-Sahara mounds (Bokbot, 2019: 333–334). In summary, the little data we possess suggest that the middle centuries of the first millennium bce were the crucial moment for the development of urbanism and the emergence of the institutionalized social inequalities that underlie the process of state formation. It is during this period, moreover, beginning in the early fifth century bce that Carthage started a conquest process that culminated in the acquisition of a relatively large territory at the expense of the indigenous population. It is a reasonable assumption that the aggressive policy of the Carthaginians enhanced the process of political evolution that contributed to the formation of the Libyan states sometime in the fifth or early fourth century bce. A similar picture, though somewhat later in time, emerges from recent archaeology in the Fazzān region. There, a sedentary way of life based on oasis agriculture is attested since the early first millennium bce. Subsequent population growth led to the formation, in the second half of the first millennium bce, of urban centers and numerous villages, some of which have been excavated and have provided valuable information on domestic architecture (Mattingly and Sterry, 2013; see also Mattingly’s Chapter 5 in this volume and Mori, 2013 for a small hamlet dated from circa 200 bce to the late first century ce). By the beginning of the Christian era important cities – like Garama (Jarma), the capital of the Garamantes – and a large, powerful monarchical state had developed (Mattingly et al., 2003).

Relations with the Phoenicians Since the end of the ninth century bce, the societies that inhabited the southern shores of the western Mediterranean came into immediate contact with the Phoenicians through numerous settlements founded by the latter from the Atlantic coast of Morocco and the Iberian Peninsula to the eastern Maghreb and Sicily. Among these settlements, Carthage soon acquired great importance, and, as indicated, came to control a progressively larger territory in what is now Tunisia from the fifth century bce. Polybius (1.71) observed that the exploitation of this territory was one of the keys to Carthage’s power. Part of this conquered land was held by the Carthaginian oligarchy, but most of it must have remained in the hands of the indigenous people, who continued to live in their own farms and towns. The surveys of Peyras (1991) and Ferchiou (1994, 2010) have shown that they often were fortified settlements of limited size, often (but not always) perched high on the hills, which is why they are often referred to as oppida. The absence of excavations prevents us from articulating a more precise idea of their nature and chronology. More important settlements, probably urban in character, existed in places such as Sicca Veneria, Thugga, Assuras, Mactar, or Vaga, among, probably, many others. Polybius claims (1.72.2) that the local population was forced to hand over a quarter of their agricultural production to Carthage, pay cash tribute, and serve in the Carthaginian army (Gsell, 1918: 299–304). The record of indigenous revolts by the early (in 396 and 379 bce) and mid-fourth century bce, and during the mercenaries’ war, clearly reflects the nature of the Carthaginian dominion (Gsell, 1913: 465–467; Whittaker, 1978: 338, 340), which may have been a form of communal servitude or helotism. This type of collective social dependence is well attested elsewhere in ancient Mediterranean contexts, including several colonial situations, most notably in Syracuse and Pontic Heraclea (Mangas, 1977). The nature and intensity of the economic and cultural interactions of the independent autochthonous societies with the Phoenician–Punic civilization are difficult to evaluate prior to the third

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century bce. They certainly intensified from that time, particularly, and in some way paradoxically, after the destruction of Carthage in 146 bce. For the previous period, the excavations at Althiburos indicate the presence of Phoenician pottery well inland as far back as the late eighth century bce, but in extremely limited numbers (Ramon et al., 2016: 49–50). The pottery imports grew only slightly between the late seventh and the first half of the sixth century bce (about 1% of all vessels and sherds), and all the imported vases (amphorae, cups, and mortars) appear to be associated with wine consumption. Their volume increased significantly in the fourth and third centuries bce (13% of all fragments; 12% of all vases); from that time, they also included Punic perfume containers and cooking vessels, which could indicate the adoption of foreign culinary practices and other cultural traits. The volume and nature of this material suggests that ceramic imports were reserved for the indigenous elite, who most probably controlled this trade. The intensity of the cultural contact is still difficult to assess, but the already mentioned Punic-type cistern of Althiburos indicates that it was not negligible by the second half of the sixth century bce. Althiburos remained a strictly Numidian town in most aspects of daily life. Ceramic production was entirely handmade until the early first century ce, and only a few Punic shapes were adopted; cooking pots clearly attest to the massive persistence of traditional forms of food preparation that already existed at the beginning of the first millennium. It is also important to note that the opus africanum building technique, so frequent in Punic settlements, has not been documented in preRoman Althiburos (Belarte and Ramon, 2016: 34). As for the defensive wall erected during the fourth century bce, it reflects no contemporary Punic military architectural influences. As we shall see below, the funerary practices also remained faithful to the indigenous traditions and were quite different from the Punic customs. From the third, and especially from the mid-second century bce, there is clear evidence of strong Punic cultural impact in both Numidia and Mauretania (Quinn and McCarty, 2014 and McCarty, Chapter 16). The ancient sources suggest that the Numidian elite was in contact with Carthaginian culture. Masinissa, for example, was educated in Carthage (App. 10.37.79) and there were frequent instances of intermarriage, including, among others, that of well-known Sophonisba – the daughter of the Carthaginian aristocrat Hasdrubal Gisco – with Syphax, king of the Masaessyli, in the late third century bce. It comes as no surprise, then, that the Punic language was used officially at least from the second century bce, for example, on the coins of several monarchs and in public inscriptions, sometimes bilingual, as that already mentioned from Thugga. Likewise, the Punic system of weights and measures was adopted and remained in use well into the Roman imperial era. Perhaps the most spectacular aspect of this process is the extraordinary diffusion of the sanctuaries of Baal Hammon in Numidia from the second half of the second century bce (D’Andrea, 2014), maybe as a consequence of population movements from the territories occupied by Rome after Carthage was destroyed in 146 bce. This could also explain the considerable expansion of the Punic language all over the Maghreb from the same period. These shrines, frequently called “tophets” in the archaeological literature, are characterized by the presence of urns containing the remains of extremely young children, animals – frequently birds – or vegetal matter; the depositions were usually signaled with decorated stelae that frequently bore inscriptions in Punic, but also in Latin – with dedications to Saturnus – as many of these sanctuaries lasted well into the Imperial period. This endurance in time demonstrates the strength of this religious phenomenon, but it is difficult to know whether it affected the whole Libyan population or was limited to the elites.

Language and Writing Libyan script was used to write one or several early forms of the Berber language (at present called Tamazig by the berberophone populations), which is a branch of the Afroasiatic language family. As suggested by a certain number of toponyms, anthroponyms, and ethnonyms in Egyptian texts,



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some earlier form of this language was already spoken in the middle of the second millennium BCE in the territories located to the west of Egypt (Gsell, 1927: 102; Camps, 1960: 24–25; Colin, 1999). Moreover, the ratio of similarity between the modern Berber languages suggests that this Protoberber tongue extended already by circa 1500 bce as far as the Atlantic shores (Ehret, 2019: 480–481), perhaps, in Fentress’ opinion, as a consequence of a westwards expansion of population that could already have taken place by 2000 bce (Fentress, 2019: 501–502). This is not inconsistent with Blench’s suggestion that the diffusion of Proto-Berber occurred around 4000–3000 bce, in correspondence with the expansion of pastoralism across the Central Sahara (Blench, 2019: 436). The subsequent history of the Berber languages is hard to reconstruct. For Fentress, successive migrations of Berberophone settlers would account for the present-day linguistic variation. Ehret, on the other hand, advocates for a progressive divergence over time, while Blench believes that the current Berber languages are too close to each other to think of an evolution from the Proto-Berber as a plausible hypothesis. For this reason, he believes that there was a language-levelling episode around 100–200 ce. The linguistic unity of this immense territory (even if several variants of ancient Berber were spoken) is a remarkable fact, especially when compared to the great fragmentation on the opposite shore of the Mediterranean, where many languages of Indo-European ancestry coexisted with others of different linguistic groups (Etruscan, Iberian, Vasconian, Tartessian, and Ligurian; maybe the unattested languages of Sardinia and the Balearic Islands as well). It is equally noticeable that, contrary to most of the ancient languages of the central and western Mediterranean (including now Greek and Punic), Berber survived the unifying action of the Roman Empire and later of the Arab expansion. It is, with Basque, German, and the Southwestern Brittonic languages, the only pre-Roman tongue of the Western Empire that has survived to our day. The Libyan writing system is attested by about 1200 inscriptions from modern Libya to Morocco and from the Sahara to the Mediterranean, and is one of the most obvious signs of Libyan cultural identity (Chabot, 1940). A number of Libyan inscriptions are also present in the Canary Islands, written in the language of the pre-Hispanic inhabitants – the guanches – which is also related to Berber. There are two variants of this script: the eastern one had 24 letters and was used in what is now Tunisia, the Aurès, and the Constantine region. The western variant was used in the rest of the Maghreb and the Canary Islands, and has 13 extra letters, which has led Blench to think that it was used to write a different language, perhaps a creole between Berber and the language that preceded it in that area (Blench, 2019: 445–446, 455). Libyan script was, it appears, essentially an indigenous creation, which drew on the Phoenician alphabet (Chaker, 2013: 14–22). This is suggested by the absence in the Maghreb of any prealphabetic writing tradition, as well as by the existence of six or seven signs common to both writing systems. Despite these similarities, Libyan script is clearly distinguishable from Punic and Latin. The signs are simple geometric shapes, either straight or curved, and points. They are never linked, and generally there is no separation between words. The texts are often written vertically from bottom to top, but can also be horizontal or boustrophedon. The phonetic value of the signs has been established in many, but not all, cases, thanks mainly to the existence of some bilingual texts like the inscriptions from Thugga and more than a dozen Libyan–Punic or Libyan–Latin epitaphs. Surviving texts are of different character and can be found on several kinds of supports. Funerary stelae are most common; they have revealed hundreds of Libyan anthroponyms. There are also some official inscriptions (mostly from Thugga), while others are engraved or painted in rock shelters that should be regarded as places of worship (Poyto and Musso, 1969; Barnett and Mattingly, 2003). A few, usually very short, are engraved or painted on ceramic vessels (Camps, 1977); they must be personal names indicating ownership. All this may suggest a relatively limited use of writing, but we must not preclude the possibility that perishable matter was also used. The question must remain open in the absence of substantial archaeological fieldwork in habitational sites, where the presence of inscriptions on other types of support (metal or ceramic, for example) and for other

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functions typical of complex societies (commercial, administrative, or property indications) may be expected. The use of the Libyan script in some official texts suggests that it was employed by the administration, which would have generated a significant number of documents. It is a plausible assumption that, when investigated thoroughly, urban settlements will yield traces of such kinds of epigraphs. The survival of bilingual Libyan–Latin inscriptions indicates that the Libyan script was still used during the Imperial period, perhaps until the Arab conquest. After this it was gradually limited to the Saharan area, where it has persisted to the present among the Tuareg, who call it tifinagh. Its initial chronology is uncertain, since only one inscription – the repeatedly mentioned bilingual text from Thugga – is intrinsically dated (138 bce). Others have been dated back to the third century bce, either for contextual – a stela from Sidi Slimane (Morocco), a vase from Tiddis (Algeria) – or paleographic reasons (a stele from Lixus) (Camps, 1977), but the Punic amphora found at Sidi Slimane is of type Ramon 12.1.1.1 (Arharbi, 2009: 248, Figures 4.1 and 4.4), which can be dated from the mid-fourth to the early first century bce (Ramon 1995: 237–238). This does not exclude a more ancient dating for this writing system. W. Pilcher has noted that the Libyan sign for the sound “T,” which is shaped like a cross, must have been borrowed from the Phoenician alphabet, where it has the same phonetic value. If so, this might have occurred before the seventh century bce, when the sign for “T” ceased to be cruciform in the Phoenician system (Pichler, 2007). This would support the early dating suggested by Camps (1977) for the inscription associated with an anthropomorphic engraving of Azibi n’Ikkis (high Atlas), whose chronology is, however, disputed (El Khayari, 2009). Overall, the inscriptions supply limited information on Libyan society, in view of their almost exclusively funerary nature and the brevity of most texts. Even so, and leaving aside their contribution to the history of the Berber language, they have provided important information on anthroponymy, including the names of important historical actors, like Masinissa or Micipsa, and, as described above, they have afforded important information about the government institutions of the city of Thugga (Chaker, 2013: 29–31).

Figure 4.1  Complex megalithic monument of Ellès. Photo by Maria Carme Belarte.



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Religious Beliefs and Practices Documentation on Libyan religious beliefs and practices is uneven (see also McCarty, Chapter 16). We know the names of a large number of deities thanks to inscriptions of the Roman imperial period, and some monuments of the same period that give limited but useful information regarding how they were conceived at that time. About 50 god names are attested, in addition to those of numerous genii related to specific sites or groups of people, whether cities, tribes, mountains, caves, or rivers (Camps, 1995). Since the names of deities are often known only by a single citation, it may be assumed that most were of a local character. In fact, nothing indicates the existence of a common pantheon for all or for significant parts of Libyan North Africa. However, the frequent association in a single monument of three, five, seven or even eight deities suggests the existence of local or regional pantheons. Presumably the many dedications to generic Dii Mauri actually refer to these local divine groups. This is clearly deduced from an inscription found at Henchir Ramdane, near Béja, where three anthropomorphically represented gods (Fudina, Vacurtum, and Varis) are also designated with that name; Vacurtum and Varsis are also mentioned in other monuments of the same type, again from the vicinity of Beja, which underlines their essentially local nature (Camps, 1954; CIL 8.14444). Despite the late dating of most of the available documents, we may suppose they reflect local cult prior to the Roman period, at least in the last centuries of the first millennium bce. A good indication in this regard is an unquestionably pre-Roman, but unfortunately anepigraphic, monument with the busts of eight deities found near Simmithu (Chemtou), about which more will be said later. As for the personality of the indigenous deities, we must rely exclusively on documents dated to Roman times, such as another relief, also found near Beja, where seven gods are represented with their names and certain attributes that may characterize them, at least hypothetically (Merlin, 1947). Thus, there is a Macurgum carrying a walking stick with a coiled snake, which suggests that he is a healing deity. Another one, named Vihina, could be related to the protection of childbirths. It is also important to note that the central deity bears a probably Punic name, Bonchor, which makes evident the intense contact with the Punic religion to which we have already alluded. It is also pertinent to recall here the divine character of the monarchs, already during their lifetimes, as demonstrated by epigraphic evidence regarding Hiempsal, Guluga, and Juba, and, after their deaths, as attested by the inscription of Thugga in which the dedication of a temple to Masinissa is mentioned, and by an explicit reference of Minucius Felix in Octavianus, 23 (“by the good-will of the Mauritanians, Juba is a god”). Two sanctuaries in the form of large Hellenistic-style monumental altars near Zama (the Kbor Klib) and close to Simmithu have also been interpreted as potential cult sites dedicated to Numidian kings. (Rakob, 1979, 1983; Kuttner, 2013: 228–248).

Funerary Practices and Beliefs As noted above, there is extensive documentation on the funerary practices, but it has not been properly exploited as yet (Camps, 1961; Kallala and Sanmartí, 2017; Sanmartí et al., 2019; Tanda et al., 2009). The nature and size of the thousands of well-preserved and visible funerary monuments vary greatly, according to social, cultural, and maybe chronological and ethnic reasons. One large group consists of monuments that have no real architectural expression. Some of these are simple enclosures bounded with large stones, sometimes with stone beds covering the graves; they are well attested in the whole Maghreb. We may also mention rock-cut chamber tombs (known as haouanet, particularly frequent in Northern Tunisia and Northeastern Algeria), and underground hypogea, as well as large mounds that hide funerary chambers that are completely invisible from the outside. At times, more or less substantial walls border these tumuli; the monuments are then called bazinas. Other monuments have truly architectural forms. Among these we may mention

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tower-shaped buildings (called chouchet), and in particular – owing to their large number – structures similar to European dolmens (Sanmartí et al., 2015). These are frequently grouped in very large “necropolises,” sometimes of thousands of tombs, in Eastern Tunisia and Western Algeria. It is worth noting that the distribution areas of the different types of tombs frequently overlap and that different categories are often found in close vicinity. It is difficult to say whether this diversity is due to cultural or ethnic reasons, or rather to chronological ones, since Libyan funerary monuments are still poorly dated as a consequence of limited investigation and frequent looting. As mentioned before, however, recent research has provided reliable dating in the central centuries of the first millennium bce for 10 dolmens of the necropolises of Henchir Mided, El Ksour, and Djebel Mazela (Kallala et al., 2014, 2017b). It is also interesting to recall here the existence in the Tunisian High Tell, more specifically in Mactar (Pauphilet, 1953; Ghaki, 1997) and Ellès (Camps, 2006), of a limited number of large megalithic monuments composed of several chambers and containing a large number of bodies (Figure 4.1). The limited available data on their chronology indicate a dating between the third century bce and the beginning of the imperial era. Assuming that the typical dolmens were no longer built in the last centuries of the first millennium bce, we could conclude that a conventional funeral ritual was limited at this time to a small segment of higher status families, the members of which would have been buried together in these buildings. In sharp contrast with the types just mentioned, which are specifically indigenous from any point of view, a few monumental mausoleums of the kings and the elite are strongly influenced by Punic and Hellenistic models (Rakob, 1979, 1983; Quinn, 2013). They are of two different types. Multilevel funerary towers with a pyramidal crowning constitute the first (Figure 4.2). This was originally an oriental type of funerary monument, which became popular in the Hellenistic era and was introduced into North Africa by Punic architects (Rakob, 1979: 145, 1983: 332–333; Quinn, 2013). Three monuments of this kind are known, respectively, at Siga, the capital of the Masaesyli, at Thugga, and at El Khroub, 14 km from Cirta, the capital of the Massyli. They are all dated to the second century bce – the last one probably being the tomb of Micipsa and Hiempsal, who died in 118 bce. The second type is constituted by the Medracen, near Batna, in eastern Algeria (Figure 4.3), and the Kbour Roumia (the “Christian’s Tomb,” usually designated by the French translation Tombeau de la Chrétienne), close to Tipaza. Both are very large buildings (diameters of 58.7 m and 60.9 m, respectively), constituted by a comparatively low cylindrical body decorated with engaged columns, above which stands a large stepped cone (rising 18.5  m and 32.4  m, respectively) and ending in a platform that was originally crowned with a slim pyramid or a sculptural group. Despite the fact that they somehow recall certain types of autochthonous tumuli (the bazinas), Rakob (1983), and later Coarelli and Thébert (1988), have suggested that these monuments were inspired by Hellenistic funerary architecture. As for their dating, Camps (1973) proposed the early third century bce for the Medracen, drawing on both stylistic reasons and 14C samples obtained from the cedar beams still preserved in the building. Rakob, however, thinks that it should be dated to the early second century bce. The Kbour Roumia is clearly inspired by the Medracen; it was erected in the second or, more probably, the first century bce. Regarding funerary rituals, cremation is seldom attested; it should probably be regarded as an outcome of contact with the Punic world. Inhumation is the typical Libyan rite, but considerable differences are attested as regards the treatment of the body. It may be placed in the tomb in a complete and articulated state (primary inhumation); in the eastern Maghreb, generally in a crouched or sometimes in supine decubitus position, (Sanmartí et al., 2019: 262); in Morocco, however, the lateral extended position is usual (Pappi, 2019: 287, 290). A second possibility is the placement within the tomb of either some selected bones only, or the whole skeleton (or a large part of it), but disarticulated, which obviously implies the previous excarnation of the bodies (secondary inhumation). Disarticulation and selection seem to be characteristically Numidian practices, but both forms of inhumation were concomitantly practiced in wide areas, even in the same localities, in the same types of monuments and, sometimes, in the same tomb. There must be social or cultural reasons, at which we can only guess, to account for this diversity. The presence of inhumated children has been recorded in different types of graves, and using both kinds of



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Figure 4.2  The Thugga mausoleum, looking north. Photo by Joan Sanmartí.

Figure 4.3  The Medracen. Credits to Reda Kerbouche/Wikimedia Commons – Travail personnel, CC BY-SA 3.0. https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=28647236.

treatment of the remains. Another factor of variability is linked to the individual or collective character of the tombs, since both types are well attested, sometimes in the same cemetery. Funerary offerings are generally scarce, or even non-existent. They are limited, in fact, to animal bones, pottery vessels, glass paste beads, and sometimes, bronze or iron objects, generally small; agricultural implements are attested in tombs of the Tangier region (Ponsich, 1967), but weapons

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Figure 4.4  Bas-relief found at Bordj Helal, close to Simmithu (Chemtou). Chemtou Museum. Photo by Joan Sanmartí.

are absent. It is worth noting that some of these goods have a specifically funerary character. This holds true, in particular, for the very numerous miniature vases, labelled as microcéramique by Camps (1961: 276–280), and for some beautifully painted vases from the necropolises of Tiddis and Gastel, about which more will be said later. As for funerary ceremonies and cult, convincing evidence has been observed at several sites, in particular at Mactar, where a large, complex megalithic monument of a type mentioned earlier is composed of four funerary chambers preceded by six smaller rooms that contained anepigraphic stelae and a large number of pottery vessels. To this could be added the presence of fragments of human bones in habitation areas of Althiburos, which were probably kept in the houses (Sanmartí et al., 2019: 268–269). This could indicate some kind of domestic cult to the ancestors.

Aesthetic Ideas and Expression In the realm of sculpture and painting, the Libyans have not left anything comparable, in quantity or quality, to the legacy of other autochthonous civilizations of pre-Roman central-western Mediterranean, such as the Iberian or the Etruscan. The principal exceptions are the funerary monuments and sanctuaries related to the monarchs or other members of the elite, which follow Hellenistic models and do not exhibit indigenous elements in their general conception or sculptured decoration. The same may be said of the few existent royal portraits, both sculptured (Fittschen, 1979) or in coins (Baldus, 1979). Within the strictly Libyan tradition we may mention the engraved representations of human and animal figures on rocky surfaces, typical of the Saharan regions (Rodrigue, 1999; Barnett and Mattingly, 2003), but the most outstanding sculptured elements are three groups of stelae found, respectively, in Great Kabylia (northern Algeria) (Laporte, 1992; Camps et al., 1999), Kerfala (some 50 km to the south-west of the latter) (Salama, 2005) and the Djebel Fortass region, south of Constantine (Salama and Laporte, 2003). They represent chieftains bearing weapons and, sometimes, in the Great Kabylian group, riding horses. The appearance of the latter, armed with a round shield and two or three javelins in the left hand, coincides neatly with the description of Moorish and Numidian warriors by Strabo (17, 3, 7). Some stelae do also bear Libyan inscriptions, one of which, from Kerfala, contains the expression GLDMSK; the first three letters correspond, as mentioned earlier, to the title of “king” or “leader,” while MSK must be an ethnic name, probably of a tribe or a fraction thereof.



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Since they have generally been found out of context, the chronology of these stelae is impossible to establish. The iconographical homogeneity of the different groups and their location in welldelimited areas suggest that, in addition to their likely funerary function – which can be proved only in the case of Kerfala – they could also have been used as indicators of ethnic identities and territory markers. This, in spite of obvious stylistic and iconographical differences, can also be the function of an anepigraphic stela found at Henchir Abassa, close to Simmithu (Chemtou) (Bertrandy, 1986). A bearded rider is represented wearing and riding in Roman style, since he is in a short tunic, covered by a chlamys, and mounts on a saddle. His beard and braided hair, however, indicate that he is a Numidian, and the fact that he is wearing a diadem suggests he may be Juba I, the last king of Numidia, who reigned from 60 to 46 bce. Besides kings and lesser rulers, the indigenous sculpture has also left us some representations of deities, to which we have already alluded. One of these is a most important piece of autochthonous plastic. It is a stone bas-relief found at Bordj Helal, close to Simmithu (Chemtou) (Fantar, 2001; Figure 4.4). It bears the busts of eight deities, one of which (fifth from left) is a female wearing a robe, while the others are bearded masculine figures, save for the first to the left, dressed in a robe and a chlamys. They have braided hair and beards, and the goddess also wears a diadem, an unmistakable sign of its dominance, accentuated by its centrality and by the fact of being the only female figure. In addition to the stone representations of rulers and divinities, we must also mention the existence of zoomorphic clay figurines, which are particularly frequent in the area of Fazzān, but are also documented in Numidia. Interpreting them is difficult, but we may assume that they are related to religious beliefs. The same may be said about a rare three-legged vase with human faces in relief, found in a tomb at Tiddis (Bussière, 1998). Regarding pictorial art, evidence is abundant, but remains limited almost exclusively to the type of tombs known as haouanet, which, as already noted, are almost exclusively attested in northern Tunisia (Longerstay, 1995; Stone, 2007). Among the subjects, always painted in red, geometric elements dominate – especially, but not exclusively, triangles and diamonds – forming continuous friezes. There are also religious symbols, usually Punic, as the sign of Tanit, and a number of figurative motifs. The paintings are made in a rather schematic style. In some cases, they have a narrative character that includes worship, pastoral, and navigation scenes. The chronology of these paintings cannot be established with certainty, since the graves in which they are found have been systematically looted and reused. Nevertheless, the frequency of religious Punic motifs suggests that many are dated to the second half of the first millennium bce. Oldest dates have been suggested, even in the Bronze Age, but there is no clear evidence to support this position. To this must be added a number of vessels with decorations painted in red and, in some cases, in black. Most of them have been found in the necropolises of Tiddis and Gastel (Algeria), and exclusively in some specific shapes (Camps, 1961: 343–371). This seemingly indicates that these are specifically funerary vases; this idea is supported by the fact that only two fragments of such painted pottery are attested at Althiburos, out of almost 20,000 fragments of indigenous pottery found in the habitation sectors. The decoration is always of a rather complex geometric style, incorporating in some cases schematic forms of figurative motifs of vegetal, anthropomorphic, and zoomorphic character. However, there are sharp stylistic differences between the vases found at the aforementioned sites.

Some Concluding Reflections The historical trajectory of the ancient Libyan populations is singular, when compared to that of the indigenous peoples of the islands and the northern border of the western Mediterranean. Unlike the latter, they came to constitute territorial states of considerable size, which were an important power factor in this region during the last centuries of the first millennium bce (and later in the case of the Garamantes). In addition, these populations show a distinct cultural p ­ ersonality, which is clearly demonstrated in different aspects of their material culture, but also in the linguistic continuity through the centuries of Roman domination down to the present. While the pre-Roman

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languages of the Western Mediterranean (with the sole exception of Basque) disappeared in the face of the assimilating force of Roman culture, and barely left any trace in later Romance languages, Berber continues to be the language of millions of people in the Maghreb and the Sahara, and has transmitted a significant number of terms to the Arab dialects that have been developed in these regions. However, despite this importance and uniqueness, Libyan culture and society remain among the least known of the pre-Roman times in the Mediterranean West. If a chapter on Libyan culture and society in a hypothetical new companion of the next generation were to present substantial differences with this text, it will be essential that a new cohort of archeologists demonstrate the will and the capacity to break the inertia of the old colonial archaeology. New data are urgently needed on multiple aspects of the Libyan civilization, and this implies long-term research programs that overcome the strictly local – and even national – frameworks. It is absolutely crucial to locate and excavate wide areas of necropolises and habitational sites of the first millennium bce. Such work will not be easy given in the latter, owing to their frequently continued occupation, and the consequent existence of superposed levels that obscure the underlying archaeological evidence. However, some priority must be given to their study if we are to gain a fuller understanding of Libyan culture. We firmly hope that all of this will come true in the coming years.

Acknowledgments The author wishes to express his sincere appreciation to the anonymous reviewers whose comments and advice have substantially improved this contribution, and also to Bruce Hitchner for his constructive criticism and numerous suggestions, as well as his invaluable help in putting the text into acceptable English. The author would also like to thank Patricia Bateson for her extremely professional editing.

FURTHER READING The syntheses by Gsell (in particular 1927), Tarradell (1960) and Camps (1960) remain important points of reference for the study of pre-Roman North Africa, together with the corresponding chapters of Lassère (2015). In English, Fentress (1996), (2006) are the best overviews. Horn and Rüger (1979) collects numerous first-rate and still useful works on several aspects of Numidian civilization. The Encyclopédie Berbère, largely (and progressively) accessible online, provides quality information on many aspects of ancient Libyan civilization, including characters, sites, diverse cultural practices, and more. Fieldwork is still insufficient throughout the region, but in recent years some important studies have emerged in Libya (Mattingly, 2003; Mattingly and Sterry, 2013; Mori, 2013), in Tunisia (Kallala and Sanmartí dirs., 2011, 2016, and 2017; Tanda et al., 2009) and in Morocco (Callegarin et al., 2016; Bernal et al., 2012; Villada et al., 2010). Camps (1961) remains the most complete study of pre-Roman funerary traditions, but is now complemented by contributions included in Trousset (1995), Stone and Sterling (2007), Gatto et al. (2019), and Pragg and Quinn (2013). Sterry and Mattingly 2020 collects several works on the formation of states and the emergence of cities. Theoretical debate has focused in recent years on cultural issues, specifically the critique of binary models that uncritically oppose “indigenous” and “colonizers.” Important contributions in this regard are found in Quinn (2003) and Ardeleanu (2014, 2021), and a critical view of these in Kallala et al. (2021).

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Tarradell, M. 1960. Marruecos púnico. Tétouan. Trousset, P. 1995. L’Afrique du Nord antique et médiévale: monuments funéraires, institutions autochtones. Actes du VIe colloque international sur l’histoire et l’archéologie de l’Afrique du Nord (Pau, octobre 1993). Paris. Valenzuela, S. 2016. “L’alimentation et l’élevage à partir des restes fauniques.” In Kallala and Sanmartí, dirs., 421–448. Villada, F., Ramon, J., and Suárez, J. 2010. El asentamiento protohistórico de Ceuta. Indígenas y fenicios en la orilla norteafricana del estrecho de Gibraltar. Ceuta. Whittaker, C.R. 1978. “Land and labour in North Africa.” Klio 60.2: 331–362. Yoffee, N. 2004. Myths of the Archaic State. Evolution of the Earliest Cities, States, and Civilizations. New York.

CHAPTER 5

Beyond Barbarians: The Garamantes of the Libyan Sahara David J. Mattingly

Introduction The Libyan central Sahara has played a very significant role in the early history of desert civilizations. This was the heartlands of the people known to history as the Garamantes. Although somewhat synoymous in the writings of Classical authors with nomadic barbarians, the reality revealed by archaeology presents a very different picture (Mattingly, 2003: 76–90). This chapter will demonstrate how we have to look beyond the barbarian stereotype imposed by Greco-Roman sources and will explore some of the implications of the changed perspective on indigenous African peoples that results from this. The significance of the Garamantes relates to a range of markers of political, cultural, and economic distinction. They practised oasis agriculture from the time of their earliest identified settlements in the early first millennium bce and employed advanced irrigation technology by the fourth or third century bce. By the early centuries ce their population was spread around hundreds of sedentary villages and their largest settlements justify the identification of the Garamantes as the first urban and state-level society of the central Sahara. They seem to have played an important role in the spread of technological innovations and in the establishment of Saharan trading networks. Their society is also associated with the earliest archaeological evidence from the central Sahara for wheeled vehicles (chariots), the horse and camel, a written script, and metallurgy. The evolution of this civilization is of high importance not just for the emergence of oasis agriculture in the Sahara, but also because of the impressive evidence of sustained and complex relationships between the Garamantes and the Roman empire (Mattingly, 2006, 2011b, 2013a: 505–544).

Geography: Fazzan and Phazania The area of Fazzan, modern Libya’s vast south-west province, comprises a diverse range of desert landscapes. There are major sand seas (Dahan Ubari and Dahan Murzuq), linear escarpments and rock plateau landforms (Massak Sattafat and Massak Mallat), mountain ranges (Tadrart Akakus, Jabal as-Soda, and Jabal Bin Ghanima), along with a series of linear depressions in which oases have developed. Since the last major incident of climatic change c. 3000 bce, the climate has been hyper-arid and the evolution of oases and agriculture has been entirely dependent on the

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exploitation of non-renewable groundwater sources. There are three main bands of oasis-supporting depressions in Fazzan, all running approximately east–west (Figures 5.1 and 5.2). The Wadi ash-Shati is the most northerly, marking the southern edge of the great barren rock plateau known as the Hamada al-Hamra. Its oases are fed by numerous springs and in Early Modern times this was the most productive area with the highest population. The central oasis band is the Wadi al-Ajal,

Figure 5.1  The Garamantian heartlands in their Saharan context. The dark squares represent Roman forts and light circles fortified sites of the frontier zone and beyond. Map produced by M. Sterry.

Figure 5.2  Garamantian settlements in Fazzan. Map produced by M. Sterry.

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running about 150 km from al-Abyad to Ubari, with the Garamantian capital at Jarma, towards its western end. This 3–5 km wide depression runs along the margin between the Ubari sand sea and the cliff-like escarpment of the Massak Sattafat. There are few springs here, but a generally elevated water table, exploited by wells and underground water channels known as foggaras. The southern band of oases comprises a series of linked depressions: the ash-Sharqiyat, al-Hufra, Murzuq, Wadi Utba, and Wadi Barjuj. There is also a series of minor outlying oasis clusters to south-east (the alQatrun and Tijirhi group) and south-west (the Ghat area). Despite the similarity of name, modern Fazzan does not seem to correspond with the ancient geographical term, Phazania (Mattingly, 1995). Mentioned by Pliny (Nat.Hist. 5.35), Phazania was evidently a region close to Ghadames (ancient Cidamus) about 300 km to the north-west, and was linked with people known as the Phazanii (Desanges 1962, 1980). There was a further desert people called the Gamphasantes somewhere close to the Greater Syrtes (Herodotus, Hist. 4.174), suggesting that the root of terms like Fazzan/Phazania had a broader geographic association with ancient peoples of the desert. In modern times, the term Fazzani has served to distinguish sedentary agriculturalists from pastoral groups. That may also be the explanation of the ancient term, with Pliny perhaps confusing a social category (oasis cultivators) for a tribal ethnic.

The Garamantes in the Ancient Sources Ancient writers from the time of Herodotus to the end of the Roman period depicted the Garamantes as the epitome of a barbarian people, menacing the Mediterranean world from their desert strongholds. The Garamantes were referred to by Herodotus in his famous account of the peoples of the Sahara and featured in the works of most later sources dealing with this region, though the majority of such references simply repeat information from Herodotus (4.174; 4.183) or offer one of a number of other stereotypes of a “tribal” society. The overriding images are of a warlike and exotic barbarian people, first subdued under Augustus when a remarkable long-range campaign by his general Cornelius Balbus penetrated to the Garamantian heartlands in the al-Ajal (for the history of Roman military action against the Garamantes, see Daniels 1970: 13–21; Mattingly 2003: 76–86). Pliny’s account (HN 5.35–37) of the resulting triumph suggests that the conquest of the desert landscape was being celebrated as much as was the military victory. Thereafter, the Augustan poets described the Garamantes as belonging to the limitless empire of Rome (Virgil, Aen. 6.791–97). However, although left outside the provincial territory, their ambiguous position in relation to the empire is emphasized by their subsequent role in revolt and warfare both in Augustus’ later years and under Tiberius. Tacitus denigrated the rebels as brigands (latrocines) and stated that the Garamantian king was a “receiver of stolen goods and partner in the raids, not by taking the field with an army, but by dispatching light-armed troops, whose numbers report magnified in proportion to distance” (Tacitus Ann. 4.23). At the end of the Tacfarinan war (17–24 ce), they sent envoys to Rome, where their outlandish appearance caused a minor sensation (Tacitus, Ann. 4.26). In 69 ce, the Garamantes were taken as allies by Oea, one of the coastal cities, in a squabble about territory with her greater rival Lepcis Magna. The Garamantes besieged Lepcis and looted the surrounding countryside before being chased off by Roman army units, who then pursued them into the desert and secured a victory (Tacitus, Hist. 4.50 and Pliny, HN 5.38). Their booty was recovered apart from that which they had sold as “they wandered through inaccessible villages.” Only the barest outline of events is given by our sources and we learn almost nothing beyond their reputation as warlike and ungovernable people who habitually engaged in banditry on their neighbors, and their deviousness in covering up the well-heads with sand to hinder pursuit when retreating from raids to the north (Tacitus Hist. 4.50). Tacitus’ view of the Garamantes, then, seems remarkably similar to the French writing about the troublesome Tuareg in the modern colonial era, concentrating on their propensity for raiding, their nomadic lifestyle and their impermanent settlements. Overall, it is clear that the Garamantes were not described



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objectively in these sources, but were rather part of a specific imperial discourse, which has become further enhanced by the agenda of study of Roman Africa under the influence of modern colonial regimes (Mattingly, 2011a: 30–37, 43–72, for a historiographical study).

Archaeological Research into the Garamantes The Garamantes are an important exception to the general rule that we lack archaeological data for the indigenous peoples encountered by Phoenicians, Greeks, and Romans in North Africa. They were the subject of pioneering Italian research in the 1930s (Pace et al., 1951), some large-scale but poorly published investigations by Mohammed Ayoub in the 1960s and in-depth investigation by Charles Daniels in the 1960s and 1970s (Daniels, 1968, 1970, 1989). Further important Italian work on some outlying Garamantian settlements in the region of Ghat, about 400  km south-west of the Wadi al-Ajal (Liverani, 2006; Mori, 2013), complement the work of my projects, which have focused on survey and excavation of the heartlands of the Garamantes, including investigation at their oasis capital Garama, modern Jarma (Mattingly, 2003, 2007, 2010, 2013a). A crucial aspect of the recent work has been a progam of radiocarbon dating, producing a dossier of over 200 dates relevant to Garamantian civilization (see in particular Mattingly, 2007: 294–302, 2013a: 43–61, 125–129; Sterry et al., 2012; Sterry and Mattingly, 2013, 2020: 59–69; Mattingly et al., 2015; cf. also Liverani, 2006: 363–367; Mori, 2013: 66–69, 313–317). The Garamantian era can be divided into four broad phases: an Early Garamantian period from c. 1000 to 500 bce; a Proto-Urban Garamantian period from 500 to 1 bce; a Classic Garamantian period from 1 to 300 ce; and a Late Garamantian period from 300 to 700 ce. The Garamantes represent in part a continuation of the local Neolithic tradition, as is clear from lithic and ceramic finds at their early settlements (Daniels, 1968, 1989; Mattingly, 2010). However, they are also associated with a series of technological and social evolutions that imply contact with the Western Desert of Egypt and the Nile beyond (imports from the east include the agricultural package introduced, irrigation technology, horses, chariots, camels, and so on). That might suggest the in-migration of a number of people with the requisite skills and access to the new technologies from areas where these were already established. There is no evidence to suggest a large-scale migration or that Garamantian civilization existed first somewhere else. Rather, we seem to witness the creation of a new cultural entity from the amalgamation of pre-existing Saharan communities and a small number of incomers. The rise of the Garamantes was bound up with the spread of agriculture, sedentary village-scale settlements, and the creation of a ranked and hierarchical society, leading to the consolidation of a territorial kingdom. At the height of their influence in the Classic and Late periods, the Garamantes appear to have controlled a vast desert territory of about 250,000 km2, and they periodically posed a military threat to both the cities of the Mediterranean coast and Sub-Saharan populations of Chad and Niger/Mali (Figure 5.2). The typical site of Early Garamantian settlement was a hillfort known as Zinkekra, one of about 15 sites of this type known in Wadi al-Ajal (Daniels, 1968; Mattingly, 2010: 19–119). The primary phase of occupation at Zinkekra was from c. 900–500 bce. Daniels’ excavations here produced evidence not only of the dwellings and shelters terraced into the hill, but of animal bones and plant remains. The faunal record, perhaps unsurprisingly, was dominated by sheep and goat bones, but the botanical record revealed an astonishing picture. From a series of contexts dated by radiocarbon samples to the first half of the first millennium bce came a range of agricultural produce (wheat, barley, grapes, and the date palm), while all the weed species present were types indicative of a hyper-arid climate, much as today. The clear conclusion is that the early Garamantes were already advanced agriculturalists long before they had contact with the GrecoRoman world, practising irrigation in a region of negligible rainfall, where subterranean aquifers are the only significant source of water (Mattingly, 2003: 351–354, 2010: 488–522, 2013a: 473–494). Zinkekra also marks the earliest stages of settlement nucleation and new forms of

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social differentiation. There were substantial defences erected around the hillfort by the ProtoUrban phase along with the first experiments in mudbrick architecture after c. 400 bce. These trends were continued and accelerated when a true urban center developed after 400 bce at Jarma, a few kilometers away in the center of the valley. In the Jarma region, we have an effective urban sequence of nearly 3000  years in length, with the Garamantes being identified as the people responsible for bringing about a series of momentous socioeconomic changes. Further study is needed of the processes that underpinned such changes, but it is clear at least that social evolution in the lands south of the Mediterranean had more in common with those on its north shores in the first millennium than was once believed (Broodbank, 2013). At Jarma, the Classic Garamantian period marked the apogee of architectural and material prosperity. Numerous buildings were erected that employed dressed stone in their footings and architectural elements (colonnades, architrave, etc.), these features being adopted from Mediterranean societies and representing monumental public architecture (Figure 5.3). A Roman-style bath house was erected (though Jarma was 500 km south of the Roman frontier), using imported brick and tile, decorated with marble and painted wallplaster. Nonetheless, the architectural layout of many of the buildings at Jarma also remained distinctively Saharan (Mattingly, 2013a: 267–297). While Jarma was clearly an exceptional settlement with its prestige buildings, numerous smallerscale village settlements have been identified in the Wadi al-Ajal. From the latter centuries bce, these were normally in the center of the valley adjacent to the irrigated gardens. The type site of this sort of village in the Wadi al-Ajal is Saniat Jibril (Mattingly, 2010: 123–204). Until recently, little was known of the wider pattern of Garamantian settlements elsewhere in Fazzan, with most survey work having concentrated on their cemeteries (compare Talbert, 2000, map 36 with Figure 5.2). A combined program of remote sensing and field survey has transformed the picture (Mattingly, 2003: 107–176, 2013a: 525–544; Sterry and Mattingly, 2020: 53–111). The typical Garamantian settlement was a site of village scale, comprising multi-roomed mudbrick buildings of some architectural sophistication. By the Late Garamantian phases these settlements were often protected by castle-like central buildings (qsur) or walled enceintes with projecting external towers (Figure 5.4). The largest sites were urban in scale and character, with several major sites besides Jarma identified, and there were several levels of the settlement hierarchy below those, again indicating the characteristics of a proper state (Mattingly and Sterry, 2013). In addition to the

Figure 5.3  Monumental stone buildings from the Garamantian capital at Jarma: left, the temple with stepped facade; right, architectural fragments recovered from this building.



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Figure 5.4  Garamantian settlements: top, the Early and Proto-Urban Garamantian hillfort of Zinkekra; below, Late Garamantian fortified towns and villages (all shown at the same scale).

settlements in the Wadi al-Ajal, we now know much more about Garamantian sites in other parts of the Fazzan (Figure 5.2): the Wadi ash-Shati north of the Wadi al-Ajal (Merlo et al., 2008, 2013), the area east of Murzuq (Sterry and Mattingly, 2011, 2013; Sterry et al., 2012; Mattingly et al., 2015), and the Wadi Tanzzuft area (Liverani, 2006; Mori, 2013). An abundance of wine and olive oil amphorae, ceramic finewares, and glassware was imported from the Roman world, predominantly from the later first to the early fifth centuries ce (Mattingly, 2013a: 325–420, 2013b; Mattingly, Leitch et al., 2017). Although first noted in relation to Garamantian cemeteries, these finds are also common at settlements. These mass imports contrast with sparse finds of Punic/Hellenistic pottery and other trade goods (glass beads). The ultimate origins of long-range Saharan trade are discussed later, but probably went back to the proto-­ historic period initially directed towards Pharaonic Egypt (Liverani, 2006: 448–455). Imports of Roman date were also far more widely distributed in Garamantian society than those of earlier and later dates, being characteristic finds at Garamantian settlements and from a wide variety of funerary monuments. However, the Garamantes were not passive receptors of external culture. There is evidence of the large-scale manufacture of a range of high-quality goods useful for Trans-Saharan trade networks – beads in semi-precious stones, glass and ostrich eggshell, textiles in wool and cotton, metallurgy, and salt (see Duckworth et al., 2020, on Garamantian technologies). Along

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with gold and slaves, these commodities, largely invisible or unquantifiable in the archaeological record, were more representative of the norms of Saharan trade than the ceramics and glass that ended up in Garamantian burials. Figurines in low-fired clay reveal the existence of a distinctive artistic tradition of plastic sculpture. The adoption of a written script for the Libyan language of the Garamantes is a further indication of their social evolution; though finds of inscriptions are to date mainly limited to funerary contexts, the likelihood is that writing was primarily developed in support of administrative and commercial transactions (Mattingly, 2013a: 517–518). The cemeteries of the Garamantes are notable for their scale and the diversity of monuments (Gatto et al., 2019: 1–192; Mattingly, 2003: 187–205, 2010: 213–374; Mori, 2013: 197–223). Detailed surveys indicate the presence of more than 200,000 funerary monuments in the Wadi al-Ajal alone, ranging from simple cairns and flat-topped drum tombs to elaborate stepped tombs and pyramids. There are even a number of monuments that look like Roman mausolea, though the lack of burials beneath them suggest that the form was adopted as a funerary temple in Fazzan. Burials were often accompanied by stelae and offering tables, distinctive to the Sahara and generally placed on the east side (more occasionally on the west side), indicating a continuing relationship between the living community and their prominent ancestors, a vivid evocation of practices assocated with ancestor worship mentioned by the sources (Herodotus, 4.172; Mela, De situ orbis 1.8.45). Most Garamantian tombs have been pillaged at later dates, indicating the presence of rich grave goods, a point supported by rare intact burials, with extensive beadwork present and hints of gold artifacts. The material culture revealed demonstrates clear change over time. The Garamantian heyday contrasts with post-Garamantian times. The Garamantian kingdom appears to have fragmented into a number of constituent oasis zones by the seventh century ce and Jarma did not retain its pre-eminent importance in the Islamic era, with other Saharan centers such as Zuwila risng to prominence. This is demonstrated, for instance, by the collapse of manufacturing at Jarma by 1000 ce accompanied by relatively low numbers of imported goods, despite the continued existence of Trans-Saharan trade at this time (Mattingly, 2013a: 519–521). The later pattern of Saharan trade reflects the deflection of the main routes away from the major Garamantian centers. On the other hand, despite the political upheavals of late antiquity, it is clear that Saharan trade was still sufficiently active to have attracted the immediate attention of the Arab conquerors of North Africa in the mid-seventh century (see Mattingly et al., 2015, on the rise of Zuwila as the predominant trading center in the Central Sahara in place of Jarma). One of the most important classes of monument is the foggara irrigation system. The foggara is an underground irrigation canal, similar to the Persian qanat or the Arabian falaj, which tapped into an aquifer below the foot of the escarpment and led flowing water out into the oasis proper (Figure 5.5; Mattingly, 2003: 235–265; Wilson, 2006). They are readily identifiable at the surface, where traces survive, from the regularly spaced vertical shafts that were dug to facilitate construction and maintenance of the channels, though they must have added hugely to the labor involved. The foggaras were generally several kilometers in length, with shafts up to 50 m deep, but gradually diminishing in depth until the channel emerged at the surface, from which point surface channels will have distributed the water into the irrigated plots. It is clear that these structures were a key to ancient irrigation in the region, though evidently they have been dry for many centuries now. New dating evidence shows that the foggara system was introduced to Fazzan during the Proto-Urban Garamantian period (a calibrated AMS date on the mudbrick lining of a shaft of the fourth–third century bce) and their use probably extended into the early Islamic period. The labor involved in their construction and maintenance was on a huge scale – the construction of about 600 foggaras currently known in the Wadi al-Ajal would have required about 80,000 man years of labor (maintenance of the systems once established would have been a significant addition to this figure). One of the strongest supporting arguments for the existence of a highly organized Garamantian polity is that only a state could mobilize or supply labor on this scale (Mattingly, 2003: 273). The foggara irrigation systems were a major landscape feature, and they clearly facilitated large-scale and extensive cultivation of the valley floor oasis area. A crucial question concerns when



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Figure 5.5  Map showing the relationship between Garamantian foggara irrigation systems, settlements, and cemeteries near Taqallit. Map produced by M. Sterry.

these systems were abandoned – perhaps because of falling water levels in the aquifer. This appears to have occurred in the early Islamic period, though whether this was the cause or effect of the collapse of the Garamantian kingdom is still unclear. At any event, the settlement density, the number and scale of the cemeteries, and the foggara systems all combine to highlight the Garamantian period as one of peak population and oasis cultivation. In conclusion, Garamantian civilization was the result of raised population levels in the northern Sahara following the development of oasis agriculture backed up by advanced irrigation systems. Initially, the various oasis depressions may have developed as relatively autonomous small-scale societies, but eventually Garama emerged as a primate center absorbing neighboring oases into a kingdom (Mattingly, 2003: 346–362, 2013a: 530–534; Liverani, 2006: 431–444). The concentration of tens

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of thousands of people in the oases of Fazzan allowed the Garamantes to dominate a large expanse of the Sahara – launching military expeditions and trading in equal measure to all points of the compass. The classical sources speak of the Garamantes hunting the troglodytae and “Ethiopians,” a strong hint of slave raiding against neighboring peoples (Herodotus, 4.183; Ptolemy, Geog. 1.8). Quite apart from the possibility of selling-on such captives north across the Sahara, the intensive irrigated cultivation and the dangerous task of constructing the underground channels of the foggaras will have demanded large numbers of slaves. The story of the Garamantes is an example of the rise of a firstgeneration state in the Sahara and their eventual decline was probably in part a consequence of the emergence of second-generation kingdoms that competed for power and trade in the Islamic era (Flannery and Marcus, 2012; cf also Broodbank, 2013 for parallel developments of early states on the north side of the Mediterranean; McIntosh, 1999, for early states in West Africa).

Trans-Saharan Trade The existence of Trans-Saharan trade in the Pre-Islamic era has, at times, been denied or minimized (Swanson, 1975; Thiry, 1995; Brett, 2006; Austen, 2010), though often the arguments have seemed more a case of absence of evidence than evidence of absence. An alternative view seeking pre-Islamic origins of Saharan trade has also had its adherents (Law, 1967; Bovill, 1968), though again hard evidence has been elusive. The traditional views, both supportive and dismissive, of early Trans-Saharan trade have tended to focus on the same north–south lines in western Libya that characterized the nineteenth-century slave trade between the Mediterranean and SubSaharan Africa. In the absence of explicit references to this trade in the classical sources and a general dearth of archaeological research at historical-era sites in the Sahara, the evidence has appeared rather circumstantial (Mauny, 1978). The Libyan Saharan routes passed through the heartlands of the Garamantes, so it was always probable that they held the key to resolving the debate. In recent years new data have been accumulating to support the view that there was significant pre-Islamic contact and trade within an interconnected Trans-Saharan world (Mattingly, 2013b; Mattingly, Leitch et al., 2017; cf. also Mitchell, 2005; Schörle, 2012; Wilson, 2012). The evolution of the network of Trans-Saharan trade routes known by the Early Modern period was no doubt a very long-term development, but there is now better evidence to place the earliest stages of this in the proto-historic period and to suggest that we need not only to think of north– south routes but also about an east–west/north–east to south–west line. Liverani has argued convincingly that Trans-Saharan trade of a sort existed already by the sixth century bce (if not earlier), based on the line of developing oasis communities reported on by Herodotus (4.183–85), running for 4000 km west and south-west from the Western Egyptian desert to the Niger Bend (Liverani, 2000, 2006: 458–459). The earliest development of Saharan trade was spurred directly or indirectly by the growth of oases in the Western Desert and the consumption needs and power of the Egyptian state. The subsequent redirection of trade northwards towards the Mediterranean in the Roman period reflects the evolving relationship between the Garamantes and the Empire. It should be noted that in most periods of history the bulk of Trans-Saharan trade has involved organic or high-value commodities, neither of which survive well in the archaeological record (Mattingly, Leitch et al., 2017). For this reason, there is a lack of hard proof of commercial contacts along this line in the early first millennium bce, but some interesting pointers. First, there is the fact that the development of the oases communities demanded regular communication between them. Indeed, it can be argued that the development of oases was from earliest times linked to a parallel interest in exploring trading options as a way of justifying and repaying the high startup costs of oasis agriculture (cf. Scheele, 2010, for a later period). The location of oases related to communication nodes as much as to places where groundwater was accessible. It is striking that the repeated figure of a 10-day journey between the spring mounds referred to in the Herodotean account correlates with the most common journey stage length of Islamic accounts and the maximum travel time between major water points for a caravan carrying both goods and the water needed for its sustenance. Second,



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we can observe the movement of “things” along this line from the late second and first millennia bce. Plants (wheat, barley, the date palm, fig, vine, etc.), animal species (donkeys, horses, camels, chickens), and technological knowledge (agricultural techniques, irrigation, metallurgy, glass making) can all be linked to this route (Duckworth et al., 2020). Third, we have attestations of people making journeys: Herodotus (2.32–33) provides information on a small group of the Nasamones people (whose home oases lay south of Cyrenaica and the Gulf of Sirte) making a long trip south-west across the Sahara till they reached a substantial river, clearly in the Sub-Saharan zone and almost certainly to be equated with the River Niger. A fourth and crucial point is that we can now recognize in the story of the Garamantian state evidence of wider cultural contacts across the Trans-Saharan world. The large quantities of Roman trade goods found at Garamantian sites had travelled about 1000 km south of the Mediterranean ports of Oea (Tripoli) and Lepcis Magna (Mattingly, 2013b). The unusual abundance of ceramics and vessel glass should be noted and stands out in contrast to the normative pattern of later eras of Saharan trade, which has focused on less fragile and higher value commodities. The most probable commodities of early Saharan trade were beads and beadwork (in semi-precious stones, glass, and ostrich eggshell), textiles, leather goods, ivory, metals, salt, and people (slaves). The lack of finds of Roman imports to the Sub-Saharan zone has been raised as a prime argument against the existence of any Trans-Saharan trade at this date. However, that may be to misconstrue the nature of Saharan trade at this time and who was in control of it. Despite the denials of some Islamic specialists, the connections between the Garamantes and the Sub-Saharan zone are becoming increasingly clear (MacDonald, 2011). The reason that Mediterranean goods did not make the crossing in quantity at this date is that they were preferentially consumed by the Garamantes, who manufactured a range of suitable goods for their separately conducted trade with Sub-Saharan regions: textiles and beads seem two of the most important categories, both of which appear as imported commodoties in burials at the Sub-Saharan site of Kissi (Magnavita, 2003, 2014). Compositional analysis of metal artefacts at Kissi of the early centuries ce also seems to indicate a Mediterranean source of the copper alloys used (Fenn et al., 2009), while at Jarma fragments of molds used for making small copper alloy ingots have been found suggestive of a reworking of imported copper artefacts into an easily transportable form (Mattingly, 2013a: 462–463, 515). We can also identify the incorporation of Sub-Saharan crops in Garamantian agriculture as a marker for more extensive contacts – crops include pearl millett, sorghum, and cotton (Mattingly, 2013a: 473–494). Finds of hippo ivory, ebony beads, and cowrie shells offer glimpses of other trade goods. There were also people of undeniable Sub-Saharan character present in the Wadi al-Ajal in this time period. Slaves were no doubt a significant component of Saharan trade in antiquity, as in more recent periods (Fentress, 2011). Gold is another commodity often suggesed as an important element of ancient Saharan trade, though the available evidence is far from conclusive. An influx of West African gold into North Africa in the late Roman period has been proposed (Garrard, 1982), but is not accepted by all. Yet, it is surely interesting that potential Garamantian imports at Kissi in Burkino Faso come from an early gold mining region (Magnavita, 2009). Apart from slaves and gold, it is possible that the Garamantes also traded with Rome in foodstuffs (dates and barley), salt, semi-precious stones (especially red carnelians and turquoise amazonite), ivory, wild animals, and natron (used in ancient glass making). There is increasing evidence for sophisticated Garamantian textile production and some of this material will have been traded. All these commodities leave little tangible trace in the archaeological record, so the challenge of the next phase of research is to improve our methods for identifying or retrieving this evidence. Beads are a key commodity, but more intensive sieving strategies are required to ensure that a good sample is recovered from excavation. The question is no longer whether there was significant interconnection between Nilotic/ Mediterranean states and the Sub-Saharan regions in pre-Islamic times, but how fully can we document and understand these contacts? What is needed now is much more compositional analysis of artefacts across the Trans-Saharan zone and the elucidation of isotopic and other chemical signatures relating to people, animals, goods, and raw materials originating in the different areas of the Trans-Saharan network.

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Other Peoples of the Sahara In this final section, I consider how the work on the Garamates necessitates reconsideration of our knowledge and understanding of other peoples of the North African desert and their relationships with Rome. Put simply, the question is whether the Garamantes were a unique and exceptional people or whether they represent the upper end of a more general trend. The proto-history of North Africa is in general very poorly developed as a discipline and has been overly dominated by a focus on external powers (Phoenicians and Greeks, and later, of course, the Romans) or on exceptional funerary monuments (Camps, 1961). The character and contributions of indigenous African societies have in consequence been underexposed or misconstrued (Mattingly and Hitchner, 1995: 169–174; Mattingly, 2011a: 43–72). While the western Maghreb comprises the mountainous and generally Mediterranean landscapes of northern Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco, the desert and predesert landscapes of southern Tunisia and western and eastern Libya comprised only narrow and restricted areas of Mediterranean climate and habitat (Talbert 2000: maps 28–38 and 73). Knowledge of the indigenous societies of pre-Roman North Africa still rests on the foundations laid by a small group of twentieth-century scholars, with comparatively little recent synthesis concerning the people who were variously characterized as Africans, Berbers (Amazigh), Libyans, and Moors (Bates, 1914; Gsell, 1918/1929; Desanges, 1962, 1980; Camps, 1980; Brett and Fentress, 1996; Hachid, 2000). We might note that these were primarily externally imposed names for peoples who went by a multiplicity of names (Pliny HN 5.29 famously noted the existence of 516 populi from the River Ampsaga to the Greater Syrtes). These were predominantly Mediterranean Africans, speaking a variety of dialects. The presence of black Africans in the oases of the northern Sahara (and also within the Roman provinces) is indisputable, though their numbers and status remain uncertain. By the Roman era, exploration and contact certainly extended into Sub-Saharan Africa. As already noted, the Greco-Roman source material on the people of the Libyan desert is uniformly dismissive of their socioeconomic development, depicting them as barbaric pastoral groups, lacking in the rudiments of civilization (Mattingly, 1995, 2011a: 34–37). Even the geographical placement of Libyan peoples is somewhat uncertain. The long littoral of the two Syrtic gulfs should have provided an important basis for the geographical location of the interior peoples in the ancient sources. However, Ptolemy’s coordinate locations are often untrustworthy and Pliny and other writers confused the two Syrtes or compressed spatial distances. A more serious defect with the ancient sources was the conceptual framework within which they were written. There was a tendency to categorize peoples within a series of bands moving away from the coast into the interior, with each band representing a stage in increasing barbarity and degeneracy. Modern scholarship has too readily accepted such views at face value and also assumed a low level of social complexity as the default characteristic of these communities, casually labelling them as “tribes” with a host of underlying (and largely negative) assumptions. While it may well be correct to discuss some of these peoples in such terms, processes of social evolution were at play and more complex entities emerged in some places (see later, comments on the Numidian and Mauretanian kingdoms). We should thus be careful in deploying loaded terms like “tribe” to characterize all the indigenous peoples of North Africa and my approach is to consider them as “peoples” or “communities.” As we have seen above, it is now apparent that the Garamantes were skillful agriculturalists living in towns and villages and the same was almost certainly true of many other peoples occupying the Saharan oasis depressions. At the peak of their power, the Garamantes constituted an early Saharan state. Yet the perspective of the ancient compilers distorted the truth through the selection of information that seemed to fit their preferred model of pastoral barbarians, living in tents or huts, in loosely structured small-scale tribal communities. Such views were enthusiastically embraced during the period of modern colonial rule in the Maghreb and have underpinned research agendas that have prioritized the role of colonists from outside the Maghreb in stimulating social evolution (Mattingly, 2011a: 45–53, 2016). Recent archaeological discoveries are starting to change this situation, but knowledge of early Iron Age societies in Africa lags far behind the state of research on this era in Europe or in Asia (as is evident in Broodbank, 2013).



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The reality on the ground in the first millennium bce was undoubtedly much more dynamic. To the extent that some of the peoples were organized in tribal structures, we need to recognize the likelihood that these followed similar segmentary lineage patterns to later Maghrebian and Saharan societies. The ethnic terms we encounter in the Classical writers vary in part because different sources of information provided names at different levels of the segmentary hierarchy (Mattingly, 1995: 17–37). For instance, it is clear that the pre-desert peoples of Tripolitania were often described as a group as Gaetuli, but with regionally specific names for many smaller population groups also mentioned by the sources (Cidamensi, Cinithi, Nybgenii, and so on). Some of the higher level ethnic terms may have been latent more than meaningful confederations – only called into being at brief moments of concerted resistance to the Roman conquest for example. Close examination of the admittedly sparse archaeological evidence for these peoples suggests that these were not simply nomads leading a timeless and unchanging existence in the desert margins. Many of the Gaetuli groups identifiable in the ancient sources can be associated with oasis clusters, so appear to have already been agro-pastoral societies at the time of the first contact with Rome. The supposed causal linkage between the origins of agriculture and urbanism and the steps towards state formation in the western Maghreb and Phoenician/Carthaginian initiatives has now been broken, though we still need to recognize, of course, the added complexities introduced by external groups to processes that were already afoot. Several distinct scenarios seem to have been in play. Some of the coastal peoples came into close contact with small trading or settler groups of Phoenician or Greek origin, leading to intermarriage and the emergence of Libyphoenician and Libyco-Greek communities. More inland peoples have generally been assumed, on the authority of the ancient written sources, to have been primitive pastoral/nomadic societies, with impermanent settlements and a vestigial material culture. As we have seen, archaeology has revealed a more complex situation, with dramatically earlier evolution of a range of social markers of more advanced societies. For instance, the peoples of northern Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco became increasingly sedentary, agricultural, and urban- or village-dwelling during the first half of the first millennium bce (Kallala and Sanmartí, 2011; Sanmartí et al., 2012). This process culminated with the rise of the Numidian and Mauretanian kingdoms in the latter centuries bce (see western Maghreb). There are now indications that the desert peoples of southern Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya were on similar trajectories of development as their northern and western neighbors in the Mediterranean parts of North Africa (see, in particular, the survey chapters covering the northern Sahara in Sterry and Mattingly, 2020: 1–276). There are several distinct Libyan alphabets now known, suggesting regionalized dialects and traditions, and Libyan inscriptions are attested from the mid-first millennium bce to post-Roman times. The variation in the alphabets would seem to indicate that literacy did not spread from a single point of contact (Carthage-Numidian relations, say), but that separate evolution occurred in Tripolitania, Numidia, and the Sahara, reflecting local choices and aspirations. Again the evolution of written forms of communication is an indicator of potentially complex administrative and commercial transactions in these societies. Advances in the study of Neolithic (Pastoral era) communities in the Sahara and their rock art have suggested some lines of development between the Neolithic hunting and herding communities and the peoples encountered by Rome in the same areas. The final Pastoral phases (third– second millennium bce) followed the climatic downturn of c. 3000 bce, with minimal rainfall thereafter leading to progressive dessication of the Sahara and decline in surface water sources. The combined evidence of funerary monuments and burial practices, rock art, Egyptian representations of Libyans, and limited information on their material culture suggests a society in transition. There are close parallels with the Libyans depicted on Pharonic reliefs, captives of war who originated from the peoples and oasis communities in the Western Desert. These characters in both Egyptian and Saharan reliefs feature ostrich-feather plumes, distinctive hairstyles, penis sheaves, tattooed bodies, and belted tunics (Bates, 1914: 137–141). The rock art of the late Pastoral phase shows an increasing fascination with fertility and with theophoric imagery. Animal-headed figures feature prominently, some clearly masked humans perhaps involved in ritual dance or action, others apparently supernatural (Lutz and Lutz, 1995). The parallels between this imagery and the religious

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panoply of ancient Egypt – the latter clearly influenced profoundly by the desert communities bordering the Nile valley – are surely significant. The significance of cattle rituals appears to have increased (di Lernia et al., 2013). Ritual and magic eventually transcended to religion. Burial monuments became increasingly more elaborate in the last millennia bce, with greater social differentiation apparent (di Lernia and Manzi, 2002). The Garamantes aside, the archaeology of the Libyan desert still remains underdeveloped and heavily biased towards funerary monuments, but the most interesting sites are potentially the oasis-related ones that in many cases developed Proto-Urban or urban characteristics (Mattingly and MacDonald, 2013 on African forms of urbanization). The oases of the Western Egyptian Desert were in existence by the second millennium bce and there is now clear evidence that oasis agriculture was also established at numerous central Saharan locations by the early first millennium ce (Mattingly, 2016). This suggests that the proto-historic period was a crucial one for the early development of rank societies in the Sahara, linked to oasis agriculture and with an array of associated societal changes (cf. the parallels discussed for Western Eurasia discussed by Flannery and Marcus, 2012; Broodbank, 2013). Several related themes are significant here: the migration of people; the diffusion of the horse and chariot; the spread of oasis cultivation (with the concomitant spread of a package of crops and knowledge of irrigation technologies); the emergence of hierarchy and inequality; the development of village and urban communities. There is a continuing debate about the origin of the Libyan peoples commonly known as Berbers, with the migration of groups from the eastern Sahara still favoured by many. There are certainly some indications that dark-skinned Saharan peoples of the Pastoral period were supplanted or supplemented by Berbers. However, until we have many more detailed osteological and isotopic studies of Saharan populations, with appropriate chronological controls, the arguments are far from conclusive (Mattingly, 2010: 375–408; Mori, 2013: 319–367). The introduction of chariots (attested by over 650 depictions in Saharan rock art) may be a proxy indication of a process of Berber migration, though arguably relating not to the first spread of the Berbers, but rather the emergence of an elite in the first millennium bce (Camps, 1989; Gauthier and Gauthier, 2011). It also links with the dispersion of the horse. Representations of wheeled vehicles, normally drawn by a pair of horses, are extremely common in the Sahara and they probably passed east to west along the chain of oases running west from the Nile. Many examples show chariots pulled by horses at full gallop, but there are a smaller number of examples of chariots at rest or being harnessed. The general consensus is that horse and chariot alike were innovations of the early first millennium bce. There was also a fundamental change in armaments in this period. The bowmen of the Pastoral period give way in the rock art to images of spearmen in the Horse phase, with metal-tipped weapons appearing in the later stages. The interpretation of the role of chariots in desert society is far more controversial, with widely ranging views, though much of the debate has ignored a distinct peculiarity of the data. The people who we might expect to have been responsible for the diffusion of horse and chariot from oasis to oasis were the oasis dwellers, developing agriculture and trade routes with the help of the horse in particular. However, the vast majority of images are found away from oases in the rock shelters of traditional pastoralists. It has been argued that they represent the rise of an “aristocracy” among the desert communities and the emergence of an increased social hierarchy (Mattingly, 2003: 345–346). Ceremonial use is certainly a possible explanation for some of the images. On the other hand, a reference in Herodotus (4.183) to the Garamantes hunting Ethiopians in chariots has often been taken as evidence that these were also vehicles of war, and that their distribution to some extent reflects the range of Garamantian activity. However, the idea of a Garamantian “chariot route” connected with trade has long since been discredited because of the existence of large tracts of unsuitable terrain between areas of chariot depictions. Yet, one of the attractions of the chariot over a cart is that it can be disassembled and transported on horseback across soft sand or stony ground and then reassembled. That would be helpful to raiding parties, but rules out any use in



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trade. The wide distribution of the images and their division into three broad zones (central Sahara, western Sahara, and Atlas) suggest that we are witnessing a broader trend in Saharan society at this time, not something limited to the Garamantes and their immediate neighbors (Gauthier and Gauthier, 2011). An interesting aspect of the distribution is that many representations come from areas of the Central massifs of the Sahara (Tassili and Akakus in particular) that were unsuitable for chariots, while comparatively few representations have come from the Garamantian heartlands. One possibility is that many of the images were created not by the owners of such vehicles but by pastoral groups who were increasingly coming into contact with (and had reasons to fear) the oasis-based communities who had adopted horses and chariots. This fits with the context of much of the rock art, on the walls of rough rock shelters traditionally used by pastoral groups. Perhaps they were intended to have an apotropaic effect against the consequences of encountering horsemen and chariot parties when crossing regions where chariots could be deployed to devastating effect in slaving raids. The proto-historic period in the central Sahara was thus marked by the arrival of new people and new technology, transforming the lifestyle of the existing inhabitants in the emerging oasis depressions. Images of date palms appear alongside the horse in the rock art images. The Garamantian civilization arose out of this new situation, marking a distinctive and significant phase in the cultural evolution of the Saharan region. Archaeobotanical evidence confirms that oasis agriculture was well established in their heartlands in the first half of the first millennium bce and their settlements achieved Proto-Urban status around the same time. By the latter centuries bce, there were many village settlements in the Garamantian oasis zones and this same pattern is now thought likely to have recurred in neighboring areas of the Sahara in pre-Islamic times. The Garamantes probably comprised a confederation of peoples, united under the rule of kings by the early centuries ce. Skeletal studies, albeit of a small sample of burials, confirm that the Garamantes comprised a mix of ethnic types, including Berbers (Mediterranean African), Black Africans, and others of combined Berber/Black African traits (Pace et al., 1951: 443–542; di Lernia and Manzi, 2002: 217–250; Mattingly, 2010: 404–406; Gatto et al., 2019: 148–156, 168–172). Finally, at the other end of the Garamantian era, there are signs of further changes among the Saharan societies. The decline of the Garamantian kingdom was both an ending and a beginning in the sense that new power structures arose. Fentress and Wilson (2016) have recently argued for a significant new phase of Saharan migration, over-running the Roman frontier and seeing the establishment of new Berber kingdoms along the old Roman frontier zone. It is possible that there was a shift in late antiquity in the power relations of sedentary and mobile elements of the desert peoples, perhaps linked to a rising importance of the camel in desert travel at this time. The increased emphasis on security at Garamantian settlements suggests that sedentary populations needed to pay more careful attention to defence at this time. Previous diplomatic and trading relations seem to have given way to conflict. The large populations that could be sustained in combined oasis/pastoral societies posed a serious threat to Roman Africa when its frontier arrangements broke down in late antiquity. The story of the Garamantes can now be fairly richly illustrated in comparison to most of the other indigenous peoples of ancient North Africa. To what extent were they representative or exceptional of the 516 populi known to Pliny? I would say that they are typical of many other peoples in their evolution as an agro-pastoral people with sedentary nucleated settlements from the first millennium bce and a growing level of hierarchy. Their status as an early Saharan polity, based around an intensive oasis agriculture, manufacturing, and trade, places them at the extreme end of a spectrum of development that encompassed many other groups exhibiting similar traits, but to a lesser degree or with some time lag. My most recent work in Morocco, south of the Atlas mountains and again well outside the Roman frontier, is revealing just such an example of parallel socioeconomic development of a desert community (Mattingly, Bokbot et al., 2017). The study of such societies is intrinsically important if we are to achieve a more rounded appreciation of Africa in the Roman Empire.

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FURTHER READING There is now a substantial amount of material available in English on the Garamantes, much of it collated here in the references section. While the slim book by Daniels (1970) remains useful, the series of volumes in the Archaeology of Fazzan series (Mattingly, 2003, 2007, 2010, 2013a) are now a fundamental starting point, supplemented by the results of the parallel Italian work on the Garamantes (Liverani, 2006; Mori, 2013). A new series of books on Trans-Saharan Archaeology attempts to contextualize the new knowledge of the Garamantes in its broader setting (see Duckworth et al., 2020; Gatto et al., 2019; Mattingly, Leitch et al., 2017; Sterry and Mattingly, 2020). In a similar manner, the chapter by Mattingly (2016) draws substantially on the Garamantian evidence to pose a challenge to established views on the origins of urbanization and agricuture in Roman Africa.

REFERENCES Austen, R.A. 2010. Trans-Saharan Africa in World History. Oxford. Bates, O. 1914. The Eastern Libyans. London. Bovill, E.W. 1968. The Golden Trade of the Moors. Oxford. Brett, M. 2006. “Libya and the Sahara in the history of Africa.” In The Libyan Desert: Natural Resources and Cultural Heritage, eds, D.J. Mattingly et al., 271–287. London Brett, M., and Fentress, E. 1996. The Berbers. Oxford. Broodbank, C. 2013. The Making of the Middle Sea. A History of the Mediterranean from the Beginning to the Emergence of the Classical World. London. Camps, G. 1961. Aux origins de la berbérie. Monuments et rites funéraires protohistoriques. Paris. Camps, G. 1980. Berbères. Aux marges de l’histoire. Toulouse. Camps, G. 1989. “Les chars sahariens. Images d’une societé aristocratique.” AntAf 25: 11–40. Daniels, C.M. 1968. “Garamantian excavations: Zinchecra 1965–67.” LibAnt 5: 113–194. Daniels, C.M. 1970. The Garamantes of Southern Libya. London. Daniels, C.M. 1989. “Excavation and fieldwork amongst the Garamantes.” LibStud 20: 45–61. Desanges, J. 1962. Catalogue des tribus africaines de l’antiquité classique à l’ouest du Nil. Dakar. Desanges, J. 1980. (Pline l’ancien) Histoire naturelle Livre V. 1–46 (L’Afrique du nord). Paris. di Lernia, S., and Manzi, G., eds. 2002. Sands, Stones and Bones. The Archaeology of Death in the Wadi Tanezzuft Valley (5000–2000 BP). Firenze. di Lernia, S., Tafuri, M.A., Gallinaro, M., Alhaique, F., Balasse, M., et al. 2013. “Inside the ‘African cattle complex’: Animal burials in the Holocene Central Sahara.” PLoS ONE 8.2: e56879. doi:10.1371/journal. pone.0056879. Duckworth, C., Cuénod, A., and Mattingly, D.J., eds. 2020. Mobile Technologies in the Ancient Sahara and Beyond. Trans-Saharan Archaeology. Volume 4. Cambridge. Fenn, T.R., Killick, D.J., Chesley, J., Magnavita, S., and Ruiz, J. 2009. “Contacts between West Africa and Roman North Africa: Archaeometallurgical results from Kissi, Northeastern Burkina Faso.” In Cultural and Technological Developments in First Millennium BC/AD West Africa, eds. S. Magnavita, L. Koté, P. Breunig, and O.A. Idé, 119–146. Frankfurt am Main Fentress, E. 2011. “Slavers on chariots.” In Money, Trade and Trade Routes in Pre-Islamic North Africa, eds. A. Dowler and E.R. Galvin, 64–71. London Fentress, E., and Wilson, A. 2016. “The Saharan Berber diaspora and the Southern frontiers of Byzantine North Africa.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds. S.T. Stevens and J.P.Conant, 41–63. Dumbarton Oaks Byzantine Symposia and Colloquia 7. Washington, DC Flannery, K., and Marcus, J. 2012. The Creation of Inequality. How our Prehistoric Ancestors Set the Stage for Monarchy, Slavery and Empire. Cambridge, MA. Garrard, T.F. 1982. “Myth and metrology: The early Trans-Saharan gold trade.” Journal of African History 23.4: 443–461. Gatto, M.C., Mattingly, D.J., Ray, N., and Sterry, M., eds. 2019. Burials, Migration and Identity in the Ancient Sahara and Beyond. Trans-Saharan Archaeology. Volume 2. Cambridge.



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Gauthier, Y., and Gauthier, C. 2011. “Des chars et des Tifinagh: étude aréale et corrélations.” Les Cahiers de l’AARS 15: 91–118. Gsell, S. 1918/1929. Histoire ancienne de l’Afrique du nord. 8 volumes. Paris. Hachid, M. 2000. Les premieres Berbères. Entre Méditerannée, Tassili et Nil. Aix-en-Provence. Kallala, N., and Sanmartí, J., eds. 2011. Althiburos I. La fouille dans l’aire du capitole et la nécropole méridionale. Taragona. Law, R.C.C. 1967. “The Garamantes and Trans-Saharan enterprise in Classical times.” JAfH 8.2: 181–200. Liverani, M. 2000. “The Libyan caravan road in Herodotus IV. 181–184.” JESHO 43.4: 496–520. Liverani, M., ed. 2006. Aghram Nadarif. A Garamantian Citadel in the Wadi Tannezzuft. Florence. Lutz, R., and Lutz, G. 1995. The Secret of the Desert. The Rock Art of the Messak Sattafet and Messak Mellett, Libya. Insbruck. MacDonald, K.C. 2011. “A view from the South. Sub-Saharan evidence for contacts between North Africa, Mauritania and the Niger 1000 BC–AD 700.” In Money, Trade and Trade Routes in Pre-Islamic North Africa, eds. A. Dowler and E.R. Galvin, 72–82. London Magnavita, C. 2003. “The beads of Kissi, Burkina Faso.” JAfA 1: 127–138. Magnavita, S. 2009. “Sahelian crossroads: Some aspects on the Iron Age sites of Kissi, Burkina Faso.” In Cultural and Technological Developments in First Millennium BC/AD West Africa, eds. S. Magnavita, L. Koté, P. Breunig, and O.A. Idé, 79–104. Frankfurt am Main Magnavita, S. 2014. 1500 Jahre am Mare de Kissi. Eine Fallstudie zur Besiedlungsgeschichte des Sahel von Burkina Faso. Frankfurt: Africa Magna. Mattingly, D.J. 1995. Tripolitania. London. Mattingly, D.J., ed. 2003. The Archaeology of Fazzan. Volume 1, Synthesis. London. Mattingly, D.J. 2006. “The Garamantes: The First Libyan state.” In The Libyan Desert: Natural Resources and Cultural Heritage, eds, D.J. Mattingly et al., 189–206. London Mattingly, D.J., ed. 2007. The Archaeology of Fazzan. Volume 2, Site Gazetteer, Pottery and other Survey Finds. London. Mattingly, D.J., ed. 2010. The Archaeology of Fazzan. Volume 3, Excavations Carried out by C. M. Daniels. London. Mattingly, D.J. 2011a. Imperialism, Power and Identity: Experiencing the Roman Empire. Princeton. Mattingly, D.J. 2011b. “The Garamantes of Fazzan: An Early Libyan state with Trans-Saharan connections.” In Money, Trade and Trade Routes in Pre-Islamic North Africa, eds. A. Dowler and E.R. Galvin, 49–60. London Mattingly, D.J., ed. 2013a. The Archaeology of Fazzan. Volume 4, Survey and Excavations at Old Jarma (Ancient Garama) Carried Out by C. M. Daniels (1962–69) and the Fazzãn Project (1997–2001). London. Mattingly, D.J. 2013b. “To South and North: Saharan trade in antiquity.” In Living and Working in the Roman World, eds. H. Eckardt and S. Rippon, 169–190. Portsmouth, RI Mattingly, D.J. 2016. “Who shaped Africa? The origins of agriculture and urbanism in Maghreb and Sahara.” In De Africa Romaque. Merging Cultures across North Africa, eds. N. Mugnai, J. Nikolaus, and N. Ray, 11–25. London Mattingly, D.J., Bokbot, Y., Sterry, M., Cuénod, A., Fenwick, C., Gatto, M., Ray, N., Rayne, L., Janin, K., Lamb, A., Mugnai, N., and Nikolaus, J. 2017. “Long-term history in a Moroccan oasis zone: The Middle Draa Project 2015.” JAfA 15: 141–172. Mattingly, D.J., and Hitchner, R.B. 1995. “Roman Africa: An archaeological review.” JRS 85: 165–213. Mattingly, D.J., Leitch, V., Duckworth, C.N., Cuénod, A., Sterry, M., and Cole, F., eds. 2017. Trade in the Ancient Sahara and Beyond. Cambridge. Mattingly, D.J., and MacDonald, K.C. 2013. “Africa.” In Oxford Handbook of Cities in World History, ed. P. Clark, 66–82. Oxford Mattingly, D.J., and Sterry, M. 2013. “The first towns in the Central Sahara.” Antiquity 87.366: 503–518. Mattingly, D.J., Sterry, M., and Edwards, D. 2015. “The origins and development of Zuwīla, Libyan Sahara: An archaeological and historical overview.” Azania 50.1: 27–75. Mauny, R. 1978. “Trans-Saharan contacts and the Iron Age in West Africa.” In The Cambridge History of Africa II, ed. J. Fage, 272–341. Cambridge McIntosh, S. 1999. Beyond Chiefdoms: Pathways to Complexity in Africa. Cambridge. Merlo, S., Hackenbeck, S., and Balbo, A.L. 2013. “Desert Migrations Project XVIII: The archaeology of the Northern Fazzan: A preliminary report.” LibStud 44: 141–161.

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Merlo, S., Hakenbeck, S.E., and Balbo, A. 2008. “DMP IV: 2008 fieldwork on historic settlement in the Wādī ash-Shāṭī and the Dawada Lake villages.” LibStud 39: 295–298. Mitchell, P.J. 2005. African Connections: Archaeological Perspectives on Africa and the Wider World. Walnut Creek. Mori, L., ed. 2013. The Archaeological Investigation in the Oasis of Fewet. Life and Death of a Rural Village in Garamantian Times. Firenze. Pace, B., Sergi, S., and Caputo, G. 1951. “Scavi sahariani.” MonAnt 41: 150–549. Sanmartí, J., Kallala, N., Belarte, M.C., Ramon, J., Telmini, B.M., Jornet, R., and Miniaoui, S. 2012. “Filling gaps in the protohistory of the Eastern Maghreb: The Althiburos Archaeological Project (el Kef, Tunisia).” JAfA 10.1: 21–44. Scheele, J. 2010. “Traders, saints and irrigation: Reflections on Saharan connectivity.” JAfH 51: 281–300. Schörle, K. 2012. “Saharan trade in Classical Antiquity.” In Navigating the Sahara: Frontiers of Mobility in Northwest Africa, eds. J. Scheele and j. McDougall, 58–72. Bloomington Sterry, M., and Mattingly, D.J. 2011. “DMP XIII: Reconnaissance survey of archaeological sites in the Murzuq area.” LibStud 42: 89–116. Sterry, M., and Mattingly, D.J. 2013. “Desert Migrations Project XVII: Further AMS dates for historic settlements from Fazzan, South-West Libya.” LibStud 44: 127–140. Sterry, M., and Mattingly, D.J., eds. 2020. Urbanisation and State Formation in the Ancient Sahara and Beyond. Cambridge. Sterry, M., Mattingly, D.J., and Higham, T. 2012. “Desert Migrations Project XVI: Radiocarbon dates from the Murzuq Region, Southern Libya.” LibStud 43: 137–147. Swanson, J.T. 1975. “The Myth of Trans-Saharan trade during the Roman era.” IJAfHS 8: 582–600. Talbert, R., ed. 2000. Barrington Atlas of the Greek and Roman World. Princeton. Thiry, J. 1995. Le Sahara libyen dans l’Afrique du nord medievale. Leuven. Wilson, A.I. 2006. “The spread of Foggara-based irrigation in the Ancient Sahara.” In The Libyan Desert: Natural Resources and Cultural Heritage, eds, D.J. Mattingly et al., 212–224. London Wilson, A.I. 2012. “Saharan trade in the Roman Period: Short-, medium- and long-distance trade networks.” Azania 47.4: 409–449.

CHAPTER 6

Punic Carthage Iván Fumadó Ortega 1

The City-State and Its Ancient Sources The city of Carthage was the most important Phoenician foundation in the Mediterranean. It developed an institutional, military, commercial, and cultural system that made it a powerful regional player during the central centuries of the first millennium bce. The city’s government system was praised by Aristotle itself (Pol. 2.1272b–2.1273a). Punic Carthage was the first Western city to implement an orthogonal urban plan, and perhaps the first to establish a Mediterranean overseas province (the Sicilian epikrateia, see later). It also facilitated the cultural koine that we call Hellenistic in the Maghreb, Sardinia, the Iberian Peninsula, and the Balearic Islands. In doing so, Carthage provided Rome with many of the resources needed to build an empire. After its destruction, Carthage and its most famous figure, Hannibal, occupied an important space in the collective Roman imagination and in the history of Western culture ever since (Hottot, 1995; Russo et al., 2019). This fascinating history constitutes an important chapter in the emergence and consolidation of the ancient city in the West-Central Mediterranean. However, it has been less studied than Greece and Rome. Among other historical and cultural factors, this is due to a much smaller corpus of ancient sources, relatively speaking. This has led to the belief among some scholars that most hypotheses related to the evolution and development of Phoenician-Punic societies cannot be fully recovered. Moreover, virtually all the ancient sources on Carthage are indirect, late, and transmitted through Rome, its rival and destroyer. Thus, modern historiography has traditionally been dominated by pro-Roman and anti-Carthaginian perspectives, which carried over into colonial historiography produced by historians and archaeologists from the industrialized nations who extended their dominance over the Maghreb during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. These approaches have been analyzed and deconstructed since the end of the last century, but their effects on today’s academic agendas are difficult to reverse (e.g., Camous, 2007; Fumadó Ortega, 2013a). The bulk of the ancient sources on Punic Carthage are in Latin or by Greek authors within the political and cultural orbit of the Late Roman Republic or Empire. The Carthaginian libraries were sacked and destroyed in 146 bce (Sznycer, 1968), and part of their content was given by Scipio to his Numidian allies as war booty (Sall. Iug. 17; Plin. NH. 18.22–23). Only Mago’s work, an encyclopedic treaty on agronomy, highly valued by the Romans (Colum. 1.1.13; Var. RR. 1.1.10), was preserved and translated into Latin and Greek (Heurgon, 1976).

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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Not surprisingly, therefore, most of the classical sources on Carthage focus on its relations with Rome. Ancient literature on the Punic Wars (264–146 bce), for example, produced a modern over-emphasis on this episode in Carthage’s history by comparison with others that were equally fundamental for the Punic city (e.g., the dynamic relations with Tyre, the struggle for control of Sicily and Sardinia, the establishment of its institutions) but attract less attention because Rome did not play a relevant role. Furthermore, with the exception of the Histories of Polybius, there is a gap of several centuries between the events narrated and the accounts of them in other sources, namely Diodorus of Sicily, Sallust, Livy, Appian, Justin, and Orosius. By contrast, authors who were direct witnesses of the Punic Wars, such as Philinus of Agrigentum, Fabius Pictor, Sosylus of Lacaedemon, or Silenus Calatinus survive only in fragments, if at all. On the other hand, the references to Carthage in Greek authors pre-dating or uninfluenced by Roman engagement against Carthage, such as Aristotle, Thucydides, Plato, Herodotus, or Isagoras, suggest a much more positive perception, sometimes bordering on admiration (Barceló, 1994). Although highly significant, this evidence has attracted less attention because it is brief and anecdotal. In addition to these classical sources, there is a Phoenician epigraphic corpus, which consists of some 10,000 inscriptions, 80% of which come from Carthage itself, mostly from the so-called Tophet. The repetitive ritual formulations, common in religious contexts, have not much excited many researchers despite the fact that this corpus provides an endogenous, direct, and unique look at the symbolic universe and prosopography of Carthaginian society, so far explored only through classical sources (Geus, 1994; Ruíz Cabrero, 2008). The integration of this textual information with the growing volume of archaeological data allows new insights into the history of the only city-state that came near to vanquishing Rome. This task involves an increasing volume of archaeometric analysis alongside traditional comparison and analogy between material culture and historical processes in Punic Carthage and in the Levantine world, in Greek Sicily, and in the rest of the ancient Mediterranean of the first millennium bce.

The Archaeological Activity in the Site The Punic city covered little more than 100 ha, smaller than the 300 ha of the Roman city in Late Antiquity. Declared a UNESCO World Heritage in 1979, the site of Carthage is located in the extreme southeast of the Carthaginian peninsula, about 13  km northeast of the city-center of Tunis, the capital of the current Republic of Tunisia (Figure 6.1). The peninsula, about 30 km2, was connected to the rest of the African continent by a low-lying isthmus of Holocene formation, about 9 km long and a current width of c. 5.5 km (4.6 km according to Appian Pun. 95). To the north and south of the isthmus there are two large brackish lagoons that diversified the hunting, fishing, and mineral resources available to the Carthaginian population, multiplying the points of connection between the ancient city and the sea (see de Vos Raajimakers, Chapter 12). The current landscape and coastlines must have been significantly different three millennia ago (Oueslati, 1993). Changes include a rise in sea level, of ± 50 cm, the reduction and closure of the lagoons, and the widening of the isthmus. The progressive urbanization that the whole area has undergone over the last century, and especially in the last decade, has also meant a general topographic transformation that makes it difficult to reconstruct the ancient landscape. Contemporary Carthage has taken on a new life in modern Tunisian society that has inevitably encumbered archaeological research (Altekamp and Krechen, 2013). Since the beginning of the nineteenth century, the site has been the subject of several archaeological interventions (Fumadó Ortega, 2009; Freed, 2011; Docter et al., 2015). Some managed to bore through the later medieval and Roman levels, but it was not until the implementation of stratigraphic techniques, in the early twentieth century, that the Punic levels were identified and



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Figure 6.1  Carthaginian peninsula and pre-Roman sites in geographical context. Author’s plan.

Figure 6.2  The site of ancient Carthage and its main features. Roman cadaster in light gray, Punic urban layout in dark gray. Author’s plan.

recorded as such. The poorer conservation and more modest monumentality of the Punic city by comparison with the Roman through Byzantine periods (Figure 6.2) limited study of the ­pre-Romen phases to the n ­ ecropolises and of one of the main sanctuaries, dedicated to Baal Hammon, the so-called Tophet (see later). A dramatic increase in the quantity and quality of archaeological data on all periods of Carthage’s history was obtained thanks to the UNESCO International Campaign (1974–1986). Several teams from a dozen countries participated in this campaign, spread over various sectors, covering all periods (Ennabli, 1992). Among the results relating to the Punic phase, the French excavations in the Quartier Hannibal (Lancel, 1979, 1982), the British in the military harbor (Hurst and Roskams 1984; Hurst, 1994), and those of the Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts (DAI) in Rome in the so-called Quartier Magon and Quartier Didon (Rakob, 1991, 1997, 1999) stand out,

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to mention only the most relevant ones. In subsequent years, further excavations bearing on Punic Carthage were carried out by the University of Hamburg (Niemeyer et al., 2007), the University of Ghent (Docter et al., 2003, 2006), both on residential quarters, the DAI in Rome (Bockmann et al., 2018; Flügel et al., forthcoming) in the Quartier Didon and in the Circus, and those of the Tunisian Institut National du Patrimoine between the Circus and the Amphitheatre (Chelbi, 2013), as well as in the sanctuary of Baal Hammon (now in progress under the direction of I. Ben Jerbania). The publication of these projects is notable because they provide a sound documental basis (good stratigraphic detail, exhaustive ceramic studies, and archaeometric analysis of plants, bones, and mineral remains) for future research, and for the integration of the Carthaginian record within comparative studies of the ancient Mediterranean areas, which up until recently had largely overlooked Carthage and North Africa in the first millennium bce.

The Phoenician Diaspora and the Foundation of Carthage Virgil selected for his Aeneid one of the myths on the birth of Carthage, that of Princess Elyssa/ Dido. This myth originated in Tyre, one of the main Phoenician city-states on the Levantine coast and founder of the Punic city. In the mythological account, a palatial conspiracy compelled the princess to escape together with some of the city’s nobility with the treasure from the city’s main sanctuary. After a stop in Cyprus, the Tyrians reached the African coast where, following difficult negotiations with the local population, they obtained permission to found a new city. This is precisely what the Phoenician term Qrt ḥdšt means (“new town”), from which the Latin Karthago and the English Carthage originate. There were probably more such foundation myths tied to competitions for political power, status, and prestige among later Punic aristocratic families (that of Zoros and Karchedon, two lesser known founders, for example, (App. Pun. 1)), but all the myths that have survived in Hellenistic and Roman sources associate Tyrians with the founding of Carthage, in the late ninth century bce, with a canonical date of 814 bce (Bunnens, 1979). Exploiting their long engagement in maritime trade, the Levantine coastal cities profited from the relative weakness of both the Assyrian emperors and Egyptian pharaohs between the twelfth and ninth centuries bce to develop relatively independent urban monarchies. Between the tenth and seventh centuries bce, these cities established a network of coastal settlements on all the large Mediterranean islands and in the Maghreb as far as Morocco and the Iberian Peninsula, disseminating over time Phoenician material culture, language, and thought and fostering, in tandem with local cultures, a heterogeneous Mediterranean culture that we call the Phoenician-Punic World (see Further Reading). Archaeology has confirmed the early dates of these foundations through Carbon 14 in the deepest strata of Phoenician sites, e.g., Huelva (934–826 cal. bce), El Carambolo (Seville) (944–843 cal. bce), Morro de Mezquitilla (Málaga) (932–831 cal. bce), La Rebanadilla (Málaga) (971–936 cal. bce), and Utica (981–903 cal. bce) (López Castro et al., 2016: 82–83 with bibliography). Carthage appears, however, to belong to a second wave of Tyrian foundations dated to the very end of the ninth century bce (Docter et al., 2008; Aubet Semmler, 2019; Flügel et al., 2021). If this node was planned from the start as a special, more influential, one, remains an open question (for this view see Maraoui-Telmini et al., 2014: 142–146; contra, see Gras et al., 1991: 217–226; Alvar Ezquerra and González Wagner, 1985). Archaeological excavations have so far indicated that the oldest domestic layers found in Carthage belong to the second quarter of the eighth century bce. Excavations at the earliest necropolis recorded to date, Bir Massouda, has yielded incinerations in secondary deposition belonging to the end of the eighth century bce (Docter et al., 2006). The oldest archaeologically confirmed cultic activity comes from the Baal Hammon sanctuary, the so-called Tophet, which dates to the second half of the eighth century bce, although this level seems to cover previous architectural structures of an indeterminate nature (Briese, 1998; Orsingher, 2018).



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The term Tophet (ptp) appears in the Bible as the place on the periphery of Jerusalem where children are said to have been burned in the fire (śrp bʾš in Jeremiah 7:30–34; 19:5–15; 2 Re 17:31; Deut. 12:29–31) or passed through the fire (hʿbyr bʾš in Jeremiah 32:34–35; 2 Re 16:3–4; 21:6; 23:10; Deut. 18:9–12). Archaeologists have attributed this term to a particular type of open-air sanctuary that appears in some Phoenician sites in the central Mediterranean, the best known of which is Carthage. In this space, a ritual dedicated to the Phoenician deity Baal Hammon, and from the fifth century bce onward, to Tinnit as well, was conducted (Xella, 1991; Garbati, 2013). The main offering in the ritual were foetuses, new-borns, and children (sometimes replaced by goats or birds). These remains, after being cremated, were buried in urns whose secondary and final location is usually indicated by a stelae. Scholars still debate whether this ritual involved infanticide, as some classical anti-Carthaginian sources have stated (e.g., Clitarch. FHG 2 B 137; Diod. Sic. 20.14; Sil. pun. 4.765–769), or not (cf. Bénichou-Safar, 2004; Xella, 2013; D’Andrea, 2014; McCarty, Chapter 16). Overall, the volume of archaeological evidence for eighth century bce Carthage is modest. At the same time, the surviving record suggests that Carthage was born integrated into the long-distance commercial circuits linking Tyre, Cyprus, Corinth, Sardinia, and the Lower Guadalquivir (Maraoui-Telmini et al., 2014: 131–133 with bibliography). The occupied area of the settlement, extending some 2 km from the sanctuary of Baal Hammon to the south and the necropolis to the north. Although not densely built up, an inhabited area of up to 10 ha plus the peripheral cemeteries, sanctuaries, workshops, kilns, and docks made the early Punic city a community of some significance (Fumadó Ortega, 2013b).

Carthaginian Urban Development Although the architectural remains found in Carthage did not achieve the monumentality of other Hellenistic capitals, the originality of the city’s urban planning solutions and the combination of a practical urban morphology and efficient management of soil uses make it a good case study of the emergence and expansion of urbanism in the ancient Mediterranean (Fumadó Ortega, 2010). Excavations conducted by the University of Hamburg under the crossing of the decumanus maximus with the eastern kardo X have found evidence of a per strigas organization of urban space at levels dated to between 740 and 725 bce (Niemeyer et al., 2007: 63–67). This technique, already in use during the Bronze Age (at Enkomi or El-Amarna, among other sites) was well known in the Levant (Fumadó Ortega, 2013c: 255–264 with bibliography). The Tyrian oikistès were the first to export it to the central Mediterranean, Carthage being the oldest archaeologically documented example so far (Fumadó Ortega, 2013c: 251–255 and 274–277). The technique consists in designing a few main and parallel alleys, probably following the best slope for water runoff with multiple, narrower, and more or less perpendicular backstreets. In this way, pseudorectangular areas of built-up urban soil are defined and ready to use as individual plots intended for each settler. Greek colonies, despite the historiographical emphasis on the originality of their urban morphology, adopted this old Eastern solution, developing it and improving it in cities such as Mégara Hyblaia, Selinunte, Himera, or Posidonia. In Carthage this homogeneous urban orientation is set at 45º, with few variations (Fumadó Ortega, 2016a). It has been identified by some 20 excavations throughout the city and its immediate periphery (Figure 6.3). In one of them (under the crossing of the decumanus maximus with the eastern kardo X, hunderd meters west of Quartier Didon), nine Punic houses were found, showing an uninterrupted archaeological sequence that stretched from the mid-eighth century down to 146 bce. The urban plots assigned in archaic times for each housing unit did not exceed 100 m2 and were basically respected until the Roman conquest (Niemeyer et al., 2007: 175–216). This allows us to establish a complete building biography of a Carthaginian neighborhood: the original plots, at first scarcely built, become after centuries and generations saturated with

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Figure 6.3  Locations of archaeologically identified Punic structures. Figures in black are dated between the eight and fourth centuries bce, gray ones thereafter. Dots indicate structures following an archaic orientation (± 45º), squares, a Magonid/Roman orientation (30º), and triangles, various orientations. Author’s plan.

constructions, some of them with stories. Some houses were subdivided into two halves while others were enlarged at the cost of absorbing part of the neighboring plots. Others were reduced at a later stage, returning to their original limits. This development points to the existence of a communal endeavor from the mid-eighth century bce to determine the conditions of coexistence, project future development, and to bend the will of disappointed individuals. The elongated blocks and narrow alleys of the archaic period were probably protected by some defensive system (a moat, a palisade, a wall, or a combination of these elements depending on the terrain conditions). A solid rampart composed by two parallel walls connected by masonry struts and a bastion dated in the seventh century bce were recorded at the Bir Massouda excavation (Docter et al., 2006: 39–43). The wall, that probably extended downhill from the Byrsa to the beach, protected the southern limit of the city. The core habitat was surrounded by cemeteries on the slopes of the surrounding hills to the west and north, whereas the eastern shoreline of the city was an industrial zone dedicated mainly to metalwork, ceramics, and murex manufacture (Fumadó Ortega, 2013c: 251–303 with bibliography).



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Figure 6.4  Quartier Magon with seawall (Rakob, 1991: Bei. 37).

Between the end of the sixth century and the beginning of the fifth century bce there was a great expansion of the urban nucleus beyond the archaic line of defence (Fumadó Ortega, 2013c: 304– 342). New streets and houses grew up along the northern and southern peripheries of the city in areas previously reserved for cemeteries and workshops. To the east, a completely new extension, the so-called Quartier Magon, excavated by the DAI in Rome, emerged with an orthogonal layout aligned to the coastline. This was the orientation that the Augustan architects replicated in the urban plan for the Colonia Iulia Concordia Karthago. Therefore, it is rather misleading that modern scholars continue to call it a Roman orientation. With a main street about 12  m wide (Rakob, 1991: Bei. 31) and secondary, perpendicular, narrower streets, the Quartier Magon offered within its rectangular insulae enough space for houses between 250 m2 and 600 m2 wide (Rakob, 1991: 238–239, Bei. 26–28), though none of these larger houses have as yet been fully excavated. In this same area a segment of the impressive sea wall has also been discovered and excavated (Figure 6.4). Built with blocks from the El-Haouaria quarries (Cap Bon) – in some cases more than 3 m long – the wall had a series of rectangular towers at regular intervals of 31 m based on the architectural module of 60 Punic cubits used in the design of the entire quarter (1 cubit = 51.8 cm; see Rakob, 1991: 165–171). A monumental gate crowned the main avenue of the Quartier Magon that, following approximately the route of the current Rue de la République, opens on to the valley formed by the Byrsa and Juno hills, from which the main road from Carthage to the interior begins. More blocks founded at the coast to the south, some of which were still stuccoed, were also interpreted as part of the sea wall (Rakob, 1987). Also at the end of the sixth century bce, but 200 m further west, in the newly re-named Quartier Didon (Rakob, 1997; Flügel et al., forthcoming), a series of archaic houses, streets, and workshops were replaced to make room for two important public buildings. One of them was built with large regular blocks and was surrounded by an open space, in the manner of a square or inner courtyard (Flügel et al., forthcoming). Further south, at Bir Massouda, a series of dwellings equipped with bathrooms, latrines, and exquisite decorations extended outside the walled area while retaining the same archaic orientation (Docter et al., 2003, 2006). The record of these dwellings, together with the late evolution of the Magon’s large domus and the Hellenistic quarter on the Byrsa, shows how

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Figure 6.5  The military harbor of Late Punic Carthage (Hurst, 1993: 47).

socioeconomic inequalities were increasing from the fifth and fourth centuries bce onwards, perhaps a factor in the later political and social unrest during and after the Punic Wars (Fumadó Ortega, 2016b). Phoenician-Punic Archaeology has so far been focused on the intramural space, although the trend has been reversed in past decades (cf. Van Dommelen and Gómez Bellard, 2008). Archaeological research in Carthage’s hinterland has been much limited. Most of what is now known derives from a few surveys (Greene, 1992; Panero, 2008) and brief statements in the ancient sources. A new Tunisian-Spanish project on the territorial basis of the ancient city of Carthage will address this lacuna. Diodorus of Sicily (20.8.3–4), in his account of the African invasion of Agathocles in 309/307 bce, mentions the surprise of the mercenaries who, on their way to Carthage, passed through bountiful fields and well-watered gardens. In other sources, a Megara Quarter (Plaut. Poen. 86; App. Pun. 117–118; Serv. In Aen. 1.421; Zon. 9.29), or Neapolis (Diod. Sic. 20.44.1–5), is mentioned as a large area outside the walls of Carthage, populated by well-managed country houses (Docter, 2009; Chelbi, 2013). These accounts probably describe the general character of the rural landscape in the Carthaginian peninsula, at least at the time of the Agathoclean and Punic Wars (App. Pun. 67), as archaeology has only been able to document one site in this area that can be interpreted as a suburban residence, the so-called Villa of Gammarth (Fantar, 1981). The southern periphery is somewhat better known, at least in the area nearest the city. This is where the Tophet was installed at the end of the eighth century bce and where the harbors were built between the late third century and the early second century bce. The harbors, transformed and reused in the Roman through Byzantine periods, are still visible (see Bockmann, Chapter 8). This spectacular complex, described in detail by Appian (Pun. 96; 123; 127), originally covered approx. 30 ha and consisted of three main parts: a circular and rectangular basin and an outer quay. The first and innermost of the two basins was reserved for the navy (Figure 6.5). Its diameter is about 300 m, with a central islet which together contained ramps for dry-docking more than 200 warships (Hurst, 1994). The second basin, dedicated to trade and non-military activities, was a rectangle of about 100 × 350 m separated from the circular one by a narrow canal closed by a chain. Both basins required the removal of some 225,000 m3 of earth (Hurst and Stager, 1978). The port of Late Punic Carthage was completed with an exterior quay and platform of about 5 ha



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Figure 6.6  Evocative reconstruction of the urban landscape of Punic Carthage during the fourth century bce. ©

Punto Rec Studios with scientific advice from I. Fumadó Ortega.

used for loading and unloading goods. Today it remains submerged but visible and is known as the Quadrilatère de Falbe (Figure 6.2). This monumental project broke with the centuries-old Mediterranean naval tradition that profited from inlets, coastal lagoons, and other convenient natural conditions for anchorage with as few as possible built efforts. In its day, the harbor of Carthage was the largest port in the Central-Western Mediterranean and the first to be entirely planned and built ex-novo. The constructors of Portus probably found good inspiration here. Excavations have documented that the southern periphery of the city was occupied, until the construction of the harbor, with a series of industrial, ceramic, and metallurgical facilities (Fumadó Ortega, 2013c: pl. 3 with bibliography). More surprisingly, there was also a north–south canal for the two-way transit of small boats (see Figure 6.6; Hurst and Stager 1978: 336–339). If the final destination of this channel is not known, it must surely have started somewhere in the northern beach of the Tunis Lagoon, where an Early Punic anchorage facility could have been located (Figures 6.2 and 6.6). Finally, the southwestern periphery of the Punic city, later occupied by the Roman circus, is now under exploration by DAI at Rome (Bockmann et al., 2018). Further outside the city there was a north–south running wall that protected the city from attacks from the hinterland (App. Pun. 95; Polyb. 1.18; Diod. Sic. 23.8.1). The orography of the peninsula suggests the most suitable path for this defensive line (see the dashed line in Figure 6.1). A 2 km long soil mark was photographed there in 1949. Projection of the soil mark to the south partially coincides with a number of large blocks where ceramics dating from the Punic Wars were found at the beginning of the twentieth century. No further evidence of this defensive perimeter has been found (Lancel, 1989). In his description of Carthage, Appian also indicates that three streets connected the port area to the highest point in the city, the hill known as the Byrsa, where the most opulent sanctuary dedicated to Asklepios, i.e., the Phoenician Eshmoun, which was entered by a monumental staircase, was located (App. Pun. 128–130; Str. 17.3.14–15). The Augustan architects chose this location to install the main forum of the Colonia Iulia Concordia Karthago, though it was not, as once believed, the center of the Punic city. French excavations on the southeast slope documented a sequence that included the construction (c. 210–190 bce) and destruction (146 bce) of the so-called Quartier Hannibal, a residential complex composed of almost modular building blocks. Prior to the second century bce, this area was occupied by an archaic necropolis, followed by almost two centuries of very limited use until the installation of metallurgical workshops in the fourth

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Figure 6.7  Model exhibited at the Musée national de Carthage representing four Punic insulae from Quartier Hannibal, partially covered by two rows of pillars and other Roman foundations, as part of the southeast corner of the Augustan Forum complex.

century bce (Lancel, 1982). Lastly, shafts of columns found in the northern zone of the French excavation probably belong to the sanctuary located here. In sum, it appears that the housing of the Byrsa hill was a relatively late development reflecting the intensification of settlement in the city (Fumadó Ortega, 2013c: pl. 3–4). The technical solutions adopted in the Quartier Hannibal denote, once again, mastery of all aspects involved in the building process (Figure 6.7).

The Carthaginian Political System Carthage had a political and institutional framework regulated by law. As far as we know from other ancient Mediterranean city-states, such a capital law arises after a complex, mostly conflictive, social process that, in a spasmodic, sometimes traumatic, not always unidirectional way, leads to the drafting of a (re)foundational legal text: a Constitution. These texts deal with the kind of issues treated by Cicero’s On the Republic and Solon’s reforms, but no equivalent Carthaginian author has been preserved. Fortunately, Aristotle (Pol. 2.1272b–1273b) chose the Constitution of Carthage as a case study and example to be followed by his contemporaries. His commentaries give us a fine impression of the legal structure that the city-state of Carthage had during the second half of the fourth century bce, but we have hardly any data on its previous stage (Fumadó Ortega, 2013d). Despite the legislative conservatism that can be expected in this type of text, it seems logical to think that the situation transmitted by Aristotle cannot be simply extrapolated to other moments of Carthaginian history. Since Polybius and other later authors refer to Carthaginian magistrates and institutions in their accounts of the Punic Wars, we have more data for that period until 146 bce (Sznycer, 1978: 561–585). However, the inherent problem in these references, all exogenous and late, is that we do not know to what extent they misinterpret the Carthaginian reality, nor to what extent the



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Greek and Latin terminology they use implies anachronisms or just an imprecise appraisal of Punic reality observed from the later context of the authors themselves (Picard, 1968; Huss, 1985: 458–466; Hoyos, 2010: 20–38). In more than a hundred funerary, votive, or commemorative epigraphs from Carthage various magistrates and institutions are mentioned. The main ones are the shophet (špṭ) and the rab (rb), which appear together in CIS 1.3914, as well as references to the people of Carthage (ʿm qrt ḥdšt) in CIS 1.270–271, 1.290–291, and 1.4908–4909, among others (Sznycer, 1975, 2003). Classical authors like Livy or Diodorus of Sicily, unaware of this Punic vocabulary, use terms such as rex, basileus, consuls, quaestors, senate, but these equivalencies should only be assumed as working hypotheses because Punic epigraphy proves the existence of these magistrates and institutions at a given date and context, but hardly provides elements to define their attributions. Our main source, Aristotle, is not the first to admire the Carthaginian Constitution (Isoc. Nicocles 24), but he is the most explicit. The Stagirite explains that the merit of this law lies in the balance it manages to establish between the three factual powers present in the city-state: the basileis or chief magistrate who would concentrate all the power in his hands, although not in a hereditary way; the oligarxía or the government of the rich which ruled through the Senate or the Gerousía and through the Council of 104, which would control mainly the generals; and, finally, the demos, a group formed by the rest of citizens who express their will and exercise their political rights in an Assembly. The tensions between these three forces are also reflected in the historical documentation of almost all those poleis that we know in sufficient detail. It is more than likely that the observation, political reflection, and inspiration between Greek and Phoenician-Punic cities was bidirectional. Nevertheless, these magistrates and institutions are political bodies that also have Levantine roots that can be traced back to the Ugaritic texts of the second millennium bce (Sznycer, 1978).

Carthage Outside Carthage Assyrian military violence against the Phoenician coastal cities, including Tyre, increased significantly under Sennacherib (705–681 bce). The most devastating attacks on Tyre itself occurred under the Babylonian Nebuchadnezzar II, in the early sixth century bce. This was followed in 539 bce by its conquest by Cyrus the Great (Bunnens, 2019, with bibliography). This growing pressure on the old Phoenician aristocracies reduced their capacity to control, influence, or engage in any way with the Phoenician-Punic societies from overseas. Carthage seems to have seized this opportunity to pursue an independent and predominant role in the central Mediterranean. Greek sources mention various interventions by the Karxedonioi: the founding of Ibiza in 654 bce (Diod. Sic. 5.16. 2–3); the confrontation with the Phocean founders of Massalia (Th. 1.13.6) and Alalia (Hdt. 1.166); the eventual protection of Phoenicians in Sicily against the Greeks (Th. 6.2.6); and the expulsion in 522 bce of the Spartan apoikia of Dorieo in the vicinity of Leptis Magna (Hdt. 5.42–46; Diod. Sic. 4.23.3). The first diplomatic treaty between Carthage and Rome (Polyb. 3.22), dated in 509 bce, presents the Carthaginians as the more powerful of the signatories in their freedom to conduct piracy along the coast of Lazio while at the same time limiting the navigation and trade of Rome and their allies in the ports controlled by Carthage, especially those located in Africa and Sardinia (Scardigli, 1991; Cornell, 1995: 210–214; Ferrer Albelda, 2014; Pilkington, 2019: 3–18). Carthage’s engagement with Etruscan cities is also indicated by the bilingual gold leaf found at Pyrgi, inscribed in Etruscan and Phoenician (Bellelli and Xella, 2015) and tessera hospitalis from Carthage where the bearer claims, in Etruscan, mi puniel Karthazeis (Maggiani, 2006: 319–321; Van Heems, 2012: 151–153). The iconography of more than 5000 cretulae from a Carthaginian archive found in the Quartier Didon and the origin of the ceramic imports show that Carthage’s commercial and cultural network also spanned the Eastern Mediterranean (Berges, 1997; Docter, 2009; Hoyos, 2019).

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That seems to confirm the later Justin’s account of Carthage as a city with imperialistic ambitions in Sicily and Sardinia between the end of the sixth and the beginning of the fifth centuries bce (Moscati et al., 1997). Syracuse’s defeat of Carthage at the Battle of Himera in 480 bce (Hdt. 7.165–167) has often been interpreted as marking a dramatic end to this first phase of Punic expansion in the Mediterranean, but this may be overstated. The archaeological record is ambiguous on these questions. There are, however, indications that the Phoenician populations in Sardinia and Sicily experienced important changes in their funeral rites by the end of the sixth century bce, most notably the replacement of urn cremations in Levantine style for inhumation in rock chambers, with a vertical well to access, or in a dromos, or in a cist, as had been common in the necropolis of Carthage since the seventh century bce (Bénichou-Safar, 1982). Likewise, some particular elements of Carthaginian material culture, such as terracotta masks and prothomes, the iconography from the stelae recovered in the Sardinian Tophets, such as razor blades with incised figurative decoration and some particular ceramic forms, also appeared at this time among the common furnishings of the Phoenician populations on both islands. Whether the destruction levels found at Monte Sirai, Cuccureddus de Villasimius, or Mozia in Sardinia and Sicily, also belonging to the late sixth century bce, were the result of attacks by Carthage, remains open to question. Indeed, there is little evidence of cultural–material change in the countryside around these sites for more than a century after their destruction. The capillary agrarian exploitation of the Sardinian and Sicilian hinterlands took place during the fourth century bce (Van Dommelen and Gómez Bellard, 2008). These dates and the heterogeneous occupation patterns found in these territories have led some researchers to deny a colonial, imperial presence of Carthage in Sardinia (Roppa, 2014). In North Africa, a small walled town, Kerkouane, was founded at the eastern end of Cap Bon by the end of the sixth century bce (Fantar, 1984). In the fifth century bce, the neighboring fortresses of Kelibia and Ras ed-Drek were created (Lancel, 1992: 284–288). The nearby island of Pantelleria, which shows a material culture closely linked to Carthage since archaic phases, also seems to have been fortified (Schäfer et al., 2019). From Cap Bon, and more specifically from the quarries of El-Haouaria, come the sandstone rocks massively used in the construction of the sea wall of Carthage. Utica, a neighboring and much smaller allied city, was fortified with the same material, probably also in the fifth century bce (Ben Jerbania et al., 2019: 76). Despite the lack of systematic research of the Carthaginian hinterland, these elements suggest that in this period an important investment of resources was made by Carthage in the military security of a wide segment of the coast in the vicinity of the city (Figure 6.1). The situation in Sicily is different. Polybius and Diodorus of Sicily left detailed accounts of the military confrontations between (a part of) the Carthaginian and Syracusan aristocracies from 407 to 264 bce (cf. Huss, 1985: 93–215). Hamilcar laid the foundations of a new means of Punic territorial control in western Sicily at the end of the fifth century bce with a great military offensive in which large cities like Selinunte and Agrigento were razed to the ground. Although there were peaceful periods, and even military alliances between Carthage and Syracuse against third parties, both poleis were the protagonists of a long series of violent episodes. Some ended with the total destruction of Phoenician cities, such as Solunto and Mozia in 396 bce, but throughout this period, the Carthaginian positions in Sicily were solid enough to found or re-found cities after these and other incidents (e.g., Thermae at Termini Imerese, Lilybaeum at Marsala, Drepanon at Trapani, Solunto at Monte Catalfano, or Monte Adranone at Sambuca di Sicilia; see critical remarks from De Vincezo, 2013). This implies a high degree of political and military control by the Carthaginian state in the western half of the island (Hans, 1983). From the fourth century bce, Sicilian-Punic coins with the legends b⁾rṣt (of the territories), hmḥnt (of the army), m⁽m mḥnt (of the people of the army), and similar ones, seem to confirm this (Jenkins, 1977, 1978). Maybe some of these or other Carthaginian foundations could be seen as an analogy to the Athenian cleruchies (Arist. Pol. 2.1273b; Ameling, 1993: 261). However, despite this evidence, we still lack many fundamental details necessary on overseas Carthaginian policies. While it seems clear that Carthage acquired a growing cultural and



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commercial influence in the Central Mediterranean from the end of the Archaic Age until the middle of the third century bce, the details of this expansion are largely lost to us. In Sardinia, for example, we cannot know if Carthage was directly responsible for the identified Late Archaic destructions and for the transformation of its cultural models. Long ago, Whittaker (1978) questioned the military and imperial nature of this Carthaginian influence and most scholars tend to emphasize the agency that the local populations retained, whether Phoenician-Punic or indigenous, in the adoption of Carthaginian cultural models (e.g., Maraoui-Telmini et al., 2014: 113– 116; Van Dommelen and Roppa, 2014). Carthage certainly extended its commercial, sociopolitical, and diplomatic networks among other Phoenician-Punic (and Greek, Etruscan, Latin, etc.) aristocracies, but the proactive role of (at least) one part of these elites became increasingly evident in each case. Fitting this expansion into a modern imperial paradigm has led to some anachronistic assumptions and a vision of maximal expansion of Punic identity, particularly over the Maghreb (Fantar, 1993: 2.7–76). This interpretation, particularly with respect to the Numidians and Mauretanians, has been challenged (Quinn, 2013), and reflects a perception transmitted by the classical sources that depict the populations located from the middle valley of the Medjerda River to the Atlantic coast as subject to the Carthaginians. However, Carthage probably turned to oppressive measures to expand a certain degree of territorial control over an increasing North Tunisian territory arriving till Hecatompilos (Polyb. 1.73), probably the Roman Theveste about 250 km away from Carthage. The Punic War and the Mercenary or Truceless War accounts may be seen as evidence of this (Loreto, 1995). The Phoenician trenches (App. Pun. 32; 54) and the fossa regia (Plin. NH. 5.25), epigraphically documented in the area between Thugga and Furnos Maius, may be further evidence of Carthaginian territorial extension in North Africa (Ferchiou, 1998). Unfortunately, preRoman North Africa was comparatively neglected in past centuries. Archaeological projects conceived in sites such as Lixus, Althiburos, Utica, and Djerba are an exception (Aranegui Gascó, 2002; Aranegui Gascó and Habibi, 2005; Aranegui Gascó and Hassini, 2010; Drine et al., 2009; Kallala and Sanmartí, 2011; Kallala et al., 2016, 2018; López Castro et al., 2016; Ritter, 2018; Ben Jerbania et al., 2019).

The Punic Wars The relative abundance of classical sources on the topic has made it the most studied chapter in the history of Carthage. Not surprisingly, ancient and modern historians have considered that Rome became the master of the Ancient World through its final victory over the Punic city. Western culture’s fascination with military history and the cult of the leader, a role in which Hannibal fits perfectly, has done the rest. However, archaeological research on battlefields is relatively recent and it doubtless reserves surprises for the future (Vallori Márquez et al., 2019). The Punic Wars have been traditionally studied as an important chapter in the history of the Roman Republic (Nicolet, 1978; Rosenstein, 2012, among many others). In recent decades, more attention has been focused on understanding the Carthaginian political agenda and strategy (a more difficult aim because of the indirect sources, as noted previously, see Le Bohec, 1996; Hoyos, 2011). It is now generally accepted that the efforts of Roman sources to describe an ancestral and inevitable enmity between Rome and Carthage have more to do with Roman propaganda than with historical reality, and that the shared interests and exchanges between both city-states until the beginning of the Punic Wars were not insignificant (Palmer, 1997). In 264 bce a revolt broke out in the Sicilian city of Messina. Without experience in overseas conflicts nor a fleet, the Romans were perceived by the Carthaginians as the weakest part, so the Punics took the most reasonable position then, i.e., to ally with Syracuse, the Greek polis that controlled the eastern half of the island since the beginning of the fifth century bce. Experience countenanced the Carthaginians to follow the strategy that had enabled them to establish and

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preserve an epikrateia (a sort of dominion) in western Sicily for over a century and a half. The strategy consisted in extending their diplomatic networks among the local elites, exploiting their naval and financial superiority to increase the number of mercenaries and supplies if necessary and, in the worst-case scenario, to fortify their (almost) unconquerable ports, such as Mozia, Lilybaeum, or Palermo, while awaiting reinforcements from overseas (Leslie, 2019: 171–172). Two factors ultimately contributed to Carthage’s defeat in 241 bce: first, the loss of Carthaginian naval superiority in the fourth year of the war (Polyb. 1.22–23; Florus 1.18.7; Frost, 1989) and, second, the alliance between Rome and Syracuse in 263 bce, which essentially eliminated the possibility of a joint Punic-Syracusan alliance against the Republic. The end of the First Punic War in 241 bce meant the loss of Carthaginian holdings in Sicily, undoubtedly the greatest military failure suffered by the city up to that time. With a decimated aristocracy and empty state coffers resulting from the war reparations imposed by the Romans, Carthage could not remunerate the thousands of mercenaries returning from Sicily, leading to a major war with them and some cities of Sardinia and Numidia between 240 and 238 bce (Loreto, 1995; Hoyos, 2007). Rome, which intended to continue collecting war reparations annually for a decade, stood aloof from the conflict, but took advantage of Carthage’s vulnerability to seize Sardinia and Corsica. This act, engraved in the collective memory of Carthaginians, was seen as an unforgivable affront. The desire to avenge the loss Sicily, Sardinia, and Corsica to the Romans called for expansion elsewhere to recoup manpower and resources. Only the Iberian Peninsula could offer these possibilities, so in 237 bce, one of the most influential families in the city, the Barcids, set sail there with the intention of creating a new Carthaginian province in Spain. Drawing on the support of the Punic cities in Iberia (Gadir, Spal, Malaka, Baria, Ibosim, among others), Carthage also founded new communities (Carthago Nova and Akra Leuke) and brought to submission the peoples of the southern half of the peninsula (Ferrer Albelda, 2010; Prados Martínez and Sala Sellés, 2013). Some scholars consider that, by promoting the cult of the warlord with great political independence from the Senate of Carthage, the Barcids were inspired by the Hellenistic Eastern monarchies, but this remains uncertain (Ferrer Albelda, 2012a). Whatever the case, the Carthaginian state took advantage of the military and financial successes of the Barcids, but coyly denied any responsibility when pressed by Roman ambassadors to reign in Hannibal (Polyb. 3.15.8; Liv. 23.27.9–12). Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps in 218 bce with 70 elephants and his long occupation of southern Italy until 203 bce continues to be the focus of much scholarly interest (Hoyos, 2003). In the meantime, Roman legions had conquered Carthaginian Iberia and Scipio had launched his offensive in Africa, finding remarkable support among the Numidians. Hannibal returned to defend his homeland but was defeated at Zama in 202 bce. The conditions of peace imposed this time by Rome were logically tougher than those of 40 years ago: Carthage was forced to abandon all overseas possessions, to give away a large part of their Numidian territories, to give up war fleets, to avoid any diplomatic action without Rome’s permission, and to pay 10,000 talents of silver (Kay, 2014: 37–42). Despite the disastrous end to the war, archaeology shows that the first half of the second century bce brought an economic, demographic, and urban boom for Carthage. The relationship between this reality and the new geopolitical situation has not yet been fully understood. Neither of the reasons could have led Rome to commit genocide in 146 bce on a city of high symbolic value but little military relevance: perhaps it was fear, greed, inner aristocratic political and/or economical concurrence, or military honor (Clark, 2014). What is clear is that after the Second Punic War, Carthaginian affairs were just another piece on the game board of Roman international politics. The keys to the Third Punic War must be sought in the heart of the Late Roman Republic. After a three-year siege, Carthage was sacked for a week. The irreducible were put to the sword, the survivors enslaved, and the ruins execrated (but not salted, Ridley, 1986). If the Carthaginian elite seems to have developed a great military tactics school, several bad geostrategic decisions led them to disappear. We will probably never know if they did not know or did not want to accept the Roman superiority created in 238 bce. To conclude, the action of the



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Barcids deprived the Punic world of the option of accepting a similar role to that played by the Greeks in that new created Roman Mediterranean. On the contrary, Barcid misinterpretation of growing Roman power brought tragedy upon Carthage. The bitter irony is that Western culture has rescued Hannibal from oblivion and discredit, while damning the rest.

Carthage after Carthage In the central centuries of its history Carthage made a qualitative leap in its ways of life. At the political level, there are signs of an institutional formation similar to that of the Greek poleis (Tsirkin, 1986; González Wagner, 2006; Fumadó Ortega, 2013d). This political development, and its influence on their allies, may help to explain the rapid integration of some Neo-Punic urban elites in the Roman political and economic system (Mora Serrano and Cruz Andreotti 2012). Between the mid-sixth and third centuries bce, Carthage developed a sophisticated urbanism that included stone-paved streets with outlets for the runoff of rainwater, a system of urban waste collection, and houses equipped with bathrooms and latrines, some of which were furnished even with tessellated pavements earlier than in the rest of the central Mediterranean (Docter, 2005; Niemeyer et al., 2007: 158–160, 199–211; Maraoui-Telmini, 2012). In that period wells ceased to be the principal source of water supply and a new type of cistern was introduced, the so-called bathtub cistern or a bagnarola, previously unknown in the Central-Western Mediterranean (Fumadó Ortega, 2019). These and other novelties were either unique Carthaginian developments or improved adaptations, which spread to other cultures, most notably the pavimenta punica, bathtub cisterns, and the opus africanum building technique (Fumadó Ortega and Bouffier, 2019). Material aspects of Roman luxuria during the second century bce may be a reflection of the allure of Carthaginian (aristocratic) culture within the larger canvas of the Hellenistic koine. The challenge to identify the specific Punic contribution into this koine becomes, however, more complex because of the later discourse on Carthage. True, some Roman intellectuals of Imperial date, such as Pomponius Mela, Josephus, Philo of Byblos, and others, gave a positive appraisal of a more or less fancied Phoenician past (Ferrer Albelda, 2012b; Quinn, 2018: 135–175). However, even these rearrangements excluded or ignored Punic Carthage: an enterprising, brilliant, and cosmopolitan society that, after the curse and destruction of 146 bce, was depicted in Roman imperial propaganda as a depraved, immoral, and weak society.

Acknowledgment The author wishes to thank Bruce Hitchner for his patience and commitment in transforming the initial rudimentary version into an English text. Any errors that remain are the author’s responsibility.

NOTE 1 University of Valencia. This work has been carried out thanks to the Ramón y Cajal Incorporation State Subprogram and within the framework of the project PGC2018-095280-A-I00 from the State Subprogram for the Generation of Knowledge, both financed by the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation.

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FURTHER READING On the Phoenician-Punic World, see Lipinski (1992), Krings (1995), and, more recently, López-Ruiz and Doak (2019). More synthetic but noteworthy contributions are Gras et al. (1991) and Mörstadt (2015). Gsell (1913–1928) wrote an encyclopedic work containing almost all classical sources on Punic Carthage. For recent histories of Carthage see Huss (1985), Lancel (1992), Hoyos (2010), as well as the introductory synthesis of Dridi (2006) or the older but brilliant one of Sznycer (1978). Ennabli (1992) offers a summary of the archaeological results of the UNESCO International Campaign. Among the most detailed publications of them, and related to the Punic period, we find those of the German team (Rakob, 1991, 1997, 1999; Dolenz and Flügel, 2012; Flügel et al., forthcoming), the French team (Lancel, 1979, 1982), and the British team (Hurst and Roskams, 1984; Hurst, 1994). Archaeological elements of Carthaginian urban development are gathered and reinterpreted in Fumadó Ortega (2013c). An appraisal on Carthaginian coinage see Manfredi (2009) and Visona (1998; 2018). The most recent exhibition catalogue is Russo et al. (2019).

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Fumadó Ortega, I. 2013b. “Quién parte y reparte? Análisis de la disposición urbana en la Cartago fenicia.” Archivo Español de Arqueología 86: 7–21. Fumadó Ortega, I. 2013c. Cartago fenicio-púnica. Arqueología de la forma urbana. Sevilla. Fumadó Ortega, I. 2013d. “Uno de los nuestros. Redes aristocráticas e institucionalización del poder en Cartago durante los siglos VI–V a.C.” Gerión 31: 117–146. Fumadó Ortega, I. 2016a. “Urbanistik Karthagos zwischen Hellenisierung und Kulturaustausch.” In Karthago Dialogue – Karthago und der punische Mittelmeerraum. Kulturkontakte und Kulturtransfers im 1. Jt. v. Chr., eds. F. Schön and H. Töpfer, 59–76. Tübingen. Fumadó Ortega, I. 2016b. “Qui êtes-vous? Où habitez-vous? Données sur l’architecture et la morphologie urbaine de la Carthage archaïque: apports et limites pour l’étude des phénomènes identitaires.” In Transformations and Crisis in the Mediterranean: “Identity” and Interculturality in the Levant and Phoenician West during the Eighth-Fifth Centuries BCE, eds. G. Garbati and T. Pedrazzi, 173–193. Rome. Fumadó Ortega, I. 2019. “L’apparition et la diffusion des citernes en Méditerranée phénico-punique.” In Gérer l’eau en Méditerranée au premier millénaire avant J.-C., eds. S. Bouffier, O. Belvedere, and S. Vassallo, 169–184. Aix-en-Provence. Fumadó Ortega, I., and Bouffier, S., eds. 2019. Mortier et hydraulique en Méditerranée antique. Aix-en-Provence. Garbati, G. 2013. “Baal Hammon and Tinnit in Carthage: The Tophet between the origin and the expansion of the colonial world.” In Xella, ed., 49–64. Geus, K. 1994. Prosopographie der Literarisch bezeugten Karthager. Studia Phoenicia 13. Leuven. González Wagner, C. 2006. “Ciudad y ciudadanía en la Cartago púnica.” In Repúblicas y ciudadanos: modelos de participación cívica en el mundo antiguo, eds. F. Marco Simón, F. Pina Polo, and J. Remesal Rodríguez, 103–113. Barcelona. Gras, M., Rouillard, P., and Teixidor, J. 1991. El universo fenicio. Madrid. Greene, J. 1992. “Une reconnaissance archéologique dans l’arrière-pays.” In Ennabli, ed., 195–197. Gsell, S. 1913–1928. Histoire ancienne de l’Afrique du Nord. 8 volumes. Paris. Hans, L.M. 1983. Karthago und Sizilien. Die Entstehung und Gestaltung der Epikratie auf dem Hintergrund der Beziehungen der Karthager zu den Griechen und den nichtgriechischen Völkern Siziliens (VI.–III. Jahundert v. Chr.). Hildesheim/Zurich/New York. Heurgon, J. 1976. “L’agronome carthaginois Magon et ses traducteurs en latin et en grec.” CRAI 120.3: 441–456. Hottot, O., ed. 1995. Carthage: L’histoire, sa trace et son écho. Paris. Hoyos, D. 2003. Hannibal’s Dynasty: Power and Politics in the Western Mediterranean, 247–183 BC. London. Hoyos, D. 2007. Truceless War: Carthage’s Fight for Survival, 241 to 237 BC. Leiden. Hoyos, D. 2010. The Carthaginians. New York and London. Hoyos, D., ed. 2011. A Companion to the Punic Wars. Malden. Hoyos, D. 2019. “Classical-Hellenistic Carthage before the Punic Wars.” In López-Ruiz and Doak, eds., 257–271. Hurst, H. 1993. “Le port militaire de Carthage.” Les dossiers de l’archéologie 183: 42–51. Hurst, H., ed. 1994. Excavations at Carthage, the British Mission II.I. Oxford. Hurst, H., and Roskams, S.P., eds. 1984. Excavations at Carthage, the British Mission I.I. Sheffield. Hurst, H., and Stager, L.E. 1978. “A metropolitan landscape: The Late Punic port of Carthage.” World Archaeology 9: 334–346. Huss, W. 1985. Geschichte der Karthager. Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft 3, 8. Munich. Jenkins, G.K. 1977. “Carthage Series 2–4.” Schweizerische Numismatische Rundschau 56: 5–65. Jenkins, G.K. 1978. “Carthage Series 5–6.” Schweizerische Numismatische Rundschau 57: 5–68. Kallala, N., and Sanmartí, J., eds. 2011. Althiburos I. La fouille dans l’aire du capitole et dans la nécropole méridionale. Tarragona. Kallala, N., Sanmartí, J., and Belarte Franco, M.C., eds. 2016. Althiburos II. L’aire du capitole et la nécropole méridionale: études. Tarragona. Kallala, N., Sanmartí, J., and Belarte Franco, M.C., eds. 2018. Althiburos III. La nécropole protohistorique d’Althiburos-massif du Ksour. Tarragona. Kay, Ph. 2014. Rome’s Economic Revolution. Oxford. Krings, V., ed. 1995. La civilisation phénicienne et punique: manuel de recherche. Leiden.



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Lancel, S., ed. 1979. Byrsa, I: Rapports préliminaires des fouilles (1974–1976). Rome. Lancel, S., ed. 1982. Byrsa, II: Rapports préliminaires sur les fouilles 1977–1978: niveaux et vestiges puniques. Rome. Lancel, S. 1989. “L'enceinte périurbaine de Carthage lors de la troisième guerre punique: réalités et hypothèses.” In Punic Wars, eds. E. Lipinski and H. Devijver, 251–278. Studia Phoenicia 10. Leuven. Lancel, S. 1992. Carthage. Paris. Le Bohec, Y. 1996. Histoire militaire des guerres puniques. Monaco. Leslie, Chr. 2019. “The Punic Wars (264–146 BCE).” In López-Ruiz and Doak, eds., 169–182. Lipinski, E., ed. 1992. Dictionnaire de la civilisation phénicienne et punique. Turnhout. López Castro, J.L., Ferjaoui, A., Mederos Martín, A., Martínez Hanmüller, V., and Ben Jerbania, I. 2016. “La colonización fenicia inicial en el Mediterráneo Central: nuevas excavaciones arqueológicas en Utica (Túnez).” Trabajos de Prehistoria 73.1: 68–89. López-Ruiz, C., and Doak, B.D., eds. 2019. The Oxford Handbook of the Phoenician and Punic Mediterranean. Oxford. Loreto, L. 1995. La grande insurrezione libica contro Cartagine. Rome. Maggiani, A. 2006. “Dinamiche del comercio arcaico: le tesserae hospitales.” In Gli etruschi e il Mediterraneo. Commerci e politica, ed. G.M. Della Fina, 317–349. Orvieto and Rome. Maraoui-Telmini, B. 2012. Vestiges d’un habitat de l’époque punique moyenne à Bir Massouda (Carthage). Carthage Studies 6. Ghent. Manfredi, L. 2009. “Iconografia e leggenda. Il linguaggio monetale di Cartagine.” Mediterranea 6: 203–216. Maraoui-Telmini, B., Docter, R., Bechtold, B., Chelbi, F., and Van de Put, W. 2014. “Defining Punic Carthage.” In The Punic Mediterranean. Identities and Identification from Phoenician Settlement to Roman Rule, eds. J.C. Quinn and N. Vella, 113–147. Cambridge. Mora Serrano, B., and Cruz Andreotti, G., eds. 2012. La etapa neopúnica en Hispania y el Mediterráneo centro-occidental. Sevilla. Mörstadt, B. 2015. Die Phönizier. Darmstadt. Moscati, S., Bartoloni, P., and Bondì, S.F. 1997. “La penetrazione fenicia e punica in Sardegna. Trent’anni dopo.” Atti della Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, cl. Sci. Mor. St. e Fil 9.9.1: 1–140. Nicolet, C., ed. 1978. Rome et la conquête du monde méditerranéen (264-27 av. J.-C.). Paris. Niemeyer, H.G., Docter, R., Schmidt, K., and Bechtold, B., eds. 2007. Karthago. Die Ergebnisse der hamburger Grabung unter dem Decumanus Maximus. Mainz. Orsingher, A. 2018. “The Chapelle Cintas revisited and the Tophet of Carthage between ancestors and new identities.” Babesch 93: 49–74. Oueslati, A. 1993. Les côtes de la Tunisie: géomorphologie et environnement et aptitudes à l’aménagement. Tunis. Palmer, R.E.A. 1997. Rome and Carthage at Peace. Stuttgart. Panero, E. 2008. La Malga e i porti punici di Cartagine: una città e il suo territorio dalla fondazione fenicia alla dominazione romana. Florence. Picard, G.-Ch. 1968. “La révolution démocratique de Carthage.” In Conférences de la Société d’Etudes Latines de Bruxelles: 1965–1966. Brussels: 113–130. Pilkington, N. 2019. The Carthaginian Empire, 550–202 BCE. Maryland. Prados Martínez, F., and Sala Sellés, F., eds. 2013. El Oriente de Occidente: fenicios y púnicos en el área ibérica. Alicante. Quinn, J.C. 2013. “Monumental power: ‘Numidian royal architecture’ in context.” In The Hellenistic West: Rethinking the Ancient Mediterranean, eds. J. Prag and J.C. Quinn, 179–215. Cambridge. Quinn, J.C. 2018. In Search of the Phoenicians. Princeton. Rakob, F. 1987. “Zur Siedlungstopographie des punischen Karthago.” Römische Mitteilungen 94: 333–349. Rakob, F., ed. 1991. Die deutschen Ausgrabungen in Karthago I. Mainz. Rakob, F., ed. 1997. Die deutschen Ausgrabungen in Karthago II. Mainz. Rakob, F., ed. 1999. Die deutschen Ausgrabungen in Karthago III. Mainz. Ridley, R.T. 1986. “To be taken with a pinch of salt: The destruction of Carthage.” Classical Philology 81.2: 140–146. Ritter, S. 2018. “Landscape archaeology and urbanism at Meninx: Results of geophysical prospection on Jerba (2015).” Journal of Roman Archaeology 31: 357–372.

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Roppa, A. 2014. “Identifying Punic Sardinia: Local communities and cultural identities.” In The Punic Mediterranean, Identities and Identification from Phoenician Settlement to Roman Rule, eds. J.C. Quinn and N. Vella, 257–281. Cambridge. Rosenstein, N. 2012. Rome and the Mediterranean 290 to 146 BC. Edinburgh. Ruíz Cabrero, L.A. 2008. “Dedicantes en los ‘tofet’. La sociedad fenicia en el Mediterráneo.” Gerión 26.1: 89–148. Russo, A., Guaneri, F., Xella, P., and Zamora López, J.Á., eds. 2019. Carthago. Il mito immortale. Milano. Scardigli, B. 1991. I trattati romano-cartaginesi. Pisa. Schäfer, T., Bechtold, B., and Schmidt, K. 2019. “Pantelleria, il più antico scalo cartaginese nel Mediterraneo centrale.” In La vie, la mort et la religion dans l’univers phénicien et punique: actes du VIIème congrès international des études phéniciennes et puniques, eds. A. Ferjaoui and T. Redissi, 207–216. Hammamet 2009. Tunis. Sznycer, M. 1968. “La littérature punique.” Archéologie vivante 1: 141–148. Sznycer, M. 1975. “L’’Assemblée du Peuple’ dans les cités puniques d’après les témoignages épigraphiques.” Semitica 25: 47–68. Sznycer, M. 1978. “Carthage et la civilisation punique.” In Nicolet, ed., 545–593. Sznycer, M. 2003. “À propos des structures sociales et politiques de la cité punique le ‘rab’ et le ‘sufète’, le ‘citoyen’et ‘l’esclave’.” In L’Afrique du Nord antique et médiévale : protohistoire, les cités de l’Afrique du Nord, fouilles et prospections récentes, ed. M. Khanoussi, 115–123. VIIIe Colloque International sur l’Histoire et l’Archéologie de l’Afrique du Nord, Tabarka 2000. Tunis. Tsirkin, J.B. 1986. “Carthage and the problem of the polis.” Rivista di Studi Fenici 14: 129–141. Vallori Márquez, B., Rueda Galán, C., and Bellón Ruiz, J.P., eds. 2019. Accampamenti, guarnigioni e assedi durante la Seconda Guerra Punica e la conquista romana (secoli III–I a.C.): prospettive archeologiche. Roma. Van Dommelen, P., and Gómez Bellard, C., eds. 2008. Rural Landscapes of the Punic World. London. Van Dommelen, P., and Roppa, A., eds. 2014. Materiali e contesti dell’età del ferro sarda. Rivista di Studi Fenici 41. Roma. Van Heems, G. 2012. “De Carthage à Gouraya: onomastique étrusque d’Afrique.” In L’onomastica africana, eds. A.M. Corda and A. Mastino, 145–155. Ortacesus. Visonà, P. 1998. “Carthaginian coinage in perspective.” American Journal of Numismatics 10: 1–27. Visonà, P. 2018. “Rethinking early Carthaginian coinage.” Journal of Roman Archaeology 31: 7–29. Whittaker, C. 1978. “Carthaginian imperialism in the fifth and fourth centuries.” In Imperialism in the Ancient World, eds. P. Garney and C. Whittaker, 59–90. Cambridge. Xella, P. 1991. Baal Hammon: recherches sur l’identité et l’histoire d’un dieu phénico-punique. Roma. Xella, P., ed. 2013. The Tophet in the Phoenician Mediterranean. Verona.

CHAPTER 7

Africa under the Roman Republic Matthew S. Hobson

The Romans held fast the territory which Carthage had possessed at its fall, but less in order to develop it for their own benefit than to prevent it benefiting others, not to awaken new life there, but to watch the dead body; it was fear and envy, rather than ambition and covetousness, that created the province of Africa. Under the republic it had not a history; the war with Jugurtha was for Africa nothing but a lion-hunt, and its historical significance lay in its connection with the republican party struggles. The land was, as a matter of course, turned to full account by Roman speculation; but neither might the destroyed great city rise up afresh, nor might a neighbouring town develop into a similar ­prosperity… . (Theodor Mommsen, 1886: 306–307)

The Republican period in Africa is traditionally framed by two major events: Rome’s destruction of Punic Carthage in 146 bce and the foundation of a Roman colony on the same location more than a century later. The rhetoric of death and revival, as demonstrated by the quote from T. Mommsen above, has understandably dominated many of the standard accounts. The second half of this chapter attempts to convey some of the relevant historiographical and methodological problems associated with the period, but first I shall begin by giving a broad outline of the available evidence for the gradual transformation of the region from a conquered territory into a Roman province.

The Aftermath of Conquest We learn from Pliny the Elder that following the destruction of the city of Carthage in 146 bce a boundary was agreed between the victorious general Scipio Aemilianus and the heirs of Massinissa, known as the Fossa Regia (HN 5.25; Figure 7.1). Fortuitously, 11 boundary stones re-marking its line and dating to the reign of Vespasian have been found, allowing us to plot circa 90 km of its inland route (Ferchiou, 1998; Abid, 2014). The establishment of a territorial border in this region was nothing new. At some stage in the past the Carthaginians had developed such a linear boundary, described by Appian as the Phoenician trenches. During the third century bce, Carthaginian military power had clearly expanded beyond these limits, which were again imposed on them following Hannibal’s defeat at Zama in 202 bce (Polyb. 15.18.5; Sall. Iug. 19.7; App. Pun, 32 and 54; Eumachos, in Jacoby, 1999: 178 F2). The extent to which this older boundary may have corresponded with the Fossa Regia is unclear, although the border disputes between

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

Figure 7.1  Map of Africa Vetus and Africa Nova, showing features mentioned in the text.



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Massinissa and the Carthaginians between 202 and 149 bce make it unlikely that the two were precisely coterminous (Picard, 1966: 1259–1262; De Bonis, 2012). One of the disputed regions described by Appian named Tusca has been identified west of the Fossa Regia in the region of Mactar and Zama Regia (Picard, 1966: 1257–1262; Sznycer, 1997: 134; M’Charek, 1999).1 Surface traces of large linear earthworks have been found in several places south and west of the Flavian boundary stones, but archaeological excavation is necessary to confirm their precise nature and date (Ferchiou, 1986, 1990, 1998). Bordering the former Carthaginian lands now controlled by Rome was the kingdom of Numidia. It was not until 46 bce that Caesar annexed a huge new swathe of this territory following the battle of Thapsus, as a consequence of the Numidian king Juba I’s active support for Pompey in the Civil War. The newly conquered Numidian territory and that formerly held by the Carthaginians were initially governed separately as the provinces of Africa Nova and Africa Vetus, divided by the Fossa Regia, until they were united under the title of Africa Proconsularis some years after Caesar’s assassination in 44 bce.2 It was in this year that the first colonists taken from the urban poor of Italy were sent out to repopulate Carthage, but much of the restructuring of the monumental center was probably completed later, under the reign of Augustus (Gros, 1990). New colonists also arrived at a host of subordinate settlements that were included within an enormous territory (­pertica) given to the new colony. Here Roman citizens living alongside previously established Libyphoenician communities were allowed to consider themselves members of the new colony (Pflaum, 1970; Wightman, 1980; Macmullen, 2000: 30–49; Aounallah and Maurin, 2008; Aounallah, 2010: 157–160). Carthage was far from being the only Roman colony founded in Africa during this period, and the discussion of this region from the creation of Africa Nova up to the end of the reign of Augustus is dominated by the theme of municipal development. Keen to find places for the settlement of their veterans during and after the Civil Wars, prominent Roman generals were able to use their unprecedented dictatorial powers to found many new colonies in the provinces. These decades appear to have been a particularly dynamic and pragmatic time, in which former Roman slaves could rise to prominence, attaining important magistracies in the newly founded provincial colonies (Santangelo, 2008: 461–463; Mouritsen, 2011: 73–74).3 The picture in Africa is far from clear, having to be pieced together from a variety of sources; Pliny’s description in Book V of his Natural History (Shaw 1981; Desanges 2003), various Latin inscriptions, and the municipal coinages minted by African towns until their cessation under Tiberius provide the essential details (Burnett et al., 1992; Alexandropoulos, 2005, 2007; Ripollès et al., 2015). While by the death of Augustus it appears that a number of stipendiary communities had gained a degree of municipal autonomy, some by petitioning through powerful Roman patrons, many more were subordinated within the vast territories given to colonies such as Carthage, Cirta, and Sicca Veneria. This landscape was strategically organized and guarded. A whole group of Roman colonies was founded flanking the perimeter of the pertica of Carthage, and extending along the entire North African coastline as far west as Morocco. It has been common to see the actions of Caesar and Augustus as the real starting point of Roman North Africa, finally putting an end to a long period of uncertainty and desolation that followed the events of the Third Punic War (Toutain, 1912: 346; Broughton, 1929: 86–87; Le Glay, 1968: 202; Whittaker, 1995: 23). This view, however, risks dismissing the importance of the preceding period, both in terms of indigenous trajectories of development and of the consequences of interaction with Rome. By the time of Caesar’s victory at Thapsus there had been 100 years of Roman governance of the region. This provided the conditions for the developments that took place during the final death-throws of the Republic. There exists, however, a continuing contrast in the level of significance that both ancient historians (Lintott, 1994b: 27–31; Whittaker, 1996: 586–587) and archaeologists attach to this earlier period (Quinn, 2003, 2004; Fentress, 2006; Stone, 2013).4

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Part of the scholarly ambivalence can be explained by the fact that previous installations of Roman citizen colonists (not all of Italian origin) had failed to gain any official municipal organization or recognition from the Roman administration. At the end of the second century bce there are indications that Gaetulian veterans of C. Marius were settled viritane, rather than in colonies, with allotments of 100 iugera each (about 25 ha; Aur. Vict. De vir. ill. 73.1).5 Two decades earlier, some of the colonists from the Italian peninsula had been offered plots of land twice that size (lex agr. l.60). This was in late 123/22 bce, when plans to found a large colony of Roman citizens in Africa, to be called Iunonia, were made (Eutr. 4.21; Oros. 5.12.1; Solin. 17.11).6 Appian’s Bellum Civile contains the best surviving account of the context in which the founding of the colony came to pass (1.22–27). One gets the impression that this was one of the central political issues of the day, significant enough to precipitate interfactional violence, which resulted in the death of C. Gracchus and the repeal of the lex Rubria (the law that had established the colony). Modern scholarship has generally viewed this as part of a broader political struggle between populares and optimates. The idea that the optimates were generally opposed to overseas colonies, however, fails to convey the full complexity of the disagreement (Vell. Pat. 2.7). It may have been that the enfranchisement of some Italian nobles as Roman citizens in the new colony was seen as a direct threat to the narrow oligarchy at Rome (Piper, 1987: 41), or it may have been that the way in which land in Africa was to be made available for distribution was in dispute.7 The surviving evidence is insufficient to settle the matter decisively (lex agr. l.76). There is little doubt, however, that certain members of a political faction (populares) were attempting to make Africa a bulwark of future strength and support (Lassère, 2015: 84). In this sense the death of Gracchus and the abrogation of the lex Rubria were serious setbacks, although we know that many colonists must have arrived and that the plots of those who did not, as well as other parcels of public land, were being sold off by the Roman state in the late second century bce (De Ligt, 2003, 2007). The crucial piece of evidence for this, the fragmentary and lacunose lex agraria of 111 bce, contains references to the triumvirs responsible for the allocation of the colonial land allotments. Additionally, a boundary marker found close to ancient Carthage at La Malga further demonstrates that such a council of three Roman magistrates continued some of the surveying work after the deaths of C. Gracchus and F. Flaccus (CIL 8, 12535 = ILLRP 475). It would seem most logical, therefore, to connect the vast program of delimitation known from aerial photographs of northern Tunisia with land assignation and sale in the decades immediately following the destruction of Carthage (Bradford, 1957: 193–207; Caillemer and Chevalier, 1957, 1959; Chevalier, 1958; Lintott, 1994b: 27–28; Peyras, 1998, 1999; Ouni, 1999; Ouni and Peyras, 2002). The extent of the observable Roman centuriation corresponds reasonably well with the limits of the province defined by the Fossa Regia, making it unlikely that the majority of the survey work could post-date 46 bce when further territory was annexed by Caesar (contra. Quinn, 2003: 30, 2004: 1601). The establishment of boundary markers across such a large area would have taken a considerable amount of time, probably in excess of that available to C. Gracchus in the chronology of events presented by Appian. Even with a body of 200 equestrian surveyors, such as was envisaged by the agrarian bill put forward later by Servilius Rullus in 64 bce (which intended to distribute more of the remaining public land in Africa), the task would have been extremely time-consuming.8 It seems likely, therefore, although it is difficult to prove conclusively, that the work of limitatio had begun shortly after 146 bce, perhaps in order that the Roman state could immediately begin to raise funds through the lease, or sale, of some of the lands (Frank, 1914: 241 no. 29; Gsell, 1928: vol. 7, 14).9 Lines 85–89 of the lex agraria make it clear that some leasing out or sale had already taken place by 115 bce, during the censorship of L. Caecilius and Cn. Domitius, with further tax contracts being farmed out by the consul Cn. Papirius Carbo in 113 bce (lex agr. l.89). It is quite possible, therefore, that other Roman officials had made a proportion of African land available previously. If survey of an extremely broad territory had begun at an early date, then this might help to explain why C. Gracchus and F. Flaccus increased the number of plots being offered to colonists to 6000, a higher number than that specified in the lex Rubria (App. B Civ., 1.24).



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In the Greek section of the law it is stated that former Corinthian land was still to be measured (l.97), whereas in the African section the silence appears to indicate that the survey was already complete (Chevalier, 1958: 66–67). Indeed, centuriation that was already in existence is mentioned more than once in the African section of the law (ll.66, 90). From the literary sources one learns nothing of this. The fullest written account of the post-146 bce settlement appears as an extremely brief epilogue to Appian’s account of the Third Punic War (Pun. 135–136). Much of what we learn from Appian is confirmed by the text of the lex agraria as well as by short passages from other sources. We can see in the surviving parts of the African section of the lex agraria, for example, that reference is indeed made to a commission of 10 men, appointed under a lex Livia. Seven named African communities that had joined the Roman side in the Third Punic War, described as populi leiberei (lex agr. l.76 and 79), do indeed appear to have had their freedom and their territories confirmed.10 Allocations of land in the newly conquered territory were evidently made to deserters (perfugae) from the Carthaginian side, and it seems likely that these will have been the 2200 individuals that came over to the Romans under the command of Himilco Phameas (App. Pun. 108; Livy Per. 50.8). Strabo confirms what Appian says about towns that consistently sided with the Carthaginians being destroyed, naming four such places: Tunis, Neapolis, Clupea, and Neferis (17.3.16). The surviving text of the lex agraria also confirms Appian’s assertion that Utica, which had provided its harbor sites for the Roman invasion fleet, was awarded a large allocation of land by the Xviri (l.81).11 This also corresponds well with what we know from other sources. Strabo writes that Utica was used as a base for Roman operations following the destruction of Carthage (17.3.13). A large number of Italian negotiatores were resident there at the time of the Jugurthine War (112–106 bce, Sall. Iug. 64.5), and the fact that Caesar chose Utica as the place to sell off the African estates he had confiscated from the defeated Pompeian officers in 46 bce (BAfr. 97) indicates that it continued to be an important administrative centre for the Romans. In fact, we know for certain that Utica was the site of the governor’s residence in 82 bce, when the praetor C. Fabius Hadrianus was burned to death there in a building described by Livy as the praetorium (Livy Per. 86).12 Doubts have been raised, however, as to whether or not a praetor was sent out from Rome to Africa on an annual basis from 146 bce onwards. Appian indicates that a Roman magistrate was sent out on a yearly basis following 146 bce (strategos etesios), but there has never been any concrete supporting evidence for this idea in the form of named praetors for Africa for the years 146–106 bce (Pallu de Lessert, 1896; Brennan, 2000: 539–545; Hurlet, 2012: 102–104). The absence of the greater part of Livy’s history for this period means that we are reliant on the chance survival of relevant information in other sources, and any conclusions must remain tentative. Sallust remarks that at the time of the Jugurthine War the Romans were governing all of the Punic cities and the former territory of Carthage through magistrates, but there is no indication of what the previous practice had been (Iug. 19.7). It is this same work by Sallust that provides the only securely attested praetor for Africa between the fall of Carthage and the Social War: one L. Bellienus, who was called from Utica by Marius in 105 bce to form part of a consilium at Cirta (Sall. Iug. 104.1). Building on the work of É. Famerie concerning the lexicon of Appian, D. Gargola has observed that the Alexandrian scholar only used the term strategos etesios in relation to provinces that received regular Roman governors from the senate in his own day. Gargola suggests therefore that Appian may have committed a factual anachronism in dating the origin of this practice to the immediate aftermath of the fall of Carthage. No reference is made to a provincial governor in the African section of the lex agraria of 111 bce. The word provinciam is found in a short phrase isolated between two substantial lacunae at line 55, but the exact sense in which it is used remains unclear. In general, the term “in Africa” is used in the statute when referring to the region (Lintott, 1993: 23; Gargola, 2017: 352–353). Appian states further that both a land tax and a personal tax were imposed upon the population living outside territories declared free. Some stipulations regarding taxation are also covered in the lex agraria. Three main categories of land in Africa are specified: firstly, private land, given to colonists following the abrogation of the lex Rubria, some Carthaginian deserters, and the lands of

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the populi leiberei (free peoples); secondly, private land sold in Rome by the quaestor, which was transferable and inheritable, but subject to taxation (vectigal); and, thirdly, a large proportion of remaining public land that would have continued to be leased out by the censors. Those in possession of taxable land were expected to pay the necessary amounts to the Roman people or to a publicanus (ll. 83 and 86). The law also empowered the magistrates to allocate the lands to the indigenous population, who are referred to as stipendiarii, i.e., tax-paying subjects (ll. 77–78; cf. Cicero, II Ver., 3.12). The stipendiarii were to hold the lands allotted to them iure precario, meaning that in theory it could be redistributed legally at any time (Broughton, 1929: 23 no. 44).13 A number of other inscriptions dating from both the Republican and the Imperial periods make it clear that the territory was divided into a number of vast territorial pagi, each containing numerous subject communities (Aounallah, 2010: 19–27). The inscription that makes the earliest mention of stipendiarii after the lex agraria in Africa names three such pagi (ILLRP 388). It dates to around 60 bce and was found at Utica, which had become the centre for the Roman administration (Broughton, 1951–1952: vol. 2. 184; Zucca, 1996: 1446). It is apparent, therefore, that land in the province of Africa continued to be a source of investment for wealthy Romans and Italians, both landowners and publicani. The pace of the accumulation of land by rich and powerful Italians may have in fact been quickened by the repeal of the lex Rubria and subsequent legislation concerning Roman public land in Africa. We get a hint that this was the case in some of Cicero’s writings from the mid-first century bce. In his defence of the senator M. Caelius Rufus in the mid-first century bce, for example, we learn that the paternal estates of Rufus were in Africa (Cael. 73), and that Rufus visited the province as an aid to the proconsul, in order to become more familiar with the land and its customs. In three of Cicero’s letters he asks the African governor Q. Cornificius to look after the interests of wealthy Roman nobles visiting the province to attend to their affairs (Cic. Fam. 12.21, 27 and 29).

The Colonial Legacy and Ongoing Source Problems There is now an increasing realization that accounts drawn chiefly from the literary and epigraphic sources, similar to the one given above, result in an overly Rome-oriented account. In addition to the general source problems of the Republican period (Lintott, 1994a; Brennan, 2000: 6–11), no extensive literary work by a North African scholar, whether Punic, Mauretanian, or Numidian, survives. Mommsen’s remark that under the Republic Africa “had not a history” of course refers to the fact that Africa was never the subject of a major historical piece of writing for its own sake. Our main information for the region is derived from literary accounts concerning conflicts that either happened to take place in Africa or resulted in the focus moving to Africa when certain military engagements took place there. The large gaps in prosopographical lists of Romans present in North Africa in an official capacity after 146 bce provide an adequate demonstration of this fact (Pallu de Lessert, 1896; Broughton, 1951–1952; Thomasson, 1996; Lassère, 2015: 111–112). Sallust’s Bellum Iugurthinum and the Bellum Africum (Bouvet and Richard, 1997), along with events of the civil war of the 80s, recounted by various authors (e.g., App. B Civ., 1.62; Plut. Pomp., 11; Sert. 9–11), cast only brief glimmers of light on the situation (Lovano, 2002: 93–96). Such literary accounts were, however, written almost exclusively by aristocrats, either Romans or foreigners, who found themselves under the Roman yoke. Consequently, these accounts often contained a high level of sycophancy. How provincial regions such as North Africa were affected by becoming part of the Roman imperial system has proven to be a remarkably durable research topic (Shaw, 1980: 32), but the substantial legacy of earlier approaches also sometimes forms an obstacle to progress. A fascination with the idea that certain conquered peoples might exchange their languages, social norms, and traditions for those of the dominant imperial power, present in some of the earlier writings of European travellers to North Africa (Shaw, 1738), took an even stronger hold in the colonial



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context of the mid-nineteenth to mid-twentieth centuries ce. Discussion of this topic became increasingly reliant on the concept of “Romanization” (Mesnage, 1913: 35–40; Broughton, 1929: 13–46). Conquered peoples were thought to have been brought civilization, advanced agriculture, and urban living through a process of cultural contact instigated by Roman imperialism and conquest. For a long time debate tended to revolve around a rather narrow set of issues, in which the main aim of the endeavor was to assess how many Romans and Italians were present or absent in Africa, and the extent to which “Roman” cultural norms were adopted by the pre-existing population. M.I. Rostovtzeff, for example, argued that the province of Africa had become highly “Romanized” during the Republican period as a result of an intense level of unofficial migration from Italy to Africa, encouraged both by the proscriptions and uncertainty of the civil wars (1957: 35; 317).14 An evident cultural snobbery was present in other accounts, which conversely chose to emphasize the lack of visible cultural transformation (Lacroix, 1863: esp. 375; Gsell, 1928: vol. 7. esp. 107). Following the process of twentieth century decolonization, it has now been clearly demonstrated how such narratives were, and continue to be, inextricably entangled with modern political concerns and with personal prejudice (Fenwick, 2008; Modéran, 2003: 1–23; Mattingly, 2011: 43–72). How best to address the remaining problems associated with the legacy of the colonial period is an ongoing question. The study of the huge corpus of Latin inscriptions from North Africa was, of course, of fundamental importance for the development of new narratives during the colonial period (Shaw, 1980: 32–33). The low number of Latin inscriptions in North Africa, especially prior to 46 bce has often led to the sweeping characterization of the Republican period as bereft of adequate documentation. It would be wrong, however, to think that this body of material has not had great significance in the interpretation of Africa under the Republic. In the mid-twentieth century ce. Badian became the first to use the epigraphic record to trace onomastic relations between Roman citizens resident in North Africa with prominent Romans known to have been active there during the Republic. From this time onwards, Africa has come to be seen not simply as the occasional theater for civil war during the Late Republic, but as a fundamental part of the changing political world of that time, in which Roman aristocrats could draw on vast resources of foreign clientelae (Badian, 1958: ch. 5 and 11).15 After 46 bce Latin inscriptions in Africa became considerably more numerous (Zucca, 1996), and it is interesting to note that in this respect the pace of development in Africa did not differ greatly from that of other regions (Prag, 2013: 338–343). A good number of the inscriptions from the imperial period also have considerable significance for events that must have taken place during Republican times. In certain cases, for example, Latin inscriptions reveal the longevity of certain Punic and Libyan municipal institutions and customs (Belkahia and Di Vita-Evrard, 1995). A significant proportion of this evidence, however, post-dates the destruction of Carthage and this has led some scholars quite reasonably to argue that it may be indicative of a period of new identity creation catalysed by the Roman invasion (Quinn and McCarty, 2015). Indeed, both the Latin inscriptions and those in Punic, neo-Punic, Latino-Punic, Libyan, and Greek can be informative, not just about the multilingualism of Africa, but also about the complex interlayering of personal and regional selfhood. Progress in exploiting the relevant Libyan, Punic, neo-Punic, and Greek inscriptions of the period has, however, been slower than desirable (a handful of Etruscan inscriptions have also been found, see Figure 7.1). The tendency of the various epigraphic corpora to restrict themselves to inscriptions in a single language has also hindered adequate treatment of the relevant epigraphic material in logical chronological brackets (Wilson, 2012: 267–269). The adoption of some post-colonial theory has led to the suggestion that archaeological forms of evidence may have the greatest future potential to rebalance the focus of discussion both towards expressions of non-Roman identity and towards the non-élite sections of the population. The overwhelming focus on visibly “Roman” monuments or imported categories of finds demonstrates, however, that archaeological material has certainly not been free from interpretative and methodological problems originating in the colonial period. Poor stratigraphic control on excavations during much of the twentieth century and a lack of interest in certain categories of evidence

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(human and animal bone, archaeobotanical remains, and handmade ceramics, to name but a few) has made the observation of changes over time harder to observe and has consequently allowed models based on the pre-suppositions of the colonial period to persist for longer than necessary. The extreme rarity of the few published examples of Republican-period deposits from high-quality stratigraphic excavations currently makes them of great significance (Bridoux, 2008b; Kallala and Sanmartí, 2011; Khanoussi and von Rummel, 2012; Ritter and von Rummel, 2015). The majority of the observations offered here are thus provisional and will be subject to alteration as new evidence comes to light and new methods are employed. A specific critique of the Romanization paradigm in the context of North Africa has been conducted recently by J.C. Quinn (2003, 2013), D. Stone (2013), and S. Ardeleanu (2014, 2015). One assertion these scholars all make is that the concept of Romanization, and of a culture historical approach to Punic, Libyan, and Hellenic identities, can be dispensed with. The cultural development of the region can be better understood in the context of the broader social milieu of the Hellenistic Mediterranean (cf. Horden and Purcell, 2000), in which North Africa appears as anything but backward or disconnected, albeit with certain significant climatic and geographical challenges to fluid intercontinental communication (Shaw, 2003). However, the narrow dichotomy between Roman and native still exists in many current works, providing ample opportunity for old categories of evidence to be grafted on to new interpretative frameworks. Clear evidence against the idea of ethnic segregation in the religious and funerary topography of urban centers has begun to be demonstrated (Ritter, 2006; Ardeleanu, 2015: 582), and further debate over the complexities of continuity and change in the archaeology of death and burial look set to intensify further (Stone, 2007; McCarty, 2012–2013; Pasa, 2012: 464–580; BénichouSafar, 2013; Ardeleanu, 2014: 478; D’Andrea, 2014a: 294, 2014b: 497). It has now been demonstrated that urbanism in North Africa was not originally a coastal phenomenon imported by Phoenician settlers (Toutain, 1912), but rather a symbiotic relation, with coastal towns developing during the course of the first millennium bce in communication with pre-existing inland centres (Kallala and Sanmartí, 2011; Kallala et al., 2014). By the late Hellenistic period architectural forms from many regions intermingled with local norms, which were already the result of centuries of cultural fusion (Ferchiou, 2011; Quinn, 2013: 186–193; Ardeleanu, 2015: 583). Within this context artistic influences from the Italian peninsula, such as temples raised on podia, were neither dominant nor entirely absent during the second and first centuries bce, but took their place within the broader multicultural sphere of the Hellenistic Mediterranean (Quinn, 2003: 15–16; Ksouri, 2012: 257–259; Ardeleanu, 2015: 583; 2021). This fits well with the literary and epigraphic evidence for the participation of the Carthaginians and Numidian royalty in the broader political world beyond North Africa (Mattingly, 1997: 140; Quinn, 2013: 193–195). Archaeological material is also beginning to play an increasing role in improving our understanding of inter-regional connectivity and networks of trade and redistribution. From around the time of the Second Punic War, for example, a number of North African towns, mainly along the coastline, began to receive Campanian black gloss wares (Bridoux, 2005, 2008b, 2009). During the same period we can note the commencement of the minting of coins in Numidia and Mauretania (Alexandropoulos, 2007: 251–253 and 289–290, 2011; Callegarin, 2008: 306). Both of these phenomena could be viewed as indications of the breaking up of Carthaginian hegemony in the region. More generally, this appears to have been the beginning of a process of greater integration of North Africa into the sphere of trade and exchange in the western Mediterranean. Indeed, during the Late Republic, amphorae from Italy, the Iberian peninsula, Sardinia, and the Balearic islands reached even some of the inland sites of North Africa during the second and first centuries bce (Bonifay 2013: 539), a pattern of distribution that appears to be mostly absent during the African economic boom of the High Empire. Ceramic imports to parts of Numidia and Mauretania can be demonstrated not only from the broader Mediterranean region, but also from the region of Carthage itself (Broise and Thébert, 1993: 153–218; Bussière, 1995: 275–276; Kallala and Sanmartí, 2011: 37; Khanoussi and von Rummel, 2012: 205–210; Bridoux, 2014). Our understanding of African “imitation” black-glossed



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wares is only embryonic (Bridoux, 2008a), but a significant level of economic continuity in the form of amphora production in this region has recently been placed beyond doubt (Freed, 1998: 33–35; Anastasi and Leitch, 2012; Ben Jerbania, 2013: 25; Capelli and Contino, 2013; Bonifay et al., 2015). Both van de Werff 2 and the newly designated “Africana antica” amphora types, known to have been produced in this zone, have been found in Mediterranean shipwrecks of the Republican period associated with Italian amphora forms Lamboglia 2 and Dressel 1 (Callegarin, 2005: 178; Fontana et al., 2009: 277; Ben Jerbania, 2013: 189). Ongoing doctoral research by D. Beck has also recently shown that exports of Numidian marble to south-central Italy increased significantly from the mid-second century bce onwards (Beck, in progress; von Rummel et al., 2016: 103–104). An interesting contrast in the use of this marble has been noted between North Africa, where it has chiefly been noted in monumental, sacred, and funerary architecture (Ardeleanu, 2018), and Italy, where it appears to have been mostly used for pavements, and possibly for wall cladding, in the urban and rural domiciles of the Roman aristocracy. This distinction begins to break down only in the second half of the first century bce, when Numidian marble began to be used in a number of Italian temples. Whether or not there is a connection here between this altered usage and the shift in the control of the quarries, from the Numidian kings to Roman aristocrats and publicani, is interesting to speculate upon.

Conclusion A wide variety of sources, literary, archaeological, and epigraphic, must therefore be consulted in order to reconstruct a broad outline of the situation in Africa following the destruction of Carthage in 146 bce. A research bias towards Rome, produced by more than a century-and-a-half of privileging the study of Latin inscriptions, Roman towns, shrines, and military camps, and of ceramic fineware imports from Italy, can begin to be overturned, but it will take a cross-disciplinary approach and a combined effort from many scholars to continue to move in a positive direction. One also has to be careful that in the desire to give voice to the colonized one does not minimize, or explain away, many of the important pieces of evidence that we do possess for Roman i­ ntervention in North Africa during this period. Whilst we cannot be certain that Africa became a provincia immediately following 146 bce, in the sense of an annual command given to a Roman praetor, there is no doubt that the region was integrated into Rome’s imperial structures from very early on and that it received a significant number of colonists. High-quality stratigraphic excavation alongside careful finds recovery and quantification is needed, with a focus on previously underexploited categories of evidence. A gradual improvement in the understanding of the various available categories of evidence will no doubt help to replace the old narrative model, which assumed that economic decline following the fall of Carthage had been exacerbated further by the war with Jugurtha (Hobson, 2016). In its stead come new questions concerning the effects of Roman imperialism on the identity and continuity of life of the existing population. As we have seen, there are already signs that a greater level of economic vitality existed in the region following Carthage’s destruction than was once allowed for.

NOTES 1 AE 1963: 96 = AE 2010: 1791. 2 Plin. HN, 5.25. The precise date of this occurrence is disputed. Res Gestae (24.2), Strabo (17.3.25), and Dio Cass. (53.12.4-7), taken together, imply a date for unification before 35 bce. D. Fishwick has argued in a series of articles that this would have taken place during the governorship of Lepidus in 40–36 bce (Fishwick and Shaw, 1977; Fishwick, 1993, 1994, 1996, 2013), while A. Dalla Rosa (2005) has argued for the date of 43 bce.

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3 4 5 6 7

Until they were barred from doing so by the lex Visellia of 24 ce (Cod. Iust. 9.21.1). See Hobson (2016) for a more detailed discussion of this issue. Further evidence is discussed in Hobson (2015: 46–49). Absolute certainty about the date is not possible (Last, 1932). Plutarch (Caius Gracchus, 9.1–2) states that Gracchus intended to draw the colonists from the most respectable of citizens. 8 Cicero Leg. Agr., 2.32. 9 There is disagreement over the use to which the Latin word uenire was used in the lex agraria of 111 bce. M. Crawford’s recent publication of the law in Roman Statutes interprets it to mean “leasing out,” and consequently does not believe that public land had been sold to become ager priuatus uestigalisque before 111 bce (Crawford, 1996: 56–57). The previous view that earlier genuine sales are being referred to was maintained by Mommsen, A. Lintott, and others, and is most recently supported by L. De Ligt (2001: 187–188; 2003: 152). 10 l.79: “populorum leiber(o)rum Vticensium H[adrumetinorum T]arhpsitanorum Leptitanorum Aqui(l) litanorum Vsalitanorum Teu(d)alensium” (Crawford, 1996: 121). 11 According to Appian, this included all of the land between Hippo Diarrhytus to the north and Carthage to the south. 12 Cic. II Verr., 1.27.70; Val. Max. 9.3; Oros. 5.20.3; cf. Badian, 1958: 139; Haensch, 1997. 13 The law also makes provision for compensation to be provided should allocated stipendiary lands be distributed to others. 14 The level of Italian migration during the Republic remains difficult to judge on the strength of the surviving evidence (Heitland, 1918: 38; Frank, 1926; Rostovtzeff, 1957: 549 no. 19; 554 no. 32; 683 no. 74; Wilson, 1966: 42–54; Hobson, 2015: 44–48. 15 See the recent reappraisal of this methodology in Hurlet (2015).

FURTHER READING The first six chapters of Africa, Quasi Roma (2015) by J.-M. Lassère, represent the definitive statement on North Africa up to the Augustan Age. A number of works by A. Lintott (1992; 1993; 1994a; 1994b: 27–31) provide an excellent introduction to the process of provincialization in North Africa and other areas of the empire in the context of the evolving organizational structures of the Roman Republic. Students new to the subject need to be aware of a significant disagreement over the dating of one of the sources used by the Elder Pliny in his description of Africa. The argument supported by B. Shaw in a brilliant article published in 1981 was not followed by the French scholar J. Desanges in the most recent translation of Book V of the Natural History (2003). This issue effects all the early scholarly literature concerning early municipal development in Africa and much of the recent work written in the French language, including the study presented by the Tunisian scholar S. Aounallah (2010).

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PART III 

The Roman Period (146 BCE–439 CE)

CHAPTER 8

African Rome. The City of Carthage from its Roman (Re-)foundation to the End of the Byzantine Period Ralf Bockmann

Introduction Since its foundation in the early first millennium bce, Carthage has never really vanished from history, not even after its destruction at the end of the Third Punic War (146 bce). In fact, it rose again to become the second city of the Roman western Mediterranean, a major cultural, economic, and administrative center and, successively, the seat of the Roman proconsuls of Africa, Vandal kings, and Byzantine praetorian prefects. It was called “the African Rome” by Salvian of Marseille around the middle of the fifth century ce (Salv. De gub. dei 7.16.67). Although Carthage lost its dominant position in the western Mediterranean towards the end of the seventh century, after which the settlement disintegrated into few small nuclei over the course of time, some of its ruins continued to impress travelers and an image of Carthage based on classical texts persisted through the centuries. Carthage’s location in the center of the Mediterranean facilitated maritime trade in all directions. It was particularly close to Sicily, Italy, and Rome, all of which figured importantly in its history (see also Fumadó Ortega, Chapter 6). Located on a peninsula overlooking the Gulf of Tunis, bordered to the south by a shallow lagoon, and rising to a promontory to the north, Carthage’s only landward exposure was to the west. The peninsula of Carthage likewise offered a number of well-protected locations for harborage. It is therefore hardly surprising that, even after the Roman destruction of the city, a settlement continued on the site and that a new city, Roman Carthage, would arise on the site of its Punic predecessor.

Archaeological Research at Carthage For centuries after the end of the Byzantine period, the site of Carthage was predominantly agricultural land, with very little of its archaeological heritage still visible owing to centuries of heavy spoilation. It was only in the nineteenth century that it began to attract renewed historical and political interest. The Bey of Tunis permitted the French to construct a building on the Byrsa A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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commemorating King Louis IX (who had died at Carthage in 1270, leading a crusade to Tunis), and eventually in 1890 the cathedral of St. Louis was inaugurated on the site. The monastery adjacent to the cathedral became the seat of the Pères Blancs (White Fathers), French missionaries (the monastery today serves as the National Museum of Carthage). Sustained archaeological exploration of Carthage began in the nineteenth century, largely under the authority of the White Fathers. Their primary concern was in recovering the remains of Christian Carthage, though they were also interested in the history and archaeology of Carthage in general, including the Punic period. The idea of a Christian French Carthage was born, and the church started buying land that was later sold to private owners, mostly wealthy Tunisians, circumstances that subsequently impeded heritage protection efforts on the site. Carthage became a favorite retreat for the upper class of Tunis over time, and with Habib Bourguiba, Tunisia’s first president, and the installation of the presidential palace at Carthage, followed by several ministries and foreign embassies, the historical heritage of Carthage as a political center was reappropriated as part of the country’s independence from France in 1956 (Altekamp and Khechen, 2013: 478). However, its reputation as a Tunis suburb for the rich and powerful led to massive unchecked development that has had a serious negative effect on the site of the ancient city (Altekamp and Khechen, 2013: 486–488). It was not until the UNESCO “Save Carthage” mission, formed in 1972 in response to the threat to the site, that the first systematic, modern scientific exploration of ancient Carthage commenced (Ennabli, 1992). This mission resulted in the addition of Carthage to the World Heritage List in 1979, despite the fact that Carthage remains a highly contested space of political power, private interests, and tourism.

Post-Punic Carthage and Roman Colonization The century between the destruction of Carthage 146 bce and its (re-)foundation as a Roman colonia is a period not well attested in the archaeological record. Although the Roman victory was famously portrayed as involving the total annihilation of the city, the reality seems to have been a little different (Ridley, 1986; Stevens, 1988). While the majority of public buildings were destroyed and the city burned (most clearly visible today in the remains of the Late Punic domestic quarter excavated on the Byrsa and in the ship sheds in the circular harbor), there are also clear indications in the ceramic record that at least some parts of the city continued to be occupied and that Punic amphora forms continued to be produced (Ben Jerbania, 2013; Flügel et al., 2018: 393). It thus seems safe to assume some form of continuity of settlement and activities at the site after 146 bce, if not predominantly among the ruins of the Punic city, then at least in the broader area. Initial Roman colonization efforts on the site began less than two decades after the Third Punic war with the establishment of Colonia Iunonia Karthago by Gaius Gracchus in 123/121 bce, the first colony outside the Italian Peninsula. It does not appear to have been established directly on top of the Punic city, which was still under a curse, but next to it, and involved 6000 colonists (App. BC 1.24; Lassère, 2015: 83–85). This colonization effort was not long lasting, however, and is attested by a cippus dating to 120 bce found in the region of La Malga to the northwest of Carthage and funerary inscriptions of Greek freedmen dating to the Republican period found in the same area (Flügel et al., 2018: 378). Following the end of the civil war, Caesar’s reorganization of Roman Africa seems to have included the refoundation of the colony at Carthage, but it ended with his death in 44 bce (Ibba, 2012: 32–34). It is with Augustus that the Roman colony of Carthage was finally (re-)dedicated in 29 bce as Colonia Iulia Concordia Karthago. This time, a new city was constructed on top of the ruins of its Punic predecessor. The Augustan foundation was a massive undertaking whose wide-ranging urbanization works are impressively illustrated on the Byrsa hill, the topographical and symbolic center of Carthage where the important Punic temple of Eshmoun had been located. The Byrsa was transformed into a vast Roman civic center, with a platform measuring probably up to 330 × 220 m, designed to support an array



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of public buildings (see later). The platform, the western and northern extremities of which are neither well preserved nor studied, was supported by terracing that buried a Late Punic domestic quarter on the south-eastern side of the Byrsa. The terrace wall on its southern side comprised layers of amphorae filled with earth, dated on the basis of their tituli picti to between 43 and 15 bce, indicating that food was imported from Italy in large quantities (Flügel et al., 2018: 361–362, 381–382). The colossal levelling work of the Augustan period is documented throughout the site by a massive archeological stratum, between 2 and 4 m thick, consisting of fire debris mixed with sand from the destruction horizon of 146 bce, forming a characteristic red to orange coloring. Before this fill was brought in, the Punic ruins were carefully examined for their ability to sustain the foundations for the Roman buildings and reinforced or entirely removed when not deemed fit. During this process, many building blocks of the characteristic yellow “El Haouaria” sandstone from the Punic quarry on the Cape Bon peninsula on the opposite side of the gulf were removed and reused in Roman buildings. This careful process of evaluating for reuse the existing Punic building stock has been documented, for example, in the Rue Ibn Chabâat site in central Carthage between the Byrsa and the sea, adjacent to the Roman decumanus maximus. Here, temporary working sites of the Augustan period were recorded, where the extracted but non-reusable Punic building blocks were covered by opus caementitium foundations of the Roman insula, whose ground level was several meters above the level of the temporary working site (Flügel et al., 2018: 364–368). A comparable discovery was made further north under the later decumanus maxinus where an early Roman workshop, built directly on late Punic structures and covered by the characteristic stratum of the Augustan levelling works, had apparently produced lime mortar for the early Roman building efforts (Docter et al., 2007: 238–240). There can be no doubt that the massive effort to build the Roman colony of the Augustan period on the ruins of Punic Carthage required labor that included not only colonists but a locally recruited workforce (Flügel et al., 2018: 382). Engineering tasks were also likely carried out by specialists drawn from the legio III Augusta stationed in Africa from 30 bce. The main measuring point for the urban and rural cadastration, the groma, surely a task for a military engineer, was located on the Byrsa (Saumagne, 1924). An inscription found there (the exact context is not known) commemorates two aediles responsible for the establishment of the orthogonal street system (Ben Abdallah and Ladjimi Sebaï, 2011: 83–84, no. 114; Fügel et al., 2018: 370). The grid comprised four roughly equal urban centuriae, covering a total of approximately 250  ha, subdivided into regular insulae between a rectangular street grid that has been attested archaeologically throughout the city (Wightman, 1980; Gros, 1990). The streets were not completely paved in all centuriae at the outset: the north-eastern part of town, for example, was not developed until the later Roman period (see later), and in some cases, the actual urban limits also changed. This was the case with the circus that pushed the original city limits further south (Bockmann et al., 2018, 2020). The rural and urban cadastration share the same topographical center of reference, the groma point on the Byrsa, which has sometimes been taken as evidence for the contemporaneity of origin of both systems (Gros, 1990; Rakob, 2000; Flügel et al., 2018: 380). However, it is possible that the rural system pre-dated the urban one, which was simply aligned with the former in the Augustan period. The Byrsa comprised, on its eastern side, a tripartite ensemble that included the forum and public basilica adjacent to a second large courtyard with porticoes and a large temple, and a third, narrower, square to the south. Inscriptions indicate that the Byrsa also contained other temples, arches, and the curia (Ladjimi Sebaï, 2005). The old Punic Byrsa was clearly transformed into a formidable center of a Roman colony. Further evidence on the foundation of Roman Carthage comes from a speech by Tertullian (De Pallio 1.1–3), in which he recapitulates the Roman history of Carthage within the context of the self-perceptions of the Carthaginian elites in the Severan period: You, who have always been leaders of Africa, men of Carthage, noble of old and blessed today, I am glad that you live in such happy times that you can find both the time and the pleasure of censuring clothing! This is the sort of pursuit of peace and plenty. All is well on the part of the empire and on the part of the

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Ralf Bockmann sky… To you, however, after the benefit of injustice, as to people who lost their antiquity but not their position, after the foul omens of Gracchus and the violent mockery by Lepidus, the threefold altars of Pompeius and the long delays of Caesar, when Statilius Taurus had erected your walls and Sentius Saturninus had solemnly inaugurated them, and since concord was pleasing, to you the toga was offered. (Trans: Hunink, 2005 Tertullian)

Tertullian offers an interesting picture of continuity between Punic and Roman Carthage and of the Carthaginians as “new Romans,” having been offered the toga as a symbol of romanitas, following a defeat that turned out to be beneficial. His reference to the roles of Gracchus, Lepidus, Pompey, “the long delays of” Caesar, Statilius Taurus (Proconsul of Africa in 35–34 bce), and Sentius Saturninus (Proconsul between 17 and 9 bce) alludes to the long process of Carthage’s refoundation, only completed by Augustus. Significantly, the “solemn inauguration” under Saturninus concurs with the dating evidence from the amphorae of the Byrsa terracing wall. In spite of the massive leveling and Roman redevelopment of the Punic city, discussed earlier, there were some noticeable continuities. As already noted, many of the limestone blocks from the quarries at El Haouraria were reused in Roman buildings. The old building technique, which used orthostats made of stone blocks, between which small stones were inserted, was likewise retained, a building technique known as opus africanum. Though less visible, many Punic cisterns were reused in the Roman city. In the eastern part of the city, the orientation of the Roman urban cadastration took up the orientation of the Punic settlement system as established in the fifth century bce. The passage by Tertullian cited above attests to an awareness of the pre-Roman past of Carthage that was very much alive among the educated upper class of the city, and seems to have been crucial to local identity.

Governing Carthage and Proconsular Africa As a colonia, Carthage had the usual Roman civic governing body with yearly elected magistrates recruited from the city’s ordo, drawn from its social and economic elite. The sums (summa honoraria) paid on entering city magistracies, in addition to expected gifts and donations (policitatio) to the city and its population, were considerably higher in Carthage than in other cities of Roman Africa (Duncan-Jones, 1962: 67–68, 1982: 83–84; Schöllgen, 1984: 129–136; Hellström, 2020a: 81). This reflects Carthage’s importance after it had replaced Utica as capital of the Roman province, and especially after the economic development of the pertica Carthaginiensium, an administrative area under Carthaginian administration extending over the northern part of Africa Proconsularis, had come into full swing by the second century ce (Scheding, 2020). The pertica comprised over 80 pagi, settlements, or in some cases only parts of settlements that depended directly on Carthage (the most famous example is Thugga, which consisted of a pagus and a civitas; see Poinssot, 1962). Their citizens held Carthaginian citizenship and their revenues belonged to the capital. Membership in Carthage’s ordo was highly desirable and open to candidates from the pertica who had the means to buy themselves into the capital’s leading circles (Hellström, 2020a: 79–85). Many leading families in small towns lacked the wealth and status to become members of the Carthaginian elite, but this did not prevent some from investing their economic surpluses in their own communities as benefactors (Hellström, 2020a, 2020b; Scheding, 2020). The close relationship of Carthage’s elites with the cities of central North Africa also after the breakup of the pertica in the third century ce and the continuous attractiveness and importance of its ordo is well attested in inscriptions (Hugoniot, 2006). Africa was a senatorial province ruled by an annually appointed proconsul (see Carlsen, Chapter 9). The proconsul was responsible for levying taxes in monetary form as well as in kind, as a contribution to the annona system that supplied mainly the city of Rome with basic commodities. Furthermore, the proconsul was responsible for provincial finances and jurisdiction. For these tasks



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he had a staff of imperial officials at his disposal, forming a second important governing body at Carthage, independent of the municipal government with imperial interests and tasks as its priority. From the first century, Carthage hosted an urban cohort under the proconsul’s command, first the cohors XIII and later the cohors I urbana, both attested through burial inscriptions (Bérard, 1991). The urban cohort’s primary role was to maintain civic order. Attempts to locate the camp of the cohort at Borj Jedid, an elevated position and the site of a later Ottoman fortress, remain unproven (Duval et al., 1979: 79–86). More recently it has been suggested that the camp was located in the southwestern part of the city, on the basis of limited archaeological evidence and topographical considerations (Evans, 2020: 85–87). Carthage was also home to a procuratorial administration, responsible for the emperor’s possessions in the province and for his private property (res privata). This included imperial estates, which were extensive in Africa. Over 900 epitaphs from the cemeteries of the officiales at Bir elZeitoun and Bir el-Jebbana in the La Malga area, belonging predominantly to members of the procuratorial administration who died in the first and second centuries ce, present valuable insight into this group (Lassère, 1973: 25–27; Carlsen 2020a, 2020b). The officiales buried here belonged to the lower and medium ranks of this circle, which seems to have formed a close-knit community of imperial slaves and freedmen in Carthage, including not only a wide range of administrative officers but also priests, bakers, and the postal service for communication with the estates (Schöllgen, 1984: 104–106; Carlsen 2020a: 15–19).

The Topography and Monuments of Roman Carthage Roman Carthage’s public monuments formed an impressive ensemble and far exceeded similar buildings in other African cities in size and decoration. In many cases they were only surpassed by their models in Rome itself, underlining Salvian’s reference to Carthage as African Rome. Many of these monuments no longer survive and have not been the subject of modern excavations. Indeed, many of these structures were denuded of their valuable building materials before the end of Antiquity and in the following centuries. The greatest continuity from Punic to Roman Carthage was in the religious sphere. The Byrsa was the municipal and religious heart of the city. The large porticoed peristyle temple facing east on the southeastern square is often attributed to Asclepius, based on a number of inscriptions. It was a continuation of the Punic cult of Eshmoun (Ladjimi Sebaï, 2005: 225–235, with a general plan and proposed identification of the temple, though none of the inscriptions securely link the temple to Asclepius). The Byrsa was also the site of the capitol, presumably at the western end of the forum, opposite the public basilica (Rives, 1995: 40–41; Ladjimi Sebaï, 2005: 260–266). During the second century ce, an unidentified smaller temple was built on the southern, narrow esplanade. An inscription also attests to the cult of Concordia on the Byrsa, which would fit the ideological program of the Julian colony foundation (Ladjimi Sebaï, 2005: 118–120, no. 13). Finally, a temple to the gens Augusta was situated in a prominent position at the end of the eastern part of the decumanus maximus at the foot of the Byrsa (Ladjimi Sebaï, 2005: 271–275). Two other major sanctuaries in the city indicate continuity with Punic religious traditions. The first, a temple to Ceres/Cereres, the goddess of agriculture, was situated in an elevated position north of the city overlooking the sea, where formerly the Punic/Greek Demeter and Kore have been venerated (Ennabli, 2020: 185). A second temple was built on the site of the Tophet, one of the oldest and most important Punic sanctuaries (also a burial site) dedicated mainly to Tanit and Baal. The precise location of the temple was probably on the Koudiat el-Hobsia, a small hill overlooking the harbors. Hurst (Hurst et al., 1999) suggested that this temple was associated with Juno Caelestis, and thus was a continuation of the cult of Tanit in the area, based on a literary description of this famously large and terraced sanctuary of the goddess in Roman Carthage. He also posited the existence of a lesser temple on a lower terrace to Saturn (the Roman continuation of Baal) on the

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basis of stelae dedicated to Saturn and part of a statue of the god found at this location (Hurst et al., 1999: 33–43). Wilson (2001: 200) proposed, however, that the hilltop sanctuary might have been the temple of Saturn. A third, small temple was situated on the island within the circular harbor, adjacent to an octagonal building and surrounded by a circular porticus, constructed in the second century ce (see Hurst, 1992: 85–89 for a summary). The harbors were an area of functional continuity from the Punic to the Roman period, with some important changes, above all the cessation of its military function. The island was accessible via a permanent bridge that had not existed in Punic times. Surrounding the circular harbor (the north side has been excavated) were commercial establishments with various functions, among others metal and bone working and milling, but also dyeing and other textile-related crafts (Hurst, 1994). The rectangular harbor also continued its commercial function, but its basin changed form to a more favorable elongated hexagonal shape beginning in the early to mid-second century, allowing more mooring space for ships (Stager, 1992: 76). The Carthaginian harbors were protected from wind and currents by moles to the east (in the so-called “quadrilateral of Falbe,” a structure today submerged due to the rise of sea levels since Antiquity). Most of these protective installations also provided additional mooring space for smaller boats outside the harbor basins, probably dating to the Roman period (Yorke and Little, 1975: 94–98, 1976: 176). It seems reasonable to assume that during the early Roman period, the offices of the annona were located in the harbor. The Carthaginian navicularii (the sea merchants) involved in transporting the annonae were represented at Ostia on the “piazzale delle corporazioni,” where they donated a mosaic showing two ships with an inscription (CIL XIV 4549, 18; photo in Aounallah and Mastino, 2018: 263). An oft-cited passage in the Historia Augusta (HA. Commodus 17.7, Pavis d’Esturac, 1974) referring to the organization of an African fleet by Commodus at the end of the second century has been cited in support of the hypothesis that the grain supply to Rome was expanded or reformed at this time, but this is probably a transmission error by the late antique author of the Life of Commodus in the Historia Augusta who may have inadvertently linked Africa’s briefly existing war fleet of the late second and early third centuries ce with the grain shipments (Pavis d’Esturac, 1974: 405–408). The circular harbor was also involved in the repackaging of olive oil deliveries from the interior from the inland intended for annona shipments in the fourth century ce (Peña, 1998). Carthage’s maritime trade and its function as a transit point between Africa’s production and the Mediterranean was a major factor behind the wealth of the city’s inhabitants, who together with imperial bureaucrats and political office holders contributed greatly to its embellishment. The appearance and extension of the harbors of Roman Carthage with two substantial basins and surrounding structures covering a larger part of the southeastern city quarter, together with the location of an important terraced sanctuary in the area, continued the religious affiliation of the harbor region with the Punic tophet. The theater, built into the slope of the so-called Odeon hill (see later on the odeon) to the northeast of the Byrsa, is probably of Augustan date by virtue of its rather strict Vitruvian plan, and thus the oldest of the monuments dedicated to public entertainment (Ros, 1996: 483). Around the middle of the second century ce, the theater underwent a substantial renovation that included not only a new scaenae frons and embellishment in both architectural decoration and sculptures, but also an enlargement of its capacity to some 11,000 spectators (Ros, 1996: 481). Two other important monuments, the amphitheater and circus, were situated in the southwestern city quarter. The amphitheater probably belongs to the late first or early second century ce; a terminus ante quem is provided by an inscription referring to games held between 133 and 139 (Bomgardner, 1989: 97). Both monuments underwent considerable later refurbishments and seem to have a similarly long history extending into the sixth century (see later). The amphitheater’s structure remained impressive long after the end of Antiquity: el-Bekri in the eleventh century mentions it, and el-Idrisi in the twelfth century describes its remains in more detail, even if his description is puzzling (Bomgardner, 1989: 94; Mahfoudh and Altekamp, 2019: 101, 105). The amphitheater is badly preserved and was subjected to undocumented restorations following excavations by the White Fathers in the early twentieth century to commemorate the martyrium of



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Perpetua and Felicitas on the site (see later and Bomgardner, 1989: 95). It has a substructure of tunnels and rooms, and is unparalleled in Africa in the sophistication of its design and size with an estimated capacity of 30,000 spectators (Bomgardner, 1989: 101). The circus has a similar foundation chronology to the amphitheater, but more details are known thanks to more recent work beginning with a geo-electric survey by the Polish mission in the Save Carthage campaign (Iciek and Hensel, 1974), followed by an American excavation in the 1980s (Humphrey, 1988) and, most recently, by a Tunisian–German project focused on urban development in this part of the ancient city, now increasingly threatened by modern development (Bockmann et al., 2018, 2020). In the first century ce, the area was still used as a necropolis (also identified as the “Yasmina necropolis,” see later), and was potentially the previous location of a suburban villa (Bockmann et al., 2018: 181, 2020: 71). The southern suburban area of Carthage thus appears similar to the western suburban area, where a villa and bath were situated near the cemeteries of the officiales (Rossiter, 1998; Rossiter and Pennefather-O’Brien, 2020). In both cases, urban development was facilitated by the prolongation of the main road axes, the southern kardo maximus and the western decumanus maximus, not unlike the pattern found at Rome along its important suburban roads. Whereas the western suburban area remained structurally unchanged, in the southern suburb the circus replaced earlier Roman structures dating to the late first century. This included the erection of the middle barrier, the spina, and spectator seating (cavea) and, towards the middle of the second century, the construction of the arena floor over the foundations of earlier mausoleums (Bockmann et al., 2020: 61, 66, 71). The circus underwent a further major restructuring of its northern cavea in the late second or early third century, when new pillars extended the building’s depth and seating capacity and elements of the architectural decoration were added, along with a colonnade above the seating area (Bockmann et al., 2020: 63–69). The last of the large public entertainment buildings to be built was the odeon. The structure was almost as large as the neighboring theater, and included an auditorium measuring c. 50 m in diameter. It was identified by an inscription and first excavated in the early twentieth century. A collection of sculptures, inscriptions, and other finds had been stacked in two cisterns under the stage in Late Antiquity (Ennabli, 2020: 135). Although there is no stratigraphic dating evidence confirming it, the odeon seems to have been built when the Pythian games were awarded to Carthage under Septimius Severus in the early third century, for which a closed auditorium was essential for the performance of musical competitions (Tert., Scorpiace 61.2–3 and De resurr. carnis 42.8). Public monumental architecture reached completion with the inauguration of the large bath complex by the sea, the so-called Antonine baths, and the great aqueduct supplying it with a sufficient and permanent flow of water, originating in the Zaghouan mountains c. 60 km southeast of the city (see later). The complex, designed in the style of the imperial baths at Rome, was only superseded in size by its templates in the capital. Two inscriptions dating to 145–161 (and more probably 157–161) and to 162 attest to the complex’s construction in the time of Antoninus Pius (Lézine, 1968; Thébert, 2003: 141). These relatively well-preserved baths represent one of the iconic monuments of Carthage. The baths extended over the space of more than six insulae, with its natatio facing directly on to the sea. Symmetrical in plan, it included a large frigidarium covering over 1000 m2 in the center, two palestrae on the sides, and two symmetrical circuits each with five warm or hot bathing areas (Lézine, 1968: 1–77; Thébert, 2003: 141–143). The baths were supplied by their own cistern complex directly to the north at Bordj Jedid (the cisterns are still in use today, almost unaltered, supplying water to the presidential palace gardens). The Bordj Jedid cisterns have a capacity of 20,000  m3 and were most likely fed through an underground branch supplied by the Zaghouan aqueduct (Wilson, 1998: 81–84), which was undoubtedly constructed in large part to serve the baths and other hydraulic amenities worthy of the second city of the western Mediterranean. The Antonine baths have been associated with two events important for the urban development of Carthage briefly recorded in the Historia Augusta: Hadrian’s visit in 128 ce (HA, Hadr. 13.4) and the “great fire” of the reign of Antoninus Pius (HA, Ant. Pius 9.2). Hadrian is credited with

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the initiation of the water supply for Carthage via the aqueduct, which allegedly enabled the construction of the massive cisterns of La Malga, where the aqueduct entered the city (see later), and the Antonine Baths. The assumption that Hadrian inaugurated the project of the great aqueduct is not supported by textual, epigraphic, or archaeological evidence. On the contrary, the architectural decoration of the temple of the source at Zaghouan has been tentatively dated to the 150s ce, though this does not exclude the possibility that the project originated under Hadrian (Rakob, 1974: 70). A similar problem of chronology occurs with the dating of the cisterns of La Malga at the western end of the city, where the aqueduct entered the city. The cisterns consist of 15 long chambers and a transverse access chamber, measuring over 130  ×  102  m, with a total capacity of 51,000 m3 (Wilson, 1998; Baklouti, 2003, 2008; Di Stefano, 2009; see Baklouti, 2019 for a recent study of another cistern complex in the vicinity). The capacity of the Zaghouan aqueduct has been estimated at 32,000 m3 of water per day (Rakob, 1974: 51). The size of the cisterns therefore seems reasonable for the aqueduct’s capacity, though the cisterns appear to predate the latter, making it unclear where the water to fill them may have originally derived (Wilson, 1998: 77; Di Stefano, 2009: 151). The great fire is also a matter of controversy. While it is often seen as the stimulus behind the large public buildings constructed in the second half of the second century ce (e.g., Ibba, 2018: 261; Scheding, 2019: 45), the passage in question raises the possibility that it only damaged the forum: “The following misfortunes and prodigies occured in his reign: …, and the forum of Carthage also burned,” (HA Antoninus Pius 9.1–3; transl. Magie, 1932). If we assume that the text was referring to the Augustan forum of Carthage on the Byrsa, it would correspond with archaeological and epigraphic evidence indicating a comprehensive program of restoration and expansion in the Antonine period, specifically between 145 and 170, that included the restoration of the public basilica and the peripteral temple and its porticoes, and the construction of another, smaller temple on the southern terrace of the Byrsa as well as an arch with statues of victoria (Gros, 1985: 141–147; Ladjimi Sebaï, 2005: 297–298). Whether the fire affected other public monuments is less clear, as the time span for renovations extends over a greater period. That a great fire took place in Carthage around the middle of the second century is also indicated by Aurelius Victor, who assigns restoration work associated with it to Marcus Aurelius (Aur. Vict., Caes. 16.12). In sum, while there is little doubt that the mid-second to early third centuries was a period of significant monumental building activity, we should be cautious to trace too much of it to the fire. With the completion of the public monuments of the second and early third centuries, the Colonia Iulia Concordia Karthago acquired a distinctive appearance suggestive of a carefully orchestrated placement of representative public buildings (see Figure 8.1). Whereas the southeastern part of the city continued to be dominated by the ports, the southwestern sector contained the two largest public entertainment buildings, the amphitheater and the circus. This surely made sense from a logistic and topographical point of view. The southwestern part of the city was a relatively large and flat plain (most clearly reflected in the circus’ construction within a natural depression) facilitating circulation and rendering the most accessible part of the city from the surrounding countryside. By contrast, the northern half of Carthage occupied higher and hillier terrain for structures such as the theater and odeon. This same area provided expansive views over the Gulf of Tunis, making it a preferred spot for elite housing as well (see later). Situated above everything and visible from all parts of the city was the Byrsa with its temples, basilica, arches, porticoes, and other buildings. On all three sides from which the city was approached, its representative architecture stood paramount. For those arriving by sea, the city presented the Antonine baths and the harbors, connected by a porticoed seafront often called Carthage’s “lungomare” in modern literature (Ennabli, 2020: 274). Entering from the south by both land and sea, travelers would observe the long side of the circus, visible for some 600 m by an uninterrupted arcaded architecture, perpendicular to the suburban continuation of the kardo maximus. From the west, one could see the amphitheater, the aqueduct, and the gigantic cisterns on the other side of the decumanus



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Figure 8.1  Urban layout of Carthage and location of its main monuments at the time of the Byzantine period. © DAI Rome, R. Bockmann, and M. Menzel on the basis of L. Ennabli; first published in Bockmann, 2019: 78.

maximus. From all sides, Carthage presented itself as the first city of Africa with all the monuments and amenities that defined a major Roman city. Picard (1965: 14) suggested a population for Carthage of between 100,000 and 300,000 inhabitants based on its size, but this is little more than guesswork. It was doubtless the largest city in Africa and among the largest in the empire, a position it retained at least through the late Roman period. The Roman cemeteries located outside the city to the north, west, and south might have told us more about the city’s inhabitants’ state of health, nutrition, and population development

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(at least where inhumation was practiced), but their early excavations were not well documented or fully published (Norman, 2020; on the Yasmina necropolis, Norman and Haeckl, 1993). The situation is better for the late antique period (see later) and the data is finally starting to be more explored (Carlsen, 2020b; Ma et al., 2021). Lower-and middle-class housing in the Roman period has also been understudied at Carthage, though some of the elite domus are better known, especially the upscale private residences in what is today visible as the “Park of the Roman Villas,” the villas located in the northeast of the city at Borj Jedid, and the “House of the Greek Charioteers” in the southeastern central part of the city (Humphrey, 1992: 169–174). As with the theater and the odeon, the villas made use of the hilly topography overlooking the gulf in this part of the city. Many of the residences were richly adorned with mosaics and featured highly representative rooms (Balmelle et al., 2012; Ennabli, 2020: 140–153, see later).

Late Roman Carthage – A Christian Metropolis By the third century ce Carthage had acquired the full panoply of municipal public buildings. Most subsequent monumental constructions comprised Christian religious buildings. A notable exception is the so-called Kobbat Bent el Rey, a delicate subterranean vaulted brick structure exploiting the soft rock north of the city, dated stratigraphically to 320–340, which might have functioned as a meeting place with restricted access (Storz, 1991, 1993). The structure is well preserved (it is not open to the public currently as it lies inside the premises of the presidential palace), combining several types of vaults using ceramic tubes (a common architectural technique in Roman North Africa), of which the squinch is especially noteworthy, already found in the eastern empire, but only later common in the west (Storz, 1992, 1994, 2014). Inscriptions record euergetic activity of the emperors, proconsuls, and prominent members of Carthage’s political elite in the later Roman period, mainly the maintenance of baths or other hydraulic installations, embellishments of public buildings with statues, and restoration work (Lepelley, 1981: 13–23). The context for many of these inscriptions is unknown and therefore cannot often be linked to specific monuments and materially documented building activities. This is particularly the case for inscriptions referring to widespread renovations carried out on behalf of Constantine, dated to 324/325 and found in fragments on the Byrsa, probably in response to destruction wrought by the troops of Maxentius following the suppression of the usurper, Domitius Alexander (CIL 8, 12524; Ladjimi Sebaï, 2005: 114–116, no. 9; Lepelley, 1981: 14). The most prominent addition to the urban topography in Late Antiquity was the city wall, built in the late fourth or, more likely, early fifth century, known as the “Theodosian wall.” Despite the wall’s poor state of preservation, excavations conducted by the second Canadian and British teams of the UNESCO campaign in the late 1970s and 1980s revealed a wall several meters thick that included towers, gates, and a ditch (Wells, 1980: 51–61; see also Wells and Wightman, 1980; Hurst and Roskams, 1984: 12–27; Ellis et al., 1988: 180–181). Most African cities lacked walls in the Roman period and Carthage was no exception prior to the erection of the wall, although it did not prevent the Vandal seizure of the city in 439. In addition to its defensive function, the wall probably also served as a symbol of the city’s status in Late Antiquity (Dey, 2010: 5–6). The earliest document on Christianity in Africa, the acts of the Scillitan martyrs, refers to a trial of a group of Christians by the proconsul at Carthage in 180 (Passio scillitanorum: Musurillo, 1972: 86–89). It is unclear how and when exactly Christianity came to Africa, there was no apostolic mission, or how it developed there prior to the late second century. Nonetheless, it should be assumed that at the time of the Scillitan martyrs, Christianity was fully embedded in the province (Leone, Chapter 20; Burns and Jensen, 2014: 3–4). Carthage, as the seat of the political power in Africa, also became the focal point of official and popular hostility toward Christians, and of disputes within the Christian community. The martyrdom of Perpetua and her companions in the early third century ce took place in the amphitheater of Carthage and the veneration of these martyrs developed into a widespread cult both within and beyond Africa (Musurillo, 1972: 106–131; Shaw, 2004, 2020;



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Bockmann, 2014a). Cyprian, bishop of the city between 248 and 258, also suffered martyrdom during the Decian persecution and became a venerated forefather of the African church, not only because of his martyrdom but also for his role in defining the ecclesiastical and theological role of a bishop in Africa (Guédon, Chapter 14; Burns, 2002). With Cyprian, the bishop of Carthage emerged as the primate of Africa, although this position was only formally institutionalized later. The bishop of Carthage was the main African interlocutor with the bishop of Rome. He also determined the annual date of Easter and summoned his colleagues regularly to synods in the capital. The primate position of the bishop of Carthage is well documented for the late fourth and early fifth centuries (Burns and Jensen, 2014: 387–388, 417–418) and was officially confirmed again under Justinian in the sixth century (Nov. 37; see Merrills, Chapter 22). The bishopric of Carthage was at the center of the “Donatist” controversy, which arose around the election of the bishop of Carthage between 307 and 313 when Donatus, the candidate of the party taking a stricter position, opposed the moderate bishop Caecilian (see also Leone, Chapter 20). The conflict had its roots in the Diocletianic persecution of Christians and the question of how to deal with the bishops who had yielded to imperial authority during this period, and under what circumstances they would be able to return to the church and rightfully offer the sacraments again. Both parties saw themselves as the “true church” of Africa, but the Caecilianists finally prevailed about a hundred years later, largely through the skillful political action of the bishops Augustine of Hippo Regius and Aurelius of Carthage, who triumphed over Donatism at the synod of Carthage in 411 (Shaw, 2011; Miles, 2016; Whitehouse, 2016). Donatism persisted in Africa into the sixth century, although the phenomenon is materially elusive, apart from some hints in epigraphy, as it is virtually impossible to distinguish between church buildings of the rival congregations on the basis of their plan or liturgical instruments (Leone, Chapter 20; Conant, 2016; Leone, 2016). In Carthage, as in other cities within the late Roman Empire, the earliest buildings of Christian worship, in so far as we can identify them, lay outside the city in the old necropoleis. Three large basilicas were built in the fourth century on cemeteries at sites today called Mcidfa, Damous-elKarita, and Sainte Monique. The churches were extraordinarily large buildings, each with seven to nine aisles and rather low roofing, reflecting their main function as sites for burial and the refrigeria associated with the memorial practices of early Christian Africa. The basilica at Mcidfa can be identified quite securely with the basilica Maiorum, the site of the burial of Perpetua and her companions, whereas the basilica at Sainte Monique has tentatively been identified as the burial site of Cyprian. The basilica of Damous-el-Karita was without doubt an important place of martyrial veneration, perhaps as the burial site of the Scillitan martyrs, among others (Ennabli, 1997: 121–135; Dolenz, 2001; Baratte and Béjaoui, 2014: 132–139, 142–147; Bockmann, 2014a: 344–357). Christian basilicas in the city itself appear later. The earliest secure example is basilica I at Dermech, erected directly on a Punic necropolis, thus indicating that this sector was not fully developed in the Roman period despite its central position between the Antonine baths along the coast and the theater and odeon on the hill to the west of the basilica site. The earliest phase of the Dermech basilica belongs to the early fifth century, consisting of a five-aisled basilical hall with the first apse in the west and a second apse in the east added a short time later (Ben Abed et al., 1999: 107–108). The Dermech basilica, as with all known urban churches in Carthage, had major phases in the Byzantine period, when the Christian topography of Carthage expanded and evolved (see later). The so-called Carthagenna basilica of the early Byzantine period might have had an earlier iteration dating to the early fifth century, with three aisles but no surviving presbyterium or liturgical installations (Ennabli, 2000: 34–38). The same is true for an elusive building labelled the “circular monument” comprised of a rotunda attached to a rectangular building, erected in the second half of the fourth century, followed by major refurbishment phases in the early fifth and early sixth centuries (Senay, 1992: 106). The interpretation of the monument as the “aedes memoriae” mentioned in Vandal-era sources has been criticized (Baratte and Béjaoui, 2014: 132). In its plan the circular monument bears close parallels with the mausoleum of Santa Costanza in Rome (Hallier, 1995; Senay, 2008: 223). Although its architectural form makes sense as a memorial, if not an actual burial site, its

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urban location is exceptional. The triconch structure adjacent to the circular monument has long been assumed to have been part of the basilica, which together with the rotunda formed a Christian complex. However, a more recent study has argued that the apses of the triconch were not contemporary with each other, and that part of the structure, including a mosaic, belongs to the mideighth century and therefore to the early Islamic period, putting the interpretation of the rotunda as part of an ecclesiastical complex in doubt (Caron and Lavoie, 2002).

Vandal Carthage In 439 ce, the Vandals captured Carthage and established the city as the capital of the Vandal kingdom in Africa (see Conant, Chapters 21 and Morrisson, Chapter 23). Traditionally seen as a destructive force, a more nuanced picture of the Vandals and their time in Africa has emerged (Clover, 1989; Merrills, 2004; Berndt and Steinacher, 2008; Merrills and Miles, 2010; Conant, 2012: 19–195). The poor reputation of the Vandals is mainly based on their sack of Rome in 455 (Bockmann, 2013: 120–122; Steinacher, 2016: 196–205), and on the evidence of Victor of Vita’s History of the Vandal Persecution, written in 484, and its medieval reception. The text is a polemical work reflecting the ecclesiastical conflict between the Catholic-Nicene and Arian-Homoean churches in fifth century North Africa, but it remains of significant historical value despite its biases (Shanzer, 2004). Whereas recent research has stressed continuity in Vandal Africa compared to the late Roman period, there were also areas of serious conflict. The political and social developments of this period had an impact on the circumstances of life in Carthage and on its urban appearance. The Vandals entered Carthage in a time of declining resources and military power in the Roman western Mediterranean. The Vandals evinced no interest in destroying Carthage as the absence of wholesale destruction following the city’s siege and capture attest. Indeed, Carthage played an important role in the Vandal kings’ representation, as documented by the surviving court poetry and in the Vandal coinage system with its references to the Punic past (see Conant, Chapter 21, Morrison, Chapter 23, and Kaufmann, Chapter 19; Clover, 1989; Ben Abed and Duval, 2000; Miles, 2005; Berndt and Steinacher, 2006; Bockmann, 2013: 29–41). While the kings were celebrated in poems for their engagement in the beautification of baths and royal residences, Carthage in the fifth century was notably less spectacular to judge from the archaeological record. As in other cities around the Mediterranean, the built reality of public monuments and urban infrastructure was in decline. The roof of the frigidarium of the Antonine baths, a gigantic cupola, appears to have collapsed in the early fifth century, and no efforts were made to rebuild it (Lézine, 1968: 71–72). Similarly, the public basilica on the Byrsa had fallen into disrepair and had partly collapsed by the mid-fifth century (Gros, 1985: 114). The urban street network, moreover, shows evidence of encroachment, the blocking up of colonnades along the main streets, and the reuse and subdivision of small houses or shops, all indicative of a lack of state interest and investment in the upkeep of public spaces (Stevens, 1996: 188; Leone, 2007: 159–161). According to Victor of Vita (Vict. Vit. 1.9, 15–16), the Vandals destroyed the theater, odeon, the “aedes memoriae,” and “via Caelestis.” The first two monuments had been restored in the later fourth century (Ros, 1996: 482; Ennabli, 2020: 137–138), but show no evidence for continued use in the fifth century; it seems likely that they had been discontinued at the time Victor was writing in the 480s. As discussed earlier, the identification of the “aedes memoriae,” as well as of the “via Caelestis,” is more difficult. Both seem to refer to non-Christian religious buildings – the latter might be associated with the famous temple of Iuno Caelestis (see earlier) that had already been destroyed in the early fifth century as a result of the prohibition of “pagan” cults (Quodvultdeus, Liber promissionum et praedictorum 3.38.44). The Anthologia Latina indicates the continuation of games in the amphitheater and races in the circus (Stevens, 1988), the latter activity somewhat confirmed by recent research in the circus where the continuous renovation of the arena floor ceased at some point during the course of the fifth century, though the maintenance of the seating area continued into the early sixth century (Bockmann et al., 2020: 66, 71).



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Shortly after the Vandals had brought Carthage under their control, the annona deliveries as part of the tax system of surplus extraction by the later Roman Empire from Africa ceased to exist, certainly by the time of the Vandal sack of Rome, and break with the western empire in 455, after which grain, oil, and other deliveries to Rome became pure trade exchanges (Wickham, 2005: 71; Tedesco, 2018: 399–400). Carthage’s trade connections with Rome and Italy were reduced in comparison with the later Roman period and replaced with greater trade contacts with Spain and the eastern Mediterranean (Reynolds, 2016: 129–139). The circular harbor retained its open character as a square enclosed by a colonnade, although here again no new building works seem to have been carried out before the Byzantine period (Hurst, 1994: 114). Apart from the harbor called mandracium (later fortified by Justinian, see later), probably the old circular and/or rectangular harbor, Carthage had another harbor called stagnum that was 40 stades (a little over four-and-a-half miles) outside the city in the late Vandal period, which was unprotected and large enough to hold the Byzantine fleet that anchored there prior to Belisarius’ army’s occupation of the city (Procop., Vand., 1.15.15, 1.20.15). It seems likely that the shallow coast south of Carthage, today the lagoon of Tunis, was used as a secondary anchoring point in the Vandal period, as it had probably been at almost all times in Carthage’s existence in Antiquity (it has been proposed that the Punic harbors had likewise been originally situated along the northern shore of what would become the lagoon). Some of the upper-class residences in the hilly northern part of Carthage saw considerable building activity in the Vandal period; for example, the “House of the Rotunda,” indicating continuous use and prosperity (Leone, 2007: 162–163; Balmelle et al., 2012: 324). The proprietors of these residences in the Vandal period are not known, but sources indicate the presence of an active class of maritime traders in late Vandal Carthage who feared that their possessions would be plundered by the Byzantine soldiers. The continued wealth of the city is also reflected in the immense riches of the Vandal kings and in the wealth of the Vandal nobility in the subsequent triumph in Constantinople (merchants at Carthage: Procop., Vand. 1.20.22; see also Gelarda, 2012: 1450; wealthy Vandals: Procop., Vand. 2.3.26; Procop., Vand., 2.9.5–9). One of the most important changes to the cityscape of Vandal Carthage was the promotion of the Homoean (or “Arian”) church by the Vandal kings (see Bockmann, 2013: 87–117). The African Nicene community was virtually cut off from international developments as a consequence. According to Victor of Vita, the first Vandal king Gaiseric had given the most important martyr churches over to the Homoeans, including the one where Perpetua and her companions were buried, the basilica of the Scillitans, and the two basilicas of Cyprian, the one commemorating the place of his martyrdom and a second where he was interred. Gaiseric also expelled many bishops, among them the bishop of Carthage, and claimed the Catholic cathedral for the Homoeans (Victor Vitensis, Hist. pers. I.9 and 15–16). I do not intend to deny this policy its religious conviction, but it served as a political tool as well. The Nicene church of Africa was suppressed in the central part of the Vandal kingdom in what had been Africa Proconsularis, which meant that the Homoean state church had access to the large estates that secured the income of the Christian communities and their bishops, and both real and symbolic control over the entire Christian martyrial churches and institutions of the city. Owing to the lack of major differences in liturgical practice or architectural traditions, it is difficult to differentiate between churches in Homoean or Catholic service (Bockmann, 2013: 93–116, 2014b), and despite the continuous use of most churches, almost no building activities or architectural innovations were carried out.

Byzantine Carthage In 533/534, a Byzantine army under Belisarius defeated the Vandal army and entered Carthage, which was made the capital of the newly founded Byzantine prefecture of Africa (see Merrills, Chapter 22; Codex Iustinianus I.27). In Carthage, according to Procopius (Aed., 6.5.8–12), Justinian dedicated a church to the Mother of God, restored the church of a local saint, Prima, founded a fortified monastery to protect the harbor (called mandracium), which was also secured

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by a chain (already present in the Vandal period, Procop. Vand. 1.20.3, 14), restored the city walls, and built stoas around the maritime forum and public baths. In a symbolic sense, the emperor adorned Carthage with the necessary amenities of a late antique city. The archaeological record provides further details of the changes to the city. The renovation of the city wall took the form of a new protective ditch (see, for example, Garrison et al., 2009: 74). Hydraulic repairs were carried out at Zaghouan, the source of the aqueduct serving the city, which was cut during the Vandal–Byzantine war (Ferchiou, 2009: 219–220). This may have been a factor behind the ­reopening of the Antonine baths, albeit on a reduced scale (Thébert, 2003: 141). There is also evidence for the restoration of porticoes and water channels, for example on the kardo maximus and decumanus maximus, but in other areas of the city the pattern of encroachment on to streets continued (Gros and Deneauve, 1980: 328; Docter et al., 2007: 243–244; Leone, 2007: 171–172). Domestic continuity is visible in some of the larger townhouses, but other former large structures were converted into makeshift habitations (Ellis, 1985; Leone, 2007: 171, 179). The public basilica on the Byrsa, which had fallen into disrepair in the Vandal period, was restored on a reduced scale, and probably deployed as a fortification (Gros, 1985: 124–126). The Byrsa, as a whole, may have been fortified. This is suggested by several large walls found in early excavations and defense works in its southwestern corner near the kardo maximus, though the latter belong to the post-Byzantine period (Gros and Deneauve, 1985: 329–331; Leone, 2007: 174). In the same area, a longitudinal building, erected in the fourth century, shows evidence of building activity in the sixth century. The building has been interpreted as part of the proconsular palace and Justinian’s church of St. Mary (Lézine, 1968: 177–180; Ennabli, 1997: 83–84). The documented foundations point to a number of representational rooms, including a basilical hall and a trefoil room, but it does not seem justified to go beyond the observation of the public and representational character of the building, an interpretation perhaps supported by late antique portraits found in its vicinity (see Ladjimi Sebaï, 2005: 86–89). Carthage remained an important center of international trade during the Byzantine period (Merrills, Chapter 22, and Bonifay, Chapter 13). The annona shipments, now directed mainly to Constantinople, were re-established by Justinian, and Carthage remained an important node among the trade routes within the Byzantine world and beyond. African pottery exports increased in the later sixth century, even though quantities decreased overall (Reynolds, 2016: 139–143). In the latter half of the 580s the prefecture of Africa was transformed into an exarchate. Carthage remained the capital and seat of the exarch who combined civil and military supreme commands. An imperial mint was active in the city that also issued solidi, continuing and increasing operation in the seventh century, pointing to the vitality of monetary exchange between Africa and the rest of the Byzantine world but also the west in this time (Morrisson, 2016: 181–198; see also Morrisson, 2003). The implementation of the Byzantine administrative reforms of the seventh century also in Africa and the continuation of tax collection into the late seventh century is attested by the seals of at least 16 kommerkiarioi from Carthage, who levied taxes for the Byzantine central administration (Morrisson and Seibt, 1982; Brandes, 2002: 310–312). The evolving patterns of city life that began in the late Roman and Vandal periods continued into the sixth century. Despite the presence of the massive Theodosian Wall, the division between city and suburb became increasingly blurred (Stevens, 1996). Whereas the historic Roman traditions of extramural burials continued into the fifth and early sixth century, as evidenced by the cemetery north of the Theodosian wall (Stevens et al., 2009; see also Ma et al., 2021), during the Vandal period, isolated burials begin to take place inside the city in abandoned areas, mostly former domestic quarters, or in association with churches such as the Dermech basilica (Stevens, 1995: 211). In the sixth century, the pattern of urban burial continues, for example around a small chapel north of the circus (Baratte and Béjaoui, 2014: 106), and is extended to an even broader scale with the establishment of larger cemeteries in former public buildings like the theater (Leone, 2002: 245), and in other parts of the city, for example in and around the circus and Theodosian wall (Ellis et al., 1988). Parts of the city formerly used for housing or as public spaces were now transformed into production sites, mostly probably for local consumption, such as the pottery kilns installed in



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the disused parts of the Antonine Baths (Lézine, 1968: 69) or in a former upscale housing complex in the northwestern part of the city converted into small-scale housing that also included a pottery kiln (Ellis, 1985). Some residential neighborhoods were abandoned altogether. Most building activity in Byzantine Carthage was ecclesiastical. The Byzantine churches of Carthage are among the best known monuments of the late antique city, despite their generally poor state of preservation, thanks to high-quality recent excavation work (Dolenz, 2001; Stevens et al., 2005; Miles and Greenslade, 2020). Following a period of much reduced activity under the Vandals, new churches were erected and many pre-existing churches were significantly altered (see Miles, 2019), particularly in the core of the city, creating a new sacralized urban landscape. The fifth century basilica of Dermech was enlarged, oriented towards the east, and provided with a baptistery in the early to mid-sixth century, and an elaborate chancel screen system (Ben Abed et al., 1999: 111–112; Métraux, 2001). The Carthagenna basilica was built in the early Byzantine period with opposing apses and a baptistery on the remains of a longitudinal hall with columns dating to the early fifth century, perhaps on the site of an earlier church that had fallen into disuse in the Vandal period (Ennabli, 2000: 34–38 and 73). At Bir Messaouda, a longitudinal basilica of the early sixth century was dramatically altered in the mid to late sixth century, when its original hall was transformed to become the transept of a considerably enlarged church with a new apse facing east preceded by an altar under a ciborium and cupola, and the addition of a large baptistery in an annexed hall (Greenslade and Miles, 2020a: 96–99; Miles 2006). East of the Bir Messaouda complex, a large, poorly preserved rotunda, interpreted as a memorial for a saint or martyr, was also built in the early Byzantine period (Rakob, 1995: 455–458). Between the rotunda and the Bir Messaouda basilica, another venerated burial of a saint or martyr was built into a former Punic cistern in the early Byzantine period (Dolenz and Flügel, 2012: 80–85). Together, these new and restored churches and monumental holy burials gave the center of Carthage a distinctly Christian appearance that it did not have before (Bockmann, 2015). Similar developments, although less concentrated, are visible in other parts of the city, for example in the northern region where the soft rock was used to install at least two underground burials of venerated persons in the early Byzantine period (Ennabli, 1997: 102–105). In the suburbs, the fourth century basilica of Damous-el-Karita underwent considerable alteration over the course of the early Byzantine period as well as the installation of a highly embellished and carefully orchestrated memorial rotunda that was altered a number of times (Dolenz, 2001). In the basilica of Mcidfa, the basilica Maiorum of Perpetua and Felicitas, the relics of both saints were transferred to the center of the church where they could be venerated in a crypt (Bockmann, 2014a: 368– 369). The cult of these saints is also found south of the city, where a coemeterial basilica originally of the late fifth or early sixth century was enlarged and embellished with new mosaics in the later sixth century (Stevens, 1993). Further to the north the smaller church at Bir Ftouha, probably erected on the site of an older Christian structure, was transformed into an extraordinary basilica with high-quality accoutrements mostly imported from the east in the early Byzantine period. The new church combined Western and Eastern architectural elements using the Byzantine foot and was built around a larger burial structure indicating honorific and probably venerated burials in the choir area and under the altar. It also included an elaborate baptistery in a separate building behind the apse (Stevens et al., 2005). With the ecclesiastical building activities north of the city, including long-standing and new martyr cults (possibly Julian at Damous-el-Karita, Dolenz, 2001: 103–104, Menas, Peter and Paul, and Vincent in the city; see Miles, 2019: 61), the Christian landscape of this part of the city became the site of a new pilgrimage route (Bockmann, 2014a). Activities also intensified in the Carthaginian monasteries, which were sometimes located near basilicas and could also be associated with the cult of martyrs, as in the case of St. Stephen or the local group of martyrs of the Seven Monks of Gafsa of the Vandalic period. That said, the proposed identifications of these monasteries recorded in written sources with architectural remains are fraught with uncertainty (Leone, Chapter 20; Ennabli, 1997: 37–38, 74–77, 90–98, 2000: 83–130; Bockmann, 2013: 112–113). On several levels, the development of Byzantine Carthage can be compared to that of Ravenna (see Miles, 2019: 64).

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Both cities played important roles in the organization of the western prefectures and later exarchates of the early Byzantine Empire, and reflected architectural innovations inspired by recent eastern developments combined with local traditions, all underwritten by contributions from both the emperors and their families and local elites. Finally, although Carthage was part of the united Christian Mediterranean and a pilgrimage destination with important local martyrs and saints, it was often a center of resistance to the orthodoxy of Constantinople. The city played a role in two important theological conflicts of the early Byzantine period: the “Three Chapters controversy” driven by Justinian’s attempt to reconcile monophysites in Syria and Egypt with the Catholic Church, who was opposed among others by the bishop of Carthage (Miles, 2019: 66–67). The theological and political crisis caused by the concept of “monotheletism” in the seventh century also partly played out at Carthage, which became a refuge for monophysite dissidents in exile, most famously Maximus the Confessor, who debated the Constantinopolitan patriarch Pyrrhus at Carthage under the auspices of the exarch Gregory in 645 (Kaegi, 2010: 72–77). Carthage remained an important city within the Byzantine state in the seventh century, as illustrated not only by the seals of the kommerkiarioi, but also Heraclius’ consideration to move his administration to Carthage when Constantinople was under heavy military pressure in the early seventh century. Heraclius had spent 10 years at Carthage when his father served as exarch in the city and launched his campaign to claim the imperial throne in 610 from Carthage (Kaegi, 2010: 94). The devastating loss of the battle of Sufetula (mod. Sbeïtla) in 647 ultimately dealt a deadly blow to Byzantine Africa. Although Carthage remained under Byzantine control until the very end of the seventh century (Kaegi, 2010: 247–265), many of its Christian buildings had already been damaged and fallen out of use, as documented for example at the Carthagenna basilica, which was taken over by simple dwellings in the second half of the seventh century, or the Bir Messaouda basilica, which was abandoned after a fire around the middle of the seventh century (Ennabli, 1997: 68–69; Greenslade and Miles, 2020b: 119–122; see also Stevens, 2016: 91–93). Many large public buildings had likewise fallen into disrepair and were continuously despoiled. The scale of the ancient city dwarfed its reduced population. Late Byzantine Carthage was reduced to a network of small settlement patches within an urban landscape with cultivated land interspersed among enormous ruins (Vitelli, 1981; Stevens, 2016; Bockmann, 2019; Fenwick, Chapter 24). Nevertheless, the image of Carthage as a great ancient city persisted through the centuries (Mahfoudh and Altekamp, 2019).

Conclusion Roman Carthage began its life as a colonia under Augustus with a massive restructuring of the former site of its Punic predecessor that included the imposition of a vast urban street grid and the establishment of a forum and major public monuments on the Byrsa. However, the full development of its built environment belonged to the second century ce, manifested most visibly in the construction of the Antonine baths and aqueduct. The pre-Roman history of Carthage was perceptible in some continuities, especially in religious topography and cults, but also in its inhabitants’ identity, as is attested by Tertullian in the early third century. Carthage was the seat of the proconsular government of Africa, and the home of a diverse and powerful elite. It was a major port for the annona and trade in general as the largest metropolis in North Africa, and an important hub overall for the distribution of the region’s agricultural and other products overseas. In the fourth century, the size, importance, and wealth of the city is accurately reflected in its denomination as the Rome of Africa. This is also true for its role as Christian capital of Africa, with its unique churches, local martyrs, and influential bishops and theologians. During the short Vandal century from 439 to 534, Carthage retained its economic importance but also a renewed political power in the Mediterranean, reminiscent of Punic Carthage. Nevertheless, this was also a period in which



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the urban fabric of the city began to suffer due to neglect of both its core public buildings and many of its older churches. In the early Byzantine period, Carthage was transformed again. As capital of the Byzantine prefecture of Africa, the city had closer relations with the east. Fueled by a new surge of euergetism, its Christian topography was revitalized through architectural innovations, ambitious building projects, and the introduction of new cults and pilgrimage routes. At the same time, the structural changes to the city’s fabric continued as with most cities around the Mediterranean. By the middle of the seventh century, faced with an increasingly unstable political situation, the city lost many of its public monuments and probably also much of its population. Despite its ruinous and dispirited state, the memory of Carthage remained vital, even if today its remains provide only a faint impression of its former importance.

FURTHER READING There is no modern single history of Carthage in the sense of its urban history in the form of a book one could easily turn to, including archaeological, topographical, and architectural syntheses of its development over the more than 1500 years of its existence in Antiquity, or for that matter the Roman period. Audollent (1901) remains the only early study of the Roman city but is heavily dependent on the ancient sources as the author had almost no archaeology at his disposal. The articles in Pour sauver Carthage (Ennabli, 1992) provide short overviews of the results of the international mission of the UNESCO campaigns and include references to their publications, as do Mattingly and Hitchner (1995: 180–183). For early Christian Carthage, Liliane Ennabli’s Carthage, une metropole chrétienne (1997) is a very useful synthesis of the archaeological material as well as the sources up to the time of its publication, after which important publications of single sites appeared (e.g., Stevens et al., 1995; Dolenz, 2001; and, most recently, Miles and Greenslade, 2020). The edited volume Carthage, maîtresse de la Méditerrannée (Aounallah and Mastino, 2018) covers a broad range of topics, but almost completely ignores research, especially recent work, outside the Tunisian, French, and Italian scientific communities and contains almost no references. Some recent archaeological research and revisions and additions concerning earlier projects have been published as JRA suppl. 109, For the Love of Carthage (Humphrey, 2020). An important publication, especially in view of the lack of an up-to-date archaeological guide for Carthage, is Abdelmagid Ennabli’s Carthage. Les travaux et les jours (2020). Ennabli, who played a leading role in the UNESCO’s engagement as conservator of Carthage, brings together a vast amount of archaeological documentation and references, sorted by topography.

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CHAPTER 9

Roman Imperial Administration Jesper Carlsen

Introduction The sources on Roman imperial administration in North Africa are heterogenous, making its reconstruction difficult. The literary sources provide an outline of the history of the North African provinces, and hundreds of preserved inscriptions provide names and, in some cases, the careers of not only different governors and their legates but also the permanent staff of the imperial officials, including slaves and freedmen. This material includes epitaphs of imperial slaves and freedmen, which scholars using a modern term often refer to as the familia Caesaris (Weaver, 1972). Honorary inscriptions and dedications raised by cities in North Africa are especially important in establishing lists of governors, the so-called fasti Africani, as the former are seldom documented in the literary sources (Thomasson, 1996a). For example, we only know by chance that Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, consul in 16 bce and the grandfather of the emperor Nero, was proconsul in Africa Proconsularis in 12 bce thanks to two dated inscriptions. He was honored as patron by the small settlement pagus Gurza near Hadrumetum (modern Sousse) and erected a vessel to measure out salt in Utica (Utique) (CIL 8.68 = ILS 6095; CIL 8.1180 = CIL 8.14310 = ILS 6095; Thomasson, 1996a: 21–22 no. 6).

The Provinces and Their Governors Africa Proconsularis, Numidia, and the two Mauretanias became Roman provinces at different times and under different circumstances. Their history begins with Rome’s confiscation of the territory of Carthage following its destruction in 146 bce. Rome’s ally in the Third Punic War, the Numidian kingdom, was allowed to extend its power. According to the Greek historian Appian (Pun. 135), a commission of 10 men helped Scipio Aemilianus organize the new province called Africa. Its capital became the ancient Punic town, Utica, which had supported Rome in the war against its old rival Carthage and was rewarded with status as a free city with a large territory. The names of the republican governors in Africa are in most cases not preserved, but they were, in principle, elected annually by the Senate and were either consuls or praetors (Le Bohec, 2005: 44; Lassère, 2015: 111–112; Rafferty, 2019).

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.



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Rome became involved in disputes between claimants to the throne in Numidia but did not seize the kingdom after the Jugurthine War (112–106 bce), in which Rome received help from her new North African ally, the Mauretanian kingdom west of Numidia. The end of Numidian independence came with the civil wars and the end of the Republic. The Numidian king, Juba I, supported the Republicans against Caesar in the civil wars and committed suicide after the Pompeians’ final defeat at Thapsus (Ras ed-Dimas) in 46 bce. Caesar annexed his kingdom, which became a province, Africa Nova, with the historian Sallust as its first governor (B. Afr. 98). Whether its capital was Zama Regia or Sicca Veneria (Le Kef) is disputed (Romanelli, 1959: 131; Lassère, 2015: 107), but the existence of two African provinces, Africa Vetus and Africa Nova, was short-lived. They were merged under the name Africa Proconsularis no later than 27 bce, but some scholars have argued that the two provinces were already unified in the first half of the 30s bce during the proconsulship of the triumvir M. Aemilius Lepidus (Fishwick, 1993, 1994, 2013; Bullo, 2002: 10; contra Romanelli, 1959: 158; Le Bohec, 2005: 88). The kingdom of Mauretania with Caesarea as its capital was entrusted to Juba II in 25 bce and continued as a Roman client kingdom for the next two generations. The capital of the new province of Africa Proconsularis became Carthage, which Octavian had re-founded in 29 bce as one of several veteran colonies in Africa (Bockmann, Chapter 8). The new province was governed by a senatorial proconsul, but in contrast to other senatorial provinces the governor in Africa Proconsularis commanded a single legion. L. Cornelius Balbus was the last proconsul to triumph in Rome in 19 bce after his victory over the Garamantes (Thomasson, 1996a: 21 no. 4), but six other governors, including the later emperor Galba, received insignia triumphalis (Suet. Galba 7; Hurlet, 2005: 155 no. 36 with a list). The senatorial governor’s military command came to an end in 39–40 ce, when Gaius Caligula transferred the control of the Third Augustan Legion to an imperial legate with the title legatus Augusti propraetore (Tac. Hist. 4.48; Cass. 59.20.7). Following the change in military control, there were two administrations in Africa: one civil based at Carthage, the other military located at the headquarters of the Third Augustan Legion. The first legionary base was at Ammaedera (Haïdra), but under Vespasian it was transferred to Theveste (Tebessa) and finally to Lambaesis in Numidia around 120 ce. However, the proconsul continued to command a small contingent of troops, of which the urban cohorts at Carthage and his military bodyguards were the most important. His office in Carthage was called praetorium, but this and the military camp have not yet been securely located in the city (Bockmann, Chapter 8; Haensch, 1997). If the governor died while in service, he was replaced by an imperial procurator as acting-governor, as was the case in the trial against the Christian martyrs Perpetua and Felicitas in 203 ce at Carthage (Passio Sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitas 6; Thomasson, 1996a: 80 no. 105). The governor had as his principal duties to maintain peace and order, but his responsibilities also included supervision of the financial administration and protection of the province and its inhabitants. His civil obligations extended to punishment of criminals and he had the authority to impose death penalties on all non-Romans and, after consultation with the emperor or Rome, Roman citizens. The proconsul conducted assizes in the most important of the provincial cities. The proconsul Claudius Maximus presided at a trial at Sabratha in 158/159 ce against the author Apuleius, who had to defend himself against the charge of having won the love of a rich widow through magic (Apul. Apol.; Thomasson, 1996a: 63 no. 77). The elderly Gordian and his son were resident at Thysdrus (El-Djem) and perhaps on assize, when they were acclaimed emperors in 238 ce (Hdn. 7.5–6; Thomasson, 1996a: 89–90 no. 121). The governor also received formal and informal petitions during his provincial tour, and he could grant cities permission to undertake costly building activities with or without financial support (Dondin-Payre, 1990). The c. 500 cities in North Africa under the early empire had different constitutions and institutions according to their juridical status, but they all played an important role in local administration. Their councils varied in size and inscriptions show that the governors in many cases had patronage relationships to the provincial elite (Saller, 1982: 145–204).

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The governor was normally appointed for one year, but Tiberius is said to have preferred longer governorships (Tac. Ann. 1.80.1; Suet. Tib. 41). This seems to have been the case in Africa Proconsularis, but after Claudius there are very few attested cases of prolonged governorships, mostly occasioned by military problems in the region. Galba held the office for two years in 44–46 ce (Thomasson, 1996a: 35–36 no. 32), but the most obvious case is the wide-ranging rebellion of the Musulamii or the so-called revolt of Tacfarinas (17–24 ce) when all the governors were prolonged by one or two years (Tac. Ann. 3.20–21, 32, 72–74; Thomasson, 1996a: 29–31; Wolff, 2014). One crucial question is the interval between the consulship in Rome and the North African governorship. According to the lex Pompeia de provinciis of 52 bce, there was to be at least five years between a praetorship or consulship and a provincial governorship. During the Julio-Claudian dynasty, 10-year intervals seems to have been the norm, but the interim became greater and in the second century 13–17 years was common (Thomasson, 1960: 14–35). The proconsulship in Africa was frequently the last and highest position a former consular would reach with only a second consulship or the urban prefecture of Rome ranked superior in the hierarchy of the senatorial cursus honorum in the early empire (Hurlet, 2005). The Mauretanian king Ptolemy was put to death in Rome in 40 ce by Gaius Caligula (Cass. 59.25.1). It resulted in a revolt, which took several years to suppress (Aït Amara, 2014). Claudius annexed the former client kingdom, which was divided into two provinces, Mauretania Caesariensis and Mauretania Tingitana, ruled by equestrian procurators. As indicated by its name, Caesarea continued as the capital of the new province Mauretania Caesariensis, while the capital of Mauretania Tingitana has been subject of controversy in modern scholarship. The name indicates that it was Tingis, modern Tangier, but some scholars prefer Volubilis, owing to the many inscriptions found in this city mentioning governors. There are, however, no inscriptions mentioning members of the familia Caesaris at Volubilis, but a few at Tingis, strongly suggesting that the latter was the capital. Nevertheless, it is clear that the governors regularly visited Volubilis to negotiate with local tribes (Haensch, 1997: 186–191). Numidia was separated as a province from Africa Proconsularis during the Severan dynasty. The imperial legate, in command of the Third Augustan Legion, became governor of the new province, the capital of which was the legion’s headquarters at Lambaesis. This organization of North Africa into four provinces lasted less than a century. Diocletian (284–305) reorganized the provincial administration of the Roman Empire and subdivided the four into eight smaller units. Africa Proconsularis was split into three new provinces: Africa, now occasionally called Zeugitana, with Carthage as capital, Byzacena with Hadrumetum (Sousse) as center, and finally Tripolitania with Lepcis Magna as first city. Numidia was divided into two provinces: Numidia Cirtensis in the north with Cirta (Constantine) as capital and in the south Numidia Militana with Lambaesis as the headquarters. These two provinces were later merged again and renamed Numidia Constantina with Constantina, the former Cirta, as capital. The two Mauretanian provinces became three: Mauretania Caesariensis continued with Caesarea, modern Cherchel, as the capital and Mauretania Tingitana still had Tingis as its capital, while Sitifis (Sétif) became the capital of the new Mauretania Sitifiensis. The new provinces were unified in a larger unit, diocesis, governed by an equestrian vicarious, with the exception of Tingitana, which was attached to the Spanish diocese. The titles of the governors were changed and the military and civil hierarchies were completely separated. The civil governors were equestrians called praeses with Africa as an exception with a senatorial proconsul. The military commander had the title of praepositus and later dux (Lepelley, 2003; Lassère, 2015: 527–545; for lists of governors in the fourth century ce, see Chastagnol, 1967). The boundaries between the North African provinces are often difficult to establish with certainty. Two examples illustrate the problem. The first is the so-called fossa regia that divided the Numidian kingdom from Roman territory. According to Pliny the Elder (HN 5.25), Scipio and the Numidian king agreed upon the course of the demarcation ditch, which



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continued to have important administrative and cultural implications until Late Antiquity, but only limited archaeological traces have been identified. The 11 recorded cippi date to the reign of Vespasian, when the frontier was reorganized. These boundary markers are all found in central Tunisia and represent the only places where the course of the fossa regia can be reconstructed with some certainty (Di Vita-Evrard, 1986; Ferchiou, 1998; Abid, 2014, with a list of the cippi and their find sites). The other example is the later border between Byzacena and Africa, or Zeugitana, where it has been argued that it followed the territorial boundary of the small municipium Segermes (Hr Harratt). The results of archaeological fieldwork in the Segermes Valley indicate differences in the infrastructure between the northern and southern parts of the region. Further, three dedications to two procuratores of the regio Hadrumentina have been recorded from Segermes itself, but this is only circumstantial evidence (CIL 8.23068  =  ILS 260; CIL 8.11174  =  ILS 1440; CIL 8.11175; Ørsted, 2000: 102–103 with further references).

Other Provincial Administrators Other officials below the governor included a quaestor, usually a senator at the beginning of his career, responsible for financial matters (Thomasson, 1996b). They were elected by the senate, but the governor was also assisted by two more experienced legates of praetorian rank appointed by himself (Thomasson, 1996a: 13–14). One of the legates was based at Carthage, the other at Hippo Regius (Annaba). They assisted the governor in his juridical and administrative responsibilities and also acted as advisors for different opinions on the number of legates after 39/40 ce (Thomasson, 1982: 17–19; Chastagnol, 1958). Thomasson (1996a: 103–125) provides a list of the known legates in Roman Africa. Legates could also be appointed by the emperor to carry out special tasks; for example, those two senators appointed to reorganize the fossa regia during the reign of Vespasian. The cippi emphasize that they worked on the authority of the emperor: ex auctoritate imperatoris (CIL 8.25967  =  ILS 5955). The entourage of a provincial governor also comprised relatives, friends, and companions without formal posts. More important and numerous were the equestrian and freedmen procuratores. They were appointed by the emperor, and their number increased during the second and third centuries ce. Their responsibilities centered on the collection of custom duties or the administration of imperial estates, as frequently indicated in their official titles: procurator Augustorum trium Quattuor publicorum provinciae Africae or procurator Augustorum trium tractus Karthagineniensis (ILS 9015; Ørsted 1992: 826). There existed a well-established hierarchy among the procuratores and a cursus among the senior clerical ranks with the potential for promotion and mobility across the empire, as demonstrated by extant career inscriptions of both equestrian and freedmen imperial procurators (Pflaum, 1960–1961; Weaver, 1972: 267–281). The non-resident provincial administrators had a small permanent staff of imperial slaves and freedmen seldom mentioned in the literary sources, but epigraphical material gives a glimpse of them. The excavations of two burial grounds at Carthage in the last decades of the nineteenth century provided more than 900 funerary inscriptions mentioning more than 1300 individuals. The two necropolises date from the end of first to early third centuries ce and are known as the cimetières des officiales or “the burial grounds of the officials” as most of those buried were members of the so-called familia Caesaris together with their relatives. In total, almost 70 different office titles appear in the inscriptions from the two burial grounds. They underline the high degree of specialization inside the imperial administration and household at Carthage. Most of the occupational titles of both slaves and freedmen refer to the administration of the imperial estates and the North African customs, including manumitted

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imperial procurators. The first group includes seven land surveyors (mensores); the most frequently attested titles are bookkeeper (tabularius), scribe (librarius), and stenographer (notarius), together with their assistants (adiutores). Many runners (cursores) and attendants or footmen (pedisequi) attached to the procurators and the proconsul are also attested among the epitaphs, as well as a few slaves and freedmen from the service staff of the imperial household, including doctors and bedchamber servants. Other slaves and freedmen were engaged with the improvement and maintenance of imperial and public buildings, and the presence of what seem to be rather more humble professions demonstrates the importance of work-defining identity among the imperial slaves and freedmen working in the imperial administration at Carthage (Carlsen, 2020a, 2020b). Job titles such as tabularius, librarius, and notarius appear also at Caesarea and the other provincial capitals in North Africa, where the governor and the procurators needed a clerical staff.

The Administration of Tribes Rome’s relations with the local tribes or peoples (gentes), varied in time and place (see also Merrills, Chapter 18). The wars against the Garamantes and the Musulamii are mentioned above, but Rome negotiated with other tribes to control and integrate them into imperial political and economic structures, and to maintain security in the frontier zone, especially in Mauretania (Vanacker, 2013, 2014; Hamdoune, 2018; Faure, Chapter 10). From the first century ce onwards the Romans appointed a praefecti gentes (initially an appointed Roman military officer but from the late second century, appointed from within the tribe itself), or principes or reges of particular tribes, who had either been defeated by Roman troops or had been otherwise pacified (cf. Modéran, 2003: 481– 500; Arcuri, 2012). They functioned as mediators between their tribes and Roman authorities for which they received beneficia in return. An impressive bronze tablet found at Banasa in Mauretania Tingitana – the Tabula Banasitana – containted copies of three letters, in which Marcus Aurelius in 168 and 177 ce granted Roman citizenship to two chiefs of the Zegrenses together with members of their families (AE 1961, no. 142 = IAM 2.1.94).

Tax Collection Appian relates that, following the establishment of the new province in 146 bce, Rome imposed “both a land tax and a poll tax, upon men and women alike” (Pun. 135). Roman contractors (publicani) leased tax-farming during the Republic, and individuals referred to as conductores and their companies are also attested in the collection of customs duties, the so-called Quattuor publica Africae. Modern scholarship has discussed whether four meant four districts of collection, four rates of payment or that the custom duties, portorium, was collected together with three indirect taxes, including 5% of taxes on manumission of slaves and inheritance together with a 4% tax on sale of slaves (vicesima liberates, vicesima hereditatium, and quinta et vicesima venalium mancipiorum). No consensus has been reached, but the system of collection and the financial administration in the Early Empire are relatively clear (Ørsted, 1992; France, 2017: 309–311 with references). The fiscal policy in Roman North Africa was reorganized in the middle of the first century ce. The financial administration was taken over by a new equestrian procuratorship of the Quattuor publicorum Africae, which seems to have been of high standing when compared to procuratorships of other customs districts. The salary of the procuratores Quattuor publicorum Africae was HS 200,000 while the procurators of the Gallic or Illyrian custom districts got HS 60,000 each.



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Epigraphical material attests these procurators and provides more detailed information on the other levels of the collection of the revenues. From the two burial grounds at Carthage we have several epitaphs of imperial slaves and freedmen with different job titles, who worked in the central financial administration, but some officiales specify geographical work areas outside the provincial capital. One was a freedman, who died at the age of 65 years and had apparently worked with the collection of the custom duties at Vaga, modern Béja, since his job title was adiutor tabulariorum a mensa Vagense. Another freedman with almost the same title had worked at Thisdiduo (Grich el-Oued), but both officials were buried at Carthage (CIL 8.12883 = ILS 911; CIL 8.13188 = ILS 1498; Carlsen, 2020a: 16). Other imperial slaves, frequently vilici, are attested in several places outside Carthage and in various provinces. We find them working at local custom houses or desks called statio, mensa, and teloneum at Thuburbo Maius and Lepcis Magna in Africa Proconsularis and Cuicul (Djemila) in Numidia. The title of the latter was vilicus IIII publicorum Africae, which also appears in an epitaph found at Sitifis (Sétif) in Mauretantia Caesariensis. Imperial vilici are attested in several other places in Africa Proconsularis and Numidia in the second and third centuries ce, but slaves with the same job title were also employed by the companies that leased the collection of the Quattuor publicorum Africae (Dupuis, 2000; Carlsen, 2013: 182–184). An inscription from Zaraï (Zeraïa) in Numidia on the southern border of the empire and a fragmentary inscription from Lambaesis contains important information on the custom tariffs of slaves, animals, clothing, foods, and other goods. The Lex portus from Zaraï is dated to 202 ce, and the custom taxes vary from 0.3 and 25%. They were imposed on imported and exported goods beyond the frontier. Both Zaraï and Lambaesis are located on important transhumance routes used by pastoral nomads (CIL 8.4508; AE 1914, no. 234; Guédon, 2014).

Imperial Estates The emperor was undoubtedly the largest landowner in the provinces, but Pliny the Elder surely exaggerates when he writes that “half of Africa was owned by six landowners, when the emperor Nero put them to death” (HN 18.35). The names of some of the imperial estates in the second century ce, for example the saltus Domitianus, saltus Lamianus, and fundus villae magnae Varianae, show that these estates originally belonged to Roman senators, but how and when they became imperial property is often unclear. The imperial estates were divided into different administrative units that could be leased by so-called conductores: villa, fundus, saltus regio, and tractus. A tractus was divided into smaller administrative units and could include several regionis and saltus, but the relationship between the two latter terms are obscure. They were certainly subunits of a tractus, but sometimes they seem to be identical. At least five tractus are attested in the North African provinces, including the tractus Karthaginiensis and the tractus Hadrumetina overlapping with the tractus Byzacena. Their procuratores were equestrians, and G. Boulvert (1974: 152–154) defined these positions as “Classe E” in his hierarchy of the imperial administration, while the freedmen procurators of such regionis as Thuggensis and Assuritana and the different saltus belong to “Classe F” (Carlsen, 2013: 199–201, with references). The imperial estates in Numidia were also very important and administrated by a procurator tractus Thevestini attested in an inscription found at Cirta (CIL 8.7053 = ILS 1438; Leveau, 2020). The procurators had secretaries with clerks of lesser rank, including tabularii and so-called dispensatores regionis, attested not only from the necropolises of the imperial slaves and freedmen at Carthage but also at Thuburbo Maius (CIL 8.12892  =  ILS 1510: dispensator regionis Thuggensis; CIL 8.24687; AE 1915, no. 20: dispensator regionis Thuburbitane Maius et Canopitanae; Carlsen, 2013: 199–200).

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The so-called great inscriptions found in the Bagradas Valley can be supplemented by other epigraphical material that shed light on the organization of production and administration of the imperial domains in North Africa in the second century ce. The land was normally cultivated by free tenants, coloni, who paid rent in cash or kind to the conductores with the imperial procurators as mediators and controllers (Kehoe, 1988; Kolendo, 1991). Very few imperial slave estate managers are attested in Roman North Africa, but a vilica of Claudius died near Calama (Guelma) in Numidia where, in addition, a Neronian saltuarius, who worked either as a forester or guardian of the boundaries of the estate, was commemorated. The appearance of these two titles in the same area in the Julio-Claudian period seems to indicate that this imperial estate was one of the few in North Africa not leased out to conductores but exploited directly through slave managers (CIL 8.5268  =  17500; CIL 8.5383; Carlsen, 2013: 145, 185). Another saltuarius is attested in the cemeteries of the imperial officiales at Carthage, but compared to Italy there are very few inscriptions mentioning imperial estate managers such as vilici and vilica, which normally supervised slave-staffed estates. This indicates that the imperial properties normally were exploited indirectly through different types of leaseholders and that the imperial administration of the African properties concentrated on the financial aspects of the rents and was located in a few provincial administrative centers close to the estates. The “great inscriptions” indicate that imperial attempts to encourage the cultivation of marginal or abandoned land in order to increase revenues and production from imperial land in one of the most important areas for the grain supply of Rome were successful. Recent archaeological fieldwork in the Medjerda Valley (de Vos Raaijmakers, Chapter 12) and other parts of Tunisia and Libya indicate that this economic expansion continued into the fourth century ce (Dossey, 2010). The conditions of the coloni changed gradually in the third and fourth centuries ce. The short-term five-year lease-contracts disappeared and the tenant could achieve ius emphyteuticum, which ensured a very long or even life-long tenancy. In 332 ce the emperor Constantine, for fiscal reasons, bound the imperial coloni to the estate on which they were born, and their condition seems to have deteriorated in Late Antiquity in almost all respects. At the same time, imperial slaves and freedmen continued to have important positions in the management of the imperial estates, supervising the tenants’ compulsory work and the payments of rents (Vera, 1988; Lenski, 2017; Tedesco, 2018).

Epilogue Modern manuals of Roman imperial administration in the provinces usually focus on the governors, imperial legates, and equestrian procurators to whom the source material is most abundant. It is a traditional historical approach, but in many respects overlooked funerary inscriptions of imperial slaves and freedmen in subordinated positions, which provide us with another picture of the day-to-day provincial administration. The governors, legates, and equestrian procuratores were appointed for one or a few years and did not live permanently in the provinces, but mostly in Italy. On the other hand, the majority of the imperial slaves lived their whole life in North Africa with their families and relatives. The varied historical evolution of the four North African provinces in the Early Empire pose other problems. The provinces were annexed to the Roman Empire at different times through almost 200 years from 146 bce to 40 ce. Accordingly, although there are resemblances between their provincial administration, there are also important differences. This concerns in particular the governors: a senatorial proconsul in Africa Proconsularis, but equestrian procurators in the two Mauretanian provinces and an imperial legate in Numidia. Other differences could be mentioned, and it is therefore no surprise that the provinces developed differently administratively. The



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culmination came in Late Antiquity, when Mauretania Tingitana was excluded from the new diocesis Africa and included in Spain instead.

FURTHER READING Lintott (1993) is a good, modern introduction to Roman administration in general. Thomasson (1982) concentrates on Roman administration in North Africa with a survey of modern scholarship until 1980. Hurlet (2005) includes references to more recent modern scholarship. For lists of the senatorial and ­equestrian governors and imperial legates in North Africa during the Early Empire and Late Antiquity, see Chastagnol (1967), Christol and Magioncalda (1989), and Thomasson (1960); revised and extended in Thomasson (1996a). Boulvert (1970, 1974) and Weaver (1972) are still the fundamental works on the imperial slaves and freedmen, while Carlsen (2020a, 2020b) provides overviews and analyses of different aspects of the inscriptions from the burial grounds of the officials at Carthage. Two chapters in Carlsen (2013) are dedicated more broadly to the familia Caesaris in Roman North Africa. Ørsted (1992) and France (2017) are two recent analyses of the Quattuor publica Africae, including the procuratores, slaves, and freedmen employed in the collection of custom duties. The inscriptions mentioning the regulations of tenancy agreements on the imperial estates in the fertile Bagradas Valley have been the subject of many important contributions, including Kehoe (1988) and Kolendo (1991). The recent discovery of the seventh inscription has created a controversy over the correct reading of the fragmented inscriptions: see de Vos Raaijmakers (Chapter 12), and also González Bordas and France (2017), together with Chérif and González Bordas (2020).

REFERENCES Abid, H. 2014. “Le tracé de la Fossa Regia dans la vallée de l’oued Siliana. Précisions et réflexions.” In Centres de pouvoir et organisation de l’espace, ed. Cl. Briand-Ponsart, 401–418. Caen. Aït Amara, O. 2014. “La conquête de la Maurétanie (39–42).” In La guerre dans l’Afrique romain sous le Haut-Empire, eds. M. Coltelloni-Trannoy and Y. Le Bohec, 69–83. Paris. Arcuri, R. 2012. “Exitiabile genus Maurorum e Imperium romanum: evoluzione nei rapporti di potere in Mauretania durante l’Alto Impero.” Africa romana 19: 965–978. Boulvert, G. 1970. Esclaves et affranchis impériaux sous le Haut-Empire romain. Rôle politique et administratif. Naples. Boulvert, G. 1974. Domestique et fonctionnaire sous le Haut-Empire romain. La condition de l’affranchi et de l’esclave du prince. Paris. Bullo, S. 2002. Provincia Africa. Le città e il territorio dalla caduta di Cartagine a Nerone. Rome. Carlsen, J. 2013. Land and Labour. Studies in Roman Social and Economic History. Rome. Carlsen, J. 2020a. “The Necropoleis of the Imperial slaves and freedmen in the Deathscape of Roman Carthage.” In For the Love of Carthage, ed. J.H. Hunphrey, JRA Suppl. 109, 9–27. Portsmouth. Carlsen, J. 2020b. “Epitaphs and the demography of the Imperial slaves and freedmen in Roman Carthage.” In Reflections: Harbour City Deathscapes in Roman Italy and Beyond, eds. N. Bargfeldt and J.H. Petersen, 195–209. Rome. Chastagnol, A. 1958. “Les légats du proconsul d’Afrique au Bas-Empire.” Libyca 6: 7–19. Chastagnol, A. 1967. “Les gouverneurs de Byzacène et de Tripolitaine.” AntAfr 1: 119–134. Chérif, A., and González Bordas, H. 2020. “Henchir Hnich (région du Krib, Tunisie): la découverte de la première copie de la lex Hadriana de agris rudibus et de trois inscriptions funéraires inedites.” In L’epigrafia del Nord Africa: Novità, riletture, nuove sintesi, eds. S. Aounallah and A. Mastino, 205–221. Faenza. Christol, M., and Magioncalda, A. 1989. Studi sui procuratori delle due Mauretaniae. Sassari. Di Vita-Evrard, G. 1986. “La Fossa Regia et les diocèses d’Afrique proconsulaire.” Africa romana 3: 31–58. Dondin-Payre, M. 1990. “L’intervention du proconsul d’Afrique dans la vie des cités.” In L’Afrique dans l’Occident romain (Ier siècle av. J.-C. – IVe siècle ap. J.-C.), Rome, 333–349.

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Dossey, L. 2010. Peasant and Empire in Christian North Africa. Berkeley. Dupuis, X. 2000. “Les IIII publica Africae: un exemple de personnel administratif subalterne en Afrique.” CCGG 11: 277–294. Ferchiou, N. 1998. “Fossa Regia.” EB 19: 2897–2911 Fishwick, D. 1993. “On the origins of Africa Proconsularis, I: The amalgamation of Africa Vetus and Africa Nova.” AntAfr 29: 53–62. Fishwick, D. 1994. “On the origins of Africa Proconsularis, II: The administration of Lepidus and the Commission of M. Caelius Phileros.” AntAfr 30: 57–80. Fishwick, D. 2013. “On the origins of Africa Proconsularis, IV: The career of M. Caelius Phileros again.” AntAfr 49: 211–214. France, J. 2017. Finances publiques, intérêts privés dans le monde romain. Bordeaux. González Bordas, H., and France, J. 2017. “A new edition of the Imperial Regulation from the Lella Drebblia site near Dougga (AE 2001, 2083).” JRA 30: 407–428. Guédon, S. 2014. “La Lex vestis peregrinae dans le tarif de Zarai.” AntAfr 50: 111–123. Haensch, R. 1997. Capita provinciarum. Statthaltersitze und Provinzverwaltung in der römisichen Kaiserzeit. Mainz am Rhein. Hamdoune, C. 2018. Ad fines Africae Romanae. Les mondes tribaux dans les provinces maurétaniennes. Bordeaux. Hurlet, F. 2005. “Le proconsul d’Afrique d’Auguste à Diocletien.” Pallas 68: 145–167. Kehoe, D.P. 1988. The Economics of Agriculture on Roman Imperial Estates in North Africa. Göttingen. Kolendo, J. 1991. Le colonat en Afrique sous le Haut-Empire. 2nd edition. Paris. Lassère, J.-M. 2015. Africa, quasi Roma (256 av. J.-C. – 711 ap. J.-C.). Paris. Le Bohec, Y. 2005. Histoire de l’Afrique romaine 146 avant J.-C. – 439 après J.-C. Paris. Lenski, N. 2017. “Peasant and slave in Late Antique North Africa, c.100–600 ce.” In Late Antiquity in Contemporary Debate, ed. R.L. Testa, 113–155. Newcastle. Lepelley, Cl. 2003. “Quelques aspects de l’administration des romaines d’Afrique avant la conquête vandale.” AnTard 10: 61–72. Leveau, P. 2020. “L’économie domaniale romaine dans les Némemcha. ‘Forts Byzantins’, ‘Salles à Auges’. L’apport des Ostraca aux époques vandale et byzantine.” CNRA BAA 2020: 241–301. Lintott, A. 1993. Imperium Romanum. Politics and Administration. London. Modéran, Y. 2003. Les Maures et l’Afrique romaine (IVe-VIIe s.). Rome. Ørsted, P. 1992. “Quattuor publica Africae: Custom duties or landtax?” Africa romana 9: 813–829. Ørsted, P. 2000. “Centuriation and infrastructure.” In Africa Proconsularis. Regional Studies in the Segermes Valley of Northern Tunisia, eds. P. Ørsted et al., 75–103. Aarhus. Pflaum, H. G. 1960–1961. Les carrières procuratoriennes équestres sous le Haut-Empire I-III. Paris. Rafferty, D. 2019. Provincial Allocations in Rome 123–52 BCE. Stuttgart. Romanelli, P. 1959. Storia delle province romane dell’Africa. Rome. Saller, R.P. 1982. Personal Patronage under the Early Empire. Cambridge. Tedesco, P. 2018. “The missing factor“: Economy and labor in Late Roman North Africa (400–600 ce).” JLA 11: 396–431. Thomasson, B.E. 1960. Die Statthalter der römischen Provinzen Nordafrikas von Augustus bis Diocletianus I-II. Lund. Thomasson, B.E. 1982. “Zur Verwaltungsgeschichte der römischen Provinzen Nordafrikas (Proconsularis, Numidia, Mauretaniae).” ANRW II.10.2: 3–61. Thomasson, B.E. 1996a. Fasti Africani. Senatorische und ritterliche Amtsträger in den römischen Provinzen Nordafrikas von Augustus bis Diokletian. Stockholm. Thomasson, B.E. 1996b. “I questori d’Africa durante il principato.” Africa romana 11: 1501–1504. Vanacker, W. 2013. “Ties of resistance and cooperation. Aedemon, Lusius Quietus and the Baquates.” Mnemosyne 66: 708–733. Vanacker, W. 2014. “Many paths to walk. The political and economic integration of nomadic communities in Roman North Africa (I–III cent. ad).” Afrika Focus 27.2: 98–104.



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Vera, D. 1988. “Terra e lavoro nell’Africa romana.” Studi storici 29: 967–992. Weaver, P. R. C. 1972. Familia Caesaris. A Social Study of the Emperor’s Freedmen and Slaves. Cambridge. Wolff, C. 2014. “La guerre de Tacfarinas (17–24).” In La guerre dans l’Afrique romain sous le Haut-Empire, eds. M. Coltelloni-Trannoy and Y. Le Bohec, 53–67. Paris.

CHAPTER 10

The Army Patrice Faure

The role played by the Roman army in North Africa goes far beyond the strict military sphere as it was a major actor in the history of the region for several centuries. Nonetheless, our knowledge of the African army is still marked by a paradoxical situation: while local sources stand out by their abundance and frequently exceptional nature – in archeological and in epigraphic terms in particular, especially with regard to the imperial era – the historiography of the Roman army in Africa suffers today from a level of information replenishment that is far lower than that of the other great military areas of the Roman empire. This state of affairs is largely due to the history of the Maghreb since the nineteenth century. Indeed, and in a similar fashion to the entire historiography of Rome in Africa, studies of the Roman army in the region were colored by the weight of the colonial experience (Mattingly, 1996). The European colonial powers and societies – France and Italy – in the Maghreb valorized a military institution perceived as the spearhead of “civilization” as well as their illustrious predecessor in arms (Dondin-Payre, 1991). While remarkable studies were produced (Cagnat, 1892 in particular), these studies are now more than a century old and reflect the context of their times. Following nascent national histories of Maghrebi states often looked with disfavor on the Roman army as an imperialist force of occupation and of oppression, meeting out violence to the local populations, presented as hostile and rebellious to Rome. In the field of Roman history, the concepts of “imperialism,” “integration,” “Romanization,” or “imperiality,” which all implicate the army, have emerged alongside advances in Roman military studies that have explored the ties between the armies and the provinces they were stationed in and considered the military as a human community. In so doing, they have provided a new focus on the practices and relationships between Roman troops and the local populations and territories. For this reason, it now seems necessary to distance ourselves from strict colonial and postcolonial historiographic models, in order to investigate the full complexity of the history of the Roman military experience in North Africa. The chronological importance of the Roman occupation in the Maghreb (approximately six centuries, thus almost five times the length of the French colonization of Algeria), the spatial and human diversity of the areas where this occupation took place (from the Atlantic coast to the Gulf of Sidra), and the variety of the resulting military, political, social, religious, cultural, and economic effects, substantiate the wealth of the subject.

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.



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From Intervention to Military Occupation (256–27 bce) Beginning in the mid-third century bce and extending to the end of the Republic, North Africa was involved in the dynamic of Roman overseas expansion (Fields, 2010). The Roman army was successively the architect of victory over Carthage, the occupation force of the first Roman province established on the southern shores of the Mediterranean, and an instrument for solving internal conflicts pertaining to the res publica, which had been exported to Africa.

A New Arena for Military Action The first contacts of the Roman army with Africa date back to the three Punic Wars, which took place between 264 and 146 bce (Hoyos, 2011). In 272, the capture of Taranto allowed Rome to complete its conquest of the south of Italy. Now Roman interests collided more directly with those of Carthage, whose position had grown stronger in the western Mediterranean. This marked the end of the commercial and military alliance that both cities had concluded by treaty since 509 bce, and then renewed. The first Roman intervention in Africa took place in 256 bce, during the First Punic War (264–241 bce). A contingent of approximately 15,000 troops landed in Aspis, on the eastern coast of Cap Bon. It was commanded by Marcus Atilius Regulus and won several victories before being defeated in 255 bce by the Carthaginian army led by the Spartan Xanthippus (Polyb. 1. 29–36). The fleet sent to evacuate the survivors was destroyed by a storm and the Romans only returned in 253 bce in order to carry out raids on the African coast, east of Carthage. During the Second Punic War (218–201 bce), which was marked by Hannibal’s expedition to Italy as well as by severe defeats, the main Roman military operation in Africa began in 204 bce. It ended with the victory of Scipio “Africanus” over Hannibal, in Zama, in October 202 bce (Livy 30. 32–35). Finally, and contrary to the previous Punic Wars, the Third Punic War (149–146 bce) concentrated on Carthage itself and led to the siege and destruction of the city in 146 bce by the troops of Scipio Aemilianus (App. Pun. 74–135). The bulk of the military operations during the Punic Wars took place outside Africa, on land and at sea, on the great Mediterranean islands, in the Iberian Peninsula, and in Italy. The diversity of theaters of operation and combatants illustrate the Mediterranean and “international” nature of these conflicts. Indeed, the variety of the protagonists’ military practices and cultures should not obscure the fact that all of these players belonged to a common framework characterized by Hellenistic military models (Quinn, 2009; Coltelloni-Trannoy, 2011). In a world that was open to the circulation of people, ideas, and technologies, the Roman army’s confrontation with a great diversity of enemies, terrains, and fighting techniques enriched its military culture and demonstrated its adaptability, which at times became necessary in the face of harsh setbacks. It is also necessary to relativize the difference, promoted by Greco-Roman sources (Polyb. 6, 52) and accepted for long without discussion, between the Roman army, which was presented as the citizens’ army of a land power, and the army of the Carthaginian thalassocracy, which was supposed to depend entirely on external military manpower. It is true that the republican army was organized according to the principle of temporary mobilization and taxation of citizens who were called to form legions of foot soldiers to serve Rome when necessary, but Rome was able to bring together a fleet in order to expand its overseas reach. More particularly, the legions were backed by the Italian allies (socii) (Potter, 2004). Rome also recruited auxiliary troops in North Africa as of the Second Punic War and was able to depend, in certain instances, on the military support of the Numidian kings (Livy 24, 48). Carthage, on the other hand, made massive use of foreign troops who were provided by its subjects, allies, but especially by mercenaries. Celts, Greeks, Iberians – and even Italians who had been swayed by Hannibal – fought for the city (Polyb. 1.17.4; Livy 22, 61.10–12). However, Carthaginian citizens could also bear arms and the entire population of Carthage stubbornly resisted the siege during the Third Punic War.

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The ideological construct of a Carthaginian enemy diametrically opposed to Roman civic virtues made it possible to legitimize Rome and its army’s righteous war (bellum iustum) against an enemy presented as unholy and perfidious (Punica fides) (see also Fumadó Ortega, Chapter 6). Thus, the use of military stratagems and ploys was justified in the eyes of the Romans just as much as the offensive constituting the Third Punic War. In the same way, the ongoing praise in Greco-Roman sources of Hannibal’s military genius made it possible to highlight the merits of the Roman army and commanders who finally defeated him. Many triumphs were staged in honor of the victories against the Carthaginians and the prestige of the Roman commanders grew accordingly. Scipio Africanus was apparently the first imperator to be given a victory title created from the name of the vanquished, after Zama (Livy 30.45.7). The same title was granted to Scipio Aemilianus following the capture of Carthage, in 146 bce (Val. Max. 2.7.1). This success allowed Rome to settle durably on the southern shores of the Mediterranean. The relationship between the Roman army and North Africa was deeply transformed as a result.

The First Roman Military Occupation in Africa The new Roman possession spread over the former territory (pertica) of Carthage. It was bound by a moat – the fossa regia – which marked the border with the Numidian kingdom (Plin. NH. 5, 25). The establishment date of the new province of Africa, believed for a long time to have been in 146 bce, is now subject to debate, with some suggesting that it may have followed the war against Jugurtha (Quinn, 2004; Gargola, 2017). In any case, the “provincialization” must have taken some time. Africa was governed by a praetor or propraetor based at Utica. The control and exploitation of the Republic’s new possession must have required the assistance of the Roman army. The existence of a garrison is implied by Orosius (5.11.1–5) and Augustine (de.Civ.D. 3.31) especially, who both describe the devastation that an epidemic in 125 bce caused among the troops stationed in Utica. The presence of this garrison was apparently justified by the military necessities following the conquest, rather than the importance of the region in supplying Rome, and finally by the political necessity of guaranteeing a certain rank to the governors of Africa (Hinard, 1991). This point of view has generally been accepted but, due to absent sources and studies, we know very little about the functioning of a system that was probably characterized by a certain degree of flexibility in terms of wages, length of service, and rotation, which must have fluctuated according to need. Thus the importance of the military presence on African soil at the end of the Republic was determined by internal circumstances (the relation of the Roman authority to the local populations and Numidian neighbors) and by circumstances external to the province (the upheavals of political life in Rome), which were very tightly linked. This reflects Africa’s early, integral, and full participation in the political and military stakes that concerned the imperialist Republic (Stone, 2013; Hobson, 2016). After the victory at Zama in 202 bce and the capture of Carthage in 146 bce, Rome did not try to seize by force the allied kingdom of Numidia, which had sided with Rome against the Punic city and whose alliances fluctuated over the course of the second century bce. The kingdom, which was unified and extended by King Masinissa (203–148 bce), was however divided between his two natural sons and his adoptive son, Jugurtha, after the death of Micipsa (148–118 bce). This was the origin of the Jugurthine War (112–105 bce), known to us by Sallust’s Bellum Iugurthinum. It appears that this war was the main conflict in which the Roman army was engaged in Africa between the Third Punic War and the civil wars of the first century bce. The dispute, which, at first, was dynastic, was arbitrated in part by Rome but broke loose in 112 bce, after Jugurtha’s victory over his competitors, followed by the massacre of the Italian merchants in Cirta. Rome, desiring to ensure stability on its provincial frontier, attacked a turbulent neighbor who was familiar with its techniques of warfare. In the 130s bce, indeed, at the siege of Numantia in particular, Jugurtha had commanded the Numidian troops engaged as allies in the wars waged in Spain against the



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Celtiberians. There he gained his reputation and familiarity among the Roman élites (Sall. Iug. 7–9). The numerous episodes of the conflict finally led to the victories of Quintus Caecilius Metellus, and then of Gaius Marius, who captured the rebel king with the help of his quaestor Sulla (Sall. Iug. 113). Jugurtha was paraded during the triumph of Marius in 104 bce and subsequently executed. The increasing power of Rome in Africa and the desire to integrate kings and local notables in the crony networks of Roman aristocrats was completed with the conversion of Numidia into a friendly and allied kingdom (socius et amicus), but especially a kingdom that was dependent on the Urbs.

The Imperatores of the End of the Republic and the War in Africa In 122 bce, the colony founded by Gaius Gracchus on the site of Carthage was dissolved. However, the Jugurthine war necessitated the deployment of an unusual number of troops, who had come from Italy or been recruited locally. In exchange for their engagement, some of Marius’s troops were awarded 100-jugera plots (approximately 25 hectares; De vir. ill.73.1) given viritim (a benefit granted on an individual basis, outside of any municipal framework), to Uchi Maius, Thuburnica, and Thibaris in particular. Italian legionaries, but also Gaetulian auxiliary troops, were among the beneficiaries who, at the same time, obtained Roman citizenship. The presence of many bearers of the nomen Marius in Numidia suggests that veterans had settled beyond the fossa regia, outside of the Roman province and along a central stretch of the Bagradas river (Lassère, 1977: 115–132). This settlement marked the beginnings of the Roman army’s contribution to the peopling of the region, by way of land seizures to reward veterans. It also sparked the creation, in Africa, of the first links of patronage between an imperator and his former troops. These personal ties were, however, challenged by the events of the first century bce. Indeed, the political struggles between aristocrats, articulated around the conflicts opposing populares to optimates, led to civil wars that brought large military contingents to Africa, which became a theater for the power struggles waging in Rome. During the 80s bce, Sulla’s victories forced Marius and some of his populares partisans to retreat to Africa, where they were counting on the support of the patronages created erstwhile (Plu. Mar. 40, Pomp. 11–12). They were defeated during operations that involved several legions and tens of auxiliary troop units. A lull followed the victory against the Marianists before war returned to Africa in the 40s bce with the strife between Pompey and Caesar. Despite Curio’s expedition in 49 bce (Caes. B.Ciu. 2. 23–44), and then Pompey’s death in 48 bce, Africa remained under the authority of the Pompeians whom Caesar ended up fighting personally as of 46 bce. The events are well known thanks to the Bellum Africanum. Whereas the Numidian army of Juba I supported the Pompeians, Caesar was able to depend on the private army of the Campanian adventurer Publius Sittius (Cass. Dio 43.3–8) as well as on the army of the kings of Mauretania Bocchus II and Bogud. The Roman army, which had become divided because of the civil wars, was therefore not the sole protagonist in a conflict that put African as much as Roman political equilibria on the line. The necessity to take sides, particular individual interests and relationships of power must have jeopardized the patronage systems that had been constituted earlier and that were always liable to change. Once again, very high numbers of legionaries and auxiliary troops were mobilized in these conflicts, which resulted in Caesar’s victory in Thapsus on 6 April 46 (B. Afr. 79–86). The victor, this time, was still able to count on the loyalty of the Gaetuli, who were sensitive to Caesar’s kinship with Marius. Caesar’s victory dealt a very harsh blow to the Pompeians (Cato the Younger and Juba committed suicide) and was the death knell for the autonomy of the Numidian kingdom. The eastern part of its territory was transformed into a Roman province, called Africa nova, as opposed to the ancient province, Africa vetus. The new Roman possession was governed by a proconsul – the first was the historian Sallust (B. Afr. 97.1; Cass. Dio 43.9) – who was availed powers and troops. A part of the Numidian kingdom, as well as Cirta, were given to Sittius

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who created an ephemeral autonomous principality (App. BC, 4.233–234). Caesar installed in Africa military and civilian colonies, essentially in a viritane manner and in continuation of Marius’ settlements (Lassère, 1977: 145–165). He also took the decision to re-found Carthage, where a first group of settlers (including former soldiers) settled after his death. From 44 to 40 bce, the governors of the two provinces of Africa fought against each other in the triumviral era wars, before Lepidus imposed his authority over the entire region. As soon as he was sidelined in 36 bce, Roman Africa became part of Octavius’ domain, which Bocchus II supported, while Bogud joined Antonius (regarding these events, see Gsell, 1928: 183–205). After Octavius’ victory in Actium, in 31 bce, a new era began for the Roman army in Africa, which henceforth became less focused on the ­belligerent settlement of the aristocratic political competition than on the gradual extension of Roman domination and of Rome’s relations with the local peoples.

The Provincial Armies of North Africa (31 bce–238 ce) Octavius, who became Augustus, formalized the developments that were ongoing for decades by truly giving birth to a professional army, tightly linked to his person and to the new regime of the Principate. It is in this general context that relations became clear between the princeps – also imperator and supreme leader of the Roman army – and the troops in charge of the North African sector, who were entrusted with very diverse duties and more and more incorporated into the provincial framework.

Between Unity and Diversity Several proconsuls triumphed ex Africa, between 36 and 19 bce within the context of the ideology of imperium sine fine (Verg. Aen. 2.278–279 et 6.789-800) and in reaction to the fact that the borders of the southern provinces were still ill-defined. Augustus promoted territorial expansion, which was marked by explorations and by Lucius Cornelius Balbus’ victory over the powerful Garamantes of Fezzan (Plin. HN 5.36: this was the last triumph granted to a senator who was a foreigner with respect to the imperial family). It is also as of the Principate of Augustus that the great principles governing the occupation of Roman North Africa began to take root. In what became a single province in Africa Proconsularis, the garrison was quickly reduced to a legion – the legio III Augusta, made up of about 5000 soldiers – and strongly supported by numerous auxiliary troops (Le Bohec, 1989a, 1989b). Thus, because Africa Proconsularis was the only public province with a garrison of legionaries after the “division of 27 bce,” the proconsul of Africa, a high-ranking senator living in Carthage, enjoyed special military powers compared to his colleagues. The troops of the exercitus Africae were under his command. This original state of affairs, kept in place by Tiberius, was rectified by Caligula, who directly appointed a legatus (Hurlet, 2006: 147–154; Dalla Rosa, 2014: 262–268). The proconsul did not lose his imperium militiae, but the bulk of his troops – the legio III Augusta and its auxiliary units – fell under the authority of the new legatus. The latter also was tasked with building roads (de Vos Raaijmakers et al., 2015), with guaranteeing the security of the province, and with watching over the movements of the local populations. The point was to divide the tasks, which had been assigned gradually, rather than to operate a territorial scission. It is especially between the reigns of Vespasian and of Trajan, and under the effect of Roman domination that extended all the way to the southern part of the Aurès Mountains, and under the effect of the resulting municipal development, that a difference gradually began to appear between a zone sometimes known as “military” – in which the legatus Augusti pro praetore exercitus prouinciae Africae also ended up taking on civilian duties – and an area where the proconsul and the legatus continued exercising their respective functions. This difference was enacted as of the Antonian era



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and was later legally endorsed, probably under Septimius Severus (though this is still the subject of debate, see Dupuis, 2017), by the official creation of a province of Numidia, located to the west of Africa Proconsularis. In the meantime, the military apparatus evolved to reflect the progression of Roman authority westwards and southwards. The first century corresponded to a phase of expansion towards the provincial borders, which were not yet closely controlled under Augustus, despite various military operations (Guédon, 2018: 17–94). In the absence of rivers of any importance, overland routes became the main avenues of expansion. Around 14 ce, the first step in this direction was taken with the construction of a road by the proconsul, Lucius Nonius Asprenas (AE 1905: 177) linking Ammaedara (Haïdra) to the coastal city of Tacapae (Gabès), via the Capsa (Gafsa) oasis, an initiative that probably justified dispatching legionary contingents to various locations. However, it is mostly cadastral, taxation, and confiscation operations that are likely to have threatened the economy of the Musulamii, a tribe inhabiting the territory along the new road, which contributed in part to the rebellion led by Tacfarinas, a former auxiliary soldier (Vanacker, 2015). The difficult war that followed (17–24 ce) required the use of additional troops, such as the legio IX Hispana, but Rome was ultimately victorious (Tac. Ann. 2.52, 4.23–26, passim; Wolff, 2014). The legio III Augusta, which was stationed at least partially in Ammaedara at the end of the Augustus Principate, broke camp on several occasions, moving first to Theveste (Tébessa) around 75 ce, and later to Lambaesis (Lambèse-Tazoult), where it settled definitively under Trajan, after building a smaller camp as of 81 ce (Le Bohec, 1989a: 335–372). It is during the Flavian era that the last great rebellion in Africa Proconsularis was suppressed, most notably the Nasamonian uprising in 86–87 ce (Zonar. 11.19). This stabilization favored Roman military initiatives in the Aurès Mountains which were effectively circumscribed under Trajan and Hadrian. Ad Maiores and Gemellae were occupied during the Antonine period, before the last expansion operations, under Commodus (Tisavar, Vezereos) and the Severans, towards the south of Numidia and in Tripolitania, all the way to the small forts of Castellum Dimmidi (Messad) and Gholaia (Bu Njem), for example (Picard, 1947; AE 1948: 217–218; AE 1976: 700; Rebuffat, 2000). These operations were more geared towards surveillance than defense, and did not lead to systematic military occupation. In so doing, Rome exhibited its interest in the great pre-Saharan and Saharan routes as well as its desire to impose its authority over the routes linking Fezzan to its domain (Guédon, 2018: 221–246). By acting gradually and pragmatically and without haste and without addressing a specific threat, Rome sought chiefly to strengthen interests and relations with its neighbors, the Garamantes, in particular. Rome’s greatest expansion in North Africa was in the direction of the kingdom of Mauretania (Coltelloni-Trannoy, 1997), which was annexed after the assassination of King Ptolemy by Caligula, in 40 ce. Upon that occasion, the Roman army undertook operations against the royal freedman Aedemon and against a coalition of Mauretanian people (Vanacker, 2013; Aït Amara, 2014; Coltelloni-Trannoy, 2014). Under Claudius, the kingdom was definitively organized into two provinces, Caesariana and Tingitana. The original garrison, placed in each province, under the authority of a procurator governor of equestrian rank, may have amounted to 5000 auxiliary troops in Tingitana (3000 foot soldiers and 2000 horsemen) and 4500 in Caesariana (3500 foot soldiers and 1000 horsemen, before a sharp increase at the beginning of the second century ce: Benseddik, 1982; Bernard and Christol, 2010). The history of these Mauretanian garrisons has become gradually clearer thanks to the recent publication of so-called military diplomas. These documents, which were issued beginning in the reign of Claudius, awarded the fulfillment of honorable service and listed the privileges granted to auxiliary soldiers who had completed it. Recently discovered diplomas from the Danubian provinces have yielded new information on garrisons in the Mauretanias (for example, Mugnai, 2016), and complete the testimony found in earlier documents (such as CIL 8.20978 = 16.56). The armies of the two Mauretanias had their own peculiarities. Thanks to the link offered by the Strait of Gibraltar, the army of Tingitana was tightly connected to the army of the Iberian Peninsula, whereas the original army of Caesariana was comprised of troops coming from the west and the

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east of the Empire, but not from Africa (Bernard, 2018: 245–272). Later on, the provincial garrisons of North Africa developed their own identities and their own distinctive relations with one another. These developments reflected the different phases of the expansion and the internal or external military necessities. The armies were also fully incorporated into the imperial army with which personnel were exchanged at both the individual (centurions in particular) and collective levels. Units or detachments were transferred in order to partake in expeditions or missions, in North Africa or in the Empire (CIL 8.619 = 11780; 2975; AE 1895: 204). Auxiliary units from other provinces were also sometimes introduced to support the Mauretanian units facing attacks by the Moors, such as, for example, under Antonius Pius (AE 1975: 951). This cooperation likewise existed for apparently more mundane tasks such as building roads or forts (CIL 8.10230; AE 1948: 217–218, with, in both cases, the provision of legionaries from Syria). The ability of the Roman army to achieve unity and diversity went as far as religious practices (Hilali, 2016). The celebration of the ara cerei festival (for example, AE 1972: 677) on 3 May is mentioned only in some North African camps. It combines dedications to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, votive offerings to safeguard the emperor, and local particularisms.

Military Regions and Border Areas Similar diversity and adaptability is evident along the frontier zones in North Africa. Despite the richness of the archaeological and epigraphic record, these areas have not been the subject of much study since the end of the colonial period when more attention was devoted to them for ideological reasons by the French or Italian colonial authorities, who, in reality and depending on the situation, preserved or destroyed these materials (Mattingly et al., 2013). Though fieldwork is seriously lacking, it is not totally inexistent. The excavation of certain sites such as Bu Njem and Gheriat el-Garbia, in addition to the occasional discovery or signaling of new inscriptions (AE 2014: 1590; AE 2015: 1843 and 1846), have contributed to further reflection. In spite of a relatively unfavorable context, a few Maghrebian and foreign researchers continue to work on the Roman military presence in Africa (Mackensen, 2012). Progress on the overall history and archaeology on the Roman frontier have also opened new perspectives on the specific case of North Africa (Guédon, 2018). In that respect, as elsewhere, specific stress has been placed on the diversity of the limes (a term whose imperfections are well known). It no longer makes sense to consider the African frontier as a uniform bloc created on the basis of a unitary and definitive military doctrine. Rather, it is necessary to insist on the gradual dynamic evolution of the African border areas that were formed between the second century bce and the third century ce. The Roman army made a signal contribution to knowledge of the region through its campaigns and explorations, participating as far as the Sahara (Desanges, 1978: 189– 213; Guédon 2018: 43–82). It accompanied, for example, the proconsul of Africa, Cornelius Balbus, to the Garamantes Fezzan around 20 bce (Plin. HN 36). The army also crossed the Atlas with Suetonius Paulinus, under the reign of Claudius (Plin. HN 5.14), while the legatus of the legio III Augusta, Valerius Festus, returned to the Garamantes in 70 ce (Plin. HN 38; Tac. Hist. 4.49–50), followed soon afterwards by Septimius (or Suellius), who went as far as ­sub-saharan Africa (Ptol. Geog. 1.8.5). In a larger sense, the definition of the borders of Roman domination was determined by the local geography, climate, and people, all of whom were associated with complex ecosystems (mountains, high plains, oases, pre-deserts, and deserts, including all of the pressures resulting from aridity; Leveau, Chapter 3). This definition also depended on political and ideological considerations (Roman concepts of power, the municipal model, etc.) as well as on economic, social, and cultural factors (agro-pastoral activities, participation in trade, taxation, relations with the local elites, and the encounter between the “Roman” and “local” ways of life). In the end, while Rome exerted domination over peoples rather than territories, local populations played a direct role in



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the definition of the rhythms and modalities of Roman settlement. This is why understanding the mission of the army and of its role along the border requires increased knowledge of the local populations, who are still inadequately understood for lack of research comparable to that undertaken on the Garamantes (Mattingly, Chapter 5; Mattingly et al., 2003–2013). Not simply a closed and impenetrable barrier, the border took on fluctuating and sometimes discontinuous forms, owing to an open and evolving concept (Guédon, 2018: 95–188). Depending on the region, the Roman military apparatus relied on a dense network of camps, small forts, outposts, and watchtowers connected by roads and sometimes supplemented by linear defense sections (Lenoir, 2011; Mattingly et al., 2013; Guédon, 2018). The expansion of the Proconsular area in the direction of Numidia and of Tripolitania, went well beyond the primitive fossa regia (defined again under Vespasian: CIL 8.25967; Carlsen, Chapter 9). These developments did not eliminate all military activity from Carthage, a major city with an active harbor (Duval et al., 1984). A cohort, known as “urban,” could be found there (the XIIIth, then the Ist), which was in charge of maintaining public order (CIL 8.1025 = 12467; 24629), while a cohort of the legio III Augusta was detached to the city every year to serve in the officium (office) of the proconsul (AE 2006: 1800c; Bockmann, Chapter 8 and Carlsen, Chapter 9). Lambaesis became the main military center of North Africa, as of the beginning of the second century ce. The site stands out thanks to the exceptional nature of its archeological vestiges – which are threatened and inadequately studied – and to its collection of military inscriptions. Over the 20 or so hectares of its great legionary camp, it is possible to identify, in particular, the principia (the headquarters, with the sanctuary, administrative offices, and great assembly yard), a quadrifons, baths, the homes of the officers, and the barracks of the ordinary soldiers. In the surroundings stood a field for military exercises where epigraphic fragments of speeches delivered by Hadrian were found, and before whom maneuvers by the different armies of Africa were conducted during his trip in 128 ce (CIL 8. 2532 = 18042; Le Bohec, 2003, 2008; AE 2006: 1800; Speidel, 2006). Elsewhere, legionary detachments or auxiliary units were used to further advance the Roman military presence toward the southwest and southeast, as evidenced by roads, small forts, towers, and small control posts located in oases or at crossing points. The remote oasis of Cydamus (Ghadames), in the Garamantes kingdom, housed a detachment under the Severans. Certain sites – such as Calceus Herculis (El Kantara) and Castellum Dimmidi (Messad) in Numidia, or Tisavar (Ksar Rhelane), Myd… (Gheriat el Garbia), and Gholaia (Bu Njem), in Tripolitania – were partially explored. These provided very valuable written testimony (inscriptions, ostraca: AE 1995: 1641; AE 1999: 1760; O. Bu Njem) or material testimony (architecture, furniture) regarding the lives and missions of soldiers stationed as far as the edge of the Sahara (Rebuffat, 2000). The main tasks of these small garrisons, which were generally commanded by detached centurions, consisted in guaranteeing the security of the trails and in monitoring the movements of the populations and of the local caravans, by way of regular patrols and constant communication between the Roman posts (O. Bu Njem 95). Inside the provinces, the beneficiarii and stationarii who were detached to road stations were in charge of the surveillance and control of the major routes (CIL 8.10717 = 17628), whereas the frumentarii, who were very polyvalent and mobile, acted as messengers and intelligence agents. They all could carry out investigations, interrogations, and arrests (Cypr. Ep. 81, 1). In addition to these facilities, several sections of linear defenses were revealed just after the Second World War, through the aerial observations of Colonel Jean Baradez (Baradez, 1949). For example, in the area of the Gemellae camp and over some 60 km, a moat and an embankment with several double towers, forming gates that were potentially used to filter movement, were spotted. Their inventor attributed to these structures the name already used by S. Gsell of fossatum Africae, taken from a designation in a constitution from the reign of Honorius, dating back to 409 ce (Cod. Theod. 7.15.1), which does not call into question the accuracy of this connection. To be sure, the grouping and designation of vestiges under a unique name cannot be automatically accepted in the absence of any other form of examination because aerial observations should ideally be completed

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by ground surveys, which are liable to specify the typology, functions, and dating of the buildings, which can vary greatly. Although it was not possible to complete this work systematically, it is clear that the military vestiges that were revealed did not constitute a continuous barrier, or even “an entry point,” conceived on the basis of a unitary strategic concept, but rather ad hoc solutions adopted on the basis of the local configurations. In the absence of a permanent potential danger that could have threatened the province, there were no systematic checks at the border, nor any compulsory “checkpoints,” but rather attentive surveillance schemes of the particular contexts. The same pragmatism is found in Mauretania Caesariensis, where several building phases of the “border” are visible. During the first century ce, the system was concentrated on the Mediterranean coast as well as in Caesarea (Cherchell), whose strategic importance is suggested by its military epigraphy (Leveau, 1984: 145–148). The royal guard (CIL 8.21068; AE 1976: 750) was followed by the guard of the procurator governor, who was protected by foot soldiers and horsemen, but also assisted by soldiers detached in his offices as secretaries, archivists, and accountants (CIL 8.9354; AE 1933: 61; Haensch, 1997: 451–453). These latter posts stress once again the importance of the administrative duties undertaken by the Roman army in and outside the camps. Auxiliary units were stationed in Cherchell and its vicinity (AE 1921: 31; see Figure 10.1); troops occasionally disembarked in the harbor of Cherchell, which also housed a military fleet (linked with Alexandria and Syria) whose history is still poorly known (CIL 8.21017). The military role of Caesarea does not seem to have diminished in a significant way during the Principate, despite

Figure 10.1  Funerary monument to Balaterus, who hailed from Dalmatia, was an auxiliary soldier of the cohors VI Dalmatarum, and died in Cherchell in the second half of the first century ce. Source: Gsell and Le Glay, 1952: 21.



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successive extensions of the defensive apparatus towards the south. The point was first, at the beginning of the second century, to build an east–west axis studded with military installations (such as the camp of Rapidum, which was occupied by the cohors II Sardorum: AE 1975: 953; Laporte, 1989) along a fertile depression running from Auzia (Sour-el-Ghozlane) to the low Chetlif valley. A new development phase, accomplished under Septimius Severus between 198 and 203 ce, brought the system to the south of the Tell Atlas. A military beltway was installed and new camps were set up on sites (Cohors Breucorum, Altava, Numerus Syrorum, most notably) that sometimes took on the names of the units stationed in them. Some units, which until then were located further north, were moved, but the old apparatus was not completely abandoned. Hence, the new system should not be considered an ultimate, continuous, and impenetrable border line, but rather a mobile system facilitated by the use of numerous horsemen, designed to address evolving military situations (Hamdoune, 2018: 45–61). Just as with the fossatum Africae, the beltway’s frequent designation as a nova praetentura (taken from a few inscriptions: in particular CIL 8.22611) is a term that needs to be interpreted with prudence. It would be necessary to carry out systematic field surveys in order to verify the true military or civilian nature of the installations traditionally attributed to it. In Usinaza, for example, civilian populations were settled (CIL 8.9228). Northeast of Tingitana, not far from the Strait of Gibraltar, was the camp of Tamuda, which was relatively isolated from the rest of the provincial military apparatus (Bernal et al., 2013). Roman occupation was concentrated along the coastal plains, which were serviced by two main strategic roads: one parallel to the Atlantic coast, from Tingi (Tangiers) to Sala (along its way were the camps of Lixus and Thamusida), the other more inland, from Tingi to Volubilis, and dotted with small forts and watch towers. To conclude, the diversity of the installations should lead us to relativize our approach to the North African provinces as a homogeneous military zone: Roman military command was probably never conceived in a unitary manner, from the Atlantic to the Gulf of Sidra. The number of troops under the High Empire scattered over this large area probably rarely, if ever, exceeded 25,000, though this number fluctuated constantly. At the imperial level, this economy of resources defined North Africa as an area of secondary strategic concern, far behind the Rhine, the Danube, the Orient, and Britannia. The presence of desert or semi-desert areas south of its domain was not tantamount to a political and military void, as is seen with the presence of the powerful Garamantes. Nonetheless, the absence of strong powers (such as the Parthians) and of great threats was in sharp contrast to the situation along other imperial frontiers. At the political level, the military units of North Africa and their commanders carried very little weight during the great succession crisis of the Principate. An attempted coup d’état took place during the spring of 68 ce, upon the initiative of Clodius Macer, legatus Augusti pro praetore of Africa (Tac. Hist. 1.7.1; 1.11.3; 2.97.4). Having turned into a dissident under Nero, he raised the legio I Macriana and blocked the supply of wheat to Rome. This was the main pressure tactic available to those seeking political power against the central government in the Maghreb. However, Macer was eliminated during the fall and his legion was quickly dissolved. It is the armies of Rome, of the Rhine, of the Danube, and of the East that brought on to the stage the great protagonists of the “Year of the Four Emperors.” Later, the troops of North Africa joined Septimius Severus, the victor of the civil wars of 193–197 ce, but only watched, as spectators, the uprisings and fighting that took place along the vital strategic route of the Empire, running from Britannia to Syria. In 238 ce, the insurrection that brought the Gordians to power broke out in Carthage and the legio III Augusta marched on the rebels and crushed them for the benefit of Maximinus Thrax, the ruling emperor (Herodian 7.4.9). Finally, the secondary nature of the African military sector is visible in the absence of imperial expeditions carried out on its soil and, more generally speaking, in the absence of visits by the emperors themselves. Under the Principate, only Hadrian and Septimius Severus crossed the Mediterranean, for reasons that were not mainly belligerent. The speech delivered by Hadrian to the various units of the Roman army of Africa reveals that despite the absence of African wars conducted by emperors, the troops endeavored to maintain their combat readiness by exercising (Le Bohec, 2003).

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Waging War and Maintaining Peace In fact, North Africa during the first three centuries of the Principate certainly experienced military conflicts, which were not limited to conquest operations (Coltelloni-Trannoy and Le Bohec, 2014). Historians, however, question their nature, intensity, and true meaning: were they “authentic” wars or low-intensity confrontations, external attacks or internal rebellions, episodic troubles or endemic agitation? In the background lurks the issue raised by post-colonial historians of a possible “African resistance” against Rome and Romanization (Bénabou, 1976). More recently, critical attention has been focused on the traditional image of a “civilizing” Rome through greater insistence upon the brutality and arbitrariness of Roman domination, which was chiefly exerted by its military (Mattingly, 2011). The Roman army was a force of conquest and of spoilation, which maintained a continuous presence on site in order to occupy and repress movements of rebellion. Even during the periods of peace, a certain degree of “ordinary” military arbitrariness must have existed, in the Maghreb as elsewhere. It is, however, not certain that the capricious use of Roman power was greater in North Africa compared to other areas of the Empire. Moreover, the Roman army sometimes protected local populations against forays and banditry. In Sala, for example, prefect Marcus Sulpicius Felix was thanked in 144 ce for having defeated those who were threatening prosperity achieved through agro-pastoral activities (IAM II, 1, 307). Thus, it could be concluded that the Roman army performed more than just military activities and did not always behave to the detriment of the interests of the provincial populations (Rachet, 1970; Gutsfeld, 1989). The Roman army also did not have a monopoly on violence, which its enemies were also capable of demonstrating. Ideally speaking, it would therefore be useful to go beyond the paradigms of an “enlightened Rome,” “an African resistance,” “inverted history,” and “post-colonial repentance” by providing more nuance to the simplistic opposition between “Romans” and “natives,” formed into two homogenous blocs irremediably different and hostile to each other on a durable basis (Thébert, 1978; Afrique et histoire, 2005; Vanacker, 2014). Whether we are speaking about a general or local scale, the situation was more complex and ambivalent. Despite the gaps in our knowledge, it is essential to focus on the historical and geographic contexts of conflicts on a case by case basis and with the greatest subtlety possible. It appears therefore that most of the threats and tensions were concentrated in the Mauretanias and were caused by forays from Moorish tribes (Hamdoune, 2018: 123–147). The recurrence of confrontation was not invariably a sign of a state of endemic rebellion caused by the pressure of a “nomad threat” or of a “standing Berber presence” supposedly characteristic of the rebellious mountain regions facing the “Romanized” plains. Although the tempo and conditions of the Roman advances in Africa certainly led to tensions and troubles, the alternatingly violent and peaceful relations with the native populations was determined by many factors and regulated by means that were neither unilateral nor solely military. War was always a possible outcome, but it was not the only avenue to stability. Dialogue and diplomacy were employed to obtain the support of the local communities and élites. Much like the traditional Roman treaties of friendship and alliance with kingdoms and peoples during the Republic, the Romans pursued asymmetric amicitia relationships with local elites (Coltelloni-Trannoy, 2005), often through service in the Roman army. This principle of cooperation, which was applied throughout the entire Empire, was applied equally and with success in North Africa. Treaties (foedera) provided native military contingents and regulated relations between Rome and certain gentes. This is how many Africans served in the Roman army. Dialogues between Roman and local officials illustrated by a rich epigraphic series from Volubilis, reflect the regular encounters between the procurators of Mauretania Tingitana and the chiefs of the federated Baquates people (as well as the Bavares and Macennites), from the mid-second century to the end of the third century ce (ex: IAM 2, 2, 350). These discussions and negotiations offered the opportunity to seal or renew agreements. In certain cases, and in anticipation of a gradual transition to a municipal framework, provincial authorities used praefecti gentium to act as relays and to facilitate the politico-military control of the tribes (ILAlg 1, 3992; Hamdoune, 2018: 63–122). During the first and second centuries ce, these praefecti



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gentium were equestrians from outside Africa but by the third century ce, these officials were locals who were honored by the prestige of the title. The famous Tabula Banasitana (IAM 2, 1, 94) indicates that the chief of the Zegrenses and his family, who supported the Romans, were granted Roman citizenship by Marcus Aurelius, while also preserving the rights of the tribe. Thus, far from being in a merely antagonistic relationship, Roman soldiers and African populations were sometimes closely connected. In sum, the army contributed in several ways to a substantial cultural interchange.

Soldiers and Civilians Depending on the individuals and periods, North Africa was a land of service for soldiers who had come from elsewhere, a land of adoption for certain veterans who remained there or a land of recruitment for local populations who were stationed there or further afield (Le Bohec, 1989a: 491–530). In the imperial army, which became a standing army, the Italian recruitment of republican legions was gradually replaced by provincial recruitment. The wealth of the epigraphic record pertaining to the legio III Augusta sheds light on this phenomenon in Africa (Le Bohec, 1989a: 495–508). During the first century ce, Italians, Provincials (from Gallia Narbonensis in particular), and Africans were serving side by side, before the legion turned to massive recruitment of Africans, who became the largest component of the legion in the course of the second century ce. In North Africa, the settlement of veterans, the successes of municipalization and the prosperity of the provinces contributed to broadening the local recruitment base of legionaries, offered by the colonies, the municipalities, and the rural towns. Numerous local recruits were also designated, in the epigraphic lists preserved in Lambaesis, as castris (CIL 8.18068  =  AE 1992: 1875). These “camp” children (i.e., sons of soldiers born in the civilian settlement around the legionary camp), who were very numerous at the beginning of the third century ce, came from a military background, which developed a form of self-reproduction without, however, completely closing in on itself. Among the “African” recruits it was possible to find descendants of soldiers who had come from overseas (IGLNovae 33) and who were often wed to women of local origin. Others must have been sons of “Romanized” local families, who were granted citizenship over a more or less long period of time (AE 1995: 1641). Prior to the edict of Caracalla, which, in 212 ce, extended Roman citizenship to all the free inhabitants of the Empire who were not yet citizens, peregrines had found in auxiliary service a way to acquire ciuitas Romana. Recourse to foreign and non-citizen military labor was in effect from the beginning of the Roman presence on African soil, which itself provided many peregrine soldiers (Hamdoune, 1999), as the examples of Jugurtha and Tacfarinas, Marius’ Gaetulian soldiers and the Numidian horsemen used by Caesar show. Pursuant to this principle, the imperial professional army proceeded, in North Africa, to raise cohorts and auxiliary troops as well as numeri, who took on the names of the peoples called upon to provide recruits. These were mainly Afri, Numidians, Moors, Musulamii, and Gaetuli (CIL 16.35, 45, 56, 69). These units did not necessarily serve in the Maghreb. Some, such as the cohors II Flavia Numidarum, were stationed along the Danube (CIL 16.75) and occasionally partook in imperial expeditions. The Column of Trajan shows, for example, Moorish horsemen fighting in the Dacian wars. The auxiliary garrison of Roman Maghreb was therefore made up of units that had come from outside and originally had been raised among exogenous populations. Among these, we may mention, for example, the ala Pannoniorum (ILAlg 2/3, 7675), the cohors II Sardorum (CIL 8.9200), the cohors VI Dalmatarum (CIL 8.9384), and the numerus Palmyrenorum (AE 1992: 1854). The difficulty consists in determining what evolution in terms of recruitment these units experienced during the decades and centuries they spent on African soil. Specialists generally consider, notwithstanding some exceptions (such as the Palmyrenean troops), that these units underwent the same development as the legio III Augusta, with an increasing share of local recruitment. The epigraphy of the auxiliary corps of North Africa is, however, not as

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rich as that of the Third Legion, and the aforementioned opinion is sometimes called into question (Haynes, 2013: 121–134). It is, in any case, certain that the Roman command did not renounce deploying soldiers in the Maghreb who had come from abroad. Thus we know of an epitaph in Cherchell honoring a horseman in charge of leading 1000 Thracian recruits to their garrison in Mauretania Tingitana, at the end of the second or beginning of the third century ce (AE 1977: 864). Despite the numerous uncertainties, the multiethnic nature of the Roman army stationed in North Africa cannot be doubted, just as much as the cultural interactions that shaped this army and contributed to acquaint its peregrine and provincial members to Roman culture and practices. Imperial service, the use of Latin as a language of command and military administration, the official worship of Roman gods, the “imperial cult,” and the frequentation of baths and amphitheaters are a few aspects of these influences. However, a unilateral approach to the subject that would simply envisage the Roman army as an “agent of Romanization,” expected to transform peregrines and provincials into good Roman citizens, without taking into account their origins at all, is no longer relevant. Specialists, drawing on sociology and anthropology and mindful of the debates regarding the relevance of the concept of “Romanization,” now insist upon the complexity and plurality of the social and cultural identities of the soldiers, who could adopt “Roman” practices while preserving all or part of their previous cultural substrate. The result was mixed identities, stressing one facet or the other depending on the contexts and needs (Goldsworthy and Haynes, 1999; Faure, 2013: 441). Another contribution from recent research lies in the consideration of the surroundings and private lives of the soldiers. The point is to consider the Roman army not only through a purely military and institutional lens but to treat it as a human community in which we can detect the social, religious, and cultural practices and daily concerns both within and outside the army, including relations with women, children, and civilians. Unfortunately, the lack of dynamism in regional archaeological research as well as outdated data and analyses impede our ability to capture these aspects of life in and around the African army. The wealth of Africa’s epigraphy is no longer sufficient to fill the gap. However, it does continue to provide much welcome insight, in particular with regard to the religious and funerary practices. The abundance of inscriptions, and, even more so, of epitaphs, allows us to form an idea of the beliefs, lives, and careers as well as personal identities of the soldiers. The unmatched epigraphic file of the military collegia of the legio III Augusta, likewise, provides important insights into military cohesion and sociability within the camps (CIL 8.2557 = 18050). The inscriptions finally make it possible to bring to light the social significance of military status and service as well as the importance of climbing the ranks, which was synonymous with social advancement. African epigraphy has revealed some of the richest career histories of Roman military professionals, mainly centurions and primi pili. The aspirations and mentalities of military professionals seeking success are sometimes revealed by inscriptions with a more original content than simple career descriptions (AE 1928: 37; AE 1995: 1641). Professional soldiers managed to join the equestrian order, by becoming primi pili, and the two Mauretanias were occasionally governed by procurators drawn from the army (Christol and Magioncalda, 1989). Social and geographic mobility often went hand in hand for soldiers and their families, which contributed to the decompartmentalization of the North African army, the diversity of certain individual experiences, and the wealth of family identities. For example, the primus pilus M. Valerius Flavianus, who hailed from Cirta in Numidia, belonged to an equestrian family that descended from a Thracian auxiliary who had served in the Maghreb before settling there (IGLNouae 33). Finally, many members of equestrian and senatorial families who originally came from North Africa were given high ranking officer posts in the Roman army, as legates, tribunes, prefects, or even commanders of great expeditionary forces (CIL 3.1193; AE 1911: 107). The future emperor Septimius Severus, a legate of the legio IV Scythica, was one of them. Although some of them were at least partly of Italian origin, this was not the case for all. Lusius Quietus, who came from a Moorish family of princes, was one of Trajan’s greatest generals (Vanacker, 2013). He had joined the senatorial order before being assassinated under Hadrian.



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Regardless of their rank, professional soldiers received regular income (salaries, occasional bonuses, even booty), which made of them potential consumers. In this regard, as well as in many others, the permanent stationing of an army of approximately 25,000 men had an impact on the economy, ecosystems, and environment of North Africa. This impact, which varied according to region, took on more or less direct and occasionally diffuse forms (Fentress, 1979; Shaw, 1995a, 1995b; Cherry, 1998; Trousset, 2002–2003; Guédon, 2018). For example, it is important not to overestimate the economic impact of the troops. The functioning of a standing army required efficient logistics to provide food to the troops as well as the means for them to accomplish their duties. By right of conquest, the Roman army held substantial landholdings in Africa for the benefit of veterans. Its surveyors measured and registered certain territories (as in the south of Tunisia under Tiberius, for example: AE 1997: 1588a), without requiring serving troops to ensure their own subsistence. The agricultural wealth of North Africa – a land rich in cereals and olive trees in particular – must have facilitated supply, through various channels, and limited recourse to long-distance imports, which were common in more northern military areas. The army was not therefore a force used for fructifying the region nor a reservoir of cheap labor that could be exploited at will. Its contribution to the development of the African provinces or to the exploitation of their resources became justified as soon as it was necessary to satisfy the interests of the army itself or those of the emperor. The knowledge, know-how, work capacity, and presence of the soldiers were thus deployed to build roads (CIL 8.10177, 22125a; AE 2006: 1670), to circumscribe territories (CIL 8.22786a), or to build certain buildings in the urbanized areas close to the camps (AE 1995: 134, 135, 137; de Vos Raaijmakers, Chapter 12). These missions reinforced the long tradition of military engineering. The contribution of the librator Nonius Datus to the construction of the Saldae (Béjaïa) aqueduct, in the middle of the second century ce, shows that, on occasion, this technical know-how could be used to serve civilian communities (CIL 8. 2728 = 18122; AE 1996: 1802). It is nonetheless necessary to avoid thinking of the Roman army as the sole master of “advanced” techniques as the African population had developed know-how that was very well adapted to the local conditions, in agriculture in particular. Thus, the army did not live apart from the municipal world of Africa; rather, it actively favored this process through its conquest and pacification efforts, which opened the door to acclimatization to Greco-Roman civilization. Following Republican practice, a number of veteran colonies were established between the principate of Augustus and the principate of Trajan that were set aside for veterans (but not only) (Stone, 2013: 516–517; Lassère, 1977; Chausa Sáez, 1997). Faced with the demobilization of the troops from the civil wars, Octavius-Augustus founded at least 20 colonies in Africa Proconsularis alone (RGDA 28.1) and Mauretania (ceded to Octavius in 33, but entrusted to Juba II, a client king, in 25 bce). In 29 bce, for example, veterans were settled in Carthage. Other plots of land were set aside in the first century ce, such as at Oppidum Novum, under Claudius, or in Madauros, under Vespasian, before the settlement, side by side with civilians, of a certain number of veterans in Timgad, in 100 ce (CIL 8.17842). As soon as the legio III Augusta left its camps at Ammaedara and Theveste, colonies were founded at both. Lambaesis, the final legionary base, followed a pattern typical of the urbanization of many such bases around the empire in its development of an agglomeration associated with the base, populated by relatives of the soldiers and by those who lived off their purchasing power. This civilian settlement eventually achieved the status of first municipium (CIL 8.18247) and then colony (CIL 8.2611). A similar process occurred with Ad Maiores under Trajan, Gemellae under Hadrian. That said, the length of military service and military mobility did not facilitate the active participation of soldiers in the life of the cities. Even after their discharge (honesta missio) and despite their wealth and honors, veterans only played a limited role in municipal life, and more generally in the economic, social, and cultural changes of the border areas (Jacques, 1984: 618–635; Dupuis, 1991; Guédon, 2018: 191–276). Not all veterans returned to their home country; many preferred remaining in the locations where they had completed their service and which had become familiar. Above all, veterans enjoyed tax exemptions and municipal honors. Their status already guaranteed them a certain level of prestige, which made involvement in local life less necessary and desirable.

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This general observation should, however, not obscure the fact that some veterans became ­decurions, magistrates, priests, patrons, and benefactors of North African cities (CIL 8.1858– 1859  =  16504; 9236; AE 1916: 94). Moreover, it is sometimes the children of soldiers who involved themselves most in municipal life and prestige dynamics, which were guarantees of upward mobility to the highest ranks of Roman society (AE 1911: 97–98).

The Late Roman Army in Africa (238–439 ce) Continuity of Missions and Evolution of Structures Following the territorial advances under Septimius Severus (sometimes called propagator imperii and particularly active in Numidia and Caesariensis: AE 2014: 1590; IRT 395), the second third of the third century ce witnessed difficulties, much like other parts of the Empire. In January 238 ce, a rebellion that broke in Thysdrus led to the proclamation of the proconsul of Africa, Marcus Antonius Gordianus, as emperor, along with his son (Herodian 7.4-9). The rebellion took shape in civilian circles, in a context of increased tax pressure, owing to military spending in Europe under Maximinus Thrax. This rebellion was thus not a form of usurpation fomented and supported by soldiers in order to benefit one of their chiefs. On the contrary, the North African army supported the legitimate emperor. The legio III Augusta, commanded by its legatus Capellianus, marched on Carthage and crushed the rebellion. Opposition, however, was not quelled at the imperial level. The advent of Gordian III, the grandson of the proconsul of Africa, led to the punishment and dissolution of the Third legion. As a victim of an abolitio nominis, its name was often hammered into inscriptions (AE 1979: 645). This decision weakened the North African military apparatus for about 15 years and required its reorganization (Le Bohec, 1989a: 453–461). Certain outposts, such as Castellum Dimmidi and Gholaia, were abandoned in the short or medium term. In this context, the literary and epigraphic sources describe many confrontations with the Moorish tribes, in particular in the 250s and 260s ce (Christol, 2005: 211–277). One of these included a victory over the Bavares, the Quinquegentanei, and the Fraxinenses in 253 ce by the legatus of Numidia, Caius Macrinius Decianus (CIL 8. 2615). Much has been written in an attempt to assess the significance of these confrontations. The historiography on African “resistance,” for example, cites the “great rebellion” of 253 ce. Although they illustrate a greater fragility of Roman domination in the area, the confrontations also need to be placed in the general context of the third century ce “crisis,” during which the Roman army was forced to face attacks on many fronts. In the Maghreb, as well as in many other regions of the Empire, forays with the aim of plundering may have been incentivized by the perception of a weakening of the imperial power. However, the Roman army of North Africa does not appear to have been placed in situations of great difficultly. As of 253 ce, the reconstitution of the legio III Augusta must have contributed to its capacity to react (CIL 8.2482 = 17976). Compelled to adapt to the severity of the attacks, the entire Roman army began a series of adjustments during the third century ce that became more pronounced with the military reforms of the Tetrarchy and later Constantine, which included important administrative changes (Le Bohec and Wolff, 2004; Sabin et al., 2007: 235–458). Among the measures adopted, were the reformation of units, such as the creation of legions reduced to 1000 men, the differentiation between an army of mobile forces (comitatenses) and static units along the frontier (limitanei), and the separation of military and civilian responsibilities. Owing to the breadth and complexity of the changes and the lack of detailed source information, our knowledge of the late North African army is less secure than that of the army under the Principate (Le Bohec, 2004). From the end of the third century to the fourth century ce, historians must combine general data that is supposed to be applicable to the entire empire with the few elements of information available locally and the accounts of the Notitia Dignitatum.



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In general, however, North Africa experienced significant administrative and military reforms during the late third and early fourth centuries ce. The number of provinces was increased by reducing the size of the former ones, and their governors were deprived of military powers in order to reduce the risks of usurpation. Duces were set up to command provincial garrisons (CIL 8.18219). The creation of new civilian dioceses formalized the distinctiveness of the situation of Mauretania Tingitana, which was now attached to the Spanish diocese while the rest of North Africa was incorporated into the diocese of Africa. Counts (comites) became the most important military officers at the level of the dioceses, probably under Constantine. The Notitia mentions a comes Tingitaniae and a comes Africae. Each had under his authority subordinates who were placed at the head of a territory or a unit. In addition to a provincial dux there was, as early as the midthird century ce, a praepositus limitis (IRT 880; AE 1991: 1621), which the later reforms integrated into the new system (AE 1942–1943: 81). The term limes came to designate a territorial area over which the praepositus had authority. The creation of new legions of smaller size made it possible for North Africa to welcome new legions, such as the Prima Flavia Pacis and the Secunda Flavia Virtutis (CIL 8.23181; Amm. 29.5.9, 18). The Notitia Dignitatum indicates that the legio III Augusta was still present in Africa around the year 400, under the name Tertio Augustani (Not. Dign. 5, 7), but we do not know if it kept its former structure as its history becomes much less known after Diocletian. Late military terminology mixed ancient categories (legions, cohorts, alae, vexillations, etc.) with new types of troops or distinctions (palatinae, comitatenses, limitanei, iuniores, seniores, etc.). In North Africa, we hear of Celtae iuniores, the equites stablesiani Italiciani, the ala Herculea, or the cohors Pacatianensis, among others. Although uncertain, the late North African army maintained high numbers of troops, comparable to those of the Principate, until the beginning of the fifth century ce.

The Gradual Disappearance of Roman Military Power The late Roman army continued to fulfill its main duties in North Africa, without surrendering territory in any significant way. Between the third and the end of the fourth centuries ce, the army’s main military confrontations were caused by rather diverse situations. In the 290s, the Quinquegentanei, an apparent coalition of five tribes, warranted the military intervention of Maximian, the first time an Emperor traveled specially to Africa to conduct military operations. He celebrated his victory over the tribal coalition with a triumphal entry into Carthage, in 297 (Hamdoune 2010). During the fourth century ce, Africa Proconsularis and Numidia seemed to have enjoyed a period of peace, despite the continuing threat of raids, as is shown in the attack of Lepcis Magna by the Austuriani nomads, in 363 (Amm. 28.8.6). The requirements of the comes Africae Romanus in terms of supplies, and the refusal of the Lepcitanians to provide these, deprived the city of the protection of the army. The postponed settlement of the dispute exposed the city to new raids and this turn of events remains a clear example of certain possible tensions between the military and civilian circles. It is, however, in the Mauretanias, where certain cities (such as Lixus) built a wall, that the military situation required more vigilance. Rome attempted to maintain good relations with the tribes, by way of powerful Romano-Berber notables, who were able to take advantage of the context in order to reinforce their authority. The situation sometimes degenerated, without it being, however, necessary to see in this turn of events “national” rebellions driven by a spirit of resistance and of “liberation.” The rebellions of Firmus (372–375) and of his brother Gildo (397–398), both sons of Nubel, the regulus of the Jubalenses tribe in Caesariensis, are no longer analyzed in the above-mentioned terms today (Modéran, 1989; see Merrrills, Chapter 18). The two men were as tightly linked to the Roman army as to the tribes, which they were able to mobilize to their advantage. The first rebellion (Hamdoune, 2018: 201–213), which is known in particular thanks to the Res Gestae by Ammianus Marcellinus (29.5), was the act of a Romanized notable who was forced to take action after the assassination of his brother Sammac. Backed by tribes and a few Roman military units, Firmus seized several cities (Caesarea in particular, which was burned), before being defeated by an army

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commanded by Count Theodosius the Elder. His brothers Mascezel and Gildo, who fought against him, were later given important responsibilities in the Roman army. Having become comes et magister utriusque militiae per Africam (Cod. Theod. 9.7.9), Gildo was close to the imperial family. His rebellion – which inspired the very biased work of the poet Claudian (De bello Gildonico) – was sparked because Gildo sided with the Eastern Emperor Arcadius against the Western Emperor Honorius. Yet Gildo’s rebellion seems to have resulted especially from a personal attempt to strengthen his power and his wealth. He was defeated in 398 by a Roman army commanded by his own brother Mascezel, who had remained loyal to Honorius and to the regent Stilicho. The fates of the three brothers demonstrate the continuing attraction of a military career to the local populations, who were just as integrated into the Roman world as the tribal world. The ties between the rebels and the Donatists and the Circumcellions finally remind us that the Roman army of the third and fourth centuries ce was used for maintaining public order and for policing those whom Roman power judged to be dissidents. This included the arrest of Christians, such as Cyprian of Carthage in the middle of the third century (Acta Cypriani), and of “heretics” or of pagans at the end of the fourth century and at the beginning of the fifth. In the meantime, Christianity imposed itself at the highest level of the State. The Roman army of North Africa was also concerned with the gradual spread of the new religion among its ranks. Tensions sometimes resulted from this, under the Tetrarchy in particular, owing to the refusal of Christian soldiers to follow the official religion practiced inside the army. The passions of the first martyr soldiers of North Africa, such as, for example, Maximilian of Tebessa and Tipasius of Tigava, date back to the years 295–305 (Shean, 2010: 201–204). The apparent maintenance of territorial occupation and of troop numbers that were more or less constant throughout the fourth century ce seems to testify to the late North African army’s ability to fulfill its missions and to keep the local situation under control. Change is only more obvious at the beginning of the fifth century, which saw the rapid crumbling of the military apparatus and of Roman power in the region, epitomized by the installation of the Vandals (Le Bohec, 2007; Modéran, 2014: 95–130). The army was first challenged in 413 by the initiative of the comes Africae Heraclian, who landed in Italy and marched on Ravenna. He was defeated in Utriculum (Otricoli, Umbria), but managed to escape to Carthage, where he died (Oros. 7.42.10–14). Although the size of his fleet and number of losses is hard to assess, it seems that this unprecedented undertaking considerably weakened the North African army. Despite the probable dispatch of a few Goth contingents, his forces were not reconstituted when the comes Africae Boniface also rebelled against Ravenna, in 427. Having already been obliged to call upon the Vandals to carry out the civil war, Boniface failed to defend the provinces against the forays of the Moors (Augustine Ep. 220). Under these conditions, the Roman army was defeated without great difficulty by the Vandals, the Alans, and the other peoples who had left Spain in May 429. This military collapse could therefore be explained by the difficulties endured since 413, and not necessarily by the unusual confrontation with a Germanic enemy having come from the north. Perhaps as many 80,000 people migrated into North Africa under the leadership of Gaiseric (see Conant, Chapter 21). After having crossed and pillaged the Mauretanias, the Vandals defied Count Boniface in 430, and then laid siege to Hippo, where he had sought refuge. It is then that Augustine died, on 28 August 430. The inability of the North African army to repel the Vandals, and of the inability of the Western Empire to come assist it, led to an appeal to Theodosius II’s the Eastern Emperor. An army commanded by Aspar landed but was defeated as well. Two treaties signed in 435 and 442, interspersed by the sack of Carthage on 19 October 439 (Vict. Vit., Hist. Persec., 1.8–9), settled the situation to the advantage of the Vandals. At first federated, they became the masters of a kingdom established in Africa Proconsularis, in Byzacena, and in Numidia Hipponensis, before expanding their domination in 455 to all of North Africa, aside from Tingitana. In Mauretania, tribal organizations regained strength, with a growing assertion of Romanized and Christianized élites vis-à-vis Rome (Merrills, Chapter 18; Hamdoune, 2018). Slowly debilitated by the formation of great Moorish kingdoms that were more focused on the south than on the Mediterranean (Modéran, 2003; Merrills, 2004; Hamdoune, 2018: 265–423), the Vandal kingdom disappeared in 533, after the landing in Byzacena of a new Roman army: the Roman



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army of the Byzantine empire, engaged by Justinian in a Reconquista entrusted to his general Belisarius (Procop. Vand.). After the capture of Carthage, on 14 September 533, the edict of 534 organized Byzantine Africa, which was smaller than ancient Roman Africa (see Merrills, Chapter 22). A network of fortifications, known in part through archeology and epigraphy, was built (Baratte and Bejaoui, 2010, regarding Ammaedara). Even if vigilance remained the order of the day in the face of the tribes (Corippus, Iohannis), the area enjoyed relative security, before suffering from the first Muslim raids of 646. The region, defended by certain Moorish tribes as well as by Byzantine garrisons, fell to the Arabs at the very end of the seventh century (Kaegi, 2010, 2016).

Conclusion The history of the Roman army in North Africa appears as one of slow entrenchment, followed by the gradual and constantly renewed formation of local as well as imperial military identities, tested by the upheavals at the end of Antiquity. However, such a history needs to take into account not only the politics and the interests of Rome in the Maghreb, but also local societies and ecosystems. The troops stationed in North Africa were never conceived as a distinctive army group. Rather they belonged from our perspective to different Roman armies that contributed, each in its own way but in unison, to the history of the different provinces. The diversity and complexity of the interactions that brought together soldiers and civilians throughout the Empire do not support models that advance the concept of indomitable dissent or resistance of “Africans” against “Romans.” Many phenomena, such as cooperation or confrontation depending on the circumstances, but also allotments given to veterans and the engagement of local populations in the service of Rome, are to be found elsewhere. Likewise, these realities also require us to view the history of the Roman army in North Africa in a novel way that is distinct from the modern colonial and post-colonial experiences in the Maghreb.

FURTHER READING For the historiography of the Roman army in North Africa, see Mattingly (1996), Leveau (2014), and the earlier works of Cagnat (1892) and Bénabou (1976). The wars of the Roman army in North Africa are discussed in Fields (2010) (for the Republic) and Coltelloni-Trannoy and Le Bohec (2014) (for the Principate). On the North African military apparatus see Benseddik (1982) and Le Bohec (1989a, 1989b). For the frontier zones see the recent summaries by Mattingly et al. (2013) and Guédon (2018). Relations between the sedentary and nomad populations are dealt with in Vanacker (2014), Guédon (2018), and Hamdoune (2018). For Africans in the Roman army see Le Bohec (1989a), Hamdoune (1999), and Haynes (2013). On social, economic, religious, and cultural interactions of the army, see Fentress (1979), Shaw (1995a, 1995b), and Cherry (1998), Hilali 2016. For veterans and their relations with the cities, see Lassère (1977), Jacques (1984), and Dupuis (1991). Regarding the late Roman army in North Africa, see Modéran (2003, 2014) and Le Bohec (2004, 2007). On Byzantine Africa and the Muslim conquest, see Merrills (Chapter 22) and Kaegi (2010, 2016). Finally, on the ancient sources for the Roman army, see, for example, Rebuffat (2000), Le Bohec (2003), Christol (2005), and Speidel (2006).

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Bénabou, M. 1976. La résistance africaine à la romanisation. Paris. Benseddik, N. 1982. Les troupes auxiliaires de l’armée romaine en Maurétanie Césarienne sous le Haut-Empire. Algiers. Bernal, D., Raissouni, B., Verdugo, J., and Zouak, M., eds. 2013. Tamuda. Cronosecuencia de la ciudad mauritana y del castellum romano. Tétouan and Cadix. Bernard, G. 2018. Nec plus ultra. L’Extrême Occident méditerranéen dans l’espace politique romain (218 av. J.-C. – 305 ap. J.-C.). Madrid. Bernard, G., and Christol, M. 2010. “Solidarité ou diversité des provinces africaines à l’avènement de Vespasien: les Histoires de Tacite et les relations militaires entre les Maurétanies, l’Afrique proconsulaire et l’Hispanie (IIe moitié du Ier siècle ap. J.-C.).” L’Africa romana 18: 2201–2226. Cagnat, R. 1892. L’armée romaine d’Afrique et l’occupation militaire de l’Afrique sous les empereurs, 2nd edition (1912). Paris. Chausa Sáez, A. 1997. Veteranos en el África romana. Barcelona. Cherry, D. 1998. Frontier and Society in Roman North Africa. Oxford. Christol, M. 2005. Regards sur l’Afrique romaine. Paris. Christol, M., and Magioncalda, A. 1989. Studi sui procuratori delle due Mauretaniae. Sassari. Coltelloni-Trannoy, M. 1997. Le royaume de Maurétanie sous Juba II et Ptolémée (25 av. J.-C. – 40 ap. J.-C.). Paris. Coltelloni-Trannoy, M. 2005. “Rome et les rois ‘amis et alliés du peuple romain’ en Afrique (Ier s. av. J.-C.-Ier s. ap. J.-C.).” Pallas 68: 117–144. Coltelloni-Trannoy, M. 2011. “Guerre et circulation des savoirs: le cas des armées numides.” In Pratiques et identités culturelles des armées hellénistiques du monde méditerranéen. Hellenistic Warfare 3, eds. J.-C. Couvenhes, S. Crouzet, and S. Péré-Noguès, 307–335. Bordeaux. Coltelloni-Trannoy, M. 2014. “Note sur la guerre d’Aedemon: système d’alliance et composition de l’armée royale.” In Coltelloni-Trannoy and Le Bohec, eds., 85–99. Coltelloni-Trannoy, M., and Le Bohec, Y., eds. 2014. La guerre dans l’Afrique romaine sous le Haut-Empire. Paris. Dalla Rosa, A. 2014. Cura et tutela. Le origini del potere imperiale sulle province proconsolari. Stuttgart. Desanges, J. 1978. Recherches sur l’activité des Méditerranéens aux confins de l’Afrique (VIe s. av. J.-C. – IVe s. ap. J.-C.). Rome. de Vos Raaijmakers, M., Attoui, R., avec la coll. de Battisti, A. 2015. Rus Africum: tome III. La Via a Karthagine Thevestem, ses milliaires et le réseau routier rural de la région de Dougga et Téboursouk. Bari. Dondin-Payre, M. 1991. “L’exercitus Africae, inspiration de l’armée française: ense et aratro.” AntAfr 27: 141–149. Dupuis, X. 1991. “La participation des vétérans à la vie municipale en Numidie méridionale aux IIe et IIIe siècles.” Histoire et archéologie de l’Afrique du Nord. Actes du IVe colloque international réuni dans le cadre du 113e Congrès national des Sociétés savantes (Strasbourg, 5‑9 avril 1988). Volume II. L’armée et les affaires militaires, 343–354. Paris. Dupuis, X. 2017. “La Numidie de Septime Sévère à Gallien, province ou diocèse de l’Afrique proconsulaire ?” CCG 28: 291–308. Duval, N., Lancel, S., and Le Bohec, Y. 1984. “Études sur la garnison de Carthage.” BACTHS, n.s. 15-16B: 33–89. Faure, P. 2013. L’aigle et le cep. Les centurions légionnaires dans l’Empire des Sévères. Bordeaux. Fentress, E.W.B. 1979. Numidia and the Roman Army: Social, Military and Economic Aspects of the Frontier Zone. Oxford. Fields, N. 2010. Roman Conquest. North Africa. London. Gargola, D.J. 2017. “Was there a regular Provincia Africa in the second century?” Historia 66.3: 331–361. Goldsworthy, A.K., and Haynes, I., eds. 1999. The Roman Army as a Community. Ann Arbor. Gsell, S. 1928. Histoire ancienne de l’Afrique du Nord. VIII. Jules César et l’Afrique, fin des royaumes indigènes. Paris. Gsell, S. and Le Glay, M., 1952. Cherchel: antique Iol-Caesarea. Algiers. Guédon, S. 2018. La frontière romaine de l’Africa sous le Haut-Empire. Madrid. Gutsfeld, A. 1989. Römische Herrschaft und einheimischer Widerstand in Nordafrika. Militärische Auseinandersetzungen Roms mit den Nomaden. Stuttgart.



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Haensch, R. 1997. Capita provinciarum. Statthaltersitze und Provinzialverwaltung in der römischen Kaiserzeit. Mayence. Hamdoune, C. 1999. Les auxilia externa africains des armées romaines, IIIe s. av. J.-C. – IVe s. ap. J.-C. Montpellier. Hamdoune, C. 2010. “L’expédition de Maximien en Afrique.” AntAfr 46–48: 185–199. Hamdoune, C. 2018. Ad fines Africae Romanae. Les mondes tribaux dans les provinces maurétaniennes. Bordeaux. Haynes, I. 2013. Blood of the Provinces. The Roman Auxilia and the Making of Provincial Society from Augustus to the Severans. Oxford. Hilali, A. 2016. Armée et religion dans le monde romain. La Legio Tertia Augusta en Afrique. Paris. Hinard, F. 1991. “La militarisation de l’Afrique sous la République.” AntAfr 27: 33–38. Hobson, M.S. 2016. “Roman imperialism in Africa from the Third Punic War to the Battle of Thapsus (146–46 bc).” In De Africa Romaque: Merging Cultures across North Africa, eds. N. Mugnai, J. Nikilaus, and N. Ray, 103–120. London. Hoyos, D., ed. 2011. A Companion to the Punic Wars. Malden, Oxford, and Chichester. Hurlet, F. 2006. Le proconsul et le prince d’Auguste à Dioclétien. Bordeaux. Jacques, F. 1984. Le privilège de liberté. Politique impériale et autonomie municipale dans les cités de l’Occident romain (161–244). Rome. Kaegi, W.E. 2010. Muslim Expansion and Byzantine Collapse in North Africa. Cambridge. Kaegi, W.E. 2016. “The Islamic conquest and the defense of Byzantine Africa. Reconsiderations on campaigns, conquests, and contexts.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds. T.S. Stevens and J.P. Conant, 65–86. Harvard. Laporte, J.-P. 1989. Rapidum. Le camp de la cohorte des Sardes en Maurétanie Césarienne. Sassari. Lassère, J.-M. 1977. Ubique populus. Peuplement et mouvements de population dans l’Afrique romaine, de la chute de Carthage à la fin de la dynastie des Sévères. Paris. Le Bohec, Y. 1989a. La troisième légion Auguste. Paris. Le Bohec, Y. 1989b. Les unités auxiliaires de l’armée romaine en Afrique proconsulaire et Numidie sous le Haut-Empire. Paris. Le Bohec, Y., ed. 2003. Les discours d’Hadrien à l’armée d’Afrique. Exercitatio. Paris. Le Bohec, Y. 2004. “L’armée romaine d’Afrique de Dioclétien à Valentinien Ier.” In Le Bohec and Wolff, eds., 251–265. Le Bohec, Y. 2007. “L’armée romaine d’Afrique de 375 à 439: mythes et réalités.” In The Late Roman Army in the Near East from Diocletian to the Arab Conquest. Proceedings of a Colloquium held at Potenza, Acerenza and Matera, Italy (May 2005), eds. A. Lewin and P. Pellegrini, 431–441. Oxford. Le Bohec, Y. 2008. “L’architecture militaire à Lambèse (Numidie).” AKB 38.2: 247–262. Le Bohec, Y., and Wolff, C., eds. 2004. L’armée romaine de Dioclétien à Valentinien Ier. Actes du congrès international de Lyon (12–14 septembre 2002). Lyon. Lenoir, M. 2011. The Roman camp. Near East and North Africa. Rome. Leveau, P. 1984. Caesarea de Maurétanie. Une ville romaine et ses campagnes. Rome. Leveau, P. 2014. “L’Afrique romaine: résistance et identité, histoire et mémoire.” In L’affirmation de l’identité dans l’Algérie antique et médiévale. Combats et résistances, ed. S. Ferdi, 37–59. Algiers. Mackensen, M. 2012. “New fieldwork at the Severan Fort of Myd(—)/Gheriat el-Garbia on the Limes Tripolitanus.” LibStud 43: 41–60. Mattingly, D.J. 1996. “From one colonialism to another: Imperialism and the Maghreb.” In Roman Imperialism: Post-colonial Perspectives, eds. J. Webster and N. Cooper, 49–69. Leicester = Mattingly, 2011, 43–72. Mattingly, D.J. et al. 2003–2013. The Archaeology of Fazzan, 4 vols. London. Mattingly, D.J. 2011. Imperialism, Power and Identity. Experiencing the Roman Empire. Princeton and Oxford. Mattingly, D.J., Rushworth, A., Sterry, M., and Leitch, V. 2013. Frontiers of the Roman Empire: The African Frontiers. Edinburgh. Merrills, A.H. 2004. Vandals, Romans and Berbers. New Perspectives on Late Antique North Africa. Aldershot. Modéran, Y. 1989. “Gildon, les Maures et l’Afrique.” MEFRA 101.2: 821–872. Modéran, Y. 2003. Les Maures et l’Afrique romaine (IVe–VIIe s.). Rome. Modéran, Y. 2014. Les Vandales et l’Empire romain. Arles.

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Mugnai, N. 2016. “A new military diploma for the troops of Mauretania Tingitana (26 October 153).” ZPE 197: 243–248. Picard, G.-C. 1947. Castellum Dimmidi. Paris and Algiers. Potter, D. 2004. “The Roman Army and Navy.” In The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Republic, ed. H.I. Flower, 66–88. Cambridge. Quinn, J. 2004. “The role of the 146 Settlement in the Provincialization of Africa.” L’Africa romana 15: 1593–1601. Quinn, J. 2009. “North Africa.” In A Companion to Ancient History, ed. A. Erskine, 260–272. Chichester. Rachet, M. 1970. Rome et les Berbères. Un problème militaire d’Auguste à Dioclétien. Bruxelles. Rebuffat, R. 2000. “L’armée romaine à Gholaia.” In Kaiser, Heer und Gesellschaft in der römischen Kaiserzeit. Gedenkschrift für Eric Birley, eds. G. Alföldy, B. Dobson, and W. Eck, 227–259. Stuttgart. Sabin, P., Van Wees, H., and Whitby, M., eds. 2007. The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare. Volume II: Rome from the Late Republic to the Late Empire. Cambridge. Shaw, B.D. 1995a. Environment and Society in Roman North Africa. Studies in History and Archaeology. Aldershot. Shaw, B.D. 1995b. Rulers, Nomads and Christians in Roman North Africa. Aldershot. Shean, J.F. 2010. Soldiering for God. Christianity and the Roman Army. Leyde. Speidel, M.P. 2006. Emperor Hadrian’s Speeches to the African Army: A New Text. Mainz. Stone, D.L. 2013. “The Archaeology of Africa in the Roman Republic.” In A Companion to the Archaeology of the Roman Republic, ed. J. DeRose Evans, 505–521. Chichester. Thébert, Y. 1978. “Romanisation et déromanisation en Afrique: histoire décolonisée ou histoire inversée.” Annales ESC 33.1: 64–82. Trousset, P. 2002–2003. “Le tarif de Zarai: essai sur les circuits commerciaux dans la zone présaharienne.” AntAfr 38–39: 355–373. Vanacker, W. 2013. “Ties of resistance and cooperation. Aedemon, Lusius Quietus and the Baquates.” Mnemosyne 66: 708–733. Vanacker, W. 2014. “Many paths to walk. The political and economic integration of nomadic communities in Roman North Africa (I–III cent. ad).” Afrika Focus 27.2: 98–104. Vanacker, W. 2015. “Adhuc Tacfarinas. Causes of the Tiberian War in North Africa (ad ca. 15–24) and the impact of the conflict on Roman Imperial Policy.” Historia 64.3: 336–356. Wolff, C. 2014. “La guerre de Tacfarinas (17–24).” In Coltelloni-Trannoy and Le Bohec, eds., 53–67.

CHAPTER 11

Roman North African Urbanism J. Andrew Dufton and Elizabeth Fentress

At vero nostrae Urbis forum salutarium numinum frequentia possessum nos cernimus et probamus.1 (Maximus of Madauros, Augustine Ep. 16)

“Urbanism” is a slippery term, and its use varies sharply among those discussing it.2 For many it is taken as a measure of the density of cities at a given time and place, and the degree of concentration in urban areas. For others, it is the character of life in cities – the cultural, economic, and political aspects of the urban society. In this chapter we are going to touch on these latter aspects, and the peculiarly “African” characteristics of Roman African cities, but primarily we intend to concentrate on a North African city form, its shape and components, including the public buildings and piazzas whose use united its occupants.

Urbanization North Africa was a largely urban society long before the Romans conquered Carthage in 146 bce. On the coast were numerous towns like Hippo Regius or Kerkenna, which had for centuries been in close contact with Punic Carthage, while in the hinterland, under the control of the Numidian and Mauretanian monarchies, there were many other towns that seem to have had urban status. The exact dates of their foundations are not always clear: recent evidence from Althiburos and Simmithu (Chemtou) show square, solid buildings with foundations that date to the eighth or even the ninth century bce (Sanmartí, Chapter 4; Sanmartí et al., 2012; von Rummel et al., 2016). This does not, of course, imply that they were already urban; perhaps we are dealing with large villages like Zinchecra, founded in the oasis of the Fezzan around 1000 bce by the Libyan tribe of the Garamantes (Mattingly, 2010). However, by the second century bce, outside the area directly controlled by Carthage, we find four cities that qualify as “Regia” – Thimida, Bulla, Hippo, and Zama – as well as towns such as Simmithu, Tacape (Gabes), Cirta (Constantine), and Theveste (Tébessa). The latter may be identified with Hecatompylos, whose size is evident from the fact that it is said to have given up 3000 hostages in the middle of the third century bce (Diodorus Siculus, Bibliotheke, XXIV). There were a number of other towns further west, such as Siga, Volubilis, and

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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Thamusida in Mauretania, or the “Libyphoenecian” towns of Tripolitania, which passed out of the control of Carthage in the second century bce. These towns also had urban elites who may have owned private estates. The oases were certainly settled: Pliny marvelled at the complex planting of the oasis of Tacape (HN 18, 188). Variously, these towns will have owed allegiance, and perhaps taxes, to the Numidian or Mauretanian monarchies. Otherwise they may be seen as rather ordinary Mediterranean towns with their own territory and town centers, similar to those found in Spain or Italy at the same period. A glimpse of what these centers might have been like in the second century bce is visible in the Mauretanian towns of Volubilis or Siga, or, closer to Carthage, at Thugga (Dougga) and the anonymous town of Bourgou on Jerba. Impressive temple foundations and city walls have been found at Volubilis and Thugga, while at Thugga, Siga, and Bourgou a monumental tomb is found just on the outskirts of the settlement, in the classic position of a heroon. The occupant of the tomb might be royal, as at Siga, or simply noble, as (probably) at Thugga, Sabratha, and Bourgou. There are also signs of craftsmen’s quarters, as is the case with the pottery workshop at Banasa in Mauretania (Girard, 1984). Thus, as elsewhere in the Mediterranean, Roman occupation of North Africa in no way introduced urban life, even well into the desert. A few new towns were founded, which will be discussed later, and Carthage itself, razed by Scipio Aemilianus, was rebuilt from scratch. What did occur was a steady increase in urban density by the promotion of little towns that probably began life as Numidian or Mauretanian villages. Initially occupying a defended spur, these moved downhill and furnished themselves with the typical Roman urban buildings, acquiring urban functions and pretensions. By the height of the imperial period, over 400 cities are noted across the region. Estimates vary both in ancient sources and in modern scholarship, a factor of the difficulties in defining urbanism in an ancient context (see Wilson, 2011; Hanson, 2016; Hobson, 2020 for a range of totals). Our figure is based on sites with either epigraphic, toponymic, or archaeological evidence for a status greater than that of a village, and aligns most closely with the number of sites of Class 5 or above proposed by Hobson (2020: 298). North Africa was therefore easily one of the most densely urbanized areas of the Roman Empire, and it is worth looking into some of the circumstances that affected this.

Regional Trends The questions we can ask of Roman urbanism in North Africa depend on the scale of our analysis. On a local scale, cities in North Africa adopted the recognizably Roman monuments and urban forms that we discuss later. Yet these individual developments also occurred within the broader ebbs and flows of the North African city, cutting across both geographic and chronological boundaries. The following discussion touches on those aspects of the city that are best understood from a regional perspective: the foundation of new Roman sites, urban growth, and civic promotion.

City Foundation The Roman North African city emerged from settlements, urban to varying degrees but also including much smaller towns, villages, or fortified hilltop oppida. The roads acting as links connecting the urban nodes of this network are largely assumed to date from the time of Augustus to the reign of Septimius Severus and are often treated as a direct symbol of Roman control physically implanted upon the region. In many cases, however, these new roads must also have followed existing indigenous routes along the most obvious paths between earlier settlements. This does not suggest that ex novo Roman settlements were absent. The creation of settlements for military veterans was an important aspect of the Roman colonial program, and North Africa was no exception – new colonies for veteran colonists and other settlers were



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established across the provinces. In Africa Proconsularis, Caesar settled veterans at Curubis and Clupea; Augustus at Carthage, Uthina, Thuburbo Minus, Maxula, Simmithu Sicca Veneria, Assuras, Thuburnica, and Cirta. Colonies at Hippo Diarrhytus, Neapolis, Thabraca, and Carpis fall somewhere between the two (Gascou, 1982: 141; see also Shaw, 1981: 443 for a debate on the foundation of Uthina and Thuburbo Minus). Further colonies were established in Mauretania by Augustus, including at Igilgili, Saldae, Tubusuctu, Rusazus, Rusguniae, Aquae Calidae, Zucchabor, Gunugu, Cartennae, Tingi, Silis, Babba, and Banasa (Gascou, 1982: 144). These earliest veteran colonists are positioned in areas of high agricultural potential or, in the Mauretanian examples, along the coast (Gascou, 1972: 26–27). In the subsequent periods far fewer ex novo colonies were created; of these, all were in the west, in Numidia and Mauretania. Roman foundations often took advantage of sites of an existing settlement or activity, as the indigenous names of so many of the colonia show, and although those listed earlier all established new Roman populations many were installed alongside pre-existing indigenous settlements, as at Banasa. In most cases the Roman foundation marks a complete spatial restructuring and resettlement of any former community – evidence for pre-Roman activity at these sites is relatively sparse and we have little idea of the actual urban nature of the earlier town or village. In cases such as Thelepte, a military colony, there is no evidence for a pre-Roman population. However, earlier burials can also mark a connection between Roman foundations and pre-Roman activity; it is worth noting that megalithic burials are often recorded at or nearby later Roman foundations, as at sites such as Uthina (Gragueb et al., 1987: 39), Madauros (Gsell, 1922: 8), or Thuburbo Minus (Ferchiou, 1987: 17), among others. Even in the case of new foundations, it is clear that Roman cities were intimately tied to pre-Roman landscapes. The urban plans for these new settlements range from rigid orthogonal grids to a more organic configuration of streets and monuments. Although city plans should not be treated as a form of directly inscribed urban ideals, the geographic distribution of various features can nonetheless give us some idea of the initial needs of the founding generation, as well as the relationship between the city, its surroundings, and indigenous populations in the generations that followed (Dufton, forthcoming). Cities founded along the frontiers of Roman control, such as at Thamugadi or Cuicul, are more likely to follow the rigid orthogonal planning reminiscent of the military encampment and are also more likely to have been enclosed by city walls, speaking to the sometimes troubled relationships between Roman control and partially nomadic populations. Those in the heart of the North African provinces, and thus free from some of the military concerns of sites on the periphery, followed a looser planning structure, more open to the surrounding countryside.

Urban Growth Patterns of urban growth give one indication of the impacts of Roman urbanism on the inhabitants of the city. Increases in the physical footprint of settlements can serve as a proxy for changes to the overall demographics of the urban population, and the shape those increases take speaks to the economic or social changes accompanying periods of growth. The most substantial growth during the first centuries of Roman rule occurred along the coast. Rapid expansion at these sites followed standards of orthogonal planning, creating new neighborhoods of insulae on a single alignment and often more than doubling the size of the original settlement. At the old Punic town of Utica, for example, over 100 new city blocks were laid out in the late second and early first centuries bce. The date of construction on this alignment is demonstrated by the presence of Campanian black-glazed ware in deposits under the excavated insulae (Février, 1956) and by historiated capitals that suggest a second century bce date (pers. comm. E. Papi). The result increased the overall footprint of the city from approximately 10–12 hectares in the late Punic period to at least 88 hectares at the height of Roman control (Wilson, 2011: 184). Utica is but

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one example: comparable sprawling growth on a single alignment can be seen at Mediterranean coastal sites from the first century bce to the second century ce, such as Sabratha (Kenrick, 1986: 314), Meninx (Fentress, 2009: 135; Ritter and Ben Tahar, 2020: 120–121), or Leptiminus (Stone et al., 2011: 125). A concurrent movement of foreign populations to coastal cities is suggested by onomastic evidence, which shows the bulk of migrants from across the Mediterranean settling either in ports or regional administrative centers (Lassère, 1977: 390, 401). Understanding the onomastic evidence is not without difficulty, particularly in relation to foreign migration. Lassère’s analysis of the North African data – by his own admission – likely overemphasizes the number of migrants from the Levant and underestimates movement from elsewhere, because Semitic names are more distinct and thus easier to identify than those from some of the other provinces (Lassère, 1977: 406). The relative paucity of foreign names in the epigraphic record more generally implies that much of the growth in North African urban populations was local, however (Lassère, 1977: 406); we do not seek to overstate the role of immigrants from elsewhere in shaping North African urbanism. The point remains nonetheless that the rapid expansion of these ports supported a growing population drawn to their increasing importance in Mediterranean-wide commerce. Cities further inland, in contrast, tend to show patterns of incremental or organic growth along the periphery of pre-existing settlements, particularly in the second century ce, when the Antonine period can be seen as a second great stage of urban expansion. These extensions involved the construction of monumental urban furniture – the baths, temples, or theaters needed by small villages making a legitimate claim to urbanity – interspersed with residences or productive quarters. Such was the case at Mactar, where the persistence of the earlier Numidian forum could be seen with megalithic burials marking the southwestern extent of the urban area and Punic materials recorded under the Maison de Venus (Charles-Picard, 1977: 114). This gives us an idea of the extent of the pre-Roman city, which seems to have covered much of the same area as its later Roman counterpart. The primary Roman expansion involved the addition of an amphitheater to the north (Lachaux, 1979: 87), baths to the south and west (Thébert, 2003: 144–146), and a temple problematically identified as a capitolium to the west (Quinn and Wilson, 2013: 40). At the hilltop oppida, in particular, this incremental growth often occurred downslope, as at the Tunisian town of Uzali Sar (Peyras, 1991: 118) and, as we will explore later, at the site of Tiddis. Regardless of the shape of these piecemeal additions, the important distinction here is the apparent lack of a rigid overall plan or shared alignment amongst them and their relatively small footprint in comparison to the area of the pre-Roman settlement. There are, of course, exceptions to this pattern. The Mauretanian city of Volubilis, for example, demonstrates the expansion of the city during the second century ce to over twice its original size using an orthogonal plan based on a new road (Etienne, 1960). The latest geophysical survey at Simmithu also shows growth at the town in a series of regular insulae in the northern area of the site, following the same alignment as the Imperial temple and later basilica (von Rummel et al., 2013). In the absence of full excavation in this area we can say little of chronology, but an estimated date of the second or early third century ce is likely, presumably to accommodate an increase in population at the height of extraction of Numidian marble in this period (Russell, 2013: 92), although the possibility that it relates to an earlier veteran settlement cannot be excluded. These exceptions notwithstanding, a general trend for much faster urban growth at coastal sites is clear during the first centuries of Roman rule, following a rigid ideal of orthogonal city planning, while a more incremental expansion characterizes the majority of cities of the North African interior. Cities across North Africa saw a third period of urban expansion under the Severans, constructing in particular new monumental buildings but also new residential blocks, as we will see at Cuicul and Thamugadi. Nowhere is this more evident than at Septimius Severus’ native town of Lepcis Magna, where a wide processional street led to a huge new forum flanked by a basilica, and a series



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of new insulae were constructed in the south, following the alignment of an earlier Antonine expansion (Ward-Perkins et al., 1993). Countless other sites follow this example, although on a much smaller scale. Some of this is due to imperial largess, but in most cases the cities of the early third century ce seem to have been swept by a wave of exuberant prosperity. The dates of dedicatory inscriptions show that the Severan period accounts for as many new buildings as the whole of the previous two centuries (Laurence et al., 2011: 132, repurposing the data first collated in Jouffroy, 1986). With a slight hiccup in the second half of the third century, urban building continued, although at a reduced rate, until the invasions in the second quarter of the fifth century (Lepelley, 1979). It was linked in many ways to the abundance of civic promotions that will now be the focus here.

Civic Promotion The towns of North Africa were given many different civic classifications, if the variety noted in epigraphic and historical sources is any indication. However, the actual practical or administrative distinctions between terms such as castellum, civitas, pagus, vicus, or oppidum that we find on the Peutinger Table are far from obvious (Février, 1989: 168–169). In many cases pre-Roman towns maintained a distinct system of civic administration for the first centuries of Roman rule, under the leadership of the Punic magistrates called sufetes (Quinn and McCarty, 2015; McCarty, 2017). There were also a number of communities of Roman citizens installed in indigenous settlements, oppida or pagi civium Romanorum, but without any administrative status (Shaw, 1981: 451; Aounallah, 2010). Despite long-held early assumptions that Roman and non-Roman populations must have been spatially segregated in some way, there is little archaeological evidence to suggest that such segregation was normally the case, and thus we can assume that citizens governed by different bodies were integrated in daily life: an exception would be Uchi Minus, where new colonists apparently chose to settle 6 km away from the preexisting Uchi Maior (AE 2002: 1681; Aounallah, 2010: 63). In most cases, these dual administrations merged into a single, Roman system for most cities by the late second or early third century ce. Two municipal statuses are of particular significance to the development of the city, as both carry implications for the citizenship of its inhabitants. The first, the municipium, awards the Latin rights to its citizens, in effect matching the rights assigned to many of the cities of Italy during the first century bce. These were administered by Roman-style magistrates common to cities across the empire regardless of the presence or absence of foreigners, namely the duumviri, aediles, and quaestores that existed in North Africa up until the Vandal conquest (Lepelley, 1979: 150). The second, the colonia, provides citizens with full Roman citizenship, affording the highest possible legal standing (Février, 1989: 170–172). The title of colonia was not reserved for new Roman foundations alone; a number of existing towns were promoted to colonia between the first and the third centuries ce. This promotion could correspond either to the installation of a population of Roman veteran colonists among an existing African population, as is the case in the foundations discussed earlier, or the rewarding of indigenous inhabitants with Roman citizenship. Other cities gained the lesser status of municipium, as a form of promotion for the inhabitants of a town without an influx of citizens from elsewhere. If the importance of these differences is muddy to modern scholars, it was also so to residents of the ancient world. In his Noctes Atticae, Aulus Gellius recounts much confusion over the practical differences between these two civic titles. Hadrian, in particular, expressed surprise that the citizens of various provincial municipia, including Utica, would rather forego their traditional customs and laws for those of the Roman colonia (Noctes Atticae 16.13; discussed in Février, 1989: 170; Revell, 2009: 57). Civic promotion to municipal or colonial status was clearly a primary concern for African towns and, as we shall see, they pursued it by extravagant building

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­ rograms, the pursuit of appropriate patrons, and even the precocious adoption of Roman law in p some instances. Tracing the distribution of coloniae and municipia gives an indication of the cities occupying prominent roles in regional urban networks and featuring the greatest degree of urban development. Looking at Figures 11.1 and 11.2, we can see the geographic and chronological spread of these two civic distinctions. In the early days of Imperial control the most common action was the colonial settlement of veterans, with relatively few municipal promotions and no upgrades to colonia in the absence of veteran settlement (Figure 11.1). From the second century the settlement of veterans became increasingly rare (Figure 11.2). Instead, we see a flurry of promotions to municipia, first along the limes as part of an expansionist policy under Trajan, and then in the Tell, the high steppe and along the valley of the Medjerda in a series of promotions to some of the earliest cities in the region (Gascou, 1972: 209–216). In the Severan period promotions to the status of muncipium, some 28 in total, occurred almost exclusively in the northeast of Africa Proconsularis. These were awarded to many small sites that can barely be considered towns and were given despite the Severan grant of full citizenship to the entire empire. As a result of this last batch of promotions the area once held within the control of Carthage finally broke down, and the new municipia could govern themselves (Gascou, 1972: 230, 1982: 207). The continued promotion of sites demonstrates how important these distinctions were to a city’s inhabitants. This importance is often represented in the construction of monumental buildings, which clusters around the periods immediately before and following promotion. At Thuburbo Maius, as an illustration, the promotion of the city to municipium by Hadrian was directly followed by the renovation of the forum and the construction of a new temple to Mercury flanking it on the southwest (Ben Akacha, 2011: 92–93). In the period immediately surrounding the promotion of the site to colonia by Commodus we see the construction of new porticoes surrounding the forum, a market, a new basilica, and both the baths of the Capitol and the baths of the Labyrinth (Ben Akacha, 2011: 96–100). Municipal status was clearly actively solicited by citizens and not passively awarded by emperors (Gascou 1972: 66); a major contributing factor to the promotional success of a given town was the provision of appropriate monumental urban furniture. The distribution of monuments associated with entertainment is particularly striking in this context. These structures were the most expensive to construct, and thus only practical for those cities of adequate size and wealth to support them. The theater at Madauros, relatively modest in size and decoration, reportedly cost 375,000 sesterces, comparable to the 400,000 sesterces recorded for the construction of the theatre at Calama (Gsell, 1922: 81). An amphitheatre the size of that at Thysdrus would have cost considerably more to construct, not to mention the costs for putting on the games within; a sum of 50,000 sesterces is recorded for a single gladiatorial event at Carthage, although this is probably higher than the average outlay (Duncan-Jones, 1962: 64). Assuming an average fortune of 50,000–60,000 sesterces for decurions in North African towns (Duncan Jones, 1963: 169), the construction and maintenance of entertainment infrastructure required a significant financial commitment from the city and its elite. Comparing the distribution of theaters and amphitheaters with cities receiving civic promotions in the Imperial period, we note that – with the exceptions of Meninx and Bararus, for which we have no information regarding civic status – each of the 19 cities with both a theatre and an amphitheatre were promoted to colonia, most by the middle of the second century ce (Figure 11.3). Bath buildings were also expensive but necessary additions to the urban landscape (see Thébert, 2003). To expand this analysis to include all other forms of public monument is beyond the scope of our discussion here, but we would expect to see a continued correlation between the highest distributions of monumental buildings, civic promotions, and regional prominence (see Hobson, 2020).

Figure 11.1  Civic promotions to colonia or municipium under Augustus.

Roman provincial control

Figure 11.2  Civic promotions to colonia or municipium under the Severans.

Roman provincial control



Roman North African Urbanism 181

A Regional Urbanism A question remains of how we might characterize the geographic distribution of Roman towns. To put it another way, what does Roman urbanism look like at a regional level? A flurry of recent scholarly works have attempted to break down this question, each presenting a unique perspective. Lassère acknowledges a variety of factors contributing to a classification of Roman settlements, including the local topography, agricultural productivity, and a site’s pre-Roman origins. Ultimately, however, he suggests that a functional division – of maritime, agricultural, military, or industrial settlements – is best-suited to a discussion of the economic and social realities of the North African city (Lassère, 2015: 369–370). Scheding argues that we should look for micro-regional trajectories, suggesting, for example, that there is a family resemblance in the cities of the middle-Medjerda valley, an area formerly within the hinterland under the control of Carthage, that differs significantly from the urban developments in other parts of North Africa (Scheding, 2019, 2020). Hobson proposes a settlement hierarchy to explain the regional spectrum of urban development and city life, modeled predominantly on settlement size, the construction of public monuments, and municipal status (Hobson 2020). These rubrics all align well with some elements of our discussion and diverge from others, a testament to the ways in which Roman urbanism across the North African provinces avoids easy categorization. Many towns cut across individual types and fulfill multiple functions, and patterns of regional prominence develop and shift over time. It is through a combination of the factors outlined above – colonial foundations, urban growth, regional context, and civic status – that we can best understand how some cities came to occupy central roles in the regional network of North Africa while others maintained more modest levels of importance.

Town Plans: Some Case Studies The best way to escape from generalities is to look at some cities in greater detail. Urban structure does not correspond to or even symbolize social structure, however much we would like to read into it, although the two remain intertwined. Even a planned city, such as Thamugadi (Timgad), is simply a template of the way its creators imagined that a city ought to be, and of course the “original plan” was created as a two-dimensional document that we ourselves read in two dimensions, but which represents three-dimensional space. This space was moved through, rather than being read as a whole. City space in North Africa, as elsewhere in the empire, was experiential, composed of buildings, open spaces, and gardens and animated by people, processions, and activity (Favro, 1998). Further, over time these forms mutated, morphing into a very different structure through new investment and changes of use: streets were usurped, the city burst through its walls or enclosed itself within them, and ribbon development followed the major roads. New public buildings and fora were added to older ones – Cuicul is a good example (see later) – repositioning traffic in the city. State-sponsored initiatives were flanked by contributions from private people; in Africa competitive euergetism continuously reshaped the city by adding new monuments to its fabric. Historically generated, the urban morphology must be read through these developments as much as from whatever we imagine was the original plan. Even the city’s limits are not so clear as wall circuits seem to imply. Though walls appear to define what is city and what is not, the city’s suburbium remains a gray area (Goodman, 2007; Emmerson, 2020), while the “urban” villa can be set against the “rural” farm as a tentacle of urban control reaching out into the heart of the countryside. What follows is an attempt to read these phenomena through a series of North African cities whose plans are relatively well known. We will move from high to low, through Carthage, a provincial capital – and in effect the capital of Rome in Africa – through the almost contemporary, but very different, colonies at Thamugadi and Cuicul, to the pre-Roman foundations of Thugga and Tiddis. A key part of these descriptions will be the ways in which an initial urban design changed over time.

Figure 11.3  The correlation between civic promotion and entertainment structures.

Roman provincial control



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Carthage The city and its history have already been discussed in two chapters in this volume (see Fumadó Ortega, Chapter 6, and Bockmann, Chapter 8). What is important here is the fact that a huge and rigid grid was imposed on its irregular terrain when the first 3000 Roman settlers arrived to refound the city – a “brutal intrusion into the geomorphology of the site” (Rakob, 2000: 82) – and was maintained thereafter. The grid’s initial size meant that Carthage showed almost none of the deviations we find in other cities, even in areas developed far later, when the population of the town had grown to perhaps 100,000 and more distant parts of the grid were occupied (Anselmino, 1992; Hurst, 1993: 337). Far less flexible than the Punic plan that preceded it, the rigid imposition of the grid on the very unequal terrain led to the construction of high terraces leading up from the coast. Though building on the hills was an expensive proposition, it also created opportunities for the creation of very commanding monumental architecture. Over time, not only the Byrsa, with its massive double forum, but also the lower hills were put to use for public structures. From the northwest side of the merchant harbor a great series of terraces led up to a hill now known as Koudiat el Hobsia, probably topped by a temple to the goddess Caelestis, a successor of the Punic Tanit (Hurst, 1999: 33; Bockmann, Chapter 8); it is probably not by chance that the terraces cover the area of the Tophet, or sanctuary of Tanit, the goddess subsumed by Caelestis. To the northeast of the Byrsa the vast odeon, built back-to-back with the earlier theater, occupies the space of three insulae on top of the “hill of the odeon,” which dominates the whole of the city (Wells, 2005). Its construction around 200 ce entailed the destruction of existing houses and may have been an imperial project, perhaps related to the celebration of the Pythian games at Carthage, which were visited by Septimius Severus (Barnes, 1985: 328–329). The old Punic war harbor, with its circular island, was surrounded by an elegant portico with a temple in the middle: the resulting space was perhaps used as a sort of maritime agora, not unlike the Piazzale delle Corporazione at Ostia (Hurst, 2010). Carthage, the exemplary Roman city of Africa, cited the architecture and urbanism of Rome. It was, for instance, the only African city where there were three fora, two on the Byrsa and one somewhere between the hill and the shore (Gros, 1990). Aqueducts and massive cisterns provided water for baths and fountains, supplementing the water supply from cisterns in private houses. The Antonine baths copied the contemporary baths of the urbs on an even grander scale, while the sanctuary of Caelestis with its sequence of terraces reminds us of the Latin sanctuaries. Finally, the processional streets, particularly the decumanus maximus that climbed to the sanctuaries of the Byrsa from the triumphal arch on the shore to that at the top of the hill, provided the essential urban armature, channelling, and distributing movement, just like the Roman Sacra Via (MacDonald, 1986: 5–31). These roads in a Roman city were far more than mere infrastructure: in a sense they were always processional, leading towards the deity or deities at their hearts. The features of the urbanism of Carthage briefly mentioned here – its rigid grid, its citation of the architecture of the monuments of the urbs, and its use of any elevation for public monuments – remained constants throughout the long life of the city; the hills came to be occupied by Christian basilicas that dominated the skyline, replacing previous monuments. In turn, the city’s monuments, particularly the great Antonine baths, served as a template for those of other towns, however small (Pensabene, 1989).

Thamugadi (Timgad) The colony of Thamugadi, properly the Colonia Marciana Ulpia Traiana Thamugadi, was founded in 100 ce (Ballu, 1897, 1903, 1911; Boeswillwald et al., 1905). Its square plan with its squared insulae remains stamped on the landscape of African urbanism. It is one of the paradigmatic cases of Roman urbanism and has generated reams of comment – the military city, a triumph

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of rationality, an image of the most boring place imaginable (for us, perhaps), out of whose regular confines irregular urban spaces somehow escape into the surrounding hills (Figure 11.4). Far from being a “typical” Roman plan, the square template imposed on the irregular landscape of the northern foothills of the Aurès mountains is certainly a product of a very military mindset; indeed, it was constructed by the Third Augustan legion (CIL VIII 2355). A grid of 11  ×  12 insulae

baths of the Philadelphi north baths

church complex

temple of the genius of the colony cloth market

east baths

latrine temple forum curia

market of Sertius

market basilica

theatre

temple

Capitolium temple

cathedral and monastery

nundinae? church

temple of Mercury

south baths

house of the Sertii

industrial quarter

limit of built area visible on aerial photographs

N

0

Aqua Semtimiana Felix

200 m

Figure 11.4  The city of Thamugadi at its greatest extent (after Ballu, 1911).



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occupying around 10 ha, the rigid planning of the city goes beyond a simple form. The decumanus maximus and the cardo maximus were clearly marked as processional streets by the porticoes that lined them on both sides. These processional streets led, like those of Carthage, to the forum, where the first temple of the colony was found. The sacred nature of this arrangement seems to have included the person of the emperor, for it has been suggested that the orientation of the decumanus was based on the position of the sunrise on Trajan’s birthday on the 18 September, the surveyors’ decision being influenced by religious considerations (Barthel, 1911: 110).3 The town plan may have included elements for future construction, like the theater, whose position cutting into the slope of a low hill appears to have been left vacant until its construction in 168 ce (CIL VIII 17867). Thamugadi lay along the east–west military road between the successive legionary castra of Theveste and Lambaesis, at the head of a valley leading through the center of the Aurès mountains to the desert to the south. This placed the city in an economically important position, an agricultural town excellently located to supply either military market. Safe access to the products of the mountains is implied by the town’s evident requirements for timber. The forum basilica must have been roofed with beams over 15 m long (Ballu, 1897: 133–135) while the numerous baths imply an enormous consumption of both wood and water. Its settlers – whoever they were, for while it was built by the legion it was not a veteran colony – provided a nucleus of civilian manpower to organize and invest in the production of food and clothing for the legion. It also provided a center for various branches of the civil administration of the area. During the reign of Trajan we find a conductor quintarum, clearly a type of tax collector, setting up a dedication in the forum (CIL VIII 17841), and a circumscription of the fiscus had its headquarters in the town as well (CIL VIII 2757; Pflaum, 1960–1961: 547). Yet the initial population of the town was probably reasonably small: previous estimates range from Haverfield’s 2000 (1913: 112) to Fushöller’s 4000 (1987), with the figure probably closest to Fushöller’s estimate (see later). The plan seems to have foreseen three classes of inhabitants, and for each there was a group of insulae (Figure 11.5). The majority of the insulae, 83 in all, were divided into eighths, with a wall running down the middle of the block and four houses on either side of it, each of two rooms. Along the decumanus maximus the blocks were divided in two, with a row of shops at the front, while along the cardo maximus were found 10 single houses. If we calculate that each of the small units held a family of 5, that the 32 units in the 16 blocks along the decumanus maximus held a family and dependents of 10, and that the 11 full-insula units each held 12 people, then there were just under 3800 people in the original settlement. There seems little doubt, in any case, that the hierarchical social structure of the town was built into its architecture from the beginning. Indeed, a house with its own gate into the forum may have been that of the rector of the original deduction. The exiguous number of colonists explains the slowness with which it was furnished with the standard monuments of a Roman town. A source of fascination in the plan of Thamugadi, however, is not its spare rationality so much as the way its development over time both underlined and subverted that rationality. Initially, it is the forum itself that received the most concentrated attention, changing radically in the course of the first centuries of the life of the town (Trifilò, 2011). The forum lies along the decumanus maximus, its façade a line of shops opening on to the portico. Reached by processional streets, the forum, like that of Carthage, was clearly the initial sacred centre of the town. The central area of the forum is surrounded by a porticus, with a basilica on its east side and the curia and temple to the west. Two statue bases date the construction of the curia to some time before 117 ce (Boeswillwald et al., 1905: 34–36). The forum we see today is rather irregular in form, escaping the rigid geometry of the rest of the plan. Trifilò (2011: 130) has shown convincingly that the southern edge of the curia marked the original southern edge of the forum in which a small temple would have occupied an axial position on the west side, surrounded on its back and sides by a portico. Temple, curia, and shops thus formed the basic elements of its furniture, to which a generation later was added the basilica: a dedication to Marcus Aurelius gives a terminus ante quem of 140 ce for its construction (CIL VIII

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east baths

temple curia

forum

temple

temple

N 0

100 m

Figure 11.5  The original plan of the colony at Thamugadi (after Fentress, 1979).

17863). This entailed the expansion of the forum to the south, occupying the space of the decumanus that originally formed its southern edge, and slightly distorting its orientation. A new, larger temple was built to the west of the original structure, abutting it and eliminating the portico on that side. Commercial space grew with the construction of a market to the east of the forum, with a high podium giving on to the decumanus from which auctions could be held. As commercial activity increased along the decumanus, a large, elegant latrine was built in the northeast corner of the forum: this must be dated after the construction of the city’s aqueduct in 146 ce (Wilson et al., 2011: 106–107). Inside the new, larger forum piazza statues were constantly put up, while at some point a tall sundial was erected, whose guidelines are inscribed on the pavement (Guerbabi, 1994). The provision of commercial space became increasingly necessary as the town’s role as one of the principal suppliers to the army increased. Within the old city walls, fulling vats were found within many of the insulae of the northeast quadrant (Wilson, 2002: 237–241). Under the Antonines a huge new bath complex was built outside the town’s north gate, though it is likely that this was aimed as much at arriving travellers as at the population on the northern edge of the town. Yet it is with the destruction of the western – and part of the southern – city wall in the Severan period that the city seems to break out of its quadrangular bonds and expand to the west



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and the south. A triumphal arch replaced the western gate. By a lucky chance we know the principal author of the western development of the city, M. Plotius Faustus and his wife, a couple known as Sertius and Sertia (Lassus, 1966; CIL VIII 2394-9; 17904-5). Having destroyed the wall, they granted themselves a large plot at the southwest corner of the old city for their own house, and then built a series of small houses, shops, and storage areas along the remaining space (Dufton, 2019: 277–278). Their next construction was a splendid new market just outside the triumphal arch. This formed part of a monumental ensemble that flanked a new porticoed processional street along the western edge of the town, leading to the massive Capitoline temple, also built by the Sertii, which, with its temenos, was larger than the whole of the original forum (AE 1980: 956; Pavis d’Escurac Doisy, 1980: 190). The axis of this temple does not depend on that of the old colonia, but perhaps on the orientation of sunrise on the day of its own dedication.4 The new monumental space was thus very irregular, designed to impress those arriving from the west as much as the city’s own inhabitants. New productive spaces, including a bronze foundry (Amraoui, 2011), developed around what may have been the space occupied by a periodic market or nundinae (Fentress, 2007). Finally, in 213/214 ce a vast new development was built occupying the area of a spring, the Aqua Septimiana Felix (Leschi 1947; AE 1948: 113). This consisted of a triple sanctuary whose three temples overlooked a large, rectangular pool surrounded by a portico with numerous statues, bibelots, and paintings put up by the town’s elite, the same elites whose statues are found in the forum. The whole complex was linked by a beautifully paved road to the south gate. During the fourth century these trends continued. Commercial space spread down the highway to Lambaesis as ribbon development. In 364–367 ce a new cloth market, the forum vestiarium adiutricianum, was dedicated next to the market of Sertius by the governor of Numidia (AE 1909. 4 = 1998, 01583; Ballu, 1911: 144–145). Abutting this to the west was a series of warehouses and shops linked by a portico. Christianity brought large new buildings in the form of basilicas and a vast monastery. These were built farther from the main roads, seemingly more isolated from the commercial traffic. This continuing expansion well into the fourth century demonstrates that the town’s vitality was not extinguished by the departure of the legion in the third century, but rather continued unabated until the end of the middle of the fifth century when barbarian incursions from the south seem to have brought Thamugadi’s urban development to an abrupt and catastrophic end (Fentress and Wilson, 2016). In Thamugadi, we can see the progressive deconstruction of a very limited and orderly urban plan, entailing a chaotic expansion that more than quadrupled the area occupied by the town and appears more opportunistic than centrally planned. Within the town itself elite housing gravitated to the gentrified western sector, in the direction of that expansion, while poorer quarters continued to occupy the east side of the town. Outside the walls, the elite inscribed their interests in the territory, linking sanctuaries to baths and the Capitoline temple to the city market. All of this took place in a flourishing productive and commercial context, stimulated above all by the market provided by the nearby legionary base and the status of the city as a regional central place.

Cuicul For the city of Cuicul this historical context is somewhat less obvious (Février, 1968). The two coloniae are coeval and yet very different. Founded as a veteran colony by the emperor Nerva only two or three years before Thamugadi, Cuicul was built in a hilly area. The chosen site was a rocky spur between two river valleys at the intersection of two trunk roads, one from Lambaesis north to the port of Igilgili and the other running west from Cirta towards the contemporary colony of Sitifis. A depression cut the neck of the spur, providing an easily defensible site. A small attempt was made to impose a regular grid on the site, whose spine was a columned street running between the south and north gates (Figure 11.6). From a spot marked by an arch in the southwest corner of the monumental center a roughly regular grid was created, but south of this the main road made

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Severan temple Severan plaza theatre basilica

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0

baptistery

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Figure 11.6  The city of Cuicul at its greatest extent (after MacDonald, 1986) with a detail of the forum (after Gros, 1992).

a slight angle, following the terrain of the hillside. City walls surrounded a polygonal area of a little under 8 ha. The city’s monumental development was entirely in the hands of its local notables, without any evidence for the contribution of the army or its legate, as at Thamugadi – although such a contribution was certainly possible during the initial construction of the site. The forum was almost square (50 × 53.6 m) with a raised platform with a porticoed front at its south end. We are unsure of the date of the forum, but it seems logical that it was part of the original plan of the town (contra Février, 1996). The next structure to be built was the magnificent market put up by the brothers Cosinius during the reign of Antoninus Pius (ILAlg 2–3, 7929–7930). This was a square building with a portico on all sides and a circular tholos in the middle of its central courtyard. It was built a story below, and abutted the north retaining wall of the forum. Then, into the angle formed by the market and the forum was built a huge Capitoline temple, dominating the forum from massive substructures, one of which blocks an original door into the east side of the market (Quinn and Wilson, 2013: 152).5 This temple also cuts the southeast corner of a large set of baths, which



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must consequently be earlier, and may have formed part of the original plan. More chronological precision is provided by the construction of the basilica along the west side of the forum in 169 ce, with its tribune built on to the original raised area of the forum (AE 1920: 114; ILAlg 7793). As at Thamugadi, the basilica was thus secondary to the forum itself, and in this case interrupted the portico along the cardo maximus. The curia, on the east side, is certainly secondary as well, abutting the Capitoline temple and blocking a street leading to the baths from the south. Thus, although all of the standard elements of urban furniture are found by the last quarter of the second century ce within the limits of the original settlement of Cuicul, it seems to have lacked, initially, everything but the forum plaza itself and perhaps the baths. We are hard put to suggest the position of an original sacred space in the colonia. Logically, it would have occupied the center of the northern edge of the forum, on an axis with the porticoed street that leads into the space on its south side, but the later Capitoline temple apparently removed all trace of it. More likely, the great third-century altar that now occupies that axis replaced an earlier altar, built into what was then the center of the plaza (and by the third century related to no existing structure). Such an altar would have provided the sacred focus for the colony, with the forum as its consecrated templum. That the old town continued to be occupied in later centuries is clear from the mosaics that decorate its houses, but by the last quarter of the second century it was clearly too narrow to hold a growing population. With the construction of a great plaza just south of the old city walls a new central space was declared, commanded by a huge new temple dedicated to the Severan house in 229 ce (Pensabene, 1992). A high flight of stairs leads to the porticoed platform on which stood the altar, while a second flight led up to the columns of the temple porch. The ensemble can be seen from everywhere in the city, offering a monumental new apex in what was now the center of the town. Around the irregular square were a disparate collection of monuments: a temple to Saturn Frugifer occupies the space to the west of the Severan temple, while porticoes on the northern and eastern sides rise on high podia as the pavement slopes away to the east. A monumental fountain is found on the axis of the prolongation of the cardo maximus to the south, and a triumphal arch dedicated by the citizens of Cuicul to Caracalla in 216 ce marks the beginning of the road to Sitifis on the western side (CIL VIII, 8321 = 20137). It answers the arched gate that still signalled the entrance to the old town. On to this space in subsequent centuries new monuments, including other temples and, in the fourth century, a basilica and a cloth market, were gathered. It may be that the size of the square reflects its use for commercial purposes. In fact, it was probably founded on the site of an earlier weekly market outside the old gate – how else to explain that the space had been left vacant during the expansion of the town? Even before the construction of the square Cuicul had expanded to the south, with a more sinuous set of roads mounting the hill above the old town. An arch built by the same family responsible for the basilica was built on a road leading to a theater, cut into the slopes of the eastern side of the hill (Février, 1996; ILAlg 2.3 7644). The main road was extended, though at a new angle, starting at a conical fountain that may have deliberately cited the Meta Sudans along the Sacra Via in Rome. A large bath complex built under Commodus cited the imperial baths of Rome and Carthage, with its perfectly symmetrical spaces and enormous frigidarium. It would have constituted yet another gathering place for the citizens of the town and visitors from its substantial territory. Like the numerous fountains along the route of the main road, it was fed by an aqueduct that entered the town from the south along the line of the road (AE 1920: 15). This was almost the only street accessible to wheeled traffic, for most of the rest were marked at intervals by flights of stairs. The arrival of Christianity radically changed the sacred topography of the town, entailing the construction of various churches and, eventually, a massive ecclesiastical complex on top of the hill. This consisted of two contemporary churches, one of three aisles and one of five, with, to the west of the smaller church, a baptistery with a small bath. A processional street, entered through a monumental gate, led up to the complex from the cardo maximus and turned north along the façades of the churches to lead processions of converts into the baptistery. Here the old

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language of the processional street was used to link the city to a new sacred space, no longer central, and yet dominating the city from its highest hill. The construction of the episcopal complex appears to date somewhere in the first two decades of the fifth century ce (Février, 1996: 669). In the same period a number of rich houses continued to be decorated with new pavements, many with pagan themes (Blanchard-Lemée, 1975). The city was thus flourishing in the fifth century ce. The succeeding period is more obscure, although the ecclesiastical complex appears to have had new mosaics in the sixth century and some occupation continued into the Middle Ages (Février, 1996: 676). We are lucky with Cuicul in that its development over time was marked and dated by a series of major monuments and their inscriptions. Through these, we can see shifting centers, from the forum to the south baths, the great Severan square, and finally the huge episcopal complex. The routes that joined these were variously porticoed and accented by fountains and arches, in a continuous development that depended as much on the linking as on the linked. It was never more than a small town, however, measuring only 13 ha at its greatest extent. With Carthage, Thamugadi, and Cuicul, then, we have examples of cities laid out ex-novo by the Romans, whose subsequent development followed different paths – the first always centrally controlled, the other two adapting more fluidly to local largesse over time. In all three cases the forum constituted an initial sacred center at the heart of the town, reached from the main gates by processional streets. We will now turn to an example of a much older town, Thugga, and its more supple adaptation to the realities of Roman North Africa.

Thugga We have no idea when Thugga, modern Dougga, was founded. It lies on a well-defended plateau in the center of a hilly region in the rich valley of the Wadi Khalled. This is a typical site for indigenous North African towns. The first probable mention of it, by Diodorus Siculus, dates to the end of the fourth century bce (20.57.4). However, as we have seen, the earliest structures in other Numidian cities, such as Althiburos and Simmithu, date at least four centuries earlier. Diodorus’ description of the site as a polis would leave its status as a town in the fourth century bce in no doubt. It passed under the control of the Numidian king Masinissa at the beginning of the second century bce. At the edge of the plateau stands a great mausoleum, composed of three stories and rising to a pyramidal roof flanked at the corners by winged women and surmounted by the statue of a rampant lion. Its bilingual dedication, in Punic and Libyan, specifies that it was the tomb of Atban, and names its architects, masons, and metalworkers (RIL 1; Février, 1960). This position on the southern edge of town is echoed by a mausoleum in the Numidian town known today as Bourgou, on the island of Jerba (Ferchiou, 2009). At Siga, the mausoleum of the Mauretanian king Syphax was built on a hill overlooking his capital. In the Roman period the status of Thugga is unusual, in that we find a group of Roman settlers, organized into a “pagus,” side by side with the original inhabitants of the town, juridically a “civitas.” Although this was taken by earlier scholars to imply two separate settlements (Poinssot, 1919: 175), current thinking would place the two communities in the same space (Khanoussi, 2003: 23; Ritter, 2015; Scheding, 2019). Indeed, a courtyard house was built in the second century bce in the southern sector of town (Ritter, 2015) before it came under Roman control. It shows clear continuity of use into the period when the Roman settlers arrived, and was only rebuilt at the end of the first century ce. The paving of the street to the north of it in the same period implies a distinct uptick in the urban fittings of the town. In the area of the future Roman forum was an open space, perhaps the equivalent of an agora. A monumental foundation is found on its southwest side (Hiesel and Strocka, 2002: 72–75). On the western side a foundation may represent the temple to Masinissa mentioned in an inscription, while to the east is found a second rectangular ashlar monument with a long molding, perhaps also



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to Masinissa (Khanoussi, 2003; Aounallah and Golvin, 2016). In the southeast corner was a temple in the Punic style with a triple cella and a temenos surrounding an open courtyard. During the reign of Tiberius the level of the pavement was raised by 60 cm over the whole area to create a forum, and all of the existing monuments were eliminated. Over the earlier western structure, whose orientation was maintained, was constructed a temple to Tiberius, facing east (AE 1969/70: 651). Subsequently, in 37 ce, the patron of the pagus built another temple, probably to Saturn, replaced the rectangular monument to Masinissa with a small temple and a triumphal arch, and paved the forum (ILAfr. 558) (Figure 11.7). The Punic-style temple was rebuilt as a sanctuary of Augustus with an altar in the center and an apsidal fountain at its south end (Aounallah and Golvin, 2016: 47–140). The Numidian agora was thus entirely rebuilt by the citizens of the Roman pagus. Although it shows clear continuity with the earlier space, each of its monuments was rather brutally replaced by a suitably imperial structure, eliminating any memory of the Numidian kings (Fentress, forthcoming). Around a century later, under Antoninus Pius, a portico was built on three sides of the forum square (CIL VIII 26524 = AE 2011, 1760), while under Marcus Aurelius a new Capitoline temple turned its flank to the square (CIL VIII 2606; Quinn and Wilson, 2013: 165) and eliminated the triumphal arch, replacing it with a tribune and two monumental imperial statues. It is notable that this latter monument was built by members of the civitas, and thus cannot be seen as another incursion by the pagus but rather as an affirmation of loyalty on the part of the indigenous civitas. To the east of the sanctuary to Augustus was found the market, built in 54 ce and thus one of the earlier monuments of the town (ILAfr 559). A final open square, decorated with a windrose, lay to the east of the Capitoline temple and was paved by the family of the Pacuvii under Commodus, with a temple to Mercury at its north end (CIL VIII 26530 + 26533 + ILAfr. 423). The temple/ market complex effectively completed the monumental center based on the forum. It had taken over 150 years to build, and never included either a curia or a basilica. Though it comprised two rather beautiful squares, the monumental core has a curiously enclosed feel, accentuated by the fact that the Capitoline temple faces neither of them. While the forum buildings are roughly orthogonal to each other, the monuments of the rest of the town are scattered over its hill with random orientations as if they had been thrown down by a messy child (Figure 11.8). Each is adapted to the particular terrain on which it is found, with a dizzying array of terraces and stairs. The larger buildings, such as the Licinian baths (whose symmetrical shape reflects urban baths) have had to cut, level, and cover a space large enough to fit them. The temples to Saturn, Caelestis, and Minerva lie within enclosures separated from the densely inhabited areas, at least as far as we are able to read them, but other monuments are tightly imbricated into the fabric of the town. Thugga benefitted from what was apparently a competitive building program by the members of its élite – there are fully 10 temple complexes and two small shrines (Saint-Amans, 2004: 269) – but there is no trace of a controlling urban plan at any period, and no apparent structure that emerges from its closely packed insulae. The Capitoline temple, on its high podium, was certainly central, and very visible, but its relative inaccessibility is in sharp contrast to the other monumental centers that have been examined. With the exception of the temples of the monumental center, the urbanism of Thugga thus appears to be opportunistic and individualistic rather than meditated on a larger scale. Scheding argues that this represents the activities of a relatively small elite, whose benefactions in the form of temples provided courtyard spaces for banquets and display (Scheding, 2019). It was also intensely religious, with a very large number of temples per inhabitant; it may be that the presence of a theater and a circus in this small town relates to the number of festivals that would have been held here, with the participation of the surrounding towns. Although both Scheding and Hellström have argued cogently for the use of these buildings for networking and self-promotion by the élites, we should also note that the numerous deities represented were believed to be beneficent for the town, as the letter from Maximus of Madaurus to Augustine in the epigraph of this chapter insists (Scheding, 2019; Hellström, 2020).

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temple of Minerva II temple of Saturn

later? fort cistern

sanctuary of Neptune

extent of occupied area temple?

temple of Sol

cistern

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arch of Alexander Severus temple

forum temple of Caelestis

temple of Concordia, Liber Pater and Frugifer temple of Pluto?

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Mausoleum of Atban

forum

temple of the divine Augustus wind rose

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market Imperial cult building(?)

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Figure 11.7  The city of Thugga at its greatest extent (after Poinssot, 1958) with a detail of the forum (after Aounallah and Golvin, 2016).



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Figure 11.8  The topography of Thugga, facing east toward the Licinian baths (center).

Tiddis A similar, if much smaller, urban form emerges in the last indigenous town we examine, Tiddis. The Respublica Castelli Tidditanorum (AE 1969/70: 693) is found on the classic position for Numidian oppida: a plateau defended on all sides by steep cliffs, with a single access at its eastern end (Figure 11.9). On that side are found gently rolling plains, while to the west and south rise higher hills dominating the Wadi Rummel. The earliest occupation clustered on the top of the plateau, but by the third century bce it had begun to descend the slope to the east, where a city wall was built (Berthier, 1978, 2000: 39). A ramp in the same construction technique led up to its single gate, to the northeast. The walls enclose an area of 10 ha but this was not entirely occupied, for some areas are too steep and rocky for building and others, at the top of the hill, seem to have been occupied by sanctuaries (Berthier, 2000: 43). A group of pre-Roman tombs is found on the northern edge of the city; these are tumuli, one on a well-built drum foundation constructed in the second century bce. Near it, along the road, was found an impressive stele in the Libyan language (Berthier, 2000: 217). The pre-Roman town was already involved in exchange with the coast, for sherds of black glaze pottery and Rhodian amphorae have been found in abundance. Apart from the gate, we know nothing about the early layout of the town, although it stands to reason that the road that leads south from that gate and then turns up the “grand escalier” towards the forum was one of the early roads of the city. What is clear, however, is that it was very difficult to insert the standard Roman buildings into the steep and irregular topography (Figure 11.10). Almost all building was on terraces, supported on the vaults formed by the dozens of cisterns that provided the city’s water supply. All of these were private: a communal, large cistern on the top of the plateau was only built on the order of the curator of the Cirtaean confederation, in the third century ce, to supply a new bath building just below it (ILAlg. 2.1,3596 = AE 2012:149; Berthier, 2000: 133–139).

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baths Pre-Roman fort

Pre-Roman fort

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sanctuary of Cereres/granary cave of Vesta?

sanctuary of Asclepius?

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Figure 11.9  The city of Tiddis at its greatest extent (after Berthier, 2000).

The construction of an arched portal in a new gate piercing the Numidian city walls is dated by the inscription of its donor, Q. Memmius Rogatus, to the second century ce (ILAlg. 2. 3608). From it led a paved road that, with two hairpin turns, passed up over the forum rather than into it. It is an impressive achievement and seems to have been treated as a processional street, as later monuments such as a Christian chapel and a mithraeum faced on to it. It runs under two triumphal arches, set at right angles to each other. These are placed below the terrace of the forum, and announce its presence rather than lead into it. The tiny forum sits on a terrace measuring 10 × 30 m, and oriented north–south. Against the rock face, cut out to receive them, are three east-facing rooms with no communication between them. These seem to have served civic purposes, such as a treasury and a meeting place. The forum was connected to the main road by a staircase on its north side, while another stair led down from the south. There are no religious buildings associated with the forum with the exception of an inscription that mentions a temple to Fortuna Augusti (ILAlg 2. 3574); it is possible, though hardly certain, that this occupied one of the three rooms (Berthier, 2000: 74). The whole structure relating to the forum is perhaps dated by the fine inscription to Q. Lollius Urbicus (ILAlg. 2. 3605), qualified as consul and patron. His consulate



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Figure 11.10  The sloping topography of Tiddis.

is dated between the Jewish war, which ended in 136 ce, and the death of Hadrian two years later; he was subsequently governor of Britain. It was perhaps the impressive imperial career of its favorite son that persuaded the little town to construct a forum in which to honor him. Berthier suggests that the city was granted the right to its own municipal council around the same time (Berthier, 2000: 76). Indeed, we might suggest that this was the moment when the city began to dress itself with Roman monuments like the new gate (also erected by decree of the decurions). Even here the issue is ambiguous, however, celebrating the local as well as the Roman. While the cylindrical tomb of Lollius Urbicus is beautifully made, it clearly echoes the drum tumuli of the indigenous cemetery nearby. No market was ever built, although one is mentioned on an inscription. This was a weekly market, which would have taken place outside the gates of the town, like the one suggested for Cuicul in its early years (CIL 8, 16709; Fentress, 2007). The indigenous character of the town becomes clearest in its sanctuaries, most of which were found on the summit of the plateau, separated from the dense cluster of houses. The hill is pocked with caves, many of which were used for cult – a tradition continued by the later mithraeum or the sanctuary of Vesta, which clearly replaced an earlier feature. Another rock-cut sanctuary on the south slope of the hill was dedicated to the Cereres. It includes a series of terraces, leading up to a structure in the form of a three-aisled basilica; a votive deposit contained pig bones, a common sacrifice to Demeter. It is on the top of the plateau that we find what may have been a sanctuary to Asclepius (assimilated to the Punic god Eshmoun; Berthier, 2000: 427) and, at the summit, a great cave and a series of constructions overlooking an esplanade to the south. The presence of numerous stele to Saturn on the plateau suggest that this was his sanctuary, which had probably adapted one to Baal Hammon (Berthier and Le Glay, 1958). Its position recalls that of the sanctuary to Saturn at Thugga, and both may have been the ultimate object of the long, winding streets that rise through their towns. A final large sanctuary lies just under the north edge of the plateau, in a

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natural declivity. These sanctuaries are not extra-mural but, like many of those at Thugga, they are outside the area occupied by housing. The very structure of the town points in their direction. This may explain why the road leading up from the gate of Memmius bypassed the forum and continued on uphill to the sacred heart of the little town, passing on the way another sanctuary dedicated to Hercules and Liber Pater (Berthier, 2000: 428–429). At Tiddis, “Roman” urbanism was reduced to the minimum necessary to house the city government. The Roman economy was, however, extremely visible in the town’s potters, who produced African Red Slip Ware that was sold at regional markets. This craft lasted well into the medieval period.

Communalities The five towns discussed here are, of course, only a tiny sample of the 400-odd towns in North Africa, and the variation between them is enormous. There are, however, some things that distinguish the Roman African towns. First, although many of them have pre-Roman origins, the example of Thugga shows that the new settlers made short work of the pre-Roman monuments (Fentress, forthcoming). Of these, the obsessive, competitive constructions of the local élite are the most obvious. The tiniest village would distinguish itself with an honorific arch under which no triumph ever passed. The local élites competed with each other, and each town competed with its neighbours, bidding for an uptick in civic status with the construction of a theater or baths. In most cases this involved adjusting existing urban spaces. We do not believe that all, or even most, construction was controlled by a pre-existing schema: even in the cases of the fora of Thamugadi and Cuicul there is evidence for piecemeal adaptation of public space as new constructions were found necessary. Urban development was thus dynamic, and dependent on contextual factors – the existence of patrons, the desires of the decurions, the availability of space – rather than on a master plan solemnly laid out at the origin of the town and rigorously adhered to by subsequent generations. Yet not all of this monumental development can be ascribed to élite competition. Sacred space was inextricably woven into the fabric of the cities, bound into the townscape and connected by the processional ways that provided the stage for sacred movement. The degree to which African space is permeated with deities is clearest in the numerous dedications to Genii loci, municipii, civitatis – the spirits of the place, of the municipium, of the civitas – that are found even in the tiniest towns; sometimes these are the only deities known. That the African town can at times seem a web of sacred spaces, most notably in the forum, is perhaps not a surprise given this intensity. Thus the experience of the African city will not only have been a matter of axes and buildings, of masses and voids, of rich and poor neighborhoods, but also of religious communication. The omnipresence of gods, large and small, is perhaps their most distinctive feature.

NOTES 1 But in truth we see and feel sure that the forum of our town is in the possession of a crowd of beneficent deities. 2 We are very grateful to Andrew Wilson for having shared with us a draft of his forthcoming article on the same topic (Wilson, 2020): our approaches are dissimilar, if complementary, and we recommend that his be consulted, particularly for topics like the Greek or Punic city. Henry Hurst kindly read a draft of this chapter and suggested valuable corrections, as did the editor of the volume. 3 The city is oriented at 84.6˚, whereas the orientation of sunrise on the 18 September, Trajan’s birthday, in 100 ce, was 86˚, certainly close enough to make Barthel’s idea plausible. Sunrise angles are from http:// stellarium.org/. For discussion and previous bibliography, see Gros, 1992: 64.



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4 The alignment of the temple at 71˚ would tend to indicate a dedication day of around 3 May or 13 August. The latter is a day on which a number of gods (but not the Capitoline triad) were celebrated, but this seems a relatively weak argument. The reasons for the new orientation of the temple are thus obscure. Are we looking at sunrise on the birthday of its founder?. 5 Gros (1992) believes, mistakenly, that the capitolium pre-dates the market, but the blocking of the west door of the market by the substructures of the capitolium leaves this relationship in no doubt.

FURTHER READING The urbanism of North Africa has long been of interest and the bulk of work on the topic completed primarily by North African and European scholars. Attempts at producing a comprehensive gazetteer for the region include the synthesis of the sites of the Peutinger Table produced by Desanges and colleagues (2010), the empire-wide urban geography of Hanson (2016), and the regional settlement hierarchy proposed by Hobson (2020). General discussion of North African urbanism under Rome is provided by Laurence and colleagues (2011), Sears (2011), and Edmondson on the western empire (2007). These works should be supplemented by the more nuanced regional coverage of Février (1982), Scheding (2019, 2020), and Lassère (2015). On the civic status of North African settlements, as understood primarily from epigraphic materials, see Aounallah (2010), Gascou (1972, 1982), and Lepelley (1979, 1981). North Africa’s rich epigraphic record also forms the basis for Lassère’s extensive coverage of onomastics and migration (1977), as well as Jouffroy’s exhaustive documentation of dedicatory inscriptions for monumental construction or infrastructure projects (1986). Jouffroy’s work in particular can be supplemented by more detailed gazetteers of specific monument types, such as Thébert (2003) on baths, Lamare (2019) on monumental fountains, and Lachaux (1979) on theaters. The different functional uses of space within the city have been addressed; see, for example, Amraoui’s work on artisanal production in the cities of Algeria (2017) or Bullo and Ghedini’s two-volume collation of residential buildings in Roman Tunisia (2003). Although not our focus here, the North African city underwent a further transformation in the Late Antique period, starting around the fourth century ce. See Leone (2007), Magalhães de Oliveira (2012), and Sears (2007) for further reading on this topic.

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Gascou, J. 1982. “La politique municipale de Rome en afrique du Nord.” In Aufstieg Und Niedergang Der Römischen Welt: Geschichte Und Kultur Roms Im Spiegel Der Neueren Forschung, eds. H. Temporini and W. Haase, 136–229. Berlin. Girard, S. 1984. “Banasa préromaine: un état de la question.” AntAfr 20: 11–93. Goodman, P. 2007. The Roman City and its Periphery. From Rome to Gaul. London. Gragrueb, A., Camps, G., Harbi-Riahi, M., M’Timet, A., and Zoughlami, J. 1987. Atlas préhistorique de la Tunisie. Volume 5: Tunis. Rome. Gros, P. 1990. “Le premier urbanisme de la Colonia Julia Karthago – Mythes et réalités d’une fondation césaro-augustéenne.” In L’Afrique dans l’Occident romain (Ier siècle av. J.-C. – Ier siècle ap. J.-C.), 547–140. CEFR 134. Rome. Gros, P. 1992. “Les forums de Cuicul et de Thamugadi: ordonnance et fonctionnement des espaces publics en milieu provincial au II siècle apr. J.C.” BAParis 23: 61–80. Gsell, S. 1922. Khamissa, Mdaourouch, Announa. Seconde partie: Mdaourouch. Paris. Guerbabi, A. 1994. “Chronométrie et architecture antique. Le gnomon du forum de Thamugadi.” L’Africa Romana 10: 359–402. Hanson, J.W. 2016. An Urban Geography of the Roman World, 100 BC to AD 300. Oxford. Haverfield, F. 1913. The Romanization of Roman Britain. Oxford. Heisel, G., and Strocka, V.M. (2002). “Vorbericht uber die Gräbungen 1996-2000.” In Thugga. Grundlagen und Berichte, eds. M. Khanoussi and V.M. Strocka, 69–86. Mainz. Hellström, M. 2020. “Epigraphy and ambition: Building inscriptions in the Hinterland of Carthage.” In The Social Dynamics of Roman Imperial Imagery, eds. A. Russell and M. Hellstrom, 57–90. Cambridge. Hobson, M. 2020. “Roman towns and the settlement hierarchy of Ancient North Africa: A birds-eye view.” In Regional Urban Systems in the Roman World, eds. L de Ligt and J. Bintliff, 281–323. Leiden. Hurst, H. 1993. “Cartagine, la nuova Alessandria.” In Storia di Roma III.2. L’età tardoantica, i luoghi e le culture, ed. A. Carabdini, 327–337. Turin. Hurst, H. 1999. The Sanctuary of Tanit at Carthage in the Roman Period; A Re-interpretation. JRA Supplement 30. Portsmouth, RI. Hurst, H. 2010. “Understanding Carthage as a Roman Port”. In Meetings between Cultures in the Ancient Mediterranean. Bollettino di Archeologia Online, edizione special. https://bollettinodiarcheologiaonline. beniculturali.it/wp-content/uploads/2019/01/6_Hurst_paper.pdf. Jouffroy, H. 1986. La construction publique en Italie et dans l'Afrique romaine. Strasbourg. Kenrick, P.M. 1986. Excavations at Sabratha, 1948–1951. London. Khanoussi, M. 2003. “L’évolution urbaine de Thugga (Dougga) en Afrique proconsulaire. De l’agglomeration numide à la ville africo-romaine.” CRAI 147. 1: 131–155. Lachaux, J.-C. 1979. Théatres et amphithéatres d’Afrique Proconsulaire. Aix-en-Provence. Lamare, N. 2019. Les fontaines monumentales en Afrique romaine. CEFR 557. Rome. Lassère, J.-M. 1977. Ubique populus. Peuplement et mouvements de population dans l’Afrique romaine de la chute de Carthage à la fin de la dynastie des Sévères [146 av. J.-C. – 235 ap. J.-C.]. Paris. Lassère, J.-M. 2015. Africa, quasi Roma. 256 Av. J.-C –711 Apr. J.–C. Paris. Lassus, J. 1966. “Un opération immobilière à Timgad.” In Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire offerts à A. Piganiol. Volume 3, ed. R.R. Chevalier, 1221–1231. Paris. Laurence, R., Esmonde-Cleary, S., and Sears, G. 2011. The City in the Roman West c. 250 BC–AD 250. Cambridge. Leone, A. 2007. Changing Townscapes in North Africa from Late Antiquity to the Arab Conquest. Bari. Lepelley, C. 1979. Les cités de l’Afrique romaine au Bas-Empire, tome I. La permanence d'une civilisation municipale. Paris. Lepelley, C. 1981. Les cités de l’Afrique romaine au Bas-Empire, tome II. Notices d’histoire municipale. Paris. Leschi, L. 1947. “Découvertes récentes à Timgad: Aqua Septimiana Felix.” CRAI 91.1: 87–99. MacDonald, W. 1986. The Architecture of the Roman Empire: An Urban Appraisal. New Haven. Magalhães de Oliveira, J.C. 2012. Potestas Populi: Participation populaire et action collective dans les villes de l’Afrique romaine tardive (vers 200–430 apr. J.-C.). Turnhout.

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CHAPTER 12

Rural Settlement, Land Use, and Economy Mariette de Vos Raaijmakers

This chapter is an introduction to current knowledge and debate on rural settlement and land use in North Africa primarily during the Roman period (circa second century bce–seventh century ce). Considerable reliance will be placed on recent information yielded by archaeology, in tandem with inscriptions and texts. The chapter will illustrate the dramatic social and economic changes that transformed North Africa into one of the more dynamic regions of the Roman world down through to the seventh century.

Settlement and Land Use Prior to 146 bce Despite numerous concentrations of pre-Roman megalithic (dolmen), rock-cut tombs (haouanet), and burial mounds (bazina’s or tumuli) throughout the Northern African landscape, the settlements associated with them have rarely survived. In many instances they were destroyed or replaced by habitations dating from the first through seventh centuries ce. Recent research at Carthage, in the Segermes basin, Althiburos, Cherchel, and Lixus has yielded palaeobotanical and zoological data from urban contexts, reflecting production in their immediate hinterland (Berg Briese and Lund, 2000; Van Zeist et al., 2001; López and Cantero, 2016; Sanmartí, Chapter 4; Bond, 1993; Pérez Jordà, 2005). Barley (hordeum vulgare) is attested already in the eighth century bce at Carthage (Kroll, 2007). At Althiburos, a Numidian city 200 km to the southwest of Carthage, it appears in excavated layers from the sixth century bce until the Middle Ages and always in larger quantities than other cereals such as emmer and hard wheat (triticum dicoccum and durum). Because barley is drought and rust-resistant and ripens in April and May, it extends the harvest period to just the point when wheat stocks are depleted. It can be rotated annually with alfalfa (medicago sativa), which was found, for example, in fodder in the earliest layers of Althiburos, indicating an integrated mixed crop–livestock farming. Cattle appear to have been abundant enough in this early period to require slaughter between one and six months (Valenzuela-Lamas, 2016). Animals provide manure as fertilizer to improve the structure of the soil and its water retention capacity. Fallowing and crop rotation without irrigation are particularly appropriate to the North African semi-arid and arid climate defined by irregular and insufficient precipitation and hot, dry summers. This system was probably described by the Carthaginian agronomist Mago whose 27

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books were translated on the order of the Roman Senate at the conclusion of the Third Punic War in 146 bce (Heurgon, 1976; Erroux, 2003). In Latin novalia are the fields are renovated by fallowing of one or more years (Varro, L. 5.39 and R. 1.29.1; Pliny Nat. Hist. 18.176), eventually in alternation with a year of fodder crops (Kron, 2000). Cultivated fruit trees were also present in increasing amounts in particular figs (ficus carica), grapes (vitis vinifera), olives (olea europaea), and pomegranates (punica granatum), followed by legumes such as lentils (lens culinaris), broad beans (vicia faba), and peas (pisum sativum). Punic Carthage was famous for its fruit production as we know from literary sources and Cato’s symbolic performance in the Senate in 153, in which he presented a fresh fig from Carthage in order to dramatize the proximity to Rome of its greatest adversary, less than three days by sea (Meijer, 1984). In Morocco palaeoenvironmental research at the Atlantic coastal colony of Lixus has yielded evidence of figs, pomegranates, and olive pits and wood, attested already in the seventh century bce layers, with cereals, grapes, legumes, and linum (flax for oil or textiles?) dated to the third and second centuries bce (Pérez Jordà, 2005). Cattle abounded during the Phoenician period and pigs increased in the Punic and Mauretanian periods, respectively, fifth to third century bce and second century bce to 40 ce. An unpublished survey near Carthage between 1979 and 1983, identified 136 rural settlements dated largely on the basis of transport amphora sherds (Greene, 1986, 1992; Bechtold and Docter, 2010). The six earliest rural sites to the east of the Punic city belong to the second half of the sixth and fifth centuries bce while six other sites on the Megara peninsula to the northwest of Carthage belong to the fourth century bce. A significant increase in agricultural exploitation occurred between 350 and 300, when 50 new rural sites, dated largely through the recovery of Late Punic amphorae, appear close to Carthage. This intensification of settlement of the Carthaginian chora was probably a consequence of the loss of the western part of Sicily (241 bce) and Sardinia (238 bce) to Rome following the First Punic War. Recent analysis of animal bones of an excavation at Bir Massaoud, between the ancient citadel on the Byrsa hill and the circular harbor of Carthage, included bones of wild birds, especially geese and ducks, which suggests that there was a lively exploitation of the wetlands around the harbor and coastal lagoons in the mid-third century bce (Slopsma et al., 2009, also for what follows). The red jungle fowl (gallus gallus) is attested only from the middle Punic period (480–300 bce) onwards, and increases in time along with other domestic birds up from 75 to 95% and at the expense of wild bird bones, which diminish drastically from 100% in the Archaic Period (760–530 bce) to 5% in the Vandal period (439–533 ce). This suggests changing environmental conditions around Carthage to be reflective of increased urbanization (Leveau, Chapter 3). Ovicaprids increased in volume from the Punic period onwards, accounting for 80% of the finds slaughtered for meat in the early and middle age range in the Bir Messaoud’s statistics. Ovicaprids were followed by pigs. Although both were virtually absent in the Archaic period (760–530 bce), they increased during the Roman period, reaching a maximum across the Vandal and Byzantine (533– 698 ce) periods. Cattle (bos taurus) follow a reverse trend. Conspicuous in the Archaic, Punic, and Roman periods, they show a marked decline under the Vandals and Byzantines. Bones of dogs, horses, and donkeys, lacking butcher marks, were also consistently present in the same, relatively small, quantity. Secondary products of ovicaprids and cattle included milk, cheese, skins, manure fuel, and wool in the case of ovicaprids. The skins of ovicaprids were used for water, wine, and oil transport. The gherba or waterskin (normally of goat) is used especially in the desert, even today, where the water remains cool by transpiration through the porous skin. Cattle, horses, and donkeys may have been used for traction and transportation and were likely raised just outside the city. Beyond the immediate area of Carthage in what is now Tunisia, the evidence of settlement and land use is sparse. Two small probable farms dated to the fourth and third century bce have been identified near Segermes, 65 km south of Carthage, in addition to some rock-cut tombs (Berg Briese and Lund, 2000). At Althiburos, bones of cattle, ovicaprids, and pigs are attested in equal quantities, indicative of a sedentary population and mixed production of agriculture and livestock/ animal husbandry (Sanmartí, Chapter 4; Valenzuela-Lamas, 2016). Pre-Roman settlements have also been discovered at Djerba (Fentress and Fontana, 2009), mainly a concentration of large villas,

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small farms with amphora kilns producing wine and oil, barley, and wheat dating to the fourth and third centuries bce. Twelve Punic-period agricultural settlements dating to between the third and late second centuries bce have likewise been identified in the vicinity of Lepcis Magna, both along the coast (one) and in the immediate interior (10). The local population in the surroundings of the city was engaged in sedentary agriculture (Munzi et al., 2004).

Roman Period Land Organization and Management Following the destruction of Carthage in 146 bce, its former territory, now the province of Africa, was bounded by the fossa regia or royal ditch along the frontier with the kingdom of Numidia (Ferchiou, 1998; Talbert, 2000, Maps 32–33, updated by Abid, 2014). Pliny mentions Thaenae on the east coast (10 km south of modern Sfax) as the eastern terminus of the fossa regia and the river Tusca, which flows in the Mediterranean near Tabarka, as marking the fine between Numidia and the African province (Pliny Nat. Hist. 5.25 and 22–23). The new province was centuriated to facilitate the division of equal lots among the veterans and tax collection. Tunisia contains the most extensive centuriation system of the Roman world. It was first discovered in 1831 by C.T. Falbe (1833), Danish consul at Tunis, while mapping the remains of ancient Carthage. C. Saumagne (1929) and P. Davin discovered traces east of El Djem in 1929 through aerial photography. Between 1957 and 1959, A. Caillemer and R. Chevalier (1956) completed the aerial survey of the Tunisian plain to the east of the Atlas Mountains, dividing the traces in three geographical zones, each with a different orientation and chronology: North, Central East, and South-East. However, anyone who uses the Atlas des centuriations romaines will discover that there is almost no verification through field survey and that the simplified map published on a small scale in the introduction of the Atlas, suggests an overall continuous system that in reality has survived only partially, in scattered traces and in different periods extending into late antiquity (Peyras, 1994: 223–226, 2008, Introduction). Despite these problems, this map has been used by many historians and archaeologists as a point of departure for research. In Tunisia the traces consist frequently of straight low earthen mounds with stones removed from the fields. Little epigraphic and textual information survives of land occupation prior to 46 bce, when the kingdom of Numidia was annexed and incorporated as the province of Africa Nova, to the west of the Carthaginian territory, the latter now renamed Africa vetus (Quinn, 2003; Migliario, 2004; Hobson, 2015: 35–49). From this period on, archaeological evidence becomes more consistent, especially to the west of the fossa regia. Many native supporters of Caesar, Sallust, Sittius, and his army of Campanian mercenaries were rewarded with Roman citizenship assuming their gentilicial (family) names. The epigraphic evidence in cities and countryside reflects for many generations the historical, onomastic imprint of Roman political and military leaders who were active in North Africa in the late Republican and early Imperial period (Lassère, 1977). Rich equites, senators, and later also many emperors and local elites, became absentee landlords of big estates in Africa that were exploited by managers (conductores) and local sharecroppers (coloni). Detailed information on leasing conditions, share cropping, and agricultural produce is available in the texts of the lex Manciana and lex Hadriana de rudibus agris (Kehoe, 1988; Carlsen, 2013: 177–202, 211–246; González Bordas, 2017; González Bordas and France, 2017). These laws are known to us from a series of inscriptions discovered in the estates of the central Bagradas (now Medjerda) valley, in which coloni request the application of sharecropping conditions similar to modern arrangements, such as the mezzadria in Italy and the khammās in the Maghreb. The mezzadro could retain one-half, the khammās a fifth of the harvest, hence their name. The lex Hadriana, enlarged the pre-existing condicio Manciana with uncultivated terrain to include wood and marshland that could be leased in usus proprius to coloni. Independent farmers were obliged to bring into cultivation marshes, forests, vacant lands, and lands that had not been cultivated for 10 consecutive years. One-third of the harvest belonged to the owner. Taxes in the case of new olive plantations only kicked in after the first 10 years and after five years in the case of dry crops. The farmers were expected to deliver this rent in kind, already pressed or threshed. It is this that explains why many farms were equipped



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with one or more presses (torcularium) (see later). The colonus had the right (usus proprius) to bequeath the new land brought under cultivation to his legal sons, but lost his rights if he neglected to cultivate the fields for two consecutive years (CIL 8.25902). Conductores, middlemen between the coloni and the emperor represented by a procurator, collected the rents and determined the number of work days (operae) due to the owner. Disputes over these matters may have been common. In one instance involving a dispute between coloni and a conductor, who claimed too much, the emperor sided with the coloni (Kehoe, 1988: 79–82). The lease contracts were of different lengths; those for conductores were quinquennial, for coloni perpetual. The conductores aimed for annual profits whereas the coloni were positioned for the longer term, especially for investment in olive and vine cultivation. The territorial map of North Africa was a mosaic of tens of thousands of different districts belonging to cities, castella, municipia, agri publici, coloniae, pagi, civitates, saltus, praedia, and fundi, each with a different status, tax regime (or exemption), and administrative organization. Territorial splintering and direct control assured tax incomes to the annona and fostered intensified exploitation of agricultural resources. The duration and consequent effectiveness of the law is indicated not only in the adjustments to it made by Constantine in 319 and 332 ce (see later), but also and most notably by reference to the continued existence and sale of Mancian tenures in the Albertini Tablets, an archive of 39 notarial deeds on wooden tablets found in 1928 to the west of Gafsa and dated to the reign of the Vandal king Gunthamund 493–496 ce (Mattingly, 1989; Hitchner, 1995b; Wilson, forthcoming). The Tablets contain documents regarding a dowry, the sale of a slave and an olive press, sale or purchase of pieces of lands (particellae agrorum), and trees. Out of 245 trees mentioned in the Tablets, 178 are olives, 61 figs, 4 almonds, and 2 pistachio. The presence of young olives shows that olive cultivation was in full development, also in the Vandal period. Commodity transport by dromedaries is revealed by the hodonym via de camellos. When it comes to boundaries, instead of termini the Tablets use the African Latin form termines. The dowry list contains also words known only in Africa, such as maforsenu for a shoulder cape with hood and bervina for shoes of castrated male sheep leather (vervex) (Mattingly, 1989; Hitchner, 1995b; Adams, 2007: 561; Wilson, forthcoming). Vandal and Byzantine ostraca originating from the region around Tebessa attest rent payments in cash on leased land (agraria) or the delivery of the landlord’s part (pars dominica): barley, wheat, olive oil, and livestock (Ast, 2016). Many boundaries with names incised on both sides (opisthographic termini) of two neighbors delimited the territories of towns (Cortés Bárcena, 2013) and imperial, senatorial, and local properties. This subdivision was marked in the field by a land surveyor (agrimensor) and outlined on a cadastral map (forma). Imperial domains in Africa were very consistent. Nero had six landowners killed who possessed half of Africa (Pliny Nat. Hist. 18.35), supposedly to confiscate their properties. A law enacted by Honorius in 422 ce attests that one-sixth of the total surface of Proconsularis and Byzacena (C.Th. XI.28.13; Lepelley, 1967) was occupied by imperial estates, a statistic fully confirmed by field survey in the central Medjerda valley. Finally, rural agriculture was also geared to market gardening for local markets centered in the towns. This is implied by the construction of monumental food markets (macella) in the city centers, a notable example of which is to be found at Thugga, built in 54 ce by Marcus Licinius Rufus, owner of an irrigated plot in the Khalled valley, 4.5 km east of Thugga Site DU086: http:// rusafricum.org/it/thuggasurvey/DU086/. Other macella have been identified at Cuicul, Thibilis, Lambaesis, Thamugadi, Madauros, Ammaedara, Hippo Regius, Bulla Regia, Thignica, Mactar, Thuburbo Maius, Carthago, and Lepcis Magna (see Mugnai, Chapter 15). Lepcis’ and Thugga’s markets are exemplary for their illustration of the practice of local élites investing their agricultural wealth derived from commercial relations with Rome in monumental urban building projects. Landlords could likewise enrich themselves enormously through nundinae (periodic markets) on their estates. A dozen such markets are now known through inscriptions in Proconsularis and Numidia (Shaw, 1981; Brüggemann, 2004; Fentress, 2007; Hoyer, 2013). In the second century ce a senator who owned the saltus Beguensis in the northern part of Jebel Sammama, to the North of Cillium (Kasserine, High Steppe, Central Tunisia), was authorized by a senatorial decree (senatus consultum) to organize nundinae (CIL 8.270, 8.23246, ILBardo 26; Chaouali, 2002).

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Settlement and Agricultural Organization A number of recent archaeological field surveys revealed agricultural exploitation in what is now northern Algeria and Tunisia that focused on villages, farms, or estates (Leveau, 1984; Peyras, 1991; Dietz et al., 1995; Ørsted et al., 2000; Aounallah, 2001; de Vos et al., 2000, 2019 Aounallah, 2001; de Vos and Attoui 2013, 2015). Large estates appear alongside smaller farm units in central and southern Tunisia and north-west Libya in the Kasserine region Djebel Semmama, Djerba, the Tarhuna plateau, and Lepcis Magna (Hitchner, 1988a, 1988b; Hitchner et al., 1990; Munzi et al., 2004; Fentress and Fontana, 2009; Sehili, 2009; Ahmed, 2019; Munzi, 2010). Two surveys in the Libyan pre-desert and desert unveiled an unexpected number of settlements in an environment now largely devoid of such habitation (Barker et al., 1996; Mattingly et al., 2003–2013; Leveau, Chapter 3). The small-scale production centers contain one or two, rarely three, presses, often erected at different moments reflecting the length of time the olive tree (30–40 years) required to reach full maturity and yield. The presence of a press facility at many small farms suggests that farmers paid rents in kind, i.e., in oil and wine. Some 40 rock-cut wine presses and two monumental wineries with eight wine treading floors are documented in coastal Proconsularis and Mauretania Caesariensis (Brun, 2004: 233–235; Battisti, 2015: 34–35, 39, 57–58). The big farms in Byzacena and Tripolitania comprised batteries containing 4, 8, 12, and even 18 presses, evidently built by rich investors or communities. The size and extent of the properties under olive cultivation in these regions may reflect the need to space olive groves more widely to secure more water per tree (see later the discussion on hydrology). Water availability was and is an important factor in semi-arid and arid Northern Africa with average annual precipitation from 1000 to 1500  mm along the Mediterranean coast and Atlas ranges from 50 to 100 mm in the desert. Several palaeoecological researches found evidence of increased humidity from Punic to late-Roman times and a climatic downturn around 536–550 ce (Zerai, 2009: 283; Newfield, 2018; see Leveau, Chapter 3). Rural settlements depended on ground, spring, rain, and riverine hydraulic technologies in order to maximize the supply. Water control, stocking, and agricultural irrigation technology were already in use since pre-Roman times in Northern Africa (Birebent, 1962; Shaw, 1982; Hitchner, 1995a; Mattingly et al., 2003–2013; Leone, 2012), in the Mediterranean, and in the Near East (Mays, 2010). The frequent marl lenses in the permeable karstic limestone bedrock of North African limestone and sandstone form an effective barrier to water percolation and force groundwater into many spring outlets, providing excellent drinking water and promoting a dispersed settlement pattern. The water was tapped at the source (caput aquae) in a storage basin, in some cases connected with a nearby settlement by channels or a private aqueduct. Some farms were provided with a well (sometimes still in use today); many made use of cisterns and nearby wadis to collect water. Terracing was also deployed extensively in upland and mountain zones, such as Djebel Selloum, recorded by the Kasserine Survey (Hitchner, 1988a, 1988b, 1995a; Hitchner et al., 1990). Irrigation is mentioned in the lex Hadriana, and is identifiable archaeologically in field wells, runoff walls, river dams (such as the one identified at the Wadi Derb near Cillium), or cross-wadi walls (saeptae or moles), particularly in Tripolitania (Gilbertson and Hunt, 1996; Wilson, 2017b) and the Tunisian high steppe (Hitchner, 1995a; Leone, 2012). Fertile silty sediments were accumulated on the wadi bottom by the cross walls. Roman law provided regulations for construction and maintenance of storage basins and distribution channels for water, water rights, water capture, and easement. Conflicts often arose over water access between rivales, inhabitants of riverbanks (rivae) (Maganzani, 2012, 2018). The Lamasba Tablettes, written under the reign of Heliogabalus, 218–222 ce, record the resolution of water rights by a commission of decuriones and coloni of Lamasba (Shaw, 1982; Hitchner, 1995a; Meuret, 1996). A further reference to irrigation is found in a law published at Carthage in 319 ce under Constantine involving a dispute between coloni and emphyteuticarii (perpetual leasers) in Africa Proconsularis in which the former had usurped fields and irrigation water sources from the latter (Codex Iustinianus XI, 63; Vera, 1988). Lastly, in desert areas foggaras or qanate tapped and still tap aquifers via subterranean galleries that drain water out to the surface to the oasis (Wilson 2009). This technique was perhaps introduced from Iran, where it is attested in the ninth–eighth century bce.



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Labor In Africa rural labor in imperial and private estates was done mainly by sharecropping coloni and their families, peasant farmers, laborers of nominal free status, seasonal workers, and in minor measure by slaves (Lenski, 2017). Out of 494 inscriptions in the Thugga survey of 640 km2 of rural surface only one belongs to a slave (CIL 8.15376). Out of almost 2000 epitaphs of the city of Thugga (50–300 ce) only two refer to slaves and six to freedmen/women (though, of course, slaves were often buried without epitaph). The archaeological data contrasts with the number of 400 slaves mentioned by Apuleius of Madauros (Apologia 87 and 93, mid-second century ce) on Pudentilla’s estates near Oea. While clearly a rhetorical exaggeration, it is clear that the presence of slaves was not exceptional. After the introduction of the emphyteusis by the Tetrarchs, which was further formalized by Constantine in 319 and 332 ce (Codex Iustinianus 11.63.1 and Codex Theodosianus 5.17.1), the social and economic distinction between slaves and emphyteuticarii became minimal. Emphyteusis refers to a perpetual lease aimed at simplifying and stabilizing managerial and financial administrations. A tax was fixed at the moment of the contract rather than through share-cropping assessments, with risks divided between landlord and tenant (as for the coloni in the lex Hadriana). The emphyteuticarius could not leave the estate of origo, i.e., where he was born. Agricultural workers in North Africa were subjected to abuse by the middlemen. In 182 ce, for example, the coloni of the saltus Burunitanus along the Medjerda protested against the abuses of their conductor (CIL 8.14428, 14451, 14464; Kehoe, 1988: 64–69), and Commodus sided with the workers. During the 340s ce in Numidia’s countryside, runaway slaves and unemployed laborers rebelled against the landowners. They were sustained by the circumcelliones, violent gangs of Berber tribesmen favored by the Donatists, and still active in Augustinus’ lifetime (Papadopoulos, 2019). The elaborate administration of the many imperial estates in North Africa was from top to bottom in the hands of imperial élite slaves or freedmen (familia Caesaris). They were connected with the central power of Rome (ad Caput Africae, imperial Paedagogium puerorum on the Coelian Hill), headquartered at Carthage and Caesarea (Cherchel). Their epitaphs in the cemetery of the officiales at Carthage furnish much information on the administrative staff, which included slaves: runners (cursor), footman (pedisequus), guardian (custos); and freedmen: assistant to an imperial official (adiutor), archivists (tabularius), tax collectors (procurator of the Quattuor Publica Africae), and the procurator of the tractus Karthaginiensis. Their permanent presence was necessary for the complicated task of collecting and registration of taxes, also in kind (annona). In the private sphere operated the bailiffs (vilicus), managers (procurator), agents (actor), or, at a lower level, letter carriers (tabellarius), clerks (scriba), treasurers (arcarius), or administrators (dispensator) (Schmall, 2011; Shaw, 2017). Inscriptions often inform us of what was going on in the countryside (Stone, 1998). The famous Harvester of Mactar records on his funerary inscription (CIL 8.11824; Shaw, 2013) how he started as a poor hard-working seasonal worker reaping up to 12 harvests in one season, then becoming for 11 years the leader of a gang of seasonal harvesters in Numidia, before purchasing a house, and being enrolled among the conscript councillors of Mactar and eventually becoming censor. The manager of the fundus Aufidianus near Mateur (North Tunisia) was praised by his wife for rehabilitating a fundus with new vines and olive trees (AE 1975, 883; Stone, 1998). The manager of the fundus Glebonianus on the left bank of the Siliana River near Thabbora rose from slave to equestrian rank according to an inscription standing more than 2.74 m high, the highest found in North Africa. He is praised together with his son for planting new vines over the course of 40 years (de Vos and Porena, 2020). The many environmental and climate risks to which agriculture was exposed are illustrated by two inscriptions (see Leveau, Chapter 3). In 48–49 ce, C. Artorius Bassus, patronus of Thugga, was also curator locustae, had to combat a locust plague (CIL 8.26517). A Greek magic text buried in the third century ce in the region of Bou Arada (North Tunisia) pleads for protection of the olive groves, vineyards, and seeded fields against hail, rust, and hurricanes (Ferchiou and Gabillon,

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1985). This text may refer to mixed farming (cultura promiscua), similar to an apotropaic text found on a sixth–seventh century ce leaden cross found near Furnos Maius, which asks for divine intervention to save messes (crops), binea (vines), orta (vegetable gardens), poma (fruit), oliba (olives), and iliceta (holms) from the disastrous effects of a hailstorm (Alfaro Giner and Fernández Nieto, 2000).

Production How archaeological survey can help to reconstruct ancient landscape is illustrated by the map of olive groves around the farms with one or more presses in the region of Thugga (Figure 12.1), based on real data: the minimal press numbers of each site and the measurements of each single limestone counterweight (Battisti, 2015: 224, and also for what follows). The optimistic (high-count) hypothesis proposed in the map of a yield of 25 l oil/100 kg and 65 kg olives/tree is based on the bioclimatic conditions of the region, which are particularly favorable to olive cultivation. Olives profit by hot weather and sunny positions without shades and calcareous soils; they do not need irrigation as their deep roots compensate for a lack of regular annual precipitation. All these conditions are present on the slopes of the Dougga region, where the olives nowadays yield 35 l oil/100 kg olives. Due to the semi-arid climate with 400–500 mm/year the olives contain little vegetable water. This factor reduces considerably the energy needed in the extraction process. Through the first seven centuries ce the average oil press numbers grew to 2/km2 in the area surveyed intensively and to 0.7/km2 in the area extensively surveyed. The region is also repeatedly explored. Similar high concentrations are attested in other well-explored regions, such as 3/km2 in the Parc National El Kala (PNEK, north eastern coastal Algeria), 0.8/km2 around Cillium, 0.7/km2 around Thala-Tlili (both in Central Tunisia), and 2/km2 on the Tarhuna plateau. The density of rural settlements in the Thugga area is often explained by the presence of many cities, but the surveyed PNEK area is without any city and has an even higher press density. Outside Africa, in the North Syrian limestone hills, the average press number varies from 0.5 to 1.7/km2. Here the presses are concentrated in villages (Van Limbergen, 2015: 171). The African presses were possibly

Figure 12.1  Thugga survey, map of farms with press(es) and extension of olive groves based on the measurements of the counterweights. From Battisti 2015: 224.



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alternatively used for wine, or for both; the harvest periods are consecutive. The 40 wine presses discovered in the PNEK survey are all cut in sandstone outcrops and stand out from the oil presses because of a large, shallow basin or treading floor, the so-called calcatorium, where the grapes were trodden (Figure 12.2). The juice flowed through a sloping drainage hole and protruding spout in a deep, capacious collecting vat (lacus). The grape skins were collected, put in baskets, and pressed under a lever beam in the same way as the olive paste was processed (Figure 12.3). Before being pressed, olives were compacted in a mola olearia under one or two circular or cylindrical stones circling in a round basin in order to spare space in the baskets or in a “Pompeian” mill with meta and catillus placed in a catcher. Olive trees have to be more than 30–40 years old in order to achieve yields well above average. As a rule of thumb, the production of non-irrigated olive trees is directly

Figure 12.2  Lameria, Parc National of El Kala, Algeria, one of the 40 rock cut wine presses. From Battisti (2007), Plan and sections.

Figure 12.3  Site 205, 2.3 km to the West of Thugga, central Medjerda valley, Tunisia, oil press with two lever beams, basins, and counterweights. From de Vos and Attoui (2013), Pl. 214, 3D reconstruction of Alessandro Battisti.

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related to their age, meaning that a 100-year-old tree can normally produce more than it produced when it was 60 years old. Olive groves were probably inter-cultivated with crops and vineyards, which could take advantage of shadow and wind protection of the trees (Figure 12.4a); they are also a useful measure against soil erosion. The Romans were aware of this: Columella (5.9.7) recommends 60 and 40 Roman feet (17.76 and 11.84 m) spacing in intercalated groves and 25 feet (7.4 m) in the ones under monoculture (Shaw, 1982: 83–85; Mattingly, 1994). A mosaic of Tabarka shows daily life at an estate where olive trees alternate with vines (Figure 12.4a) and pastio villatica scenes, such as water fowl all around the villa and its annexes (Figure 12.5) and a beehive near a water stream (Figure 12.4b).

Figure 12.4  (a) Henchir Godmet, 1 km South of Tabarka, now Tunis, Bardo Museum. Mosaic representing a villa surrounded by vines alternating with olives. The landlady is spinning wool near a flock of sheep, a Berber horse is tied to the entrance door of the villa, and behind the villa is a sandstone outcrop with thrushes. Near the right border is a creek (wadi). Photo de Vos. (b) Detail of the beehive along the creek. Photo de Vos.

Figure 12.5  Henchir Godmet, 1 km South of Tabarka, now Tunis, Bardo Museum. Mosaic representing the villatica pastio on an estate: pheasants, partridges, thrushes, and, behind a wicker fence (saeptum), in the foreground, a duck and white and grey geese picking myrtle and pomegranate. Photo de Vos.



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Production of luxury foods such as poultry and honey, the only sweetener in Antiquity, was an essential activity in Roman agronomy, defined as pastio villatica by Varro in his treatise De re rustica 3. He recommends locating the beehives along a fresh stream (aqua pura) (Figure 12.4a and 12.4b). The lex Manciana incentivizes production by permitting the coloni to keep all the honey from the first five beehives. For additional ones they had to pay one sextarius (Kehoe, 1988: 40–41). Honey makes great gains from a small space (Varro R. 3.16.10–11); sweetener could also be used as a preservative and medicine. Punic wax was the best and was used in medicinal preparations and encaustic paint (Pliny Nat. Hist. 21.49; Vitruvius, 7.9.3). In the first century ce, Africa was among the major honey producers, along with Crete and Cyprus (Pliny Nat. Hist. 11.14). Documents in the Geniza of Cairo dating back to the eleventh–thirteenth centuries show that Tunisia continued to export its surplus honey and wax; and again in the late eighteenth century (de Vos and Maurina, 2019: 49–53). Animal husbandry was a mobile economic activity closely integrated with the arable and arboricultural activities of farms. It was also intensively practiced by (semi-)nomadic and transhumant shepherds on uncultivated land in the Steppe and desert in Central and Southern regions. The shepherds went in summertime as seasonal harvesters to the north, where the herds could be left to graze on stubble of arable fields (Clarke, 1955; Hitchner, 1994; Vanacker, 2013, 2014). Wool production in North Africa provided cloths, not only for local consumption but also for regional and interregional distribution. The price of 1.500 denarii fixed by Diocletian’s Edict on Maximum Prices of 301 ce (19.35, 51, 54, 61, and 68) for an African cover, of 1.500 denarii for an African and 3.000 denarii for a Numidian hooded cloak or byrrus (cf. maforsenu, above), of 600 denarii for a Numidian singilio (shirt?), of 2.000 denarii for an African cloak with clasp (fibulatorium), and of 500 denarii for a short African cloak (sagum) underline the commercial importance of African textiles, which were evidently cheaper than most others. Local consumption of high-quality woollen textiles has left traces only in very arid zones like the Libyan desert, in second century ce tombs (Cole, 2008: 253–255; Wilson, 2012, 2017a) and in Egypt’s Eastern desert, in the Roman quarry of Mons Claudianus (Bender Jørgensen, 2018). Wool production started in the countryside where it was shaved, spun, and woven, in some clear instances by women, as indicated by the Tabarka mosaic (Figure 12.4a). At Timgad 12 fulleries (laundries of woollen cloth) (Amraoui, 2017) and two cloth markets have been found, a forum vestiarium adiutricianum, a secondary or auxiliarian market, which supposes another previous and main cloth forum; and at Cuicul a basilica vestiaria. There were many purple or murex dye works in different cities where textiles were colored for precious clothes destined for the inter-regional markets (Wilson, 2004). Linum usitatissimum of flax has been found in a sixth century bce layer at Althiburos. Linen textiles more suitable for humid climates, as they absorb sweat, were found in coastal cities along the Red Sea, Abu Sha’ar, and Myos Hormos (Bender Jørgensen, 2018). The only mention of African linen (lineas Afras … puras) occurs in Aurelian’s biography (Hist. Aug. 48.5). In rubbish deposits at Berenike remnants have been found of linen sails, sacking and packing textiles, and animal gears made from wool and goat hair, used in the camel and donkey caravans that transported wood for ship building. The relationship between ceramic and agricultural production was identified and described by Mackensen in 1993, drawing on the evidence of Egyptian papyruses of Oxyrinchos, Hermopolis, and Aphrodito (see Bonifay, Chapter 13). This organization is similar to that of large North African properties. The ceramic workshops were probably rented for one or five years to a conductor, who managed the work of specialized potters. The workshops of El Mahrine, mainly intended for export until the late seventh century ce, had arisen in the early fourth century on an extended fundus some 60 km from Carthage. Thanks to its location in the rural countryside, ceramic production could make use of the fuel produced by the oil mills: the amurca, or sampsa, which remains after the compacting and pressing of the olives and which contains the pits and skins, the fiscinae that had to be renewed regularly, the branches pruned from trees every year in March, all substances that burn for a long time due to the presence of oil (Rowan, 2015). Traces of olives have been found in the furnace that was installed in the abandoned baths of Oudhna (Barraud et al., 1998) and in three furnaces at Leptiminus (Smith, 2001: 435–438, sites 250, 290; Rowan,

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2015, 2018). Similar workshops have also arisen in other cities, such as at Pheradi Maius and Sullecthum (Nacef, 2015). Another ceramic workshop in the oil-producing countryside is in Sidi Marzouk Tounsi, south of Mactar in Central Tunisia (Ben Moussa, 2013). Archaeometric analyses are demonstrating how geology determines localization of pottery workshops and allows the differences and similarities between the different production zones to be distinguished (Bonifay et al., 2013).

Distribution, Trade, Markets The conspicuous density of villages, nucleated and dispersed farms, press installations, and pottery scatters recovered and identified through archaeological field survey since 1975 was the result of the application of sharecropping laws, hydraulic technology (Crova, 1967; Leveau and Paillet, 1976, Leveau, 1987; Casagrande, 2008; Ibba, 2012), and improvements in roads (Hitchner, 2012). Local technology and existing networks were improved and monumentalized to supply the army and Rome through the annona system (Faure, Chapter 10). The main roads linking the hinterland to the coast were straightened to facilitate the army movements and the transport of crops for regional distribution or to be shipped via well-equipped ports to overseas markets and Rome (Stone, 2014; de Vos et al., 2015; de Vos and Maurina, 2019). Milestones along the roads facilitated travel practice and distribution of imperial propaganda (Salama, 1987). Some perennial rivers may have been used for transport (Wilson, 2017b). Many public granaries (horrea) were located on the coast, evidently for collecting and shipping commodities: namely at Thamusida, Stora near Rusicade, Hippo Regius, Ras Enghela (near Bizerte), Utica, Carthage, Maxula, Demna (Cap Bon), Hergla (Horrea Caelia), Hadrumetum (Sousse), Gigthis, Meninx, and Lepcis Magna. Others are attested in or near the entrance of inland cities, for redistribution: Cuicul, Uzalis. Tiddis, Tamugadi, Henchir el Oust, Thysdrus, and Mactar or for consumption by soldiers in the military camps of Thamusida and Lambaesis (Rickman, 1971: 132–136; Goffaux, 2011; Hamrouni and Aloui, 2019; on the so-called bâtiments des auges, see Leveau, forthcoming). From the fourth century through the horreum publicum of Zigira, near the Medjerda river, North of Tichilla, the agricultural produce may have been transported downstream to the coast. Caravans of dromedaries and donkeys or ox wagons transported wine and oil in skins over more than 100 km to the coast. At the ports the liquids were weighed, registered, and stored in amphorae, which explains the propensity of amphora kilns along the coast. An archive of ostraca of the year 373 found at the port of Carthage with detailed notices on weight, provenance, and container, sheds significant light on the administration of the olive trade (Peña, 1998). Monte Testaccio, the monumental artificial hill near Rome’s river port, 50 m high and 1 km in perimeter, was formed from millions of discarded Hispanic and African oil amphorae. Stamps on the handles and inscriptions painted on their outside provide details on the quality of their contents, their provenance, and the names of persons involved in their production and transport. Pompeii contains the first African amphorae exported prior to 79 ce. Stratigraphic excavations of a dump under the Terme del Nuotatore at Ostia have provided a fundamental typochronology of African amphorae (Carandini et al., 1968–2014; Rizzo, 2014).

Conclusion The density of rural settlement and evidence of agricultural intensification, often building on preexisting hydraulic and other indigenous technologies, demonstrates the remarkable transformation of North Africa into a tributary and market-driven economy extending more or less from the early imperial period until the second half of the seventh century ce. Both archaeological and epi­ graphic sources also reveal the involvement of the local population in the agricultural enterprises and consequently the impact of the integration of local human capital and local knowledge as highly profitable for the management of the regional resources.



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FURTHER READING For a critical overview and evaluation of the North African surveys through 2004 see Stone, Chapter 2 in this volume and elsewhere (2004). Battisti (2015) applies spatial analysis to rural settlement patterns of the region of Thugga (Tunisia) and National Park of El Kala (NE Algeria). Some survey reports in Morocco are published by Rebuffat et al. (2011), Akerraz et al. (2012, 2019), and in Tunisia 23 maps of the Carte Nationale des Sites Archéologiques are accessible online. Only three farms have been excavated and published by Anselmino et al. (1989; Nador, at the Algerian coast), Ghalia and Bonifay (2006; Demna, Cap Bon), and de Vos and Maurina (2019; Ain Wassel, central Medjerda valley). Vera (1987, 1992) analyzes the social and legal position of coloni and slaves. The best analysis of economic and social conditions of imperial estates is still by Kehoe (1988) containing Latin texts and translations of the second century ce laws. A new copy of the lex Hadriana has been recently discovered 3 km North of Musti (Chérif and González Bordas, 2020). An overview of oil production in North Africa is given by Brun (2004) and Mrabet and Remesal Rodríguez (2007), in Mauretania by Bigi (2018), and in Tunisia by Sehili (2012). For typology and provenancing (esp. Sardinia) by an archaeometric analysis of mills see de Vos et al. (2011), Antonelli et al. (2014), and Gallala et al. (2018). Amraoui (2017) illustrates the processing of agricultural produce, largely for local use, in bakeries, oileries, fulleries, and laundries in towns of that part of North Africa now occupied by Algeria. The important study of Stone (2014) examines 29 sure and 16 artificial port structures between Mauretania and Cyrenaica, an indispensable link between production centers and overseas markets.

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Mattingly, D.J. 1994. “Regional variation in Roman oleoculture: Some problems of comparability.” In Landuse in the Roman Empire, eds. J. Carlsen, P. Ørsted, and J.E. Skydsgaard, 91–106. ARID 22. Mattingly, D.J. et al. 2003–2013. The Archaeology of Fazzān I, II, III, IV. Society for Libyan Studies Monograph 5, 2003; 7, 2007; 8, 2010; 9, 2013. Tripoli and London. Mays, L.M. 2010. Ancient Water Technologies. Dordrecht, Heidelberg, London, and New York. Meijer, F.J. 1984. “Cato’s African figs.” Mnem IV, 37.1–2: 117–124. Meuret, C. 1996. “Le règlement de Lamasba: des tables de conversion appliquées à l’irrigation.” AntAfr 32: 87–112. Migliario, E. 2004. “Per una rilettura del Bellum Africum – e di varie fonti epigrafiche- alla luce dei nuovi dati dal survey nei dintorni di Dougga.” In Archeologia del territorio. Metodi Materiali Prospettive. Medjerda e Adige, due territori a confronto, ed. M. de Vos, 161–167. Trento. Mrabet, A., and Remesal Rodríguez, J. 2007. In Africa et in Hispania. Etudes sur l’huile africaine. Instrumenta 25. Barcelona: Universitat de Barcelona. Munzi, M. 2010. “Il territorio di Leptis Magna. Insediamenti rurali, strutture produttive e rapporti con la città.” In Leptis Magna. una città e le sue iscrizioni in epoca tardoromana, eds. I. Tantillo and F. Bigi, 45–80. Cassino. Munzi, M., Felici, F., Cifani, G., Cirelli, E., Gaudiosi, E., Lucarini, G., and Matug, J. 2004. “A topographic research sample in the territory of Lepcis Magna: Sīlīn.” LibStud 35: 11–66. Nacef, J. 2015. La Production de la céramique antique dans la Région de Salakta et Ksour Essef, Tunisie. Oxford. Newfield, T.P. 2018. “The climate downturn of 536–50.” In The Palgrave Handbook of Climate History, eds. S. White, C. Pfister, and F. Mauelshagen. London. doi: 10.1057/978-1-137-43020-5_32. Ørsted, P., Carlsen, J., Sebaï, L., and Ben Hassen, H., eds. 2000. Africa Proconsularis: Regional Studies in the Segermes Valley of Northern Tunisia. III, Historical Conclusions. Copenhagen. Papadopoulos, I. 2019. “‘Ipsam custodio, pro ipsa moriar’: The social background of Donatist sectarian violence in the long fourth century Northern Africa.” In Medieval Culture & War Conference: Transformation, Renovation and Continuity, 27th–29th June, Athens. Peña, J.T. 1998. “The mobilization of state olive oil: Late 4th-c. Ostraca.” In Carthage Papers: The Early Colony’s Economy, Water Supply, a Public Bath, and the Mobilization of State Olive Oil, eds. J.T. Peña et al., 116–235, JRA Suppl. 28. Portsmouth, RI. Pérez Jordà, G. 2005. “Estudio paleocarpológico.” In Lixus 2, Ladera Sur: excavaciones arqueológicas marrocoespañolas en la colonia fenica: campañas 2000-2003, eds. M. Habibi and C. Aranegui Gascó, 221–227. Valencia. Peyras, J. 1991. Le tell nord-est tunisien dans l’Antiquité. Essai de monographie régionale. Paris. Peyras, J. 1994. “Remarques sur les centuriations et les cadastres de l’Afrique proconsulaire.” In De la terre au ciel. Paysages et cadastres antiques, eds. M. Clavel-Lévêque, I. Jouffroy, and A. Vignot, 223–246. I, Besançon, 29–31 mars 1993. https://www.persee.fr/doc/ista_0000-0000_1994_ant_543_1_1466. Peyras, J. 2008. Arpentage et administration publique à la fin de l’antiquité: les écrits des hauts fonctionnaires équestres. Presses Univ. Franche-Comté. Quinn, J.C. 2003. “The role of the Settlement of 146 in the provincialization of Africa.” L’Africa romana 15: 1593–1601. Rebuffat, R., Hassan, L., Akerraz, A., Brouquier-Reddé, V., and Coltelloni-Trannoy, M. 2011. Carte archéologique du Maroc, 1. Au sud du Loukkos. INSAP Rabat. Rickman, G.R. 1971. Roman Granaries and Store Buildings. Cambridge. Rizzo, G. 2014. Ostia VI. Le Terme del Nuotatore. Le anfore Ostia e i commerci mediterranei. Studi Miscellanei 38. Roma. Rowan, E. 2015. “Olive oil pressing waste as a fuel source in Antiquity.” AJA 119.4: 465–482. Rowan, E. 2018. “Sustainable fuel practices in Roman North Africa and the contemporary Mediterranean Basin.” Interdisciplinaria Archaeologica Natural Sciences in Archaeology IX: 147–156. http://www.iansa.eu. Salama, P. 1987. Bornes milliaires d’Afrique proconsulaire. Un panorama historique du Bas Empire Romain. Rome. Saumagne, C. 1929. “Les vestiges d’une centuriation romaine à l’Est d’El-Djem.” CRAI: 307–313. Schmall, S. 2011. Patrimonium und Fiscus Studien zur kaiserlichen Domänen- und Finanzverwaltung von Augustus bis Mitte des 3. Jahrhunderts n. Chr. PhD Thesis, University of Bonn.

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CHAPTER 13

The African Economy: The Ceramic Evidence Michel Bonifay

Introduction Ceramic evidence is one of the main sources of study for the economy of Roman Africa. This is partly a consequence of the lack of in-depth archaeological research on the foodstuff production in this region (although a multitude of presses have been identified by surveys, only two farms have recently been excavated in Tunisia and only one in Libya: Mattingly and Zenati, 1984; Ghalia, 2006; De Vos and Maurina, 2019), and more importantly on account of the wide distribution of African pottery (amphorae, tableware, cooking ware, lamps) throughout the Empire and sometimes beyond (Hobson, 2015). There have, nonetheless, been a number of important studies over the last 45 years that have attempted to integrate the limited archaeological information on African agriculture with the abundant, if equivocal, evidence of pottery (Carandini, 1970; Fulford, 1983; Fentress and Perkins, 1988; Panella, 1993; Reynolds, 1995, 2010, 2016; Bonifay, 2003; Fentress et al., 2004; Hobson, 2015). In this chapter, the focus will chiefly be on the importance of pottery as an indicator of production and performance in the Roman economy, in particular its relationship with territories, foodstuffs, and trade, as well as some of the recurring problems in the study of African wares.

Territories Between the mid-first century ce and the seventh century ce, Roman Africa comprised the area from roughly Tripolitania to Morocco, though it remains open to question whether the latter, known as Mauretania Tingitana, should be associated more with Roman Spain than Africa. This is pertinent for our purposes with respect to amphora production in Tingitana, which generally imitated Spanish, not African, types. Even if this part of the Roman Maghreb is set aside in a survey of the ceramic evidence, the territories of African ceramic production extended over some 2200 km from the Algerian–Moroccan border to the Syrtic Gulf in Libya.

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.



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Amphora Production Considerable progress has been made in recent years in identifying archaeologically and archaeometrically the exact origin of African amphorae and tableware in the Mediterranean markets (Mackensen and Schneider, 2002, 2006; Capelli and Bonifay, 2007, 2014, 2016). The identification of African amphora production centers has benefited from the development and integration of three different tools: stamps with place names, surveys focused on the location of workshop surveys, and archaeometry. That said, our knowledge on the amphora production in Africa remains very heterogeneous. For example, information on production centers in Algeria is still very scarce, with only one production area reliably attested through stamps mentioning the cities of Tubusuctu/Tiklat and Saldae/Bejaia (Laporte, 2010; Amraoui, 2017) and devoted to the production of imitations of wine Gaulish amphorae (the so-called type Dressel 30). Another stamp, with a palm tree inserted between the letters M and C, previously interpreted as the possible mark of the capital of Mauretania Caesariensis, Caesarea/Cherchell, has now been disproven through recent petrographical analyses (Capelli and Bonifay, 2014). Paradoxically, production in the region of Carthage–Utica was quite unknown until recently. It is now clear by virtue of new petrographical analyses and the discovery of kiln wasters in the western suburbs of Tunis and kilns in the port area of Utica (Ben Jerbania, 2017) that the oldest amphora type of Greco-Roman tradition, now referred to as “Ancient African” and dated to the second half of the second century and the first centuries bce, originated in this region, and not, as originally thought, in Tripolitania (and previously identified as “Ancient Tripolitanian”; see Capelli and Contino, 2013). Northwest Africa vetus also seems to have been the production location of the earliest variants of classical RomanoAfrican amphorae (types Ostia LIX), which appeared in the second half of the first century ce. This is significant as some of these containers found in Pompeii show a titulus pictus TAVR, previously interpreted as indicating the city of Tauromenitanum/Taormina in Sicily, but now excluded by the petrography of these amphorae. The abbreviation Taur could perhaps refer to the African city of Thabraca, frequently spelled as Tauraca. The shipwreck Camarina A, found on the southern coastline of Sicily and dating from the late second century ce, transported a cargo of these amphorae, associated with a main cargo of Chemtou marble, generally said to have been exported from the ports of Tabarka or Utica. Thus the northwestern part of Zeugitana seems to have been the source of most of the earliest amphorae in Roman Africa (Bonifay et al., 2015). The eastern coastline of Tunisia is one of the best known of all the African regions from the point of view of Roman amphora production. Four main areas can be distinguished from north to south. The first one is the city of Neapolis/Nabeul, where no fewer than 15 workshops, some of them very spectacular, have been identified through field surveys (Bonifay et al., 2010). The production is attested from at least the mid-first century ce (Punic types of the third century bce are also known), and continues until the Arab conquest (and probably beyond). The high point of this production was between the second half of the third century and mid-sixth century ce, the Vandal period being particularly prolific. These amphorae are easy to recognize due to their recent accurate typological and petrographical characterization. A second zone is located in the modern Sahel region of Tunisia, the ancient Byzacena coastline. Within this area, the amphora production of the city of Sullecthum/ Salakta is probably the best known (Nacef, 2015), with a very distinctive fabric and a typology indicating a production from the second half of the first century until the seventh century, albeit with a hiatus during the fifth century ce at the very time when the Nabeul production was booming. Other important production centers are also known by stamps at Hadrumetum/Sousse and through surveys and excavations at Leptiminus/Lamta (Stone et al., 2011), the more southern one, Thaenae, being currently under study (Rêve et al., 2018). A third group is located inland in southern Byzacena, which produced late Antique amphorae (e.g., the Majoura workshop) (Nasr, 2015), and a fourth in western Tripolitania, currently within Tunisian territory, a region that is often overlooked when discussing the production of Tripolitanian amphorae. In this region workshops have been identified on the island of Jerba (Fontana et al., 2009) and in the vicinity of the Roman city of Zitha (Jerray, 2016). Lastly, in the Libyan part of Tripolitania, much progress has been made in the location of amphora workshops. Three production areas are identified, both from the point of view of the

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typology and the petrography: Oea/Tripoli, Lepcis Magna, and the Tahruna plateau. The latter region, recently surveyed by a Libyan–British team, provided 35 new kiln sites where almost all Tripolitanian amphora types were produced (Ahmed, 2019). During the Roman period this region was located in the hinterland of both the cities of Oea and Lepcis Magna. This overview of our current knowledge on the location of amphora workshops raises a number of questions regarding the organization of production across territories and time. Two opposing models of production are evidenced through archaeology. The prevailing one shows the location of the workshops in the suburbs of major coastal towns in Africa Proconsularis extending from Zeugitana (e.g., Carthage: Peña, 1998) to Byzacena (e.g., Thaenae: Rêve et al., 2018), which were active at least from the second century to the beginning of the fifth century ce. This model supposes that the foodstuffs produced, even far from the coastline, were transported to the port cities, collected in storerooms, and then transferred into locally produced amphorae, before being shipped. Stamps with the name of the city may have been intended to certify the guarantee of origin (“bottled at”). The second model shows the production of amphorae on estates where oil and/or wine were primarily produced. In this case stamps indicate the name of the private, generally senatorial, or sometimes imperial owner. This model is well attested in Tripolitania, contemporaneously with the first model (i.e., workshops in the suburbs of port cities in Byzacena). However, it could also have something to do with the heterogeneity of the first production of Roman amphorae in northwestern Zeugitana, and with the transfer of kiln sites following the end of the urban workshops at the beginning of the fifth century (for example, in Sullecthum or Nabeul).

Tableware Production Almost every province of the Empire produced its own tableware, but none of these productions had the economic importance of the so-called African Red Slip Ware (hereafter ARS), distinguished by its bright orange slip and its standardized, and sometimes decorated, forms. It was “the most widely distributed pottery of the Mediterranean in the whole of classical antiquity” (Carandini, 1983). The location of ARS workshops has made considerable progress over the last few decades, even if there are still gray areas. The origin of the earliest category (“A”), which began production in the late first century and continued until the late third century, was probably located in the region of Carthage (a probable workshop has been recently discovered in the city of Carpis; Ben Moussa, 2017). On the other hand, the second most important class (“C”), dated from the third to the mid-sixth century, has been linked to a series of kiln sites in central Byzacena, the most important of them being Sidi Marzouk Tounsi, probably a large estate (Mackensen, 1993). Lastly, production “D”, starting in the Constantinian period, is attested at rural estates (e.g., the El Mahrine workshop; Mackensen, 1993) and, from the Vandal period onward, in urban suburbs both in the region of Carthage (the Uthina/Oudhna workshop; Barraud et al., 1998) and in the northern Gulf of Hammamet (the Pheradi Maius/Sidi Khalifa workshop; Ben Moussa, 2007). Other productions with regional or sometimes large continental distribution are known in southwestern Byzacena (e.g., the Sidi Aïch workshop; Nasr, 2005), Tripolitania, and Numidia, some of which are linked to rural estates (e.g., Wadi Taraghlat kiln sites near Lepcis Magna; Felici and Pentiricci, 2002), as well as cities (e.g., Diana Veteranorum/Zana workshops in Algeria; Fentress, 2013). The factors behind the shifting location of ARS workshops has been the subject of considerable debate. Some have suggested that the inland as opposed to coastal location of many workshops may have arisen from the need for fuel for the kilns, in particular olive waste, which could be acquired from rural estates (Lewit, 2011). The location of many kilns in the Atlas Dorsal region may also have been driven by the availability of iron-rich, poorly calcareous clay, very different from the clay used by the coastal amphora workshops. This could explain why ARS workshops are aligned with the mountainous relief, and close to the coastline only when the Dorsal reaches the sea (e.g., at Nabeul: ARS F). Variations in the economic growth of the provinces could also have been a factor in the shift of production sites from Carthage to Byzacena in the third century (sometimes considered as a response



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to the third century crisis affecting northern Tunisian production; Dossey, 2010: 89), followed by the revival of northern workshops in the fourth century, the shift to central Tunisian kiln sites under the Vandals, and finally the return to the Carthage region during the Byzantine period (Bonifay, 2003). Even if we limit our survey to amphorae and tableware, it must also be acknowledged that African cookware (ACW) also benefited from mass production and wide distribution, probably due to its excellent resistance to thermal and mechanical shocks (Leitch, 2013). It seems that the most widely distributed categories ACW “A” and “C” were produced in the same area as the first category of ARS, probably in the region of Carthage between the first and early fifth centuries ce.

Foodstuffs Amphora Contents In Africa as everywhere in the Roman Empire, ceramic containers were needed only when locally produced foodstuffs had to be transported overseas. Carandini (1970) argued that African amphorae in the 70s ce carried olive oil, based on the evidence of textual sources and the archaeological evidence of numerous presses, thought to be for olive oil production scattered throughout the African territories. However, it has since been demonstrated that many of these installations could also have served as wine presses (Brun, 2003) and that in Africa Proconsularis amphorae could also be used to transport salted fish (Slim et al., 2004). Some amphorae found in shipwrecks or humid terrestrial contexts showed traces of an internal pitch lining (for wine or salsamenta?), while others did not, thereby revealing different contents (Bonifay, 2004, 2007), suggesting the contents of African amphorae were more diversified than previously assumed (even if more or less all of the Roman amphorae were pitched, oil made pitch migrate into the pottery mass and, as a consequence, the absence of visible traces of pitch is still an argument for an oil content; Garnier et al., 2011) and may have changed depending of the area of production and the chronology of their containers. Our understanding of the contents of the different families of African amphorae is thus still limited in the absence of an ambitious program of chemical analyses. Hence the content of Roman amphorae of Punic tradition (with handles attached on the shoulder), produced in Africa from the Republican period to the Arab conquest, remains highly uncertain. The traditional hypotheses were salted fish or fish sauces, but wine has also been suggested. This could be the case for those produced in Tripolitania (type Tripolitana II), in workshops sometimes very distant from the coastline. On the other hand, some of these containers found in Africa with large capacities should be regarded as storage amphorae rather than transport amphorae. The content of the first African amphorae of Greco-Roman morphology, with handles attached on the neck and produced in northwestern Zeugitana in the Republican Age (type “Ancient Africana”) is completely unknown. Oil is the most frequently advanced hypothesis, but other contents (salted fish and wine) are also possible, as well as interchangeable contents. The progressive standardization of the typology of amphorae from this region at the beginning of the Empire (types Ostia LIX and XXXIII) appears to be linked to the development of olive growing for preserved olives and/or olive oil. Large-scale amphora production migrated during the mid-second century to the eastern coastline of Byzacena, in prominent port cities like Hadrumetum, Leptiminus, and Sullecthum. Until the end of the third century, these huge workshops produced two amphora types, Africana I and Africana II, with two different contents. Africana I, with a capacity of about 40 liters, is the African oil-container par excellence, alongside the Tripolitanian types I and III. Even if these containers were probably pitched, like all amphorae in the Roman period, traces of this lining are no longer perceptible, which is characteristic of all oil containers (Garnier et al., 2011). Africana I and Tripolitana I/III are the most frequent African containers in the Monte Testaccio dump, alongside the Spanish oil amphorae of type Dressel 20. In contrast, type Africana II, which show traces of pitch are rare at Monte Testaccio. Even if wine has sometimes been proposed (in

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particular for variant II A), salted fish or fish sauces were the most probable contents of these amphorae. This could be the case with variant II C, produced from the mid-third century onwards in the city of Neapolis/Nabeul, in southwestern Zeugitana, a place where numerous salted fish factories have been identified and excavated (Slim et al. 2007). Its Byzacena counterpart, variant II D, could have the same content, even if wine is another possibility (Stone et al., 2011). The fourth century family of medium-sized amphorae (type Keay 25 or Africana III), were perhaps derivatives of this latter type, and were produced widely in Africa (evidence from Carthage, Nabeul, and Byzacena, possible imitations in Tripolitania and Mauretania Caesariensis). But their contents are also problematic. Recent chemical analyses have proven that at least some of these containers (variant III A) were transporting wine (Woodworth et al., 2015). This could explain the ubiquitous presence of this container throughout the Mediterranean, including the east. On the other hand, it seems that variant III B, mainly originating from Nabeul, was chiefly devoted to the transport of fish products. Lastly, some variants may have contained olive oil. From the late fourth century or beginning of the fifth century, things become more complicated from the point of view of both typology and contents. The fifth century is characterized by a small and slim version of the emblematic type of the preceding century, popularly called spatheion by specialists. This container did not seem to have a specific content, but could act as a space filler in order to optimize the shipments of whatever foodstuffs it might have carried. On the other hand, it is impossible for now to determine the content of each type of large amphorae of the Vandal and Byzantine period as they were widely produced across Africa for what appear to be diverse purposes including oil, fish products, and wine, which continued to be transported in these amphorae until at least the end of the seventh century. The overseas distribution of African wine has sometimes been difficult for scholars to accept because of the emphasis on olive oil as the single explanation for the distribution of African amphorae. However, even if some aforementioned hypotheses regarding wine amphorae are still uncertain, it must be noted that the African workshops from the first century to the seventh century ce also imitated non-African types clearly devoted to the transport of wine (types SchöneMau XXXV, Dressel 30, LRA 1). Containers in perishable materials (skins and barrels) were also used in Africa, as portrayed in ancient iconography, but their use is mainly attested for terrestrial transport. Oil and wine produced inland and intended for overseas export were probably first packaged in leather skins in order to be transported by donkeys or carts to port cities. However, we cannot rule out the possibility that low-quality wine and even fish products were sometimes exported in barrels (Marlière and Torres Costa, 2007).

Tableware Distribution In the same way as all African amphorae were initially dedicated to the transport of olive oil, the production and the commercialization of African Red Slip Ware (ARS) were first linked to the development of olive growing in Roman Africa: ARS was “no more than a simple accompanying product” of African oil (Carandini, 1983). The problem is that we do not have, prior to the first half of the fifth century, any archaeological evidence of joint transport of ARS and African amphorae. ARS cargoes of the second to fourth centuries are completely lacking, except for some complementary loading on ships with a heterogeneous cargo of Spanish and African amphorae, which are difficult to interpret (Bonifay and Tchernia, 2012). Obviously ARS was mainly traveling with another commodity that archaeology is unable to identify. On the other hand, it should be admitted that the primary ARS workshops (categories “C” and “D”) are not located in olive cultivation zones. Indeed, the region of Maktar (category “C”) and the lower Medjerda valley (category “D”) were more probably devoted to the cultivation of grain. The hypothesis of grain as the engine of ARS production and distribution has sometimes been advanced, but mainly as an exception, which could explain the first ARS exports prior to the development of olive production in Africa or to the specificity of its distribution in the Eastern Mediterranean, where African amphorae are rare.



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Rather than the exception, the distribution of ARS with grain cargoes (invisible in the submarine archaeological record) may have been the rule (Bonifay, 2003). In sum, African amphorae and tableware tell us about the four main Mediterranean foodstuffs of Antiquity (grain, olive oil, wine, and fish products), the production of which (except the first) is well documented in the field, even if only through surveys and not excavations (see Figure 13.1).

Trade The mass of publication on African ceramics throughout the Mediterranean has yielded much new knowledge on trade in the Roman World. In this section I summarize some of the most important finds arising from this work.

Routes The movement of African ceramics shows that several types of maritime or terrestrial connections could coexist. First, direct routes are attested (Bonifay, 2009). For example, a series of second to third century ce shipwrecks were found along the eastern coast of Sicily and on the Tyrrhenian coast north of Rome carrying homogeneous cargoes of African amphorae originating from port cities of Byzacena: Sullecthum (Plemmirio B and Ognina wrecks), Leptiminus (Giglio Porto), and Hadrumetum (Giannutri) point to a maritime route leading from the Tunisian Sahel to either Rome or more northern Italian cities (Luni?). Homogeneous cargoes have also been found along the southern Gaulish coastline dating from the early fourth century onward and originating from Sullecthum (Héliopolis 1) and Nabeul (Pampelonne) and may indicate another distinct transmarine trade towards Southern Gaul. There is also evidence of another commercial route along the eastern Adriatic coast, like the wreck of Sobra (fourth century) with a homogeneous cargo from Nabeul. Lastly, a series of wrecks with Tripolitanian amphorae of the first to second century found in the Euboean channel in Greece (Koutsouflakis and Argiris, 2015) could be linked with the trade of marble of this region. It is much more difficult to find archaeological evidence of primary ARS transport to Rome. The uniform character of the presence of this tableware throughout the Mediterranean is an argument favoring redistribution through the Portus storerooms, “given the pivotal role played by Rome in the economy of the Mediterranean” (Fentress et al., 2004: 17). No shipwrecks have been found to confirm this hypothesis to date. However, the recent study of the distribution of African ceramics in Sicily confirmed that the northern coastline of the island was not supplied directly from Africa, but more probably from Rome, perhaps through return cargoes (Fentress et al., 2004; Malfitana and Bonifay, 2016). The role of these return cargoes in African trade was first highlighted by grain ships from Rome returning to Africa including building materials from Italy as ballast (Tomber, 1987). In terms of the Egyptian grain shipments to and from Rome, this may also explain the presence of ARS of northwestern Sicily, and then in Alexandria and the Eastern Mediterranean (Bes, 2015). This model could explain the entire distribution system for African ceramics. Indeed, Portus at the mouth of the Tiber may have acted as a “hub” in the distribution of the African commodities throughout the Mediterranean. A second type of indirect routing, much more surprising, is implied by segmented maritime transport of African amphorae towards Rome. This destination is assumed through a series of wrecks scattered from the Balearics to Corsica and the Tyrrhenian coastline dated to between the mid-third century and the beginning of the fourth centuries, and comprising a mixed cargo of majority Spanish amphorae and complementary African ones. The most famous of these wrecks is Cabrera III in Majorca dating back to circa 265 ce. The composition of the cargo and the location of the wrecks suppose that the African amphorae were first transported to a port in southern Spain, then reloaded together with Spanish amphorae, before being sent to Rome (or elsewhere in the

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Figure 13.1  Roman Africa. Main recognized areas of amphora and tableware production.

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Mediterranean). This strange circuit could have something to do with a commodity (Spanish or British tin?) that the African merchants were obliged to collect in southern Spain during the troubled second part of the third century (Bonifay, 2020). Cabotage also had a role to play, sometimes in primary distribution, as shown by the similarity of the ceramic assemblages found in the south western part of the island and in the Cape Bon region in Tunisia. In this case, African amphorae and ARS were part of a small-scale circular trade in the strait of Sicily, perhaps backed by the more lucrative exploitation of the sulfur mines of Agrigento. Lastly, transport was sometimes completely conducted by road. This is certainly the case in Africa where there was no alternative river route. Among the wares circulating inland were “continental” ARS wares, which were locally produced from the end of the second century onwards, and can be considered as “substitutes of importation” (Bonifay, 2017). Imports from main Tunisian workshops are also attested, as well as arrivals of wines in their original containers, serving a market capable of affording them, in particular the officers of the Legio III Augusta in Lambaesis. Elsewhere in inland Africa amphorae are rare, which is why the reference to AMPH(ora) on the Zaraï inscription (Trousset, 2002–2003) may refer to a unit of measure rather than to a real ceramic container. In the Fazzan region, numerous Mediterranean amphorae have been found, including large Tunisian types probably carried by camels, but mainly small variants of Tripolitanian types specially produced for transport (of fish products?) and carried by donkeys (Leitch, 2014). The third example concerns the oases road towards Egypt, which seems to have been used at two different times: first, during the end of the second century and the first half of the third century ce when the bypass road of the limes was secured by the garrisons of the Roman forts (Bu Njem, Gheriat el-Gharbia), and then during the Vandal period when the maritime connections between Africa and the Eastern Mediterranean slowed (Ballet et al., 2012). The distinction between inland and overseas commerce in ceramics and foodstuffs is somewhat arbitrary, but the reconstruction of various itineraries allows us to observe important trends and developments, as David Stone has demonstrated in his “biography” of the migration of amphora from Leptiminus to the villa of Montmaurin in Gaul (Stone, 2009). As highlighted in Sicily, the distribution of African ceramics in the Western Mediterranean from the second century onwards is mainly linked to the direct connection between Africa and Rome (grain and then oil supply). Return cargoes and cabotage generated a pattern whereby commodities reached inland centers such as Cordoba, Saragossa, Lyon, and Milan through waterway corridors. The success of this distribution depended completely on demand of course, which explains why African oil amphorae are rare in Spain, and ARS “A” is slow to be adopted in the regions where Italian, Gaulish, and Spanish Terra Sigillata were produced. Moreover, some very peripheral regions like the northern coastline of Spain, the northern and western coastline of Gaul, and Germania inferior are barely touched by African ceramics, except during very specific periods. The penetration of African production in Eastern Mediterranean follows two different routes. The return cargoes of amphorae towards Alexandria represent an important new trend beginning in the late second century. ARS imports toward Asia Minor and the Levant emerge in the midthird century. Another direct route to the Peloponnesus is perhaps partly linked with the trade in Euboean marble. Cabotage in the distribution of African commodities is difficult to gauge, except in certain specific cases, as in Sicily.

Organization If ceramic evidence prompts us to reflect on trade routes, it is less helpful for understanding the legal status of these exchanges. The model of a multilayered Roman economy, proposed by D. Mattingly (2007), juxtaposing a regulated sector (“Imperial economy”) and private sectors with two different levels (“Interprovincial economy” and “Provincial economy”), is helpful in accounting for the complexity of the economic mechanisms that generated these exchanges. Notions of fiscal grain, imbricated commerce, return cargoes, and intraprovincial trade must find their proper place

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within it. Nevertheless, there remains much uncertainty about the operational interface between the state- and elite-driven economy, on the one hand, and the “market economy,” on the other. There are, for example, presumptions that the annona introduced fluctuations in the supply of African oil to Rome transported in amphora. The institution of the canon olearius by Septimus Severus and the voluntary payment of a tribute in oil by the citizens of Lepcis Magna could be reflected in the stratigraphy of Monte Testaccio in an increase in the proportion of Tripolitanian amphorae. A century later, when Tripolitania is exempted from this tribute by Constantine, the volume of Tripolitanian amphorae in Roman contexts declines (Vera, 2015). On the other hand, it would be more risky, although not completely excluded, to link the appearance of Africana III amphorae around 300 ce with the introduction of canon vinarius. However, as recently stressed by A. Tchernia (2011), the division between the public and private sectors was not as clear in the minds of Romans as it is in ours. Applied to the distribution of African ceramics, the notion of regulated trade may have more of a technical than essential significance. In the case of a secondary cargo of ARS arriving in Rome, it is impossible to decide whether the main cargoes of grain that it could accompany corresponded to tax levies or private supplies. What is important is the demand, exercised by the state, the city of Rome, or others cities of the western Mediterranean. The domination of ARS imports in most of the Mediterranean consumption sites from the end of the second century onwards has often been interpreted as an example of the conquest of markets, justifying the hypothesis of an offer-driven Roman economy. Although Tchernia has sensibly challenged this view (2011: 372), it remains to explain the loss of ARS hegemony in the early fifth century in relation to other productions. When Phocaean Red Slip Ware in the Eastern Mediterranean and Gray Terra Sigillata in southern Gaul became more abundant than ARS does this mean that the former successfully competed in the market for the imported tableware or that it merely filled a gap created by the decline in ARS imports? For my part, I suggest that such shifts reflect a temporary inability for ARS to meet demand, making necessary the production of replacement finewares. The fifth century transformation in the fineware market perhaps allows us to understand better the long-term phenomenon of African ceramic distribution. If the end of the Annona in 455 ce or the effects of a possible “concurrence between the provinces” (Tchernia, 2006) do not adequately explain the shifts in African amphora and tableware distribution at the beginning of the fifth century, another determining factor could be the drop in the cargo volume capable of being absorbed by the consumption sites, first of all by Rome. As asserted by C. Wickham, although a partisan of the tax explanation: “the global fall in demand in most of the West was undoubtedly one of the reasons why African productions eventually failed” (Wickham, 2005: 713). This may provide a new argument in favor of a Roman economy driven by demand and the merchants. Indeed, the continuing supply of African amphorae and tableware of the Western Mediterranean during the fifth century, however reduced in quantity, and the revival of these exchanges in the Eastern and Northern Mediterranean from the beginning of the sixth century onwards are indicative of merchants’ adaptability. In effect, they pursued new trade routes, bypassing Rome, optimizing their shipments (using small, so-called spatheia, amphorae as space fillers, sometimes regardless of travel safety), and finding new supply sources in Africa. It has been suggested that the Church invested in this new organization, but archaeological evidence is still weak (see Leone, Chapter 20). In sum, African merchants exhibit considerable resilience in Late Antiquity in overcoming obstacles – “acheminer ce qui fait défaut” (Tchernia, 2011).

Conclusion In view of the temporary weakness of more precise information provided by excavations on the production of primary goods such as grain, oil, wine, and fish products, ceramics are one of the more efficient tools for writing the economic history of Roman Africa. Recent advances in research allow us to understand better the places where the different types of amphorae, tableware, cookware,



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lamps, etc., were produced and their chronology, the primary goods of which they are proxies, as well as the details of their distribution. That said, there is still much to be done. Research on the traceability of the African ceramics needs to move forward with the help of archaeometry and archaeological field research. In the face the modern development, the continued study of African workshops of amphorae, tableware, cookware, etc., is a priority, particularly in the regions where the information is lacking (Algeria). Of course, this is the main task of our colleagues in Maghreb, but the wide distribution of African ceramics throughout the Mediterranean makes broad international collaboration indispensable. Lastly, particular effort must be made in the field of chemical analyses of amphora contents. It is unwise to continue speaking of African trade without knowing what the majority of these amphora types were transporting. Nevertheless, the crucial step forward will only come from the development of the archaeology of the production. Archaeological surface survey is insufficient on its own to identify production sites. There is now an urgent need for excavation and associated palynological and archaeozoological research of farms, oil, and wine presses, and fish product factories, in order to understand the exact nature of their productions and their precise chronologies through good stratigraphic work. We need in particular to be able to understand better the link between the production of ceramics and their estates or urban contexts with the help of new technologies (Lidar detection). We have to move further and faster.

FURTHER READING Unfortunately, the small number of references used in this chapter cannot be representative of the huge bibliography on African ceramics and their contribution to the economic history. Typo-chronology: the main standard works, by John W. Hayes (1972) and A. Carandini et al. (1981) on ARS, and C. Panella (1973) and S. Keay (1984) on amphorae, are noted here, but the reader will find a more general panorama in Bonifay (2004), updated in Malfitana and Bonifay, (2016). Workshops: after the seminal work by D. Peacock and his team in the Tunisian Sahel region (1989 and 1990, references in Bonifay, 2004), a second phase, well illustrated by Mackensen (1993) and Barraud et al. (1998), concentrated on ARS workshops in the region of Carthage. The actual trend is a beneficial repossession by archaeologists of the Maghreb of this questioning: Ben Moussa (2007), ARS; Nacef (2015), Jerray (2016), and Ahmed (2019), amphorae; and Amraoui (2017; for Algeria). Archaeometry: the first works concentrated on ARS through chemical analyses (Mackensen and Schneider, 2002, 2006), while more recent research used petrographical analyses with good results on both amphorae and tableware (Capelli and Bonifay, 2007, 2014, 2016). Amphora contents: last synthesis in Bonifay (2007) (updated in Malfitana and Bonifay, 2016). Publications of chemical analyses are still rare, the most valuable being Garnier et al. (2011) with a good discussion on the compatibility of pitch and oil. Distribution: publications on African ceramics throughout the former Roman Empire are countless. Malfitana and Bonifay (2016) is a good, recent example of an integrated archaeological and archaeometrical research on the regional distribution of African ceramic, due to the central position of Sicily in the Mediterranean. Economic interpretation: the best way to measure the road already traveled and differences in perspective is to compare Carandini (1970) and Reynolds (2010) as well as Hobson (2015).

REFERENCES Ahmed, M.A.M. 2019. Rural Settlement and Economic Activity: Olive Oil and Amphorae Production on the Tarhuna Plateau during the Roman Period. London. Amraoui. 2017. L’artisanat dans les cités antiques de l’Algérie (Ier siècle avant notre ère – VIIe siècle après notre ère). Oxford. Ballet, P., Bonifay, M., and Marchand, S. 2012. “Africa vs Aegyptus: routes, rythmes et adaptations de la céramique africaine en Égypte.” In Entre Afrique et Égypte: relations et échanges entre les espaces au sud de la Méditerranée à l’époque romaine, ed. S. Guédon, 87–310. Scripta Antiqua 49. Bordeaux.

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Barraud, D., Bonifay, M., Dridi, F., and Pichonneau, J.-F. 1998. “L’industrie céramique de l’Antiquité tardive.” In Uthina (Oudhna), La redécouverte d’une ville antique de Tunisie, eds. H. Ben Hassen and L. Maurin, 139–167. Mémoires 2. Bordeaux-Paris-Tunis. Ben Jerbania, I. 2017. “La production des amphores ovoïdes de type ‘Africaine ancienne’ à Utique.” AntAfr 53: 175–192. Ben Moussa, M. 2007. La production de sigillées africaines. Recherches d’histoire et d’archéologie en Tunisie septentrionale et centrale. Instrumenta 23. Barcelona. Ben Moussa, M. 2017. “La production de céramique romaine au cap Bon: état de la question.” In La péninsule du cap Bon entre crises et mutations, ed. M. Bourgou, 87–110. Tunis. Bes, P. 2015. Once upon a Time in the East. The Chronological and Geographical Distribution of Terra Sigillata and Red Slip Ware in the Roman East. RLAMP 6. Oxford. Bonifay, M. 2003. “La céramique africaine, un indice du développement économique?” AnTard 11: 113–128. Bonifay, M. 2004. Études sur la céramique romaine tardive d’Afrique. BAR IS 1301. Oxford. Bonifay, M. 2007. “Que transportaient donc les amphores africaines ?” In Supplying Rome and the Empire, ed. E. Papi, 8–32. JRA Suppl. 69. Porthmouth, RI. Bonifay, M. 2009. “Cargaisons africaines: reflet des entrepôts?” AntAfr 43, 2007 [2009]: 253–260. Bonifay, M. 2017. “Can we speak of pottery and amphora ‘import substitution’ in inland regions of Roman Africa?” In Trade in the Ancient Sahara and Beyond, eds. D.J. Mattingly et al., 341–368. Cambridge. Bonifay, M. 2020. “Ceramics and Atlantic connections 250–700 AD: The African perspective.” In Ceramic and Atlantic Connections. Late Roman and Early Medieval Imported Pottery on the Atlantic Seaboard, eds. M. Duggan, S. Turner, and M. Jackson, 1–6. RLAMP 15. Oxford. Bonifay, M., Botte, E., Capelli, C., Contino, A., Djaoui, D., Panella, C., and Tchernia, A. 2015. “Nouvelles hypothèses sur l’origine et le contenu des amphores africaines Ostia LIX et XXIII.” AntAfr 51: 189–210. Bonifay, M., Capelli, C., Drine, A., and Ghalia, T. 2010. “Les productions d’amphores romaines sur le littoral tunisien: archéologie et archéométrie,” In Rei Cretariae Romanae Fautorum Acta 41, 319–327. Bonn. Bonifay, M., and Tchernia, A. 2012. “Les réseaux de la céramique africaine (Ier – Ve s.).” In Rome, Portus and the Mediterranean, ed. S.J. Keay, 315–336. Archaeological Monographs 21. London. Brun, J.-P. 2003. “Les pressoirs à vin d’Afrique et de Maurétanie à l’époque romaine.” Africa, n.s., Séances Scientifiques 1: 7–30. Capelli, C., and Bonifay, M. 2007. “Archéométrie et archéologie des céramiques africaines: une approche pluridisciplinaire.” In LRCW 2, Late Roman Coarse Wares, Cooking Wares and Amphorae in the Mediterranean. Archaeology and Archaeometry, 551–567. BAR IS 1662. Oxford. Capelli, C., and Bonifay, M. 2014. “Archéométrie et archéologie des céramiques africaines: une approche pluridisciplinaire, 2. Nouvelles données sur la céramique culinaire et les amphores.” In LRCW 4. Late Roman Coarse Wares, Cooking Wares and Amphorae in the Mediterranean. Archaeology and Archaeometry, 235–253. BAR IS 2616. Oxford. Capelli, C., and Bonifay, M. 2016. “Archeologia e archeometria delle anfore dell’Africa romana. Nuovi dati e problemi aperti.” In Le regole del gioco. Tracce Archeologi Racconti. Studi in onore di Clementina Panella, eds. A.F. Ferrandes and G. Pardini. Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae, Supplementum VI. Rome, 535–557. Capelli, C., and Contino, A. 2013. “Amphores tripolitaines anciennes ou amphores africaines anciennes ?” AntAfr 49: 199–210. Carandini, A. 1970. “Produzione agricola e produzione ceramica nell’Africa di età imperiale.” In Studi Miscellanei 15, 97–119. Rome. Carandini, A. 1983. “Pottery and the African economy.” In Trade in the Ancient Economy, ed P.D.A. Garnsey, K. Hopkins, and C.R. Whittaker, 45–62. London. Carandini, A., Anselmino, L., Pavolini, C., Saguì, L., Tortorella, S., and Tortorici, E. 1981. Atlante delle forme ceramiche, I. Ceramica fine romana nel Bacino mediterraneo (medio e tardo impero). Enciclopedia dell'arte antica. Rome. De Vos, M., and Maurina, B., eds. 2019. Rus Africum IV. La fattoria Bizantina di Aïn Wassel, Africa Proconsularis (Alto Tell, Tunisia). Archaeopress Roman Archaeology 58. Oxford. Dossey, L. 2010. Peasant and Empire in Christian North Africa. Berkeley–Los Angeles–London.



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Felici, F., and Pentiricci, M. 2002. “Per una definizione delle dinamiche economiche e commerciali del territorio di Leptis Magna.” In L’Africa Romana XIV, eds. M. Khanoussi, P. Ruggeri and C. Vismara, 1875–1900. Rome. Fentress, E. 2013. “Diana veteranorum and the dynamics of an inland economy.” In Local Economies? Production and Exchange of Inland Regions in Late Antiquity, ed. L. Lavan, 315–342. Late Antique Archaeology 10. Leiden. Fentress, E., and Perkins, P. 1988. “Counting African red slip ware.” In L’Africa Romana V, ed. A. Mastino, 205–221. Sassari. Fentress, L., Fontana, S., Hitchner, B., and Perkins, P. 2004. “Accounting for ARS: Fineware and sites in Sicily and Africa.” In Side by Side Survey, eds. S. Alcock and J. Clurry, 147–162. Oxford. Fontana, S., Ben Tahar, S., and Capelli, C. 2009. “La ceramica tra l’età punica et la tarda antichità.” In An Island Through Time: Jerba Studies, Volume 1: The Punic and Roman Periods, eds. E. Fentress, A. Drine, and R. Holod, 241–327. JRA Suppl. 71. Portsmouth, RI. Fulford, M. 1983. “Pottery and the economy of Carthage and its Hinterland.” Opus 2: 5–14. Garnier, N., Silvino, T., and Bernal Casasola, D. 2011. “L’identification du contenu des amphores: huile, conserves de poissons et poissage.” In SFECAG, Actes du congrès d’Arles, 397–416. Marseille. Ghalia, T. 2006. “La villa romaine de Demna-Wadi Arremel et son environnement, Approche archéologique et projet de valorization.” Africa, Nouvelle Série, Séances Scientifiques III: 53–86. Hayes, J.W. 1972. Late Roman Pottery. London. Hobson, M. 2015. The North African Boom. Evaluating Economic Growth in the Roman Province of Africa Proconsularis (146 B.C.– A.D. 439). JRA Suppl. 100, Portsmouth, RI. Jerray, E. 2016. “Les ateliers d’amphores de Zitha et le potentiel économique de la Tripolitaine tunisienne.” In De Africa Romaque: Merging Cultures across North Africa, eds. N. Mugnai, J. Nikolaus, and N. Ray, 157–170. London. Keay, S.J. 1984. Late Roman Amphorae in the Western Mediterranean, A Typology and Economic Study: The Catalan Evidence. British Archaeological Reports International Series 196. Oxford. Koutsouflakis, G.V., and Argiris, X. 2015. “Roman North African amphorae in the Aegean: The evidence of shipwrecks.” In Per terram, per mare. Seaborne Trade and the Distribution of Roman Amphorae in the Mediterranean, ed. S. Demesticha, 3–22. Uppsala. Laporte, J.-P. 2010. “Les amphores de Tubusuctu et de Saldae (Ostia V=Keay IA): une mise au point.” In Estudios sobre el Monte Testaccio (Roma), eds. J.M. Blázquez Martínez and J. Remesal Rodríguez, 601–625. V. Instrumenta 35. Barcelone. Leitch, V. 2013. “Reconstructing history through pottery: The contribution of Roman N. African cookwares.” JRA 26: 281–306. Leitch, V. 2014. “Fish and ships in the desert? The evidence for trans-Saharan trade in fish products.” In Fish and Ships, Production et commerce des salsamenta durant l’Antiquité, eds. E Botte and V. Leitch, 103–114. BiAMA 17. Arles. Lewit, T. 2011. “Dynamics of fineware production and trade: The puzzle of supra-regional exporters.” JRA 24: 313–332. Mackensen, M. 1993. Die spätantiken Sigillata- und Lampentöpfereien von El Mahrine (Nordtunesien). Münchner Beiträge zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte 50. Munich. Mackensen, M., and Schneider, G. 2002. “Production centres of African red slip ware (3rd–7th c.) in Northern and Central Tunisia: Archeological provenance and reference groups based on chemical analysis.” JRA 15: 121–158. Mackensen, M., and Schneider, G. 2006. “Production centres of African red slip ware (2nd–3rd c.) in Northern and Central Tunisia: Archeological provenance and reference groups based on chemical analysis.” JRA 19: 163–190. Malfitana, D., and Bonifay, M., eds. 2016. La ceramica africana nella Sicilia romana – La céramique africaine dans la Sicile romaine. Monografie dell’IBAM-CNR 12. Catania. Marlière, E., and Torres Costa, J. 2007. “Transport et stockage des denrées dans l’Afrique romaine: le rôle de l’outre et du tonneau.” In In Africa et in Hispania: Études sur l’huile africaine, eds. A. Mrabet and J. Remesal Rodríguez, 85–106. Instrumenta 25. Barcelona. Mattingly, D.J. 2007. “Supplying Rome and the Empire: Some conclusions.” In Supplying Rome and the Empire, ed. E. Paspi, 219–227. JRA Suppl. 69. Portsmouth, RI.

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CHAPTER 14

Prose Literature Stéphanie Guédon

Introduction: The Diversity of Written Sources from Roman Africa Written sources on Roman Africa’s history are characterized by their great wealth and by important disparities at the same time (Lassère, 2015: 765–772). The territory of Roman Africa has provided more than 50,000 inscriptions, making its epigraphic corpus second only to Italy in size. Epitaphs are numerous among these samples. Other texts, relating to the public or private sphere, describe economic and religious life, political institutions of the city as well as at the provincial level or the military organization of the African provinces. Epigraphic sources also constitute the best placed area of study for understanding the linguistic situation in Roman Africa, which is still today the subject of heated debate. Such is the case with the discussions centered on the alphabetization of the populations of Roman Africa (Vössing, 1997: 541–557; Alföldy, 2004; Contant, 2004) or the question of the survival of the Libyc and Punic languages (Galand, 2005; Lengrand, 2005; Lepelley, 2005; Adams, 2007: 516–579, which also revisit the question of the Latin used in Africa; Chaker, 2008, 2015). The literary sources from North Africa belong to a distinct tradition and provide a major contribution to the Latin literature of the Roman period. The history of Roman Africa was treated very unevenly by ancient authors, depending on the periods (Lassère, 2005: 19–21, 2015: 765–766). Prose truly began to emerge in Roman African literary sources during the Antonian period. Can we thus truly speak about an African “specificity” regarding literature and language, as this is still sometimes proposed and discussed (Mattiacci, 2014; on the question of African ethnicity, see Shaw, 2014)? The specificity thesis was first advanced by Paul Monceaux (1894) who invoked a cultural autarky for the African provinces. This echoed the widespread determinism of his time (Fialon, 2014), which was in line with Montesquieu’s views regarding the relationship between climate and societies (Montesquieu, 1989, Part III, Book XIV, Chapter X). This principle also led Monceaux to attribute an African origin to certain authors whose Africanness was later challenged (Lancel, 1985a). The position developed by Monceaux, and, more broadly speaking, the idea that beginning with Apuleius, there was a form of writing that was specific to the Latin writers of North Africa, was strongly criticized (Adams, 2007: 259–270). Although an inclination towards mannerism and a tendency to use verbal innovation or redundancies are thought to be characteristic of African writing (Lancel, 1985b: 171), these specificities may be specific to Late Antique African writers (Fialon, 2014, 33–35). The argument for a certain kind of linguistic geographic

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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determinism was derived from the ideological backdrop of colonization, especially during the 1960s in the political context of Algeria’s newfound independence. If we set aside the question of linguistic aspects and consider the substance of the literary works, what may we say about the relationship of African authors to the history of Roman Africa?

Between History and Rhetoric: Roman Africa Prose Literature in the Imperial Period At the end of the first century ce, writers of African origin were famous for their eloquence. Juvenal (Sat. 7.148–149) recommended that orators seeking employment pursue their careers in Africa, which he presented as “the nurturer of advocacy” par excellence (trans. A.S. Kline, 2011 – https://www.poetryintranslation.com/klineasjuvenal.php). However, aside from Cornutus and Severus – the grandfather of the future emperor (Monceaux, 1894: 186–192; Bardon, 1956: 232; Lancel, 1985a: 139–140) – both of whom were originally from Leptis in Tripolitania, the works of these rhetoricians have been lost. Florus (Lucius Annaeus Florus) is the first African author whose prose work in Latin has survived (Sallmann, 2000: 371–379). Although his African origin is debated and little is known of his life (Lancel, 1985a: 140–141; Arnaud-Lindet, 2001: 249–251; he may be an older contemporary of Apuleius, Cornell, 2013, I: 213), it has been suggested that his defeat in the poetry competition in the Capitoline Games in 86 ce despite his public acclaim, may reflect opposition to him by Domitian, who conducted a war against the African Nasamones tribe (Desanges, 1993–1995). Florus’ work, the Epitomae de Titio Liuio bellorum omnium annorum DCC libri duo (probably not the original title; Flamerie de Lachapelle, 2010), was written either at the end of Hadrian’s reign (Garzetti, 1964; 1.41–43 and 104–111; Hose, 1994: 56–61; Alonso-Nuñez, 2006: 117–118) or in the early years of Antoninus Pius (Havas, 1984; Bessone, 1993: 97–102, 1996: 150–161). Florus’ history extended from the founding of the city in 753 bce to the Teutoburg Forest defeat in 9 ce. His emphasis on virtus and fortuna greatly influenced the structure of his narrative, which takes certain liberties with regard to the historical reality provided by his sources (Flamerie de Lachapelle, 2010). This led Monceaux (1894: 193–194) to consider it as a work of rhetoric. His writings and his political intents, aimed at defending the pacifist policies of Hadrian, are, however, better understood today and his qualities as a writer recognized (Jal, 1965; Bessone, 1996: 70–81; Facchini Tosi, 2002). Florus’ work, nonetheless, illustrates the schism that occurred, more generally speaking, between the rhetoric of the historian and the rhetoric of the orator in Latin sources as of Hadrian’s rule (Arnaud-Lindet, 2001: 237–254). Florus’ account of North African history focuses on the well-known events of the Punic and Jugurthine Wars (book 1). A brief passage relates to the wars against the Gaetuli at the end of the first century bce (book 2), though the more substantial his narrative becomes, the more information relating to these military campaigns seems to be lacking. Florus included operations undertaken initially by Cossus Cornelius Lentulus and of Publius Sulpicius Quirinus, which apparently put an end to the unrest. Florus does not characterize these operations as a single war extending over different territories (Flor. 2.31), but as separate operations. Thus, according to Florus, the proconsular, Cossus Cornelius Lentulus, waged a distinct campaign, between 6 and 8 ce against the Musulamii and the Gaetuli (Thomasson, 1996: 26). Florus’ account of the operations led by Lentulus is the first to mention the Musulamian confederation, comprised of a Gaetulian population known for its opposition to Rome during Rome’s war against Tacfarinas. Alongside the expedition carried out by Lentulus, Florus records the victorious campaign led by the Proconsul of CreteCyrenaica, Publius Sulpicius Quirinus, against the Marmaridians and the Garamantes who had perhaps offered their support to the former. It is difficult to determine the date of this expedition, either between 20–15 bce, at the earliest, or during the same period as Lentulus’ campaign against the Gaetuli, at the latest (Hurlet, 2006: 155–156). The context of Quirinius’ intervention may



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indicate Garamantian control over the oases near Marmarica, though Quirinius was awarded the very specific title “Marmaricus” for his victory (Mattingly, 2003: 83–84; Mattingly, Chapter 5). Fronto (Marcus Cornelius Fronto), who was born a little before 100 ce in Cirta (Constantine), was the most prestigious orator and lawyer of his time, serving as Marcus Aurelius’ professor of Latin rhetoric, with whom he corresponded regularly (Fleury, 2003). However, Fronto refers little to Roman Africa and his references to the former in his correspondence are sparse and often negative in their depictions (Degn, 2010: 240–244). The fact that he described himself as a “Libyan originating from Libyan nomads” (‘Εγώ δε Λίβυς των Λιβύων των νομάδων, Epist. Graec. 1.5) raises the question of how he presented himself in Roman intellectual circles (Claassen, 2009; Degn, 2010). The point of his self-identification in Greek was perhaps intended to stress his knowledge of Greek tradition rather than his African origin to his correspondent Domitia Lucilla, the mother of Emperor Marcus Aurelius, who was immersed in Greek culture (Degn, 2010: 242–244). Africa’s contribution to the history of Latin rhetoric in the second century is fundamental, most notably in the works of Aulus Gellius and Apuleius (Fleury, 2006: 5). Although there is no direct evidence that Aulus Gellius originally came from Africa, he may have had family connections there (Monceaux, 1894: 250; contra Marache, 1967: 8 Holford-Strevens 2003: 13–15). Apuleius, on the other hand, was born in Madauros. His father was a duumvir around 120–125 ce (Pavis d’Escurac, 1977; Lancel, 1985a: 144–149; Harrison, 2000; Mayer, 2006; Shaw, 2014: 530–531). He was educated in Carthage and in Greece, where he attended classes at the Academy in Athens. He claims to have traveled extensively, driven by a curiosity for mystery cults. When he returned to Africa, he settled in Carthage. While traveling to Alexandria, he stopped in Oea (Tripoli) during the winter of 156 ce, where he finally stayed and married a rich widow by the name of Pudentilla, who was older than he as well as the mother of one of his codisciples (Hunink, 1998). As a consequence of this marriage, Apuleius was sued by relatives of his spouse for wanting to seize Pudentilla’s fortune through magic, but he was acquitted. The Apologia is, in fact, his own plea against these accusations. The Florida, which present themselves as a series of 23 fragments of unequal length taken from Apuleius’ speeches, point to his career as an orator in Carthage during the 160s (Bradley, 2005; La Rocca, 2005). His life after the 170s remains unknown. Beyond the autobiographical narrative conveyed in the Apologia and Florida, Apuleius’ work includes a work of fiction, the Metamorphoses, with Lucius’ travels (it is necessary to emphasize that this is the only Latin novel that has reached us in full form), as well as speeches and philosophical opuscules (Hijmans, 1987). In his work, Apuleius does not demonstrate significant interest for history and politics as literary subjects. The history of Africa, and, more specifically, the history of Madauros, is only mentioned once, when he brings up his native roots (Apul. Apol. 24). Apuleius, who boasted of being half-Numidian, half-Gaetulian, located his homeland, Madauros, on the border between Numidia, to the north, and Gaetulia, to the south. Madauros was situated in the territory of the Musulamii. Yet Apuleius preferred claiming allegiance to the Numidans and to the Gaetuli and not to the Musulamii, perhaps because the name of these peoples recalled a historical and geographic tradition as well as an identity that was stronger than that of the Musulamii. (Briand-Ponsart, 2002; Shaw, 2014: 530–533). Regardless, the Apologia and Florida provide important information on African society in the middle of the second century ce (Di Vita, 1968; Pavis d’Escurac, 1974; Beaujeu, 1975, Février, 1976; Annequin, 1980; Beaujeu, 1983; Fick, 1987; Briand-Ponsart, 2002; Guédon, 2010: 184– 185; Bradley, 2012). The position of Paul Monceaux (Monceaux, 1894: 324), who saw in the Metamorphoses a journey into the heart of African society under the Antonines, is, however, excessive (Millar, 1981). Apuleius’ landscape descriptions bear geographic resemblances to Africa even though his novel is set in small cities in the East. It is, therefore, difficult to recognize with certainty what in the narration results from Apuleius’ personal experience (Merlier-Espenel, 1999). That said, there is a strong case for the African context of Apuleius’ novel showing, in particular, the strong similarities between the settlement patterns and ceramic distribution as revealed by the archaeological surveys and the Metamorphoses (Dossey, 2010: 55–57). It is, likewise, possible to

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check what is specific in Apuleius’ Metamorphoses by comparing it with his Greek sources, which he follows inconsistently (Mason, 1999: 87–95). Overall, in his book, which is the Latin transposition of a Greek work (Robertson and Vallette, 1956: 8–21), Apuleius seems to have resorted to personal experience to give life to his main character (Winkler, 1985; Pavis d’Escurac, 1977: 51; Harrison, 2000: 218).

The Emergence of Christian Sources The origins of Christian literature in Africa go back to the second century ce. The oldest example is an account of the Passion of the Scillitan martyrs. The Passion derives from Proconsular Acta, which belong to the hagiographic genre (Saxer, 2000: 583–585). They relate the martyrdom on 17 July 180 of 12 inhabitants of Scilla (or Scillium), a small African city whose precise location is still unknown today. The first surviving Christian author from Africa is Tertullian (Monceaux, 1901: 177–461; Braun, 1965; Barnes, 1971; Fredouille, 1972; Fontaine, 1985: 154–162; Flamant, 2000: 881– 890; Sallmann, 2000: 494–571; Saxer, 2000: 585–599; Wilhite, 2007, with the critiques of Dondin-Payre, 2008). His life is still in great part a mystery. Born to pagan parents and the son of a centurion, Tertullian hailed from Carthage. He converted to Christianity possibly around 195. His rigorism gradually led him to distance himself from the Roman Church, around 207. He joined the Montanists around 213 (on Montanism, see Trevett, 1996). Tertullian then started his own sect. His work focuses on the general history of the Church and makes of him the very first as well as one of the most important Fathers of the Western Church. His writings form part of the historical and geographical reality of African Christianity and contribute to the religious history of Roman Africa. Thirty-one treatises from Tertullian are known to us, falling into three groups (Fredouille and Perrin, 2005). We first find apologetic works, among which it is necessary to place: the two Ad nationes books, where he condemns ignorance of the pagans; the Apologeticum, which is considered Tertullian’s literary masterpiece; De testimonio animae, as well as Ad Scapulam, which dates from 212 and is an “open letter” to the governor of Africa Proconsularis. The second group is made up of his writings as a theologian and of doctrinal controversy, which truly provide to Tertullian’s work its historical importance. In this group, we see his positions, influenced after 207 by Montanism, regarding the principles that must guide the ethical life of Christians as well as their sacramentary and ecclesiological doctrine. The third group comprises the main articles of dogma that concerned Tertullian. Although Tertullian’s intransigence focuses on the life and behavior of Christians in society, as well as on the individual discipline required of each Christian, his allegiance to the Empire as a political institution is a well-established fact (Fredouille, 1984). Tertullian’s literary work reveals the existence of a significant and well-organized Christian community at Carthage at the turn of the second and early third centuries (Saxer, 2000: 589–595). As with other Christian communities in Africa during this period, much uncertainty surrounds their origins, and founders, and vectors of dissemination that brought the new religion from the Hellenized Eastern provinces to Latin Africa (Saxer, 2000: 583). Beyond religious questions and dogmatic considerations, Tertullian provides insight into North Africa under the Severans, as well as precious information regarding urban development (Lepelley, 2001a), a pattern confirmed by epigraphy and archeology. Tertullian’s observations provide specific information on key urban and provincial institutions, in particular the offices of aedile and quaestor, and the collection of revenue by the publicani. The Passion of Saints Perpetua and Felicity dates from the same period (Amat, 1996). For a long time, this Latin Passion was mistakenly attributed to Tertullian (Shaw, 1993; Sallmann, 2000: 478–481; Romanacce, 2012: 252). The surviving account was written in Latin and then translated into Greek. It includes a prison diary (chapters 3–10) written in Greek, in the first person. Perpetua



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most probably wrote it herself, whereas chapters 14–21 describing her martyrdom in the amphitheater were written by a witness (Robert, 1982: 235, and 254–255, n.100–101; Sallmann, 2000: 478–481). The prison diary written by Perpetua constitutes, to this day, the very first female autobiography from Antiquity. Her Passion became the model for subsequent African Passions. Perpetua was a convert. She came from a prominent municipal family from Thuburbo Maius (Tébourba) familiar with Greek culture (Baslez, 2012). Her martyrdom, together with her slave Felicity, the catechist Saturnus and four catechumens, in Carthage took place under Septimius Severus. Her high social status did not spare her from being thrown to the beasts, which appears to demonstrate the particularly fierce anti-Christian sentiment of the procurator Hilarianus, who was also serving as acting governor (Lepelley, 2000: 257). Minucius Felix’s Octavius, written between 215 and 240, belongs to another genre of Christian literature (Chapot, 1998; Flamant, 2000: 890–893; Sallmann, 2000: 572–579). Minucius Felix is mentioned by Lactantius and Hieronymus as a trained lawyer who lived in Rome. He is a Christian apologist whose work reflects the literary and philosophical genre of dialogue, inspired by Aulus Gellius, Seneca, and Cicero (Flamant, 2000: 891; Fredouille, 2005b). The Octavius is presented as conversation on the beach at Ostia between three friends (the pagan Caecilius, the Christian Octavius, a friend of Minucius Felix, who is also responsible for his conversion, and the author himself), all of whom were probably from Africa (Beaujeu, 1974). The purpose of the work is to show that Christianity is not incompatible with ancient pagan culture. In Minucius Felix’s eyes, Christians are the true philosophers (Inglebert, 2001: 269). His intent, in contrast to Tertullian, was to comfort persecuted Christians and to confuse their adversaries (Flamant, 2000: 893). The next major literary work is that of Cyprian (Fontaine, 1985: 164–170; Sallmann, 2000: 594–637; Saxer, 2000: 599–614; Fredouille, 2005a; Brent, 2010). Born around 205 into an elite family in Carthage, he began his career as a rhetorician. After being baptized in 245 or 246, Cyprian was elected bishop of Carthage in 249. He then witnessed two persecutions. During the Decian persecution in 250–251, he escaped martyrdom by hiding in the countryside, from where he led his community in absentia through letters. However, his flight from persecution was severely criticized. Cyprian’s flight also contributed to severe criticism from the clergy and members of the community at large, despite their confirmation of his authority in the face of his enemies. Cyprian was martyred during the persecution by Valerian in 257–258 but soon afterwards his moral authority grew beyond the borders of Africa. Cyprian’s biography (Vita Cypriani) considered “the first Christian biography” (Saxer, 1995) is the work of Pontius of Carthage, a deacon close to Cyprian (Mazières and Plazanet-Siarri, 1994: 19–52). Cyprian’s literary work is tightly linked to the events endured by the church in Carthage, and those elsewhere in Africa, and even by those of other regions of the Empire (Saxer, 2000: 606–612; Fredouille, 2005a). Cyprian’s interest in the history of the Empire is not that of a chronicler or of an annalist, except when this history supports his own vision of the world (Christol, 2005: 226). His work, however, remains fundamental to our understanding of the African Church, which spread considerably in his time, which Cyprian himself acknowledges (Ep. 48.2.2) in noting that “our province is of very wide extent (for it has Numidia and Mauretania annexed to it).” Cyprian wrote his first book, Ad Donatum, shortly after his conversion, which he intended for his friend and recipient, Donatus, to convince him to follow the path of spiritual engagement. In the Ad Quirinum Cyrian compiled testimonia (citations from the Old and New Testaments), demonstrating the infidelity of the Jews towards God, the fulfillment of prophecies, and the third presenting the scriptural foundations for the moral and disciplinary precepts that he had developed in his treatises. Numerous letters and treatises concern the Decian persecution relating to the attitude to adopt towards Christians (lapsi) who had agreed to submit to the edict of the emperor. For Cyprian, the Church’s pardon should not be refused to lapsi, apart from a required penitential delay. Other texts by Cyprian deal with the validity of baptisms conferred by heretics; i.e., those who had apostasized under persecution. Cyprian, and more broadly speaking, the African church was against it, in contrast to the church in Rome (Garciá Mac Gaw, 2008: 117–174). Cyprian also wrote about the question of Rome’s supremacy over the regional churches. He defended the idea

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of the unity of the Church and acknowledged the honorary primacy of the Bishop of Rome but not its doctrinal primacy. In Ad Demetrianum, Cyprian addresses the accusations and hatreds directed toward the Christians in response to the plague and other challenges of the time. In De mortalitate he urges Christians to remember the state of mind they must adopt to face death. It is with this end in mind that Cyprian also conceived a dossier of testimonia destined to help Christians confront the trial of the persecutions (Ad Fortunatum). Various questions on spirituality and discipline not directly related to current events are also brought up in different treatises (De opere et eleemosynis, De oratione, De bono patientiae, De habitu uirginum). Finally, we owe to Cyprian an abundant correspondence (Clarke, 1984–1989: vol. 1: 82), letters of which 16 are addressed to him, organized in thematic not chronological order. The first four (Ep 1–4) deal with various question of discipline; a second group (Ep. 5–68) centers on the Decian persecution, the reconciliation of the apostates, and the controversies with the schismatics; a third group addresses the baptism of heretics (Ep. 69–75), with the remainder focused on the persecution by Valerian (Ep. 76–82). Cyprian’s sometimes somber descriptions of Africa in the mid-third century (Ad Donatum 6; Ep. 62) have been interpreted as signs of endemic insecurity in the region during this period (Mac Mullen, 1966: 193–194), in particular epigraphic references to clashes between the Roman authorities and certain populations of the African provinces (Christol, 2005: 211–277). In Cyprian’s very allusive account, what is mentioned above all are acts of banditry and social unrest, but not military activity (Benabou, 1976: 217–218; Le Bohec, 2005). Cyprian also makes mention of famines and epidemics. The importance of this information lies in how Cyprian manages, in his own fashion, to treat the same topics as historians writing imperial history (Christol, 2005: 227). His work belongs squarely to the period of the first great crisis of the Empire, between Decius’ war against the Goths (Scythians) and the joint reign of the last senatorial emperors, Valerian and Gallienus. During this short period of time, Cyprian comes to see events increasingly within the context of the beginning of the end of times.

From the Third Century to the Arrival of the Vandals: Historical Works and Christian Sources The Latin apologetic tradition against the ancient world’s traditional religions, initiated in Africa by Tertullian and continued by Minucius Felix and Cyprian, continued with Arnobius and Lactantius at the beginning of the fourth century. It ended a century later in Africa with Augustine. This tradition, which extends over a little more than two centuries, sought to address the accusations leveled against the Christians, namely their responsibility for the ills of the time, owing to their alleged impiety (Marianelli, 1996). We know little about the life of writer Arnobius of Sicca, aside from the few elements provided by Saint Jerome (Le Bonniec, 1974; Fontaine, 1985: 171–176; Duval, 1986; Herzog, 1993: 415–426; Simmons, 1995; Frend and Edwards, 2015). The only certainty is that he was a professor of rhetoric in the reign of Diocletian, in Sicca Veneria (El Kef), from where he possibly originated, and that he enjoyed a great reputation as such. Originally a pagan, he was urged in his dreams to take a new religious orientation. The bishop, however, refused to accept him into the Christian community. This rejection led Arnobius to write his treatise Adversus nationes, the only work of his that has reached us. Subsequently, he was admitted into the Church. Arnobius’ work is a major source of knowledge regarding Roman traditional religious cults. However, the religious history of Roman Africa, and its specificities, only appear minimally in his work. Indeed, his critique of pagan religion refers little to African divinities. The divinities Arnobius criticizes belong essentially to the Greco-Roman pantheon (Le Bonniec, 1974). Allusions to the worship of elephant bones, images, statues, or even stones anointed with oil and strips hung from



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ancient trees are the exception (Arn., Adu. nat., 1.39.1). They refer directly to a local African practice of which Arnobius was a follower and which we must compare to Apuleius’ descriptions (Le Glay, 1984). Arnobius’ apologetic work, like that of his predecessors, does not limit itself to a simple religious debate. While the history of Rome only plays a very secondary role in his writings, Arnobius provides no concrete historical information on the imperial period. That said, he questions the intervention of the gods in the present and takes into account their significance for understanding Roman history (Inglebert, 1999, 2001: 326–328). For the pagans, the piety of the Romans contributed to explaining their past victories under the Republic, as well as their current domination. This compelled Christian authors to resort to other conceptions of history of classical origin and to Christianize them (Inglebert 1996: 43–54). Thus, for Arnobius, who followed the main Greek philosophical schools in this regard, Providence does not intervene in history. It is therefore not a question of opposition to Rome but of the pagan interpretation of Roman history on religious grounds. Writing under the Tetrarchy, the lesson he draws from recent events is that the Empire overcame dangers and defeated its enemies. The history of Rome, since the advent of Christianity, has therefore been positive. Arnobius trained and influenced, while at Sicca, another major African writer of this period, Lactantius (Herzog, 1993: 426–459; Perrin and Inglebert, 2005). Born in Africa around 250, he belonged to the category of literate provincials from around the empire who were offered professional opportunities to serve in the Imperial administration (Lepelley, 1992; Digeser, 2000). Having in turn become a rhetorician, Lactantius gained fame for his eloquence. After 290, Emperor Diocletian invited him to teach Latin rhetoric at his residence of Nicomedia. Lactantius was in Nicomedia at the beginning of the persecution in 303 and began writing in defense of his Christian faith. He r­ elinquished his position as rhetorician in 303 to write. The Divine Institutes, in seven volumes, constitutes his most important work. He wrote it during the persecution, probably in Nicomedia, and it presents the Christian religion as the doctrine of salvation, while demonstrating that classical and Christian c­ ultures are compatible. He then wrote, around 314, a pamphlet entitled On the Death of the Persecutors, a Christian interpretation of the history of the Roman emperors, and an essential source for ­understanding the reigns of Diocletian and that of the Tetrarchs, as well as Constantinian ­propaganda. In around 315, towards the end of his life, Constantine invited him to be the tutor of his eldest child Crispus, in Trier. He intended to dedicate to Constantine the second edition of his Divine Institutions but died in 325. In his effort to place religions in their context and to analyze their human motivations, Lactantius appears as a true historian of religions (Fredouille, 1978). This is evidenced in his concern to date events, to establish a chronology, with a view to relativizing the antiquity of the pagan religion. He also endeavors to describe the psychological circumstances in which pagan cults developed. In the same way, he also thinks about what paganism as a historical religious phenomenon represented. Thus, he describes the historical conditions under which polytheism was succeeded by monotheism. Aurelius Victor, like Lactantius, also enjoyed a brilliant career that led him from Africa to Rome, but remained pagan (Jones et al., 1971: 960, “Victor” 13; Herzog, 1993: 228–232). His father was probably a small landowner (Lepelley, 1992). Aurelius Victor left Africa for Europe (we know that he stayed in Sirmium and in Naissus) where he practiced law and in 360 wrote his short history, commonly known as De Caesaribus. This history proposes a series of imperial biographies, divided into six periods, from Augustus to Constantius II, by way of moralizing digressions. In these biographies, his special admiration for Emperor Septimius Severus, who also hailed from Africa, is patently clear. Aurelius Victor entered the Senate and then was appointed governor of Pannonia Secunda in 361. We do not know what became of him afterwards, until 388 or 390, when he obtained the very prestigious position of urban prefect. He died shortly after 390. In De Caesaribus, the frequent inclination for anecdote and picturesque detail follows together with reflection based on the desire to place events within the framework of general history (ArnaudLindet, 2001: 323). Aurelius Victor makes use in a punctual manner of examples from African

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history. In order to add to the exceptional value of the reign of Augustus, Aurelius Victor (1.7) thus attributes to the emperor, in a very symbolic way, of having subjected to Roman authority the peoples located at the four cardinal points of the inhabited world and its limits. Among these, he mentions the Garamantes, who apparently sent ambassadors to Rome to seek a treaty (foedus). Regarding the following period, Aurelius Victor alludes briefly to Rome’s struggle against Tacfarinas (Aur. Vict. Caes. 2.3), regarding which he mentions acts of banditry to describe the actions undertaken by the rebels. His account of a victory in Tripolitania under Septimius Severus (Aur. Vict. Caes. 20.19) has been used to argue for the existence of an endemic climate of insecurity in the region during this period (Bénabou, 1976: 176–179). Although Aurelius Victor’s account allows us to assume the existence of episodic troubles under the reign of Septimius Severus, the absence of chronological or geographic information does not make it possible to link these troubles to the establishment of garrisons in the southern parts of the African province under Severus. The work of Optatus of Milev belongs to a more resolutely African and religious perspective, situated as it is within the framework of the Donatist schism that had torn apart the Church in Africa since the beginning of the fourth century (Mandouze, 1982: 795–797; Labrousse, 2005; Edwards, 2016). Born in a pagan environment, Optatus became the Catholic bishop of Milev in Numidia, and wrote Against the Donatists between 364 and 367. In this treatise, he opposes a compilation of works by Donatist bishop Parmenius, who succeeded Donatus in Carthage. Optatus based his argumentation on numerous documents, some of which are produced at the end of his work. Optatus’ work constitutes an essential account of the religious crisis facing Africa during this period. Augustine of Hippo’s work remains the major literary source of this period. Let us mention, among the many studies dedicated to the bishop of Hippo, the biographies of A. Mandouze (1968), P. Brown (2000), S. Lancel (1999), and J.J. O’Donnell (2005), as well as the collected works of M. Vessey (2012). A bilingual Latin–French edition of the works of Saint Augustine is in progress at the Bibliothèque Augustinienne and the Nouvelle Bibliothèque Augustinienne (Institut d’Études Augustiniennes) in Paris. Augustine was born in 354 into a family of decurions from Thagaste (Souk-Ahras). Thanks to the financial support of a friend of the family and then of his mother, he distinguished himself in philosophy and rhetoric studies and demonstrated an eager appetite for Cicero’s Latin. He became a professor of rhetoric and practiced in Carthage. Subsequently, for a decade or so, he became a “hearer” (auditor) of Manicheism. He then left for Italy to seek his fortune and stayed in Rome from 383 to 384. This is how, thanks to Symmachus, he obtained a position as rhetor in Milan, where he settled from 384 to 387. Very quickly, he built relationships with influential people in the imperial palace. His encounter with Ambrose, the bishop of Milan, was nonetheless decisive: thanks to him, Augustine simultaneously discovered neo-Platonic philosophy and the spiritual exegesis of the Scriptures under the influence of Ambrose. He was baptized by Ambrose in Milan in 387 and returned to Africa the following year. He was ordained in 391 by the church of Hippo of which he became the bishop in 395. A great portion of his work was then linked to his episcopal function and to the urgency of events of the time. More than 800 of his sermons survive. Approximately 300 letters are linked to his episcopal responsibilities. Augustine is also the author of approximately 100 treatises linked to controversies relating to the Manicheans and the Donatists on the unity of the Church and against the Pelagians regarding grace and liberty. The Confessions written at the beginning of his episcopate are more than an autobiographic account, which happens to be incomplete, but a testament to divine mercy, and an exhortation to follow the Christian faith to achieve the contemplation of a celestial Jerusalem. The work also provides a description of Africa and of Italy during the second half of the fourth century. The City of God, written between 412 and 427, shortly before his death in 430, constitutes an answer to the pagan attacks resulting from the trauma caused by the sack of Rome by Alaric in 410. The book is an apologetic work and a catechesis at the same time. Augustine’s work is therefore impressive, in terms of its quantity as well as its influence on Western thought, evidence in his position as a Father of the Church. The contribution of his work to our knowledge of Roman Africa is equally important (Fux et al., 2003; Lancel, 2005). The work of Cl.



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Lepelley allows us to particularly take stock of this question, based on the study of unpublished letters and sermons by Augustine that were discovered by J. Divjak and Fr. Dolbeau (Divjak, 1981; Dolbeau, 1996). The new letters and sermons provide much new information on public institutions and social and cultural life in Augustine’s Africa (Lepelley, 2001b, 2001c). They also yield information on the impact of the crisis of the Western Empire on African society (Lepelley, 2001d). Augustine’s circle was also a source of literary works, most notably the biography of the bishop of Hippo, written by his friend Possidius of Calama who compiled it shortly after the death of Augustine (Mandouze, 1982: 890–896, “Possidius 1”; Mazières and Plazanet-Siarri, 1994: 105–169). Quodvultdeus was part of the circle of Augustine’s disciples as well. He was the deacon and later the bishop of Carthage, some time between 431 and 439, before the capture of the city by Gaieseric (Mandouze, 1982: 947–949, “Quodvultdeus 5”). Quodvultdeus is the author of the Book of promises and predictions of God (Braun, 1964). It is to Africa where Orosius, then a priest in Braga, traveled for the first time in 414, upon Augustine’s request, and began writing the Historiae Adversus Paganos. The initial project was designed by the bishop of Hippo to support the thesis he had developed in the third book of The City of God. He apparently invited Orosius to prepare a list of historical arguments against the pagans (Arnaud-Lindet, 2001: 352–357). Extending beyond the initial project Orosius lays out a universal history, from its origins at the beginning of the fifth century. Unlike Augustine, who places little importance on the vicissitudes of human history from an eschatological perspective, Orosius builds a theology of history to clarify its meaning and open perspectives on the future of humanity. The privileged interest that it grants to Africa in its treatment of the geographic data in particular is undoubtedly explained by the fact that he stayed there at the time of the writing of his history, though the information reflects more his readings in African history than from the personal experience of his travels in Africa (Guédon, 2010: 39–42). Finally, the history of the world is the subject of the work by Hilarianus, a bishop in Africa Proconsularis (Mandouze, 1982: 557–558, “Quintus Iulius Hilarianus 2”; Arnaud-Lindet, 2001: 357–358). In 397 he wrote a brief recapitulation of the key dates of the history of the world (de Cursu Temporum), past as well as future history, and intended to establish a chronology of the end of time (Conduche et al., 2013). As in other provinces of the Empire, theological and philosophical conceptions of history deeply characterize the literary production of Roman Africa on the eve of the Vandal invasion. In this context, a work such as that of Martianus Capella, the author of De nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii [On the Marriage of Philology and Mercury] stands out for its singularity (Shanzer, 1986). The work, which is made up of nine books in which prose follows verse, is a work of rhetoric. It is also an encyclopedia that presents knowledge specific to the liberal arts. It was put together in Carthage in probably the first third of the century rather than during the Vandal period, by a lawyer whose life eludes us and, unfortunately, remains an enigma (Guillaumin, 2003: VII–XVI). Macrobius’ work also dates from this period. There are, however, many questions regarding its geographic origin, which do not permit us to claim that it was African (Armisen-Marchetti, 2001: VII–XIV). Regardless, the Vandal invasion did not signify the end of a rich and diversified literary production, which continued in Africa beyond the capture of Carthage and the end of Roman power in the region until the reconquest under Justinian (see Kaufmann, Chapter 19, and Merrills, Chapter 22).

Conclusion: The Contribution of African Writers to Ancient Latin Literature The first conclusion that is necessary to highlight is the absence of a true literary africitas. The contribution of African authors to Latin literature is, however, fundamental. It is in Africa that classical Latin literature, whose last representatives in Italy were Pliny and Tacitus, continued to shine and it is also in Africa that it renewed itself (Lassère, 2015: 316). The works of pagan African

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authors probably followed Roman literary rules to a great extent. However, what is more important and decisive is the originality of the Christian sources of Roman Africa, which provided a fundamental contribution to the Latin Christianity of the West, in literary as well as in doctrinal terms. This new literature, which was initiated by the Passions of the martyrs, distinguishes itself by a profusion of apologetic, polemic, and philosophical treatises. In essence, it is in Africa that the foundations of Western Christian Latin literature were established.

FURTHER READING For a general introduction to the topic, see entries dedicated to the history of ancient African literature in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, Suppl., 1/2, Stuttgart, 1985 (“Africa II (literaturgeschichtlich)”, col. 134–228), which provide a clear overview and treatment of the main issues. Also see www.augustinus.it, which provides the complete work of Augustine in Latin and Italian, and a selection of his works in English, French, German, and Spanish. The summaries provided of major authors, accompanied by rich bibliographies, can be found in the volumes of the Nouvelle Histoire de la littérature latine published by Brepols (Volumes 4 and 5; Herzog, 1993 and Sallmann, 2000), which allow us to deepen the study. The work by M.P. Arnaud-Lindet (2001) considers more specifically the historical reach of Latin literature and the relation of its authors to Roman history. Regarding the study of Christian sources, one must mention Mark Vessey’s summary (2005). The Chronica Tertullianea et Cyprianea is an exhaustive and critical bibliography dedicated to Christian Latin literature until the death of Cyprian. It is published each year in the second fascicle of the Revue d’Études augustiniennes et patristiques. The Corpus Augustinianum Gissense auf CD-Rom (C. Mayeur) is a CD-Rom providing access to the quasi-totality of the works of the bishop of Hippo and a bibliography of approximately 20,000 titles, which is supplemented by the Bulletin Augustinien bibliographical journal published regularly in the Revue d’Études augustiniennes et patristiques.

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CHAPTER 15

Architecture and Art Niccolò Mugnai

Forms and Functions of North African Architecture and Art North Africa has a rich heritage of monuments, testifying to the cultural influences that were at play over the course of its history. Punic, Greek, and Roman traditions are recognizable in many aspects of architecture and art, alongside local manifestations that should be regarded as “North African.” This chapter looks at the architectural and decorative features of public, private, military, and funerary buildings. The timeframe spans from the first century bce to the third century ce, although earlier and later periods are taken into account to analyze phenomena of continuity and transformation. It would be impossible to review all of the evidence, so the discussion focuses on selected buildings and case studies. Due to the patchy nature of archaeological research, some sites and regions are more represented than others – this is an issue one must be aware of when attempting to draw general conclusions (cf. Stone, Chapter 2). Alongside the principal cities on the Libyan, Tunisian, and Algerian coasts, the chapter also tries to engage with peripheral areas such as Morocco and the Fazzan desert. While Cyrenaica (eastern Libya) falls beyond the general scope of the volume, selected evidence from this region is included here to provide a more complete overview. Given the different historical, geographical, and cultural characteristics of each province, it is not possible to delineate universal principles to which North African architecture and art obeyed, as if these were one uniform reality. Despite the homogenizing nature of Roman culture, diversity and regional variability under imperial rule occurred regularly. The Tunisian and Libyan coastal regions of Africa Proconsularis were more directly connected to Rome and the Italian peninsula than other parts of North Africa. This proximity was an incentive for the local economy (cf. Hobson, Chapter 7 and Bonifay, Chapter 13), which is reflected in many aspects of architecture, art, and urbanism. Geography also determined how architects and sculptors traveled around, and how their products circulated at an intra- and cross-regional level. Cyrenaica followed different trajectories from the western part of North Africa, due to its long-lasting connections with homeland Greece and the Alexandrian world. Notwithstanding these diversities, it would be a mistake to examine these regions and cities as separate entities, for this would not allow us to trace influences that occurred across a broad geographical and chronological framework, even beyond North Africa itself. By rejecting the binary opposition of “Roman” and “non-Roman,” modern approaches to the architecture and art of the Roman provinces are encouraging cross-regional studies, to understand the relationship between local specificities and Rome-driven tendencies (Revell, 2014; Kampen,

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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2015; Mazzilli, 2020). This method is effective for assessing the multifaceted character of architectural and artistic forms across North Africa, highlighting both standardized and discrepant realities. That said, the architecture of North Africa has been traditionally regarded as derivative from that of the rest of the Roman Empire (Ward-Perkins, 1981: 371). Even in some recent studies the controversial term of “Romanization” is used as a synonym for urbanization, when it comes to describing North African architecture and urbanism (Yegül and Favro, 2019: 494–496). It is undeniable that architectural and decorative models originating from imperial Rome found their way across North Africa, especially throughout the second and third centuries ce. This was the moment when North African urbanization reached a peak, thanks to the élites’ desire to conform to an idea of romanitas, which was best expressed through the monumentality of cities and buildings (cf. Dufton and Fentress, Chapter 11). Such processes are not unique to North Africa, but can be recognized in other provinces, like Gaul, although there they took place at an earlier stage during the first and second centuries ce (Woolf, 1998: 106–141). The adoption of a common architectural language and iconographic themes was an effective way to express this sense of Roman-ness, which suited very well the agenda of the North African municipal élites. As shown later, there are major public buildings, such as the Antonine Baths at Carthage or the judicial basilicas at Utica and Meninx, where direct references to the buildings and decorative fashion of imperial Rome are all too evident. The reception and adoption of imperial-style models, however, could vary considerably in each urban context. The matter at stake is to understand how the concept of an ideal Roman building (a temple, an honorific arch, a theater, a bath complex) was adopted by the local societies and how this was put into practice when the monument was built. Civic euergetism was a driving factor, but the use of more or less standardized architectural and decorative elements had to engage with the communities’ background, cultural models, and taste. As a result, the layout of many North African public spaces under the Roman Empire was the outcome of a “compromise” between local, preRoman elements, and new imperial constructions. Civic complexes such as those of Thugga, Volubilis, Sabratha, and the Old Forum at Lepcis Magna are significant cases in point, but the same can be said about other cities and types of buildings. Theaters are a good example; for instance, both edifices at Lepcis Magna and Sabratha show the persistence of some local features through time. Most monuments in Mauretania Tingitana testify to an overlap between Roman and local architectural traditions, in a way that one could speak of a true eclecticism. The evidence from Cyrenaica is not too dissimilar from this perspective, for it was felt necessary to find the right balance between the local, Greek-style architecture and art and the new imperial trends. Even in the central part of Africa Proconsularis (Carthage’s pertica), cities developed a peculiar type of micro-regional urbanism and a distinct “idea of the city,” which depended on pre-existing architectural features, as shown by the cases of Thugga, Thuburbo Maius, and Musti (Scheding, 2019, 2020). Patronage played an important role in shaping buildings. This is especially evident for domestic architecture and funerary monuments, both of which were the expression of individuals’ agendas and how they wanted to appear in front of the community (in their lifetime and after death). As to public architecture, the Severan monuments of Lepcis Magna are the manifestation par excellence of an emperor-driven agenda, which made use of strong imperial imagery and architectural forms to convey its messages. However, while the Severan basilica and the Great Nymphaeum were planned on the model of well-known buildings in Rome (the basilica Ulpia and the Septizodium, respectively), the ultimate layout of the Severan Forum, the Colonnaded Street, and the Tetrapylon were distinctive of Lepcis. Even their architectural ornamentation was not inspired from the contemporary metropolitan productions of Rome, such as those of the Arch of Septimius Severus and the Baths of Caracalla, but rather from the styles of Asia Minor and Greece. Patrons and architects had an intended audience in mind when they conceived the design of a building, but viewers did not all react in the same way to the art and architecture they encountered along the streets. There were therefore different levels of understanding of the visual messages associated with the



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buildings; the visibility, or lack of visibility, of certain monuments also affected the viewers’ experience (Hölscher, 1994, 2018: 299–333). A problem that has occurred frequently in the study of ancient monuments is the separation between the architecture of buildings and their architectural and sculptural decoration. Architecture has often been seen as the result of an empirical activity, with only relative interest toward its decorative parts and how people in antiquity might have perceived and understood them. Recent scholarship challenges this method, arguing that Roman architecture and art can be approached through the same interpretative tools (Thomas, 2015). The North African evidence reviewed here shows that this is the right direction. Indeed, it would be impossible to fully appreciate the complexity and variety of these buildings if their architectural and decorative elements were dissociated from each other. With regard to the relationship between imperial-style architectural models and pre-Roman survivals, this fits well within the theoretical framework of current studies of “global” and “local” history and material culture under the Roman Empire (Hitchner, 2008; Pitts and Versluys, 2015; Witcher, 2016; Dufton, 2019). In this view, the occurrence of local specificities in North African architecture and art may be described as an ante litteram form of “glocalization,” stressing how the homogenizing aspects of a global (Roman) culture were incorporated, adapted, and re-interpreted into the local (North African) cultures.

Civic and Religious Buildings The majority of civic and religious monuments in North Africa were built on, or around, fora complexes, where people would meet during their daily activities. The buildings’ layout and decoration show an almost infinite range of variations, which depended on urban characteristics, patronage, craftsmanship, building materials, and so on. It proves difficult to categorize the North African fora and their buildings within strict typological groups of “Roman” architecture. These public spaces, moreover, were encroached by a range of monuments that often attempted to overshadow each other as their construction progressed. Throughout the first century ce, the majority of civic and religious buildings were set up thanks to the initiative of provincial governors and private patrons. This trend saw a change from the Antonine period, when public funding by the local communities became the norm, alongside (exceptional) interventions directly from the emperors (Jouffroy, 1986: 197–199, 233–237, 279–283). Imperial, municipal, and private sponsorships were therefore driving factors for the evolution of public areas, but the ultimate layout of buildings also depended on how the builders carried out the intended construction projects. The ornamentation of these edifices could be as varied as their plans and elevations, drawing upon a range of decorative themes, some of which looked at the imperial-style imagery of the period, while others remained more faithful to long-lasting, local traditions. In analyzing the diversity of the North African civic and religious buildings, a (very broad) distinction could be made between urban centers that were created from scratch under Roman rule and those that witnessed a continuity of occupation from pre-Roman times. Thamugadi is the best example of a newly founded Roman colony. Its regular urban grid was laid out in 100 ce by the engineers of the Third Augustan Legion, following the directives of the emperor Trajan. As typical of Roman colonies, the forum is located at the intersection of the cardo and decumanus maximus. It is provided with a piazza (50 × 43 m) overlooked by a temple, curia, and judicial basilica (Figure 15.1a); yet the lack of symmetry of its plan suggests that this might have resulted from the modification of an earlier space (Trifilò, 2011). When the Capitolium was erected in the Severan period, this was set within a vast precinct (ca. 105 × 66 m), which was located beyond the limits of the original foundation and with a different alignment. This choice allowed the builders to enhance both the monumentality and visibility of the most important Roman temple, dedicated to Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva (Morton, 2016: 287–291). Capitolia occur more frequently in North Africa than in any of the other provinces of the Empire, their chronologies

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encompassing the second and third centuries ce (Barton, 1982: 270–331; Quinn and Wilson, 2013: 150–167). Attesting to the spread of this major Roman cult and of imperial agency, these buildings take the form of Romano-Italic temples: a tall podium with steps, a cella where the statues of the three divinities would have been placed, and a frontal colonnaded pronaos. The Capitolia of Thugga (166/169 ce: see infra), Thuburbo Maius (169 ce), and Althiburos (185/191 ce) exemplify all these canonical features. The case of Sufetula may represent a variation to this scheme. Three separate temples with podia were built on the northwest side of the forum around the midsecond century ce, joined together through a platform on the front (Ben Akacha, 2015: 124–127). The identification of these edifices as a composite Capitolium is probable on the basis of their conspicuous position and simultaneous construction (Duval, 1982: 606–607). However, no epigraphic evidence survives to confirm this hypothesis; one may therefore consider the possibility that they might have been dedicated to other cults, such as that of the imperial family.

Figure 15.1  North African fora. a: Thamugadi (after Ward-Perkins, 1981). b: Thugga (after Aounallah and Golvin, 2016). c: Sabratha (after Kenrick, 1986). d: Lepcis Magna, Old Forum (after Ward-Perkins, 1981). e:­Lepcis Magna, Severan Forum (after Ward-Perkins, 1981).



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Another Roman foundation, Cuicul, was created as a municipium in 96–97 ce (cf. Dufton and Fentress, Chapter 11). It features a forum with a piazza (48 × 44 m) bordered by porticoes along the south and east sides. The other sides are occupied by buildings that were added at later stages: the basilica, dedicated in 169 ce by the flamen C. Julius Crescens Didius Crescentianus (ILAlg II, 7793–7794); the Market of Cosinius, built under Antoninus Pius (ILAlg II, 7929–7930); the Capitolium, ca. second half of the second century ce, and the curia (Blas de Roblès et al., 2019: 109–113). The altar in front of the temple depicts on one side a sacrificial scene, showing a particular local style of execution that had no interest in the naturalism typical of Roman imperial art (Wilson, 2015: 498). The Augustan colony of Banasa in Mauretania Tingitana presents notable deviations from imperial architectural canons. The forum (ca. 70 × 40 m) was monumentalized in the early second century ce, being composed of a trapezoidal square with porticoes, a basilica and a temple on the opposite north and south sides, and a small curia on the east side (Euzennat and Hallier, 1986: 78–82). The temple has an elongated pronaos with seven cellae behind it, resulting from the enlargement of a previous building (Brouquier-Reddé et al., 2004). This type of sacred building with aligned, multiple cellae is also found at Volubilis and Sala, though the object of cult is unknown. The columns of the temple at Banasa are of a local type with pseudo-lotus capitals, showing a remote Egyptianizing influence, as attested elsewhere in this province, but with no parallels in any of the other North African regions (Mugnai, 2018: 113–116, 182–183). Alongside new municipal and colonial foundations, many towns and cities in North Africa were pre-existing settlements. Their urbanism and architecture were progressively modified under the Roman Empire, trying to suit the needs and taste of the new élites. This created the conditions for a blending of different architectural solutions. The civic district of Thugga (Figure 15.1b) offers evidence in this regard. The Roman forum developed in an area that was previously occupied by the “Numidian agora.” One of the main features was the building known as “Monument of Massinissa,” dating to the second century bce. The reconstruction of its elevation remains conjectural. It has been suggested that this had an Ionic colonnade on top of a rectangular basement, recalling the monument of Micipsa at Simmithu (Aounallah and Golvin, 2016: 56–58). A different hypothesis interprets this edifice as a temple, arguing that it remained in place during the subsequent transformations of the area until the late second century ce (Ardeleanu, 2021: 223–228, 233–234). The forum proper started to take shape under Tiberius, with an apex under the Antonines. During the reign of Commodus, the civic center was extended eastward through the monumentalization of the Piazza of the Windrose (DFH 35), which comprised a sanctuary of Mercury to the north and a market opposite it (Poinssot, 1983: 32–41; Aounallah and Golvin, 2016: 29–355). Set on the forum’s north side, the Capitolium is a tetrastyle temple (27 × 13.5 m), dedicated between 166 and 169 ce by L. Marcius Simplex and L. Marcius Simplex Regillianus (DFH 31–32). Its cella was built in the opus africanum masonry, a technique that employed piers with superimposed headers and stretchers, of which multiple variants exist. This technique is attested in North Africa as early as the seventh century bce. It was widespread in private and public buildings, continuing to be used in the Roman and Late Antique eras (Rakob, 1982: 111). The modern label “opus africanum” would claim a North African origin, but this is questionable given its wide Mediterranean occurrence (Camporeale, 2016: 62–69). In front of the cella stands a Corinthian porch. The pediment is decorated with a depiction of Antoninus Pius’ apotheosis, recalling the scene on the pedestal of the emperor’s column in Rome (Dohna, 1997; Aounallah and Golvin, 2016: 175–181). The architectural ornamentation of Thugga’s Capitolium belongs to a type that drew upon the metropolitan motifs developed in Rome at the end of the first century ce. These motifs became widespread across North Africa through the mediation of Carthage, especially from the mid-­ second century onward. These stylistic features can be referred to as a “Romano-Carthaginian” art, which occurred in both public and private architecture (Pensabene, 1986: 358–405, 1989) (Figure 15.2b). They represented an effective means for the urban élites to replicate the styles of imperial Rome in a provincial setting. Their diffusion was made possible through the circulation of

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marble, standardized decorative repertoires, and possibly itinerant ateliers, mainly in the Tunisian and Algerian regions of Africa Proconsularis, Numidia, and Mauretania Caesariensis (Ferchiou, 1983, 1989a). The public buildings in the forum of Utica attest clearly to the significance of this imperial-style architecture and ornamentation (Ben Jerbania et al., 2019). The Punic structures in this area were obliterated in the early first century bce era to make space for the forum. Under Hadrian, a large building surrounded by a porticoed precinct of 89 × 54.6 m was added. This is hypothetically identified as a Traianeum on the basis of its analogies with other known buildings, such as the one at Italica, and a reference to a “forum Traiani” in the Chronica Gallica of 452 ce (Mommsen, 1894: 652). A judicial basilica was added to the north of this complex in the Antonine period. Though of smaller size (29.5 × 52.5 m), its plan recalls the basilica on the Byrsa at Carthage (see Bockmann, Chapter 8). The interior can be reconstructed with a two-story, RomanoCarthaginian Corinthian colonnade; the columns of the lower story had plain shafts of gray Troad and pink Aswan granite, while those of the upper story had fluted shafts of Numidian yellow marble (giallo antico) quarried at Simmithu. The sculptural decoration of the exterior included medallions with busts of Jupiter and other deities, which were probably placed on an attic between statues of barbarians. This imagery was evidently inspired by the decorative programs of the Basilica Aemilia and Augustus’ and Trajan’s fora in Rome, being also attested at Tarraco and Augusta Emerita in Spain, and in the basilica of Meninx in Africa Proconsularis (Fentress et al., 2009: 138–145). It should be noted, however, that the occurrence of these imperial-style motifs did not determine a complete obliteration of pre-Roman and other elements (Romanelli, 1970: 279–288). When one looks at contexts in the hinterland or in more marginal areas, there is evidence suggesting that “Roman” and “local” traditions – if such restrictive labels can be applied at all – often coexisted. This is the case of the forum and piazza of the Capitolium at Volubilis. These two annexed spaces witnessed a major building phase under the Severans, with the Capitoline temple being dedicated in 217 ce (IAM2 355). The ornament of the temple and that of the forum basilica

Figure 15.2  North African capitals. a: Lepcis Magna, Temple of Milk’Ashtart-Hercules, Ionic capital (photo P. Pensabene). b: Carthage, Antonine Baths, Romano-Carthaginian Corinthian capital (photo P. Pensabene). c: Lepcis Magna, Severan Forum, lotus-and-acanthus capital (BSR Photographic Archive, Ward-Perkins Collection, wplib-1585.24). d: Ptolemais, Colonnaded Palace, figured capital (photo P. Pensabene). e: Volubilis, piazza of the Capitolium, Volubilitan Corinthian capital (photo N. Mugnai). f: Ghirza, Tomb North A, Ionic capital (photo P. Pensabene).



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are similar, representing a simplified version of the Romano-Carthaginian Corinthian order. In contrast, the columns of the portico around the temple and the entrance gates display a peculiar variation of the Corinthian (Figure 15.2e). This should be identified as a Volubilitan style of its own, which merged together pre-Roman – Punic and Hellenistic – survivals and locally created motifs (Pensabene, 2011: 209–222; Mugnai, 2018: 82–92, 178–181). A schematic version of the canonical Corinthian order is also recognizable in the Capitolium of Uthina, ca. second century ce, although in this case the smooth surface of the architectural members was meant to be covered with stucco (Ben Hassen and Golvin, 2004a). As to the circulation of Mediterranean models and styles, these are attested as far south as the Libyan desert of Fazzan, in the kingdom of the Garamantes (Preston and Mattingly, 2013). The architectural ornament from public buildings in the capital town of Garama, as well as evidence from other sites, shows a degree of local adaptation, suggesting that the artisans borrowed and re-interpreted decorative motifs from different sources. Architectural and artistic connections with the world of Alexandria of Egypt can be recognized in Tripolitania during the early imperial period. The forum of Sabratha (Figure 15.1c) shows such features, blended together with architectural components of Italic origin. The piazza was dominated to the east by the Temple of Liber Pater, set in the middle of a square precinct, ca. 60 × 60 m. What we see today is essentially the building that replaced an earlier temple after the earthquake of 65–70 ce. The tall columns have Corinthian capitals, which show analogies with those of the Temple of Isis, located in the eastern sector of the town. They have smooth leaves and the style of their helices and volutes has much in common with Hellenistic, and especially Alexandrian, traditions. On the west side of the forum one finds the Capitolium and the Temple of Serapis. A judicial basilica was placed on the south side; built in the Flavian period, it was restored and modified through time, to become a church probably in the fifth century ce. The Roman-period basilica is of the “Vitruvian” type, with the short axis being the principal one (Vitr. De arch. 5.6–10). The tribunal at the center of the south side was probably used for the cult of the Roman emperors, as attested by the statues found in it (Kenrick, 1986: 68–87). The city of Lepcis Magna is another significant example of architectural transformations, reflecting decorative and sociopolitical developments. The southern sector of the Old Forum (forum vetus) (Figure 15.1d) is occupied by a basilica (post-Augustan: De Miro and Polito, 2005: 127) and an off-angle curia that takes the form of a temple-like structure enclosed by a precinct (the first phase appears to be Flavian, followed by later modifications: Livadiotti and Rocco, 2018). The northwest side of the forum features three temples. The one in the middle is securely identified as the Temple of Roma and Augustus, ca. 23–29 ce (IPT 22); those at the sides are traditionally connected with Lepcis’ patron gods: Temple of Shadrapa-Liber Pater, early Augustan period, and Temple of Milk’Ashtart-Hercules, 4–5 ce (Di Vita and Livadiotti, 2005). Each had their own distinctive features, but they all shared Ionic columns with decorative motifs deriving from a mixed Punic, Peloponnesian, and Alexandrian-Hellenistic substratum (Bianchi, 2005: 194–206) (Figure 15.2a). The façade of the Temple of Roma and Augustus displayed a series of marble statues of the Julio-Claudian dynasty and a central bronze quadriga (Aurigemma, 1940; Trillmich, 2014). In front of the podium were positioned four bilingual (Latin and neo-Punic) stelae, all bearing an identical text (IRT 338; IPT 26). They recorded the setting-up of the forum paving and the construction of a portico by Caius, son of Anno, in 53 ce. The forum was subject to an intensive renovation in the mid-second century ce, when the buildings’ limestone ornamentation was replaced with imported marble architectural elements. This process involved the temple façades, which were remade with Corinthian columns of Proconnesian marble from the Sea of Marmara. However, given the complete absence of any marble elements that would fit with the elevation of the Temple of Milk’Ashtart-Hercules, it is possible that this building was left unchanged – if so, this would have created a sharp contrast with the other edifices. The Severan era was a moment of intense urban embellishment for Lepcis Magna. The concession of the ius italicum by Septimius Severus to his hometown in 202–203 ce coincided with the opening of majestic building projects that conveyed strong visual messages of imperial power. The creation of a New Forum (forum novum severianum), completed in 216 ce (IRT 427–428), was

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most impressive (Ward-Perkins, 1993: 7–66; Cordovana, 2007: 341–377). The forum (Figure 15.1e) features a rectangular, porticoed square (100 × 60 m), dominated to the west by a temple on a tall podium. This might have been dedicated to the gens Septimia, or perhaps to Bacchus and Hercules, if Cassius Dio’s remarks (77.16) are to be attributed to this building. The octastyle, Corinthian porch with column shafts of pink Egyptian granite was made even more imposing by the presence of pedestals at the bottom, which were decorated with scenes of a gigantomachy. The monumentality of this edifice probably inspired the builders of the Severan temple at Cuicul, which stood out in its respective piazza thanks to the double flight of steps on the front. The eastern end of the Lepcis forum is bordered by a basilica with a central nave and two aisles (70 × 36 m). It has been suggested that this complex was meant to be extended further eastward through a twin square, but this was never implemented (Di Vita, 1982). The forum and basilica offered to the viewer a lavish display of marble sculpture and ornamentation. The colonnades in the square have monolithic shafts of Carystian green marble (cipollino) from Euboea, matched with bases and lotus-and-acanthus capitals of white Pentelic marble from Athens (Figure 15.2c), surmounted by arches with medusa-head medallions of Proconnesian marble. These sculptures, together with the finely decorated pilasters with “peopled” acanthus scrolls of the basilica, have been ascribed to the work of craftsmen from Aphrodisias in Asia Minor (Floriani Squarciapino, 1974), but it is possible that the artists rather came from Athens or the Greek islands. The stylistic features of the other architectural members are also those typical of the Eastern Mediterranean. They were executed by artisans from continental Greece and Asia Minor who worked alongside local ateliers (Pensabene, 2001: 109–118). Cyrenaica followed different trends, since pre-Roman survivals in this region were the outcome of Greek colonization and Ptolemaic rule. The main construction processes in Cyrene’s agora took place from the fourth century bce onward. Bordered to the north and west by two stoas (a third one was added to the east in the second century ce), a series of buildings, altars, and shrines were progressively added. Under Tiberius, the edifice at the northwest corner was remodeled by the proconsul Q. Lucanius Proculus to house an Augusteum. With the appearance of a Greek Doric shrine (though the columns have Ionic bases), this building was dedicated to a very Roman cult (Stucchi, 1965: 207–217). A phenomenon of the second and third centuries ce was the addition of mosaics to the floors of sacred buildings in this district, probably to be ascribed to public euergetism (Venturini, 2013: 20–21, 36–38). Architectural changes are also attested in the Gymnasium, a rectangular square surrounded by Doric porticoes, built in the mid-second century bce. This area was referred to as the “Caesareum” in the early first century ce, as indicated by an inscription with the name of the patron M. Sufenas Proculus (AE 1960, 267). The complex was then converted into a forum in the Flavian period, with the construction of a basilica to the north (ca. 25 × 95 m). This was restored in the second century, at the same time as a mixed Doric-Corinthian temple dedicated to Bacchus was built in the middle of the square (Trifogli, 2014). It was because of the destruction of the Jewish Revolt, 115–116 ce, that the emperor Hadrian ordered an extensive rebuilding of civic and religious monuments (including the Temple of Apollo on the Myrtousa terrace, which bears signatures of individual donors on its reconstructed columns), alongside sending new colonists to repopulate the city. This contributed to an amalgamation of Cyrene’s traditional Doric architecture with the more up-to-date, imperial-style fashion (Walker, 2002). Some remarks are required on two categories of sacred buildings that occur frequently in North Africa, representing an important component of the local cities and landscapes. The first category is that of extra-urban water sanctuaries. The most renowned monument of this type is located at the spring of Zaghouan, which fed Carthage’s aqueduct (see infra). The sanctuary’s imposing position made a terrific impact over the landscape and on any travelers. Probably completed under Marcus Aurelius, it is a U-shaped building (21.2 × 30.27 m) bordered by Corinthian porticoes, oriented to the north looking toward Carthage. In the central part of the semi-circle there is a cella with a raised frontal façade and an apse at the back. In addition to its elaborate architectural and decorative features, the monument attests to the skilled use of concrete (opus caementicium) for its construction, particularly remarkable in the vaults of the cella and porticoes (Rakob, 1974).



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Other major water sanctuaries are those of Thubursicu Numidarum, Henchir Tamesmida, and Hamman Berda. The second category of sacred edifices encompasses a series of buildings known as “RomanoAfrican” sanctuaries. The label is controversial, but is conventionally used to refer to temples placed at the back end of a porticoed precinct; examples include Temple B at Volubilis, the Temple of Hercules and the Temple of an Unknown Deity at Sabratha, the Anonymous Temple on the decumanus at Lepcis Magna, and the Temple of the Genius of the Colony at Thamugadi, among many others. In the literature they are often described as “Eastern-type” or “Semitic-type” temples, but the criteria of this identification, and of the relative cults (Saturn-Baal being only one of them), are not straightforward. Some scholars would include only temples provided with one or more (usually three) cellae without a podium, while others list buildings with podia as variants of this type as well (for a review of the literature and problematics, see Aiosa, 2012: 163–189). It therefore appears that a strict distinction between “Romano-Italic” and “Phoenician-Punic” (or à cour) temples is only functional for a formal typological classification (Eingartner, 2005), while it does not really engage with the multifaceted North African cults (cf. McCarty, Chapter 16).

Arches, Gates, and Colonnaded Streets Triumphal and honorific arches are regarded as a distinctive component of Roman imperial architecture. Ancient sources use different names to describe these buildings (fornix, arcus, ianus), but Pliny the Elder’s words (HN 34.27) make it clear that arches were a “new invention.” These monuments are particularly diffused in North Africa; a recent survey has identified about 200 of them (Mazzilli, 2016: 207–286). Apart from a few cases of early date, most arches were built in the second and third centuries ce, corresponding to the main phase of urban and economic boom in North Africa (Gros, 2011: 77–82; Mazzilli, 2016: 9–18). Their construction was often at the hands of local notables (magistrates and religious officials), who sought personal visibility in front of their city and of the central imperial power. However, there are also arches that were built at the expense of municipal authorities (pecunia publica) to celebrate achievements for the entire community, mainly juridical promotions or taxation privileges. Like other buildings, there was a wide variability of architectural layouts, but some common characteristics can be pinned down. A recurring feature of the North African arches is the overall lack of elaborate architectural sculpture, though some notable exceptions apply. In addition to their celebratory function, arches were used to mark focal points within the townscapes, such as road intersections (in the form of four-way arches, or tetrapyla), entrances or passageways to main roads and public areas, or even as part of city walls (Romanelli, 1970: 131–145). For this reason, a rigorous distinction between “arch” and “gate” does not always apply to these monuments. This more practical function was equally significant, in the sense that arches were a link between new monuments and spaces that were built in ever growing urban centers under Roman rule. One of the earliest examples is the “Double Arch” at Musti (Figure 15.3a), mid-first century ce, which marks the access to a piazza, perhaps the forum, from the cardo. Provided with three archways, this monument blends together different decorative features. The half-columns on the south face have (probably recycled) capitals with water-plant leaves and human busts, recalling Hellenistic and Ptolemaic motifs. The top of the central archway featured a Doric frieze with metopes decorated with rostra – a more Roman-style type of depiction (Ferchiou, 1992–1993; Bullo, 2002: 131–133). Positioned along the cardo maximus, the four-way Arch of Trajan at Lepcis Magna (Figure 15.3b) was dedicated by the proconsul Q. Pomponius Rufus to celebrate the city’s promotion to colonia in 109–110 ce (IRT 353, 523, 537). The arch had Corinthian pilasters and projecting columns on each side. Its decoration is entirely of limestone, constituting a phase of transition between the local Lepcitanian forms, as attested in the Old Forum, and the imperial-style marble ornamentation that became widespread in the Antonine and Severan eras. Bronze statues and war

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Figure 15.3  North African arches. a: Musti, “Double Arch” (after Ferchiou, 1992–1993). b: Lepcis Magna, Arch of Trajan (after Mazzilli, 2016). c: Volubilis, Arch of Caracalla (after Camporeale et al., 2008). d: Lepcis Magna, Tetrapylon of Septimius Severus (after Gros, 2011).

trophies stood on projecting cornices on the attic, while a quadriga probably crowned the top of the monument (Mazzilli, 2016: 151–170). Of a similar chronology, the arch of Mactar was dedicated by the proconsul A. Caecilius Faustinus in 116 ce (CIL 8. 621 = 11798). It was originally a free-standing monument, later used as a gateway to access the third-century forum. It has a triangular pediment above the archway – another common feature of North African arches – and its architectural ornament can be ascribed to the Romano-Carthaginian style that became widespread throughout the second century ce. The Arch of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus at Oea (Tripoli) was built by the local magistrate C. Calpurnius Celsus in 163–164 ce (IRT 232). It is a marble tetrapylon with a rectangular plan, the east and west sides being wider than the other two. The main decorative elements are on the south and north façades. The flanks of the archway are decorated with reliefs of captive barbarians and war trophies; above these, one can see a figure of Apollo on a chariot drawn by griffins (left side) and Minerva on a chariot drawn by winged sphinxes (right side). The shafts of the lateral Corinthian pilasters and the upper frieze have acanthus scrolls and other vegetal motifs (Aurigemma, 1970). To Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus was also dedicated an arch on the ramp that leads to the Sanctuary of Apollo on the Myrtousa at Cyrene (Stucchi, 1975: 268–269). However, honorary arches are rare in Cyrenaica, three of them being at Ptolemais: an Antonine arch, the Arch of Constantine (311–312 ce), and a late fifth- or sixth-century ce arch. Substantial evidence from the Severan period occurs in North Africa. Examples include: the Arch of Septimius Severus and Caracalla at Lambaesis, 203 ce, marking the edge of the town to the east; the Arch of Caracalla at Cuicul, 215–216 ce ( CIL 8. 8321 = 20137; ILAlg II, 7818), which gives access to the Severan forum from the southwest; and the so-called “Arch of Trajan” by the west gate of Thamugadi, a Severan monument that might have reused parts of an earlier building ( CIL 8. 2355 = 17842, 2368 = 17872; Gsell, 1901a: 167–179). The Arch of Caracalla at Volubilis (Figure 15.3c) was positioned at the southwest edge of the decumanus maximus. It was built at the expense of the respublica Volubilitanorum and inaugurated by the governor M. Aurellius Sebastenus in 216–217 ce (IAM2 390–391), to honor the emperor’s generosity in remitting the outstanding taxes to all the inhabitants of the province. Made of limestone, both the architectural and sculptural ornamentation of the arch adhere to the local decorative taste. The



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projecting Corinthian columns have Volubilitan-style capitals with smooth leaves. The sculptural reliefs include medallions with personifications of the Four Seasons; more stone fragments, currently lying on the ground, depict shields, arms, war trophies, and human figures (Domergue, 1966; Mugnai, 2018: 92–95). The Tetrapylon of Septimius Severus at Lepcis Magna (Figure 15.3d) is an extravagant monument, whose layout and ornamentation make it unique of its kind (Bartoccini, 1931; Cordovana, 2007: 404–431). The current state is the result of meticulous restorations by Italian archaeologists. Part of Severus’ building program, the arch stands at the intersection of the cardo maximus with the Carthage–Alexandria road. The date of the dedication is uncertain, probably between 203 and 211 ce. The core of the monument is made of limestone blocks, faced with Pentelic and Proconnesian marble veneer. It has been argued that these blocks may attest to the existence of an earlier arch, but this is controversial (Di Vita, 1975). The outer corners of the four pillars have Corinthian pilasters with elaborate vegetal scrolls, similar to those of the Severan basilica, probably the work of Aphrodisian or Greek sculptors. Next to the pilasters there are reliefs with war captives and trophies. In front of each pillar stands a Corinthian column set on a pedestal; its entablature is crowned by a triangular broken pediment, reminiscent of long-lasting, Alexandrian architectural traditions. The spandrels of the archway bear reliefs of winged Victories. The attic is decorated with scenes of triumphal processions, sacrifices, and familial harmony (Septimius Severus with his two sons, Caracalla and Geta). A bizarre feature of this whole composition is the fact that the broken pediments on the four sides would have interfered with the observer’s view of the reliefs. Another means of monumentalizing cityscapes and connecting together buildings was represented by colonnaded streets. These served a function of public utility as sheltered passages, being also a marker of the private and public euergetism responsible for their erection. Colonnaded streets were a common feature of the Eastern Mediterranean, where they had developed from the first century bce to the second century ce (Burns, 2017). Evidence from the West is more limited; examples in North Africa are not abundant, but interesting in character. At Cuicul, the cardo maximus was embellished with porticoes with Tuscan colonnades, probably at the same time, or shortly after, the city’s foundation under Nerva. Running across the whole length of the city, this street constituted an essential component of what is called an “urban armature” – a network of main streets, squares, and public edifices that shaped the essence of a Roman urban center (MacDonald, 1986: 5–14). Where the cardo meets public monuments or large aristocratic houses, the Tuscan order is replaced by the Corinthian, adding emphasis to these edifices from the street and calling for the viewers’ attention. At the colony of Thamugadi, the northern section of the cardo maximus is colonnaded up to the point where it meets the forum. The decumanus maximus features colonnaded porticoes for its entire length, but these were added toward the end of the second century ce. The simple design of the Tuscan columns fitted well with the military-style architecture of Cuicul and Thamugadi (Burns, 2017: 195–198; Blas de Roblès et al., 2019: 103–104, 189–191). In Cyrenaica, a porticoed street (second century ce) is visible in Cyrene’s central quarter, set at the junction with the road leading to the Sanctuary of Apollo. The northern stretch was provided with a marble Corinthian colonnade, while the southern sector had simple Doric columns, well reflecting the mixture of imperial-style trends and traditional architecture at Cyrene in this period (Stucchi, 1975: 275). Another colonnaded street is found at Ptolemais as part of the so-called “Street of the Monuments,” a plateia, or decumanus, running east–west. The columns have richly molded bases, with shafts of gray granite and Carystian green marble; honorific statues were also erected along the street. The chronology is uncertain, perhaps late second or early third century ce, but it could be even later. The decumanus maximus of Volubilis is another interesting example. This street runs along the town’s northeast district, which was occupied by wealthy private residences. A portico with pillars supporting archways borders the street on the west side. The date of this monument is not secure; while the entire district was initially dated to the third century ce (Étienne, 1960: 147–150), later

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studies have attempted to push back this chronology. It seems reasonable that building activities started in the second century ce, and most of the houses must have been completed by the early third century (Thébert, 2003: 270–271). The southern portion of the portico functioned as a façade for the House of the Labors of Hercules that was set behind it. Probably paid for by the house owner, this part of the portico is decorated with Corinthian pilasters and with a set of human busts on the entablature. Two of these busts are preserved: a personification of the goddess Africa with the typical elephant headdress and a male figure in military gear of uncertain identification, which may be linked to the house owner or some other family member (Mugnai, 2018: 95–98). The most famous construction of the kind in North Africa, the Colonnaded Street at Lepcis Magna, was a highlight of Severus’ building program. This street ran for almost 400 m, bordering the Severan forum and basilica, and reaching the junction where the Great Nymphaeum and the palaestra of the Hadrianic Baths are located (Ward-Perkins, 1993: 67–77). Like the forum porticoes, the columns have monolithic shafts of Carystian green marble. The total height was further enhanced by pedestals at the bottom of the columns and by archways on top. The frieze running above the archways is Doric and its metopes are decorated with rosettes. This was a typical motif of the architecture of Lepcis in the early imperial era, which remained in use under the Severans – one can see a Doric frieze on the outer enclosure wall of the forum and basilica.

Buildings for Spectacles and Entertainment An essential part of urban life, theaters are attested across North Africa with a range of different chronologies, architectural, and decorative features. In the province of Africa Proconsularis are attested some 53 theaters through archaeological and literary evidence (Sear, 2006: 102–105, 271–301). The construction of a theater was often the act of a private benefaction by a wealthy citizen, while imperial or collective funding occurred less frequently. Providing cities with permanent, built theaters was a tool for the North African societies to engage in a discourse with the imperial power of Rome and its architectural and cultural features. Theaters were therefore a “status symbol” of these towns and cities, a strong marker of their self-representation under Rome. Like civic buildings and honorary arches, the majority of theaters in North Africa were donated to the respective communities during the second and third centuries ce, but there are also instances that are earlier in date. The layout and ornamentation of theaters were subject to modifications through time, which were meant to update their look to the taste of the period. The first example of a Roman-type theater, with a semicircular orchestra and an elaborate stage building, is the one at Caesarea (Figure 15.4a), datable in the last quarter of the first century bce. The cavea has a diameter of ca. 90 m and is set against the slope of a hill. The orchestra, stage, and scene have suffered from modifications and robbing after the building’s conversion into an amphitheater in the third century ce. The theater was built by the client king Juba II as part of a grandiose building program involving the entire town of Iol, which was completely remodeled and renamed “Caesarea” as a tribute to Juba’s patron, Augustus (Leveau, 1984: 25–80). To promote himself as a second Augustus in Africa, Juba introduced Roman culture, lifestyle, decorative and architectural models into the capital of his kingdom. This process was achieved through a massive importation of marble from the quarries of Luna; artisans and builders also came from Italy to carry out Juba’s projects. The result was the adoption of types of architectural ornament, sculpture, and statuary that imitated or reflected the fashion of Augustan Rome (Pensabene, 1982a, 1982b). The theater of Lepcis Magna (Figure 15.4b) is also Augustan in date; it was donated by Annobal Tapapius Rufus in 1–2 ce (IRT 321–323; IPT 24). Like the theater of Caesarea, the cavea (diameter 88 m) made use of a natural slope. After the original construction several parts of the theater were reshaped (Caputo, 1987; Sear, 2006: 281–286). A temple at the top of the cavea, dedicated to Ceres Augusta, was added in 35–36 ce by C. Rubellius Blandus and Suphunibal, daughter of



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Figure 15.4  North African theaters and amphitheaters. a: Caesarea, theater/amphitheater (after Leveau, 1984). b: Lepcis Magna, theater (after Ward-Perkins, 1981). c: Sabratha, theater (after Ward-Perkins, 1981). d: Cyrene, theater/amphitheater in the Sanctuary of Apollo (after Stucchi, 1975). e: Thysdrus, amphitheater (after Montali, 2015).

Tapapius Rufus (IRT 269). The inclusion of temples/shrines in theaters was an established feature of Republican central Italy, acquiring an even stronger connotation with the Theater of Pompey and the annexed Temple of Venus Victrix in Rome (55–52 bce). The lower part of the cavea was modified with the addition of a podium and an altar by Ti. Claudius Sestius in 91–92 ce (IRT 318, 347; IPT 27). Finally, the scene was remodeled and decorated with marble ornamentation by Marcius Vitalis and Junius Galba in 157–158 ce (IRT 534; Bianchi, 2009: 58–61). The theater was enriched by a lavish display of marble statuary: statues of the Dioscuri placed at the lateral edges of the stage; various deities, such as Venus, Minerva, Dionysus, and Tyche; and portraits of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, among others (Caputo and Traversari, 1976). One of the largest edifices of the kind in North Africa, the theater of Sabratha (Figure 15.4c) has a diameter of 92.6 m. The most striking feature is the monumental, three-story stage building (scaenae frons), which was reconstructed in 1937 (Caputo, 1959; MacKendrick, 1980: 168–171). It displays Corinthian columns of white marble, granite, and Phrygian purple marble (pavonazzetto) from Docimium in Asia Minor. The front of the stage was faced with white marble veneer, featuring rectangular and semi-circular recesses decorated with sculptural reliefs: the one in the middle depicts personifications of Sabratha and Roma joining hands, alongside soldiers and scenes

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Figure 15.5  Marble relief of Sabratha and Roma from the theater of Sabratha (photo P. Kenrick).

of sacrifices (Figure 15.5). Such images of personified regions and cities are found elsewhere in North Africa; one of the finest examples is a second-century ce marble relief with a figure of Libya crowning the nymph Kurana/Cyrene (Huskinson, 1975: 31–32; Russell, 2018: 267–268). Like in the buildings at Lepcis Magna, the marble ornamentation of the Sabratha theater was executed by artisans from abroad, especially from Asia Minor, who worked alongside local sculptors (Pensabene, 2001: 91–92). In contrast, the limestone pilasters on the outer façade of the cavea were entirely the work of local craftsmen; the Corinthian capitals in particular show affinities with those of the Temple of Liber Pater and the Temple of Isis. Surely observers would have not ignored this marked discrepancy between the imperial-style decoration of the interior and the local-style features of the exterior. The date of the theater is disputed; diverging opinions attribute it either to the Antonine or Severan period, but the stylistic motifs of the scene’s architectural ornament suggest a late Antonine date. The theater of Thugga is dated to 168–169 ce thanks to the dedicatory inscription, which records the name of the patron P. Marcius Quadratus, a flamen divi Augusti and pontifex of the city (CIL 8. 26606). This private benefaction acquires even more relevance in this case, for other members of his family were responsible for financing the construction of the Capitolium in the same years (Poinssot, 1983: 27–31; Sear, 2006: 287–288). While only generically datable to the second century ce, the theater at Cuicul was set in a dominant position within the city, overlooking the valley underneath. Amid the sculptural decoration there is a figured capital with a head of Oceanus, which bears an inscription with the name of its sculptor, Ascanius (Gsell, 1901a: 186–189). Cyrenaica has yielded evidence of Greek-type theaters, with a full circular orchestra. At Cyrene there are several theaters and related buildings, such as odea. The theater in the Sanctuary of Apollo (Figure 15.4d) is the earliest, but it was rebuilt at various stages. The first phase corresponds to a wooden structure, ca. late sixth century bce. The construction of a stone stage does not predate the fourth century bce, while an enlargement of the cavea was carried out in the second century bce. The remodeling of the stage in Roman fashion occurred in the early imperial period, followed by further changes, until the theater was converted into an amphitheater in the late second century ce (Sear, 2006: 291–292; Kenrick, 2013: 209–212). Two Roman-type theaters are located near the



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Gymnasium, but their chronology is uncertain: “Theater 2” is usually dated to the second century ce, while “Theater 3” should be its successor, ca. third century ce. Complementary to theaters, amphitheaters were another essential part of Roman cities and urban life. North Africa was no exception; the province of Africa Proconsularis alone counts 58 amphitheaters (Montali, 2015: 323–553). If compared to the Italian peninsula, where amphitheaters had already acquired their definitive architectural connotations by the first century ce, the layout of the contemporary North African monuments represented an intermediate stage. However, this gap was rapidly filled by the second century. The construction of amphitheaters in North Africa continued well into the third century, fostered by the continuous building activities of cities that wanted to showcase their prominence in a sort of municipal contest, particularly evident across Proconsularis (Bomgardner, 2000: 121–196). Unfortunately, epigraphic evidence attesting to the patronage of amphitheaters is scarce. It seems that their construction was mainly the responsibility of the local communities, while wealthy patrons exercised their euergetism by financing games and spectacles. One of the earliest amphitheaters is the one at Caesarea. Part of Juba’s building program, it was completed under his son Ptolemy within the first half of the first century ce. A striking feature is the shape of the arena; rather than being elliptical, it is formed by a central rectangle (101 × 44 m) with semi-circles at the two short ends (Leveau, 1984: 36–39). The amphitheater of Lepcis Magna is more canonical, though not exactly elliptical in shape. It was built in the eastern outskirts of the city on a site that was previously used as a quarry. An inscription records its inauguration under the governorate of M. Pompeius Silvanus Taberius Flavinus in 56 ce (AE 1968, 549), but recent research has shown that the building was subject to later changes (Ricciardi, 2018). The first interventions took place in the latter half of the second century ce, with the purpose of connecting this building with the adjacent circus (161–162 ce). Limestone architectural elements were recycled in the construction; some of these came from the Temple of Roma and Augustus, whose façade had been remade in marble in this period. A colonnaded portico and a shrine were added to the upper part of the cavea. The shrine might have been dedicated to Ephesian Artemis, as suggested by a marble statue of the goddess found in the vicinity. Further changes and restorations were undertaken in the early third century ce, and the amphitheater remained in use until the mid-fourth century. Like the one at Lepcis Magna, the amphitheater of Sabratha was built on the site of a disused quarry. Traditionally dated to the second century ce, it has been recently argued that the building was the result of a single construction phase under the Flavians – a chronology that would fit with the main public interventions in the forum (Montali, 2015: 295–300). Very little survives of its architectural decoration; the small fragment of a marble statue, probably a philosopher, is all that is left of its sculpture. Among the North African amphitheaters, the one at Thysdrus (Figure 15.4e) stands out for its good preservation. The chronology is not firmly established, but most scholars date it within the first half of the third century ce. Many aspects of its design show a derivation from the Colosseum. The cavea’s outer façade is divided into three levels. The pillars supporting the archways are decorated with half-columns, respectively Corinthian on the first and third levels, and composite on the second, all bearing simplified capitals with smooth leaves. Metrological studies have revealed that the plan was laid out in Roman feet, while the Roman foot and the Punic cubit were used interchangeably for the elevation (Wilson Jones, 1993: 408; Montali, 2015: 485–501). The amphitheater of Uthina is another building of remarkable size, being surpassed only by those of Carthage, Thysdrus, and Lepcis Magna. It was probably first built under Hadrian, to be enlarged and reshaped under the Antonines or the Severans. A thorough architectural study has allowed reconstruction of the elevation of the cavea, provided with a double order of simple Tuscan pilasters on the exterior (Ben Hassen and Golvin, 2004b). Chariot races were as popular as theater performances and gladiatorial combats. In North Africa there is a fair number of built circuses, but the absence of more such buildings can be explained by the fact that many towns hosted chariot races in less permanent structures (Humphrey, 1986 295–336). The Antonine circus of Lepcis Magna was monumental in size and decoration, recalling

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the model of the Circus Maximus in Rome and attesting to the wealthiness of the local society. Analogous observations apply to buildings such as those at Carthage and Caesarea. The circus of Carthage is located at the southwest edge of the city. Excavations have revealed that this was a monument of outstanding importance, as one would expect for a city like Carthage. The construction started around the end of the first century ce, followed by modifications throughout the second and third centuries, as well as in later periods (Bockmann et al., 2018). The marble architectural decoration recovered in it belongs to the Romano-Carthaginian style (Norman, 1988). While it is possible that Caesarea already had a circus at the time of Juba and Ptolemy, the extant evidence – in particular the vaulted spina and the ornamentation of the porta triumphalis – does not predate the late second century ce (Leveau, 1984: 39–40).

Baths, Monumental Fountains, and Aqueducts The importance of baths and bathing in Roman society is well known. Among the western provinces of the Roman Empire, North Africa shows a particularly high concentration of bath buildings. This attests to their significance as a sociopolitical phenomenon and as a tool to guarantee the cohesion of the local communities. A survey in Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco has counted 131 imperial-period baths (Thébert, 2003: 129–284), to which one should add the evidence from Libya. Direct imperial intervention can be detected only in the construction of the Antonine Baths of Carthage, while the bulk of public baths were built through municipal funding and euergetism (Thébert, 2003: 435–447). The acts of donation (and rebuilding) of baths were showcased in inscriptions mentioning the source of the funding and the dedicants, as well as in the associated decorative apparatus. In terms of typology, the North African baths can be divided into three groups: baths with an axially symmetrical plan, half-axial baths, and asymmetrical baths. The Antonine Baths of Carthage (Figure 15.6a) have a symmetrical plan and are the only example in North Africa of an imperial-scale building, clearly inspired by the model of Trajan’s Baths in Rome. They were dedicated around 145 ce (CIL 8. 12513). Positioned on top of a concrete vaulted basement along the coast, at the end of the decumanus maximus, the baths occupied a prominent position that enhanced their visibility to those who approached Carthage by the sea (Morton, 2015). The central block presents heated rooms on the northwest side; this block is enclosed within an open precinct, where the frigidarium, an open natatio, and two lateral palaestrae are located (Yegül, 1992: 192–196; Thébert, 2003: 141–143). The baths displayed a very rich marble ornamentation and array of sculpture in the Romano-Carthaginian style, an obvious way to stress the importance of their imperial patronage (Lézine, 1968: 37–66). The Hadrianic Baths at Lepcis Magna (Figure 15.6b) are situated in a large building with a symmetrical plan (Yegül, 1992: 186–192; Kenrick, 2009: 96–98). Built by the proconsul P. Valerius Priscus, they were inaugurated in 137 ce (IRT 361) and were subsequently restored under Commodus and Septimius Severus. The baths feature a natatio, frigidarium, tepidarium, and caldarium aligned along the central axis. The palaestra annexed to the north is a vast rectangular space with apsidal ends, which might have served for a civic use rather than solely for the bathers’ exercise. The Hadrianic Baths’ building was the first at Lepcis Magna to be monumentalized with marble, followed by the reconstruction of the edifices in the Old Forum. White Proconnesian and Pentelic marble was used for the architectural members, while column shafts feature a range of colored stones, such as Mysian granite, coralline breccia, African marble of Cap de Garde (greco scritto), and Carystian green marble (Bianchi, 2009: 46–55). The baths’ lavish ornamentation was further emphasized by marble statuary; statues of gods, emperors, and mythological figures were on display around the pools, while the apses of the palaestra contained statues of local notables (Finocchi, 2012). Other bath complexes that were designed with a symmetrical plan are the Large East Baths at Mactar (Figure 15.6c), built in 199 ce, and the Baths of Licinius at Thugga, probably dating to



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Figure 15.6  North African baths. a: Carthage, Antonine Baths (after Gros, 2011). b: Lepcis Magna, Hadrianic Baths (after Finocchi, 2012). c: Mactar, Large East Baths (after Yegül, 1992). d: Bulla Regia, Baths of Julia Memmia (after Yegül, 1992). e: Cyrene, Baths of Trajan (after Stucchi, 1975).

the third century ce (Yegül, 1992: 196–197, 206–211; Thébert, 2003: 144–145, 176–179). Despite the fragmentary remains, it appears that the East Baths at Leptiminus also belonged to the symmetrical type. Their first construction may date to the latter half of the second century ce, followed by another major phase of the early third century ce, as indicated by the brick-stamps and mosaic decorations (DeLaine, 2001). The Baths of Julia Memmia at Bulla Regia (Figure 15.6d) are a good example of the half-axial type. This large complex was donated to the city as an act of private euergetism, probably around 220–240 ce (ILAfr 454). The central element is represented by a frigidarium with two pools, symmetrically arranged at either ends. Two large galleries, also symmetrical, were probably used for exercises among other uses, given the absence of a palaestra proper. The sector of the caldaria is located to the south and breaks the symmetry pattern, with a series of rooms developing east–west (Broise and Thébert, 1993). The majority of baths across North Africa belong to the small- and medium-size asymmetrical type, showing a large variability of layouts and decoration. The Hunting Baths at Lepcis Magna are so designed, though exceptional for their excellent preservation. The exterior is purely functional and unadorned, with a series of vaults, domes, and semi-domes covering the respective rooms (the baths may not even look ancient to modern viewers’ eyes, given our stereotypical idea of Classical buildings). The interior, on the other hand, is finely decorated with stuccoes and frescoes, depicting

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scenes of animal hunts and landscape views. The baths may have been commissioned by a local association or guild, probably in the second century ce (Kenrick, 2009: 124–126; Bianchi and Musso, 2012). The Baths of Trajan in the Sanctuary of Apollo at Cyrene (Figure 15.6e) were first built in 98 ce. Severely damaged during the Jewish Revolt, they were rebuilt in 119 ce with a new natatio and tepidarium along the west side, and were kept in use until the earthquake of 365 ce. Despite its marginal position, Tingitana has yielded a varied selection of public and private baths. The River Baths at the military vicus of Thamusida were part of building activities connected with the presence of auxiliary units. First built in the Flavian period, the baths were enlarged in the first half of the third century ce through the addition of an exedra to the south, as well as a latrine and cistern (Camporeale, 2008: 121, 137). The city of Volubilis features numerous bath complexes. Public baths include the “Baths of the Capitolium,” a second-century complex that was annexed to the piazza of the Capitoline temple in the third century ce, and the North Baths (late second century ce) located at the southwest end of the decumanus maximus. Private baths occur frequently at Volubilis, as in many North African cities. Most of them are in the northeast quarter, belonging to aristocratic houses. Some baths, such as those of the House of the Labors of Hercules and the House of the Meridian, are believed to have served a double use, private and public. This hypothesis must be taken with caution, given the lack of archaeological stratigraphy and the oftenpatchy remains (Thébert, 2003: 271–284). The baths of the House of Venus encroached on the street, from which they had access, in addition to an internal access from the peristyle, so they probably did have a double use. However, these baths seem to belong to a fourth-century ce phase (Walker, 2019: 43). Finally, traces of the existence of a Roman-type bath can be found at Garama, in the Fazzan desert. While the exact location of the building in the central district remains unknown, the discovery of construction materials, especially a large number of bricks for suspensurae and box flue tiles, would confirm its presence (Mattingly et al., 2013: 292–293). Alongside baths, the use and display of water is seen in monumental fountains and nymphaea (51 monuments are recorded in Africa Proconsularis, Mauretania Caesariensis, and Mauretania Tingitana: Aupert, 1974; Lamare, 2019). These buildings show a range of architectural forms and types of ornamentation: from fountains provided with a single niche, to elaborate, multistory monuments. It is difficult to determine a precise chronology when epigraphic evidence is lacking; it seems, however, that the construction and restoration of fountains continued well into the fifth century ce. For the first three centuries of the imperial era, most fountains were built through private patronage, while a rise of public funding can be detected from the Diocletianic period (Lamare, 2019: 249–261). Regardless of their degree of architectural and decorative complexity, many North African fountains were located in prominent positions, in the middle of public squares or along thoroughfares. This means their full iconographic details were immediately visible to passers-by, similarly to monumental arches or gates. The choice of these locations indicates that, beside their practical use, fountains were conceived as a central component of the urban decor. Among the buildings with a basic layout, one should include the fountain at the southeast corner of the North Baths at Volubilis, ca. second century ce. Provided with a single semi-circular basin, the fountain (8.5 m long) was attached to a branch of the aqueduct. On the opposite side of the street, the Arch of Caracalla (216–217 ce) was also decorated with fountains on both façades, but these might have been later additions (Lamare, 2019: 300–301, 304–305). Another similar building is the hemicycle fountain (diameter 5.75  m) in the Severan forum of Cuicul,  which was part of the portico along the northern wall (dated after 211 ce: Lamare, 2019: 321–322). An underground, octagonal nymphaeum is attested at Sala (Ammar, 2008; Mugnai, 2018: 145–146). This is part of an enigmatic building, referred to in the l­iterature as the “curia Ulpia,” though it was not a curia. The nymphaeum (diameter 6.5 m) has a brickwork core that was faced with marble veneer; each side features a niche for statues. There is no direct evidence for dating the nymphaeum, but the “curia Ulpia” was decorated with architectural elements analogous to those of the Capitolium on the opposite side of the street, which was inaugurated in 120 ce (IAM2 Suppl. 861).



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Part of Septimius Severus’ works, the Great Nymphaeum at Lepcis Magna was a large, two-story monument (Ward-Perkins, 1993: 79–87; Lamare, 2019: 343–346). Probably completed around 211 ce (IRT 398a), it testifies to the importance that the Severans attributed to water architecture. The obvious reference was the Septizodium in Rome, which provided a monumental façade to the Palatine palace over the Porta Capena area. The Great Nymphaeum has a central hemicycle (diameter 15.4 m) built in concrete and covered with marble veneer. The two orders of Corinthian columns featured shafts of Carystian green marble (lower order) and red Aswan granite (upper order), framing niches that hosted marble statues. Among the statuary featured togate figures, portraits, heads and statues of deities, and a colossal group of Dionysus with a satyr (Finocchi, 2015). Other water monuments are attested at Lepcis Magna, such as the Nymphaeum of Hercules (also Severan in date), smaller nymphaea, and fountains (Tomasello, 2005; Lamare, 2019: 346–353). The hemicycle layout of Lepcis’ Great Nymphaeum is replicated on the monumental nymphaeum of Tipasa, which was also richly decorated with marble statues and architectural ornament. The stylistic features of its decoration have pointed to a date in the fourth century ce (Aupert, 1974). A similar chronology is attributed to three fountains at Sufetula. They have a large rectangular basin, one of them being placed at the back end of a porticoed courtyard. Their masonry and ornament made use of recycled architectural elements and inscriptions (Lamare, 2019: 367–372). Like other forms of local architecture, fountains in Cyrenaica kept an essentially Greek character. At Ptolemais, a circular fountain of Pentelic marble was discovered along the Street of the Monuments. Originally part of another (unidentified) building, the fountain was moved here around the fourth century ce. It was decorated with a finely carved scene of dancing maenads. This was based on an original, fifth-century bce Athenian sculpture, but when the copy was made is unknown; scholarly opinions have ranged from the third century bce to the second century ce (Caputo, 1948; Kenrick, 2013: 74–75, 106). Within the Sanctuary of Apollo at Cyrene, a Doricstyle fountain was placed east of the Temple of Isis. Partly rock-cut and fed by a sacred spring, the fountain was donated by Philothales, son of Jason, probably in the fourth century bce. Like many other Cyrenean buildings, it was restored in the second and third centuries ce, to be eventually destroyed by the earthquake of 365 ce (Stucchi, 1975: 141). The water supply of the North African cities was guaranteed by aqueducts, together with the use of cisterns and water-pumping technologies. It is difficult to date the construction of an aqueduct with precision, unless an inscription provides this information. The aqueduct of Carthage is one of the largest of the ancient world; it originally ran for 90 km from the spring of Zaghouan, to be later extended through a new branch to reach the length of 132  km. Its construction was probably started under Hadrian and completed during the reign of Antoninus Pius (Wilson, 1998). The aqueduct of Caesarea poses similar chronological issues. A first phase may date to the first century ce, contemporary with Juba and Ptolemy’s building activities; this was followed by a series of modifications, probably under Trajan or Hadrian (Leveau and Paillet, 1976: 150–153; Leveau, 1984: 57–63). On the other hand, the aqueduct of Aïn Hammam that supplied the city of Thugga can be dated with precision thanks to the dedicatory inscription (DFH 36). The text records that the aqueduct was built by the civitas Thuggensis, and that it was inaugurated by the proconsul M. Aurelius Zeno between 184 and 187 ce (de Vos Raaijmakers et al., 2013).

Commercial and Storage Buildings Public markets (macella) are not particularly numerous in North Africa. Most of them are found in Numidia and Proconsularis (18 buildings are securely identified); only one is known at Auzia in Mauretania Caesariensis, while the buildings at Volubilis and Banasa in Tingitana are of doubtful identification (Hamdoune, 2011). The general layout is that of an enclosed space with a central court, on to which open tabernae, where a range of goods and commodities were sold. Despite the practical use of these buildings, their ornamentation could be quite elaborate, attesting to the

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Figure 15.7  North African markets. a: Lepcis Magna (after Yegül and Favro, 2019); b: Thugga (after Gros, 2011); c: Hippo Regius (after De Ruyt, 1983).

important role they had in the respective cityscapes (macella were also used for administrative purposes). Variations to the general scheme occurred, as well as reshaping and modifications, especially throughout the Antonine and Severan periods; examples include the buildings of Gigthis, Cuicul, Thibilis, Thamugadi, and Bulla Regia (De Ruyt, 1983: 259–263; Gros, 2011: 460–464). The market of Lepcis Magna (Figure 15.7a) is the earliest in date; it was built in 9–8 bce by Annobal Tapapius Rufus (IRT 319; IPT 21), the same wealthy citizen who donated the theater to his city a few years later. The market was set along the cardo maximus, though the original entrance was on the cross street on the southwest side. It has distinctive characteristics, being an open rectangular square surrounded by porticoes (70 × 42 m) with two circular tholoi in the middle, both of which are enclosed within an octagonal structure (Degrassi, 1951; De Ruyt, 1983: 97–106; Bullo, 2002: 170–173). Originally decorated with limestone architectural elements, the market underwent profound transformations in the Antonine and Severan periods, during which gray granite colonnades and white marble architectural members replaced part of the previous ornamentation (Bianchi, 2009: 55–58). A tabula mensuraria (ca. third century ce) was displayed inside the market, reproducing three length-units: the Roman foot (29.6  cm), the Punic cubit (51.6 cm), and the Royal Egyptian cubit (52.3 cm). Analogous tabulae have been discovered elsewhere in North Africa (Salama and Laporte, 2010), demonstrating that pre-Roman and Roman length-units co-existed for a long time, as confirmed by metrological studies of buildings such as the amphitheater of Thysdrus and the judicial basilica of Volubilis (Wilson Jones, 1993, 2019). The market of Thugga (Figure 15.7b) is located on the south side of the Piazza of the Windrose. Its layout is more schematic than the Lepcis building; rectangular in shape (35.5 × 28 m), the central court is flanked by a row of tabernae along the east and west sides (Gros, 2011: 455). It was built in 54 ce by M. Licinius Rufus (DFH 69), while the large exedra to the south and the portico to the north were probably added in 166–167 ce (ILAfr 523). The macellum of Ammaedara is positioned in a central area of the city, bordered by the Capitolium to the west and public baths to the north. Its plan is almost square (40 × 39 m) with a central court surrounded by tabernae on all sides. The chronology of the building is unknown due to the lack of archaeological data,although it may fall within the second century ce when this district started to develop (Bejaoui, 2009). A central tholos can be found again in the macellum of Hippo Regius (Figure 15.7c), surrounded on three sides by tabernae. The date of the construction is uncertain, perhaps contemporaneous to the modifications of the nearby forum in 77–78 ce, or in the course of the second century ce (De



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Ruyt, 1983: 89–94). This edifice was later modified through the addition of a large rectangular hall to the east (47 × 22 m), as recorded in an inscription of 364–367 ce (AE 1982, 943). With regard to storage buildings (horrea), the extant evidence from the Roman provinces is not comparable in monumentality to the edifices of Rome and Ostia. From the second century ce, North Africa’s exports of cereals, oil, wine, and other goods to Rome and the rest of the Empire acquired a growing importance (cf. Bonifay, Chapter 13). Regrettably, our knowledge of the North African horrea suffers from the limited archaeological research done on these types of buildings, although this picture has improved in recent years. Granaries and warehouses were built mostly along the principal thoroughfares and in the vicinity of city gates, to facilitate the movement and transport of goods (Carre, 2011: 24–28). Seven granaries are securely attested in Numidia through archaeological and epigraphic data. The granary at Cuicul is trapezoidal in shape and is located next to the southwest gate. An inscription discovered in this area mentions the construction of horrea by the respublica Cuiculitanorum, recording also the inauguration by the governor Q. Anicius Faustus in 198–199 ce (ILAlg II, 7806). A recent restudy (cf. below, p. 270) of the granary, however, has questioned the connection between this inscription and the excavated horrea. The building’s architectural and topographic features would make it more likely datable in the first half of the second century ce (Papi and Martorella, 2009: 178–182). Other known granaries are associated with military buildings, such as the horrea inside the legionary fortress of Lambaesis and those in the vicus and auxiliary fort of Thamusida (Papi and Martorella, 2007).

Military Architecture The Roman army in North Africa has left important traces of its presence: fortresses, forts, watch towers, and other types of defenses, which were part of a vast and mobile military frontier (Guédon, 2018; cf. Faure, Chapter 10). The Third Augustan Legion was the only legionary unit, garrisoned at Lambaesis from the Flavian period to the early fourth century ce. A first fort was built in 81 ce, to be replaced by a larger fortress (500 × 420 m) (Figure 15.8a), probably completed on the occasion of Hadrian’s visit to Africa in 128 ce (Gsell, 1901a: 76–86; Cagnat, 1912: 441–519; Le Bohec, 1989: 407–417). Surrounded by a wall with towers, the fortress is crossed by two main streets: the via principalis, running east–west, and the via praetoria, oriented north–south. The intersection of the two streets is marked by an imposing monument, which takes the shape of a four-way arch with three archways on each side. An inscription recording its restoration in 267– 268 ce (CIL 8. 2571) indicates that the building was called groma, from the name of the instrument that the surveyors (mensores) used for laying out the fortress’ plan. It was decorated with a double order of Corinthian pilasters and columns on each side; a relief of the legion’s standard can be seen on the keystone of one of the arches. The purpose of the groma was to monumentalize the access to the central part of the fortress, the principia. This sector housed offices and armamentaria opening on to a courtyard. The south side was occupied by a tribunal and a chapel, where the standards were kept, alongside meeting rooms (scholae) for the military guilds. The rest of the fortress has restituted remains of the soldiers’ barracks, the officers’ lodgings, workshops, warehouses, and baths. A detachment (vexillatio) of the Third Augustan Legion took part in the construction of the fort of Gemellae along the Numidian frontier in 132 ce, which was probably occupied by the ala I Pannoniorum. Similarly, the legionaries were involved in building the fort of Gholaia (Bu Njem) (Figure 15.8b) in the Tripolitanian pre-desert, as recorded by an inscription of 201 ce (IRT 913). This fort (138 × 93 m) was meant to garrison an auxiliary unit and featured civilian constructions around it, some of which were still occupied after the formal retreat of the army in the mid-third century ce. In the middle of the fort one finds the headquarters; a bath complex is placed to the north and the house of the commander is to the south. One of the distinctive components of the principia is the presence of a scriptorium on the south side; the other features reproduce on a smaller scale the basic elements attested at Lambaesis (Rebuffat et al., 1966–1967; Kenrick, 2009: 170–174).

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Figure 15.8  North African military forts and fortresses. a: Lambaesis, legionary fortress (after Cagnat, 1912). b: Bu Njem, auxiliary fort (after Kenrick, 2009). c: Thamusida, auxiliary fort (after Lenoir, 2011).

The fort of Rapidum in Caesariensis was occupied by the cohors II Sardorum as early as 122 ce. It is a good example of a settlement where a mixed community of veterans and civilians progressively grew until the early third century. The departure of the army at that point, however, determined a shrinkage and slow decline of the site, which was probably deserted by the first half of the fourth century (Laporte, 1989; Blas de Roblès et al., 2019: 88–91). The most comprehensive evidence we have for an auxiliary fort and the annexed civilian vicus comes from Thamusida (Figure 15.8c). The plan of the fort is rectangular with rounded corners (165 × 138 m). The gate of the porta praetoria was flanked by two towers; their masonry shows that ashlar blocks were only used for reinforcing the corners and for the impost of the arch. In addition to the principia, there are remains of the soldiers’ barracks and other buildings, such as a granary and a bread oven (Callu et al., 1965: 135–300; Camporeale, 2008). Recent excavations and architectural survey have helped clarify the fort’s phases. The first phase is datable in the late first century ce, when a first auxiliary unit, the cohors II Syrorum, was moved to Thamusida. At some point in the second century ce the via praetoria was provided with a colonnaded portico. These works might have coincided with the arrival of a new unit, the ala Gemelliana, which replaced the cohors. Other changes occurred in the third century: the construction of a basilica exercitatoria and the reconstruction of the commander’s house (Camporeale, 2008: 131–138). The analysis of building techniques at Thamusida and other sites of Tingitana has provided important data. The arrival of the army in the province in the mid-first century ce determined crucial changes in building technology, particularly the use of bricks and the introduction of mortared masonry, which allowed a speed-up in the construction process. The army also played a major role in the supply and transport of building materials (Camporeale, 2008: 140–158; Mugnai, 2018: 133–134). In contrast, the poor quality of the architectural and sculptural ornament from military sites shows that the army had little to do with the movement of artisans and decorative motifs, either within or beyond this province.



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Houses, Palaces, Villas, and Farms While public and military buildings contributed to shaping the North African landscape to a large extent, domestic architecture also had a primary role. Quite obviously, the way individuals experienced life depended on their social status and financial means. This involved a wide range of architectural and decorative choices associated with private buildings. North Africa has provided a wealth of evidence for private architecture, which keeps growing thanks to new research and excavations. A repertoire of Roman aristocratic houses, compiled in the 1960–1970s, counted 152 buildings from Mauretania Tingitana to Cyrenaica (Rebuffat, 1969, 1974). More recently, a supplementary investigation carried out at selected sites in Tunisia has identified 136 Romanperiod houses (Bullo and Ghedini, 2003). Despite the variability of architectural features, some common elements can be traced. From the late first century ce and throughout the second century, élite urban houses show a plan where the fulcrum is represented by a central peristyle, on to which open the other rooms. A vestibule leads from the house entrance into the peristyle. The main hall, the triclinium, can be found either aligned axially with the entrance, or be placed along any of the other sides of the peristyle, with a number of different solutions (Gros, 2017: 164–178). However, whenever contextualized artifacts, furnishings, or ornamentation are lacking, it proves difficult to recognize the function of each room. Some of the earliest Roman houses in North Africa are at Utica. The House of the Figured Capitals can be dated to the first century bce. When the quarter was rearranged in the second century ce (Dufton, 2019: 270–272), this house was annexed into the northeast portion of the House of the Cascade (Figure 15.9a). Some of the original decoration survives, in particular the figured capitals that gave the name to the building. These have acanthus leaves of the ItalicCorinthian style, a type of ornament that was popular in the Italian peninsula and Sicily in the second and first centuries bce (Lézine, 1956, 1968: 125–126). With regard to construction techniques, Utica has provided evidence for the use of pisé (earth that is poured into formwork and compressed). This technique is found as early as the third century bce in North Africa, for instance at the site of Kerkouane, and continued to be used until the Islamic era. The use of pisé and mudbrick in domestic architecture has also been recognized at Thamusida and other sites of Tingitana (Camporeale, 2008: 141). In the literature pisé is traditionally associated with the Punic world, but recent research argues that this technique was known in Italy in the same period as the earliest North African occurrences, thus reopening the question of its origins (Russell and Fentress, 2016). A survey at Caesarea has counted 35 Roman houses. Some of the better-preserved have a central peristyle, while others are too poorly preserved to say. The recovered statues and other decorative elements confirm that some of them date to the first century ce, with subsequent construction phases (Leveau, 1982). The development of aristocratic houses from the second century ce onward is a phenomenon that can be explained with the growing number of North African élite members who had access to municipal and senatorial careers. A desire to express this status in front of the community is reflected in the architecture of private residences. The House of Sertius at Thamugadi exemplifies this concept through its size, with two peristyles, and the richness of its decorations (Gros, 2017: 175–176). The House of the Mosaic of Venus at Banasa (mid-second century ce) is also significant. It is placed along the cardo maximus and its entrance is framed by majestic Corinthian half-columns and pilasters, which reproduce on local limestone the RomanoCarthaginian style of the period. In contrast, the interior is decorated with local-style architectural elements, mixing together pre-Roman survivals and other motifs. One can argue that this was an intentional choice, perhaps alluding to a private sphere of the owner’s life (Mugnai, 2018: 123–125). A privileged context for the study of domestic architecture, the northeast quarter of Volubilis, presents an abundance of aristocratic houses. One finds buildings with a more modest decoration, like the House of the Two Olive Presses, and luxurious houses featuring elaborate architectural layouts and ornament, such as the House of the Columns, the House of the Labors of Hercules,

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Figure 15.9  North African houses and palaces. a: Utica, House of the Cascade (after Lézine, 1968). b: Volubilis, House of Venus (after Ward-Perkins, 1981). c: Cyrene, House of Jason Magnus (after Pensabene and Gasparini, 2014). d: Ptolemais, Colonnaded Palace (after Pesce, 1950). e: Volubilis, Palace of Gordianus (after Thouvenot, 1958).

and the House of Venus. The presence of installations with olive presses inside many houses attests to the source of wealth of the Volubilitan aristocracy (Bigi, 2019: 159–162). The district probably started to develop in the second century ce. An examination of the house plans has shown that the urban grid was laid out in Roman feet, but there is also evidence for the use of a local cubit for the architectural ornament (Camporeale et al., 2008: 296–297; Camporeale, 2015: 95–100). The House of Venus (Figure 15.9b) has been the subject of a recent restudy, which has produced important conclusions (Walker, 2019). The residence of a wealthy and sophisticated owner, it displayed two major works of art: a bronze bust of Juba II, late first century bce, and one of Cato the Younger, probably Neronian in date (Boube-Piccot, 1969: 69–82). The mosaic of the Triumph of Venus, which gives the name to the house, and those of the Rape of Hylas and Actaeon spying on Diana, are other highlights. Traditionally dated to the second century ce, the re-examination of the mosaics’ imagery has shown that they do not predate the fourth century ce, so the house must have been subject to restoration and reflooring at that stage. This situation occurred in other houses of the district; for instance, one of the rooms of the House of the Columns shows a type of architectural ornament that dates to the late fourth century ce (Pensabene, 2011: 236–238). Mosaic floors were one of the key elements of the North African houses’ decoration, as demonstrated by the vast number and variety of examples attested. The occurrence of specific motifs, the



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Figure 15.10  Mosaic with the Indian Triumph of Dionysus from Sitifis (photo P. Kenrick).

preference for certain images, and how these were displayed inside rooms, reveal the most common decorative programs. They can also offer insights into the relationship between the patron’s intentions and the repertoires that the mosaicists offered (Dunbabin, 1978; Carucci, 2007: 102–104; Novello, 2007). The first significant productions of polychrome mosaics by North African ateliers date to the second century ce. The peak of this industry, however, was reached in the third and fourth centuries, at which point there is evidence for the circulation of cartoons from North Africa to other regions, like Sicily and Spain (Wilson, 2015: 507). Mythological scenes are frequently represented on mosaics; a masterpiece of this kind is the mosaic with the Indian Triumph of Dionysus from Sitifis (Figure 15.10). Other common images are animal hunts, circus and amphitheater games, as well as daily activities, as depicted on the mosaic of the Labors in the Fields from Caesarea (Ferdi, 2005: 114–121). Domestic architecture in Cyrenaica was characterized by the continuity of architectural and decorative features across the late Hellenistic and imperial eras. The houses in the agora district at Cyrene feature a two-story peristyle with Doric and Ionic columns, as attested in the Greek Eastern Mediterranean (Stucchi, 1975: 142–149). The House of Jason Magnus (Figure 15.9c) is a large complex that combined some pre-existing structures, including a Temple of Hermes, which has suggested that the house might have served a public function as well. The peristyle is of the Rhodian type (Vitr. De arch. 6.7), with a majestic colonnade on the south side that is taller than those on the other three sides. This colonnade was decorated with figured capitals of Asiatic tradition; it has been argued that one of these bore a portrait head of Battos, Cyrene’s founder (Stucchi, 1967: 112–114). Imperial portraits of Hadrian, Antoninus Pius, Marcus Aurelius, and Lucius Verus were discovered alongside statues of gods, muses, athletes, and portraits of individuals (Mingazzini, 1966; Pensabene and Gasparini, 2014: 216–225). Peristyle houses were representative only of the élites’ lifestyle, while people of the middle class and other social strata lived in a different way. Unfortunately, little survives in the archaeological record of all those structures made of perishable materials, but they must have been quite common. Therefore, one can only assess the domestic architecture of the lower strata by looking at the preserved stone buildings. Many of these had more or less irregular plans, like the Insula of Nigidius

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Albanus at Thamusida, which was roughly trapezoidal in shape. At Thamugadi, one-story houses were organized in regular allotments, recalling barrack blocks and following the colony’s orthogonal grid (Fentress, 1979: 129–130). These lots were subject to changes through time, for it frequently happened that two or more of them were combined together to create a new house block (Gros, 2017: 196–201). Evidence of non-élite, domestic architecture can be found also at the sites of Saniat Jebril and Garama in Fazzan. These houses were largely built with mudbricks, their chronologies ranging from the second to fourth centuries ce. A recurring feature is the presence of paired, smaller and larger rooms, whose plan and arrangement may remotely recall the shape of Roman triclinia, but their function is uncertain (Mattingly et al., 2013: 293–297). In contrast, the term “palace” is used to describe an élite urban residence of large size. One such example is the Colonnaded Palace at Ptolemais (Pesce, 1950) (Figure 15.9d). This is a three-story complex, whose rich architecture and sculpture attest to a particularly wealthy patronage. The chronology has been long disputed, but many elements point to an initial construction in the first century bce, followed by modifications throughout the imperial period (Bonacasa, 2009). The architecture of the palace was influenced by that of Alexandria, as shown by the “baroque” use of broken pediments and other architectural elements typical of Greco-Roman Egypt, alongside the display of a large number of Egyptian statues. One can also see connections with the Italian peninsula; the figured capitals with human heads and animals (Figure 15.2d) have acanthus leaves of the Italic-Corinthian type, very similar to the contemporary pieces from Utica. Another example of a large residential complex, though much later in date, is the Palace of Gordianus at Volubilis (Figure 15.9e) (Thouvenot, 1958). The palace incorporated an earlier house of the gens Pompeia dating to the Antonine period (IAM2 427, 444–445, 467). An inscription records the reconstruction a solo of the whole palace and its baths in 238–241 ce, under Gordianus III (IAM2 404). The emperor himself financed these works, which were carried out by the governor M. Ulpius Victor, suggesting this complex could have served as one of the gubernatorial residences in the province. The front of the palace opens on to the decumanus maximus with an Ionic colonnade. The interior presents an articulated plan, with a series of peristyles, corridors, and rooms of different size, all decorated with a varied architectural ornamentation in the local Volubilitan style (Mugnai, 2018: 99–102). Suburban, peri-urban, and rural landscapes in the Roman world were characterized by complexes of both residential and productive function (villas), and small- to medium-size farms (cf. de Vos Raaijmakers, Chapter 12). Most of these buildings are known through field surveys, which do not always allow us to fully reconstruct their architecture. This is the case of most of the North African evidence. Depictions of villas on mosaics can offer supplementary data, but such iconographic sources must be used with caution (Wilson, 2018: 273–276). There are also discrepancies in the archaeological record; villa sites have been more thoroughly investigated in Tripolitania than in other areas of North Africa (Cyrenaica has yielded no evidence so far). A survey in the region of Caesarea has recorded about 40 residential buildings in the second to third century ce. These show a large variability in size and complexity of their plans, but how many of them can be ascribed to the category of villas remains somewhat uncertain (Leveau, 1984: 399–410, 463–464; Wilson, 2018: 270–272). In the Algerian countryside, a building that was definitely an aristocratic villa is the one excavated at the Wadi Athmenia, southwest of Constantine, which featured a richly decorated bath house (Gsell, 1901b: 23–28; Wilson, 2018: 277–279). In Tunisia, the Kasserine Survey in the region of Cillium has identified the remains of a large building at Henchir el Guellali (KS 022), which can be interpreted as a villa, as well as numerous farms. The villa featured a pars rustica and pars urbana, and a bath house; it was probably built in the second century ce and continued to be in use until the sixth century (Hitchner, 1988: 23–26). In Tripolitania, the Villa of the Nile at Lepcis Magna has yielded varied evidence of mosaic decoration, including the renowned mosaic with a Nilotic scene. These mosaics belong to different phases, late second to fourth century ce. The Villa of the Nereids and the Roman villa at Silin are other examples of maritime villas along the Tripolitanian coast, whose main building phases date to the second century ce (Wilson, 2018: 285–297).



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A recent survey in the Lepcitanian territory has identified ruins of villa-type buildings with walls usually built in the opus africanum technique, as well as smaller farms, including the fortified type known as “gasr” (pl. “gsur”), built in ashlar masonry (opus quadratum) (Munzi et al., 2016: 73–75). Gsur were a recurring presence in the Tripolitanian hinterland and pre-desert. The earliest attestations date to the late second and early third centuries ce, but the bulk of the evidence encompasses the third to fifth centuries ce, continuing well into the Islamic period (Barker, 1996). One of the best-preserved examples is Gasr Nagazza. It is provided with a tall entrance gate with Corinthianizing and lotus pilasters to the sides, and a circular rosette placed on the keystone of the arch (Kenrick, 2009: 178–179). A similar type of building is the castellum of Nador, in the region between Tipasa and Caesarea. In this case, however, the fortification is only on the front, serving more as a monumental façade than a defense proper. An inscription on the gate records that the building belonged to the flamen M. Cincius Hilarianus (CIL 8. 20934). The exact date when the castellum was built is uncertain, but was probably in the latter half of the fourth century ce, although this was preceded by structures datable in the first century ce (Anselmino et al., 1989). Rural settlements of various sizes have been recorded in the Tunisian countryside; the general layout of these buildings comprises a central courtyard and a series of rooms. Primarily built with cobbles, some of them feature walls with orthostats in opus africanum and, in the case of larger farms, ashlar masonry, especially in press rooms (Hitchner, 1990: 233–240). Other important assemblages of farms have been documented during field surveys in the Segermes Valley and in the rural regions around Thugga and Thibursicum Bure (Dietz et al., 1995; de Vos Raaijmakers and Attoui, 2013).

Funerary Architecture and Art The funerary world offers insights into individual status and identity, supplementing the data one can draw from the study of North African domestic architecture. Burials that took the shape of monumental mausolea were bound to become distinctive landmarks, imposing their presence upon, and conveying visual messages to, anyone who approached them. Early examples of such monuments date to the third and second centuries bce, commonly referred to as “Numidian Royal architecture” (Rakob, 1979). Among these, the Medracen monument is a wide circular tumulus (diameter 59 m) decorated with Doric half-columns and surmounted by an Egyptian-style cornice. The date is disputed, but probably fell between the late third century bce and the first half of the second century. The so-called “Tomb of the Christian Woman” near Tipasa is also circular in shape (diameter 64 m), but its ornamentation is more elaborate, with Ionic half-columns of Hellenistic inspiration. It has been argued that this was either a tomb built by the Mauretanian dynasts in the late second or early first century bce, or perhaps by Juba II at the end of the first century bce (Rakob, 1979: 138–142; MacKendrick, 1980: 190–193; Blas de Roblès et al., 2019: 75–76). Other mausolea of this period belong to the tower-tomb type, such as those at El Khroub (late second century bce), Siga (early second century bce), and the Monument of Atban at Thugga (probably a cenotaph of the mid-second century bce). This latter has a tripartite elevation (Figure 15.11a), featuring corner pilasters with Aeolic capitals on the first and third stories, and Ionic ­half-columns on the second story (Rakob, 1979: 157–158). The monument bore a bilingual, Libyan and Punic inscription (RIL 1) recording the organization of the tomb’s construction project and of the workforce. The analysis of these examples of “Numidian Royal architecture” has revealed the occurrence of architectural and decorative influences from the Hellenistic Eastern Mediterranean (Coarelli and Thébert, 1988). A recent study, however, has pointed out that these buildings should be assessed within their respective African contexts. The eclecticism of their ornamentation – where Punic, Hellenistic, Alexandrian, and other elements are recognizable – did not represent a passive adoption of these styles by the artists, but it was rather the outcome of a more complex, cultural and architectural discourse (Quinn, 2013). Beyond the Numidian world, similar

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Figure 15.11  North African funerary monuments. a: Thugga, Monument of Atban (after Stucchi, 1987). b: Sabratha, Mausoleum B (after Rakob, 1979). c: Cillium, Monument of the Flavii (after Hallier, 1993). d: Gasr ed-Dueirat, mausoleum (after Munzi et al., 2016). e: Ghirza, Tomb North A (after Brogan and Smith, 1984). f: Ghirza, Tomb South A (after Brogan and Smith, 1984).

remarks apply to Mausoleum B at Sabratha (Figure 15.11b), a very eclectic obelisk tomb, or rather a cenotaph like the Monument of Atban. It dates to the early second century bce, as confirmed by stratigraphic evidence. The monument merges Ionic-Peloponnesian decorative features, which recall the later forms attested in the Old Forum of Lepcis Magna, together with Alexandrian and Egyptianizing elements, such as the lintel decorations with solar discs and snakes, and the human and animal sculptures on the second story (Di Vita, 1976). The occurrence of varied architectural and decorative traditions continued on Roman-period mausolea. A recent survey in the Tunisian region of Africa Proconsularis has identified 391 monuments, with chronologies ranging from the Julio-Claudian era to the mid-third century ce (Bentivogli, 2015). The degree of architectural complexity was determined by the financial means available. The tower-tomb mausoleum was the most common type among the upper élites, while less wealthy families opted for smaller monuments, in the form of decorated architectural cippi and stelae. Like mosaics, the aspect of these smaller and larger monuments was the result of a “dialogue” between the patron’s commission and the artists’ repertoire. The type of building materials and the builders’ competence also influenced the shape (Ferchiou, 1995). Alongside these empirical factors, one should consider the visual, social, and ideological messages that these monuments meant to transmit to the viewers. Most mausolea were located in prominent positions in the landscape, but not in complete isolation; their visibility from roads and transportation routes was considered an important element (Moore, 2007). An example of a large tower-tomb mausoleum, the monument of Cillium (Figure 15.11c) was commissioned by T. Flavius Secundus around the mid-second century ce. The second story is decorated with Corinthian pilasters and an entablature that adhere faithfully to the Romano-Carthaginian style (Hallier, 1993). On the other hand, the long Latin poem carved on the building (CIL 8. 211–216) is a perfect blend of “Roman” and



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“African” cultural traditions, attesting to the fact that both were perfectly assimilated by the local society at this stage (Hitchner, 1995). The landscape of Tripolitania has a high concentration of funerary monuments. Over 140 mausolea are preserved on the coast and in the Gefara, Gebel, and pre-desert areas, dating from the second century bce to the fifth century ce. In the coastal zone, the mausoleum of Gasr ed-Dueirat (Figure 15.11d) stood 2.5  km southwest of Lepcis Magna (it is now reassembled in the Lepcis museum garden: Munzi et al., 2016: 87–88). The monument probably dates to the mid-second century ce. Placed on a crepidoma with three steps, it is composed of a lower story with a square section, topped by a circular upper story. Its pseudo-Corinthian and Doric elements are a mix of local and Hellenistic motifs, among which feature metopes with personifications of the Sun and Moon, the Four Seasons, and signs of the zodiac. These elements recur in the pre-Roman and early imperial architecture of Lepcis Magna, continuing to be used on mausolea for a long time afterward. Moving into the Tripolitanian hinterland, one encounters a rich array of funerary monuments, in particular: obelisk mausolea; multistory aedicula mausolea; tower mausolea with a peristyle; peripteral temple mausolea; arcaded temple mausolea; and tetrastyle temple mausolea. Most of them were decorated with sculptural reliefs. The most frequent themes are: scenes of hunt and combat; daily life activities, especially agriculture; religious images; symbolic sculpture; and portraiture. The reliefs from the Gefara zone are overall more realistic and closer to the art produced along the coast of Tripolitania, while those of the Gebel and pre-desert are more schematic in shape, showing little or no interest for Classical-style poses, design, or proportions (Nikolaus, 2016). The skills of the artists played an important role, but one should not interpret these reliefs as a poor attempt to imitate Greco-Roman art. Many of these motifs and architectural features must have been inspired by models that circulated on the coast, but it would be wrong to imagine movements of artisans and models back and forth. The evidence suggests that workshops were well established in the pre-desert and other zones by the third century ce; the repertoire they offered was therefore the one that met the taste of the local élites (Fontana, 1997). Due to their good preservation, the mausolea of Ghirza in the pre-desert have always drawn scholarly attention. These monuments belong to two types, temple tombs and obelisk tombs, and are located in two cemeterial areas, known as the North and South Group (Brogan and Smith, 1984). Establishing a precise chronology of the tombs is a challenging task, but their dates seem to range from the third to the fifth century ce. Tomb North A (Figure 15.11e) probably dates to the third century; it was dedicated to M. Nasif and his wife M. Mathlich by their two sons, Nimir and Fydel (IRT 899). The tomb takes the form of a tetrastyle temple set on a podium with a frontal staircase. It features Ionic columns and a Doric entablature, with acroteria placed on a flat roof. The mixed Ionic-Doric order recalls the Temple of Liber Pater and Temple of Milk’AshtartHercules in the Old Forum at Lepcis Magna, which may have served as models, but the style of the Ionic capitals (Figure 15.2f) shows that the original decorative features were deeply transformed. Tomb South A (Figure 15.11f) belongs to the obelisk type, ca. mid-third century ce. It has two stories; the lower story presents Corinthian corner pilasters, while the second story (now almost entirely collapsed) had half-columns. The tomb was crowned by an obelisk with a Corinthian capital on top. The acanthus of the capitals is reminiscent of the Severan-period style widely attested at Lepcis Magna; however, like the Ionic capitals of Tomb North A, these Corinthian examples are a local re-interpretation. The reliefs on the Ghirza tombs depict forms of individual power, agricultural activities, family imagery, and the cult of ancestors. With regard to the representations of power, the local élites adapted Roman models to suit their own agendas, conveying messages of social status and personal accomplishments to the viewers (Mattingly, 2003). The funerary landscape of Cyrenaica has its own distinctiveness (Stucchi, 1987). The city of Cyrene is surrounded by extensive cemeteries; the north necropolis was used from the sixth century bce to the fifth century ce, with a range of tomb types (Thorn, 2005). The most striking type is represented by rock-cut tombs developed on terraces. Few new tombs were built in the Roman period, while modifications to the interior and the decoration of pre-existing structures occurred regularly. The continued, respectful use of earlier tombs is an indication of historic attachment by the local citizens. Niches on the

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façades of these tombs were used to house portraits of the deceased. These were a standardized production of Roman-period Cyrene, characterized by a frontal pose and wide, uncarved eyes that would have been painted. Another peculiar feature was the presence of female half-figure statues marking the top or side of the tombs (Beschi, 1969–1970; Oldjra and Walker, 2016). These statues exist in faceless and naturalistic human forms, both of which are unique to Cyrenaica. They are usually described as “Goddesses of Death,” probably being a representation of Demeter or Persephone. Their use began in the fifth century bce, overlapping with the occurrence of funerary busts in the Roman period.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank Bruce Hitchner for his guidance and for asking me to write this contribution, a task that has proved challenging and rewarding at the same time. This chapter was completed during my Leverhulme Trust Early Career Fellowship at the University of Oxford. Earlier drafts of the text were read by Stefano Camporeale, Janet DeLaine, Elizabeth Fentress, and Susan Walker, who offered excellent advice on how to improve it, although, of course, I alone remain responsible for any inaccuracies or actual errors.

FURTHER READING There is no single, recent study that encompasses the whole of North African architecture and art. Gros (2011, 2017) provided fundamental works on Roman architecture, which include the main buildings of North Africa (see also Ward-Perkins, 1981: 363–413; Yegül and Favro, 2019: 487–555). Urbanism, architecture, and art are discussed in Romanelli (1970) and MacKendrick (1980); selected evidence from Tunisia is analyzed by Lézine (1960, 1961, 1968) and Scheding (2019). Gsell (1901a, 1901b) remains a primary study of the monuments of Algeria and Stucchi (1975) of the architecture of Cyrenaica. The archaeological guides of the Society for Libyan Studies cover many aspects of architecture and art, providing authoritative and easy reading (Kenrick, 2009, 2013; Blas de Roblès et al., 2019). Brouquier-Reddé (1992) engages with temples and cults in Tripolitania and for recent research on religious architecture in the rest of North Africa, see Baratte et al. (2018). Major studies on private architecture and art are given in Thébert (1985), Bullo and Ghedini (2003), Carucci (2007), and Novello (2007). On the architecture and history of military forts, see Lenoir (2011). For a valid synthesis of the Romano-Carthaginian architecture and art, see Pensabene (1986, 1989); the transition between pre-Roman and imperial architectural decoration in Tunisia is investigated by Ferchiou (1989b), while local and regional architectural ornament is examined in Pensabene (1982a, 1982b; Caesarea), Mahler (2006; pre-Severan Lepcis Magna), and Mugnai (2018; Mauretania Tingitana). Various works deal with stone statuary and architectural sculpture; the most comprehensively researched cities are Lepcis Magna (Aurigemma, 1940; Floriani Squarciapino, 1974; Finocchi, 2012, 2015; Buccino, 2014) and Cyrene (Paribeni, 1959; Rosenbaum, 1960; Traversari, 1960; Beschi, 1969–1970; Huskinson, 1975). Bronze statuary and domestic furnishings from Tingitana are described in Boube-Piccot (1969, 1975). The literature on mosaics is vast; the four volumes of CMT are an essential reference collection for the Tunisian evidence. Other corpora of mosaics are available for individual cities, such as Caesarea (Ferdi, 2005), Cuicul (Blanchard-Lemée, 1975), Thamugadi (Germain, 1969), and Cyrene (Venturini, 2013).

REFERENCES AE = L’Année Épigraphique. Aiosa, S. 2012. Il tempio di Ercole a Sabratha. Architettura e contesto urbano. Rome.



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Woolf, G. 1998. Becoming Roman: The Origins of Provincial Civilization in Gaul. Cambridge. Yegül, F. 1992. Baths and Bathing in Classical Antiquity. Cambridge, MA. Yegül, F., and Favro, D. 2019. Roman Architecture and Urbanism: From the Origins to Late Antiquity. Cambridge.

CHAPTER 16

Transforming Religion under the Roman Empire: The Case of Africa Matthew M. McCarty

Narratives of Religion in Roman Africa Three claims, or narrative structures, are often used to describe religion in Roman Africa. First, the religious life of ancient North Africa is seen to reflect the habitation history of the region: marked by subsequent strata of imperialism and colonialism, creating a religious mixture of native Libyan, Punic, and Roman elements, neatly stacked atop one another like a layer cake (Charles-Picard, 1954; Le Glay, 1966; Hugoniot, 2000: 148–149; Briand-Ponsart and Hugoniot, 2005: 151–173; Le Bohec, 2013: 181). In other words, the supposed cultural origins of gods and rites are privileged, often at the expense of analyzing how these deities and practices were transformed in the changing social, cultural, political, and economic contexts of the Roman Empire. Second, many scholars have touted the deep religious conservatism of the populations of North Africa, allowing them to draw a direct line from posited Punic and Libyan beliefs (including a suggested near-monotheism centered around the gods Baal Hammon/Saturn and an “Oriental mysticism”) through the growth of Christianity in the province, the Islamic conquest, and even to modernity (e.g., Charles-Picard, 1954; Le Glay, 1966: Cadotte, 2007; Shaw, 2016). That is, although nearly every aspect of society and economy in North Africa was transformed by the region’s incorporation into the networks of the Roman Empire, religion has been seen as a locus of deeper cultural stasis, or even of cultural resistance to Rome (Bénabou, 1976). For the French scholar Marcel Le Glay and his successors, the religious history of North Africa under Roman rule can be summed up in a short phrase: “the impossibility of Romanizing souls” (Le Glay, 1966: 485; Hugoniot, 2000: 148). As for the third narrative used to structure histories of religion in Roman Africa, scholarship frequently pleads the region’s exceptionalism (e.g., Hugoniot, 2000; Shaw, 2013): the pre-Roman religious life of the region created a special environment that resulted in the particular popularity of certain cults and even in the distinct forms of Christianity that took hold there from the second century ce onwards (e.g., Frend, 1985; see also Leone, Chapter 20). Such views, although widespread, are deeply problematic. This picture of multiple religious strata reifies each cultural system as markedly distinct: “Punic” elements are different (and divisible) from “Roman” impositions. A host of post-colonial scholarship has demonstrated the problems with trying to separate elements of a rapidly changing cultural system based on the supposed

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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origins of its parts, even within Roman Africa (e.g., Quinn, 2003; Mattingly, 2011: 236–245). On the one hand, the very notions of what it meant to be “Punic,” “Roman,” or “African” were constantly negotiated and reformulated (when they mattered at all to ancient peoples); these categories never exist in-and-of themselves, but only as active discourses (Quinn, 2017). On the other hand, throughout Antiquity, the religious systems in North Africa participated in a wider koine of Mediterranean cult, dominated by named, anthropomorphic deities with whom mortals engaged via prayer, blood- and burnt-sacrifice, and transactional deals with gods like the ndr (Punic) or votum (Latin). Drawing sharp distinctions between “pre-Roman” and “Roman,” or defined strata of religious practices, is not possible. This is not to say that distinct local or regional patterns of cult life should be ignored; it is simply to say that these patterns should not be explained primarily via general cultural categories or supposed origins, but rather via the precise contexts in which worshippers chose to execute a given cult act to a given god. If seeing distinct religious layers in Roman Africa is problematic, so too is seeing strong continuities in religion through time, untouched by the changing social and economic landscape of the Roman provinces. Religion in the ancient world – North Africa included – was not a distinct sphere, separable from wider practices and human relationships; as we shall see, cult life was deeply shaped by political and social configurations. Arguing for religious continuities in Africa despite shifting power structures disembeds ancient religion from these wider contexts. In what follows, I want to pose a series of interrelated questions about the dynamics of cult in Roman Africa. How did incorporation into the Roman Empire reshape the religious life? How contingent was cult on wider social changes? To what extent was religious practice in Africa distinct from that of the wider empire? In answering these questions, I will demonstrate the deeper ways that Phoenician-Punic and Roman imperialism and colonialism affected the religious life in North Africa from the eighth century bce to the fourth century ce. Rather than seeing cultural distinctions or layers, recognizing the ways that worshippers in North Africa participated in wider networks of cult knowledge and cult practice demonstrates the deep impact wrought by Roman rule. Before turning to the material, a brief word on the available sources is necessary. While a range of ancient literary and historical accounts, written both by “outsiders” (Greek and Latin authors with no first-hand experience of Africa) and occasionally inhabitants of North Africa (like Apuleius or Tertullian), the bulk of evidence for the religious life of the province comes from archaeological and epigraphic sources. The latter have been especially important, whether in Punic (the Semitic language of Carthage) or Latin. Still, focusing on inscriptions privileges the modalities of religious life that result in a monumental written record; apart from truly ephemeral rites like prayers, processions, and hymns for which we only have vague epigraphic proxies, even cult acts like animal sacrifice that can leave traces (like bone) in the archaeological record are not as well studied in Africa as in other parts of the ancient world. Moreover, archaeological evidence for any aspect of Iron Age Africa outside of Carthage, at least until the second century bce, is scant in general, and even more fragmentary for cult sites (cf. Sanmartí, Chapter 4).

Religion in Iron Age Africa To understand the impact of Roman imperialism on the religious life of the provinces of Africa, it is first necessary to sketch a quick picture of cult in the region before its incorporation into the empire. While the cultural life of Carthage and other Phoenician colonies along the African coast was closely linked to the ancient Near East, a host of recent work has demonstrated the ways North Africa (and Phoenicia itself!) participated in the wider Mediterranean world, especially by the Hellenistic period (e.g., Bonnet, 2014). Recognizing distinct cultural strata in the religious life of later periods is thus impossible: Africa was always part of a networked oikumene. When Carthage was founded as a Phoenician colony in the eighth century bce, the settlers brought with them a range of ancestral deities from their homeland. The most prominent of these



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was the patron god of both Tyre and Carthage, Melqart (Bonnet, 1988). Not only did Melqart get a prime position in the city, with a temple on the acropolis atop the Byrsa Hill, but the inhabitants of Carthage sent annual gifts to him at his sanctuary in their mother-city of Tyre (Quint. Curt. 4.2.10). The Carthaginians also established a sanctuary to a more obscure Phoenician god, Baal Hammon. There, from the city’s foundation until at least its destruction in 146 bce, individual Carthaginians offered a kind of sacrifice that grew increasingly popular in Phoenician colonies of the central Mediterranean: the molk, in which an infant or ovicaprine was burned, its remains collected in an urn, the urn buried, and often a stone monument erected over the deposit (BénichouSafar, 2004). Whether this was a live child sacrifice is sometimes debated (e.g., Ribichini, 1987; Bénichou-Safar, 2005), but the balance of evidence clearly suggests that it was (Xella et al., 2013). From the sixth century bce, the goddess Tanit started to appear regularly alongside Baal Hammon on the inscribed dedications of this sanctuary; she may even have become a new patron deity of the city, representing its greater political and cultural independence from Tyre. Carthage was also open to importing recognizably foreign gods and rites. In 396 bce, the Carthaginian army sacked the temple of Demeter and Kore in the Sicilian Greek city of Syracuse. When disaster followed, the Carthaginians attributed their misfortunes to the goddesses’ anger, and so established their cult at Carthage with the help of Greek priests who could teach highranking Carthaginians the appropriate rites (Diod. Sic. 14.77.5). In general, the semantics of ritual practice in Punic Africa shared in a wider koine of Mediterranean religion. A significant portion of cult practice attested epigraphically was transactional. Most surviving Punic inscriptions are dedications from the child-sacrifice sanctuary at Carthage. These tend to follow a formula: “To Lady Tanit, face of Baal, and to Lord Baal Hammon, vow (ndr) which vowed N, son of N, son of N, because he [the god] heard his [the votary’s] prayer, he [the god] blessed him [the votary].” That is, a worshipper would approach a god and make a proposition: if the god performed a service, then the worshipper would honor the god with a sacrifice. When the god fulfilled his end of the bargain, the worshipper would make the sacrifice and erect the inscribed monument (hence the “because” clause in the dedications); if the desired blessing did not come to pass, the worshipper would not make any offering. This transactional votive system closely resembled that of the Roman votum, and most of the inscribed Latin dedications to gods of the imperial period are done in fulfillment of vows using formulae popular across the Roman world (votum solvit libens merito, “he fulfilled his vow willingly and deservedly”). Besides the vow and its fulfillment, burned sacrifice of animal or vegetal foodstuffs (usually followed by dining on the unburned portions of the offering) was the other major mode of cult practice in both Iron Age and Roman Africa. A “sacrificial tariff” from the temple of Baal Saphon in Hellenistic Carthage lays out the procedure governing private sacrifices made there (KAI 69): a dedicant would provide the animal (or other food offering) that was to be offered, and select one of several options for how much of the offering would be burned; for a fee, a priest provided technical knowledge to conduct the sacrifice properly; if an animal was offered, its hide and the meat would be divided between the dedicant and the priest, who could presumably sell it to help support temple operations (Xella, 1983). Such practices and divisions of offerings were common across the Mediterranean, and continued into the Roman imperial period. Little is known about what gods were worshipped and how they were worshipped outside Carthage and other Phoenician colonies, given the lack of archaeological or epigraphic remains in those regions. The fifth-century bce traveler Herodotus reports, “The Libyans sacrifice only to the Sun and Moon” (4.188). Most of our evidence for native “Libyan” gods comes from the Roman imperial period, and should not be retrojected as representing earlier cult patterns (cf. Webster, 1995). Some evidence for pre-Roman “Libyan” cult comes from the Temple of Ammon at the Siwa Oasis in Egypt’s Western Desert. The ram-horned deity, associated by Greeks and Romans with Zeus/Jupiter, acquired international fame as an oracle, illustrated by Alexander the Great’s visit in 332 bce (Arr., An. 3.3–4). Archaeological evidence from the site, however, points to much earlier

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engagement with the wider Mediterranean world; the layout of the Archaic sanctuary looks much like contemporary Egyptian temples, but the stone-working techniques suggest the presence of craftsmen trained in the Greek world (Mueller et al., 2002). From early on, “Libyan” religion developed within its wider Mediterranean context, and had gods and practices recognized as commensurate with this religious koine. There are also hints of a much more complex pantheon in inland North Africa than Herodotus suggests. A second-century ce relief found near Vaga was dedicated to seven deities with Libyan names who are unattested anywhere else at any other time: Macurtam, Macurgum, Vihinam, Bonchor, Varsissima, Matilam, and Iunam (Merlin, 1947). The uniqueness of this set of deities points to fragmented, deeply localized pantheons – gods of places – in the region. Still, even such distinctly localized gods can point to interconnections; Bonchor’s name might actually derive from the Punic b‘l qrt, “Lord of the City,” a general divine title that was transliterated into Libyan and turned into a god’s personal name (Lipinski, 1995). This interplay between local and supra-local gods is also evident at other sites in the Hellenistic period: the city of Thugga, for example, dedicated a temple to the deified Numidian king Massinissa in 138 bce, and many inland towns seem to have adopted the worship of gods with Phoenician names, including Baal Hammon at a number of sites and Hoter Miskar at Mactar in the first century bce (Picard, 1982; Ben Abid, 2010; D’Andrea, 2014).

Transforming Gods: New Names and Networks Like the rest of the ancient Mediterranean, North Africa was “a world full of gods,” some of whom were tied to specific locations or natural features, some of whom had a wider, distributive presence. Despite the incorporation of new deities into the North African pantheon, the popularity of particular deities in Africa has long been linked to the pre-Roman pantheon of the region. While it has often been argued that these pre-Roman gods simply received a Roman gloss or veneer in the imperial period via Latin names and new anthropomorphic images (e.g., Cadotte, 2007), incorporation into the Roman Empire and the social changes it wrought significantly reshaped the gods worshipped in the region. Studies of gods in North Africa tend to focus on creating a kind of bilingual dictionary of divinities that pairs nearly every god worshipped in Roman Africa with a Punic precedent (Cadotte, 2007). Like much contemporary anthropology of religion in colonial contexts, the goal of these studies is to find native “crypto-gods” lurking behind colonial impositions (in this case, a Latin name). Alternatively, others have tried to separate cases where a “Greco-Roman” iteration of a god was worshipped from those where an “African” iteration of the god was preferred – that is, cases of “Roman Saturn” or “Greco-Roman Aesculapius” as opposed to “African Saturn” or “African Aesculapius” (Le Glay, 1966; Hugoniot, 2000: 166–167; Benseddik, 2010). Yet for ancient worshippers in Africa, such cultural distinctions between gods seem not to have mattered. Sharing a name, or an image, implies a degree of correspondence and overlap, rather than of distinction. When distinctions were made by ancient worshippers between gods bearing the same name, this was almost never on the grounds of culture (Roman versus African), but strictly on geographic grounds: Saturn Balcaranensis, Saturn the Lord of Two-Horns, was probably named for the twin peaks where his sanctuary stood, and was different from Saturn Neapolitanus, the Saturn of the town of Neapolis, because each was located in a different place (McCarty, 2016). This localness of gods meant that, even if two gods shared a name with a counterpart in the next town or province over, or with a god in Rome, each might have a slightly different “portfolio” and cult rites (cf. Versnel, 2011). The sea-god Neptune, for example, might be worshipped at inland Lambaesis: still a water deity, but one tied to a freshwater spring rather than the sea (Cadotte, 2007: 321). Localness, rather than cultural identity or “Africanness,” created distinctions between gods with shared names. Even so, a common name implied some degree of overlap and identification between these localized manifestations of a deity.



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The key exception is Ceres, whose cult shows how worshippers blurred the lines between “African” gods and wider pantheons. At Mactar, Nonnia Primitiva was a priestess of Cereres Punicae, explicitly plural “Punic” goddesses (AE 1951.55). They stand in contrast to the singular “Greek Ceres” attested at Sicca Veneria (CIL 8.10564; see also the plural Greek Cereres at Cuicul, ILAlg 2.3.8000). These plural Cereres are presumably the pair of goddesses, Demeter and Kore, imported to Carthage from Syracuse in 396 bce (Cadotte, 2007: 343–361). Yet although Nonnia’s gravestone explicitly labels them Punic Cereres, the attributes figured on the stele connect the goddesses to Demeter’s mysteries at Greek Eleusis: grain, winnowing fan, torch, and basket. That is, although culturally localized, the goddesses at Mactar were also connected to their worship elsewhere in the Mediterranean. Likewise, although the cult of the Cereres was rooted in an event of the fourth century bce, a number of Latin inscriptions of the imperial period from the territory of Carthage record dates in terms of the “year of the Cereres.” The starting year of this era was when a Roman colony was founded at Carthage in 40–39 bce (Fishwick and Shaw, 1978). In other words, this “Punic” cult of Demeter and Kore at Carthage was recreated, with a new era, as part of Roman colonial organization: its later popularity, especially in Carthage’s hinterland, should be attributed to this Roman revival, and reflects the ways older traditions were revived and reinvented in the imperial period. The only other gods who were cast as explicitly “national” and non-Roman were the Dii Mauri, the “Moor Gods,” who received a number of inscribed dedications especially in eastern Mauretania and the Roman military camps of Numidia during the third century ce. Most inscriptions to the Dii Mauri were made by officers in the Roman army, especially those involved in campaigns against African tribes; the commander Aelius Aelianus, for example, fulfilled a vow to the Gods of the Fatherland (Dii Patriae) and Moor Gods (Dii Mauri) “on account of the Bavares being laid low, and all of the booty and their families being seized” (CIL 8. 21486). Such dedications have been interpreted as Roman forces appropriating enemy gods in a kind of evocatio (Camps, 1954), or as a Roman attempt to create a rapprochement with hostile enemy gods following conflict (Fentress, 1978). The soldiers invoking the Dii Mauri in a collective and anonymous manner, or as opposed to Aelius’ “homeland” gods, reflect the Roman commanders’ view that such deities were foreign and on some level unknowable (cf. Camps, 1990), but unlike the vast majority of dedications to gods in Africa, these represent a clear “outsider’s” perspective on such gods. For other deities in North Africa, as Punic-language inscriptions began to disappear in the first and second centuries ce, so too did the names of Punic gods, replaced by invocations of Latin deities like Saturn. That is, the names given to gods were dependent almost entirely on the language that a dedicator used. This suggests that how a god was named was predicated upon wider social and cultural factors, including the development of new language-use practices in the public sphere (McCarty, 2016). It is true, however, that particular gods did enjoy greater popularity in Africa than elsewhere in the empire, and that this is due – at least partially – to pre-Roman patterns. The clearest case is Saturn, who received thousands of inscribed dedications at over 100 sites across the Maghreb, and who outside Africa was a relatively minor deity. The worship of Saturn was closely linked to the worship of Baal Hammon: there is one bilingual dedication to Baal in Punic and Saturn in Latin from Sabratha (di Vita-Evrard, 2002); dedications to Baal Hammon and Saturn appeared side-by-side in the same sanctuaries on at least eight sites and both deities almost exclusively received molk-style burned-and-buried offerings that were commemorated with stelae (Le Glay, 1966). The widespread popularity of Saturn has led many scholars to posit that he was a kind of panAfrican, “national” deity who sat at the top of the regional pantheon and was worshipped with something approaching monotheism (Le Glay, 1966; followed, most recently, by Shaw, 2016). Yet this picture has more to do with the nature of our evidence than ancient reality. The particular way that Saturn was worshipped, involving the erection of dedicatory stelae commemorating individual sacrifices, leads to a vast over-representation of material (not every sacrifice to Jupiter, for example, left such an epigraphic record). Saturn was always one member of a larger pantheon, whose

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temples stood alongside those of other gods and whose worshippers cultivated a range of deities. At Bir Laafou, for example, a priest of the Lares paid for a temple of Saturn (AE 1994, 1887), while the town of Thignica dedicated a temple complex to Dis and Saturn (AE 1992, 1817). Saturn was not worshipped exclusively, or to a greater degree than other deities; he was simply worshipped with a particular rite that left an abundance of evidence. At the same time, the wide spread of cults of Saturn across the Maghreb did not represent any kind of pre-existing, pan-African culture. The pantheons of Punic cities were all unique and each had its own patron gods (for example, Carthage had Melqart and Leptis Magna had Melqart and Shadrapa). Inland North Africa and the Numidian world seem similarly to have been more culturally diverse than is often acknowledged. Instead of representing a cultural and religious African koine, Saturn’s popularity across a vast area was the result of his worshippers moving and settling new territories in the first and second centuries ce. One of the most important factors driving this cult spread was the pattern of army recruitment and deployment: as soldiers (and their retinues) from Africa Proconsularis were moved further south and west, they brought their cult of Saturn with them (McCarty, 2010). Here again, we see the ways that the religious life of Africa was transformed by the changing social and settlement patterns brought about by the region’s incorporation into the Roman Empire. Some have argued that the popularity of theophoric names like Saturninus in Africa both demonstrates the continuity of Semitic naming practices as well as intense personal devotion to Saturn (e.g., Le Glay, 1966; Shaw, 2016). Le Bohec (2005), however, has shown that such names were no more popular in Africa than in other parts of the empire. The alleged high degree of personal devotion to a god, like the supposed monotheism of Saturn’s worshippers, turns out to be a chimera born of modern scholars’ desires to see North Africa as participating in a mystical, “Oriental” form of religion, rather than in its proper pan-Mediterranean context. Still, the widespread adoption of Latin names (like Saturn) for gods in Africa demands explanation. In most cases, this changed naming practice seems to go hand in hand with worshippers setting themselves in new social and cultural milieux. Again, by virtue of the abundance of evidence, the cult of Saturn offers the best picture, and seems to suggest that such renamings were the purview of individual worshippers. At Calama, while the Punic stelae to Baal Hammon were made by individuals with both Semitic and Latin names, the Latin dedications were all made by votaries with Latinized names; that is, how the god was named was partially determined by the extent to which the dedicator participated in other Roman cultural practices. At Thinissut, at a sanctuary dedicated to Baal Hammon and Tanit by the whole town in the late second or first century bce, a private donor later paid for a new cistern dedicated to Saturnus Augustus (ILPB 192). The donor, Lucius Pompeius Honoratus, was a Roman citizen enrolled in the voting tribe of Carthage and its territory; he correspondingly made a dedication to a god with a Latinized name. Honoratus’ dedication also speaks to the ways that participation in the wider networks and power structures of the empire transformed conceptions of the gods. From the end of the first century bce, the epithet “Augustus” was added to almost every god, from Saturnus Augustus to Mars Augustus to the transliterated Libyan deity Bacax Augustus, discussed further later. Applying an imperial title to the range of gods worshipped in the province connected these gods directly to the new imperial system and its power structures, envisioning the gods’ positions in the cosmos as akin to that of the ruler (Fishwick, 1991: 446–452; Lott, 2015). The spread of this epithet, popular across the Roman world, also shows not only how North African worshippers participated in the shared religious concepts of the empire, but also the way potential distinctions between “native” and “Roman” pantheons were effaced through common epithets. Incorporation into the wider political and social systems of the Roman Empire also meant new deities were introduced. Not only did settlers arriving from other parts of the Mediterranean bring their home gods – for example, the unit of Palmyrene archers stationed at Calceus Herculis made dedications to the Palmyrene deities Malakbel and Yarhibol (Schneider, 1988) – but the inhabitants of North Africa quickly took up worship of the emperor. The precise dynamics that led to adoption of the imperial cult differed from town-to-town; in founding a new capital for his



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client-kingdom at Cherchell, Juba II probably included a sanctuary to Augustus that he advertised on coins; at Avitina, a Roman citizen (probably of Italian origin) served as priest of the imperial cult (flamen); and at Thugga, a member of an élite family of the native civitas was likewise a flamen (Rives, 2001). Even if emperor-worship stemmed from local initiatives, and holding the title of flamen was part of local prestige competition among élite families, in many cases the imperial cult responded very directly to models at Rome and beyond. The altar of a temple dedicated to the Augustan Family in the center of Carthage was carved with four relief scenes that all closely echo iconographic models at Rome (Zanker, 1988: 312–314): for example, one side shows Aeneas fleeing Troy in a composition calqued on the statue group in the Forum of Augustus at Rome, while another shows Roma seated atop a pile of arms in a manner recalling the relief of Roma on the Ara Pacis. Perhaps even more than the worship of other deities in North Africa, the imperial cult was built upon connections to the wider Mediterranean, even if it was instituted by local agents of different backgrounds. Thus, if the relative popularity of certain gods, like Saturn, and the occasional appearance of a deity with a non-Latin name do indicate the ways that North Africa had a distinctive regional pantheon, this pantheon did not simply continue unchanged from the pre-Roman period. The spread of a god’s worship was closely linked to population movements driven by the changing social life of the provinces. Even pre-Roman cults like that of Demeter and Kore were remade in the imperial period as a kind of newly invented tradition. Yet if gods were always local – linked to a specific city or place in the landscape – their worshippers also set such deities within the wider networks of gods in the Roman world.

Updated Rituals: Child Sacrifice and Beyond Perhaps more important than the particular names of the gods worshipped was the manner in which they were worshipped. After all, most cults in the ancient world were generally less concerned with making propositional theological claims than with harnessing divine power for specific aims through effective ritual (Ando, 2008). As with gods, despite sometimes being regionally specific, rites in Roman Africa were deeply transformed as their practitioners were incorporated into the new social networks of the empire. Discussing ritual practice in North Africa, though, is hampered by the nature of evidence. In other parts of the Roman Empire, particularly in Italy and the Northwest, careful single-context excavation has allowed for a micro-archaeology of cult and the ability to reconstruct whole chains of ritual practice. Few sanctuary sites in North Africa have been excavated recently with such goals; fewer still have been published with full details. Our main sources of evidence for ritual in the region, then, remain monumental – the layout and furnishings of temples – or epigraphic, sources that privilege urban contexts and individuals who had the means (and desire) to write upon stone. The only sanctuaries that have been excavated and recorded in a manner that sometimes allows detailed reconstruction of ritual change are tophets – sanctuaries where child sacrifice or related molk rites were practiced. Tophets (the name is a convention borrowed by modern scholars from the place mentioned in the Hebrew Bible where Canaanites allegedly sacrificed children) were open spaces where infants and/or ovicaprines were offered as burned sacrifice on a pyre, their remains collected in an urn, the urn buried in that open space, and a stone monument sometimes erected to mark the deposit (McCarty, 2019). The earliest tophets were closely linked to Phoenician colonies and urbanism in the central Mediterranean (coastal Africa, Sardinia, western Sicily) from the eighth to the fourth centuries bce; in addition, a community of Carthaginians living in the Numidian capital of Cirta established their own tophet there in the fourth–third century bce. In the generations following the destruction of Carthage in 146 bce, a number of new tophet-like sanctuaries were established in Africa, especially in coastal cities (e.g., Sabratha, Zita, Portus Magnus, Volubilis) and inland

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Tunisia (e.g., Althiburos, Hr. el-Hami) (D’Andrea, 2014; McCarty, 2017). While this boom in the number of tophet-like sanctuaries – jumping from 8 to over 100 by the first/early second century ce – has often been used to argue for the direct continuity of pre-Roman rites into the imperial period, the worshippers in these new sanctuaries seem instead to have re-interpreted the molk sacrifice two generations after Carthage was destroyed. While some communities continued to offer infants and lambs, others chose a very different set of offerings, ranging from burned grain at Portus Magnus to small birds at Zian and Thinissut (McCarty and Quinn, 2015). The most consistent aspect of the rite in the Iron Age – the selection of only infants or ovicaprines – became the most variable in the imperial period. These transformations in cult practice suggest that communities were re-imagining tophet-style rites, rather than simply carrying on older customs. Indeed, in some cases, explicitly tophet-style rites were altered so that children were not the offerings, but the beneficiaries of the rite. In the late second or third century at Nicivibus, a number of stelae were dedicated to Saturn, each bearing a long and formulaic inscription that described the rite conducted (Laporte, 2006). One stele proclaims, “May what is done be good, auspicious, and blessed. Sacred to Holy Lord Saturn. On the great night, Felix and Diodora willingly made a molchmor sacrifice out of a vision and a vow, breath for breath, blood for blood, life for life, for the health of Concessa, a lamb as the substitute” (Figure 16.1; AE 1931.60). That is, Concessa’s two parents made an offering called by an antiquated Punic name (mlk’mr). The opening blessing uses an archaizing Latin formula (quod bonum et faustum feliciter sit), further giving the rite a gloss of antiquity. The sacrifice is explicitly a substitution, with a lamb given in the child’s place, and the purpose of the sacrifice is for the child’s health. In its aim – Concessa’s wellbeing – the rite seems to differ from earlier tophet sacrifices. Still, both the Latin prayer and the Punic loan-word present this sacrifice as part of an older tradition: the rituals practiced in imperial-period Africa were echoes and re-creations, rather than imitations, of Iron Age practices. One of the biggest changes observed in the religious life of North Africa was the end of child sacrifice in these tophets and tophet-like sanctuaries. This shift is often attributed to direct Roman

Figure 16.1  Votive stele to Saturn. From Nicivibus (N’Gaous). Second or third century Constantine, Musée National CIRTA. Photo: author.

ce.

Limestone.



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intervention in the province, driven by a supposedly “civilized” Roman distaste for human sacrifice that is contrasted with the “barbarism” of the Africans (e.g., Février, 1960). These arguments are predicated on a corrupted passage in the Christian apologist Tertullian (Apol. 9.2), who writes, Throughout Africa, infants used to be openly sacrificed to the god Saturn up to the governorship of Tiberius, who publicly crucified the priests…. The military service of my father, who assisted the governor in this task, was witness to the fact.

According to Tertullian, Roman authorities in the province suppressed the rite via military intervention during his father’s lifetime (mid–late second century ce). Yet archaeological evidence suggests a very different pattern of cultural entanglement and change. First, the assumed cultural and ritual binary between “Roman” (opposed to child sacrifice) and “African” (practicing child sacrifice) quickly breaks down. A community of worshippers established a tophet in the early second century ce at Lambafundi, a new town founded between the main Roman garrison in North Africa at Lambaesis and the Roman colony at Thamugadi (Timgad). There, urns with burned infant bones were excavated alongside votive stelae that show children wearing the togas and amuletic bullae of Roman citizens. Right next to the Roman army, Roman citizens could participate in child sacrifice: this practice was not treated as antithetical to Roman culture or society. While the frequency of child sacrifice does seem to decline in the late second century ce, this was not as the product of violence or official policy, but of wider social, cultural, and ritual change (cf. Shaw, 2016). This transformation is clear at the rural site of Hr. el-Hami, one of the recently excavated tophets. From the first century bce to the mid-second century ce, a mix of children and lambs were sacrificed and buried in molk rites in an open-air sanctuary. In the mid-late second century, a large altar and a series of small rooms were built just to the north of the urn-field, and sacrificial rites seem to have moved from individual deposits and burials to communal activities at this altar, which included pouring oil libations (hundreds of oil-flasks were found there), animal sacrifice, and communal dining (Ferjaoui, 2007). Personal offerings of infants transitioned to a different group rites, even if the votive stelae of the tophet area remained visible. This was not a sudden or violent end, but instead reflects the changing relationship between personal cult and communal cult: in other words, this change stems from new social dynamics. Beyond tophet rites, one of the only other rituals archaeologically attested in North Africa is the use of defixiones, lead tablets that were meant to force supernatural powers to carry out specific deeds. Incantations were inscribed on a lead sheet, which was then folded or rolled and hidden, either in graves where the tablets could be closest to the underworld deities being harnessed, or close to the subjects being cursed. A majority of the 120 curse tablets from North Africa are directed towards ensuring that a particular chariot-racing team lost at the local circus (Audollent, 1904: 288–416; Gager, 1992: 60–67). In other parts of the empire, similar tablets are more concerned with other ends, such as seeking justice for crimes committed against the curser. The African curses invoke a range of divinities, including the Jewish god Yahweh, the Egyptian god Osiris, and various underworld spirits. The magical formulae used in the curses have close parallels in other parts of the empire and in the Greek Magical Papyri from Egypt (Jordan, 1988). The North African defixiones thus point to a cadre of magical specialists who participated in wider networks of technical knowledge, and to the ways in which the religious life of North Africa was closely linked to the rest of the empire, even if the aims of individual practitioners were thoroughly localized.

Temples and Society For cult sites that have not been as scientifically excavated, ritual change can only be studied through the architectural arrangements and monument furnishings of sanctuaries. The layout of sanctuaries, which can work to prescribe, enable, or encourage certain ritual uses of that space, also

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reflects the ways that social change encouraged greater participation in the architectural and ritual repertoire of the Roman world. There have been many efforts to link so-called courtyard-temples (temples à cour) with “native” gods, a pre-Roman form, and cultural conservatism. Such temples essentially consist of a large open space, delimited by a wall or portico, with altars or other furnishings in the courtyard and a shrine either in the center or along one side. Such arrangements are contrasted with “Greek” temple buildings, surrounded by columns, and prostyle “Roman” temples set atop tall podia. Such arguments suppose that Semitic, Phoenician-style temples generally began as “primitive” open-air precincts that were later articulated with square porticoes and multiple rooms identifiable as cellae (Charles-Picard, 1954: 152–164; Lézine, 1959). While there are numerous examples across Africa Proconsularis and into Tripolitania of sacred spaces consisting of a portico and room(s) that date from the Augustan period onwards (e.g., the temple on the west side of the Old Forum at Leptis Magna; the Temple of Apollo at Bulla Regia, the Temple of Concordia at Thugga), the evidence for such sanctuaries prior to the first century ce is more scarce. Indeed, there was no distinct and recognizable “Phoenician/Punic temple” form (Vella, 1998), and recent excavations at Carthage have revealed several Iron Age temples that are all laid out very differently, including one raised on a substantial podium (Rakob, 1991; Niemeyer, 2000). Linking particular temple forms to specific cultural milieux, or to specific deities, is not possible (cf. Sebaï, 2010). The best studied courtyard temple, Temple B at Thugga (Figure 16.2A) shows how closely these temples are tied to the rhythms of urban life (Raming and Ritter, 2002). Built close to the center of the city during a late-second-century building boom (as is true of most courtyard temples, although the main exception may be a suburban courtyard temple at Bulla Regia; Tilmant, 1990), the complex demolished an earlier residential quarter; it does not seem to have replaced an earlier temple that dictated its form. A square portico surrounds a central courtyard; the walls of the portico are pierced with a number of niches to display statues. A range of five rooms opened on to the west side of the courtyard. The central room is the focus of attention: its wide entrance is demarcated by two columns and it has three large statue niches, presumably to hold statues of gods. The use of the other four rooms is less certain; the two outer ones could be closed by doors and were revetted in colored marble; the northernmost room has its own statue niches. In many ways, the building resembles the public porticos that dotted Rome, including the Flavian Templum Pacis: a rich sculptural ensemble set within a portico to shade strolling visitors, coupled with more

Figure 16.2  a: Temple B, Thugga. Second century ce. Plan: author, after Ramming and Ritter (2002), figure 8. b: Temple of Saturn, Thugga. 195 ce, with later modifications. Plan: author, after Poinssot (1958), pl. 8.



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important statues of gods housed in rooms on one side. Rather than a space designed exclusively for ritual practice (no traces of an altar survive), Temple B is an urban amenity and leisure space for the increasingly wealthy and cosmopolitan élite of Thugga. The same is probably true of most courtyard temples: they were designed as ornaments and pleasure-parks for their cities. Temples with different layouts also incorporated features that made them both pleasant oases in increasingly dense urban settings and vehicles for élite competition. Some had shady groves, while others had cooling fountains (Eingartner, 2005). Especially in the centers of towns, temples started to be raised on tall podia in a way that resembles Italic temples. This shift may have more to do with social than ritual or cultural needs. In the increasingly crowded urban centers of North African cities, raising a temple on a podium not only increased its visibility, but paraded the name of its dedicator, splashed across the architrave, in a very visible way (Eingartner, 2005: 159). Again, transformations of religion are predicated upon the changing social landscape of North Africa. Perhaps no temple in North Africa embodies the changing fashions of architecture and practice in the imperial period as well as the Temple of Saturn at Thugga. Originally a Hellenistic open-air tophet dedicated to Baal Hammon, the sanctuary was rebuilt as a temple to Saturn in 195 ce by a local grandee, Lucius Octavius Victor Roscianus, for the well-being of the emperor Septimius Severus (Figure 16.2B, Phase 1). This rebuilding transformed the open space into a porticoed courtyard with three rooms at the rear, each of which had a statue niche. One of these contained a colossal marble cult-statue of Saturn. Such transformations of open-air sanctuaries into built temples with porticoed courts were common in the late second and third centuries, driven partially by new euergetic patterns; as wealthy locals sought ways of enhancing their prestige (and that of their town) by paying for monumental buildings, these sanctuary spaces offered a venue for self-promotion. Shortly after the Temple of Saturn was built, its eastern side was substantially altered; the two steps that led into the courtyard were covered by a large podium extending east, which supported four colossal columns to create a new columnar façade for the temple (Figure 16.2B, Phase 2). The addition of the podium and columns appear to have been motivated by a desire to create a temple front that participated in the forms and rhythms of urban architecture and met expectations of what a cult building “should” look like: a columnar façade set atop a podium. Natural topographic features, like mountaintops and springs, could also become loci of cult, with or without built structures. The most famous natural site turned into a sanctuary may be the “Cave of Bacax,” a series of caverns near the town of Thibilis (Monceaux, 1886). Close to the cave entrance, worshippers cut a series of votive niches, many of which were inscribed with Latin dedications to Bacax Augustus. Most of the dedications are by the annually appointed magistrates of Thibilis. Many bear dates; the year is given by the Roman consuls, the day according to the Roman calendar: the liturgical calendar here was inseparable from that of the wider empire. All of the inscriptions in the cave date to the third century ce. Even if a deity had been worshipped here prior to the third century, the town’s increased cultural and juridical incorporation into the Roman Empire in that period, culminating in the town being recognized as an autonomous res publica (Lepelley, 1981: 477–479), transformed the manner in which this local deity was worshipped, resulting in the rich epigraphic dossier from the site. Like conceptions of the gods or the rites by which they were worshipped, the articulation of religious spaces across North Africa underwent significant change over the course of the imperial period. Such changes went hand-in-hand with the wider social and economic transformation of the province: in this case, changes were driven by élite competition and a new habit of investing wealth in the monumental ornamentation of cities.

FURTHER READING While the religious life of North Africa is frequently treated as static and isolated both from the wider Mediterranean world and from other developments in the region, this picture is in many ways misleading. Instead, the cult practices of communities and individuals were

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part-and-parcel of the changing social fabric of the province. Old gods and old practices, like Baal Hammon/Saturn and his molk rites, were re-imagined: worshippers preserved a sense of antiquity, but adapted their practices for new social and conceptual contexts. Like every aspect of religious practice in the Roman world, such transformations of cult in North Africa reveal a tension between denser networks of exchange and an intense localism. Gods’ names and epithets like Augustus cast these deities as pan-Mediterranean, and yet many of these same gods were worshipped as gods of specific places, whether towns or natural features. Regionally specific rites like the molk (and related sacrifices) could incorporate borrowed, archaizing prayers from Rome, while magical defixiones could use pan-Mediterranean techniques for specific local ends like a particular charioteer’s victory. As we move away from models of stasis and resistance in North African religion, many challenges remain to reframing analysis and crafting new narratives. These include further untangling the dialogical dynamics between localizing and universalizing tendencies in religion; granting more attention to the agents of religious change (whether individuals or groups), especially beyond the level of civic religion; and contextualizing regional patterns of cult life that do not stop at the administrative borders of Roman provinces or modern political boundaries. Rethinking the contours of religion in Africa successfully will also require reducing reliance on monumental and epigraphic sources, with their urban and élite biases, as our main sources. More focus on archaeological sources, and new excavations aimed at the micro-archaeology of cult, would be a useful corrective. Only then will we be able to appreciate more fully the discrepant cult experiences of different groups across the full social spectrum and cease to rely on reified cultural categories to explain observed differences in cult practice.

REFERENCES Ando, C. 2008. The Matter of the Gods: Religion and the Roman Empire. Berkeley. Audollent, A. 1904. Defixionum tabellae quotquot innotuerunt. Paris. Ben Abid, L. 2010. “Le paysage religieux de Maktar à l’époque préromaine: l’aire sacrée de Baal Hammon.” RHR 4: 683–701. Bénabou, M. 1976. La résistance africaine à la romanisation. Paris. Bénichou-Safar, H. 2004. Le tophet de Salammbô. Rome. Bénichou-Safar, H. 2005. “Un au-delà pour les enfants carthaginois incinérés?” Ktema 30: 123–136. Benseddik, N. 2010. Esculape et Hygie en Afrique. Paris. Bonnet, C. 1988. Melqart: cultes et mythes de l’Héraclès tyrien en Méditerrannée. Leuven. Bonnet, C. 2014. “Phoenician identities in Hellenistic times: Strategies and negotiations.” In The Punic Mediterranean: Identities and Identification from Phoenician Settlement to Roman Rule, eds. J.C. Quinn and N. Vella, 282–298. Cambridge. Briand-Ponsart, C., and Hugoniot, C. 2005. L’Afrique romaine: de l’Atlantique à la Tripolitaine, 146 av. J.-C. – 533 ap. J.-C. Paris. Brouquier-Reddé, V. 1992. Temples et cultes de Tripolitaine. Paris. Cadotte, A. 2007. La romanisation des dieux: l’interpretatio romana en Afrique du Nord sous le Haut-Empire. Leiden. Camps, G. 1954. “L’inscription de Béja et le problème des Dii Mauri.” RA 98: 3–60. Camps, G. 1990. “Qui sont les Dii mauri?” AntAfr 26: 131–153. Charles-Picard, G. 1954. Les religions de l’Afrique antique. Paris. D’Andrea, B. 2014. I tofet del Nord Africa dall’età arcaica all’età romana (VIII sec. a. C. – II sec. d. C.). Pisa. di Vita-Evrard, G. 2002. “Sur deux inscriptions votives bilingues de Sabratha et de Lepcis Magna.” AntAfr 38: 297–305. Eingartner, J. 2005. Templa cum Porticibus: Ausstattung und Funktion italischer Tempelbezirke in Nordafrika und ihre Bedeutung für die römische Stadt der Kaiserzeit. Rahden. Fentress, E. 1978. “Dii Mauri and Dii Patrii.” Latomus 37: 507–516. Ferjaoui, A. 2007. Le sanctuaire de Henchir el-Hami: de Ba’al Hammon au Saturne africain, 1er s. av. J.-C. – IVe s. ap. J.-C. Tunis.



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Tilmant, P.-H. 1990. “Un nouveau temple à cour à Bulla Regia?” Revue des archéologues et historiens d’art de Louvain 23: 69–72. Vella, N. 1998. Ritual, Landscape, and Territory: Phoenician and Punic Non-funerary Religious Sites in the Mediterranean. Unpublished PhD dissertation, University of Bristol. Versnel, H.S. 2011. Coping with the Gods: Wayward Readings in Greek Theology. Leiden and Boston. Webster, J. 1995. “‘Interpretatio’: Roman word power and the Celtic Gods.” Britannia 26: 153–161. Xella, P. 1983. “Quelques aspects du rapport éonomie-religion d’après les tarifs sacrificiels puniques.” BCTH 19: 39–47. Xella, P., Quinn, J., Melchiorri, V., and van Dommelen, P. 2013. “Phoenician bones of contention.” Antiquity 87: 1199–1207. Zanker, P. 1988. The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus. Ann Arbor.

CHAPTER 17

Society and Culture in Late Roman Africa Julio Cesar Magalhães de Oliveira

Introduction The Later Roman Empire was characterized by an unprecedented centralization of imperial power, by the rise of Christianity, and ultimately by the collapse and fragmentation of its administrative structures in the West. How far did these changes affect the society and culture in late Roman Africa? Until the 1960s, the prevailing view was that the region witnessed an overall economic decline, the decay of its cities, the impoverishment and oppression of the peasantry, and the growth of social tensions and nativist insurrections (Frend, 1952; Courtois, 1955). These views were heavily influenced not only by the old paradigm of the “Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” (Bowersock, 1996), but also by the transposition of the modern colonial situation into late antiquity (Lepelley, 2004). The result was not only a catastrophist interpretation of the legal and literary sources but also a perception of African society as one unmistakably divided between Romans and natives. This dark view came to be challenged when the reconstruction and modernization of Europe after the Second World War and the end of the colonial empires discredited classicism as an ideal of unchanged validity and supplanted it by a more positive perspective on cultures, periods, and phenomena that had been previously neglected as “nonexemplary” (Andrén, 1998: 20–21). The rise and consolidation of Late Antiquity as a field of study challenged the concepts of decline, fall, and catastrophe and redirected the study of the society and culture toward long-term transformations (Brown, 1971; Marrou, 1977). No less important has been the change of emphasis of classical archaeology in the post-war era toward the study of economic and social phenomena within long temporal perspectives. In the study of North Africa, in particular, the massive excavations carried out at Carthage under the aegis of the UNESCO, the unexpected discovery of new letters and sermons of saint Augustine, and the innovative uses of an exceptionally rich epigraphic documentation have led to a radical reappraisal of late-antique society, economy, and culture (Lepelley, 1992a). It suffices to say that there has been enormous progress in the scholarship on Roman Africa since the 1970s. Recent work on the social life of late Roman Africa has moved away from normative models and preconceived abstractions and toward issues of social identity and the concrete processes of group formation (Rebillard, 2012). There has been a re-evaluation of the socioeconomic and political

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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agency of the subaltern and disempowered, both in the cities and in the countryside, with some scholars starting to pay more attention to the meaning underlying some of the acts that have been labelled as riots or rebellions, as well as to the mechanisms and processes of group mobilization (Dossey, 2010; Shaw, 2011; Magalhães de Oliveira, 2012). The aim of this chapter is to present the current state of our knowledge on the society and culture of late Roman Africa, focusing in particular on new research perspectives and approaches. Inevitably, we will be looking for changes as much as for continuities in determining the driving forces of social life in fourth- and early fifthcentury North Africa in the wider context of the transformations that configured the Later Roman Empire.

Economy and Society Taxes, Trade, and Crafts It is now virtually a consensus among scholars that what we call the “crisis of the third century” did not represent for the North African provinces any definitive or catastrophic rupture. Africa was only marginally affected by civil war or barbarian invasion and emerged from the third century ce largely unscathed. The re-establishment of the empire, in the reigns of Diocletian (284–305) and Constantine (306–337), certainly brought about important changes to provincial life, but the impact of the fiscal, administrative, and monetary reforms promoted by these emperors on the North African economy should not be exaggerated. The negative effects of the new tax system were overstressed by many scholars in the past, who interpreted the substantial body of law in the codes dealing with the “deserted lands” as the proof of a dramatic decline in agricultural production under the burden of over-taxation. Yet the concern of the laws was exclusively fiscal, not economic, and the tax exemptions granted by these texts concerned uncultivable, rather than deserted, land (Lepelley, 1967; Whittaker, 1976; Grey, 2007; Whittaker and Garnsey, 2008: 281–285; Tedesco, 2018: 398–408). The most telling argument that agricultural production in North Africa did not decline, but even expanded, was offered in recent years by archaeology. Except for Mauretania Caesariensis, where rural settlement apparently diminished, the surveys of the last three decades have shown a continuous growth of datable sites. In the Tripolitanian pre-desert, the peak was between the third and the fourth centuries, with a tendency toward a nucleation of settlement around the landlords’ towers. However, in the core provinces of Africa, a dispersed settlement prevailed, with small and medium farms rivalling the large farms and villages in number. Here, the peak of datable sites was not reached until later, between 350 and 550 ce in northern Tunisia and between 300 and 500 ce in the rest of Africa Proconsularis, Byzacena, and Numidia (Hitchner, 1988; Fentress et al., 2004: 151–159; Dossey, 2010: 62–69). Even considering that this expansion reveals primarily the availability of commodities used to locate and date settlement, rather than the fact that new land was brought under cultivation, it certainly contradicts the idea of a depleted countryside. The scholarship of the last three decades has rather highlighted how the demands of the imperial administration for taxes and for the transport of provisions might have even stimulated the North African economy in the later Empire. From the beginning of the fourth century the grain tax from Africa became the main source of provision for the city of Rome. The effect, it is argued, was that the fiscal exemptions granted to ship providers (navicularii) responsible for the transport of oil and grain for the annona enabled these businessmen to transport many other commodities at a lower cost (Wickham, 1988: 190–193). This would then explain why Tunisian amphorae and ARS fineware to Italy peaked in the fourth century and why these African products became far more important on most sites in the western Mediterranean than any other imports (Panella, 1993: 633–641; Wickham, 2005: 709–713; see also Bonifay, Chapter 13, and de Vos Raajimaker, Chapter 12). In recent years, however, some scholars have raised doubts on



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the degree of dependency of the late Roman economy on the state demands that this model supposes (Vera, 2010; Carrié, 2012; Tedesco, 2018). It has been argued that the importance of the annona foodstuffs was extremely limited when compared to the general bulk of long-distance trade (even in oil and grain) (Carrié, 2012: 20). It has been observed, as well, that the North African commercial hegemony involved not only the annona foodstuffs, but also wine, fish sauces, and salted fish that often travelled in independent ships. Finally, it should be noted that the African pre-eminence covered the entire Mediterranean and followed ways and routes that were only partially related to the Proconsularis–Rome axis (Bonifay, Chapter 13, and 2004: 477–480; Vera, 2010: 7–8). Whatever the case, the late Roman rise of African exports was certainly a major factor in explaining the importance of the urban artisanal production in the core provinces of Africa during the fourth and fifth centuries (Wilson, 2002). This was obviously the case for the coastal cities, which played an important role in organizing exports, not only of their own manufactures but also of the products of their agricultural hinterland (Wilson, 2002: 262). At Meninx and Leptiminus, for example, the rings of pottery kilns and the dumps of murex shells testify to the scale of the ­manufacturing activities concentrated in these cities (Mattingly et al., 2001; Fentress et al., 2009: 167–173). However, even in inland towns, the transformation of the products of the pastoral economy might have led to a deliberate and specialized production of textiles for sale to wider markets (Wilson,  2004; Amraoui, 2017: 223–256). In Thamugadi, in southern Numidia, for example, there is evidence not only of numerous workshops associated with the textile production in the northeastern quarter of the city but also of the construction of at least one specialized cloth market in the second half of the fourth century (Wilson, 2001; Magalhães de Oliveira, 2012: 58–64; but see Amraoui, 2017: 361–362). That being said, long-distance trade was not the only factor promoting the high levels of artisanal production in the African cities. One additional element was the ever-greater proportion of the urban population itself. Supplying the army in Africa is another factor (see Faure, Chapter 10). Finally, we should take into account the closer connections between rural and urban markets in our period. The multiplication of iron melting workshops in Leptiminus for servicing the surrounding countryside (Mattingly et al., 2001) and the increasing importance of periodic markets in cities such as Thamugadi (Zelener, 2000; Fentress, 2007; Dufton and Fentress, Chapter 11) are just two cases in point. The access of rustic consumers to manufactures and the growing monetization of the countryside are, indeed, some of the most radical changes in the patterns of production and distribution in fourth-century North Africa, which, as Leslie Dossey proposed, amounted to a real consumer revolution in Late Antiquity (Dossey, 2010; see also Morrisson, Chapter 23). Regional production of fineware, for example, started in central and southern Tunisia in the third century and soon extended to Tripolitania and to Numidia, probably as a form to substitute imported wares (Fentress et al., 2004: 156–158; see Bonifay, Chapter 13). By the fourth century, however, there were “hundreds of small workshops in the towns, villages, and estates, distributing to a local, not Mediterranean, market” (Dossey, 2010: 73). This means that even rustics could now obtain fineware from local artisans. We are less well informed about other commodities, but there is some evidence that the production and distribution of metal and glass in villages and estates paralleled the ceramic. As Dossey argued, the representations of peasants in fourth- and fifth-century North African mosaics (Figure 17) wearing brightly colored and decorated garments (in contrast with the barefoot, half-naked farm laborers represented in second-century mosaics) suggest that rustics were also having increasing access to clothes and shoes from specialized professionals (Dossey, 2010: 1–2, 76–77, 83–84). The same happened with the supply of coins. The inflation of the currency during the third century “arguably brought small changes into the hands of rural consumers for the first time since the Roman conquest” (Dossey, 2010: 90; see also Morrisson, Chapter 23). In one of the few excavated African villages, Castellum Tiddis, in Numidia, for example, the chronology of coin hoards and stray finds shows that the availability of small change witnessed a dramatic increase in the third century and peaked in the fourth century (Berthier, 2000: 281–285). Excavations at urban sites

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Figure 17  Carthage, Dominus Julius mosaic. Bardo Museum.

in North Africa such as Carthage, Sabratha, and Bulla Regia suggest that the availability of small change was increasing overall, and not just in the countryside (Metcalf and Hitchner, 1981; Metcalf, 1982, 1987; Kenrick, 1986: 269–270; Broise and Thébert, 1993: 223–244). The difference is that most North African cities “did not shift from an almost complete absence of coins in the imperial period to plenty in the fourth century, as seems to have been the case in the countryside” (Dossey, 2010: 87). This closer proximity between rural and urban markets can also be seen at the level of the organization of craft production. Both in cities and in the countryside, the basic unit of artisanal production was the small workshop. Even the large-scale, export-oriented production centers were simply “nucleated” workshops (Wilson, 2002). Each workshop was a familiar unit composed by the master artisan, the members of his family, and a group of employees (hired workers or slaves). In a rural context, landlords often preferred to get their profit by providing loans to the master artisans, leasing the land, and selling raw materials, rather than through a direct management of workshops. As Dossey has pointed out, the diffusion of craft production in villages and estates would therefore have been related to a new willingness of landlords to support these activities because of a necessity to maximize their profits. The rise of rural consumption, however, may also have been related to the lessening of any constraints on it on the part of landlords, especially when peasants worked for grandiose and distant landlords whose interest in their tenant farmers’ life became mainly financial (Dossey, 2010: 90–93). The evidence assembled by Dossey is compelling. It shows, without a doubt, that the North African countryside from the fourth century onwards was fully integrated to the market economy. Recently, however, other historians have raised doubts as to whether this affluence really benefited all sectors of the peasantry. For Paolo Tedesco, for instance, the increased predominance of gold in all types of transaction implied rather a widening of the gap between the wealthy classes, which retained the monopoly over gold, and the peasants, who had to pay for gold above value. He also argued that, while the monetization of the economy facilitated wagelabor recruitment, the increasing mobility of landless laborers can also be viewed as a “weapon of the weak” against the coercive power of the landowners, who tried by all means to attach the workforce to their estates (Tedesco, 2018). It is thus important to consider the changes in the structure of property and the organization of the surplus extraction of the lands that went together with these developments.



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Land and Property Relations The imperial domains in North Africa had always been enormous and, in the course of the fourth century, they continued to be aggrandized by the incorporation of the lands of the cities and that of the pagan temples (Cod. Theod. 4.13.7 [374 ce], 15.1.32 [395 ce ]: civic lands; Cod. Theod. 10.3.4 [383 ce], 5.14.33 [393 ce]: lands of temples). In 422, it was estimated, the imperial res privata owned about 18% (7432  km2) of all lands of Proconsularis and 15% (7620  km2) of Byzacena (Cod. Theod. 11.28.13; Lepelley, 1967). The same could be said about the private estates, which were often as extensive as neighboring towns (Lenski, 2017: 117–118). Since the early empire, the North African provinces had constituted the area of greatest concentration of land ownership for the super-rich senatorial families of Rome, parallel only to southern Italy and Sicily, and this continued to be the case in Late Antiquity (Vera, 1986b; Giardina, 1988). By the fourth century, however, the prosperity of North Africa had also attracted the investments of other categories of large landowners, such as the members of the palatine bureaucracy and other high military officials, wealthy merchants, and the major episcopal churches (Vera, 1992: 468–469). Finally, we should add at least some of the members of the local élites, such as the rich Romanianus of Thagaste, the patron of the young Augustine, who towered well above the more modest town councillors (August. C. acad. 1.2; Lepelley, 1979–1981: 318–325). Contemporaries often condemned the aggressive methods of land acquisition that were behind much of these concentrations of land ownership. An anonymous African preacher, for example, denounced an ambitious landowner “who spreading his estates far and wide, does not allow anyone else to possess within their confines” (Anon. H. Esc. 54, PLS 4: 841, transl. Dossey, 2010: 183). This is not to say that the rural incomes were also being accumulated without exception in the same few hands. Both the imperial and the private properties were managed through many levels of emphyteuticarii and conductores (tenants of whole estates), procuratores and actores (estate managers), who supervised the work of coloni (tenant farmers or sharecroppers). All these agents took a share of the wealth generated by the land. The redistribution of rural incomes was even more important for the imperial domains because of a crucial change in the form of managing the land. Since the late third century, the imperial administration had preferred to concede its immense possessions in long-term emphyteutic tenure, probably because their administration was considerably simplified. The possessores of these estates had only to pay a fixed rent, but had otherwise a range of real rights that approached their condition of that of an actual owner (Lepelley, 1984a; Vera, 1986a, 1992; Lenski, 2017: 130–131). Leased farm lands could vary widely in type and size, and so too could the social condition of the possessores: “they ranged from senators to coloni, through the members of the curial class, small farmers, the clergy, and numerous sections of the urban population” (Vera, 1992: 479). Yet the possessor of an imperial tenure had to provide a proportional financial guaranty. This means that the individuals, groups, and classes that were already privileged in the distribution of private lands remained those who had a privileged access to the imperial farm lands. Two important consequences followed from this “privatization” of the imperial domains. The first is that the basic antagonism between emphyteutic renter and farmer tenants now tended to concentrate on disputes over the land itself (Vera, 1988). This is what a constitution of Constantine dated from 319 and set at Carthage suggests. The law denounces the abuses of coloni on imperial domains who occupied the irrigated land of emphyteutic renters over which they had no rights (Cod. Iust. 11.63.1; see Lenski, 2017: 130–131). The second consequence is that, as the rents owed by the imperial emphyteutic renters were fixed at the start, they were stimulated to enhance their agricultural surplus, not only to commercialize for their own profit, but also to pay their rents in gold (Vera 2010: 12). Some African epitaphs from the third and fourth centuries suggest that a similar process could also have been taking place in the private domains. They show that at least some conductores of private estates were receiving properties in perpetual or in long-term leases and that they were similarly investing in intensive, cash-crop agriculture (Wickham, 2005: 272).

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Whatever the case, the investment in more profitable forms of agriculture was only part of a more general development of new forms of managing the land, both in imperial and private estates, all of which also implied an increasing control by owners and renters over peasant agricultural practices, with an interest in improvement (Wickham, 2005: 265–280). The development of accounting, the assessment of rents in money, the increasing recourse of landowners to free-born salaried (rather than slave) overseers (August. Ep. 24*.2, Ep. 247; Lepelley, 1983b: 337–341, 2001: 298–301) and the disputes between neighboring landlords over the distribution of the workforce (Lepelley, 1989: 240–251, 2001: 248–264) are just some signs of this wider transformation. The tensions that characterized the North African countryside in Late Antiquity certainly did not derive from an overall impoverishment of the peasantry, for which, as we have seen, there is scarce support in the archaeological record. There is little doubt, however, that the price paid by the peasants for the African prosperity was indeed a high one.

Power Structures and Social Relations Power and Privilege In late Roman society, wealth remained inextricably linked to privilege and to power (Brown, 2012: 3–30). It is significant that one of our best-known success stories of fourth-century Africa, the long tomb inscription of the “Harvester of Mactar” (a tale of a landless agricultural worker who, through the profits acquired as a contractor of harvest labor, became the owner of a ­comfortable farm), ended in fact with the entry of the protagonist into the council of his home town: “I enrolled myself among the conscripts. Selected by the City Council, I sat in the Temple of the City Council, and from a little farmer I became even a censor” (CIL 8.11824; Shaw, 2013: 281–298). The main social cleavage in late Roman society was the legal distinction between the humiliores from the honestiores, the humble from the well-to-do, and the African town councillors continued to be classified in the latter category (Lepelley, 1979–1981: 323). By joining the governing body of Mactar, the “Harvester” crossed this decisive threshold. He entered a category of legal privilege that he shared with the wealthiest senator. He could no longer be flogged or tortured. In his little town, he became an aristocrat, a uir honestus. The means by which power and privilege were obtained were, however, changing in the later Empire. As Peter Brown has recently noted, “the most remarkable feature of the fourth century was the manner in which the emperors and their court took center stage in determining the hierarchy of Roman society” (Brown, 2012: 23). The drastic assertion of state power in the reigns of Diocletian and Constantine resulted in the creation of a vast structure of military and bureaucratic servants, which formed at its top-most strata a powerful new élite. Those who benefited from the imperial privileges towered henceforth well above the rest. The higher officials, and increasingly the imperial bureaucracy as a whole, were paid preferentially in the new, strong gold coins, the solidi, which also opened new opportunities for enrichment (Banaji, 2001: 39–88). For all these reasons, the imperial administration became increasingly attractive to local élites. For the town councillors who wanted to abandon their council duties, but who were not sufficiently rich to pursue an expensive career, the numerous posts in the offices of provincial governors and deputy prefects constituted a desirable outlet (Lepelley, 1979–1981: 275–279). For the most influential and ambitious among them, the expectation was to hold real or honorary posts within the higher imperial administration and become in the end honorati, that is, ex-officials largely of senatorial rank and bearers of exemptions and privileges (Lepelley, 1979–1981: 249–275). This “reorientation of aristocratic ambition towards imperial service” (Skinner, 2013: 39) was often described in the past as a negative “flight from the councils.” Yet the municipal élites, especially in North Africa, continued to ensure the important tasks of tax collection, the maintenance of law and order, and the administration of the city and its territory (Lepelley, 1979–1981: 197–242).



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The body of laws in the codes that denounced the “flight from the councils” should not, therefore, be exaggerated. As Claude Lepelley has made plain, the laws were directed only at those decurions who introduced themselves more or less illegally in the superior orders, without accomplishing all the duties and honors of the municipal career (Lepelley, 1979–1981: 243–292). At the same time, however, it is true that the unprecedented centralization of power within a significantly enlarged imperial bureaucracy aggravated fractures that already existed among the urban upper classes as a result of the unequal distribution of taxes, charges, and access to imperial dignities. The outcome, as Peter Brown has observed, was increased infighting among members of the urban élites, when various groups began to derive their status and power in the locality from differing sources (Brown, 1992: 19). A clear picture of this more fragmented élite is offered by the municipal Album of Timgad (ancient Thamugadi), an inscription set up inside the hall of the curia of this Numidian city in the 360s (Lepelley, 1979–1981: 459–470; Brown, 2012: 24–25). The inscription lists all the town councillors in order of precedence, as well as the clerics and imperial officials coming from local families. At the top of the list figure the immune honorati, 10 of senatorial rank and two equestrians. A further 32 names formed an inner-circle of “leading men,” who became separated from the lesser councillors by their ability to monopolize the higher local and provincial honors, as well as the distribution of city obligations. Then came the names of at least 126 mere curiales (the rank-and-file town councillors), who were held responsible for the dreary work of local government and the collection of imperial taxes from the peasantry. On the last part of the document came 11 Christian clerics and 70 officiales or bureaucrats in the service of higher imperial officials, exempted from service in the curia. The inner divisions of this city council might certainly reflect the growing economic disparities that set apart, for example, a Romanianus from a Patricius, the modest father of Augustine. However, it is even more important to note that there were now figures of authority in the locality (the honorati, the lesser bureaucrats, the clergy) who no longer owed their social prestige to the city. This also means that the urban upper class could no longer present a unified façade when dealing with the plebs.

The Urban Plebs Scholars have often depicted the conditions of the free inhabitants of cities below the élite in the later Empire in rather bleak terms as generally impoverished, massively underemployed (Brown, 1992: 89), heavily bound to powerful patrons, increasingly difficult to assert their rights, and under severe state pressure (Bang, 2007: 22–23, for a recent statement of these views). The various kinds of primary data that we have for late Roman Africa, however, allow us to draw a very different picture of the urban plebs (Magalhães de Oliveira, 2012: 27–155). There is little evidence that late Roman North African towns and cities had become impoverished. Nor is there any sign of an unprecedented influx from the countryside of the uprooted and the destitute, as has been postulated for the East (Patlagean, 1977). The expansion and increasing density of urban areas in the fourth and fifth centuries should certainly be attributed to a continued immigration from the countryside. This is particularly visible in the case of Meninx, where the growth of the town is accompanied by the decline in the number of villages and farms in the surrounding countryside. However, as this same example suggests, this migratory movement was paralleled by the expansion of the artisanal quarters on the outskirts of the town (Fentress et al., 2009: 193–200). In Carthage, the more densely inhabited areas of the city center were precisely those that had been associated for centuries with artisanal production. Both at the Northern Sector of the circular harbor and at the so-called Magon quarter, the small units for secondary production (including metal working and textile workshops) occupied the ground floor rooms or the annexes of multistoried, multiresidential buildings (Rakob, 1991; Hurst, 1994; Magalhães de Oliveira, 2012: 44–58). It was only in the seventh century that evidence of a proliferation of substandard housing bespeaks a change that suggests the occupation of the urban space by the destitute (Ellis, 1985).

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Impoverishment, of course, was a constant threat in every period of Antiquity (Brown, 2002: 15). For workers employed in the production, construction, and services, who depended for their existence on a daily wage, any prolonged interruption of activity could plunge them into poverty. Even for the independent artisans and small traders, who relied on credit for the management of a business, indebtedness was never far off. In cases of necessity, they might therefore recur to the protection provided by the Christian church or by traditional patrons. However, there is little evidence that this urban population, mainly engaged in artisanal activities, came to be submitted in their whole way of life to a stricter control of social superiors. As we have seen, the basic unit of craft production in African cities remained the small workshop, which, as in the case of Thamugadi, was often interspersed with densely packed low-status housing (Wilson, 2001, 2002, 2004; Amraoui, 2017). From the archaeological record alone, we could not say if these workshops were occupied by owners or tenants, nor even if these artisans were tied to the élite by bonds of patronage. However, the multiplication and smallness of these living and working units suggest that by the fourth century the majority of ordinary inhabitants of African cities had come to work and live outside any direct control by social superiors. There is little doubt that élite families might have had overarching interests in trade and manufacture, but this is not to say the economic relations between investors and master artisans necessarily resulted in stable patron–client relationships. In fact, the textual evidence on the vitality of the rental market in the African cities implies that the choice of a home or a workplace was determined not by political or religious affiliations but by market conditions and the opportunities of each individual (see August. C. litt. Pet. 2.83.184, a Donatist baker tenant of a Catholic deacon). A model of tight and stable patron–client relations is therefore the most inappropriate way to portray the situation of workers and craftspersons in the towns and cities of late Roman Africa (Magalhães de Oliveira, 2012: 43–123). The social position of artisans and tradesmen was not necessarily low (Amraoui, 2016). In the smaller towns, some artisans might even have been members of the local decurial order, as was the case of Alfius Caecilianus, duumvir of the little town of Abthugni, in Proconsularis, who was a weaver with a small workshop at the beginning of the fourth century (Acta purgationis Felicis; Lepelley, 1984b). Both in big cities and in small towns, they could at least have been members of collegia, the carefully organized professional associations (Carrié, 2002; for the evidence of collegia and associations in Carthage, see Leone, 2007: 66–81). In one of his newly discovered letters, Augustine reminded two of his colleagues that “in the cities, the men are city councillors or plebeians, who, as you know, are indistinguishable in our country from members of collegia” (August. Ep. 22*.2). In this passage, the bishop was not only suggesting that the number of artisans and traders in African cities was particularly high in comparison with other regions. He was also implying that all members of a craft or trade in each town or city now formed part of a professional association. As Jean-Michel Carrié has made plain, this was an obvious consequence of the Diocletianic tax reforms, which made the craft associations responsible for the allocation and levy of their own professional tax. This new situation does not mean that the craft associations were subject to state control or to requests for production, as previous theories of “the late Roman state corporatism” had supposed. However, it certainly implied that shopkeepers, artisans, and urban professionals gained a keener sense of their importance and respectability as their associations were formally recognized as indispensable organs to the proper functioning of the urban community (Carrié, 2002).

Coloni and Rural Laborers North Africa never constituted a “slave society” in any period of Roman rule. Although slaves were effectively attested both in town and countryside, slave labor was not central to the production of surplus for the regional and imperial élites. As we have seen above, in late antiquity, quite as much as in the early empire, the primary mode for organizing agricultural labor on large estates in North Africa remained tenancy, even though it was inevitably supplemented by the work of slaves and



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landless wage laborers, especially at harvest times (Lenski, 2017; Tedesco, 2018). What remains controversial is the exact condition of the free farm laborers from the fourth century onwards. The role of the Roman state in determining the social position of the peasantry has been a subject of intense debate, centered on the nature and extent of the so-called “late Roman colonate” (Carrié, 1997; Marcone, 1997; Wickham, 2005: 520–525; Lenski, 2017: 113–115). The traditional view held was that, in the later Roman Empire, the tenant farmers or coloni were turned into rural serfs, tied to the land by imperial measures in collusion with the great landowners. The colonate, it was said, was a new institution placed between freedom and servitude. In a series of influent articles, Jean-Michel Carrié has cast serious doubts on this model. He has argued that the laws that tied the coloni to their land of origin, their origo, referred only to the tax liability of the peasantry. The laws established their responsibility to the state, not landlords. In addition, the legal position of the coloni continued to be free, not semi-servile. There remains, however, considerable scholarly disagreement over whether a system of enforced residence really existed, or if peasants really saw a weakening of their social position and, if so, whether it was based on imperial legislation or merely on the independent evolution of landlord–peasant relations (Carrié, 1982, 1983, 1997; Marcone, 1985, 1988, 1997). The exact meaning of the imperial legislation was not entirely transparent to contemporaries themselves. In one of his newly discovered letters, Augustine wrote to the iurisconsultus Eustochius to request clarification of existing laws relating to various forms of alienation of individual freedom. We learn that some coloni were selling their children in slavery, which violated the rights of the owner of the land on which the colonus or colona was tied by his or her origin. In another case, however, we see that the same landowner was also trying to enslave his coloni or their children, again against the laws (August. Ep. 24*; Lepelley, 1983b). Yet as Chris Wickham put it, the “words of laws can be used strategically, particularly if they favor the powerful, and the laws on coloni in practice did” (Wickham, 2005: 525). In a letter of one anonymous African landowner to another named Salvius, for example, we see that the latter attempted to use the laws that tied the coloni to the land in order to demand a workforce that he claimed to have been illegally installed in his rival’s estate (Lepelley, 1989: 240–251, 2001: 248–264). There is little doubt that the landlords’ power over the coloni of their estates was increasing in the fourth and fifth centuries. In his Ep. 247, for instance, Augustine accused a landowner of Hippo named Romulus of committing or allowing very serious injustices to happen against his tenant farmers, “these poor persons, miserable and needy,” who had their rents doubly extorted by the managers (actores) of the owner. The landlord’s power, however, went even beyond the economic sphere. Around 401, Augustine complained that Crispinus, the rich dissident bishop of Calama and possessor of an imperial estate in emphyteutic tenure in the territory of Hippo, had forced 80 Catholic tenant farmers to receive a second baptism (August. C. litt. Pet. 2.99.228; Ep. 66). In other letters, Augustine himself did not hesitate to encourage the Catholic landlords to use the same threat of violence (certainly both physical and through the calling in of debts) to convert the pagan or dissident peasants on their estates (August. Ep. 68 to Pamachius; Ep. 112 to Donatus). The repressive laws against the Donatists of 412 and 414 not only determined that the recalcitrant coloni should be “diverted from this perverse religion by a rain of blows,” but established the emphyteutic renters and the conductores of imperial and private domains as the main people responsible for the enforcement of these laws on their estates (Cod. Theod. 16.5.52 and 54; on the pressures on the coloni, see also Lenski, 2017: 136–142). There are other signs, however, that the subjection of the peasantry could not be taken for granted. The episcopal commission sent circa 420 to the village of Fussala and its neighboring estates to investigate the misdeeds of the tyrannical bishop Antoninus deal most of the time with the conductores, rather than the owners of the estates (August. Ep. 20*.10, 19). When the bishops decided to interrogate the farmers individually, the conductores were excluded, apparently for fearing their pressure on the witnesses (August. Ep. 20*.20), but the anxiety of the conductores to collaborate with the episcopal commission betrays their fear of the potential mobility of the peasantry. The threat was made explicit in the case of the coloni of the fundus Thogonoetensis, who

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obviously continued to conceive themselves as free citizens. They did not hesitate to menace (in writing) the owner of the estate, an absentee landlady of senatorial rank, that “they would immediately leave the land” (se continuos migraturos) if Antoninus was again appointed over them. Although by this time there were several laws that made this migration illegal, it is significant that the owner decided to collaborate (August. Ep. 20*.10). The rural populations were not immobilized by law. Impoverished peasants could still move to the towns and cities in search of a better life, as was the case of Antoninus himself, who, according to Augustine, arrived at Hippo as a child with his mother and stepfather “without even the food of that day” (August. Ep. 20*.2). The growth of rural craft production and the increasing monetization of the countryside also imply that many peasants were being recruited as wage laborers or itinerant artisans to work out of their places of origin (Grey, 2004). This was the case of a peasant nun who, as we know from another of Augustine’s new letters, was raped while weaving on an estate of a certain Cresconius and not on the estate where she had her origo colonatus (August. Ep. 15*.3–4). Finally, there were always the important numbers of itinerant harvesters and persons who performed other kinds of seasonal rural labor, who were poor but free to contract their own labor as they wished. This was the case of the gangs of the “circumcellions,” who, like the turmae of the “Harvester of Mactar,” also worked under foremen and were contracted at the local periodical markets (Optat. 3.4.2; Shaw, 2011: 630–674). As Paolo Tedesco observed, the persistent movement of these groups was not only dictated by their need to find a new seasonal occupation. It was also “directed towards preventing landowners from tying them to the estate by force of law (colonate), by a signed contract […], or by mere coercive power” (Tedesco, 2018: 418). It comes therefore as no surprise that, at a time when landowners wanted to tie down the peasantry and in a context of an apparently limited availability of the workforce, these more mobile groups came to be perceived (and sometimes indeed acted in this role) as the main sources of rebellion in the North African countryside.

Culture and Identity Popular and Elite Cultures Local municipal élites in late Roman Africa remained strongly attached to traditional values and aesthetics ingrained in a high culture of classical learning. The intricacies of Ciceronian rhetoric, the powerful poetics of a Virgil, and the civilities of manner and tone learned in the traditional schools remained for aristocrats and leading men of letters the defining marks of an élite (Tlili, 2010: 2041–2048; Shaw, 2011: 195–206). This high culture of classical learning was also an indispensable requisite for a career in the imperial administration. As a result, education became not only an especial avenue of promotion for petty notables of talent, the best known of whom was certainly the ambitious young Augustine (Lepelley, 1987, 1992b), but also a means to unite the potentially conflicting segments of the governing class (Brown, 1992: 35–70). For most educated pagans, this was a glorious tradition that remained closely associated with the world of gods (Brown, 2000: 458). By the fourth century, however, classical culture, as with all other aspects of the civic tradition, had been in another sense “secularized,” in the sense that its adoption no longer implied any religious conviction (Lepelley, 2010). As society became divided along religious lines, official municipal inscriptions ceased to make references to the old gods or to commemorate sacrifices. The only values exalted were therefore purely secular: “the glory of the Empire and the emperors, the greatness and prestige of the city, the public good, the common good of the citizens, the generosity and dedication of dignitaries” (Lepelley, 2002: 277). The urban lower classes in Africa remained no less attached to the traditional amenities of a Roman city. Augustine was often compelled to recognize how the public entertainments and other traditional amenities of the city remained, in fact, a distinctive feature of urban life and immensely



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dear to the people. In his Manual for the Instruction of the Uneducated, for instance, he observed that there were poor persons who hoped to come to a city just “to have fun and lie in bars, whorehouses, theaters and to enjoy common shows that they can have for free in big cities” (De cat. rud. 16.25). In his own congregation, he knew that everyone had learned the story of Aeneas’s journey to the Underworld told by Virgil, “a few from the books, but many from the theaters” (Serm. 241.5), and, at least in Carthage, if not in all other cities, he did not overlook the fact that the songs of the theater still set the pace for the work of journeymen in each workshop: “Do we not know how all workmen give their hearts and tongues to the vanities and even to the filth of theaterplays when their hands are set to work?” (De op. monach. 17.20; transl. Horsfall, 2003: 16). As these examples suggest, the world of public entertainment remained central to the popular culture and played an important part in the political education of the common people. In fact, the constant visit to public spectacles and the repetition of their songs and chants in other venues imply that plebeians could acquire a practical mastery of forms of public intervention, through improvised chants and acclamations. Theaters and amphitheaters, however, were only part of a series of venues, such as urban ports, taverns and baths, streets and plazas, and even the Christian churches, where this plebeian political culture could be nurtured and where everything from the spread of gossip and political news to the public reading aloud of booklets and pamphlets could take place (Magalhães de Oliveira, 2017).

“Civic” and “Christian” Identities The political importance of the public spectacles resided in their continuing ability to draw large crowds (Lim, 1999). Those who could still promote spectacles had hope they would gain popularity and power. Although there were now figures of authority who “no longer needed to cut a figure by showing their love to their own city” (Brown, 2012: 65), it is significant that many others were still competing for the popular favor. This is because the populus – the citizen body – remained a legitimizing force, and even more important precisely because authority in the city became increasingly contested (Harries, 1999). Augustine and other bishops of the late fourth and early fifth centuries condemned the public spectacles in large measure because the church still could not compete with the spectacula (Hugoniot, 2003). Christians “often ‘voted with their feet’ and opted for the theater or amphitheater even when it conflicted with their ability to attend a Christian service during a holiday” (Lim, 2012: 146). The tacit agreement between the ambitious notables and the plebs for the maintenance of public entertainments is a constant feature of the sermons of Augustine against the shows. A good example is a sermon held at Carthage in the last months of 403: These crazy and arrogant men, empty inside, puffed up with pride on the outside, even want to lose their fortunes by giving – giving to actors, giving to comedians, giving to wild-beasts hunters, giving to charioteers. What mass of donations! What mass of expenses! They not only dissipate the wealth of their heritage but also their soul. These men despise the poor, because the People do not shout for the poor to receive, the People shout for the hunter to receive. (August. En. in ps. 149.10)

The heedless spending by the rich was in fact an essential part of the reciprocal relations between the plebs and the notables that had characterized for centuries the civic system (Jacques, 1984: 379–404). For the notables, it was a manner to legitimate their wealth and power. For the plebs, it was a joy to which they were entitled as citizens. Augustine, however, proposed to the rich another pattern of giving, the focus of which was no longer the populus and the city, but the poor and the church. Scholars have often seen in this replacement of “civic benefactions” by “Christian charity” one of the core transitions of the age, with a “civic” model, in which the society was divided between citizens and non-citizens, giving place to a “Christian” model, in which society was divided

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­ etween the rich and the poor (Patlagean, 1977; Brown, 2002). It is now recognized that “the b two patterns of giving continued side by side for a long time, without the one necessarily draining funds and energy from the other” (Brown, 2012: 356; see also Thiel, 2015). The main problem with this theory of the passage of the “civic” to the “Christian” model of society, however, is that it presents social identities as non-negotiable and exclusive categories, as if the populus and “the poor” have been always starkly different groups. Contemporary social theory has emphasized instead that people have multiple self-representations and behave in different ways in different contexts (Funari, 2010; Rebillard, 2012). Therefore, being defined as “poor” or “citizen” or identifying oneself with the pauperes of the church or with the civic populus were not, in fact, absolute choices, but rather strategies that could be employed by the same persons in different contexts. The letters and sermons of Augustine present us with circumstances when the expectations generated by both civic generosity and Christian charity could even be combined. An example of this situation is the attempt of forced ordination as a priest of the super-rich Roman senator Valerius Pinianus, the husband of Melania the Younger, by the people of Hippo, in the spring of 411 (Lepelley, 1979: 385–388; Cecconi, 1988; Magalhães de Oliveira, 2012: 187–204; Brown, 2012: 322–325). The city was experiencing a time of economic difficulties created by the Gothic crisis in Italy and the blocking of African exports since 409. In this context, the presence of a wealthy donor such as Pinianus who sought at all costs to dispose of his wealth in order to adopt an ascetic way of life came to be seen as a guarantee of safety for employees, artisans, and small traders of Hippo, precisely those groups who were the most vulnerable to the consequences of a prolonged interruption of the overseas trade. The family of Pinianus accused the people of Hippo of wanting to obtain the ordination of the young senator as priest only to satisfy a “filthy appetite for money.” In defense of his congregation, Augustine presented the potential beneficiaries of Pinianus’ generosity as a tiny minority group, arguing that Christian charity was not intended for the common people as a whole, but only to “a small number of the indigent.” This speech was made precisely because the crowd had taken on the ideology and the practice of charity in a much broader sense: they saw the potential donation of Pinianus’ wealth to the church of Hippo both as a benefit to the community and as a guarantee of safety for themselves in cases of necessity. In order to grab their “prey,” the tenuiores of Hippo used the very same strategies employed in civic life to extort from the notables their “generosity”: the prolonged acclamations, the threat of riot, and the patient collective bargaining of an agreement (August. Ep. 125, 126). If the notables were held hostage by their own discourse in civic life, the same was true for bishops in the face of their congregations. We see this in a sermon preached by Augustine in 412 that reproaches his Christian parishioners who had taken part in a serious incident. A ­rapacious imperial official, who had been colluding with other officials and tax collectors in the systematic extortion of undue payments out of merchants and craftsmen in the port of Hippo, was dragged out from his refuge in the Christian basilica and lynched by a crowd in revolt until his body was torn to pieces in the city streets. Although the rioters were artisans and ­shopkeepers, merchants and their servants, they could present themselves as “the poor” in order to demand the attention of their bishop. Accused of not having intervened sooner in favor of the victims of the official, Augustine had to remind his congregation that he did not desire “that the poor were oppressed” either. Yet when the bishop came to reproach his ­listeners for their recourse to lynching, we find that the same participants also identified themselves as the p­ opulus – the citizen body – to justify their action: “What the People has done is done! Who will punish a whole People?” By presenting the murder of the miscreant as a “public execution” (publicum supplicium) and as a “power of the People” (potestas populi), the plebeians of Hippo expressed indeed an ingrained sense of their rights as citizens (August. Serm. 302; Magalhães de Oliveira, 2012: 275–297).



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Rural Identities and Peasant Empowerment The Christian churches in late Roman Africa, therefore, did not simply replace civic institutions. They offered, however, new channels and modes in which the ordinary inhabitants of the towns and cities could find their voice. This role was even more important in the countryside precisely because the rural communities had been previously excluded from the autonomy of a city and its traditions of civic munificence. As Leslie Dossey has made plain, rural populations sought to become ecclesiae in the fourth century for the same reasons that they had tried to become republics in the third – to form communities, to choose their own leaders, and to participate in a form of civic life: “Electing a bishop enabled dispersed estates and villages to come together under a common leader and substitute the horizontal, collective membership in a diocese for the hierarchical relationship between tenants and landlords” (Dossey 2010: 126). As Augustine’s new letter 20* has shown, the installation of Antoninus as the bishop of castellum Fussala, despite the opposition of the villagers and the neighboring farmers, in the end enabled them to coalesce, to identify themselves as Fussalenses and act as one populus (Dossey, 2010: 137–141). Christian preaching on charity and poverty also gave to North African peasants the very elements that helped them to express discontent and rebellion. This was best seen in a case reported by Optatus of Milevis in his polemical treatise against the Donatists. According to him, before 347, the mass of seasonal laborers called “circumcellions” who gathered at the periodic markets of Numidia had been mobilized by two self-appointed local religious leaders, Axido and Fasir, to interfere in the collection of rural debts: The signatures of debtors had lost their value. At the time, no creditor had freedom to enforce payment. Everyone was terrified by the letters of those who boasted that they were the “Commanders of the Saints”. And if there was any delay in obeying their commands, an insane crowd would suddenly fly up. As the terror approached before them, the creditors were besieged by dangers. So, the persons who deserved to be begged for what they had granted, were compelled by fear of death to supplicate, humiliated. […] Even the safest roads could no longer be travelled because masters, struck down from their vehicles, ran along like slaves before their own slaves who were sitting in the place of the masters. By the judgement and command of such men, the conditions of masters and slaves were reversed. (Optat. 3.4)

This violent inversion of social roles was not a revolutionary action aimed at the construction of a new social order. It was rather a more limited revolt against the injustice of the rural indebtedness and a demand for fairness in economic transactions. It was aimed mainly to destroy the handwritten notes of credit (chirographa) and invalidate the ownership deeds of “slaves” (in fact, “slaves to debt”) (Shaw, 2011: 782). The procedures used by the leaders of the circumcellions mimicked judicial proceedings, issuing commands (iussiones) and making judgments (iudicium). Optatus also blamed the Donatist bishops for having incited, but not controlled, the actions of the “Commanders of the Saints.” In fact, as Dossey pointed out, the rejection of the demands of creditors as attempts at fraud or enslavement might well have been rooted in a re-interpretation of the stock themes of Christian preaching (Dossey, 2010: 180–186). It is significant, in this sense, that even the Catholic clerics and urban parishioners of Augustine, who forcibly freed in the late 420s a group of 120 peasants who were going to be sold as slaves by slave traders, justified their action as a form of “charity” (eleemosyna) (August. Ep. 10*.7). In the end, the episode reported by Optatus demonstrates the combined effects of the diffusion of a documentary culture and a measure of literacy in the African countryside and the access of rural laborers to a Christian preaching on charity that they actively re-interpreted for their own ends (see also Leone, Chapter 20).

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Conclusion We have seen a number of episodes of rough confrontations and actual outbreaks of violence. Was there any indication that African society was becoming more violent? The traditional views of lateantique North Africa as a foyer of armed resistance to Roman rule have been correctly rejected. Even the large-scale armed confrontations of the fourth and early-fifth centuries, such as the revolts of Firmus and Gildo, came to be seen as a more controlled phenomenon, a matter of power politics and status competition, not a class struggle, nor a case of Berber versus Roman (Modéran, 1989, 2003; on the “Moorish” power structures that were taking shape in late antiquity and their complex relations with the imperial authority in Africa, see Merrils, Chapter 22). The sectarian battles of the age have also been seen as a game played according to certain rules, and it is no longer possible to see “Donatism” as a nationalist or social movement in disguise (Shaw, 2011; Rossi, 2013). Urban riots and peasant uprisings should be seen in the same way as “a small-scale phenomenon that emphasized the motives of individual claims and losses” (Shaw, 2011: 774). However, the problem remains: Was there more of them? The question itself is somewhat misleading. The debate on the normality or exceptionality of violence in late antiquity has always been a judgment on the definition and character of the period: supporters of models of “decline and fall” tend to associate the supposed increase in levels of collective violence to the end of the Roman Empire, while followers of models of “continuity and change” within a “long late antiquity” tend, instead, to empty the impact and extent of such violence. The implicit assumption in both cases is that violence and conflict should be treated as a collapse of social order (see Magalhães de Oliveira, 2020). If we assume, however, that conflicts are an inevitable part of social life, we are compelled to see violence as well as a special case of normal social interactions. What is significant in late-antique North Africa, therefore, is not the level of violence, but the expansion of opportunities for popular intervention, both in cities and in the countryside. The fragmentation of the élite and the disputes between rival religious groups made popular support indispensable, but, even more than before, hard to be won. The slow growth in prosperity and the new channels of communication between city and countryside also enabled a diffusion of notions of justice and charity that empowered peasants to resist the abuses of landlords and their agents. The characteristic forms of collective violence, however, remained closely associated with traditional social behaviors and institutions: the structures of the Roman state and its universality, the traditions of the classical city, and the integration of the countryside to its currents. When these structures disappeared, especially after the Justinianic reconquest, it was not just prosperity that faded. Urban riots and peasant unrest also vanished. Henceforth, all that was left was the armed resistance of the tribes (Fentress, 2011: 850).

FURTHER READING The most convenient starting point for the archaeological work in North Africa, although only up to 1995, remains the review article by Mattingly and Hitchner (1995). A good introduction to the contributions of Augustine’s new letters and sermons to the study of the society and culture in late Roman Africa are the two volumes of communications organized by Lepelley (1983a) and Madec (1998). The fundamental work on the municipal life and the local élites in Africa remains the magisterial study by Lepelley (1979–1981). Several of his articles, conveniently assembled in Lepelley (2001), also deal with various topics discussed in this chapter. The most comprehensive and innovative study on the North African peasantry in late antiquity is that of Dossey (2010), although Vera (1986a, 1988, 1992) on the land and property relations remain unsurpassed. Some points treated here, especially concerning the urban plebs, are discussed at greater length in Magalhães de Oliveira (2012). On the topic of violence and conflict, see the monumental work of Shaw (2011), which deals indeed with many other aspects of the social life in late Roman Africa well beyond the subject of sectarian violence.



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CHAPTER 18

The Mauri in Late Antiquity Andy Merrills

This chapter considers the various political structures that developed in some way independently of Roman, Vandal, and Byzantine power in the Maghreb between around 300 and 600 ce. This was an extraordinarily varied landscape, in terms of human as well as physical geography, and the fragmentary sources available to us hint at a remarkable social heterogeneity in this period. While it is sometimes tempting to lump together the “Moors” or “Berbers” as an essentially unchanging or undifferentiated backdrop to the history of the occupying powers in this region, or to trace the outlines of coherent kingdoms in the confused noise that comes down to us from the post-imperial centuries, neither approach is satisfactory. It will be suggested here that the textual, epigraphic, and archaeological evidence argues for a varied and vibrant political world, in which individuals or ruling dynasties were beholden to diverse networks of social or cultural obligation, and orchestrated systems of rule that may often have been quite short-lived. As the other chapters in this volume have shown, the societies of the Maghreb were indelibly shaped by the physical geography of the world in which they developed, and this was certainly true in the latter years of the Roman empire. The mountainous regions of the Tellian Atlas, Hodna, Aurès, or the Kabylia saw the evolution of very different political structures, thanks to their varied topography, diverse populations, and their relative exposure to Roman imperial power. Similarly, the agricultural and pastoralist societies of the Algerian High Steppe, Numidian valleys, the Tunisian Sahel, or the Tripolitanian pre-desert were shaped in a range of ways by the imposition of Roman rule and agricultural exploitation – being variously settled, monitored, taxed, or recruited into the military. Some would have continued to live in small family groups, largely unaffected by empire; others would have been thoroughly integrated as Roman citizens living in towns. To a degree all need to be considered when thinking about the emergence of “Moorish” polities in the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries ce, and it is clear that viewing them through a single interpretative lens is problematic. The linguistic picture was also complex, and it is likely that many parts of North Africa were multilingual in this period. Latin and Punic were certainly the most widely spoken languages. Augustine provides us with the fullest testimony for the use of Punic in the early fifth century (Lengrand, 2005). This seems to have been very common within the rural communities close to his diocese, but prominent churchmen were also fluent in the language. Late Punic and bilingual Latin–Punic inscriptions are widely known from the Tripolitanian pre-desert as late as the fourth century, and the form of the language within this epigraphy suggests strongly that it remained a spoken language, as well as one for display (Adams, 2003: 200–246; Jongeling and Kerr, 2005;

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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Hamdoune, 2018: 84–88). Other African languages are less well-attested. It is likely that Berber (or proto-Berber) dialects were spoken in regions outside Roman control, and Berber names are certainly widely known, but the precise form of these languages, and their relation to the later Tifinagh, are still imperfectly understood (Chaker, 2002). A small number of inscriptions in Libyco–Berber scripts have plausibly been dated to this period, but these have not been studied systematically or in any detail (Chaker, 2002; cf. Hachid, 2011). As a succinct illustration of this variety, we might turn briefly to Ammianus’ account of one extended family in fourth-century Numidia – an episode we will discuss in more detail shortly. The family of the regulus Nubel included individuals with Latin, Punic, and Berber names, integrated themselves with Latin- and Greek-speaking court officials, but also developed alliances with local gentes who spoke languages that were not mutually intelligible (Amm, Marc. 29.5.28). The seemingly straightforward issue of definition illustrates the complexity of this task. Simply put, finding a term that encompasses the heterogeneous populations of late antique Africa is all but impossible for modern scholars, and contemporary writers do not seem to have found the task much easier. In classical and post-classical sources, Mauri or Maurousioi were semantically fluid labels, which had different resonances depending on period and context (Conant, 2012: 272–277; cf. Modéran, 2008a: 92–94). Under the earlier empire, these terms were most commonly used to refer simply to inhabitants of the Mauretanian provinces, from the western edge of Numidia to the Atlantic coast, regardless of their cultural background. The third-century emperor Macrinus, and Eupraxius, who was magister memoriae and Prefect of Rome in the fourth century, are both identified as “Moors” with little further comment (although Macrinus’ large earring was deemed worthy of note; Cass. Dio 79.11; Amm. Marc. 27.6.14; cf. PLRE I “Flavius Eupraxius”). It was only towards the end of the fourth century that the terms came to be applied to the inhabitants of Africa more widely, and began to assume pejorative connotations. The court poet Claudian unleashed a stinging invective at the rebel Gildo in the later 390s, repeatedly stressing his position at the head of rapacious “Moorish” barbarians and the threat that such groups posed to the stability of the empire (Claud. Gild. esp. 283, 338, 330; Stil. I.383, II.286; Eutr. II. Pref 71; Modéran, 1989: 825–834). However, even after 400, such labels remained ambivalent. Claudian and other late Roman writers variously referred to rebellious Africans simply as barbari, or turned to the exotic names of classical poetic ethnography in invoking “Gaetulians,” “Garamantes,” “Aethiopes,” and others, more or less interchangeably, with little interest in the precise connotations of each term (or the nature of the populations that they described). The inhabitants of Africa doubtless comprehended their own identities in rather more nuanced ways, but here too we are on rather difficult ground, and are at the mercy of classical sources that were not particularly sensitive in their representations of territories about which they knew little. On one level, it seems clear that gentes (commonly translated as “tribes” or “peoples” in this setting, but the specifically Roman resonances of this term should also be remembered) represented a significant point of local identity in Roman North Africa (cf. Euzennat, 1995; Fevrier, 1996: 841–845; Hamdoune, 1998; Modéran, 2003: 421–443). Classical geographers list the peoples of Numidia and Mauretania in dizzying profusion, often delighting in the extraordinary and the unknown. That many of these groupings had a social and political significance on the ground is not to be doubted, but it is not always clear what this might have been. A number of inscriptions erected in Africa from the first century onwards refer to the praefecti, principes, or occasionally reges of named gentes, who had either been defeated by Roman troops or had been otherwise pacified (cf. Modéran, 2003: 481–500; Arcuri, 2012). In these contexts, the ratification of named leaders provided a means by which the empire could control the native population, especially in the countryside or in upland regions. Armed with these data, laudable attempts have been made to reconcile textual and epigraphic sources and to identify the regions in which gentes lived (not least in the ongoing Encyclopédie Berbère), but this is far from straightforward. Some group names – like the Bavares or Mazikes – appear frequently, in a variety of different settings, and would seem to have been either generic terms for “barbaric” Africans or confederations of multiple groups (Camps, 1991; Modéran, 2003: 467–468). Others – like the Quinquegentanei (literally “five



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peoples”), known from around Kabylia – certainly do refer to confederations, but their Latin name rather implies that this union was effected under the aegis of the empire, and may not have corresponded to how local groups thought of themselves. There were certainly confederated groups in the pre-desert of Tripolitania, but their shifting names – Austuriani, Laguatan, Lawata – cause further confusion (Modéran, 2008b). Many other names appear only once or twice in our sources before disappearing altogether. Some of these gentes may have been subsumed into “Roman” or provincial society, or into larger groups, others perhaps were labels applied to mobile societies that were in a constant process of change and configuration from year-to-year and even s­ eason-to-seson. We should also be cautious, however, even in the rare cases where groups’ names may seem to indicate some degree of demographic continuity. After all, the apparent durability of an ethnonym need not imply straightforward political continuity, as the paradox of the Ship of Theseus reminds us. This is not to suggest that such identities were unimportant; indeed there is good reason to think that the gens became an increasingly important point of reference for groups living in these regions in late Antiquity, and particularly for those who could claim leadership over them, but this was not the single point of social and political organization on which all depended. The sixthcentury poet Corippus provides us with an extraordinary synchronic picture of the peoples of Numidia, Byzacena, and Tripolitania in his epic Iohannis, of gentes that rose and fell in importance, which bound together in confederations, or reconfigurated in times of crisis, and is an invaluable text for understanding these topics (Zarini, 2005; Riedlberger, 2010). However, it is conspicuous that his near contemporary Procopius, who wrote a narrative history of the same conflict and had also spent time in North Africa, does not distinguish the Moors by gens at all, preferring to see them all as undifferentiated Maurousioi. Similarly, the two best-known assertions of Moorish regal authority from the fifth and sixth centuries – the inscriptions of Masties and Masuna – refer only to their authority over Mauri, and not to specific gentes. This may reflect their aspirations to universal rule, but it may simply suggest that gentile affiliations were not always as relevant in the post-Roman world as we might wish them to have been (cf. Reimitz, 2015). Evidently, we should be wary of searching for a single overarching model of “Moorish” social and political organization in this period; in looking too hard for the wood, we risk losing sight of the trees. This chapter will provide a brief overview of “Moorish” societies of the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries by looking at a handful of relatively well-documented case studies. It will focus primarily on those societies that are well attested in the literary sources or epigraphy, which have particularly striking archaeological testimony or where texts allow us a glimpse into the political hierarchies of this period. What emerges is a necessarily fragmented image of post-Roman North Africa, in which powerful individuals responded to the challenges and opportunities that they faced in a variety of ways. A deliberate effort has been made here to resist the temptation to view the polities that emerged in teleological or diachronic ways – that is, to extrapolate much wider models of “Moorish” or “Berber” kingdoms from these brief glimpses. Clearly quite sophisticated political systems did emerge in the fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-century Maghreb, but much of their subtlety and significance can be lost if we attempt to fit them into a single interpretative framework.

Nubel and Sons Our clearest view of the power structures that were taking shape in later Roman Africa is apparent in Ammianus Marcellinus’ account of the military struggles of one extended family in the Kabylia from the early 370s. In the historian’s account, the dominant figure in this region during the preceding period had been one Nubel, “the most powerful kinglet of the Moorish peoples” (regulus per nationes Mauricas potentissimus; Amm, Marc. 29.5.2). Ammianus states that Nubel came from a gens called the Iubaleni, who inhabited the highlands in the frontier region between Auzia and Sufasar, but he was clearly thoroughly integrated within Roman society (29.5.44). Nubel is

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probably to be identified with one Flavius Nuvel, known from an inscription in the coastal city of Rusguniae, and who boasted of his own military service, his family lineage, and his role in bringing a fragment of the True Cross to the local church (CIL 8.9255; cf. Lengrand, 1995: 145–147; Laporte, 2012: 982–984). A second Christian inscription from a moderately sized farm building on the Col Beni Aïcha near the mouth of the Isser has also been linked to Nubel, and may connect the regulus (or one of his sons) to the impressive tower mausoleum at Blad Guitoun nearby, but this is more speculative, given the uncertain date of that monument (Laporte, 2013; cf. Gsell, 1898; Camps, 1984: 185–186, and later discussion). At any event, Nubel was clearly a major figure within the Greater Kabylie, and this influence extended comfortably into the coastal towns of Mauretania. It was only after Nubel’s death, however, that this influence began to create problems for imperial authority in Africa, and the revolts that followed have been well studied (see especially Modéran, 1989; Blackhurst, 2004; Hamdoune, 2012; Laporte, 2012; Hamdoune, 2018: 201–213). One of his sons, Sammac (or Salmaces) was also a figure of some local importance, thanks in part to a close personal relationship with Romanus, the comes Africae, and nominal head of the military in the region. Sammac built a fortified stronghold for himself called fundus petrensis, an estate that was “rather like a city” (in modum urbis) in Ammianus’ words, and evidently significant as a powerbase (29.5.13). Remarkably, this estate has been identified, at M’lakou in the Wadi Soummam, and a dedicatory inscription of exceptional quality confirms this identification. This text proclaims the Praedium Sammacis in a deft Latin double acrostich, and celebrates the estate as a bastion of imperial authority, and a rallying point for neighboring peoples (gentes) to defer to Sammac, as a champion of Roman power (ILS 9351; cf. Shaw, 2011: 40). Yet Sammac’s influence did not last long. Ammianus tells us that he was murdered by his half-brother Firmus, who subsequently found himself cut off from his contacts within the imperial court by the skulduggery of Romanus. Pushed into rebellion against the empire, Firmus came into conflict with the new comes Theodosius, and the political and military maneuvering of these figures in 373–374 takes up much of Ammianus’ narrative. His account describes the ongoing struggle for influence between the major powerbrokers of the region, acting as landowners, imperial functionaries, military officers, or in a combination of these roles. Nubel’s family was prominently represented among these actors. Firmus’ supporters included his sister Cyria and his brothers Mascezel, Dius, and Mazuca; one of Theodosius’ most important allies in suppressing the revolt was another brother, Gildo (Laporte, 2012: 982). Some two decades later, in the upland regions of Numidia, Gildo found himself in similar circumstances. Gildo’s support of Theodosius during the Firmus affair meant that he benefited when his patron’s son became the emperor Theodosius I. Thereafter, Gildo found favour in court circles at Constantinople, but this success created further problems in the complex political world of the late-fourth century (Blackhurst, 2004; Wijnendaele, 2017). Having developed close bonds with the eastern court, marrying his daughter into the ranks of the imperial family, Gildo was granted the unprecedented title of magister utriusque militiae per Africam (PLRE I: “Gildo”). This office may have helped consolidate his position in Africa, but he was also a major landowner and held substantial estates in the region (CTh VII.8.7, 9; IX.42.16, 19). Ultimately, this prominence, and the potential control that Gildo exercised over the African grain fleets, proved threatening at a time when Stilicho’s rise to power was raising tensions between the western and eastern halves of the empire, and senior military commanders across the empire viewed one another with suspicion (Wijnendaele, 2017, 2019: 308–312). Factions in Ravenna viewed Gildo as an eastern puppet, and eventually he too was pushed into open revolt. Following a brief campaign in the Spring of 398, Gildo was defeated; this time by his brother Mascezel, who was acting on behalf of Ravenna, and whose children had been killed at the outset of the revolt (Or. 7.36.4–5; Zos. 5.11.3–4; Claud. Gild. 387–391). Thanks to recent scholarship, the motivations behind these risings are relatively well-understood, and they have been persuasively integrated into the wider political events of this period. Our principal narrative sources for the revolts – Ammianus in the case of Firmus, Claudian and Orosius



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for Gildo – are hostile to the African rebels, and paint them in uncompromising terms as tyrants, usurpers, bandits, and “Moorish” chiefs. In the aftermath of Gildo’s defeat, moreover, Augustine was very happy to exploit this politicized rhetoric and damned the bishops of the African “Donatist” church for their supposed connections to the two rebels (Modéran, 1989: 844–846 with references). Yet these opportunistic bursts of parochial point-scoring should not disguise the wider imperial context within which both revolts took place. These were not atavistic spasms of regionalist fervour, fuelled by the religious schisms of the time, but rather local struggles for power that were bound up in far wider circles of influence and interest. Both Firmus and Gildo sought to exploit political contacts that extended well beyond Africa, and both were ultimately casualties of the dramatic changes in the imperial landscape in the final quarter of the fourth century. When each of them rebelled, moreover, they did so as prominent military commanders, and at the head of Roman troops: it was this integration, above all, that made them such a threat to the distant courts in Ravenna and Constantinople. In many ways Nubel, Firmus, Gildo, and their siblings look like typical landed aristocrats of the later Roman west. They constructed impressive rural villas, erected Latin inscriptions to proclaim their authority, took official imperial titles when they were available, and proved important patrons of the church. It is also clear, however, that much of their local authority (and perhaps also their appeal to the power-brokers in Ravenna and Constantinople) rested on a range of social and political connections, which differed from those found elsewhere in the empire (cf. Whittaker, 1994: 262–266). The importance of these networks of influence – and the heterogeneous groups who might be bound up in them – are illustrated particularly clearly in Ammianus’ narrative of Firmus’ rebellion, and specifically by the details of Theodosius’ counter-strategy, which occupies most of his account. What the historian describes is not so much a protracted military campaign as a cautious minuet between the two commanders and their subordinates, as each sought to secure the loyalty of imperial troops, maintain a presence in prominent fortified estates and towns, and establish links with the leaders of the local gentes. Although the struggle was marked by violent episodes – ­especially around the fortified estates of the region – it was Theodosius’ greater diplomatic acumen that proved decisive in suppressing the revolt. Gildo proved crucial in drawing prominent figures away from his brother and into the imperial fold, and other well-placed individuals also proved to be useful allies (Amm, Marc. 29.5.6, 21, 24, cf. 29.5.14, 27). It is noteworthy, for example, that Firmus was ultimately betrayed by one Igmazen, rex of a gens called the Isaflenses, who was himself bound to Theodosius through the efforts of Masilla, optimas of the Mazices: this was a victory of careful negotiation as much as military power (Amm, Marc. 29.5.46, 51–55). Ammianus names multiple gentes in his account – Mazices, Baiurae, Cantauriani, Auastomates, Cafaves, Bavares, Iesalenses, Isaflenses, and several unnamed peoples – and variously identifies their leaders as kings, kinglets, princes, prefects, and “main men” (Amm, Marc. 29.5.17, 33, 37, 40, 44; cf. Hamdoune, 2012: 951). How all of these individuals related to one another, and how their regional influence integrated with that of the bishops, imperial officials, and military commanders alongside whom they lived, can only be the matter for speculation, and it is not clear that even Ammianus fully appreciated the nuances of this world. However, Theodosius certainly did. Where necessary, he installed his own praefecti over local gentes, thereby ensuring their loyalty in the struggle with Firmus (Amm, Marc. 29.5.35). In doing this, of course, Theodosius was following well-established imperial precedent, but the sequence of events reveals just how transitory political engineering like this could be. After all, Firmus, Gildo, and Mascezel were a reminder of where this policy might eventually lead. The details of Gildo’s revolt are rather harder to piece together, but the fragments available to us again suggest that he was also dependent upon a flexible web of alliances as the basis of his power, this time on the provincial border of Numidia. Our literary sources create some confusion here: it is unlikely that Gildo was able to muster an army of 70,000 as Orosius suggests (7.36.6, 12), or that his allies included Nubae and Meroities from the Upper Nile as well as inhabitants of the Atlas Mountains, as Claudian claims (Claud. Stil. I.248–67; cf Modéran, 1989: 835–839).

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However, if outsiders were prone to exaggerate the impression of a whole continent rising up in revolt, it is clear that Gildo could muster considerable support, throughout Africa, Numidia, and Mauretania. The end of his rising was surprisingly swift – Mascezel defeated him in a single engagement on the River Ardalio, between Theveste and Ammaedara – but the dissolution of his powerbase took time and considerable care (Or. 7.36.6). Over the next few years, Gildo’s estates, and those of his satellites, were systematically taken under imperial control, and certain restrictions were placed upon them (CTh. IX.42.16; VII.8.7; IX.42.19; VII.8.9; cf. Modéran, 1989: 858–860). It is possible that this was little more than opportunistic plundering on the part of the imperial household, but formal military command of the estates subsequently passed to a specially appointed Count – the comes Gildoniaci patrimonii (Not Dig Occ. XII.5). It is also conspicuous that particular restrictions are placed on the movement of transuentes – evidently mobile groups of some kind (CTh. VII.8.7). It is possible that seasonal pastoralists were prominent among Gildo’s allies, and if so his estate may have been an important mustering point for them, just as Sammac’s may have been in northern Numidia. Such communities came in from the high steppes each spring in order to graze their flocks, and these practices necessitated close relationships with the agriculturalists of the Tell (Merrills, 2018). In times of social tension, mobile pastoralists like these could represent a significant threat, and this may explain the imperial authorities’ concern to monitor Gildo’s confiscated lands so closely. Without a loyal creature in place, the empire needed to find a new representative at the heart of Gildo’s network. Nubel, Firmus, and Gildo flourished on the fringes of several worlds. In explaining this, modern scholars have commonly resorted to the evocative – if ambiguous – language of “tribal chieftains,” “bandits,” and “caids” to describe their position, and those of the various friends and relations that they could call upon in times of trouble. Matters were scarcely any clearer at the time. Ammianus describes Nubel as a regulus, “kinglet,” but his name also evokes the Libyan–Punic root NBL (“ruler”). Gildo, likewise, revelled in his unprecedented title of magister militum for Africa, but his name also had local resonances (from the root GLD, which was also associated with royalty; Chaker and Camps, 1985; Laporte, 2012: 982). We cannot say what title – or titles – Firmus held (and his name offers no clues), but he did include prefects, princes, and kings (reges) among his subordinates. Clearly, there is much that we do not know about the nuances of African titulature in this period (Merrills, 2021). The narrative of the revolt shows clearly that these titles did not imply absolute authority over clearly demarcated territories, as later usages might imply. If these were “kings,” they did not have formal kingdoms. None of these figures enjoyed a monopoly over military force, or ideological authority, and theirs was a power that did not preclude other networks of influence and authority – indeed, which depended upon them. This is an important point to bear in mind when thinking about later figures in Moorish history.

Numidia and Eastern Mauretania in the Fifth and Sixth Centuries The political landscape of North Africa changed dramatically over the course of the fifth century. The successive Vandal occupations of Hippo Regius in 435 and Carthage in 439/442 overturned the balance of power in the region (Conant, Chapter 21). Ravenna retained some jurisdiction over western Numidia and the Mauretanias during the 440s and 450s, but this had atrophied by the end of the century and formal imperial control was never to return to these regions. The eastern “Byzantine” reconquest of 533/534 returned the proconsular province, northern Byzacena, and Tripolitania to the empire, and expeditions penetrated to the foothills of the Aurès and Hodna massifs, leaving chains of fortifications behind them, but effective imperial authority was only ever superficial beyond the line of the Tunisian Dorsal (cf. Laporte 2002). Instead, power devolved to regional authorities across the Maghreb. Our knowledge of the polities that emerged can only be fragmentary, and is often substantially shaped by the distorting lenses of classicizing texts, but the



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broad pattern that emerges is again one of a fluctuating network of influential individuals, the nature of whose power could be temporary and which could vary substantially in response to local circumstances. During the early period of Vandal rule in Carthage, the Hasding court provided new opportunities for the ambitious landlords and warlords of Numidia and the Mauretanian provinces. “Moorish” allies were centrally involved in the raids that Geiseric led throughout the Mediterranean from 455 to 476, and there is some suggestion that African troops were among the garrison troops in Vandal Sardinia in the early-sixth century (Modéran, 2003: 541–545; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 124–127, 137–138). It is difficult to identify these federates with any precision – outside commentators were more eager to dust off familiar poetic ethnographies than provide a detailed description of the African belligerents – but multiple groups seem to have been drawn to the Vandal cause, and this raiding and plunder may well have acted as a catalyst on local hierarchies (Sid Apoll. Carm 5.336–8). Vandal domestic policies may also have had an effect. There are occasional hints in our sources that the Hasdings enjoyed close relationships with neighbouring rulers – Geiseric and Huneric sent Nicene bishops into exile in southern Numidia, for example, and to other neighbours in Tripolitania (Vict. Vit. HP I.35–8, cf II.26–33, III.42–6). The queen Amalafrida sought refuge with local leaders after the death of her husband Thrasamund (Vict Tun a. 523.1). In the last months of the Vandal kingdom, Gelimer similarly found refuge with Moorish allies, and such relations were probably not unusual (Procop. Vand. II.6.1–7.9). It seems probable that all of the Vandal kings entered into diplomatic relations with the various groups on their frontiers (Merrills, 2016). The precise operation of these diplomatic relationships only comes into focus for us following the Byzantine reconquest, when the accounts of Procopius and Corippus cast important light on proceedings. In a well-known passage, Procopius describes the arrival of Moorish envoys in Carthage shortly after its occupation by Belisarius. Declaring that their authority was dependent upon formal ratification from Carthage – and noting that the Vandals were no longer in a position to provide this – the Moors demanded recognition from Belisarius. Procopius then describes the regalia that the Byzantine commander bestowed upon them, including a silver and gold staff, a silver crown, a white cloak and tunic, and a golden boot (Procop. Vand. I.25.5–8, cf. Servius Aen IV.242; Modéran, 2003: 487–495; Merrills, 2021). While these particular Moorish rulers did not take a formal position in the imperial hierarchy – they remained studiously neutral in the final days of the Vandal wars – other leaders certainly did. Procopius and Corippus both refer to the varied careers of Cusina (also Koutzinas) and Antalas, who led groups from southern Byzacena or the southern reaches of the Tunisian Dorsal. Cusina was probably leader of a group called the Mastraciani and briefly resisted the Byzantines, but was most prominent as an ally of the imperial forces, and rose to become Magister Militum in 547 (Modéran, 1994, 2003: 334–350). Antalas was born into a small group (humilis gens) called the Frexes, and proved a loyal ally of the emperor for the first 10 years of the occupation, before becoming the figurehead for a major revolt from 544 to 548 (Cor. Ioh, III.153; Modéran, 2003: 63–68, 315–334; von Rummel, 2010). Official appointments and informal alliances had always been central to the process of keeping the Moorish marches in check. Even in the years after the nominal secession of the eastern provinces to the Vandals, the imperial court at Ravenna attempted to reassert its authority in Numidia by a similar strategy. A law of 445 delegated regional authority in the imperial marches to a Dux Numidiae, who was charged not only with organizing local troops in order to keep the peace along the frontiers but also with monitoring the private armies raised within the province itself (Nov Val XIII.13–14; cf. also C.Th. VII.15.1 (409 ce)). A century later, Justinian attempted to revive the system, and re-instated the rank of Dux Numidiae within an African frontier system based under the control of other duces and comites. (CJ I.48 and I.27; Morizot, 2002: 235–236). Formal structures like these could also have a resonance within the provinces, just as they had in the fourth century. This is most dramatically illustrated by a Latin inscription, discovered at Arris in the middle of the Aurès massif and probably to be dated to the late-fifth or early-sixth century, to judge from its letter forms (Modéran 2003: 398–414 with text and references). The inscription

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was erected by an individual called Vartaia, but is written in the voice of an earlier ruler called Masties, who was evidently an important figure in this region, and who proudly declares his fidelity to both Romans and Moors. What is most striking about the inscription, however, is Masties’ title. The inscription clearly states that he was dux (duke) for 67 years, and then held another title, abbreviated as IMPR or perhaps LMPP for a further period of time (the figure has variously been read as 10 or 40 years). The first commentator on the inscription argued that this second title should be read as Imperator – and hence a clear declaration of Masties’ independence from the empire and his position as its new ruler (Carcopino, 1944). While the dating of this secession has been debated, most later scholars followed this reading (Camps, 1984: 198–199; Fevrier, 1988: 141–147; Morizot, 1989; Modéran, 2003: 404–407). It has also been argued, however, that the second title should be read as Limi(iti) p(rae)p(ositus), and that Masties’ second title was not a declaration of independence but rather of formal military command in this sector, probably at the time of the Byzantine reconquest (Morizot, 2002). In this sense, he could be seen as a sort of client buffer between the empire proper and the Mauretanian regions beyond. Regardless of the reading that is preferred, the inscription remains an intriguing testimony to the political relations between the empire and the emerging authorities on its fringes. Important as the empire remained as a source of political legitimation, there were other means by which local authority could be asserted in Numidia and Mauretania in this period. An inscription from near Thanaramusa Castra in the east of Mauretania Caesariensis commemorates a church that was constructed by the Praefectus Iugmena and completed by Zabenses in 474 (Conant, 2012: 278; cf. PLRE II “Iugmena”). The list of bishops who attended the Council of Carthage in 484 shows that the episcopacy remained robust in Numidia and eastern Mauretania in the fifth century, and archaeological evidence confirms this: doubtless other local figures made the most of the opportunities for patronage available to them, and the church was certainly an important catalyst for social change (Modéran, 2003: 534–540; Conant, 2012: 267–269; Hamdoune, 2018: 215–262). Still more striking is a poorly recorded (and rather crude) inscription of the fifth or sixth century from the foothills of the Lesser Kabylia. This text refers to a rex gentis Ucutumann(orum) – a “King of the Ucutumanni,” whose name is not preserved (CIL 8.8379, 20216; cf. Camps, 1984: 199–200). The interpretation of the inscription is far from straightforward, but the text seems Christian, and may commemorate the construction of a mausoleum. Various commentators have noted the possible connection between the Ucutumanni of this inscription, Ptolemy’s Koidamousioi, who appear in approximately the same region in the second century, and the Kutama and Kotama, placed a little to the north by ninth-century Arabic writers (Laporte, 2005b; Modéran, 2008a: 105–106). While these correspondences are noteworthy, we should not adopt a teleological approach and deduce that the unnamed rex was the autonomous head of an independent kingdom, as is sometimes suggested. As Igmazen of the Isaflenses reminds us, reges could flourish in this region without formal territorial control (and fade just as easily), and third-century epigraphy testifies to reges of the Bavari who ruled in pairs or in groups of four (CIL 8. 2615; Camps, 1984: 183–184). Our unnamed king is probably best regarded as a prominent local figure, bound up in long-standing systems of political influence, expressing his authority in a manner with long precedent in this region, and using a form of title that was also very well established, albeit independently of imperial authority. When our principal sources are classical epigraphy or the accounts of Greek and Latin historians, it is inevitable that the dominant figures of the Moorish world will tend to assume familiar shapes: an inscription that celebrates a rex encourages us to bring our own preconceptions to its interpretation (Merrills, 2021), but it is also clear that other means of establishing and displaying political hierarchies were available in this period. Frustratingly, the archaeology of post-classical Tunisia and Algeria is scanty, to say the least, and this is particularly true outside the urban core, but some evidence is available to us. Brief reference has already been made to the tower tomb at Blad Guitoun – a remarkable combination of Roman, Hellenistic, and pseudo-Numidian elements on the edge of the Kabylia, which was probably constructed at some point between the third century and the mid-sixth (Gsell, 1898; Laporte, 2013). Less spectacular, but hardly less important, are the



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prominent tumulus tombs, or bazinas, which have been identified inside a number of Roman frontier forts. If these date to shortly after the abandonment of the forts, as seems likely, they would seem to represent a conscious repurposing of sites in the landscape that had previously been important loci of power (Morizot, 1997). While we should not be too hasty to assume that those buried within the tumuli were invaders from the desert – bazinas of this kind are known throughout the Maghreb and were not unique to the Sahara – they may very well imply that changing social hierarchies were being performed in these regions and that local powerbrokers did not entirely rely upon the classical language of display in order to assert their importance. In has been common in modern scholarship to suggest that territorial kingdoms began to emerge in this region shortly after the eclipse of Roman power, but the evidence in support of this is surprisingly slender. The best known Numidian ruler of the sixth century was certainly Iaudas: as Procopius and Corippus make clear, he was the dominant figure in the Aurès massif during the 530s and 540s, and spent much of this period in more or less open conflict with the Byzantine authorities (Modéran, 2000, 2003: 350–383). Both writers associate Iaudas closely with the mountains (cf. Cor. Ioh. II.149, Procop. Vand. II.19.5), and Procopius in particular occasionally attempts to explain the ruler’s power (and that of his neighbours) in geographical terms (cf. Procop. Vand. II.13.9; II.20.30–31). However, the historian’s frame of reference is ambiguous to say the least, and any sense of clear territorial control evaporates upon close investigation. Procopius’ description of the massif itself is fantastical and bears little relation to the physical reality of the region (Procop. Vand. II.13.22–23; Janon; 1980; Modéran, 2009). His account of Solomon’s campaigns also shows clearly that Iaudas’ well-defended estates were the true platform for his power, and that his influence derived in large part from the ability to maintain a wide network of alliances across the Maghreb (Procop. Vand. II.20.23–28). Iaudas’ would seem to be the power of a warlord, rather than a dynast, who ruled through a flexible network of allies and subordinates, rather than by direct territorial control (cf. Whittaker, 1994: 243–276). There is no firm evidence to connect him to the dux Masties, who may have been dominant in this region before Iaudas, and it is unknown what happened in the period after his death. None of this is to belittle Iaudas’ significance, or the importance of the other prominent Moorish figures in this region in the fifth and sixth centuries. Clearly, the figures who rose to prominence in Byzacena, Numidia, and eastern Mauretania in this period enjoyed extraordinary political, cultural, and social prominence. They resisted the imperial occupation of their territories in a way that the Vandal kingdom could not. However, there is a great deal we cannot state with confidence about the societies that they ruled, and we should not be too quick to deduce the form that their polities took.

Western Mauretania Caesariensis We encounter a similar set of problems when we turn our attention to the far western limits of Mauretania Caesariensis in what is now northwestern Algeria. The urban network was less well developed here during the Roman period, and focused largely upon two lines of frontier settlements that ran from east-to-west across the Tell. Although the civic identity of these cities proved surprisingly long-lived, as we shall see, the formal Roman presence did not penetrate far from the coast, and the High Plateaux beyond were monitored by only a handful of military outposts. The interaction of the populations in these regions and the “Roman” occupants of the old province are likely to have been fundamental to the history of the region in the post-imperial centuries. Yet study of western Mauretania Caesariensis in the fifth and sixth centuries, and particularly its political trajectory, has been dominated to a regrettable degree by a single Latin inscription and a cluster of funerary monuments. These are extraordinary to be sure, but they deserve to be set within their wider epigraphic and archaeological context. Viewed in these terms, they testify to a more subtle political and social situation than is often assumed.

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In 508 ce, a powerful individual called Masuna ordered the erection of a fort in the frontier town of Altava. The inscription is worth recording in full: For the salvation and security of Masuna, King of the peoples of the Moors and Romans. A fort built by Masgiven, prefect of Safarus, and Iidir, Procurator of Castra Severiana, who were appointed by Masuna of Altava. And finished by Maximus, the procurator of Altava. Dated to the provincial year 469. (MarcilletJaubert, 1968, no.194; CIL 8. 9835)

This inscription provides a tantalizing glimpse of the political prosopography of Western Mauretania in the early years of the sixth century. Masgiven is identified as praefectus of Safar, probably to be identified with Albulae, a substantial settlement close to the coast; Iider is procurator of Castra Severiana, which has plausibly been interpreted as Kaputtasaccora, the next major frontier town to the east of Altava (Camps, 1984: 196–197). Maximus held a similar position in Altava; this may be the same Maximus who was bishop of Altava, died at the age of 85, and was commemorated with an epitaph of 529 ce (Marcillet-Jaubert, 1968, no.197). Above them all was Masuna, “King of the Moorish and Roman Peoples” (or “King of the Moorish Peoples and the Romans”), in whose name the fortification was erected, and who assumed for himself certain imperial pretensions – the opening formula pro salute et columitate was commonly associated with dedications to the emperor in earlier periods. About 120 miles to the east of Altava, close to the Roman frontier settlement at Tiaret, are two clusters of 13 funerary monuments known as the Djedars (Kadra, 1983; Laporte, 2005a). These are built stone tumuli, erected on rectangular platforms, and the largest are quite massive. The earliest – one of three tombs on the Djebel Lakhdar – dates to the fifth or sixth century, measures about 35  m on each of its sides, and probably had a total height of around 17  m (Kadra, 1983: 265–280). Internal passages connect its two principal burial chambers, and it was built with care: masons’ marks in Latin letters are found across the structure and elaborate decorations mark its external walls. Each of the three tombs on the Djebel Lakhdar seems to have had a dedicatory inscription, situated adjacent to the principal entrance on the eastern side, and most of the structures also had a small chapel or ritual building, also to the east. Ten further Djedars were subsequently erected on the Djebel Aroui, a few kilometers to the south. The southern structures are of slightly less accomplished workmanship, include fewer decorations, and most of the decorated stone used in them seems to have been spolia. However, some of these structures are still large; indeed, the biggest of these tombs has sides a little less than 50 m in length and includes 16 internal chambers, arranged in two ambulatory corridors. The Christian inscriptions re-used in the construction of this Djedar provide a terminus post quem of circa 500, and it is very likely to have been substantially later than that. This raises the possibility that there was a gap of a generation or more between the construction of the two clusters of tombs (cf. Laporte, 2005a: 390). There is no clear connection between Masuna, rex gentium Maurorum et Romanorum, and the Djedars. Masuna was a king with a Berber name, who seems to have been able to mobilize local civic office-holders in this local programme of fortification. The Djedars have plausibly been interpreted as the tombs of a ruling dynasty, but the ambiguities in their dating make precise correspondence with Masuna impossible. Equally, they combine political, architectural, and funerary traditions in a manner rather different from Altava. The inscription on Djedar A is poorly preserved, but seems to commemorate a dux, and may have been dated according to the local ­provincial practice, though sadly the date is now lost (Kadra, 1983: 230–233; Laporte, 2005a: 252–253). The tomb was clearly constructed by teams of local workmen and employs decorative elements (including Christian motifs) known from elsewhere in the Roman province. The tumulus mausolea themselves also have parallels in the Sahara, and have variously been connected to funerary monuments as far afield as Djorf Torba to the south and the Fezzan far to the southeast (Camps, 1984: 207). Yet there remains a strong temptation to connect these tombs to Masuna or to the Moorish rulers mentioned in passing by Procopius. It has been suggested that Altava and



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the Djedars were at the heart of two distinct Moorish kingdoms (Courtois, 1955: 333–352), but also that the Djedar were the funerary monuments of a dynasty who ruled over the whole of the old province of Mauretania (Camps, 1984: 215–216). Masuna has been seen as a local strong-man who fortified towns against invading desert nomads (Courtois, 1955: 333–340; Camps, 1984: 197), while the Djedars have been connected to incomers of precisely this kind (Fentress and Wilson, 2016). More recently, attempts have been made to reconcile all of these elements into a single dual “kingdom” that straddled sedentary and mobile sections of the population and developed architecture intended to appeal to both (Rushworth, 2004; Laporte, 2005a; Hamdoune, 2018: 358–362; Fisher and Drost, Forthcoming). The range of these interpretations suggests that these are not issues that are likely to be settled soon. In fact, the sheer cultural variety evident in both Altava and the Djedar fields – of a “King of the Moorish and Roman Peoples” with influence over civic dignitaries and a dynasty bearing imperial titles who were commemorated in pseudo-Saharan tombs erected by literate provincial workers – provides a meaningful context for discussing them. No single paradigm for political or social organization can easily explain these fragments of evidence, and when they are viewed in their wider context, this becomes still more apparent. There are good reasons to deduce that a military aristocracy of some sort emerged in this period and that control over violent force was one of the means by which social stratification occurred: after all Masuna commemorated the construction of a castrum, and the occupant of the earliest Djedar seems to have rejoiced in his military title. However, there is nothing to suggest that any one individual or family enjoyed a monopoly over military power. We know of several small fortifications across western Mauretania that are likely to have been the constructions of local warlords as an all-powerful “king” (cf. Marion, 1959; Lawless, 1970: II. 10–11) and fortified villas were as popular here as they were across North Africa (Gsell, 1911, 22, nos 68, 71, 73–81, 106; Laporte, 2009; Mattingly et al., 2013; Hamdoune, 2018: 352–353). The best way of conceptualizing the political situation in western Mauretania Caesariensis may not be through trying to trace embryonic territorial kingdoms or seeking clear evidence for culturally distinct invaders, but rather by considering the kings (and dukes, procurators, prefects, and bishops) as figures within wider networks of social and political obligation. The clearest evidence for the continued importance of these networks comes from the archaeology of the region, and especially the Latin epigraphy (Merrills, 2017). At several urban centres, the epigraphic habit continued until well into the sixth and even seventh centuries. Most of these late inscriptions are funerary texts, but the longevity of epigraphic practice, of dating by provincial year (long after the effective end of imperial authority in the region), and the development of a marked regional style of decoration, remain important (Conant, 2012: 291–297 with references). The current state of archaeological investigation in this part of Algeria makes contextualizing this epigraphy difficult, but the evidence that does exist – mainly from occasional surveys in the late-nineteenth and mid-twentieth centuries – does testify to a surprising cultural durability. There is considerable evidence for continued building in several of these towns in late antiquity, including Damous, Altava, and Tiaret (Lawless, 1970: II.22–32, 51–74, 143–153, with references). While fortification seems to have become increasingly common during late antiquity – and structures that may have been similar to Masuna’s castrum are known throughout the frontier region – this need not be seen as a sign of sustained political crisis or of a regional aristocracy battening the hatches in the face of outside invaders, as comparanda from elsewhere show. It is important to stress that dating of all of these structures is exceptionally difficult, but the broad impression would seem to be one of continued vibrancy, rather than abandonment or dramatic upheaval. This is also apparent in the religious history and archaeology of the region (cf. Gsell, 1928; Cadenat, 1957, 1988; Hamdoune, 2018: 364–367). There is good reason to think that Christianity took relatively deep root here. While fewer church buildings have been identified than might be expected, a pair of basilical churches at Aquae Sirenses and an impressive pilgrimage centre at Ala Miliaria show that the faith was flourishing in this area in the fifth century (Lawless, 1970: II.90– 103; Salama, 1986). The latter includes an inscription commemorating the holy woman Robba, a

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member of the schismatic “Donatists,” who was martyred by traditores of the Nicene church in 434 – some 20 years after the formal suppression of the dispute at the Council of Carthage (AE 1940, no.21; PCBE I “Robba”). Robba’s brother, Honoratus, was one of several churchmen from the region who attended the council of Carthage in 411, and others made the long trip to the African capital to attend Huneric’s council in 484 (PCBE I “Honoratus 10”; Laporte, 2011: 139–142). The bishops of Africa and Numidia may have regarded their distant cousins in Mauretania with some mild disdain, but the westerners made considerable efforts to stay connected to the wider church. Pastoralists moving in and out of the region may also have adopted the faith, at least to judge from Christian imagery of the fifth or sixth century that was found in the tumuli at Djorf Torba, well to the south of the old Roman frontier (Lihoreau, 1993; Hachid, 2011; cf. John of Biclarum a.569.3 and 573.6). Other religious networks are also hinted at in the discovery of what would seem to be a synagogue, at Rouahïa in the Ouarsenis a few miles north of the Djedars (Cadenat, 1978). None of this disproves the notion that western Mauretania was divided between a number of competing kingdoms, of course, or indeed was bound together under the rule of an individual ruler. However, the reminder that other forms of social belonging existed, and that they were of sufficient importance to be formally commemorated, provides a different perspective for viewing the Masuna inscription and the Djedars. Interpreted in these terms, what is most striking about both is not the assertion of clear political hierarchies (though that certainly remains noteworthy) but rather the political and social collaboration implied in each. The castrum at Altava was erected in Masuna’s name, but was accomplished by several prominent figures from neighboring settlements, all of whom were formally linked to it. This has always been held to illustrate the hierarchical structure of Masuna’s kingdom, but also shows the importance of collaboration within his rule. Even his title suggests a deference to local sensibilities – proclaiming rule over different sections of the population in a formulation with intriguing antecedents in earlier inscriptions from the same city. Altava had always enjoyed eccentric municipal systems and Masuna may have continued this in a new guise (cf. Gebbia, 2006; Hamdoune, 2018: 394–397). The Djedar must also be seen as an expression of collaboration, as well as simple hierarchy. The occupant of the earliest tomb, or whoever placed the dedicatory inscription at its entrance, seems to have taken a military title that implied a subordination to other hierarchies. Dux, after all, scarcely implies complete autonomy. The masons who employed local stoneworking practices in constructing the tombs, and who left their marks all over them, imply an integration with local practices (Merrills, 2017: 193–197). The tombs also had an ongoing ritual significance, which may have appealed to different sectors of the population: the ambulatory corridors, associated chapels, and some of the decoration implies that they were visited at different stages of the year, and were not simply sealed and forgotten after the deposition of the deceased. It is difficult to state with any confidence precisely how these different groups fitted together, how they interacted with one another, or the formal political systems within which they lived, but it seems very likely that this was a heterogeneous society. The individuals or families buried in the Djedars – whoever they were – doubtless had to exploit multiple different means to rule them.

Conclusion The late antique Mauri remain a challenging topic for discussion, thanks largely to the limited textual evidence and an archaeological record that has barely been investigated. The result is a body of evidence that illuminates only small parts of a very varied political (and physical) landscape, and which cautions against broad generalizations. Nevertheless, certain patterns may be detected across North Africa. It is clear that the eclipse of Roman power in the western provinces, and the rise of successive new authorities in Carthage, prompted substantial social and political change during the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries. New power-brokers made the most of opportunities



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available to them, consolidating their existing regional influence by a variety of means, including by turning to outside forces to legitimate their authority. We see local figures who justified their power through connections to the imperial court, through appeals to the Roman past, or through funerary constructions that evoked traditions from beyond the frontiers. That these were important “kings” is not to be doubted – this was a title that many of them claimed for themselves – but this need not imply that they ruled territorial “kingdoms” in the strictest sense.

FURTHER READING Studies of the Late Antique Mauri have been relatively scarce, and no single study provides a thorough synthesis of texts, epigraphy, and archaeology. Modéran (2003) is much the fullest treatment of the literary material, and his interpretation of Procopius and Corippus in particular is often brilliant, but the monograph itself is somewhat dense. His shorter treatments of the same material are also recommended. Hamdoune (2018) is a superb complement to Modéran’s monograph, and integrates archaeological and literary sources in a systematic discussion of the Mauretanian territories to the west. The two short studies of Camps (1984, 1985) are helpful overviews, drawn from a long career studying the Berbers. Each of these authors contributed extensively to the ongoing Encyclopédie Berbère, which is available online and remains the single best resource for studies of specific sites, groups, individuals, and concepts relating to the “Berber” world: the discussions of pre-Islamic material are especially rich. The best book-length study of the Berbers in English is Brett and Fentress (1996), which includes a helpful chapter on the Roman and late antique periods. Conant (2012) includes an excellent survey of the “Moorish” territory at 252–303 and Rushworth (2004) is a standard starting point for discussion of this material.

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Fevrier, P.-A. 1988. “Masuna et Masties.” AntAf 24: 133–147. Fevrier, P.-A. 1996. La Méditerranée de Paul-Albert Février. Rome and Aix-en-Provence. Fisher, G., and Drost, A. Forthcoming. “Structures of power in Late Antique Borderlands: Arabs, Romans, and Berbers.” In European and American Borderlands. A New Comparative Approach, eds . J.W.I. Lee and M. North, Lincoln. Gebbia, C. 2006. “Ancora Altava.” AfRom 16: 495–506. Gsell, S. 1898. “Le mausolea de Blad-Guitoun (fouilles de M. Viré).” CRAI 42.4: 481–499. Gsell, S. 1911. Atlas archéologique de l’Algérie: Edition spéciale des cartes au 200.000e du Service Géographique de l’Armée avec un texte explicatif rédigé par Stéphane Gsell correspondant de l’Institut. Paris. Gsell, S. 1928. “Le christianisme en Oranie avant la conquête arabe.” reproduced in his Études sur l’Afrique antique. Scripta varia. Lille, 1981. Hachid, M. 2011. “Strabon, El-Idrissi, la Guerba et un Libyque plus tardif que les Ve/VIe siècles ?” In Actes du premier colloque de préhistoire Maghrebine. II, 191–226. Algiers. Hamdoune, C. 1998. “Gens, gentes, gentiles.” Encyclopédie Berbère 20: 3045–3052. Hamdoune, C. 2012. “Le paysage du pouvoir dans les tribus de Césarienne d’après Ammien Marcellin.” AfRom 19: 943–964. Hamdoune, C. 2018. Ad fines Africae Romanae: Les mondes tribaux dans les provinces maurétaniennes. Bordeaux. Janon, M. 1980. “L’Aurès au VIe siècle. Note sur le récit de Procope.” AntAf 15: 345–351. Jongeling, K., and Kerr, R.M. 2005. Late Punic Epigraphy. Tübingen. Kadra, F. 1983. Les Djedars. Monuments funéraires Berbères de la région de Frenda. Algiers. Laporte, J.-P. 2002. “Zabi, Friki: notessur la Maurétanie et la Numidie de Justinien.” AntTard 10: 151–167. Laporte, J.-P. 2005a. “Les djedars, monuments funéraires berbères de la region de Frenda et de Tiaret.” In Identités et culture dans l’Algérie Antique, ed. C. Briand-Ponsart, 321–406. Rouen. Laporte, J.-P. 2005b. “Ketama-Kutama.” Encyclopédie Berbère 27: 4179–4187. Laporte, J.-P. 2009. “Une maison-forte du IVe siècle: le Ksar El-Kaoua (Ammi-Moussa, Algérie).” In Centres de pouvoir et organisation de l’espace. Actes du Xe colloque international sur l’histoire et l’archéologie de l’Afrique du Nord préhistorique, antique et médiévale, ed. C. Briand-Ponsart, 467–508. Caen. Laporte, J.-P. 2011. “Particularités de la province de Maurétanie Césarienne (Algérie centrale et occidentale).” In Provinces et identités provincials dans l’Afrique romaine, ed. C. Briand-Ponsart and Y. Modéran, 111–150. Caen. Laporte, J.-P. 2012. “Nubel, Sammac, Firmus et les autres. Une famille berbère dans l’Empire romain.” AfRom 19: 979–1002. Laporte, J.-P. 2013. “Le mausolée tardif de Blad Guitoun (Wilaya de Bou Merdès).” Ikosim 2: 91–108. Lawless, R. I. 1970. Mauretania Caesariensis: An Archaeological and Geographical Survey. Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Durham. Lengrand, D. 1995. “Le limes intérieur de Maurétanie Césarienne au IVe siècle et la famille de Nubel.” In Frontières terrestres, frontiers célestes dans l’Antiquité, ed. A. Rousselle, 143–161. Perpignan. Lengrand, D. 2005. “Langues en Afrique antique.” In Identités et culture dans l’Algérie Antique, ed.C. Briand-Ponsart, 119–126. Rouen. Lihoreau, M. 1993. Djorf Torba. Nécropole saharienne antéislamique. Paris. Marcillet-Jaubert, J. 1968. Les inscriptions d’Altava. Aix-en-Provence. Marion, J. 1959. “L’éperon fortifié de Sidi Medjahed (Oranie).” Libyca 7: 27–41. Mattingly, D., Sterry, M., and Leitch, V. 2013. “Fortified farms and defended villages of Late Roman and Late Antique Africa.” AntTard 21: 167–188. Merrills, A. 2016. “Gelimer’s slaughter: The case for Late Vandal Africa.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, 500–800, eds. S.T. Stevens and J.P. Conant, 23–40. Washington DC. Merrills, A. 2017. “‘The Moorish kingdoms and the written word: Three ‘textual communities’ in fifth- and sixth-century Mauretania.” In Writing the Early Medieval West. Studies in Honour of Rosamond McKitterick, eds. E. Screen and C. West, 185–202. Cambridge. Merrills, A. 2018. “Invisible men: Mobility and political change on the frontier of Late Roman Africa.” Early Medieval Europe 26.3: 355–390.



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Merrills, A. 2021. “The men who would be king – Moorish political hierarchies and imperial policy in Byzantine Africa” Al-Masa ˉq 33: 14–29. Merrills, A., and Miles, R. 2010. The Vandals. Malden and Oxford. Modéran, Y. 1989. “Gildon, les Maures et l’Afrique.” MEFRA 101.2: 821–872. Modéran, Y. 1994. “Cusina (Koutzinas).” Encyclopédie Berbère 14: 2158–2159. Modéran, Y. 2000. “Iaudas.” Encyclopédie Berbère 23: 3565–3567. Modéran, Y. 2003. Les Maures et l’Afrique Romaine (IVe–VIe siècle). Rome. Modéran, Y. 2008a. “Des Maures aux Berbères: identité et ethnicité en Afrique du Nords dans l’Antiquité Tardive.” In Identité et Ethnicité. Concepts, débats historiographiques, exemples (IIIe - XIIe siècle), eds., V. Gazeau, P. Bauduin, and Y. Modéran, 91–134. Caen. Modéran, Y. 2008b. “Les Laguatan: Le problème des migrations des ‘néo-Berbères’.” Encyclopédie Berbère 28–29: 4318–4321. Modéran, Y. 2009. “Les Vandales et l’Aurès.” Aouras 5: 339–364. Morizot, P. 1989. “Pour une nouvelle lecture de l’elogium de Masties.” AntAf 25: 263–284. Morizot, P. 1997. “Tombes protohistoriques dans un camp romain du IIIe siècle.” Balácai Közlemények 5: 153–159. Morizot, P. 2002. “Masties a-t-il été imperator?” ZPE 141: 231–240. Reimitz, H. 2015. History, Frankish Identity and the Framing of Western Ethnicity, 550–850. Cambridge. Riedlberger, P. 2010. Philologischer, historischer und liturgischer Kommentar zum 8. Buch der Johannis des Goripp. Leiden. Rushworth, A. 2004. “From Arzuges to Rustamids. State formation and regional identity in the Pre-Sahara Zone.” In Vandals, Romans and Berbers: New Perspectives on Late Antique North Africa, ed. A.H. Merrills, 77–98. London. Salama, P. 1986. “Ala Miliaria.” Encyclopédie Berbère 3: 432–438. Shaw, B. 2011. Sacred Violence. Cambridge. von Rummel, P. 2010. “The Frexes: Late Roman barbarians in the shadow of the Vandal Kingdom.” In Neglected Barbarians, ed. F. Curta, 571–604. Turnhout. Whittaker, C.R. 1994. Frontiers of the Roman Empire. A Social and Economic Study. Baltimore. Wijnendaele, J.W.P. 2017. “The career and ‘revolt’ of Gildo, comes et magister utriusque militiae per Africam (c. 385–398 CE).” Latomus 76: 385–402. Wijnendaele, J.W.P. 2019. “Late Roman civil war and the African grain supply.” Journal of Late Antiquity 12.2: 298–328. Zarini, V. 2005. “Mauri, Romani, Afri: le regard de Corippe sur l’Afrique byzantine et l’identité de ses populations.” In Identités et culture dans l’Algérie Antique, ed. C.Briand-Ponsart, 407–422. Rouen.

CHAPTER 19

Imperial and Late Latin Poetry from North Africa Helen Kaufmann

Introduction Latin literature from the middle of the second to the beginning of the fourth century ce is almost entirely represented by writers from North Africa (e.g., Apuleius, Fronto, Minucius Felix), and North Africa also first engendered the Latin voice of the church, for example in the words of Tertullian, Cyprian, and Arnobius (cf., for instance, Gualandri, 1989: 485–488; see also Guédon, Chapter 14). Most of these works are prose, and North African prose continued to flourish in the fourth to sixth centuries, represented, for instance, by St. Augustine, Martianus Capella, and Fabius Planciades Fulgentius. Within the history of imperial Latin poetry, the third century ce continues to be a puzzle as hardly any poetry seems to have been written at that time.1 At the end of the century, however, it is poetry from North Africa that marks the reconstitution of Latin poetry and the birth of late antique poetry: Commodian, Nemesianus, and Lactantius’ De ave Phoenice have each been considered to have begun this. Furthermore, some prose writers (e.g., Augustine, Fulgentius of Ruspe, Verecundus of Junca) also composed poetry, and others such as Martianus Capella and Fulgentius combined prose and verse into prosimetric works. The focus of this chapter is the poetry written in North Africa or by North African poets during the empire and late antiquity (excluding prosimetric compositions). The chapter will first provide a survey of the works attested for the period in North Africa. Characteristics of this poetry, such as language, meter, and African identities will be explored afterwards.

Latin Poetry Written in Imperial and Late Antique North Africa or by North African Poets A number of poets such as Nemesianus, Dracontius, Luxurius, and Corippus undoubtedly lived and worked in North Africa. The origin and location of many others, however, are unknown, in particular when we rely on their poetry only for biographical facts and their poetry does not explicitly mention an African location. In such cases, attributions to North Africa are usually based on one or two of the following criteria: (1) transmission on the Codex Salmasianus, (2) literary interaction with North African authors, (3) (erroneous) attribution in the manuscript tradition to A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.



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Cyprian, Tertullian, or Lactantius, all of them famous North Africans, and (4) inscriptional evidence for the poet’s name in North Africa. The Codex Salmasianus, a manuscript written around 800 ce, perhaps in central Italy, incomplete at the beginning and end, encompasses a large part of what is generally known as the Anthologia Latina (Anth. Lat. 7–388R; Kay, 2006: 13f.; cf. also Zurli, 2004) and contains a number of poems explicitly connected to Vandal rulers such as a praise of Thrasamund (376R) or an attack on a high-rank official of Gelimer (341f.R). For this reason, the collection can be dated to the last years of Gelimer between 532 and 534 (Rondholz, 2012: 82f.). As references to later historical events or figures are missing, all poems of the collection are generally assumed to have been written before this date (cf. Rondholz, 2012: 83), though it is not possible to establish the date of the earliest poem(s). Inclusion in the Codex Salmasianus is widely applied as a criterion for a poet’s African origin, even though it is inherently problematic as the collection, at least by appearance, includes poems from various ages and places such as those (falsely) attributed to Virgil, Ovid, Petronius, Seneca, and Martial. The second criterion, literary interaction with a North African author, is also widely applied and equally problematic. It assumes that North African poets referred to other North African authors more frequently or exclusively than to authors elsewhere (with the exception of classical poets). Hays (2004: 131), for example, even identifies “insularity” as a defining feature of the Vandal-era North African writers.2 On the other hand, African poets have been shown to refer to other nonAfrican poets, e.g., Dracontius to Sidonius Apollinaris (Tizzoni, 2014: 98–108) or Luxurius in his cento epithalamium to Ausonius’ Cento Nuptialis (McGill, 2005: 104f.), both poets from Gaul. The third criterion, erroneous attribution to Cyprian, Tertullian, or Lactantius in the manuscripts, extends the concept of insularity to the transmission of the texts. At some point of their reception, the poems in question were felt to belong to the environment of one of the famous African church fathers. The problem here is not that the attributions are wrong but that they are completely unfounded on linguistic and thematic grounds. The fourth criterion, inscriptional evidence of the poet’s name in North Africa, is useful, particularly if a name is considerably better attested in North Africa than outside. This is, for instance, the case for Corippus’ first cognomen Cresconius (cf. Riedlberger, 2010: 28f. n. 75). In the following chronological survey, I have accepted poets as North African who fulfill two or more of the criteria listed above and marked those of doubtful attribution to North Africa with **. In some cases the links to North Africa seemed too tenuous to even deserve a discussion: These are Pervigilium Veneris (=Anth. Lat. 200R), Reposianus’ De concubitu Martis et Veneris (=Anth. Lat. 253R), Pentadius (Anth. Lat. 234R, 235R, 265–8R), Calbulus (Anth. Lat. 378f.), Ad senatorem quendam, De passione domini and De pascha seu de ligno crucis.3 Works of African poets written outside Africa are marked with *.

P. Annius Florus4 Imperial poetry from North Africa started with a clash between a poet and an emperor. In the late eighties or nineties of the first century ce, P. Annius Florus, a North African by birth, travelled to Rome to compete in a poetry contest set up by the emperor Domitian. The audience was impressed and asked Domitian to award the first prize to him, but the emperor refused “lest an African won the contest” (Flor. Verg. 1.4: ne Africa coronam magni Iovis attingeret5). In his autobiographical narrative, Florus goes on to say that this refusal caused him much pain and, resenting Rome, he ended up touring the empire.6 Of his poetry (if he is, indeed, identical to the author of the preserved fragments) only a few short epigrams have survived, most of them in the Codex Salmasianus (Anth. Lat. 87R and 245–252R). In addition, a humorous exchange between Florus and the emperor Hadrian on the disadvantages of being an emperor and poet, respectively, is preserved in the Historia Augusta (SHA Hadr. 16.2).

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Hosidius Geta7 The Codex Salmasianus contains an anonymous Virgilian cento-tragedy on Medea (Anth. Lat. 17R). As Tertullian (De praescr. haeret. 39 l. 7–12) mentions a (presumably well-known) cento-tragedy Medea by (H)osidius Geta, the text has been dated to before 203 ce, the date of Tertullian’s De praescriptione, though it could have been written as early as the first century ce. We are aware of several Hosidii Getae, two in Rome – a consul in the 40s ce, who served as a praetorian legate in Mauretania under Claudius (Dio Cass. 60.9.1) and his great-nephew, a highly educated man and Arval Brother in 118 ce (without a connection to Africa) – as well as two in North Africa, father and son, attested in an epitaph from Lambaesis in Numidia, which the son, an accountant in the Legio III Augusta, wrote for his father (CIL 8. 2884, cf. Rondholz, 2012: 84–89). The prosopographical data are inconclusive, but the transmission of Medea in the Codex Salmasianus and Tertullian’s note support the attribution to North Africa, not least because Tertullian mentions the poet alongside an unnamed, presumably North African, relative who also wrote a Virgilian cento.8 Medea (461 lines) is a tragedy in form. Like Euripides’ and Seneca’s Medea it is set in Corinth and includes Medea killing Jason’s new bride and her children. In content, the most conspicuous change from the literary tradition is the introduction of Apsyrtus’ ghost, which urges Medea to kill her children (390–395) and pursues her (458) (cf. Rondholz, 2012: 150–152; Malamud, 2012: 172–175). Love and madness play key roles and are highlighted through repeated references to the Virgilian Dido (Aen. 4) and Damon’s song (Ecl. 8) (Hardie, 2007: 173–175; Malamud, 2012: 163f.). The unusual form of the tragedy – hexameter for dialogue and paroemiacs (second halves of hexameters) for choral odes – is due to its nature as a Virgilian cento (cf. Rondholz, 2012: 91–95).

**Septimius Serenus9 Septimius Serenus wrote lyrical Opuscula, also known as Ruralia, “farmer’s tasks,” of which only fragments have been preserved. He may also be identical to the translator of Dictys Cretensis’ fictional diary of the Trojan war. His first name points to Africa (cf. Septimius Tertullianus and the first African emperor Septimius Severus), and another African writer, Terentianus Maurus, refers to his work (1975: Septimius, docuit quo ruris opuscula libro; 1891: dulcia opuscula). Geographical indications in Septimius’ own work, on the other hand, may point to Rome (cf. Mattiacci, 1982: 33). Septimius is usually assumed to have lived in the second or early third century ce, before the equally undated Terentianus Maurus. The most conspicuous feature of his work is metrical variety: in the 25 surviving fragments he employs 14 different meters (cf. Cameron, 1980: 146–155).

Terentianus Maurus10 Terentianus Maurus’ African credentials are his cognomen Maurus, used in line 1971 and also attested by Augustine (De utilitate credendi 7.17), and his quote from Septimius Serenus (see earlier). He has been dated to the third century ce between Septimius Serenus and the grammarian Asmonius (fourth century), who quotes him (cf. Sallmann, 1997b: 619). He wrote three didactic pieces, De litteris, De syllabis, and De metris, dedicated to his son and son-in-law, which build upon each other: De litteris treats the phonetics of vowels and consonants, De syllabis the prosodic qualities of letter and sound combinations in syllables, and De metris the use of syllables for metrical feet as well as various meters. De litteris (1–58) opens with a comparison of the poet to a former victor of Olympic games, who in old age still exercises, even if on a reduced scale. This places the work in the context of (Terentianus’ own earlier?) poetry composition, which may explain the focus on teaching poetic practice (e.g., 314–316). In De metris, each section is written in the corresponding meter.



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**Commodian11 Commodian’s work, two books of Instructiones and a Carmen de duobus populis, also known as Carmen apologeticum, is the only source for his date and location and offers very little evidence. The poet has been dated between 251 and 480 ce, and there is no reference to his location. Parts of his work have been taken to reflect historical settings in Syria, Palestine, Italy, and North Africa (cf. Poinsotte, 2009: ixf., xvf., Heck, 1997: 629f.). The attribution to North Africa is based on parallels between his work, in particular Instruct. 2.2, 4, 8, 21, 28, and the writing of Cyprian of Carthage (Poinsotte, 2009: xii n. 9). Commodian was one of the most original Latin poets as he wrote in un-classical language and meter (quasi-hexameter) and in various arrangements, for example acrostichs, telestichs, or in pairs (cf. Heck, 1997: 633f.). The Instructiones consists of 80 acrostichs addressing first pagans and Jews and then various groups of Christians. In the Carmen de duobus populis, Commodian reiterates Christian doctrines and paints a vivid picture of the end of the world.

Nemesianus12 Of Nemesianus’ poetic oeuvre four eclogues and an unfinished didactic epic called Cynegetica have been preserved.13 The Eclogues have been transmitted together with Calpurnius Siculus’ Eclogues, but since the late nineteenth century have generally been recognized as those of Nemesianus (cf. Williams, 1986: 3–8). The Cynegetica can be dated to 283/4 ce on the basis of references to Carus’ young sons Carinus and Numerian, and the hierarchy of past and present works expressed in the sea-faring metaphor in Cyn. 58–62 suggests that Nemesianus had already written the Eclogues when he embarked on the didactic Cynegetica (and was planning to conclude his Virgilian career with a panegyric epic, Cyn. 63–75; cf. Jakobi, 2014: 81). The introductory lines (inscriptiones) on the manuscripts of the Cynegetica and on some manuscripts of the Eclogues describe the poet as Carthaginian. His African location may also be implied in his perspective on Spanish horses as coming from “beyond the steep peaks of Gibraltar” (Cyn. 251f.: trans ardua Calpes / culmina), his references to various African animals (Cyn. 229; 259–261; 313; Ecl. 4.54), and the repeated expression of his hope of going to Rome and meeting the emperor(s) (Ecl. 1.82f., Cyn. 76–85). In the Eclogues, Nemesianus makes use of traditional bucolic themes such as the singing contest or mourning of the dead herdsman by nature, but he also deviates from the tradition, for example by not praising an emperor or important political figure (cf., for instance, Himmelmann-Wildschütz, 1972: 347–350 on Ecl. 1). There are clear allusions to Virgil’s Eclogues, in particular to 5 and 6 (in Nemes. Ecl. 1 and 3, respectively) as well as to Calpurnius Siculus’ Ecl. 2 (in Nemes. Ecl. 2 and 4; cf. Schetter, 1975: 35f.). In the Cynegetica Nemesianus describes hunting as a safe pastime for the élite (e.g., Cyn. 1–3, 48–58), unlike earlier didactic poetry on hunting (e.g., by Grattius), in which it is characterized as a heroic and dangerous enterprise (cf. Jakobi, 2014: 5f.). In style, Nemesianus also follows his model Virgil (cf. Wlosok, 1983: 253–257).

*Lactantius (?), De ave Phoenice14 Gregory of Tours (De cursu stellarum 12) and Jerome (De vir. ill. 80) ascribe a poem each to Lactantius: De ave Phoenice and a hexameter poem on a journey from North Africa to Nicomedia, respectively. Unlike the latter, the former has been preserved, partly under Lactantius’ name, partly anonymously.15 It relates how the phoenix returns home in old age to build its own funeral pyre, which also serves as the nest for the new phoenix. As it is not openly Christian, it has been dated to the time of the persecutions when Lactantius already lived in Nicomedia and wrote De opificio Dei (303/4 ce) (cf. Roberts, 2017: 373f.). The poem is written in elegiac couplets and predates Claudian’s hexameter work on the same bird (Carm. min. 27). It is remarkable for its lengthy

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visual descriptions, for instance of the home of the phoenix (1–30), as well as its appeal to other senses, such as scent in the catalog of spices (79–88) (Roberts, 2017: 379f.). The worship scene (35–50) and the end (161–170) with its emphasis on asexual reproduction, rebirth, and victory over death have been read as crypto-Christian (cf. Roberts, 2017: 381–383, 387–389).

**Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius16 Scholarship is divided over whether Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius came from North Africa or not (cf. Smolak, 1989a: 238; Polara, 2004: 25; Wienand, 2017: 122, n. 4). That one of his poems (Carm. 28) is included in the Codex Salmasianus (Anth. Lat. 81R) and that the poet briefly describes Africa and Carthage in Carm. 16–22 are arguments in favor of an African origin. However, other biographical facts, such as that he was exiled and recalled by Constantine and was proconsul in Achaia and Asia as well as praefectus urbis in 329 and 333, do not support a link to North Africa. Optatianus wrote figure poems, in which the text is arranged in the form of the object it represents (an organ, an altar, and panpipes: Carm. 20, 26, and 27, respectively), metrical experiments (Carm. 13, 15, 25, and 28), in one of which (Carm. 28), for example, the first pair of elegiac couplets is identical to the second pair if that is read backwards, and 20 gridded poems, written in rectangular or square blocks, which contain additional lines that are arranged in particular patterns (e.g., as a geometrical pattern in Carm. 3). Optatianus is mainly known for his gridded poems and the variety with which he has arranged the secondary lines within the primary text.

Symphosius17 A total of 99 riddles of three lines each (aenigmata) along with a preface have been preserved in the Codex Salmasianus as well as in other manuscripts. The author’s name was probably Symphosius or Symposius, and an attestation of the name in a fourth/fifth century inscription from Thugga (CIL 8. 27333) may confirm his African origin (cf. Leary, 2014: 1 and, on other hints, Sebo, 2009). Symphosius’ preface shows close parallels with those of Ausonius’ Griphus Ternarii Numeri (dated to 368 ce) and of Martial’ Xenia (Book 13) and Apophoreta (Book 14) (cf. Leary, 2014: 5f.), perhaps not enough exclusively with the former to date Symphosius’ work to after 368 ce, though a number of specifically late Latin words and forms as well as similarities with expressions found in Paulinus of Nola and Prudentius (cf. Leary 2014: 4) make a fourth/fifth century date likely.18 In the preface, the poet relates an experience of a dinner party at the Saturnalia, at which guests produced and solved riddles in turn. He then claims that he wrote his collection of riddles in a hurry while half-drunk (praef. 13–17). This pretense is contradicted by the careful structure of the collection according to themes (e.g., animals, crops, technology) and with connections between subsequent riddles (cf. Leary, 2014: 13–26). The fact that the riddles come with lemmata (“titles”) giving away the solutions distances the collection further from the pretended party setting.19

Aurelius Augustinus, Psalmus contra partem Donati20 Augustine won a public competition with a dramatic poem (Conf. 4.2.3), and he quotes three lines from a poem in praise of the wax candle at De civ. D. 15.22 (cf. Clark, 2017: 424–428). Among his anti-Donatist works, moreover, there is a complete poem of nearly 300 lines, called Psalmus contra partem Donati. Augustine discusses this composition in Retract. 1.20, according to which he wrote the psalm as a reply to the Donatists’ rhymed psalms, in fairly simple language and organized it in abecedarian fashion, i.e., in stanzas that start with subsequent letters of the alphabet, separated by a one-line refrain. He expresses his hope that ordinary members of the congregation will understand,



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memorize, and sing the psalm. It is the first Latin example of rhythmic verse21 and draws on Biblical imagery (cf. Nodes, 2009: 394f.). The psalm strikingly concludes with an appeal by Mother Church (261: ipsa mater ecclesia) to her children to return to her (cf. August. Retract. 1.20).

*Licentius, Carmen ad Augustinum22 As a young man Licentius of Thagaste was taught by Augustine and spent the winter of 386/387 with him at Cassiciacum. In 395 he sent his former teacher a letter in verse from Rome. In this poem of 154 hexameters, he fondly remembers Augustine’s past guidance in philosophy (52–55) and regrets the physical distance between them while confirming their friendship as well as his self-image as a poet (111–116), not least through mythological and geographical references, similes, and intertextual allusions to Virgil and other poets.23 He also reveals details about his current life situation, such as his impending marriage (74). Augustine replied to the poem with a prose letter (Ep. 26) and so did Paulinus of Nola (Ep. 8) after Augustine had asked him (August. Ep. 27,6). Both urged Licentius to aim for a Christian life rather than a secular career.

**Carmen adversus Marcionitas24 This poem of five books and more than 1000 hexameters has only survived in a sixteenth century edition, in which it appears under Tertullian’s name. This identification can be excluded on points of language and content. In content, the poem criticizes Marcionites as heretics and refutes some of their doctrines. Due to parallels to works by Augustine, it can be dated to the second quarter of the fifth century (Pollmann, 1991: 32f.). These parallels may also suggest, but in no way confirm, an African environment for the poem (cf. Pollmann. 1991: 30 for Gaul as an alternative location).

**Carmen de Sodoma and **Carmen de Iona25 These two hexametrical poems of 166 and 105 lines, respectively, have been variously transmitted under the names of Cyprian and Tertullian, though they were most certainly not written by either of them. The latter explicitly opposes the salvation of Ninive, granted because its inhabitants took Jona’s warning seriously, to the destruction of Sodom. The narratives are lively, especially the fire raging in Sodom and the storm that arose after Jona embarked. Virgilian expressions abound and references to Ovid are present, too (on the latter cf. Hexter, 1988).

Blossius Aemilius Dracontius26 Dracontius lived in Carthage during the Vandal era. He was imprisoned by King Gunthamund, who reigned from 484 to 496 ce, and then released, probably under Thrasamund, for whom he subsequently wrote a now lost panegyric. His major work is De laudibus dei, a hexameter poem in three books combining Biblical narratives (e.g., of the creation) with theological reflections and doctrine (e.g., on incarnation and God’s mercy). He wrote another Christian work, Satisfactio, in elegiac couplets, asking Gunthamund to release him on the model of God’s mercy. Among his secular works are four short epics (Romul. 2 on Hylas, Romul. 8 on the rape of Helen, Romul. 10 on Medea, and Orest. on Agamemnon, Clytaemnestra, and Orestes), two epithalamia (Romul. 6 and 7), three rhetorical pieces (Romul. 4: an ethopoiia of Hercules facing the hydra, Romul. 5: a controversia on a poor man seeking refuge at the statue of his rich enemy, and Romul. 9: a suasoria addressed to Achilles to return the body of Hector), two prefaces (Romul. 1 and 3), two short

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poems on the months of the years (mens.), and the origin of the roses (ros.), respectively, as well as two fragments. Dracontius’ De laudibus dei is unique in its combination of Christian doctrine, Biblical narrative, and autobiographical reflection. The poet also considerably changed traditional myths in his mythological poetry, for example by locating Medea’s revenge on Jason and murder of her children in Thebes instead of Corinth (Romul. 10.366–569) or by adding Orestes’ murder of Achilles’ son Pyrrhus between his murder of Clytaemnestra and his madness (Orest. 803–19) (cf. Simons, 2005: 359–366). Dracontius’ language owes much to Virgil, Lucan, and Statius, but also contains late Latin elements, such as vel for “and” and prosodic irregularities; prominent features of his style are antithesis and asyndetic lists (cf. Kaufmann, 2006: 36–42).

**Aegritudo Perdicae27 The anonymous short epic Aegritudo Perdicae treats Perdica’s torture caused by his forbidden love of his mother and his decision to commit suicide. In prosody and language as well as some aspects of content, it resembles Dracontius’ work (cf. Schetter 1991: 103–109). However, this is the only basis for its attribution to North Africa, along similarities with Reposianus’ De concubitu Martis et Veneris (cf. Schetter, 1991: 98–102), itself a work of very doubtful African credentials.

Fulgentius of Ruspe, Psalmus contra Vandalos Arrianos28 Fulgentius’ anti-Arian psalm follows Augustine’s anti-Donatist psalm in its use of rhythmic lines, refrain, and abecedarian structure with epilogue (Luiselli, 1968: 31f.). Unlike Augustine’s psalm, however, it goes through the whole alphabet and accordingly attributes the letter “z” to the epilogue. The psalm presents and refutes Arian doctrines and seems to also intend to appeal to ordinary people. It is not mentioned in Ferrandus’ Life of Fulgentius nor transmitted together with Fulgentius’ other works.

Luxurius29 Luxurius wrote epigrams in the later Vandal era (early to mid sixth century ce). In his work, which is preserved only in the Codex Salmasianus, he refers to Carthage repeatedly (e.g., Anth. Lat. 203R, 289R) as well as to a number of Vandals (e.g., Fridamal in Anth. Lat. 304R, Oageis in Anth. Lat. 345R). He wrote an epithalamium in the form of a Virgilian cento (Anth. Lat. 18R) and 90 epigrams in 13 different meters. In addition to 20 ekphrases of works of art (e.g., Anth. Lat. 319R, 348R) and of nature (e.g., Anth. Lat. 332R, 366), some praise poems (e.g., Anth. Lat. 293R [a charioteer], 373R [an artist]), and an epitaphion (Anth. Lat. 345R). Luxurius has written mainly epigrams that mock individuals or groups of people, for example professionals like a doctor or a teacher (Anth. Lat. 302R, 294R) or people with particular weaknesses, such as a drunkard, an envious neighbor, or an adulterer (Anth. Lat. 311R, 314R, 297R). In theme and language Luxurius’ epigrams greatly resemble those of Martial.

Anth. Lat. 90–197R30 Anth. Lat. 90–197R, transmitted on the Codex Salmasianus, looks like an incomplete book of epigrams by an unknown poet. The collection contains ekphrases (e.g., Anth. Lat. 172–4R), descriptions of animals (Anth. Lat. 104R, 106–7R), satirical pieces (e.g., Anth. Lat. 127–31R), inscriptions on baths (Anth. Lat. 119–122R), epigrams on myths (Anth. Lat. 141–147R), and others (e.g., Anth. Lat. 92R: a Christian epitaph). It may well be of North African origin as it mentions African



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places (the town of Vita) and tribes (Arzyges, Garamantes) and describes Cumae as requiring a voyage across the sea (Anth. Lat. 121R), and may be dated to the late Vandal rule due to themes and literary expressions shared with Luxurius, Dracontius, and other Vandal era epigrammatists. In meter, it shows a strong preference for elegiac couplets (99 out of 108 pieces) and contains some prosodic irregularities.

Anth. Lat. 38–80R31 Anth. Lat. 38–80R, a collection of versus serpentini (i.e., elegiac couplets in which the first half of the first line is repeated as the second half of the second line), has been attributed to North Africa as part of the Codex Salmasianus and on the basis of parallels with Dracontius’ Romul. 10; it also shares themes and examples with Pentadius’ elegy on fortune (Anth. Lat. 234R) (cf. Schetter, 1986: 237–239), who, however, may not be an African. It opens with a distich on fatality and the role of chance and consists of nearly 40 versus serpentini on myths. The last three couplets are devoted to friendship (Anth. Lat. 78R), the reader (Anth. Lat. 79R), and finally the immortality granted by poetry (Anth. Lat. 80R).

Cato Cato’s single epigram, preserved in the Codex Salmasianus (Anth. Lat. 387R), can be dated to Hunerich’s rule (477–484 ce) as it praises a coastal building project of the Vandal king, which perhaps aimed at reclaiming land from the sea (cf. Conant, 2012: 147).

Florentinus32 Florentinus’ only epigram (Anth. Lat. 376R) praises Thrasamund as a worthy king over the various parts of the Vandal kingdom. The focus of the second part (19–36) is Carthage, in particular the splendor of the city and its function as home to the Vandal family of the Hasdingi and to many other peoples, cultures, and studies.

Felix33 Felix’s five epigrams, also preserved in the Codex Salmasianus (Anth. Lat. 210–214R), praise Thrasamund for building new baths in the Carthaginian suburb of Alianae. The last epigram also includes a line hidden as an acrostic, mesostic, and telestic, which reads Thrasamundus cunta [sic] innovat vota serenans (“in his brightness Thrasamund renews all promises”). Felix may (or not) be identical to the Flavius Felix who wrote **Anth. Lat. 254R and/or the addressee of the anonymous Carmen ad Flavium Felicem de resurrectione mortuorum et de iudicio domini (see later).

**Coronatus Three epigrams of the Codex Salmasianus (Anth. Lat. 223R, 226R, 228R) have been transmitted under Coronatus’ name. They do not refer to North Africa, but if the poet is identical to the grammarian who wrote a dedicatory letter to Luxurius (text edited by Keil, 1868: 4, reprinted in Rosenblum, 1961: 259f.), he may have been a (younger) contemporary of Luxurius (cf. Kay 2006: 9). One of his epigrams is a reflection on a Virgilian line, the other two on a chicken dish (?).

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Other poems from the Codex Salmasianus Some other poems from the Codex Salmasianus can be attributed to Vandal Africa, such as the anonymous praise of the poet Luxurius (Anth. Lat. 37R) and that of Hilderic (Anth. Lat. 215R), Anth. Lat. 82R (on a board game), and possibly Anth. Lat. 285R (contrasting Latin verse and Gothic feasting).34 Furthermore, the Codex Salmasianus contains a collection of 12 Virgilian centos, a substantial figure compared to the total number of 16 Virgilian centos transmitted from antiquity:35 Of these, most are mythological in content (Anth. Lat. 17R [=Hos. Geta, Med.], Anth. Lat. 9R [Narcissus], Anth. Lat. 10R [the Judgment of Paris], Anth. Lat. 11R [Hippodamia], Anth. Lat. 12R [Hercules and Antaeus], Anth. Lat. 13R [Procne and Philomela], Anth. Lat. 14R [Europa], Anth. Lat. 15R [Alcestis]), some deal with everyday life (Anth. Lat. 7R [a baker], Anth. Lat. 8R [dicing]), one is an epithalamium (Anth. Lat. 18R [by Luxurius for Fridus]), and one describes the Christian communion (Anth. Lat. 16R). Hosidius Geta’s Medea and Luxurius’ epithalamium can be attributed to North Africa with confidence, for the rest the origin and date are impossible to reconstruct though they are generally assumed to belong there, too (cf. Galli, 2014: 5).

**Parthemius, Rescriptum ad Sigisteum36 The letter exchange between the comes Sigisteus and the presbyter Parthemius ends with a short poem by the latter. In this poem Parthemius relates a vision in which Sigisteus appeared to him and subsequently praises him as more learned than any Greek citizen and mightier than Achilles. While Sigisteus’ Germanic name and his close association with Africa suggest a date during Vandal rule, the fact that Parthemius and Sigisteus are separated geographically makes an attribution to Africa doubtful: Parthemius may well not have been an African or in Africa when he wrote this. In prosody, the poem deviates considerably from classical usage; it is also innovative in diction, for instance using “Larissa” for “Thessaly” (vers. 1.9), one of only two attestations of the word in all Latin poetry, and the epithet “armipotens” (“mighty in arms”) for Africa.

**Carmen ad Flavium Felicem de resurrectione mortuorum et de iudicio domini37 Some manuscripts preserve a poem of 406 hexameters on the subject of the resurrection of the dead and the last judgment under Cyprian’s name (as De resurrectione mortuorum), others attribute it to Tertullian (as De iudicio domini), but there is a general agreement that it was written by neither of them. Nevertheless, it has been attributed to North Africa according to the following arguments: the identification of the addressee with Flavius Felix (writer of Anth. Lat. 254R) or with Felix (writer of Anth. Lat. 210–214R [see earlier]), the interaction with Dracontius (cf. Waszink, 1937: 33–39; De Gaetano, 2013: 10, n. 82) and with Carmen de Sodoma (pullulat aetas in 161 is only also attested in Carmen de Sodoma 10), the identification of the Carmen as the first of Verecundus of Junca’s poems (Ps. Isid. De vir. ill. 7 [PL 83.1088]: quorum primum de resurrectione et iudicio scripsit, “the first of which he wrote about the resurrection and last judgment”; cf. Isetta, 1983), and the fact that it may have been transmitted together with the Carmen adversus Marcionitas (Waszink, 1982: 81). None of these is unproblematic,38 and the poem has alternatively been attributed to Gaul (cf. De Gaetano, 2013: 5–33). The poem covers a history of sin, doctrine on the resurrection of the dead, an appeal to convert to Christianity, and a description of the last judgment. The lines contain many prosodic irregularities.



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*Priscian of Caesarea, Perihegesis and De Laude Anastasii imperatoris39 Born in Caesarea in Mauretania Priscian probably left Vandal Africa for Constantinople between 480 and 490 ce. There he wrote (in addition to the influential Institutiones grammaticae in prose) a panegyric epic in 312 hexameters on the emperor Anastasius, now dated to 513 or 514 ce,40 and a Latin version of a Greek geographical poem of unknown date. The preface of his panegyric in iambic trimeter (instead of elegiac couplets) and parallels with a fragmentary Greek panegyric, possibly on Anastasius’ predecessor Zeno, clearly locate this work in the Eastern context (cf. Schindler, 2009: 218–220), even if its author came from North Africa. The work is also remarkable for its lack of a divine mythological framework, which was usual in earlier Latin panegyric. Priscian explicitly refutes earlier practices in the preface (1–10) to focus on the truth as appropriate for Anastasius’ piety. In the Perihegesis, while translating Dionysius Periegetes’ geographical poem, Priscian christianizes it (e.g., periheg. 1–3; 458), adds a praise of Constantinople (periheg. 770–772) and details on North African topography (e.g., periheg. 202–205), and includes an antior pre-Virgilian version of the Dido myth (perih. 185f.).

Verecundus of Junca41 Verecundus was bishop of Junca in Byzacena and was called to court in 551 ce by Justinian to defend his theological views. From there he fled to Chalcedon and died in 552. Corippus may allude to him in Ioh. 7.484–494, where an anonymous priest protects the city of Junca against the Berbers by prayer alone (Riedlberger, 2010: 43f. n. 131). Two poems are attributed to him in a spurious chapter (perhaps of African origin) of Isidor of Seville’s De viris illustribus (Ps. Isid. De vir. ill. 7 [PL 83.1088]), the second of which has been identified as the Carmen de satisfactione paenitentiae in 212 hexameters (alterum vero de poenitentia, in quo lamentabili carmine propria delicta deplorat, “the second about penitence, in which he deplores his own sins in a mournful poem”). In the first part of this poem the poet prays God for forgiveness of his sins and laments his unworthiness. A description of the day of judgment follows, in which the poet’s deeds, words, and thoughts speak out against him.

Flavius Cresconius Corippus42 Corippus may have been born around 500 ce in North Africa and worked as a grammaticus. His two major works are a panegyric epic on the general John Troglita, Iohannis, written around 550 ce in North Africa, and an epic on the accession of the emperor Justin II, *In laudem Iustini Augusti minoris, performed in 565 in Constantinople. He may also have written religious poetry and a praise of Anastasius. The Iohannis starts with the emperor Justinian reflecting on the state of Africa and his decision to send John Troglita as magister militum there to fight against the Berbers. The rest of the epic describes John’s campaign and eventual victory. While language and style of Corippus’ second epic resemble the Iohannis, its content (lament of the death of Justinian, ceremonies and rituals surrounding the accession of Justin II, his first week of reign) and themes (e.g., ekphrases such as on Justin’s throne [3.191–230], Greek art and culture) are very different.

Metrical inscriptions43 A total of 601 Latin metrical inscriptions have been found to date in the African provinces dating from the early first to the mid-sixth centuries ce, over a third of them in Numidia. The majority are

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funerary inscriptions of both Christians and pagans while others praise buildings such as baths or honor gods (Pikhaus, 1994: 147f.). Their number significantly increased during and following Septimius Severus’ reign (Cugusi and Sblendorio Cugusi, 2014: 8). They also include the longest extant Latin verse inscription (CLE 1552), found on a mausoleum at Colonia Flavia Cillium dating to the second century ce, in which the poet praises T. Flavius Secundus through an elaborate description of the monument and its comparison with his own poem (cf. Groupe de recherches sur l’Afrique antique, 1993; Cugusi, 2007: 134f.). The lengths of the inscriptions vary – though most are shorter than 10 lines (Pikhaus, 1993: 132) – and so do their literary qualities. Some make learned allusions to previous Latin poetry: for example, CLEAfr 60 contains parallels to Stat. Theb. 5.630 (si quis honos), Lucr. 3.86 (Acherusia templa) and Verg. G. 2.492 (strepitum […] Acherontis avari) (cf. Meyers, 2011), whereas in others, a significant number of lines are not even metrically correct (e.g., CLE 1329; CLEAfr 155). A few bilingual (Latin and Greek) verse inscriptions have been preserved (e.g., CLEAfr 251) and even fewer were commissioned or composed by nonRomans, e.g., CLEAfr 5 by the (probably originally Libyan) centurio Iasucthan commemorating his building repairs (cf. Adams, 1999: 109) and CLEAfr 59 on the death of Ilo’s Libyan wife Beccut (cf. Hamdoune, 2011: 61–64).

Characteristics of Imperial and Late Latin Poetry from North Africa Language, Style, and Meter Between the Renaissance and the end of the nineteenth century the view that the Latin written by African writers was different from that in Rome found much support and the phenomenon was called Africitas (see Guédon, Chapter 14). Around the turn of the century, however, Kroll (1897) and Brock (1911: 161–261) demonstrated that features previously thought typical of African Latin could be found elsewhere and that they were stylistic rather than linguistic. Much later Lancel (1985) returned to the question to study the shared characteristics of styles in authors of African origin, concluding with a list of stylistic features such as verbal inventiveness and redundancy that he attributed to the strong rhetorical tradition in the African education system. Finally, Adams (2007: 192–195, 259–270, 516–576, 642–649) looked at literary, subliterary (e.g., medical manuals), and inscriptional evidence of African Latin and concluded that while phonetic difference from Italian Latin is attested in all sources, in other respects such as the use of Punic or Libyan loanwords, subliterary evidence and inscriptions are far more “African” than literary texts.44 The evidence of the poetry studied in this chapter very much corresponds to this assessment: The language used there is not African as such though some uses are late and some are characteristic of individual poets. The choice of register in North African poetry, however, is remarkable: some poets (e.g., Nemesianus, Corippus) prefer a highly poetic register while others (e.g., Commodian, Augustine, Fulgentius of Ruspe) employ a much lower variety of language. These choices are also reflected in style and account for interesting contrasts between contemporary African poets such as Nemesianus’ classicism against Commodian’s unclassical style, Septimius Serenus’ poeticisms versus Terentianus Maurus’ straightforward voice (cf. Beck, 1993: 521–526), or Corippus’ Virgilian tone versus Priscian’s plain style. Augustine famously claims that Africans do not distinguish between long and short syllables (De doctrina Christiana 4.24: Afrae aures de correptione vel productione non iudicant), and the grammarian Consentius (GL V.392.3f.) notes that Africans lengthen the first syllable of the word piper because it carries the stress despite the fact that it is a short syllable. Consentius’ note associates the historical development from quantitative syllables to stress-based ones with Africa even though it is well attested elsewhere, especially the shortening of unstressed final syllables (cf. Adams, 1999: 115–117). Perhaps we can infer that it was particularly difficult for Africans to



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learn the conventional quantities as they did not distinguish them in ordinary speech, as Augustine’s remark suggests (cf. Mancini, 2015). In any case, this alternative approach to quantities may explain a number of “wrong” lines in metrical inscriptions (Adams, 1999: 114–116) and the prosodic irregularities of some late poets (e.g., Dracontius, Aegritudo Perdicae, Carmen de resurrectione mortuorum) and was an ideal environment for metrical innovations such as Commodian’s quasi-hexameters as well as Augustine’s and Fulgentius’ rhythmic lines. However, it should not be forgotten that other African poets used the syllabic quantities correctly, for example Luxurius (cf. Rosenblum, 1961: 33), and even taught it to others like Terentianus Maurus (cf. Beck, 1993: 526–533). Furthermore, there is a contrast between polymetric poets such as Septimius Serenus, Terentianus Maurus, Luxurius, Optatianus, and poets focusing on one or two meters only, for instance, Nemesianus, Dracontius, the author of Anth. Lat. 90–197R, Priscian, and Corippus. Altogether, the most conspicuous feature of meter in North African poetry is the range of experimentation and innovation employed by the poets, in particular those who moved away from the quantitative meter.

Education and Rhetoric45 North Africa and particularly Carthage were famous for the education they offered, especially in rhetoric (cf. Juv. 7.147–9, Apul. Flor. 20). Florentinus (Anth. Lat. 376.32R) praises “Carthage as decorated with studies and teachers” (Carthago studiis, Carthago ornata magistris), and a brief epitaph from Thugga (CLE 107) celebrates a teacher of rhetoric for his literary inspiration, learning, and rhetorical skills. Both Corippus and Dracontius stayed in professions closely linked to their education: Corippus as a teacher (grammaticus) (De laudibus Iustini 1, Incipit) and Dracontius as a lawyer (Romul. 5, Incipit). Dracontius also dedicated his Romulea to his teacher Felicianus (Romul. 1) and Luxurius asked a friend, who was also a teacher, to publish his poetry (Anth. Lat. 287.4R). It therefore does not come as a surprise that the influence of education can be perceived in North African poetry, for example in the Virgilian centos, which require a thorough knowledge of Virgil’s poetry. The link between rhetorical training and poetry is particularly conspicuous during the Vandal era when Dracontius wrote an ethopoiia (Romul. 4), a controversia (Romul. 5), and a suasoria (Romul. 9), all in verse, and the Codex Salmasianus also preserves an ethopoiia (Anth. Lat. 198R) and a controversia (Anth. Lat. 21R). These controversiae and Dracontius’ suasoria are the only Latin verse declamations known to us from antiquity (cf. Wolff, 2015b: 91; Stoehr-Monjou, 2015a: 101). However, it is worth remembering that imperial and late Latin poetry in other parts of the Roman empire was equally rhetorical and also partly directly associated with the teaching of rhetoric: Ausonius, for instance, taught rhetoric in Gaul and commemorated famous local teachers (Prof. Burd.)

Formal Experimentation North African poetry shows a great range of formal experimentation: Virgilian centos (Hosidius Geta, Luxurius), versus serpentini (Anth. Lat. 38–80R), nearly 100 riddles in three lines each (Symphosius), polymetric rural didactic (Septimius Serenus), gridded poems and picture poems (Optatianus), teaching of meters in the corresponding meter (Terentianus Maurus), and acrostichic inscriptions (e.g., CLE 1187, CLEAfr 5). Whether or not this delight in formal experimentation arose from a school setting, it highlights a poet’s virtuosity in a field neglected by classical Latin poetry.

Visual Art46 Imperial and late North African poetry is linked to visual art in various ways: firstly, by the popular technique of ekphrasis, secondly, by an intriguing connection between poetry and material culture

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in contemporary North Africa, and thirdly, by poetry’s double nature as text and image. Ekphrasis is a well-known poetic technique, particularly popular in late antiquity,47 and there are many ekphrases in North African poetry, such as the description of the new emperor’s robes in Corippus, De laudibus Iustini 2.100–27, the epigrammatic ekphrases by Luxurius and other Vandal era poets quoted above, and the grove of the phoenix in Lactantius’ De ave Phoenice 1–30. Moreover, late Latin poetry can in general be compared to contemporary visual art since both focus on parts at the expense of the whole (cf. Roberts, 1989: 66–121). A North African example for the link between poetry and visual art is Luxurius’ representation of Fridamal as a hunter in Anth. Lat. 304R. The poem focuses on the visual aspect of Fridamal’s boar hunt (e.g., tower and grove) at the expense of Fridamal’s deed since the boar is dead before the hunter’s spear reaches it. In addition, there is often a real and direct link between ecphrastic poetry and material culture in North Africa. For instance, Felix’ praise of Thrasamund’s baths (Anth. Lat. 210–4R) likely referred to a real bath complex and (partly allegorical) descriptions of circus races in poetry (e.g., Anth. Lat. 197R, Drac. De laudibus dei 2.17–21, Corippus, De laudibus Iustini 315–344) have parallels on mosaics as well as in built circuses in North Africa (cf. Dunbabin, 1978: 88–108, Tommasi Moreschini, 2010: 268–272). Furthermore, Nemesianus’ Eclogues coincide with a temporary rise of bucolic imagery on sarcophagi between 270 and 300 ce (Himmelmann-Wildschütz, 1972: 345) and his description of hunting as an élite pastime corresponds to images of hunting on mosaics and elsewhere from the late third century ce (cf. Dunbabin, 1978: 52). Finally, Optatian and the poet of CLE 1552 have themselves created visual art, not just poetry, the former with his figure poems and gridded poems (cf. Hernández Lobato, 2017; Männlein-Robert, 2017; Squire, 2017), the latter by inscribing a mausoleum with an ekphrasis of the same monument.

Christianity and Secularism A focus on secular aspects of life has been noted in the work of the Vandal era poets, be it in epigrams that directly relate to the contemporary situation (Miles, 2005) or in the poets’ professions (Hays, 2004: 131f.). Yet, secularism is only one mode of expression, even in Vandal Africa. Dracontius, for example, does not refrain from addressing King Gunthamund in an openly Christian work (Satisfactio) nor from condemning Arian doctrine explicitly (laud. dei 2.100–106). Likewise, Fulgentius of Ruspe composed a psalm to arm his congregation against Arian influences. In earlier centuries there is a similar contrast between secular works, such as Nemesianus’ Cynegetica or Hosidius Geta’s Medea, and poetry with a strong Christian or denominational focus, like Commodian’s Instructiones or Augustine’s anti-Donatist psalm. A middle ground can be found in crypto-Christian works such as Lactantius’ De ave Phoenice, Dracontius’ Romul. 10 and Optatianus’ Carm. 19. Within Christian poetry, two themes were particularly popular: the last judgment (Commodian, Verecundus, and Carmen ad Flavium Felicem) and the conversion of adherents of the wrong faiths (e.g., Jews and pagans in Commodian, well-educated pagans in Dracontius) or denominations (Arians in Fulgentius and Dracontius, Donatists in Augustine, Marcionites in Carmen adversus Marcionitas). In the metrical inscriptions, the range of religious views is particularly conspicuous in references to death, which include mythological descriptions (e.g., CLE 525, 1188, 2296), Christian notions of eternal life (e.g., CLEAfr 223), and Christian re-interpretations of mythological images (e.g., CLEAfr 26).

African Identities48 With the exception of some metrical inscriptions, the imperial and late antique Latin poetry of North Africa is written from the perspective of well-educated Romans at various times and under various rules (West Roman, Vandal, and East Roman) and therefore represents only a very limited range of African identities. People of non-Roman origin occasionally figure as authors or



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commissioners (e.g., Iasucthan of CLEAfr 5; cf. Adams, 1999) and recipients of late Latin poetry (e.g., Fridus of Anth. Lat. 18R; Oageis of Anth. Lat. 345R), but in most late Latin poetry, they are invisible. The Codex Salmasianus includes a small number of epigrams on racial or ethnic otherness,49 none of which is truly positive. Three of them describe a black man, perhaps the same person, two in negative terms (Anth. Lat. 182R, 183R), one (Anth. Lat. 293R) – by comparing him to Memnon – as a successful charioteer (cf. Kay, 2006: 325f.). Luxurius also praises an Egyptian hunter’s dark complexion while highlighting this as paradoxical (Anth. Lat. 353R) and mocks someone for running after a native African (Garamantian) girl instead of a white one (Anth. Lat. 329R). In another, anonymous epigram, a native African (Arzugitan) poet is mocked for his “wooden” style (Anth. Lat. 131R). In his Iohannis, Corippus regularly refers to the Berbers. His description is more nuanced as he differentiates between the Berbers from the Syrtes and the Berbers from Byzacium, but also clearly subjected to the narrative purpose of the epic (John’s victory over the Berbers: cf. Modéran, 2003: 38–61; Merrills, 2019). While the Berbers from the Syrtes are characterized throughout as foreign and wild (e.g., Iohannis 8.300–317; cf. Riedlberger, 2010: 51), some Berbers of Byzacium are depicted in positive terms; the commander Cusina, a Roman ally, for example, appears as highly trustworthy (e.g., Iohannis 6.268) while his rival Antalas is described as treacherous (e.g., Iohannis 7.293), even though their actions greatly resemble each other’s (cf. Riedlberger, 2010: 48–53). Linguistic diversity appears in just one epigram (Anth. Lat. 285R: inter “eils” goticum “scapia matzia ia drincan”/ non audit quisquam dignos edicere versus, cf. Francovich Onesti, 2002: 140–142) and some of Optatian’s insert lines (Carm. 16, 19). On the other hand, the multilingualism of the province may have left indirect evidence in the more open approaches to classical norms of language, style, and meter of Commodian, Augustine, and Fulgentius of Ruspe in the works discussed above. Latin poetry, especially metrical inscriptions, from North Africa convey (self-)portrayals of many different North Africans (e.g., of Christians, soldiers, poets, teachers, lawyers) across several centuries, but few of these seem particular to the Roman province of North Africa (or the Vandal kingdom). The concept of Roman provincial identity is itself still under discussion (cf. Hays, 2004: 102f.; Keulen, 2014), and, for most part, the poets seem to have wanted to write Latin poetry, not specifically North African poetry, not least because they had studied the same classical works as their colleagues elsewhere in the Roman empire and adhered to the same standards and models. Annius Florus’ (prose) narrative of his clash with Domitian is a case in point as he became aware of his African background only after Domitian refused to honor him on account of his origin (Flor. Verg. 1.9).

Conclusion Imperial and late antique Latin poetry in North Africa was diverse and innovative. Formal experimentation, especially with visual expressions of language, genre, meter, and other formal devices, such as the cento technique, went along with attempts to renew the language of poetry by striving towards Classical models or, in the opposite direction, composing verse out of everyday language and grammar. Furthermore, a large number of poets trod paths not trodden before: Septimius Serenus with lyric didactic, Terentianus Maurus with a poetic and polymetric grammatical treatise, Commodian with low register and non-quantitative apologetic, Nemesianus with leisure hunts, Lactantius with his crypto-Christian poem on the phoenix, Optatianus with gridded poetry, Symphosius with intricately linked riddles, Augustine in his anti-Donatist psalm, Dracontius especially in De laudibus dei, and Priscian with non-mythological panegyric. These innovations as well as the literary explorations of all avenues correspond very well to the multiethnic, multilingual, multireligious, multidenominational, and multicultural environment of North Africa during the Roman empire and Vandal era.

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NOTES   1 Hose (2007: 538–541) suggests that the problem is one of transmission, not composition, but it would be unusual for all traces of these poems (including quotations by later grammarians) to disappear.   2 “With a few exceptions their reading consists of the classic poets (from Vergil and Ovid to Claudian and Sedulius) …. and one another” (Hays, 2004: 131). This definition of “classic poet” is itself problematic: if Sedulius counts as a “classic poet,” which non-African late poet would not?.   3 On the authorship of Pervigilium Veneris see Smolak (1989d) and of the Carmen ad senatorem quendam see Poinsotte (1982: 382) and Rosen (1993), on Reposianus see Smolak (1989c), on Pentadius see Smolak (1989b), and on Calbulus see Kay (2006: 9f.). De passione domini has been transmitted under Lactantius’ name, which, however, is neither confirmed by style nor other testimonies. De pascha seu de ligno crucis has been attributed to Cyprian and Victorinus Petaviensis in the manuscripts, but is more likely to belong to the fourth or fifth century and (perhaps) Northern Italy (cf. Schwind 1989). For the parallels between Pentadius’ elegy and Anth. Lat. 38–80R see Schetter (1986), for those between Ad senatorem quendam and Commodian see Sordi (2008).   4 Cf. Mattiacci (1982: 21–23), Courtney (1993: 375–382).  5 Flor. Verg. 1.3f. ([Florus:] “Florum vides, fortasse et audieris, si tamen in illo orbis terrarum conciliabulo sub Domitiano principe certamini nostro adfuisti”. Et Baeticus, “tune”, inquit, “ex Africa, quem summo consensu poposcimus? invito quidem Caesare et resistente, non quod tibi puero invideret, sed ne Africa coronam magni Iovis attingeret.”).  6 Flor. Verg. 1.9 ([Florus:] “postquam ereptam manibus et capiti coronam meo vidi, tota mens, totus animus resiliit atque abhorruit ab illa civitate, adeoque sum percussus et consternatus illo dolore, ut patriae quoque meae oblitus et parentum carissimorum similis furenti huc et illuc vager per diversa terrarum.”).   7 Cf. Galli (2017), Rondholz (2012), Malamud (2012), Hardie (2007), and McGill (2005: 31–52).  8 Tert. De praescr. haeret. 39. l. 7–12 (vides hodie ex Vergilio fabulam in totum aliam componi, materia secundum versus versibus secundum materiam concinnatis. denique Hosidius Geta Medeam tragoediam ex Vergilio plenissime exsuxit. meus quidam propinquus ex eodem poeta inter cetera stili sui otia Pinacem Cebetis explicuit).  9 Cf. Mattiacci (1982: 31–36), Cameron (1980: 142–144, 146–155, 160, 172–175), and Courtney (1993: 406–420). 10 Cf. Sallmann (1997b), Beck (1993), and Cignolo (2002). 11 Cf. Poinsotte (2009), Bruhat (2008), Heck (1997), Salvatore (1977), Salvatore (1965–1968), and Salvadore (2011). 12 Cf. Jakobi (2014), Williams (1986), Küppers (1987), Wlosok (1983: 253–257), and Volpilhac (1975). 13 A note in the SHA (Car. 11, 2) lists two other didactic works: Halieutica and Nautica – though the reliability of the note has been doubted by Schetter (1975: 41f.) – and two fragments are preserved in Lactantius Placidus’ Commentary on Statius Thebaid (2.58 and 5.389). 14 Cf. Roberts (2017), Wlosok (1983: 257–262), and Wlosok (1982). 15 Cf. Wlosok (1989: 400) for the attribution of the poem to Lactantius. 16 Cf. Polara (1973), Barnes (1975), Smolak (1989a), Polara (2004), Okáčová (2007), Squire (2017), Squire and Wienand (2017), and Körfer (2020). 17 Cf. Leary (2014). 18 The terminus ante quem is also given by a quote of 10 riddles in the late (around 500 ce?) novel Historia Apollonii Regis Tyrii (42–43). 19 For further discussion of this aspect see Leary (2014: 12f.). 20 Cf. Clark (2017: 432–438), Nodes (2009), Hunink (2005), Springer (1985), and Luiselli (1968). 21 Springer (1985: 65). Luiselli (1968: 35–38) calls the lines “acatalectic trochaic octonarians.” 22 Cf. Shanzer (1991), Cutino (2000), and Schmidt (2020): 445–446. 23 Cf. Shanzer (1991: 133–136) and Cutino (2000: 69–75). 24 Cf. Pollmann (1991) and Micaelli (2001). 25 Cf. Escolà (2007), Schmidt and Pollmann (2020), and Flammini (2002) (meter), and on De Sodoma, Chapot (2016), Morisi (1993), Kriel (1991), and Hexter (1988). 26 Cf. Pohl (2019b), Moussy and Camus (1985: 8–31), Kaufmann (2006), Pohl (2019a), Galli Milić (2008), Simons (2005), De Gaetano (2009: 113–419), Selent (2011), and Weber (1995). 27 Cf., for example, Wasyl (2011: 100–109), Schetter (1991), and Wolff (1988). 28 Cf. Isola (1983), Norberg (1988: 125–132), Luiselli (1968), and Bianco (1979).



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29 Cf. Rosenblum (1961), Happ (1986), Bertini (2008), Giovini (2008), Bertini (2002), Fassina (2006), and Wasyl (2019: 650–658). 30 Cf. Kay (2006: 1–7, 22–25), Zurli (2007: 15–19), Breitenbach (2017), and Wasyl (2019: 658–660). 31 Cf. Schetter (1986), Zurli et al. (2008), and Wasyl (2019: 660). 32 Cf. Incardona (2012). 33 Cf. Busch (1999: 244–256). 34 Cf. Kaufmann (2006: 3, n. 20) for a list of these and other poems. On Anth. Lat. 82R, see Baumgartner (1981: 103–112) and on Anth. Lat. 285R, Francovich Onesti (2002: 140–142). 35 Galli (2014) provides an edition of and commentary on the six shorter ones, Bažil (2009) discusses Anth. Lat. 16R, and Elsner (2017) Anth. Lat. 9R. 36 Cf. Hamman (1963: col. 449), Bianco (1988), Merrills and Miles (2010: 99f.), and Conant (2012: 55). I would like to thank Konrad Vössing for sharing his doubts about the African nature of this with me. 37 Cf. Waszink (1937), Isetta (1983), Escolà (2007), and De Gaetano (2013). 38 The attribution to Verecundus is also problematic because the poem opens with a description of the poet’s previous work on the seasons of the year (1–8). 39 Cf. on Perihegesis Van de Woestijne (1953) and Bonnet (2009) and on his panegyric Coyne (1991), Ballaira (2009) and Schindler (2009: 215–226). 40 Cf., for the discussion of the date, Coyne (1991) and Ballaira (2009). 41 Cf. Cerati (2011) and Bianco (1984). 42 Cf. Riedlberger (2010: 34–45), Goldlust (2015), Gärtner (2008), Goldlust (2017), Cameron (1976), Zarini (2003), and Gärtner (2011). 43 Pikhaus (1994), Cugusi and Sblendorio Cugusi (2012), Cugusi and Sblendorio Cugusi (2014), Hamdoune (2011), Courtney (1995), Pikhaus (1987), and with further bibliography Cugusi (2007: 84–91). 44 For a concise history of Africitas, see Mattiacci (2014: 88–93). 45 Cf. Vössing (1997), Hays (2004: 120–125), De Gaetano (2009: 23–110), Bisanti (2010), Stoehr-Monjou (2015a), and Stoehr-Monjou (2015b). 46 Cf. Hays (2004: 116–118) and Tommasi Moreschini (2010) for fifth/sixth century poetry, Squire (2017) and Squire and Wienand (2017) for Optatianus, and Himmelmann-Wildschütz (1972) and Jakobi (2014) for Nemesianus. 47 Cf. Roberts (1989: 55f.). 48 Elsner (2017: 195f.), Wolff (2001), Edwards (2004), George (2004), and Conant (2012) discuss Roman identity under Vandal rule (partly) on the basis of Latin poetry. 49 Cf. Desanges (2006) and Starks (2011).

FURTHER READING Baldwin (1989) and Fontaine et al. (2001) discuss the poetry and prose of North Africa throughout the centuries with a focus on the later empire, while Hays (2004), Wolff (2015a), and Kaufmann (2015) more specifically discuss those of Vandal North Africa. McGill (2012) provides a survey of late Latin poetry across the empire and Sallmann (1997a), Herzog and Schmidt (1989), Berger et al. (2020), and Manitius (1891) are useful fallback options for understudied poetry. For further reading on individual authors and texts see the notes.

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CHAPTER 20

Christian North Africa in Antiquity Anna Leone

The present chapter aims to provide an overview of scholarly work on the Christianization of North Africa, drawing on textual and archaeological evidence. The study of this subject is best achieved by taking a regional rather than North Africa-wide perspective in order to capture its great diversity. For instance, although the bulk of the textual evidence referring to North African Christianity comes from ancient Numidia, it has often been applied incorrectly as a guide to interpret and understand Christianity across the entirety of North Africa. The process of Christianization and Christianity were very different in Numidia, Africa Proconsularis, Byzacena, and Tripolitania, sometimes even within the same province, most notably between coastal and inland areas. For this reason, more generalizing approaches and analysis need reassessment. Research on African Christianity has also been uneven. For example, the major focus of archaeological research has been on church architecture, decoration, and traditions (see recently Baratte et al., 2014), but notably less attention has been devoted to the material record of monasticism, and the spread of Christianization in some inland areas where the Roman presence was less significant. This makes a full understanding of the Christian landscape, its organization and change through time, very difficult. This is particularly the case in Tripolitania (modern western Libya), where our understanding of the extent and nature of Christianization is mainly derived from the coastal cities, while inland churches, like the one at Breviglieri-el Khadra, have only been partially studied (Ward-Perkins and Goodchild, 1953).

A Divided Church Christianity in North Africa was complex and characterized by division and internal persecutions, beginning with the so-called “Donatist” movement, or the “North African Church,” as some scholars prefer to refer to it (Shaw, 1995). The Donatist movement emerged following the nomination by some clergy of Bishop Donatus in 311 ce, in opposition to the official nomination of Caecilianus as Bishop of Carthage. The Donatist movement, in fact, emerged as a protest against the so-called “lapsi,” those who, despite being Catholics or even members of the clergy, apostasized during the Diocletianic persecutions (Dupont, 2013; Miles, 2016). The Donatist Bishops were exiled, and their property confiscated (August. Ep. 105.9). Several emperors attempted to reunite the two Churches, the most important of these being the major council called by the Emperor Honorius, that took place in Carthage in 411 ce with bishops from both Churches

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.



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invited to take part (Lancel, 1972). The diffusion and development of this movement was especially strong in Numidia and Mauretania. At some point in the fourth century it appears to have achieved a greater following than the Christian Catholic church. Donatism was once thought to be a primarily rural phenomenon (Frend, 1952). However, more recent work suggests greater regional diversity and no unequivocal evidence that Donatist Bishops were exclusively or even primarily rural (Lancel, 1972; Leone, 2016). It has been argued that Donatist Bishops were present primarily in the countryside, in particular at castella, generally interpreted as settlements within the territory of a city, lacking municipal status (Rebuffat, 1993). These were particularly numerous in Numidia, inland Byzacena, Tripolitania, and in Mauretania Sitifensis (Lancel, 1972: 132–134; Dossey, 2010; Leone, 2011–2012; Shaw, 2011: 807–811). However, Donatist Bishops were also located in urban areas and near major roads (Leone, 2016). At the Council of Chalcedon in 451 civitates were established as sees; this, it has been suggested, led to a growing preference for the integration of overlapping of secular and religious control in cities (Schwartz et al., 2008; see Figure 20.1). The end of the controversy has been tentatively dated to 430, following the Vandal conquest, when Arianism became a strong opponent to the Catholic church (Whelan, 2014). The differences between the two religious traditions, although probably significantly diminished, appear to have continued into the sixth century. In Ain Zirara a dedication to the apostles Saints. Peter and Paul, from the Vandal period, has been connected to the Donatist cult (CIL 8. 17746), but the relationship is doubtful (Frend, 1952). The same connection has been suggested for a fifth century inscription at Ain Ghorab (Frend, 1952: 308; Leschi, 1957: 309–310). Letters of Pope Gregory I (590–604 ce) refer to the presence of Donatism in North Africa at the end of the sixth century (Conant, 2016a: 358–359; Gregory, 1982 Ep. 1.82 – CCSL 140–140a 1.89; Ep.2.39 – CCSL 140–140a 1.125; Ep. 6.36 – CCSL 140–140a 1.411). The study of Donatism or African Church has been primarily driven by textual evidence, mostly analyzing the debates and the disputes with the Catholic church (see papers in Miles, 2016 and Patout Burns and Jensen, 2014: 195–198). The interpretation of the regional and social impact of Donatism is limited by the objective difficulty in identifying archaeologically Donatist churches and monuments from their Catholic counterparts. The problem is compounded by the fact that Donatist churches did not have any specific feature and were subsequently reappropriated by the Catholic community. In an attempt to get round these challenges, recent work has focused on the cult of the martyrs in North Africa and the presence/absence of Donatist martyrs in specific buildings. For example, an inscription found in the basilica of Ksar el Kelb mentions the Donatist martyr cult of Marculus and the martyrs of Vegesela (Memoria Do/mni Marchuli). Below the inscription excavators found human remains and pieces of glass, which may be the relics of Marculus, although this attribution remains uncertain. Two other possible identifications to a cult of the same martyrs have been advanced, based on inscriptions found at Thignica and Timgad (Leone, 2016: 332– 339). The expressions that most typically have been identified as pertaining to the Donatist church were: Deo Laudes (Monceaux, 1912: 439–443), Bonis bene (Monceaux, 1912: 456), Mundus Munditia (Monceaux, 1912: 453–454). Similar inscriptions have been found at the entrances of farms, such as at El Gosset in Tripolitania (Ward-Perkins and Goodchild, 1953; Leone, 2016: 327–328): however, in Tripolitania variants are recorded with the expression “Deo Domine” (Frend, 1952: 51). While they may indicate the presence of a Donatist community, they can simply refer to the faith of the owner of the estate.

The Circumcellions The so-called Circumcellions or Agonistici or, in a later source, Cotopitai, have been linked to monks, and identified as heretical figures active in particular in the countryside of Numidia and Mauretania between the end of the fourth century and the beginning of the fifth century (Shaw,

Figure 20.1  Map with the location of all the Donatist Bishoprics attested in urban areas attending the Conference in Carthage in 411 Les voies Romaines de l’Afrique du nord (Alger, 1951) (see also the table in the inside cover).

ce.

After P. Salama,



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2004). Donatism is often paired in sources with the Circumcellions, who are described as using violence to provoke others in order to be killed and achieve martyrdom, or even committing suicide by jumping from a cliff in order to reach the same end (for a recent reconsideration of all the sources see Pottier, 2016). Places where they were buried also became centers of veneration. They are reputed to have lived lives dependent on charity, and are believed to have opposed rich landowners who used slaves, as well as members of the Catholic hierarchy. That said, the sources are susceptible to various interpretations related to particular historical events. African sources tend to be more detailed than those of authors from outside the region (Pottier, 2016). Brent Shaw (2011: 630) defines the Circumcellions as bands of armed men and women, living near the shrines (cellae) of martyrs who wandered through the North African countryside engaged in assaults on their sectarian enemies. They were not monks in the traditional sense, but more like wandering ascetics (Shaw, 2004: 259). Some scholars have recently and convincingly seen them as a movement of socioeconomic protest in late Roman Africa (see Dossey, 2010, for bibliography) and we must entertain the possibility that the term “Circumcellions” misleadingly groups together a whole range of political and social phenomena that were not directly connected with this group.

Arianism and Christianity during the Vandal Period In 439 ce the Vandals took Carthage and introduced a series of changes to the society and the economy of North Africa (Conant, Chapter 21). They were Germanic and proponents of the fourth century Arian heresy on the divinity of Jesus Christ (Berndt and Steinacher, 2014). During the roughly hundred years of the Vandal kingdom in North Africa, the Vandal authorities strongly opposed, with intervals of toleration, the Nicene Church of North Africa, which considered itself Catholic (Whelan, 2018). The harshest persecutions perhaps occurred in 439 under Gaiseric (429–477), which included the exile of Catholic bishops, with a second less intense persecution in 483–484 in the reign of Gunthamund. It has been also been suggested that the persecutions in Africa Proconsularis were harsher than in other parts of North Africa (Modéran, 1998: 254). Guthamund (484–496) allowed all the Bishops to return and the Catholic church progressively started to re-emerge (Modéran, 1998). As with the Donatist structures and for the same reasons noted above, it is impossible to distinguish the Arian churches. The majority of Vandal Arian churches have been identified through funerary inscriptions bearing Germanic names or referring to the regnal years of Vandal rulers. In Carthage some churches were certainly in use in the Vandal period; at the Basilica of Sainte Monique, for example, seven of the names recorded on the epitaphs are of probable Germanic origin (Ennabli, 1975: 82–83; Bockmann, Chapter 8, and 2013: 98). A new church was also built at Bir el Knissia as a cemeterial basilica, between the end of the fifth century and the early sixth century (Bockmann, Chapter 8; Stevens, 1993: 303; Yasin, 2016). The Vandal phase was decorated entirely with local stone, with later additions, dated to the Byzantine period, consisting of marble decorations (Stevens, 1993: 304–306). Some burials bearing Germanic names were uncovered in 1912 in the vicinity of the basilica (Ennabli, 1991: 393–396; Bockmann, 2013: 105). Outside Carthage there is limited evidence of churches dated to the Vandal period. The Basilica of Uppenna received a mosaic dated to the reign of Hilderic (Duval, 1973; Bockmann, 2013: 63–67). At Sufetula, Basilica I saw the addition of the second apse between the end of the fifth century and the early sixth century (Duval, 1971: 163–165), and the church at El Gousset was probably built or refurbished in the Vandal period (Bejaoui, 1995, 2008: 200). In a few cases there is evidence of continuity of church use during the Vandal period. One example is Madauros in Basilica I, where a tomb bearing an inscription was probably inserted during the reign of Gelimer (Bockmann, 2013: 198–199). Similar cases were found at Ammaedara, both in Basilica I with the tomb of Victorinus (see Duval, 1981: 121–122; Bockmann, 2013: 205) and in Basilica IV, the so-called Chapelle Vandale, where the church preserves a funerary inscription referring to a certain

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Astius Vindicianus, dating to the Vandal period (Chastagnol and Duval, 1974; Leone, 2013; Baratte et al., 2014: 318–320). Funerary inscriptions/epitaphs referring to the reign of Thrasamund are recorded also at El Erg and El Ounaissia (Bejauoi, 2008: 201–202), and in Theveste in the Great Basilica (Bockmann, 2013: 221). In sum, recent work on churches in the Vandal period indicate a renewal of religious building activity during the reigns of Gunthamund (484–496) and Thrasamund (450–523) (Bejauoi, 2008: 202). This historical moment corresponds to the period that followed the collapse of the Western Roman Empire, renewed contacts with the imperial court Constantinople, as well as a phase of reduced efforts to oppose African Catholics by the Vandal kings. Gunthamund allowed the return of exiled bishops, although some opposition may have remained in Proconsularis/Zeugitana (Modéran, 1998: 260–261). Finally, Hilderic’s (523–530) open tolerance of Catholicism beginning in 525 may have been a factor in the uptick in church building and refurbishment noted above between the end of the fifth century and the early sixth century, just prior to the Byzantine conquest.

The Christian Topography of North Africa North Africa was characterized by the presence of a high number of bishops as early as the third century, a number that continued to increase in the following century (see Leone, 2011–2012). The organization and distribution of the Bishops included a large number of bishoprics found in the countryside. The majority of the data on bishoprics in the territory of North Africa comes from the list of Bishops who attended various church Councils. The work of Y. Duval (2005: 27), based on the texts by Cyprian and the Sententiae Episcoporum numero LXXXVII de Hereticis Baptizandis, has highlighted that, by the mid-third century, North Africa enjoyed the extensive presence of Bishops in every province except the whole wider Mauretania. The number of Bishops appears to have substantially increased in the fourth century, probably in connection with the growing popularity of the Donatist movement. Toponyms from the list of the participants at the conference in Carthage in 411 (Lancel, 1972) indicate 285 Catholic Bishops and 286 Bishops representing the so-called (by modern historiography) Donatists present at the council. It is likely that they were actually more numerous, with the list omitting those who did not attend the meeting. Some Bishops also came from large private estates (these were principally the toponyms ending with -iana/-ianum; Lancel, 1990: 134–143). For instance, on the large estate of Melania the Younger, at Tagaste in Numidia, there were both a Donatist and a Catholic Bishop (Gerontius Melania 82; and see Giardina, 1988). Bishops are also well attested in urban areas and appeared to have collaborated closely with local secular officials; texts often mention Seniores Laicorum, Seniores Plebis, and Seniores Christiani Populi (as, for instance, at Carthage, Assuras, Musti, Cirta, and Hippo; see Leone, 2006a). The effective role of these secular representatives is still debated. B. Shaw (1995: 217, n. 32) suggests that “…seniores were the repository of power in the local church in the absence of the bishop.” It is still difficult to define the territory of each bishopric, which is largely based on textual evidence, and does not take into account the changes in extent or even their continued existence through time. The maps (Figures 20.2, 20.3, and 20.4) show how the bishoprics in the territory of the Medjerda valley changed through time and were reorganized, an indication that the Christian landscape and organization was also in constant evolution (Leone, 2011–2012). The Christian presence in cities becomes more evident by the end of the fourth century. It is in fact from this moment that a genuine Christian topography emerges and transforms the urban setting. Data show that cities and their societies reacted to the spread of Christianity differently, and it is very difficult to single out clearly a trend, as the cases of different cities discussed later clearly show. Some settlements most visibly saw the center of the city life shifting away from the forum. In quite a few cases, the earliest churches dated to the fourth century were located on the periphery of the city. At Sabratha in Tripolitania, for example, the first church in the city was

Figure 20.2  Map of the bishoprics along the Medjerda river in Africa Proconsularis in the mid-third century. After P. Salama, Les voies Romaines de l’Afrique du nord (Alger, 1951).

Figure 20.3  Map of the bishoprics along the Medjerda valley in Africa Proconsularis between the fourth and fifth centuries. After P. Salama, Les voies Romaines de l’Afrique du nord (Alger 1951) (After Miles 2016).

Figure 20.4  Map of the bishoprics along the Medjerda valley in Africa Proconsularis in the Byzantine period. After P. Salama, Les voies Romaines de l’Afrique du nord (Alger 1951) (After Miles 2016).

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built at the end of the fourth century near the theater, located away from the forum of the city; the forum had in fact been abandoned due to an earthquake in the second half of the fourth century, but would be reoccupied later on, probably in the Byzantine period (Leone, 2013). The theater was spoliated and the decorative material was used for the building of the new nearby church (Bonacasa Carra, 2003–2004). Within the city of Carthage, one of the earliest churches is Dermech 1, belonging to the late fourth century and early fifth century, and is located directly behind the large Antonine baths, but far from the original forum of the city, which was on the Byrsa hill (see Bockmann, Chapter 8). The city of Carthage also had a number of peripheral churches that developed above former pagan cemeteries. They were normally located along major roads and were the result of the long-term use of funerary areas in the outskirts of the city. In fact, a number of the earliest built churches were extramuros and connected to martyr tombs (for a synthesis of the churches of Carthage see Leone, 2007a; Bockmann, 2013). Funerary basilicas are known especially to the north and to the south. In the fourth century and fifth century these structures were probably small chapels, which were then monumentalized in the Byzantine period. For instance, to the north, close to the coast, was the so-called Basilique of St. Monique (named after the hill where it is located), dedicated to Saint Cyprian. There are then Bir Ftouha (Stevens et al., 2005), and the Basilica Maiorum, which was built where Saints Perpetua and Felicita were martyred (Ennabli, 1982). Bir el Knissia, located to the south of the city, was built at the end of the Vandal period (Stevens, 1993). In many urban contexts, there is an impressive number of churches, but their function and hierarchy are often impossible to define. Carthage is exceptional, having more than 21 churches recorded (see also Bockmann, Chapter 8; and for an overview of the churches, see also Baratte et al., 2014), which were probably associated with ecclesiastical districts or regions administered by archdeacons. They are first mentioned in inscriptions dating between the fourth and early fifth centuries but they continued to be mentioned into the Byzantine period (Ennabli, 1997; Leone, 2007b). Attempts to define the boundaries of these regions have been based on the distribution of the funerary epitaphs referring to these archdeacons, suggesting that there were six such districts (Ennabli, 1997). It is possible that the city had an earlier pre-Christian regional subdivision that partially overlapped with the later Christian one, as in the case of Rome, but there is no specific evidence for this (Duval, 1997: 343). The presence of an additional extra-urban region (the seventh, as in the case of Rome) has been proposed in the ancient sector called Megara (Ennabli, 1997: 142), but this identification remains hypothetical. The limited evidence connected with this regional subdivision provides a good example of how difficult it is to trace and fully reconstruct the Christian organization of urban areas. Christian Carthage also comprised complex monuments, as, for instance, in the area behind the Antonine baths, where the church of Dermech 1 mentioned above was surrounded by a necropolis (no burials were located inside the church) and a monastery (see later and Baratte et al., 2014: 121). Other Christian monuments in the city include an oratorium for prayers built over the theater, which was also transformed into a necropolis. Thus, necropolis, and a small chapel in the circus. To the south of the city, still inside the urban area, are two other known churches. The so-called Basilica of Carthagenna was rebuilt in the Byzantine period, near the harbor; it included a series of annexed rooms that have favored the identification of the monument as an ecclesiastical complex (Ennabli, 2000: 70). Nearby, another baptistery and basilica dated to the Byzantine period were excavated (Miles and Greenslade, 2019). In the seventh century some churches were abandoned. The Basilica of Carthagenna appears to have been subdivided into houses (Ennabli, 1992), while the large church of Damous of Karita, for which three major phases have been identified, was enlarged. This latter reconstruction appears to have been in connection with the transfer of reliquiae from the Basilica Maiorum (Stevens, 1993: 65). Damous el Karita was a large pilgrimage church located just outside the city walls (built in 425) along the cardo maximus. The church also presents a peculiar underground complex, whose effective function is still the subject of debate. A complex Christian topography is identifiable also in other smaller centers, as for instance at Sufetula (Sbeïtla) in the province of Byzacena. Eight urban churches have been identified within



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the city and one in the surrounding areas. Basilica I, of Bellator, is located to the north of the city along the decumanus, in front of the one so-called Vitalis. The church of Bellator had three phases, the first dated to the end of the fourth century, the second to the end of the Vandal period, and the third to the Byzantine period. Excavations have shown that the church continued use after the sack in 647 (Baratte et al., 2014: 383). To the west of Basilica I, is the Baptistry, the so-called “Chapelle de Jucundus”. The Basilica of Vitalis, located in front of the baptistery, was also characterized by the three phases. In the second and third phases the church was enlarged to become the primary episcopal group of the city (Duval, 1971). It also reflects a shift of the Christian center to the north of the city. The chronology of the church is, however, uncertain. It was probably built between the end of the fifth and the early sixth centuries and enlarged in the Byzantine period (Baratte et al., 2014: 391). Basilica III, of Servus, and Basilica IV and Basilica VIII were all in the vicinity of the Roman forum of the city. It has been suggested that Basilica III, closest to the forum, was built at the end of the fourth century and then enlarged in the sixth century (Baratte et al., 2014: 396). If the suggested chronology for this basilica is correct, it is an early instance of a church in close proximity to the Roman civic center. Basilica IV was probably built in the fifth century and transformed in the sixth century (Baratte et al., 2014: 398). Basilica V (built after the fourth century and probably reorganized in the Byzantine period; Baratte et al., 2014: 402) and Basilica VI (built in the fifth century with some later interventions in the sixth century; Baratte et al., 2014: 404) were smaller in size, and the former saw the insertion of an olive press adjacent to it, abutting the street, in the Late Byzantine period (Baratte et al., 2014: 399–400). Basilica VIII does not have a secure chronology, while Basilica IX is located to the southeast of the site, but the chronology is likewise unclear (Baratte et al., 2014: 407). Sufetula provides a unique perspective on the development of urban topography in North Africa in its development of different nuclei or settlement clusters in the Byzantine period centered around fortifications and churches (Duval, 1990; see Figure 20.5). Moreover, the central area of the city seems to have been continuously occupied down to the ninth and tenth centuries (Baratte et al., 2014: 407). Another peculiar case is offered by Ammaedara (Haïdra), where eight churches have been excavated.1 Three churches (III, V, and VII) were located within the Byzantine citadel (Figure 20.6);

Figure 20.5  Maps showing the transformation of the city of Sbeïtla/Sufetula from the Roman to the Byzantine period. From Leone (2007a).

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Figure 20.6  Map showing the distribution of churches in the city of Haidra/Ammaedara. From Baratte et al. (2014, fig. 278–121).

the others were dispersed in different sectors of the city (churches I and IV to the north of the citadel; church VI to the east; church VIII to the south; and church II to the east, quite distant from the citadel). Church I, of Melleus or Saint Cyprian, is located in the center of the Roman city, possibly near the capitolium. The church had different phases, the first dated between the end of the fourth and the beginning of the fifth century followed by two phases in the sixth century (Baratte et al., 2014: 306). Church II, situated on the eastern periphery of the city near a necropolis, probably dates to the fourth century followed by the addition of a martyrium in the sixth century (Baratte et al., 2014: 312). These two churches are probably the earliest in the city, while Church VI (Chapelle Vandale), only partially excavated, is one of the few Christian monuments in the region dated with certainty to the Vandal period on the basis of a vandal burial within it (Baratte et al., 2014: 320). Inside the citadel, Churches III and VII were both built in the Byzantine period, presumably contemporaneous with the construction of the fortification walls. The chronology for Church V, also inside the walls, is uncertain; it is possible that the building pre-dates the citadel (Baratte et al., 2014: 318, 322, 326). Church VIII is dated to the Byzantine period as well (Baratte et al., 2014: 323, 328).

Urban Burials and Cemeteries In African cities most burials were connected to churches, mostly located in the suburbs, while others are found in isolation inside cities, often in abandoned buildings, and not always connected to churches (see Bockmann, Chapter 8). From the fifth century burials enter the urban areas. In essence we are dealing with a new form of city, where distinctions between the spaces for the living and the dead are no longer clearly delineated. Many North African cities in fact started to shrink as



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early as the third century and some peripheral buildings were abandoned. This is the case for the Maison des Masques in Hadrumetum. From the last quarter of the third century the house was abandoned and overtaken by burials (Foucher, 1965: 33–34; Leone 2006b). Similarly, at Thysdrus burials were placed in the Maison du Paon and the Sollertiana domus (Leone, 2006b). These areas present groups of burials, while by comparison in Bulla Regia an isolated tomb was already placed in the courtyard of the temple of Apollo by the early fifth century (Leone, 1994). Being buried near a church and the grave of a martyr was a sign of a privilege, but urban graves also indicate that a connection between the living and the dead was seen as important. In fact, the diffusion of Christianization also had a major impact in the way in which urban areas were planned. Apart from the distribution of churches inside an urban area, the appearance of intramural burials marks a clear break with the prohibition of such burials in the Roman period. This phenomenon must have been widespread, but the excavations, mainly carried out between the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth century, removed much of the evidence, rendering it difficult to establish clear chronologies and the extent of the shift in burial practices. Even those burial sites excavated more recently present some problems of dating, as they do not normally contain grave goods. Understanding the contemporary mentality behind burial practices in late antique urban graves is very difficult. Carthage again offers a clearer picture, where it is possible to single out three phases of progressive intrusion of graves into the city proper: the first in the Vandal period, then in the sixth century, and again at the end of the sixth century and the seventh century (Leone, 2007a: 201; Bockmann, Chapter 8). In the Vandal period isolated burials in urban areas have been found in the island at the centre of the circular harbor, in association with houses. Cemetery churches inside the city are a common feature in North Africa (Duval, 1989: 350) and in the sixth century burials were connected primarily to churches and oratoria whereas by the end of the sixth century and the seventh century burials become more dispersed throughout the urban area, and were found in connection with houses and craft activities, thus intermixing the living and sepulchral areas (Leone, 2007a: 198–208). It is possible that this substantial transformation is connected to the costs of burials in church cemeteries, and an indication of a city increasingly populated by poorer communities (Stevens, 1995).

Monasticism Both Augustine and Fulgentius provide important information in connection with the rise and development of various monastic movements in North Africa (see also Guédon, Chapter 14). Augustine has often been considered the founder of monasticism in North Africa (coversely, Folliet, 1998: 291, argues that this is based on the misinterpretation of the text in Contra Litteras Petiliani 3, 40, 48). Augustine founded his first monastery at Thagaste following his conversion. He also wrote a set of monastic rules around 397 composed of two parts, the Ordo Monasterii (containing a set of regulations) and the Praeceptus (including a series of commands) (Verheijen, 1967). Life at this first monastic site comprised primarily the writing of texts and meditation (Marrou, 1949: 167; Folliet, 1998: 292; Neri, 2008: 1128). Following his accession to the priesthood, Augustine founded a [second] monastery within his church (Possidius Vita Aug. 5.1). Thagaste comprised strictly lay members (laici) but at Hippo there were also priests (Gavigan, 1962: 37). On the basis of the differences in the occupants of these two monasteries, Marec (1958: 230) suggested that there were two different types of North African monasteries, one secular and one mixed, where laici and members of the clergy lived together (monasterii laicorum and monasterii mixta). When Augustine became a bishop, he founded a Monasterum Clericorum, that is for members of the clergy (Neri, 2008: 1129, n. 9). Augustine also founded the first female monastery in North Africa at Hippo, from which several others were found in the territory of the city between 395 and 400 ce (Gavigan, 1962: 58). In total, Augustine is credited with the founding of 12 monasteries in North Africa (Folliet, 1998: 297).

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Fulgentius founded his first monastery on land offered to him by Silvestrius of Byzacena (Ferrandus Vita Fulgentii 10; Isola 1987: 69), perhaps near his hometown of Thelepte, though this remains uncertain. Ferrandus (Vita Fulgentii 2–3) also refers to North Africa as a region with numerous monasteries, despite actions taken by the Arian Vandals, who at times persecuted Catholics (Victor Vitensis 1.4; and see Conant, Chapter 21; Gavigan, 1962; Modéran, 1998; Russo, 2012: 906). Texts refer to monasteries in Carthage as both urban and suburban. For example, there is reference to Mandracium, a fortified monastery by Procopius located by the harbor (Aed. 6.5.11). The building has been identified with the former civil basilica on the Byrsa hill (Byrsa III), later transformed into a religious complex, but this is doubtful as the latter is almost 700 m from the sea, while Procopius places it by the sea (see Bockmann, Chapter 8). A monastery at Bigua dedicated to St. Stephen has been identified on the basis of inscriptions in the mosaics in the area of Dermech, behind the Antonine baths. The structure, dated to the fifth century, now buried below the modern town, contained a mosaic referring to the seven monks of Capsa (Gafsa), killed in Carthage in 483 (Duval, 1972), and there were also several troughs, similar to those of the edifices à auges. (For a discussion of “the edifices à auges” see Duval and Cintas, 1976; Baratte, 2009; Leveau, 2020, but the identification of the site as that of the monastery is uncertain; see Duval, 1972, 1997, 2000; Ennabli, 2000; and Leone, 2007a: 174.) A third monastery, for a female order, has also been proposed near Damous el Karita, in the northeast suburbs of the city, just outside the city wall, on the hypothetical basis of a large number of cellae (Gavigan, 1962: 75). The identification is based on findings within the church, specifically inscriptions referring to ancillae and puellae at virgines (Gavigan, 1962: 75–76). Finally, some sources also mention other Byzantine monasteries, outside Carthage, which remained unidentified, as, for instance, Monasterium Thalassii and Monasterium Eucratas (Mansi 10, 903; and Codex Museum Va. Gr. 504; Gavigan, 1962: 142). Monasteries were located in lands often owned by rich elites, who supported the monks with their donations. Texts indicate, for instance, that the bishop of Carthage Aurelius donated lands to the monks of Thagaste (Jaïdi, 1996: 176 n. 46). Other monastic complexes were set in isolation, as, for instance, the one inhabited by Fulgentius, on the island of Kneiss. This complex has been identified along with other structures located on the island, including a cloister and a cistern. There is no reference to the work of the monks. Ferrandus refers only to Fulgentius copying manuscripts and making fans with palm leaves. The monastery was located near another at Bennefa (Vita Fulgentii 12; see Isola, 1987: 70–72). Some other buildings in North Africa may indicate the presence of a monastery, but the archaeological evidence is too scanty to be certain. This is, for instance, the case of the site KS081-Djebel Selloum, identified in the Kasserine Survey, which presents a chi rho at the entrance (Hitchner, 1992–1993).

The Power and Economy of the Church in Africa By the fourth century the power of the Church in Africa extended beyond religious influence. The Church progressively acquired a patrimony, mostly through inheritance and donations, although it is not possible to articulate how this took place due to the limited information in the ancient sources. Buenacasa Pérez (2004) has suggested that this process did not commence before the fourth century. The Liber Pontificalis (ed. Duchesne 1. 175) refers to the donation of some lands in North Africa, Greece, and Sicily to the Lateran baptistery by Constantine. These were all massae (large estates) in well-watered and well-connected areas. These official donations were also complemented by private ones. Augustine refers to some gifts to the diocese of Hippo by individuals identified as Severus and Heraclius, and the donation of fundi by priests named Leporius and Barnabas (August. Serm. 356). In his texts there is also some reference to houses given to the church of Hippo (August. Serm. 356.5, 7, 10). Some evidence of landholding by the church of Carthage is also attested (August. Serm. 355.5). Part of the territory of the city of Vaga in North



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Africa was already the property of the Church by the end of the fourth century (Symm. Ep. 1.68, unsure of the rest except for 1.380). Melania and her husband Pinianus donated their substantial and widely dispersed African estates to the Church. One of these estates included a villa, with artisans and shops, and two bishops, one Catholic and one Donatist (Gerontius, Life of Melania 21.16 ss). Rich landowners occasionally became members of the clergy, in order to obtain immunities from taxes and other civic responsibilities (Marazzi, 1998), but Lepelley (1998) indicates that bishops who held and managed estates were still considered private citizens in the fourth century, making it difficult to know the degree of success of this strategy. Indeed, the line between secular and managerial power is difficult to trace in the Late Roman period. Some Council acts record the specific request by members of the clergy to be exempted from administering their own estate and market activities (Council of Carthage [345–348], 6 [CSEL 149: 6]; Breviarium Hipponiense 15 [CSEL 149: 38]; Canones in casa Apiarii 150 [CSEL 149: 122]; Mansi III: 948). Some Bishops also rented imperial property (Litt. Petiliani 2.83.134 [CSEL 52: 114] and letter 66). It is difficult to follow the situation in the Vandal period, again due to the limited evidence. In the Byzantine period economic activities under the control of the church appear to have flourished. Archaeologically it is possible to single out a number of food processing activities in connection with churches in urban areas. Thus, for instance at Sufetula (Sbeïtla), Basilica V saw the addition of an olive press connected to the church. Similar evidence has been recorded at Asadi, where the church was enlarged in the second half of the sixth century with the addition of a press. Similarly, at Belalis Maior there is a productive facility built by a small church (Leone, 2007a: 228). It is possible that these presses were used to produce both olive oil and wine. The fact that these activities were in rooms annexed to the church suggests a direct level of involvement by the Church (Leone, 2003), though it is difficult to identify to what extent these activities were for the use of the church or serving as a place for food processing in the community.

Conclusion This chapter aimed to discuss briefly and critically the various approaches to North African Christianity in North Africa, combining textual and archaeological evidence (Patout Burns and Jensen, 2014). Themes and problems are touched upon and are here presented with the aim of offering a synthesis of all the problems and old and new approaches to the discipline. Under the definition of “Christian North African” there have been different traditions and approaches to territories and architectures, beliefs and practices, with the intention of identifying models and trends. In particular, archaeological materials offer a much more complex image, especially when considering evidence in a wider landscape. Rural and urban areas, coastal and inland areas, all have very different reactions to the appearance of Christianity, its schismatic movements and the monumentalization brought about by the Byzantine reconstruction. Past approaches have tended to look at North African Christianity from a largely Roman/Byzantine perspective, but the former was subjected to influences emanating from both the Romanized coastal communities and those of the Berber hinterlands. To understand North African Christianity, it is therefore necessary to shift the analysis to focus more on regional perspectives and, since textual evidence tends to come from specific and restricted areas, to avoid generalization and apply interpretations on a large scale. The same principle applies to the analysis of the Christian city, as it is not possible to create monolithic models when in fact each city followed its own fate and reacted differently to the conditions it faced. A more cautious approach is necessary to reassess North African Christianity from a fresh perspective.

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NOTE 1 In the primary publications of Sufetula and Ammaedara, the French term basilique is used for the churches in the former and église for the latter.

FURTHER READING For a recent general synthesis on North African Christianity, see Patout Burns and Jensen (2014). The book is primarily based on textual evidence, but it also contains some archaeological reference to buildings. For an overview (again based primarily on texts) of Christianity in Libya, see Oden (2011). There is no book dedicated specifically to the archaeology and architecture of Christian monuments of North Africa. However, there are several syntheses with a regional focus; for Algeria, see Gui et al. (1992); for Tunisia, see Baratte et al. (2014); for Tripolitania, see Ward-Perkins and Goodchild (1953); and for Cyrenaica, see Reynolds (2003). On the use of spolia in Christian monuments, see Yasin (2016). For the textual, historical, theological, and archaeological debates on Donatism and further bibliography, see the papers in Miles (2016). On Arianism under the Vandals, see Copper (2016) and Whelan (2018). For an overview of religious controversies in Late Antique Africa, see Dossey (2016). On Monasticism, see Gavigan (1962). Leone (2006b) provides a detailed discussion of urban burials in North Africa. On African Saints with a full bibliography, see Conant (2016b).

REFERENCES Baratte, F. 2009. “Le petit monument à Auges: Introduction.” Recherches archéologiques à Haïdra, III 2009: 1000–1006. Baratte, F., Bejaoui, F., Duval, N., Berraho, S., Gui, I., and Jacquest, I. 2014. Basiliques Chrétiennes d’ Afrique du nord. II. Monuments de la Tunisie. Bordeaux. Bejaoui, F. 1995. “Une église d’époque vandal à henchir el Gousset (region de Thelepte – Tunisie).” Africa XIII: 101–122. Bejauoi, F. 2008. “Les Vandales en Afrique: Témoignages archéologiques. Les récentes découvertes en Tunisie.” In Das Reich der Vandalen und seine Vor-Geschichten, eds. G.M. Bernt and R. Steinacher, 197– 212. Vienna. Berndt, G.M., and Steinacher, R., eds. 2014. Arianism: Roman Heresy and Barbarian Creed. Ashgate. Bockmann, R. 2013. Capital Continuous. A Study of Vandal Carthage and Central North Africa from an Archaeological Perspective. Wiesbaden. Bonacasa Carra, R.M. 2003–2004. “Il Cristianesimo a Sabratha alla luce delle più recenti indagini.” Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia LXXVI: 3–77. Buenacasa Pérez, C. 2004. “La creación del patrimonio ecclesiástico de las iglesias norteafricanas en época romana (siglos II–V): renovación de la visión tradicional.” Sacralidad Arqueologia, Antig.Crist. (Murcia) XXI: 493–509. Chastagnol, A., and Duval, N. 1974. “Les survivences du culte impérial dans l’Afrique du nord à l’époque Vandal.” In Mélanges William Seston. , 102–104, Paris. Conant, J. 2016a. “Donatism in the fifth and sixth century.” In Miles, ed., 2016, 345–360. Conant, J. 2016b. “Sanctity and the networks of Empire in Byzantine Africa.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds, S.T. Stevens and J.P. Conant, 201–214. Washington, DC. Cooper, K. 2016. “Marriage, law and Christian rhetoric in Vandal Africa.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds, S.T. Stevens and J.P. Conant, 237–250. Washington, DC. Dossey, L. 2010. Peasant and Empire in Christian North Africa. Berkeley. Dossey, L. 2016. “Exegesis and dissent in Byzantine North Africa.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds, S.T. Stevens and J.P. Conant, 251–268. Washington, DC. Dupont, A. 2013. Sermones Relating to the Donatist Controversy. Leiden. Duval, N. 1971. Les Eglises Africaines à deux absides. Recherches sur la liturgie chrétienne en Afrique du Nord. Recherches archéologiques à Sbeitla. 1. Les Basiliques de Sebitla à deux sanctuaries opposes. BEFAR 218. Paris.



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Duval, N. 1972. “Études d’architecture chrétienns nord-africaines. II. L’architecture chrétienne en Byzacène.” MEFRA 84: 1127–1172. Duval, N. 1973. Les Eglises Africaines à deux absides. Recherches sur la liturgie chrétienne en Afrique du Nord. T.II. Paris. Duval, N. 1981. “Les installations liturgique et les tombes privilégiées.” In Recherches Archéologiques à Haidra III. La Basilique I dite de Melléus ou de Saint-Cyprien, ed. N. Duval, 111–127. Rome. Duval, N. 1989. “L’Eveque et la Cathédrale en Afrique du Nord.” In Atti dell’XI Congresso Internazionale di Archeologia Cristiana (1986), 345–403. Rome. Duval, N. 1990. “Notes sur le ruines des environ de Sbeitla.” In l’Afrique denas l’Occident Romain 1sr siècle av. J.C. – IVe siècle ap. J.C. Collection de l’École française de Rome 134: 527–535. Rome. Duval, N. 1997. “L’état actuel des recherches archéologiques sur Carthage chrétienne.” Antiquité Tardive 5: 309–347. Duval, N. 2000. “Review of Ennabli 2000.” Antiquité Tardive 8: 386–391. Duval, Y. 2005. Les Chrétientés d’Occident et leur evēque au IIIe siècle: Plebs in Ecclesia Constitutam. Paris. Duval, N., and Cintas, J. 1976. “Encore les monuments à auges d’Afrique: Thébessa Khalia, Hr Faroun.” MEFRA 88.2: 929–959. Ennabli, L. 1975. Les inscriptions funéraires chrétiennes de la Basilique dite de Sainte Monique. (Collection de l’École française de Rome 25). Rome. Ennabli, L. 1982. Les inscriptions funéraires chrétiennes de Carthage. II. La Basilique de Mcidfa. Rome. Ennabli, L. 1991. Les Inscriptions Funéraires Chrétiennes de Carthage. III. Carthage Intra et Extra Muros (Collection de l’École française de Rome 151). Rome. Ennabli, L. 1997. Carthage: une métropole chrétiess du IVe à la fin du VIIe siècle. Études d’Antiquités Africaines. Paris. Ennabli, L. 2000. La Basilique de Carthagenna et le locus de sept moins de Gafsa. Nouveaux Édifices Chrétiens de Carthage. Paris. Folliet, G. 1998. “Le monachisme en Afrique de Saint Augustin à Saint Fulgence.” In Il Monachesimo occidentale dale origini alla Regula Magistri. XXVI Incontro di Studiosi dell’Antichità Cristiana, 292–315. Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum. Rome. Foucher, L. 1965. La maison des masques à Sousse. Fouilles 1962–1963. Notes et Documents 6, Institut d’archéologie. Tunis. Frend, W.H. 1952. The Donatist Church. Oxford. Gavigan, I. 1962. De Vita Monastica in Africa Sptentrionali inde a temporibus S. Augustini usque ad invasiones Arabum. Rome. Giardina, A. 1988. “Carità eversiva: le donazioni di Melania la Giovane e gli equilibri della società tardoromana.” Studi Storici 29: 127–142. Gregory, I. 1982. “Epistulae.” In Corpus Christianorum series Latina, ed. D. Norberg. Volume 140–140a. Gui, I., Duval, N., and Caillet, J.-P. 1992. Basiliques Chrétiennes d’Afrique du Nord. I. Inventaires des monuments de l’Algerie. Collection des Études augustiniennes, série Antiquité 129–130. Paris. Hitchner, R.B. 1992–1993. “The Kasserine Archaeological Survey 1982–1985.” Africa 11–12: 158–198. Isola, A. 1987 (traduzione a cura di), Ferrandus Carthaginiensis, Vita di San Fulgenzio. Collana di Testi Patristici 65. Rome. Jaïdi, H. 1996. “Remarques sur la constitution des biens des Églises Africaines à l’époque romaine tardive.” In Splendidissima Civitas. Études d’histoire romaine en homage à François Jacques, eds. A. Chastagnol, S. Demougin, and Cl. Lepelley, 169–191. Paris. Lancel, S. 1972. Les Actes de la Conference de Carthage du 411. Paris. Lancel, S. 1990. Evechés et cités dans les provinces Africaines (IIIe-Ve siècles). Actes du Colloque de Rome (3–4 décembre 1987) (Collection de l’École française de Rome 134). Rome. Leone, A. 1994. “Un’Adultera Meretrix a Bulla Regia, pp. alcuni aspetti della città tardo antica.” Africa Romana XI: 1371–1383. Leone, A. 2003. “Topographies of production in the cities of Late Antique North Africa.” In Theory and Practice in Late Antique Archaeology, eds. L. Lavan and W. Bowden, 257–287. Leiden. Leone, A. 2006a. “Clero, proprietà, cristianizzazione delle campagne nel nord Africa tardoantico: status quaestionis.” Antiquité Tardive 14: 93–104.

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Leone, A. 2006b. “Changing urban landscapes of North Africa: Burials in North African cities from Late Antiquity to the Byzantine periods.” In Mortuary Landscapes of North Africa, eds. D.L. Stone and L.M. Stirling, 164­–203. Toronto. Leone, A. 2007a. Changing Townscapes in North Africa from Late Antiquity to the Arab Conquest. Bari. Leone, A. 2007b. “IV. Christianity and Paganism in North Africa.” In Cambridge History of Christianity – Constantine to c.600, eds. A. Casiday and F. Norris. Cambridge. Leone, A. 2011–2012. “Bishops and territory: The case of Late Roman and Byzantine North Africa.” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 65–66: 5–27. Leone, A. 2013. The End of the Pagan City. Religion, Economy and Urbanism in Late Antique North Africa. Oxford. Leone, A. 2016. “Tracing the Donatist presence – an archaeological perspective.” In Miles ed., 317–344. Lepelley, C. 1998. “Le patronat Épiscopal aux IVe et Ve siècles: continuités et ruptures avec le patronat Classique.” In L’évêque dans la cité du IVe au Ve siècle. Image et autorité. Actes de la table ronde de Rome (1er et 2 décembre 1995): Collection de l École Française de Rome 248. Rome: 17–33. Leschi, L. 1957. Études d’épigraphie, d’archéologie et d’histoire africaines. Paris. Leveau, P. 2020. “L’économie domaniale romaine dans les Némemcha.” “Forts Byzantins,” “Salles à Auges.” L’apport des Ostraca aux époques vandale et byzantine. CNRA BAA 2020: 241–301. Marazzi, F. 1998. Patrimonia Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae nel Lazio: secoli IV-X. Struttura Amministrativa e prassi patronali. Rome. Marec, E. 1958. Monuments Chrétiens d’Hippone, ville de Saint Augistin. Paris. Marrou, H.I. 1949. Saint Augustine et la fin de la culture antique. 2nd edition. Paris. Miles, R., ed. 2016. The Donatist Schism. Controversy and Contexts. Liverpool. Miles, R., and Greenslade, S. 2019. The Bir Messaouda Basilica: Pilgrimage and Transformatiob of an Urban Landscape in the 6th c. AD. Oxford. Modéran, Y. 1998. “L’Afrique et la persecution vandal.” In Histoire du Christianisme .III, Les Églises d’Orient and d’Occident, ed. L. Petri, 247–278. Desclée. Monceaux, P. 1912. Le Donatisme. Paris. Neri, C. 2008. “Rendite private e donazioni di beni nel cenobitismo africano.” Africa Romana 17: 1127–1138. Oden, T.C. 2011. Early Libyan Christianity. Uncovering a North African Tradition. Downers Grove. Patout Burns Jr., J., and Jensen, R.M. 2014. Christianity in Roman Africa. The Development of Its Practices and Beliefs. Grand Rapids, MI. Pottier, B. 2016. “Circumcelliones, rural society and communal violence in Late Antique North Africa.” In Miles ed., 166–219. Rebuffat, R. 1993. Castellum, Encyclopédie Berbére, 1822–1833. Aix en Provence. Ward-Perkins, J.B., and Goodchild R.G. 2003. Christian Monuments of Cyrenaica, edited by J. Reynolds. Society for Libyan Studies. London. Russo, C.A. 2012. “Insediamento dei cenobiti e trasformazione del paesaggio nell’Africa tardoantica.” Africa Romana 19.1: 905–917. Schwartz, E., Straub, J., Schiefer, R., and Riechinger, R., eds. 2008. Acta Conciliorum Oecumenicorum II. Vol. III.1. Berlin. Shaw, B. 1995. “African Christianity: Disputes, definitions and ‘Donatists’.” Antiquités africaines 17 (1981), 37–83 and Rpr. in. Rulers, Nomads and Christians in Roman North Africa, ed. B.D. Shaw. Aldershot. Shaw, B. 2004. “Who were the Circumcellions?” In Vandals, Romans and Berbers, ed. A. Merrills, 258–277. Farnham. Shaw, B. 2011. Sacred Violence: African Christians and Sectarian Hatred in the Age of Augustine. Cambridge. Stevens, S.T. 1993. “Conclusions: The Byzantine Basilica and its annexes.” In Bir El Knissia at Carthage: A Rediscovered Cemetery Church. Report n.1, ed. S.T. Stevens. Journal of Roman Archaeology. Supplementary Series 7. Ann Arbor. Stevens, S.T. 1995. “Sépultures tardives intra-muros à Carthage.” In Monuments funéraires, insitutions autochtones en Afrique du Nord Antique et Médiévale, ed. P. Trousset, 207–217. Paris. Stevens, S., Kalinowski, A.V., and Van der Leest, H., eds., 2005. Bir Ftouha: A Pilgrimage Church Complex at Carthage (JRA suppl. Ser. 59). Portsmouth, RI.



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Verheijn, L. 1967. La Regle de Saint Augustin, Etudes Augutsiniennes, 2 volumes. Paris. Ward Perkins, J.B., and Goodchild, R.G. 1953. “The Christian antiquities of Tripolitania.” Archaeologia 95: 1–82. Whelan, R. 2014. “African controversy. The inheritance of the Donatist Schism in Vandal Africa.” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 65.3: 504–521. Whelan, R. 2018. Being Christian in Vandal Africa: The Politics of Orthodoxy in the post-Imperial West. Berkeley. Yasin, A.M. 2016. “Beyond Spolia. Architectural memory and adaptation in the Churches of Late Antique North Africa.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds, S.T. Stevens and J.P. Conant, 215–236. Washington, DC.

PART IV

From the Vandal Kingdom to the Arab Conquest (439–711 CE)

CHAPTER 21

The Vandals Jonathan P. Conant

On 19 October 439 ce a Vandal army seized the storied metropolis of Carthage from Roman control. During the previous generation the Vandal war-band had been an intermittent but low-level concern of the central imperial administration. Early in the fifth century, Vandals, together with allied Alans and Sueves, had passed along the empire’s Danube borderlands, across the Rhine, through Gaul, and into Spain, where they settled for a time. In 429, under the able leadership of their king, Geiseric, Vandals and Alans crossed the Mediterranean into North Africa and began to carve out an autonomous kingdom for themselves by conquest. Centered on Carthage from 439 onward, in the fifth century this kingdom would weather repeated imperial attempts at reconquest and survive for 94 years. From their North African stronghold, Vandal fleets engaged in seaborne raids on the central provinces of the imperial heartland, even sacking the city of Rome itself in 455. Within Africa the Vandal kings pursued an aggressively homoian (or “Arian”) religious policy that was denounced by local Nicene Christian clergy as a persecution. Taken together, these actions have earned the Vandals an unsavory reputation. For most of their history, though, Vandal relations with the Roman empire and, indeed, with their kingdom’s own majority Romano-African population were surprisingly strong. The Vandal kings established a marriage connection to the house of Theodosius – the dynasty that had ruled the Roman empire for three-quarters of a century – and for a time intervened combatively in imperial affairs before the two polities settled down to enjoy close and resilient diplomatic relations. In the Vandal century, Africa witnessed an impressive literary renaissance and benefited from a prosperous economy rooted in a far-flung network of exchanges. Despite some periods of unsettling turbulence, the Vandal kings also presided over a remarkably stable political system that drew on the talents of both their Romano-African and Vandal subjects. The first of these kings, Geiseric (439–477), established a law of succession that stipulated that his eldest male descendent should succeed to the throne. Notwithstanding occasional challenges, the law held, and upon Geiseric’s death his son Huneric (477–484) ascended the throne. Huneric was succeeded in turn by his nephews Gunthamund (484–496) and Thrasamund (496–523), after which the kingship reverted to Huneric’s son Hilderic (523–530). Only then did the customary principle of succession break down, for Hilderic was toppled in a coup by his cousin Gelimer (530–534). The irregularity of Gelimer’s succession and concerns about the persecution of Nicene Christians allowed the East Roman or Byzantine emperor Justinian (527–565) to justify yet another attempt to reconquer North Africa. Aided by Gelimer’s difficulties legitimating his authority at home and by increasing Vandal conflict with “Moorish” or Amazigh (Berber) societies

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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across the kingdom’s southern frontier, Justinian’s ambitious undertaking succeeded where others had failed. In 533–534 the Vandal kingdom fell to an East Roman expeditionary force under the command of the emperor’s trusted general Belesarius, after which Africa was once again reorganized as an imperial province.1

The Problem of Vandal Identity It is important to emphasize from the outset that the war-band that conquered Africa and that thereafter formed the core of its new ruling class was never an ethnically homogenous group. In practical terms, contemporary authors used the label “Vandal” as synonymous with the army, or more broadly male members of the kingdom’s military aristocracy. As Andy Merrills and Richard Miles have rightly noted, whatever roles women played in articulating and transmitting Vandal identity – even the extent to which they could claim that identity for themselves – have been obscured by the unrelentingly masculine concerns of the written sources. Service in the military or in support of the king certainly seems to have been central to how male members of the Vandal kingdom’s new élite constructed their sense of self. For both men and women, wealth, control of property, and the status that these entailed mattered deeply too. It was also critically important to Geiseric and his successors that their kingdom’s ruling class confess homoian Christianity. Yet even Roman observers acknowledged that the warriors and families who accompanied Geiseric across the Mediterranean included not only two distinct groups of Vandals (“Hasdings,” for whom Geiseric’s family had provided kings for at least two generations before the crossing, as well as “Silings”) but also Alans, Goths, Sueves, and even Hispano-Romans. What seems to have united these individuals – at least initially – was not predominantly a sense of ethnic solidarity, but rather a self-constituted followership focused on the person of Geiseric and his kin. To be sure, ­late-Roman authors also had a tendency to imagine complex social and political realities in ethnographic terms, and when it suited their rhetorical or political purposes they could delegitimate Vandals as “barbarians.” Excoriation of this sort gained traction among Roman audiences both because the Hasding ruling family (and much of the Vandal élite) were of non-Roman origins but also – perhaps especially – because specific policies pursued by their kings could place them at loggerheads with the central imperial administration. Romans also felt they knew a Vandal when they saw one. Then as now, though, it would be a mistake to confuse the classical categories of social analysis and the far messier world of lived social experience. The Vandal king Hilderic could – and did – claim descent not just from the Hasding royal line but also from the imperial house of Theodosius, and there is every likelihood that mixed marriages of this sort characterized less exalted echelons of fifth- and sixth-century African society as well. More to the point, contemporary witnesses, Roman and Vandal alike, were also aware that with time shifting political allegiances could reshape the way former provincial populations, like those of Vandal-era Africa, defined their own identities. In terms of constituting and defining the region’s new élite, then, political loyalties were key, a factor that was to prove critical in shaping the history of the Vandal kingdom.2

Vandals in the Roman Mediterranean To Roman observers writing in the fifth century, Vandal history was a story of disruption of the imperial system. In the winter of 406–407, a confederation of Vandals, Alans, and Sueves crossed the empire’s Rhineland frontier into Gaul. Two years later they passed through the Pyrenees into Spain, which in 411 they divided amongst themselves into sortes or lots. The powerful Alans received the central provinces of Carthaginensis and Lusitania – by far the largest share – and Siling Vandals claimed the rich southern territory of Baetica. Hasding Vandals and Sueves (the weakest members of the coalition) were left with the northwestern region of Gallaecia, which they shared



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between them. The passage of these Alans, Vandals, and Sueves through Gaul and Spain had been facilitated by a series of civil wars and failed usurpations against the authority of the western Roman emperor Honorius (393–423), which the central administration in Ravenna consistently treated as more serious threats than the presence of foreign war-bands inside imperial territory. Toward the end of his reign, however, Honorius was able to turn his attention to Spain. In 417–418 an army of allied Visigoths decimated the Silings and Alans, whose remnants were absorbed into Hasding society. In 422 an imperial army under Castinus, a commander of the imperial bodyguard, was sent to Baetica to do away with the Hasding–Siling–Alan amalgamation, which had been displaced there 10 years earlier. Castinus’ army, however, was stunningly and decisively defeated, and the Vandals lost no time consolidating their position, reportedly even staging naval raids across the western Mediterranean on the Balearic Islands and Mauretania.3 In 429, the newly elevated Vandal king Geiseric changed course, abandoning Spain and leading his followers across the sea to the legendarily wealthy but lightly militarized provinces of North Africa. At the time this part of the empire was embroiled in another civil war, pitting the supreme commander of Roman forces in Africa, Boniface, against his rivals at the imperial court. The contemporary chronicler Prosper of Aquitaine indicates that non-Roman gentes were called in to aid the combatants and by the sixth century a tradition had developed in the eastern Mediterranean blaming Boniface specifically for inviting Geiseric and his followers to Africa to aid his rebellion. It is difficult to know how far to credit such allegations – Geiseric may simply have taken advantage of the conflict to make the crossing unopposed – but within a year the Vandal war-band was besieging the Numidian port of Hippo Regius, where the city’s aged bishop, Augustine, lay dying. In 435 the young emperor Valentinian III (425–455) concluded a treaty with Geiseric that settled his followers in Numidia with the status of foederati or foreign allies of the Roman empire. Within two years, though, the Vandal war-band was once again staging naval raids, notably on Sicily. In 439, in yet another stunning move, they seized the African metropolis of Carthage.4 The capture of Carthage was to be the pivotal moment in the creation of the Vandals’ African kingdom. Indeed, Geiseric dated his reign as king from his possession of the city, not from his ascension to power 10 years earlier, and subsequent Vandal kings would follow suit.5 The metropolis dominated Africa’s rich agricultural hinterland, which by the early fifth century had become the single most important source of tributary grain and olive oil for the city of Rome. Carthage also commanded the Strait of Sicily, the 145-km stretch of sea through which virtually all shipping between the eastern and western Mediterranean had to pass – a fact that was to take on new strategic and economic significance under the Vandal regime. In seizing the city, Geiseric furthermore gained control of its merchant fleet, and by the spring of 440 the Vandal war-band had resumed naval raiding on Sicily. Valentinian immediately looked to the defense of southern Italy. His elder cousin and eastern co-emperor Theodosius II (408–450) launched a massive naval force with the intent of retaking Africa for the empire, but the fleet had only reached Sicily when news of Hunnic attacks in Thrace forced it to return to the East. Bereft of military support, in 442 Valentinian III was forced to reach a second settlement with the Vandal king.6 From the imperial perspective, securing access to the African grain supply was critical, and under the terms of the new treaty Geiseric agreed to pay an annual tribute to Valentinian, presumably in the form of continued shipments of wheat and olive oil to Italy. To guarantee his compliance, the Vandal king’s eldest son, Huneric, was sent to the imperial court as a hostage. The empire also regained control of Mauretania and western Numidia. Geiseric’s control of Carthage, however, gave him the stronger hand, and he received the more prosperous and productive territories of Africa Proconsularis, Byzacena, eastern Numidia, and western Tripolitania, which would form the heartlands of the Vandal kingdom until its eventual collapse in 533–534. Perhaps most critically, the Vandal king was able to secure the engagement of his son Huneric to Valentinian’s eldest daughter, the imperial princess Eudocia.7 The emperor and his administration seem only reluctantly to have acceded to the engagement. At three years old, Eudocia was too young to wed Huneric in 442, but 13 years later the marriage had still not taken place. Yet the engagement – and the familial and political associations that it

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implied – does seem to have had a stabilizing effect on Vandal–Roman relations in the 440s and early 450s. At least partly for this reason it appears to have been critically important to Geiseric. To bring the engagement about, the king had been brutally willing to sacrifice both Vandal–Visigothic relations and the physical body of Huneric’s previous wife, an anonymous Visigothic princess who was accused of preparing poison, divorced, mutilated, and returned to her father in order to clear the way for the Vandal prince’s second marriage.8 In 455, the assassination of Valentinian III called the actualization of Huneric and Eudocia’s union into question: the usurper Petronius Maximus married the imperial princess to his son, even as he himself forcibly married the emperor’s widow, Eudoxia. Perhaps with the encouragement of the empress, Geiseric reacted to the threat these arrangements posed to his ties to the Theodosian imperial house by gathering a fleet, attacking and plundering Rome, securing the persons of Eudocia, her mother, and sister, and carrying them off to Africa, where at long last the princess’s marriage to Huneric was consummated.9 Whereas Eudocia and Huneric’s engagement had served to stabilize Vandal–Roman relations, the two decades following their marriage saw a resumption of Vandal raiding in the central Mediterranean. In part these raids probably sought to force a new settlement on the empire on terms that were more favorable to Geiseric’s interests. The king undoubtedly sensed an opportunity to expand his domain in the turmoil that accompanied Valentinian’s assassination, for this period saw the extension of Vandal authority over the remainder of Roman Africa, as well as the Balearic Islands, Corsica, Sardinia, Malta, and the western tip of Sicily. In part, however, the Hasding king appears to have sought recognition of his connection to the Roman imperial house of Theodosius. To be sure, with the death of Valentinian III, the Theodosian male line had come to an end, but most observers seem initially to have expected that succession to the empire would take place through marriage to the family’s female members, an assumption also at play in the short-lived coup of Petronius Maximus. Geiseric does not seem to have aspired to direct imperial power, but he did feel that his connection to the Theodosian house gave him a free hand to intervene in the empire’s internal affairs to try to secure the western throne for Olybrius, the husband of Eudocia’s younger sister Pulcheria. Thus the Vandal king’s raiding, accompanied by the regular exchange of embassies, also had a political dimension. In 472 Olybrius did finally succeed to the western throne, though he died only six or seven months later. Down to that point, though, tensions with the empire sporadically erupted into full-blown warfare, most significantly in 460 when the invasion fleet of the western emperor Majorian (457–461) was destroyed in a naval battle off southeastern Spain, and again in 468 when the devastation of an immense East Roman fleet off the Cap Bon peninsula scuttled the coordinated efforts of Ravenna and Constantinople to retake the Vandal kingdom. Finally, in 474, with Roman hopes for a military conquest of Africa fading, the new eastern emperor Zeno (474–491) negotiated a peace with Geiseric that, despite occasional friction, was to last until 533. Indeed, for the next half century, Vandal–Roman relations appear to have been remarkably strong, with the Vandal kings typically enjoying the status of “friendly king and ally” (rex sociusque amicus) of the Roman state.10

Society and Politics in the Vandal Kingdom The Vandal conquest of Africa had unquestionably been violent. Contemporary sources speak of both the fears and the realities of wartime horrors: killing, rape, enslavement, pillage, the burning of buildings, the exaction of wealth through torture, the flight of refugees.11 The trauma of war would be lodged in the Romano-African consciousness for generations to come. Though both rhetorical overstatements and the distortions of social memory warp his account, around 50 years after the fact a religious polemicist named Victor of Vita (whose History of the Persecution of the Province of Africa is the most important historical text to survive from this time and place) could still recount the atrocities of the initial Vandal takeover as part of a larger diatribe against the region’s new ruling class.12 Yet it would be a mistake to conclude – as Victor wanted his readers to



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do – that Vandals and Romans represented two camps divided by a chasm of implacable hatred. Indeed, much of Victor’s rhetorical purpose lay in policing what he saw as the all-too-permeable frontiers between the two communities, a task that struck him as particularly urgent precisely because, with time, accommodation had in fact proved possible. Acknowledging this fact is not the same as denying the often painful disruptions that the Vandal occupation indisputably also produced. In addition to the individual suffering caused by the conquest itself, the highest ranks of the old Roman-era aristocracy seem to have more or less completely disappeared under the Vandal regime.13 After seizing Carthage, Geiseric was said to have rewarded his followers by granting them the best estates in Africa Proconsularis as hereditary taxfree allotments, while establishing similarly wealthy properties in Byzacena and Numidia as part of the royal domain. Much of the land expropriated and redistributed in this way will have belonged to imperial estates, but a range of contemporary sources make it clear that Romano-Africans were also dispossessed and even forcibly displaced from the Vandal kingdom, ending up in Syria, Italy, and elsewhere in Roman Africa.14 Not every property owner was subject to such expropriations, though, and while the super-élite families that had constituted the uppermost stratum of African society in the late Roman period disappear from view after 439, they were quickly replaced by a mixed group of new men. Members of the Vandal military aristocracy naturally figured prominently in this new ruling class, but they were not alone. The Hasding kings cast their rulership in a very Roman light, styling themselves dominus noster rex (“our lord king”) in conscious imitation of the imperial title, putting on the imperial purple, ruling from a throne, and so forth.15 Not surprisingly, then, Romano-Africans were also able to rise to positions of power and influence at court, serving, for example, as proconsul of Carthage or steward of the prince’s household. Some of these individuals seem to have been drawn from cadet branches of prominent families or from families whose political fortunes had been eclipsed by the 430s. Thus, for example, Fulgentius of Ruspe, who would go on to become the leading Nicene bishop of sixth-century Africa, began his public career as a provincial tax collector (procurator) and may well have been a member of the same family that had produced the Gordian emperors in the third century. Yet other individuals, like the proconsuls Victorinianus and Pacideius, cannot easily be associated with similarly illustrious families, and so likely represent a class of political parvenus, individuals who sensed an opportunity in service to the Vandal regime.16 In fact, it seems likely that the administration of the Vandal kingdom relied very heavily indeed on the talents of its Romano-African subjects. Only three laws or fragments of laws survive from Vandal Africa, but their textual structure, language, and rhythmic prose are precisely modeled on Roman forms. The longest edict shows detailed knowledge of imperial legislation issued over 70 years earlier, strongly suggesting long-term continuities in the organization and management of the Carthaginian archives.17 The Hasding kings also consistently received fulsome praise from the pens of Africa’s Latin poets, though the lawyer Dracontius ran afoul of Gunthamund by writing a panegyric to another lord, and found himself in prison as a result.18 By the mid-fifth century – and perhaps even as early as 442 – texts and inscriptions alike suggest that Romano-Africans across the territories of the Vandal kingdom were beginning to mark the passage of time according to the new rulers’ regnal years. This was certainly the case by 491, when the epitaph of a deacon named Lucilianus was dated to the seventh year of Guthamund.19 Thus, while figures like Dracontius were not alone in expressing dissatisfaction with the new regime, the Vandal kings seem quickly to have gained both widespread local recognition of the legitimacy of their authority and the willing cooperation of substantial numbers of their Romano-African subjects. Continuities of this sort are also visible in the rural communities where by far the vast majority of the kingdom’s inhabitants lived. The best documented of these communities was on the Fundus Tuletianos, a farm that formed part of a larger estate in the hill country on the southwestern fringes of the Vandal realm. Here the local peasantry cultivated small plots of olive, fruit, and nut trees that grew along seasonal streams or wadis. Consequently, they also managed complex irrigation systems similar to those revealed by archaeological field survey in the region of Cillium and Thelepte, 75 km to the northeast. A remarkable collection of written records dating to the

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mid-490s, known as the Albertini Tablets, shows the inhabitants of this fundus buying and selling property, calculating expenditures, getting married, and drawing up and witnessing deeds of sale in rustic but proper Roman legal form, just as provincials had done elsewhere in Africa before the Vandal takeover.20 Africa continued to flourish economically in the Vandal period, but the underpinnings of the region’s prosperity also began to be eroded in the fifth and sixth centuries. In the late Roman world, Africa had been well-known as a major source of grain, clothing, textiles, and slaves, all of which presumably continued to be exported in the Vandal period. Late antique North Africa also produced substantial amounts of olive oil, which was shipped abroad in ceramic amphorae, as well as a fine red-slipped tableware known as African Red Slip Ware (ARS). African ceramics – which provide the best archaeological evidence for the direction and extent of Africa’s overseas exchange – continued to be exported in the Vandal period, including to major cities like Rome and Naples, but generally speaking they commanded a diminishing share of a shrinking Mediterranean market. Egypt continued to import both ARS and African olive oil, and agricultural exports from Africa Proconsularis to eastern Spain even rose in the Vandal period, but the gains here are unlikely to have offset losses elsewhere. The decline in exports had important implications for communities like the Fundus Tuletianos. Archaeological field surveys in the Cillium-Thelepte region and elsewhere suggest that the economic fortunes of this part of the world began to dwindle at just about the same time that the Albertini Tablets were written, following a trend that had begun in Tripolitania (to the southeast) already in the mid-imperial period. Yet in eastern Africa Proconsularis – where Geiseric was said to have settled his followers – and along the coastal zone more generally, the countryside appears to have enjoyed remarkable prosperity in the fifth and especially the first half of the sixth century.21 Ownership of flourishing rural estates gave the new Vandal aristocracy both a stake in local society and the means to signal their élite status. This situation in turn opened the door to just the kind of cultural accommodation between the old and new ruling classes that so deeply worried Victor of Vita. Regardless of their origins, the kingdom’s élite shared the same interests and pastimes, above all hunting, the pleasures of the baths, gardens, and classicizing literature. With time they also came to share a fierce pride in Africa. Although some Roman-era villas and bath complexes were abandoned or repurposed in the Vandal period (typically for burials and industrial production, respectively) others were maintained and even refurbished. Vandal nobles educated their children in the liberal arts alongside the scions of established Romano-African families. Their shared interest in Latin poetry doubtless helps to explain the genre’s remarkable efflorescence in this time and place, a phenomenon that has even been dubbed the “Vandal Renaissance.” Indeed, it is still possible to trace the literary circles within which the works of poets like Dracontius and Luxorius were read and admired in fifth- and sixth-century Africa, and it is clear that Vandal – no less than Roman – patronage of new compositions extended beyond the royal court.22

Religious Conflict The primary focus of intercommunal conflict in the Vandal kingdom appears to have been religion.23 Since the late fourth century, the Roman emperors had endorsed and extended institutional support to those Christian ecclesiastics who subscribed to the creed that emerged from the council of Nicaea (325). In this understanding, Christ and God the Father were of the same substance (homoousios). The Hasding kings, by contrast, adhered to the theological formula promulgated under the emperor Constantius II (337–361) at the twin councils of Rimini (359) and Seleucia (360), which saw Christ as being “like (homoios) the Father according to the Scriptures.”24 Each party saw itself as representing the catholic, or universal, faith, and each labeled the other as heretical.25 Under the new regime the weight of state support shifted, as the Hasding kings rescinded the privileges that the Nicene church had enjoyed under the empire and extended royal patronage to the homoian church instead.



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The sources that describe these changes were written almost exclusively from a Nicene and ecclesiastical point of view.26 Finding themselves in the unenviable position long occupied by Africa’s other religious minorities – Jews, pagans, “Donatist” and “Manichaean” Christians – Nicene authors denounced their circumstances under the Hasding kings as a persecution. By the time of the Vandal conquest, however, Christian North Africa already had a long and troubled history of sectarian conflict, which had sharply honed the polemical edge of the region’s religious rhetoric. As a result, the concept of “persecution” allowed for a wide range of meanings in this time and place, from losing a property dispute all the way up to specifically religiously motivated torture, mutilation, and killing.27 Understanding events through the contemporary African sources is therefore key. Modes of expression that would have been understood as meaning one thing locally could be interpreted elsewhere in the Mediterranean as having far stronger implications, and indeed Victor of Vita in particular seems almost willfully to have constructed his account of events in the Vandal kingdom to mislead readers overseas. Similarly, individuals like Bishop Laetus of Neptis who were not designated as martyrs even in Victor’s account could nonetheless be remembered as such by later generations.28 None of this is to suggest that the tools of state repression were never aimed at Nicene Christians under the Vandal regime. One of the few surviving Vandal laws is what appears to be an authentic edict issued by Huneric seeking to suppress Nicene Christianity and pressure his subjects to accept the homoian confession.29 Similarly, an epitaph from Madauros in eastern Numidia indicates that a priest named Donatianus had died in the city after having been exiled there “on account of the universal faith” (pro fide catholica).30 In the sixth century, the Nicene bishop Fulgentius of Ruspe disputed a series of theological points with the Vandal king Thrasamund himself, and both the king’s questions and Fulgentius’ responses still survive.31 The new sectarian struggle also generated something of a pamphlet war, and a staggering array of texts – sermons, letters, fictional theological debates, collections of scriptural passages – sought to persuade waverers and provide secular as well as clerical audiences with the necessary intellectual tools to confront their confessional rivals.32 The best-documented, and most notorious, outbreak of sectarian violence in the Vandal kingdom was set in motion by the edict of Huneric mentioned above. It unfolded over the seven months between June and December 484. In the final months of his life, the Hasding king turned against Africa’s Nicene populations the same laws through which the Theodosian emperors had earlier sought to suppress religious dissent in the region. Among other measures, those laws closed churches, forbade baptisms and ordinations, and ordered the burning of writings deemed heterodox. Dissident secular office-holders were to be deprived of their rank and severely fined. If they continued to hold out, they could be beaten, deprived of their property, and exiled.33 Huneric’s edict is in many ways the central document in understanding sectarian struggle in the Vandal kingdom. To hostile Nicene observers like Victor of Vita, the edict was the axis on which contemporary religious history turned, making sense of the Hasding kings’ earlier actions and portending what was to come. There is a danger in accepting Victor’s assumptions in this regard, for these seven months represent a brutal exception to a far more conciliatory rule, but as one of only a handful of surviving texts written in the name of a Hasding king – or indeed any Vandal – the edict does allow modern readers their most immediate access to the goals and methods of the royal administration. Throughout the Vandal century, royal ecclesiastical policy typically focused on the promotion of homoian worship. This confession – and this confession only – was now associated with the symbolism of power. The ultimate goal appears to have been the universal conversion of the African populace, but the immediate focus was on the court, the administration, and probably the army. High office was sporadically deemed to be a homoian privilege.34 Kings like Geiseric and Huneric also sought to ensure that Vandals specifically embrace this confession, a concern that probably had less to do with ethnicity per se than with the twin facts that Vandals formed the backbone of the military aristocracy and that God’s favor was seen as critical to the success of the kingdom’s armies.35 Prominent churches were also handed over to homoian control in at least two waves, the first following the treaty that established Geiseric’s followers in Numidia, the second following

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their capture of Carthage four years later. The cathedrals of Carthage, Calama, Mileu, and Sitifis were all transferred in this way, as were the three most important suburban cult sites outside Carthage: the Basilica Maiorum, which housed the relics of Sts. Perpetua and Felicitas, and two churches dedicated to St. Cyprian, one built where he had been martyred and the other where he was buried.36 The pattern probably repeated itself elsewhere too. At least an inscription from Ammaedara (Haïdra) suggests that one of that city’s churches, known as the basilica of Melleus, was also given over to homoian use in the Vandal period.37 Hasding kings sought not just to promote the homoian confession, but also – by turns more and less actively – to suppress the Nicene one. Coercive religious policy again focused on secular officeholders and members of the Nicene ecclesiastical hierarchy.38 Despite the hostility of the sources, though, they rarely report executions for specifically religious reasons.39 More typically, prominent members of the secular ruling class could face the loss of property and status, exile, and humiliation for refusing to disavow the Nicene confession.40 Efforts to subdue the Nicene clergy relied on a similar range of practices, but focused above all on two policies: first, the exile of particularly outspoken or intractable opponents of the regime and, second, the prohibition of ordinations of new Nicene bishops to sees that had fallen empty. In much of the kingdom it seems to have been possible to avoid the latter ban by holding secret ordinations, but in the metropolis of Carthage both policies were conspicuously enforced. Over 94 years of Vandal ascendency, the metropolis knew only four Nicene bishops, who collectively spent probably somewhat less than 30 years there. Two of the four primates of Carthage were banished from the Vandal kingdom altogether: Quodvultdeus, bishop at the time of the city’s fall in 439, died in Naples after being expelled by Geiseric, and two generations later Bishop Eugenius died in Albi (in southern Gaul) after being ousted by Thrasamund. Geiseric, Huneric, and Thrasamund were each also said to have exiled large groups of clergymen all at once, typically either to the kingdom’s pre-desert fringes or to islands like Corsica and Sardinia.41 The episodic nature of such royal acts of repression suggests that sanctions against Nicene clerics and courtiers were at most unevenly enforced. Indeed, Merrills and Miles have recently and plausibly argued that the religious climate of the Vandal kingdom was generally characterized by “rough tolerance,” a state of affairs “typified by periods of relative peace interspersed by bursts of localized violence and repression.”42 There is also good reason to question how deeply into society the repressive measures of the royal administration normally reached. Close observers of events like Victor of Vita and the author of Fulgentius of Ruspe’s holy biography suggest that homoian priests and bishops exercised a fairly free hand over religious affairs in their individual communities, including the condoning or condemning of sectarian clashes. Thus, for example, Fulgentius and a companion were set upon outside Sicca Veneria and beaten by the toughs of a local homoian priest named Felix.43 At Bulla Regia, another homoian priest named Anduit was said to have led an armed band that killed Nicene Christians as they celebrated Easter.44 In instances such as these, the eruption of inter-confessional violence does not appear to have been centrally directed, but will rather have been deeply embedded in the stresses and conflicts of local circumstance. Unfortunately, the sources do not illuminate such simmering local tensions in any degree of detail, and so explaining outbreaks of violence in particular times and places is a challenging task. At court, anxiety about regulating intercommunal boundaries seems to have been at least partly at stake. Hasding kings put in place such severe measures to prevent Vandal conversion to the Nicene confession precisely because it was a very real possibility.45 Yet it would probably be a mistake to assume that instances of sectarian strife merely pitted “Vandals” against “Romans” and thus cloaked seething ethnic hostilities in a religious guise. Homoian and Nicene Christians were equally committed to the universality of their messages, and all the indications are that substantial numbers of Romano-Africans came to confess the similarity of the Father and the Son under the Vandal regime, including bishops, priests, members of the lesser clergy, and religious ascetics.46 Nor is there any indication that conversion alone was seen as turning a Romano-African into a Vandal, or vice versa. This also means, though, that even at flashpoints like Sicca and Bulla, it is not a safe assumption that the different parties implicated in particular acts of sectarian violence had different ethnic identities.



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At least occasionally, persecution appears to have been a tool of politics. This was most clearly the case in the reign of Huneric. Within two years of assuming the throne, the king became convinced that the family and supporters of his eldest brother, Theoderic, were planning a coup. Huneric initiated a purge of the court: Theoderic’s wife and eldest son (apparently the nexus of the plot) were tried and executed, as were a number of the prince’s prominent supporters, including the homoian patriarch of Carthage, Jucundus. Theoderic himself, his other children, and the son of Huneric’s younger brother Genton were all sent into exile. At much the same time – probably in response to the plot – Huneric became desperate to ensure the direct succession of his son Hilderic. In this tense climate, political loyalties were very much at stake, and by 484 Huneric appears to have become convinced of the inherent disloyalty of his kingdom’s Nicene bishops. In the spring of that year he demanded that they swear to a document endorsing Hilderic’s succession. Those who refused (a small minority) were condemned to hard labor in Corsica, but even those who agreed were sent into penal exile in the African hinterland, on the grounds that they had violated the scriptural injunction against oath-taking (Matthew 5:34–37).47 Whatever the king’s precise motivations here, his actions reveal an intense suspicion of the trustworthiness and fidelity of the Nicene episcopate. Indeed, it is even conceivable that the intended audience for the whole persecution of 484 was as much Constantinopolitan as it was local. The Nicene church was the church of the empire, and as such it was something of an imperial pressure-point. When new Nicene bishops were ordained for Carthage, it was routinely as a concession by the Hasding kings in their diplomatic negotiations with the Roman emperors. One of the conditions that Huneric had attached to the ordination of Eugenius (480–505) specifically was a guarantee of freedom of worship for homoian communities in Constantinople and the East.48 The revocation of religious toleration took place on a diplomatic stage as well. In May 483 the convocation of a council in Carthage to debate the principles of the Christian faith at which Nicene episcopal attendance was compulsory – a prelude to persecution – was announced publicly in the presence of an imperial legate.49 In the following year, the emperor Zeno sent a second envoy to persuade Huneric to stop the sectarian repression that he had by then begun. Not only did the mission fail, the imperial ambassador was forced to witness atrocities committed against Nicene Christians.50 None of this is to question the Hasding kings’ specifically religious motivations or their desire to unify their kingdom under homoian Christianity. Like war, however, religious policy may also have been a continuation of politics by other means, and the politics of the Vandal kingdom were never far removed from the politics of the wider Mediterranean.

The Fall of the Vandal Kingdom The interplay between African and Mediterranean politics has also long been seen as leading to the undoing of the Vandal kingdom. In the estimation of the contemporary Byzantine historian Procopius, Vandal Africa reached its apogee early in the sixth century, in the reign of Thrasamund, a generation before the kingdom’s final collapse.51 Like his predecessors, Thrasamund maintained close diplomatic ties with Constantinople as a “friendly king” and imperial ally, but around the year 500 the king also married the Ostrogothic princess Amalafrida, the sister of the ambitious and able ruler of Italy, Theodoric the Great (493–526). The union gave Thrasamund control of the strategic Lilybaeum promontory of western Sicily and, though the figures are probably exaggerated, Amalafrida was further said to have been accompanied to Africa by 5000 Gothic troops. Though the marriage has sometimes been read as establishing the Vandal kingdom as a client-state of Theodoric’s Italy, Procopius indicates that in the East, at least, Thrasamund was regarded as the strongest of the Hasding kings. Indeed, the ruler seems skillfully to have leveraged his connections to both the empire and the Ostrogothic kingdom in order to guarantee the security and stability of his realm. Well after his marriage to Amalafrida, the Vandal king pursued policies unfettered from those of Theodoric. In 507 or 508, for example, when an East Roman fleet was ravaging the

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southern Italian coast, Thrasamund refused his brother-in-law’s request for military aid, opting instead to maintain a steady neutrality. A few years later, to the Ostrogothic king’s outrage, Thrasamund extended both refuge and financial support to Gisalaic, a fugitive claimant to the Visigothic throne ousted by none other than Theodoric himself. The incident severely strained Vandal–Ostrogothic relations, but not to the breaking point. Indeed, it would seem that in general the strength of Thrasamund’s position derived in no small degree from his ability to navigate the shifting political currents of the sixth-century Mediterranean, the resilient – if sometimes fraught – relations he was able to maintain with each of the other major powers of his day, and the independence from both that this afforded him.52 Thrasamund’s cousin and successor Hilderic pivoted the kingdom’s external relations sharply away from the Ostrogothic kingdom and toward the East Roman empire. In these changed political circumstances, Amalafrida seems (rightly) to have feared for her safety and fled the Vandal court. She was captured by agents of the new king and shortly thereafter died in prison. The remnants of her military entourage were annihilated as well. Taken together, these actions amounted to a dramatic repudiation of the Ostrogothic alliance, and they nearly provoked a war between the two kingdoms. However, Theodoric lacked sufficient naval forces to launch an invasion of Africa, and the king was also said to have been wary of Hilderic’s exceptionally close relations with the East Roman empire.53 Through his mother, Eudocia, the Vandal king was the grandson of Valentinian III, a fact resoundingly emphasized in an encomium to the king penned by the court poet Luxorius and thus perhaps a key element of royal ideology at the time.54 Moreover, shortly before his accession Hilderic had spent time in Constantinople, where he developed ties of guestfriendship (xenia) with Justinian, the nephew and power behind the throne of the emperor Justin I (518–527). Upon assuming power, Hilderic began to pursue a series of strikingly pro-imperial policies, most notably granting freedom of worship to Nicene Christians and – more remarkably still – placing Justin’s image on the Vandal kingdom’s silver coinage.55 In hostile circles, it was reportedly whispered that the king was planning to surrender Africa to Justin’s control.56 In 530, Hilderic was toppled in a coup. The reasons for the king’s overthrow are now obscure, but the fact of its success suggests that there was significant discontent with his regime in powerful court circles. The coup was led by Hilderic’s cousin Gelimer, the heir apparent to the Vandal throne, who may have sensed a threat to his position under the old king: there are hints that, like his father, Hilderic may have sought to circumvent or alter the Vandal law of succession in favor of his own branch of the Hasding royal family, perhaps even specifically to arrange the succession of his nephew Hoamer. Several sources also report concerns about military defeats along the kingdom’s southern frontier, and there is some reason to believe that Gelimer may have enjoyed stronger support in the army than his cousin. In any case, Hilderic was imprisoned – but not yet killed – along with his nephews Hoamer and Hoageis, and Gelimer ascended the throne.57 Upon assuming power, Gelimer confronted three immediate problems. The first was the damage his putsch had done to the kingdom’s relationship with the East Roman empire. The embassy that Gelimer sent to Constantinople failed to secure the recognition of Justinian (527–565), who had succeeded his uncle as emperor three years earlier. Moreover, the emperor was said to have informed the new king that in order to re-establish the diplomatic friendship between the two powers, Hilderic would have to be at least formally returned to the kingship, a condition that was unacceptable to Gelimer. Second, the new king faced more or less simultaneous rebellions against his authority in Tripolitania and Sardinia – the latter on the part of his hand-picked governor – and, to make matters worse, both rebels appealed to Justinian for support. Gelimer quickly sent his brother Tzazon with a large detachment of the Vandal army to Sardinia to recapture the island, but the king did nothing to move against Tripolitania, probably because the kingdom faced a third and far more pressing military threat to the south in Byzacena.58 In the late fifth and especially the early sixth century, the southern and western borderlands of the Vandal kingdom were an increasingly contested space. Even beyond the frontiers of their own territories, the Vandal conquest of Africa had set in motion – or in some places perhaps accelerated – a reconfiguration of power that ultimately led to the ascendency of local warlords and strongmen



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across much of the interior. At the same time, Amazigh-speaking agriculturalists appear to have been moving out of the Saharan desert oases against and into the southern frontiers of the Vandal kingdom, as Elizabeth Fentress and Andrew Wilson have recently argued. Classicizing authors writing in Greek and Latin did not distinguish between these two processes or the different actors they involved, who were all too often simply lumped together as “Moors.” Yet over the course of the late fifth and early sixth century, three distinct theaters of conflict emerged, involving a stillwider array of competing interests, in Numidia, southern Byzacena, and Tripolitania. While for the most part the practice of diplomacy kept these frontier regions in a somewhat restive calm, local tensions could and did also flare into open conflict.59 This seems to be precisely what happened independently along two fronts in the early 530s. In fact, the rebellion of Tripolitania against Gelimer was probably connected to attacks by the Moorish Laguatan on Leptis Magna and Sabratha, the inability of the Vandal king to provide for their defense, and the willingness of Justinian to garrison the cities. As Andy Merrills has recently argued, it also seems likely that a major confrontation with the Frexes in southwestern Byzacena commanded the attention of Gelimer himself and the majority of the Vandal army at much the same time, leaving the Mediterranean littoral of the Vandal kingdom unusually vulnerable to attack.60 Supporters of Hilderic reportedly carried intelligence to this effect to Justinian in Constantinople and urged him to reconquer Africa with glowing descriptions of the region’s wealth.61 The emperor sensed an opportunity, but at court the failure of earlier efforts to recapture the region had not been forgotten, and the idea of launching an expeditionary force remained deeply unpopular. The defection of Tripolitania and Sardinia buoyed the case for war, however, and Justinian and his inner circle sought to overcome resistance within the empire above all through an appeal to two ideas. First, Africa had once been an imperial province, and through East Roman intervention the region might again regain its ancient “liberty” (a euphemism in Justinian’s rhetoric for direct imperial rule). Second, and most importantly, God himself had sanctioned the expedition in a series of dream visions granted to a variety of eastern holy men in order to free Africa from the yoke of the persecuting Vandals. Imperial armies would not just restore Roman rule to a former province, they would also redeem and vindicate the Nicene church.62 The expedition was an extraordinary success. Ably led by Belisarius, one of Justinian’s closest friends and most trusted generals, an enormous invasion force landed at Caput Vada, south of Hadrumetum, in August 533. With Gelimer engaged in Byzacena and Tzazon still in Sardinia, the East Roman army faced little resistance as it marched on Carthage. Once Gelimer learned of the invasion he rushed to get back to the metropolis, which he instructed his brother Ammatas to defend in the meantime. Ten miles outside the city, at a site known as Ad Decimum, the Romans won two surprising victories, killing Ammatas and forcing Gelimer to flee. On 14 September 533 Belisarius and his troops entered Carthage without resistance. Gelimer recalled Tzazon from Sardinia, rallied his troops near Bulla Regia, and again marched on Carthage. Twenty miles outside the city, at Tricamarum, the contestants clashed again, and again the Vandals were defeated. Gelimer fled a second time, this time to otherwise unidentified Moorish allies on Mt. Papua, where he was besieged by a detachment sent by Belisarius, and finally surrendered in March 534. When Belisarius was recalled to Constantinople shortly thereafter, the captive king accompanied him. In the imperial capital Gelimer was paraded in Justinian’s triumph and then relegated to estates in Galatia.63 Hilderic and his nephew Hoages had been killed in the course of the invasion (allegedly on Gelimer’s orders) and Hoamer had also died in captivity, but Hilderic’s children were granted an imperial stipend as the great-grandchildren of Valentinian III.64 Africa itself was reorganized as an imperial province under Belisarius’ successor Solomon. Following the defeats at Ad Decimum and Tricamarum, Vandals sought refuge in churches in Carthage, Hippo Regius, and elsewhere. Fighting men were disarmed, remanded to Carthage and then Constantinople, and finally sent to fight for the empire as cavalry regiments along the Persian frontier.65 As they settled down to garrison Africa, East Roman soldiers were initially allowed to keep as slaves the Vandal women and children whom they had captured during the campaign, and even to force their female captives into coerced marriages.66 By 536, however, control of the property once owned by these women

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had become a significant source of conflict between the central administration and its rank-and-file soldiers, contributing to a military revolt against Solomon’s authority that erupted that year. After the revolt was put down, the last remaining Vandal elements in Africa were rounded up and deported as well, after which the Vandals disappear from history.67 *** The continuities between the Roman and Vandal periods in North Africa are pronounced. Developments in the region’s rural society, economy, urban landscape, and cultural life followed lines already visible in the late Roman period. Yet there were profound discontinuities as well, of which two are perhaps especially important. First, the Hasding kings’ embrace of the homoian confession – and still more their revocation of the privileges enjoyed by the Nicene church under the imperial regime – had the effect of reinforcing the pugnacious and confrontational terms in which religious debate was conducted in North Africa. Critically, though, over the course of a century of Vandal rule Nicene clergymen became quite comfortable engaging in theological disputation independently of imperial authority, a fact that would have significant consequences for the history of the church, both in Africa and in western Christendom writ large, into the middle ages and beyond.68 Second, the Vandal takeover of Africa destabilized Roman power, with ripple effects that were felt both in Africa itself and across the Mediterranean. Imperial dominance relies on the projection of indomitable power. The establishment of an autonomous and only minimally deferential kingdom inside what had been Roman territory – and still more the ability of that kingdom to survive repeated and concerted efforts at reconquest – demonstrated in no uncertain terms the vulnerabilities of the imperial regime and doubtless contributed to Ravenna’s struggle to assert its hegemony in the fifth-century West. In Africa specifically, the fracturing of the imperial image meant that, over the course of the fifth and subsequent centuries, local strongmen and Saharan populations alike came to assert their own independent interests against those of Vandal kings in Carthage, Byzantine emperors in Constantinople, and eventually even Muslim caliphs in Damascus, in increasingly audacious terms.

NOTES *

References to ancient sources follow the abbreviations of the Oxford Classical Dictionary, fourth edition.

  1 Study of the Vandals has flourished in recent decades. The most comprehensive study in English is Merrills and Miles, 2010. The classic studies are Courtois, 1955 and Schmidt, 1942. See also especially Merrills, 2004a; Berndt, 2007; Howe, 2007; Leone, 2007: 127–165; Berndt and Steinacher, 2008; Conant, 2012: 19–195; Bockmann, 2013; Modéran, 2014; Steinacher, 2016; and Whelan, 2018.  2 On questions of Vandal identity, see especially Rummel, 2002; Berndt, 2007: 142–174 and 234–244; Rummel, 2007; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 83–108; Conant, 2012: 58–64; and Bockmann, 2013: 145–149.   3 Berndt, 2007: 52–127; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 27–52; and Modéran, 2014: 17–91.  4 Prosper, Epitoma de chronicon s.aa. 427, 430, and 435, ed. Th. Mommsen, MGH AA 9 (Berlin, 1892); Berndt, 2007: 128–141 and 184–189; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 52–55 and 60–61; and Modéran, 2014: 93–130.  5 Laterculus regum Wandalorum et Alanorum 3, ed. Th. Mommsen, MGH AA 13 (Berlin, 1898); Clover, 2003: 50–53, and in general; Conant, 2012: 148–159. On Vandal Carthage, see especially Bockmann, 2013: 23–129.   6 Berndt, 2007: 189–191; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 111–112; Modéran, 2014: 183–186.  7 Berndt, 2007: 191–192; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 61–65; Conant, 2012: 20–26; Modéran, 2014: 131–137 and 143–145.  8 Jord. Get. 36.184.  9 Berndt, 2007: 192–195; Merrills and Miles 2010: 112–117; Conant 2012: 24–29; Modéran 2014: 186–189. 10 Berndt 2007: 196–202; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 117–124; Conant, 2012: 29–36; Modéran, 2014: 135–137, 145–153, and 189–199.



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11 August. Ep. 228; August. Serm. 344–345; Possidius, Vita Augustini 28.4–13, ed. M. Pellegrino, in Vita di S. Agostino, Verba seniorum 4 (Alba, 1955); Capreolus of Carthage, Epistula ad synodum Ephesinum, ed. E. Schwartz and J. Straub in Acta Conciliorum Oecuminicorum, 4 vols. (Berlin, 1914–1983), 1/2:64–65; Leo I, Ep. 12.8 and 12.11, PL 54; Quodvultdeus of Carthage, De tempore barbarico 2.5, ed. R. Braun, in Opera Quoduultdeo Carthaginiensi episcopo tributa, CCSL 60 (Turnhout, 1976), 476– 478; Berndt, 2007: 184–186; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 54–55; Conant, 2012: 68–86 and 131–132; Modéran, 2014: 123–130; Fournier, 2017. 12 Victor of Vita, Historia persecutionis Africanae provinciae 1.3-12, ed. M. Petschenig, CSEL 7 (Vienna, 1881). 13 The fundamental study is Overbeck, 1973; see also Conant, 2012: 144–145. 14 Valentinian III, Nov. 34.2–3 (451), ed. Th. Mommsen and P. Meyer in Cod. Theod.; Victor of Vita, Historia 1.13; Procop. Vand. 1.5.11–15; Modéran, 2014: 155–179 and Modéran, 2002 and the scholarship cited there, recently challenged by Goffart 2010: 78–87; and see also note 11 above. 15 Berndt, 2007: 203–207; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 70–73; Conant, 2012: 43–46. 16 Conant, 2012: 143–146. 17 Merrills and Miles, 2010: 79; Conant, 2013: 57. 18 The essential sources are Shackleton Bailey, Anth. Lat. and Dracontius, Oeuvres, ed. and (French) trans. C. Moussy et al., 4 vols. (Paris, 1985–1996), on which see Merrills, 2004b; Miles, 2005; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 219–225. 19 Conant, 2012: 148–159. 20 Tablettes Albertini. Actes privés de l’époque vandale (fin du Ve siècle), ed. C. Courtois, L. Leschi, C. Perrat, and C. Saumagne, 2 volumes (Paris, 1952). The literature on these documents is extensive: see Hitchner, 1995; Conant, 2004, and the literature cited there. 21 The major syntheses are Panella, 1993; Reynolds, 1995; Sodini, 2000; McCormick, 2001: 100–103; Morrisson, 2003; Leone and Mattingly, 2004; Wickham, 2005: 708–720; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 141–176. See also Bonifay, Chapter 13. 22 Shanzer, 1986; Bright, 1987; Hays, 2004; Leone, 2007: 127–165; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 204–227; Conant, 2012: 53–56 and 132–136; Bockmann, 2013. See also note 18. 23 On religion in the Vandal kingdom, see especially Modéran, 2003b; Howe, 2007; Fournier, 2008; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 177–203; Conant, 2012: 159–186; Cooper, 2016; and Whelan, 2018. 24 Victor of Vita, Historia 3.5; Whelan, 2018: 10–14. 25 Whelan, 2018: 85–108. 26 On the silence of the secular sources in this regard, see Miles, 2005. 27 Fournier, 2008; Shaw, 2011. 28 Courtois, 1954; Shanzer, 2004. 29 Victor of Vita, Historia 3.3–14. 30 Courtois, 1955: 379 no. 107 = ILCV 1601A. 31 Fulgentius of Ruspe, Dicta regis Trasamundi et contra ea responsionum, ed. J. Fraipont, CCSL 91 (Turnhout, 1968), 65–94. 32 Conant, 2012, 170–179; Whelan, 2018. 33 Victor of Vita, Historia 3.3–14; Fournier 2008: 75–118. 34 Conant, 2012: 166–168. 35 Conant, 2012: 180–184. 36 Prosper, Chronicon s.a. 439; Victor of Vita 1.9 and 1.14–16. See, however, Merrills and Miles, 2010: 181. 37 Duval, 1975: 87–88, no. 58. 38 Conant, 2012: 161–170. 39 Shanzer, 2004: 282–284. 40 Conant, 2012: 166–168. 41 Conant, 2012: 161–166. 42 Merrills and Miles, 2010: 192–196 (the quotation is from p. 193). 43 Vita S. Fulgentii episcopi Ruspensis 6–7, ed. G.-G. Lapeyre, in Vie de Saint Fulgence de Ruspe (Paris, 1929). 44 Victor of Vita, Historia 1.41–42; see also ibid. 3.45–48. 45 Victor of Vita, Historia 3.38; Howe, 2007: 168–176. 46 Modéran, 2006; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 187 and 196–200; Conant, 2012: 84 and 172.

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47 Modéran, 2006; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 75–76; Conant, 2012: 177–178. 48 Victor of Vita, Historia 2.3–4. 49 Victor of Vita, Historia 2.38–39. 50 Victor of Vita, Historia 3.32. 51 Procop. Vand. 1.8.13. 52 Berndt, 2007: 230–231; Merrills and Miles, 2010: 132–133; Conant, 2012: 38–41. 53 Merrills and Miles, 2010: 133–134 and see also above, note 52. 54 Shackleton Bailey, Anth. Lat. 206. 55 Procop. Vand. 1.9.5; Hahn, 1973, pls. 42.9 and 42.11 and see also ibid. pls. 42.8 and 42.10 (Hilderic) and 42.12 (Gelimer); Merrills and Miles, 2010: 59–60, 133–134, and 201–202; Conant, 2012: 34 and 313–314. 56 Procop. Vand. 1.9.8. 57 Merrills, 2016. 58 Merrills and Miles, 2010: 228–233; Conant, 2012: 311–315; Merrills, 2016. 59 Modéran, 2003a; Conant, 2012: 252-305; Fentress and Wilson, 2016; Merrills, 2016. See also Merrills, Chapter 18 and Faure, Chapter 10. 60 Merrills, 2016. 61 Zachariah of Mitylene, Chronicle 9.17, trans. F.J. Hamilton and E.W. Brooks in The Syriac Chronicle Known as that of Zachariah of Mitylene (London, 1899). 62 Conant, 2012: 306–311; Merrills, 2016. 63 Merrills and Miles, 2010: 232–233. 64 Procop. Vand. 1.17.11–13 and 2.9.13. 65 Merrills and Miles, 2010: 234–252; Conant, 2012: 196–251 and 254–255. 66 Procop. Vand. 2.3.24, 2.4.3, and 2.14.8. 67 Merrills and Miles, 2010: 252–255; Conant, 2012: 241–242. 68 See Cooper, 2016; Dossey, 2016.

REFERENCES Berndt, G.M. 2007. Konflikt und Anpassung: Studien zu Migration und Ethnogenese der Vandalen. Historische Studien 489. Husum. Berndt, G.M., and Steinacher, R., eds. 2008. Das Reich der Vandalen und seine (Vor-) Geschichten. Denkschriften der Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse 366/ Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters 13. Vienna. Bockmann, R. 2013. Capital Continuous: A Study of Vandal Carthage and Central North Africa from an Archaeological Perspective. Wiesbaden. Bright, D.F. 1987. The Miniature Epic in Vandal Africa. Norman, OK. Clover, F.M. 2003. “Timekeeping and dyarchy in Vandal Africa.” Antiquité tardive 11: 45–63. Conant, J. 2004. “Literacy and private documentation in Vandal North Africa: The case of the Albertini Tablets.” In Merrills 2004a, 199–224. Conant, J. 2012. Staying Roman: Conquest and Identity in Africa and the Mediterranean, 439–700. Cambridge. Conant, J. 2013. “Public administration, private individuals, and the written word in Late Antique North Africa, c. 284–700.” In Laypeople and Documents in the Early Middle Ages, eds. A.J. Kosto, M. Innes, W.C. Brown, and M. Costambeys, 36–62. Cambridge. Cooper, K. 2016. “Marriage, law, and Christian rhetoric in Vandal Africa.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds, S.T. Stevens and J.P. Conant, 237–249. Washington, DC Courtois, C. 1954. Victor de Vita et son œuvre: étude critique. Algiers. Courtois, C. 1955. Les Vandales et l’Afrique. Paris. Dossey, L. 2016. “Exegesis and dissent in Byzantine North Africa.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds, S.T. Stevens and J.P. Conant, 251–267. Washington, DC Duval, N. 1975. Recherches archéologiques à Haïdra. Volume 1. Collection de l’École française de Rome 18/1. Rome.



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Fentress, E., and Wilson, A. 2016. “The Saharan Berber diaspora and the southern frontiers of Byzantine North Africa.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds, S.T. Stevens and J.P. Conant, 41– 63. Washington, DC Fournier, É. 2008. Victor of Vita and the Vandal ‘Persecution’: Interpreting Exile in Late Antiquity. PhD dissertation, University of California, Santa Barbara. Fournier, É. 2017. “The Vandal conquest of North Africa: The origins of a historiographical persona.” The Journal of Ecclesiastical History 68: 687–718. Goffart, W. 2010. “The technique of Barbarian settlement in the fifth century: A personal, streamlined account with ten additional comments.” Journal of Late Antiquity 3: 65–98. Hahn, W. 1973. Moneta Imperii Byzantini. Volume 1. Vienna. Hays, G. 2004. “‘Romuleis Libicisque Litteris’: Fulgentius and the ‘Vandal Renaissance.’” In Merrills, 2004a, 101–132. Hitchner, R.B. 1995. “Historical text and archaeological context in Roman North Africa: The Albertini Tablets and the Kasserine Survey.” In Methods in the Mediterranean. Historical and Archaeological Views on Texts and Archaeology, ed. D. Small, 124–142. Mnemosyne suppl. 135. Leiden. Howe, T. 2007. Vandalen, Barbaren und Arianer bei Victor von Vita. Studien zur alten Geschichte 7. Frankfurt am Main. Leone, A. 2007. Changing Townscapes in North Africa from Late Antiquity to the Arab Conquest. Bari. Leone, A., and Mattingly, D.J. 2004. “Vandal, Byzantine and Arab rural landscapes in North Africa.” In Landscapes of Change: Rural Evolutions in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. N. Christie, 135–162. Aldershot. McCormick, M. 2001. Origins of the European Economy. Communications and Commerce, AD 300–900. Cambridge. Merrills, A., ed. 2004a. Vandals, Romans, and Berbers: New Perspectives on Late Antique North Africa. Aldershot. Merrills, A. 2004b. “The Perils of Panegyric: The lost poem of Dracontius and its consequences.” In Merrills, 2004a, 145–162. Merrills, A. 2016. “Gelimer’s slaughter: The case for Late Vandal Africa.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds, S.T. Stevens and J.P. Conant, 23–39. Washington, DC Merrills, A., and Miles, R. 2010. The Vandals. Chichester. Miles, R. 2005. “The Anthologia Latina and the creation of secular space in Vandal North Africa.” Antiquité tardive 13: 305–320. Modéran, Y. 2002. “L’établissement territorial des Vandales en Afrique.” Antiquité tardive 10: 87–122. Modéran, Y. 2003a. Les Maures et l’Afrique romaine (IVe-VIIe siècle). Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 314. Rome. Modéran, Y. 2003b. “Une guerre de religion: les deux églises d’Afrique à l’époque vandale.” Antiquité tardive 11: 21–44. Modéran, Y. 2006. “La Notitia provinciarum et civitatum Africae et l’histoire du royaume vandale.” Antiquité tardive 14: 165–185. Modéran, Y. 2014. Les Vandales et l’empire romain. Ed. M.-Y. Perrin. Arles. Morrisson, C. 2003. “L’atelier de Carthage et la diffusion de la monnaie frappé dans l’Afrique vandale et byzantine (439–695).” Antiquité tardive 11: 65–84. Overbeck, M. 1973. Untersuchungen zum afrikanischen Senatsadel in der Spätantike. Frankfurter althistorische Studien 7. Kallmunz. Panella, C. 1993. “Merci e scambi nel Mediterraneo tardoantico.” In Storia di Roma, eds. A. Carandini, L. Cracco Ruggini, and A. Giardina. Volume 3/2, 613–697. Turin. Reynolds, P. 1995. Trade in the Western Mediterranean, AD 400–700: The Ceramic Evidence. BAR International Series 604. Oxford. Rummel, P. von 2002. “Habitus Vandalorum? Zur Frage nach einer gruppen-spezifischen Kleidung der Vandalen in Nordafrika.” Antiquité tardive 10: 131–141. Rummel, P. von. 2007. Habitus barbarus. Kleidung und Repräsentation spätantiker Eliten im 4. und 5. Jahrhundert. Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 55. Berlin. Schmidt, L. 1942. Geschichte der Wandalen. 2nd edition. Munich.

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Shanzer, D. 1986. A Philosophical and Literary Commentary on Martianus Capella’s De Nuptiis Philologiae et Mercurii Book 1. University of California Publications in Classical Studies 32. Berkeley. Shanzer, D. 2004. “Intentions and audiences: History, hagiography, martyrdom, and confession in Victor of Vita’s Historia Persecutionis.” In Merrills, 2004a, 271–290. Shaw, B.D. 2011. Sacred Violence: African Christianity and Sectarian Hatred in the Age of Augustine. Cambridge. Sodini, J.-P. 2000. “Productions et échanges dans le monde protobyzantin (IVe-VIIe s.): Le cas de la céramique.” In Byzanz als Raum. Zu Methoden und Inhalten der historischen Geographie des Östlichen Mittelmeeraumes, eds. K. Belke, F. Hild, J. Koder, and P. Soustal, 181–208. Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-historische Klasse, Denkschriften 283/Tabula Imperii Byzantini 7. Vienna. Steinacher, R. 2016. Die Vandalen: Aufstieg und Fall eines Barbarenreichs. Stuttgart. Whelan, R. 2018. Being Christian in Vandal Africa: The Politics of Orthodoxy in the Post-Imperial West. Berkeley. Wickham, C. 2005. Framing the Early Middle Ages. Europe and the Mediterranean, 400–800. Oxford.

CHAPTER 22

The Byzantine Period Andy Merrills

The Emperor Justinian had little doubt that the conquest of North Africa was an overwhelming success. As the first news of the Vandal defeat reached Constantinople in the late autumn of 533, he promptly assumed the cognomina Vandalicus, Alanicus, and Africanus, and declared himself the agent of God’s will in reclaiming the lost imperial territories (Inst. Just Proem.). An expedition that was ostensibly intended only to re-establish the friendly puppet Hilderic on the Hasding throne was suddenly invested with new significance (Meier, 2003: 172–180; Conant, 2012: 306–313). Stories began to circulate that Justinian had been visited by a vision of the martyr Laetus of Nepta, as well as by living delegates of the African church, and that the expedition was in fact a crusade to liberate the region from the Arian Vandals (Vict Tun a.534.1. cf. Procop. Vand. I.10.18–20; Zach Rhet. 9.17). Other narratives maintained that Justinian alone had insisted on the campaign, against the advice of his councillors (Procop. Vand. I.10.1–17; Evagrius HE IV.16), and when the victory was formally marked by a triumph in the spring of 534, it was the emperor who was the focus of the ceremony, not his general Belisarius (Procop. Vand. II.9.12; Joh Lyd. De Mag 55.3; Börm, 2013). In the aftermath of a tumultuous few years in the imperial capital, an unexpected victory in a distant region became a significant ideological turning point in Justinian’s reign, and laid the foundations of military and religious policy for decades (Meier, 2003: 150–165; Maas, 1986). It was with good reason that the victory in Africa was prominently depicted on Justinian’s funeral pall 30 years later (Cor. Iust. 1.276–290). Modern studies of Byzantine North Africa have rarely concurred with this triumphalist view, often because the period is commonly judged by what came afterwards. In much nineteenthcentury scholarship, the imperial occupation was viewed as a sad epilogue to the long history of classical North Africa, and was appraised principally for its failure to resist the Arab conquests of the seventh century (Kaegi, 2010: 16–29 for a summary). Fortresses and standing town walls across Tunisia and eastern Algeria were vivid reminders of the Byzantine military presence that encouraged parallels with modern colonial occupation, but also testified to the scale of the imperial collapse. A similar perspective was imposed on the religious history of the region, suggesting that the success of Islam in a region that had once been home to Tertullian, Cyprian, and Augustine could only be explained by the catastrophic religious policies of first the Vandals and then the eastern Empire (Handley, 2004, with references). Until very recently, in fact, scholars have tended not to focus on this corner of the eastern empire (or this period of North African history) very much at all, and it remains something of a forgotten field both in the study of late antiquity and the history of the classical Maghreb. There has been no

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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monograph on the subject of Byzantine Africa in any language since Charles Diehl’s study of 1896, and even that work was originally written as a provisional discussion in the absence of a more authoritative treatment (Diehl, 1896: ii). This pattern is gradually changing, but there is much that remains to be done. Wider surveys of classical and late antique North Africa, for example, have increasingly extended to the sixth and seventh centuries, with rewarding results (e.g., Conant, 2012: 196–251; Lassère, 2015: 695–734; Fenwick, Chapter 24). New research has also cast light on the rural and urban environment (Leone and Mattingly, 2004; Leone, 2007; Leone, Chapter 20), and on economic and social change (Morrisson, 2016; Reynolds, 2016), thanks in large part to an increasing interest in the North African archaeology of the period. Ongoing analyses of the literary and epigraphic sources have taken pains to place the political and military history of the region within its wider imperial context (Zuckerman, 2002; Kaegi, 2003, 2010, 2016). Important recent work has also transformed our understanding of some of our principal textual sources, including Procopius (Kaldellis, 2016), the poet Corippus (Zarini, 2003; Gärtner, 2008), the legal corpus (Kaiser, 2007), and particularly the productive theological writers of the period (Modéran, 2007; Allen and Neil, 2015; Dossey, 2016). The present chapter draws upon much of this recent scholarship in a discussion of the earliest period of Byzantine North Africa, from its initial conquest in 533/534 to the death of Justinian in 565. In so doing it seeks to assess the first phases of the imperial occupation in their own terms, and to look at Justinianic Africa as a part of the sixth-century imperial state, and not simply as a precursor to the dramatic changes of the following century. Although some reference is made to the later history of the region, the principal focus throughout will be on the earliest decades of the occupation, which, happily, are those best covered by both our textual and archaeological sources. The chapter looks in turn at the civic administrative structures of the province as they were established in the mid-530s, and the changes in social and economic life brought about by the occupation itself. It also briefly discusses the wider environmental factors that affected the region in these decades, particularly the cold period that may have followed the so-called “Dust Veil” event of 536 and the Justinianic plague of the early-540s. Our focus then turns to the military organization of North Africa, and the degree to which the threats posed by Moorish barbarians in the 530s and 540s were themselves the product of deep-rooted structural weaknesses within the imperial system. The chapter closes with a brief account of the religious policies of the early Byzantine period, and especially the tensions revealed by the so-called Three Chapters controversy of the 540s and 550s.

Civil Administration, Economy, and Society In April 534, Justinian laid out his vision for the reconquered African provinces in two long edicts, which were sent to the civil and military authorities in Carthage and are preserved in full in the Justinianic Code (CJ I.27.1–2). In the first of these, Africa was reconstituted as the third great Prefecture of the Empire, along with Illyricum and Oriens. Its first Praetorian Prefect was Archelaus, who had previously held similar office in each of the other prefectures, and hence lent some status to the new regional capital in Carthage (Procop. Vand. I.11.17; PLRE II Archelaus 5). The prefecture was subdivided into seven provinces, each with a governor of its own. Zeugi (previously Africa Proconsularis), Byzacium, and Tripolis were placed under consular governors, with Numidia and Sardinia under praesides of ordinary rank. Mauretania was nominally divided into two provinces each under a praeses, although the actual extent of imperial rule there was essentially limited to a few coastal enclaves (CJ I.27.1.12–14). The edict also provides a detailed anatomy of the administrative staffs associated with each of these positions, showing that almost 400 men were assigned to the Prefectural staff and 50 to each of the provincial offices (CJ.I.27.1.21–43; Diehl, 1896: 103–112; Puliatti, 1980: 59–98).



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Justinian’s African edict is the most detailed extant account of civic administration within the sixth-century Roman state, and may indeed have been a stimulus for further bureaucratic reorganization elsewhere in the eastern empire over the course of the 530s (Maas, 1986; Meier, 2003: 141–149). The long preface to the law presents the reconquest of the region as a vindication of the divine support for the emperor’s rule, an illustration of the degree to which he had surpassed his immediate predecessors, and an assertion of a return to the status quo ante, before the unfortunate Vandal interregnum (Maas, 1986). The principal concern of the edict was to integrate Africa within the imperial system, and while certain local idiosyncrasies were acknowledged, laws relating to the empire as a whole were expected to apply in the newly conquered regions. The broad outline of this system can be traced with some confidence from specific details in the African Edict, corroborated by other imperial laws of the same period. The Praetorian Prefect was the principal imperial representative in the region and was charged with governmental oversight, including the imposition of new tax censuses, the resolution of land disputes, especially in the aftermath of the conquest; he also enjoyed overall responsibility for military expenditure and the application of religious policy (Diehl, 1896: 98–100; cf. Nov Just. 36, 37, 70.1, 119.1, 128.1, 152, App 9; CJ I.27.2.15). Provincial governors were tasked with the collection of taxes, including the appointment of assessors, with the circulation and promulgation of laws, and with keeping judicial order (Nov Just. 17). Both levels of government were complemented by military structures, as we shall see later. For locals, the imposition of imperial rule had mixed implications. Our textual and epigraphic sources suggest that the upper echelons of imperial government in Carthage were dominated in both the civic and military spheres by Greek-speaking outsiders (Cameron, 1993a; Conant, 2012: 196–251). When Procopius describes the exclusive banquets at which the key moments of Carthaginian politics were transacted, for example, there were few couches for local secular aristocrats (Procop. Vand. II.26.31–33, 28.1–33; Vössing, 2010: 211–214). However, episcopal office remained a route to influence for ambitious Africans, and the political power of bishops may indeed have increased: certainly, the Bishop of Carthage was an important powerbroker in that city and benefited from imperial favor before his apparent involvement in a political conspiracy hastened his fall from grace. Outside the capital, lower levels of the provincial, municipal, and episcopal government also depended on the collaboration of the region’s elites. An edict of summer 535 that prohibited Arians, Donatists, and Jews from public office clearly implies that many Africans had retained their influence in local government, or had sought such office in the aftermath of the conquest (Nov Just 37.6). This sense of continuity is supported by epigraphic and archaeological evidence from cities across imperial Africa, where local families appear to have retained their importance, and marked this through traditional forms of commemoration and euergetism (Durliat, 1981: 112–113; Conant, 2012: 211–214). Significantly, this pattern continued throughout the century, and witnessed a late flourishing in the decades after Justinian’s death. Inscriptions dating to the 570s and 580s commemorate local patronage behind building projects at Aïn el-Ksar and Henchir Bou Sboa in southern Numidia, and Ksar Lemsa in Zeugitana (Durliat, 1981: 71–76, 77–78, 80–83; Conant, 2012: 248; Lassère, 2015: 717). For a handful of more ambitious Africans, the new empire also offered opportunities overseas. Latin remained a language of government in Constantinople, and the survival of the African school system through the Vandal period meant that citizens from the region were often able to profit from their hard years in the schoolroom (Hays, 2016; CJ I.27.1.42). Latin tutors from Africa had long been valued in the imperial capitals and this seems to have continued, even as the schools of the region began to decline (cf. Joh Lyd De Mag 73.2–4). Some Africans pursued secular careers in Constantinople: the Quaestor Junillus “Africanus” reached an elevated position in the capital on the strength of his Latin legal training, although Procopius remained skeptical of his Greek (Maas, 2003; cf. Procop. SH 20.17), and the lawyer Mocianus attained a less senior position (PLRE III Mocianus). The poet Corippus turned his own training to effective ends in celebrating the victories of John Troglita in Carthage, and later, in poems written in the imperial capital, Justin II and his patron Anastasius (Cameron, 1984). These new connections were still more important within the

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church. African churchmen like Liberatus (and indeed Junillus Africanus) established positions for themselves as conduits between the theological worlds of the Greek-speaking east and the Latinspeaking west. Other Christian writers, too, were inspired by the new networks of empire to contribute to wider theological controversies, as shall be discussed in more detail later.

Cities and the Refashioning of Africa’s Citizens Towns were also crucial to Africa’s integration within the political and conceptual structures of the Justinianic empire, and remain our best evidence for the impact of these changes on the ground. If prefectures and provinces were the basic units of the administrative reorganization of the 530s, towns were the most meaningful point of political affiliation for the majority of citizens, even those living in the rural hinterland. Roman North Africa had always been a densely urbanized region, of course, particularly in the coastal regions and in the cereal plains, but the Byzantine occupation brought with it a very different sense of what a town was or should be. Whereas the eastern cities of the sixth century were increasingly defined by their prominent gates and wall circuits, “without which a city was no longer complete” in the words of one recent study (Jacobs, 2013: 106), the same was not true in North Africa, where many towns had either never been walled or had seen their defenses fall into disuse. For Procopius, the absence of functional city walls across the region could only be explained as a result of deliberate Vandal policy, and he presented this as symptomatic of the more general collapse of urban civilization (Procop. Vand. I.5.8; I.15.9). As his description of Caput Vada in Buildings shows, the construction of new defenses by the occupying forces was supposed to entail little less than the complete revival of all aspects of civic culture: For a wall has been brought to its completion, and with it a city, and the condition of the farmland is being suddenly changed. And the rustics have thrown aside the plough and lead the existence of a community, no longer going the round of country tasks, but living a city life. They pass their days in the market place and hold assemblies to deliberate on questions which concern them; and they traffic with one another, and conduct all other affairs which pertain to the dignity of a city. (Procop. Build. VI.6 15–16, tr. Dewing: 387)

The imperial family was closely associated with this program of restoration, and hence with the revival of African “civilization.” Caput Vada was itself renamed after Justinian to commemorate his role in effecting this transformation – an honor that it shared with Carthage, Hadrumetum, Capsa, and further-flung settlements like Justiniana Zabi in the distant Hodna; Cululis and Vaga were similarly renamed after Theodora (Lassère, 2015: 719). When the historians Procopius and Evagrius marveled at these grand rebuilding projects, they both emphasized the centrality of the imperial genius to it (Procop., Build. VI.1.5; Evagrius HE IV.18). However, this connection could also have negative implications. Corippus’ epic Iohannis describes the expeditionary force sent to Africa under John Troglita in 546 and describes its first landfall at Caput Vada in emulation of Belisarius’ earlier campaign. Much to the discouragement of the troops, however, the planned fortifications were not yet complete, and the city stood exposed: a clear allusion to the perilous state of imperial government at the time of this expedition (Cor., Ioh. I. 406–416). The archaeological evidence shows clearly that patterns of urban life did indeed change in this period, even if they were not as completely reinvented as our textual sources sometimes claim. Moreover, these changes were often gradual, and took place over decades of imperial rule, rather than in the first giddy months of the occupation (Leone, 2007: 167–279). Towns had remained important economic, political, and cultural centers throughout the Vandal period and many of these functions continued with relatively little interruption, even as the rhythms of urban life adapted to new cadences. Carthage, most obviously, underwent major reconstructive surgery relatively early, as befited a new prefectural capital that now bore the emperor’s name, and extensive excavations across the city have done a great deal to illuminate its transformation (Leone, 2007: 168–181; Bockmann,



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Chapter 8). Belisarius undertook the first restoration of the dilapidated wall circuit, and the early years of the occupation also saw substantial renovation in the harbor area, around the Antonine Baths, and probably also on the Byrsa Hill (Procop. Vand. I.23.19–21; Build. VI.5.8–11). New architectural forms were adopted that show eastern influences, and innovative patterns of mosaic decoration may also have been introduced (Dunbabin, 1985). The most striking changes to the topography of the city, however, lay in the ongoing Christianization of its landscape: the substantial Dermech, Carthagenna, and Bir Messaouda churches were modified within the city, as were several massive complexes outside the city walls, all of which built upon existing churches of the Vandal period, and continued to be transformed and expanded throughout the sixth century (Merrills and Miles, 2010: 234–248; Miles, 2020). Similar patterns of continuity and transformation are apparent, albeit on a less wide-ranging scale, across many of the cities of North Africa, particularly where church buildings have been excavated carefully. City walls illustrate the changing nature of urban life in this period quite well, not only by testifying to direct imperial investment, but also by hinting at the impact that this may have had on local society. The Byzantine wall-building program was undoubtedly massive: Evagrius states that 150 cities were fortified in Africa under Justinian, and Procopius specifically names 28 of them in his Buildings (Evagrius HE IV.18; Procop. Build. VI.1–5). Neither text can be read uncritically, of course, but archaeological and epigraphic evidence supports this rhetoric of scale. Of more than 100 fortified sites from Africa that can be dated stylistically to the sixth or seventh century, dedicatory inscriptions allow us confidently to date 23 to the prefecture of Solomon, and probably to his second period in office between 539 and 544; it seems likely that many other defenses were also constructed or renovated at this time (Durliat, 1981; Pringle, 1981, 2002). Further phases of fortification ensued throughout the latter decades of the sixth century. Not all of these fortifications were civic wall circuits, as many of them may have been repairs rather than new constructions, and several may also have taken some years to build, but for all of these caveats the impact of such walls on communities must have been dramatic. At Ammaedara – certainly the best-known case study at present – walls cut across old neighborhoods and funneled the flow of civic traffic through chokingly narrow gates (Baratte and Bejaoui, 2010: 528). The triumphal arch of Septimus Severus in that city, a long-familiar civic landmark, was walled around and transformed into a citadel, a pattern replicated at Thelepte, Zana in Diana Veteranorum, and Mactar (Baratte and Bejaoui, 2010: 534). In Abthugni, Musti, Sua, and Thugga, fora were fortified and became focal points of civic defense, while at Bulla Regia the baths were similarly repurposed (Leone, 2007: 191–192). The essentially military purpose of all of this rebuilding is not to be doubted, and, further, smaller fortifications were also built across the countryside. However, interpreting these new civic defenses solely as components of a grand strategic project, as tends to be the case in modern scholarship, may be an oversimplification, especially given the relatively long period over which they were constructed. Equally important were the resonances on the ground. For citizens of settlements like Ammaedara, the value of their new citadel as an occasional point of refuge may have been less significant than the disappearance of a familiar civic landmark behind its new military façade. The reconstitution of former civic cores as militarized spaces had important implications for those citizens who lived within the walls, as well as for the barbarians beyond them. If the cities of the Roman Empire functioned as machines for the creation of citizens, as S. Esmonde Cleary has argued (2013: 75–76), the weaponized cities of Byzantine Africa were helping to effect a militarization of the region’s political culture.

Economy and Society There is good reason to think that the economy of North Africa weathered the political changes of the 530s and early 540s relatively well; at the very least, the archaeological evidence argues against any significant disruption to either trade or the exploitation of land around the time of the conquest. Corroboration is provided by recent work that has challenged long-standing assumptions

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that the rural economy had collapsed by the time of the Arab/Islamic conquest in the seventh century (Fenwick, 2013; Fenwick, Chapter 24). This is not to suggest that the picture was wholly positive. The surveys around Kasserine in Byzacena and Dougga and Segermes in Zeugitana, all point to a drop in settlement density during the sixth century, with a more marked reduction by the beginning of the seventh century (Hitchner, 1988, 1990; Wickham, 2005: 722–723). However, such changes are not to be attributed to the imperial occupation directly, and need not be interpreted as signs of widespread and catastrophic rural change. The farm buildings excavated at Demna Wadi Arremel in the Segermes region, for example, suggest continued occupation throughout the Byzantine period and give some sense of agricultural prosperity on a local level (Ghalia, 2005). The data from Aïn Wassal in the Dougga region, where finds of fineware decline over the course of the Byzantine period but are more than counterbalanced by coarsewares of local manufacture, gives a similar impression, indicating that settlement continued even as aspects of material consumption changed (De Vos, 2000: 65–71; Wilson, 2001). While the nature of the ceramic record from the seventh and eighth centuries makes broad generalizations difficult, the landscape of Zeugitana and Byzacium certainly seems to have remained productive (Fenwick, Chapter 24). The situation is, however, bleaker in southern Numidia, where the Diana Veteranorum survey implies a rather greater decline in rural agriculture during the sixth century, but these changes were probably well under way before the imperial occupation (Fentress, 2013), and they should not be taken as indicative of the widespread abandonment of agriculture in the region. In the early twentieth century, an ostrakon was discovered in the Negrine Oasis on the southeastern edge of the Aures mountains in the far south of Numidia (Albertini, 1932) that is dated to the sixteenth year of Justinian’s reign (542–543), and records a stage of olive oil production, perhaps carried out by tenant labor on a local estate. As a chance survival on the very edge of the cultivated zone, the Negrine ostrakon may have been produced at an isolated military post, but it nevertheless hints at a bureaucratization of state involvement in oleiculture in this distant region that would otherwise be lost to us (Wickham, 2005: 273; Ast, 2016). The distribution of African ceramics across the Mediterranean similarly indicates that the export production of the region did not suffer any sudden collapse (or any great boost) at the time of the imperial occupation (Reynolds, 2016; Bonifay, Chapter 13). While there is some indication that Byzantine control of Carthage led to a revival of the annona system, which had once shipped massive quantities of agricultural produce to Rome, there is little indication that this had the same transformative effect on Mediterranean exchange networks as the later Roman system (Wickham, 2005: 724–726; Reynolds, 2016: 139). Imports of eastern ceramics became more common in African coastal cities, but amphorae from the eastern Mediterranean had always been abundant in the region, and, if anything, their distribution inland seems to have declined (Bonifay, 2013: 533). African finewares like the ubiquitous ARS – perhaps the single clearest proxy for the changing flows in trade of this period – also present a rather complex picture. While the sixth century witnessed a general decline in ARS exports, certain axial trading links around the Mediterranean did survive, and patterns of production also exhibit some intriguing local variations. It is possible to detect some shifts in production patterns in around 550, for example, as old centers fell out of use and new workshops developed, especially in the southern provinces (Reynolds, 2016: 141–142). Local trade networks have been studied in less depth, but it seems clear that coastal cities remained well-connected to the wider world throughout this period, whereas towns in the interior were increasingly tied to smaller, local systems of distribution and consumption (Bonifay, 2013, 2018, and Chapter 13). Economic fortunes varied dramatically within Byzantine North Africa, as was the case across the late antique world, but this was certainly not a period of sudden decline or of urban collapse (Fenwick, Chapter 24). Coins present a similar picture. The imperial administration took control of the mint in Carthage as part of its wider oversight of the local economy (Morrisson, 2003, 2016; Jonson et al., 2014). The majority of its early issues respected the somewhat idiosyncratic denominations of the Vandal period, presumably as a means of maintaining economic continuity; certainly later Vandal coins remained in use and circulated alongside Byzantine issues throughout North Africa and beyond



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(Morrisson, 2016). The most conspicuous innovation of the post-conquest period was the minting of gold solidi, which had not been produced at all under the Vandal kings, but such high value coinage appears to have been relatively rare during Justinian’s reign, and even fractional coins like semisses and tremisses were scarce (Jonson et al., 2014: 657). Coins, of course, were vehicles for ideological celebration as well as taxation and exchange, and the earliest extant African solidus, which probably dates to 538–545, combines Latin and Greek legends and may allude to the emperor’s African victories in its titulature (Lafaurie, 1961–1962). In the years that followed, African gold issues seem to have remained irregular, only becoming more consistent towards the end of the sixth century, but lower denomination issues were widespread. Significantly, analyses of the distribution of African coins across the Mediterranean corroborate the image of trade provided by the ceramic evidence, and likewise suggest that maritime links remained strong (Morrisson, 2016; Morrisson, Chapter 23). The macro-economic picture of gradual change suggested by the archaeological evidence may not have reflected the lived experience of Africans themselves, who had to contend with an increased state intervention in everyday life, as well as extraordinary environmental factors (Leveau, Chapter 3). Naturally, the imperial authorities did what they could to maximize their own share of African revenues. Substantial renovations were made around the harbor of Carthage, presumably in connection with the resumption of the annona, and similar works may have been carried out in other ports (Hurst, 1993). Early in the occupation, the officials Tryphon and Eustratius were charged with a complete reassessment of the tax records, and probably with the compilation of a new census, a measure that Procopius suggests was widely hated (Procop. Vand. II.8.25; SH 18.9–10). In Justinianic Africa, as elsewhere in the Empire, oversight of this taxation rested with the Prefect and the provincial governors, who deployed agents to exact it through estate owners and municipal authorities (Nov. Just 17.4). Latin and Greek seals from some of these agents survive from the later sixth and seventh centuries (Diehl, 1896: 501–502). The prefects’ fiscal responsibilities also included the redistribution of lands and goods that had been taken from the Vandals – a delicate process that was still ongoing more than 20 years after the conquest (Procop. Vand. II.14.10; Nov Just App 6 [552] and App 9 [558]). Imperial instructions also sought to curb unauthorized extractions by officials and the military, which would certainly have magnified the burden on local populations, particularly during those periods of civil conflict and usurpation in the 530s and 540s (see later), when the structures of central government were substantially weakened (CJ. I.27.1.15–20; CJ.I.27.2.9, 11; Nov Just 17.9–11). Appeals for exemption from formal taxation could be – and were – made to the imperial court in Constantinople, but even when these were approved by the emperor the prefects retained some discretion over their application (Nov Just 152 (534); cf., for example, Nov Just App.2). The inhabitants of early Byzantine Africa also lived through a series of natural disasters, which could have had cataclysmic effects on local society, even if it is difficult to say more than that. Aridification continued throughout the sixth and seventh centuries, although its regional impact is likely to have been varied (Leveau, Chapter 3). The 530s and 540s also witnessed more generalized environmental changes across the Mediterranean world, arising first from the so-called “Dust Veil” event of 536, which precipitated a decade-and-a-half of exceptionally poor weather, and then from the “Justinianic” Plague, which first emerged in 541, and which reached North Africa in 542 or 543 (Newfield, 2018; Mordechai and Eisenberg, 2019; Sessa, 2019). Both of these episodes have been studied extensively in recent years, but we remain a long way from scholarly consensus, even on some quite basic issues. It is likely that the impact of both phenomena varied considerably between regions: whereas parts of Italy seem to have suffered particularly hard from the cold snap after 536, for example (Cassiod. Var XII.25), and cities like Constantinople were devastated by the plague, as Procopius’ account vividly reminds us (Procop. Pers. II.22.1–23.21), other regions may have escaped relatively lightly. There is no direct evidence, for example, to suggest that North Africa was particularly affected by poor harvests as a result of the cold, although the warfare of the mid-540s probably did disrupt agriculture across the region. It may be significant in his Vandal Wars that Procopius describes the “Dust Veil” immediately before his reference to the rebellion of

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Stotzas, but his intention here was presumably to generate an image of widespread disorder rather than to imply a direct link (Procop. Vand II.14.5–6). The plague did hit Africa, and it left a deep psychological impression, even if its demographic impact remains unclear. Victor of Tunnuna, who was in Africa during the early 540s, states that the whole world was struck by a malady of the groin in 543 (Vict Tun. a.543). Zachariah Rhetor also included Africa within his list of regions that were afflicted by the plague (Zach Rhet X.9a). More specifically, in the third book of his Iohannis, Corippus describes the impact of the pestilence on North Africa and presents it as one among several crises that disrupted the peaceful life of the newly imperial province: It came to our land and took fire. Never before had so sad a sound of death been heard, not at the birth of the unformed earth, not in the time of Pyrrha. That deadly year even roused the shades and mingled them with earthly portents. Men saw themselves suffering the wounds of divine arrows, saw various plagues and fearful visions arise from the bowels of the earth. Bitter death held no terror now, and men, whatever their ages, closed their eyes in death without fear. People were even denied bitter tears; not an eye wept as long as every man feared for himself. (Cor. Ioh III.344–355, tr. Shea, p.107)

What is particularly noteworthy about Corippus’ account is his emphasis on the social disruption caused by the disease rather than on its pathology. This runs contrary to long-established poetic precedent when addressing such topics: Virgil, Ovid, and especially Lucretius famously included lurid descriptions of the symptoms of the plague, yet Corippus does not, despite his obvious deference to these writers elsewhere in his poem (Tommasi Moreschini, 2001: 255). Instead, he concentrates on the suffering caused by inheritance disputes, the overturning of marriage contracts, and endless legislation in the courts. The climax to this catalogue of horrors comes with the attack of Antalas, the leader of the Moors, whose followers are said to have been spared the ravages of the plague (Cor. Ioh III.376–400). Corippus leaves a great deal to be desired as a source of information on the direct impact of the plague, but the inclusion of this episode within his summary of the recent past is nevertheless illuminating. The poet is accurate enough about other historical events within his work to allow us to state with confidence that the plague did strike North Africa, but we cannot say much more than that (Gärtner, 2008: 58–127). He implies that the first outbreak lasted a single year, and this too seems plausible enough (Cor. Ioh III.347; cf. Procop. Pers II.23.1). Similarly, it seems likely from his emphasis that the cities of the region were hit particularly hard, as elsewhere in the Mediterranean, but it is by no means certain that, as he implies, the African interior was left unscathed (Cor. Ioh III.388–389). Instead, Corippus’ insistence that Antalas’ Moors were unaffected is probably best read as a reflection of his concern to demonize that group, because there are some hints that the pestilence did penetrate inland (Gärtner, 2008: 82). In Sufetula, for example, a medium-sized inland town in Byzacena, a cluster of funerary epigraphs of youths dating from a two-week period in early 543 has plausibly been associated with the onset of the plague there, although there is no reference to the cause of death in the inscriptions themselves (Durliat, 1989: 108). However, even if secure evidence for the demographic impact of the plague in Africa is scarce, Corippus’ account does testify to its lasting social and cultural impact. The narrative in the Iohannis indicates that the devastation of the plague was well-remembered almost a decade after its first arrival, both as an episode that ended a brief period of peace within the region, and one that brought about social and then political turmoil. For the poet, the plague was merely one of several challenges that hit a suffering province, leading its inhabitants into sin, and ultimately resulting in the resumption of foreign and civil war. It seems reasonable to conclude that this was how the episode was remembered by those in Carthage who survived these various tribulations – as one of a catalogue of miseries, rather than as a unique moment of suffering.



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Military Organization, Warfare, and Civil Strife Justinian’s second edict of April 534 was concerned with the defense of Africa (CJ I.27.2). Addressed to the Magister Militum per orientem Belisarius, who had conducted the victorious conquest, the document provides the most detailed account of military organization from this period, and includes the composition of various command staffs and (to a lesser extent) the chains of command that bound them to the imperial capital. Significantly, Belisarius’ military authority within North Africa was not exactly equivalent to that of Archelaus in the civil sphere. First, the Magister Militum was afforded a certain discretion in the precise disposition of forces within the region: the edict is clear that the occupation of Africa was still ongoing in Spring 534, and Belisarius was encouraged to consolidate this position by the best means possible (CJ I.27.2.4–5, 10). In this sense, the military edict was rather more flexible in its approach to Africa than its civilian equivalent, and was probably intended to be developed over time (Lillington-Martin, 2018). A second crucial difference was the exceptional position of the Magister Militum himself as the supreme military authority within North Africa. Although a succession of generals from Belisarius onwards assumed overall command in North Africa, all of whom bore some variant of the title of Magister Militum, the office only seems to have been formalized as Magister Militum per Africam (or Magister Militum Africae) at the end of Justinian’s reign: our first certain evidence of that rank only dates to around 570 (Durliat, 1979; Pringle, 1981: 55–56; Zuckerman, 2002). Prior to that, supreme command in Africa seems to have been held as an extraordinary office. Whereas the edict of 534 specifies the administrative staffs of the frontier duces in some detail, and explains the areas in which they are subordinate to both the Praetorian Prefect and the imperial court, it is silent on the staff of Belisarius or his successors in office (Puliatti, 1980: 102–111). This was almost certainly deliberate: a succession of revolts and usurpations by African commanders throughout the fourth and early fifth century had repeatedly created problems for the western emperors. Conspicuously, when rumors began to circulate of Belisarius’ own disloyalty in 534, Justinian promptly recalled him to Constantinople; he kept his African commanders on a short leash thereafter, but this lack of confidence created difficulties of its own (Procop. Vand. II.8.1–8). The perennial nature of this problem – and the strategic potential of Africa – was revealed by events in the seventh century. In around 590, the Magister Militum Africae Gennadius seems to have assumed the title Exarch, following a period of continued unrest in the region (PLRE III, Gennadius 1; Greg. Ep. I.59, 72, 73; Theoph Sim, III.4.8; Diehl, 1896: 466–499; Pringle, 1981: 41–43). Although the administrative details of the Carthaginian exarchate are poorly understood, and the position may have been less formalized than scholars have sometimes imagined, it is clear that the military commander in Africa exerted greater direct control over the ducal regions (including the islands) than earlier magistri had, and also enjoyed significant new civil and religious responsibilities (Ford, 2018; cf. Brown, 1984: 48–53). Justinian’s edict was intended to forestall a concatenation of powers in this way, and two later episodes reveal the wisdom of that approach. In 608, the Exarch Heraclius launched a successful revolt against Phocas from Carthage and established his son (the younger Heraclius) on the throne (Kaegi, 2003: 25–51). A second putsch in 646–647 under the Exarch Gregory was less successful politically, but did weaken the African military in the crucial months before the Battle of Sbeïtla (Diehl, 1896: 556–557; Kaegi, 2010: 116–122). Neither rising would have been possible without the coordination of military and civilian powers that became possible in the 590s, and both vividly illustrate dangers of military autonomy that Justinian’s legislation was intended to forestall. The most important permanent commands in the edict of 534 were the ducal offices associated with the defense and military government of the frontier provinces. Each Dux was to be supported by his personal staff and by around 40 paid officials, and was to be stationed in a provincial military capital (CJ I.27.2.6–9): the Dux Tripolitaniae in Lepcis Magna, the Dux Numidiae in Constantina, and the Dux Mauretaniae, pending further military expansion, in Caesarea. The Dux Byzacenae split his time between Capsa in the west and Thelepte in south of the province. A fifth dux was

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appointed to defend Sardinia from the actions of mountain bandits, while a tribune was posted to Septem (mod. Ceuta) to monitor activity around the Strait of Gibraltar (CJ I.27.2.1a). The precise military strength of each sector was not specified in the edict, but initially the garrisons were probably made up of troops from the original expeditionary force, supplemented over time by local recruits and federated barbarian groups (Whitby, 1993; Conant, 2012: 240–241). Most modern estimates place the total strength of the African garrison at around 15,000 in the early years of the occupation, which is approximately equivalent to the size of the expeditionary force, but its numbers may have been depleted on occasion, particularly when support was needed for the Italian campaign (Jones, 1964: 684–685; Pringle, 1981: 65–88; Treadgold, 1995: 60–61). The troops were nominally divided into mobile field armies (comitatenses), frontier troops (limitanei), and the personal guards of the commanders (buccellari), who could be quite numerous (CJ I.27.2.8; Parnell, 2017: 13–32). The edict does not specify the precise duties of each group. It is likely that the Magister Militum was expected to lead the field army in the final push towards the old Roman frontier line, while the duces commanded the limitanei in defense of the provinces, but these distinctions blurred on campaign. Frontier troops were used extensively in the offensive campaigns of 535, 539–540 and 546–548, and the provincial duces also formed a crucial part of the field command at such times. Equally, the field army was required to provide support for the defense of the region in emergencies. Perhaps most importantly, provincial duces were crucial in maintaining the regional alliances that bound federate Moorish groups to imperial service. After his occupation of Carthage, Belisarius famously received ambassadors from Moorish leaders in Byzacium and Numidia, but the ongoing responsibility for these diplomatic connections frequently rested with commanders on the frontiers. This was to have important implications, particularly as loyalties began to fray (Procop. Vand. I.25.2–9; 4.21.2; cf. Merrills, 2021). The extent of the correspondence between the military organization laid down in Spring 534 and the later operation of the African army in the field is far from clear. Justinian evidently expected some changes to be made in the light of local circumstances, and these became more dramatic as the imperial occupation progressed. (CJ I.27.2.5, 8). The formalization of the office of Magister Militum Africae in the 570s probably reflects one such restructuring, and was followed by the creation of an African exarchate in the later 580s (Pringle, 1981: 41–43; Zuckerman, 2002: 169– 170; PLRE IIIA Gennadius 1). Further changes took place in the seventh century in the aftermath of Heraclius’ accession and in the face of the extended military crises of the Arab conquest (Zuckerman, 2002; Kaegi, 2010, 2016). As a result, it is very difficult to link the army defeated at Sbeïtla in 642 back to the defensive system envisaged by Justinian more than a century earlier, and any attempt to do so risks oversimplifying the complexity and fragmentation of the changing military situation within Africa. Nevertheless, a brief survey of the muddled events of the 530s and 540s – a period that we can discuss in some detail thanks to the richness of our literary sources – does help illuminate some of the wider difficulties that continued to plague the imperial army in Africa over the decades that followed. Justinian’s military policy in North Africa was framed in the expectation that Moorish barbarians would be the principal obstacle to the final restoration of imperial power, and the intention to expel them from imperial lands is stated explicitly in the 534 Edict (CJ I.27.2.9–10). These groups included the semi-autonomous rulers who had risen to power in the old Roman provinces of Byzacena, Numidia, and Mauretania, but also the mixed pastoralist and agriculturalist populations of the Tripolitanian pre-desert and the regions beyond (Modéran, 2003). The majority of modern studies have consequently presented the imperial occupation as a strategic consolidation of imperial rule against barbarian pressure (Diehl, 1896: 51–93; Pringle, 1981; Shea, 1983; Lassère, 2015: 698–704), and there were certainly periods when this was the case. In its first months, Belisarius’ successor Solomon took the offensive against several Moorish groups in Byzacena and southern Numidia, briefly establishing an imperial presence in the Aures massif in the late summer of 535 (Procop. Vand. II.11.1–14.45). In 539/540, he returned to the field and in a series of campaigns consolidated this position across Numidia and the eastern parts of Mauretania (Procop. Vand. II.19.5–20.33). The same period witnessed a rapid phase of fortification across these far-flung



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regions, and probably represented the maximal extent of direct imperial authority inland (Laporte, 2002). After 544, however, following a succession of diplomatic disasters on the frontiers, this situation reversed and the agricultural lands of Byzacena, Numidia, and Zeugitana were repeatedly ravaged. Conflict reached as far as the walls of Carthage itself, and imperial authority was only restored following successive campaigns by John Troglita between 546 and 548. These were the victories celebrated in Corippus’ epic Iohannis, which casts this period as an existential struggle between the Moorish forces of pagan chaos and the pious order of the imperial state (Cameron, 1984; Zarini, 2003; Gärtner, 2008; Riedlberger, 2010). In fact, matters were not so straightforward. Internal tensions within the army posed a far more insidious threat to imperial power in North Africa than the menace from “external” barbarians, and even the crisis of 544–548 cannot be explained without reference to these structural weaknesses. From the outset, the African garrison was beset by desertion, mutinies, and revolts, the products of disjointed imperial policy, poor leadership, and a stretched imperial treasury that could rarely pay its troops promptly. The discontent that this engendered among the troops presumably had an effect on the local population as well, as soldiers fed themselves on their own initiative. The first major crisis occurred at Easter 536, when soldiers in Carthage proclaimed one Stotzas (variously Stotias, Stutias, Stuzas) as their leader and variously protested against religious policies that excluded Arian soldiers from church and the confiscation of lands that they regarded as theirs by right, as well as about problems with pay (Procop. Vand. II.14.7–17.35; II.23.1–24.14; Kaegi, 1965, 1981: 45–49). Procopius reports that two-thirds of the African garrison were in revolt at the height of this rebellion, and describes a grim picture of widespread dissent, including one episode when troops murdered their officers (Procop. Vand. II.15.50–59). The imperial authorities were able to suppress the worst outbreaks through the dispatch of capable leaders with the promise of back-pay, but Stotzas’ revolt smoldered in one form or another for 10 years, even beyond the death of its leader in 544, and was one of the few episodes in North Africa to draw the attention of contemporary eastern chroniclers (Vict Tun a.541.2, a543, a.545; Marc Com Add. a.537.3; a.539.4; a.542.3; a.544.2; Jordanes, Rom. 384). Nor was this the only internal conflict. In 545 or 546, the Dux Numidiae Guntharis plotted against the Magister Militum Areobindus, eventually arranging his assassination at a banquet and seizing power for himself (Procop. Vand. II.25.1–28.41; Vict Tun a.546.2; Marc Com Add. a.546.6; Jordanes, Rom. 384). This usurpation proved to be short lived, and Guntharis was himself murdered after little more than a month, but the episode revealed fundamental fault-lines within the imperial military system. The prefect Athanasius, the Armenian princeling Artabanes, and Bishop Reparatus of Carthage were all complicit in Guntharis’s actions to varying degrees. Only the troops under the Dux Byzacenae Marcentius are known to have remained faithful to Constantinople throughout the usurpation, and his fidelity may have arisen more from rivalry between the two duces than simple loyalty to Justinian (Procop. Vand. II.26.23– 33; 4.27.6. Letter of the Milanese Clergy, 20). While the overthrow of Guntharis was presented by contemporaries as the restoration of imperial order, the systemic weaknesses within the African administration are evident (Procop. Vand. II.28.12–13; 4.28.36–41; Cor. Ioh IV.232–235). The Moorish attacks of the 540s were also inextricably entangled with these internal struggles (Modéran, 2003: 607–644; von Rummel, 2010). The leaders of the African barbarians frequently had their own ambitions within the imperial system, within which they sought stipends or office for themselves, but they were also valuable pieces for other players in the great game of Carthaginian politics. Here the ambiguous relationship between different parts of the military hierarchy, implicit in the Edict of 534, was brought tragically to the fore. When Guntharis rebelled against Areobindus in 545, for example, the Moorish leaders Antalas and Cusina were crucial allies in his cause, and Procopius is explicit that the movement of these barbarians against Carthage – a major element in the Moorish war of the mid 540s – was the direct result of Guntharis’ skullduggery (Procop. Vand. II.25.2–10). Conspicuously, Areobindus also sought to ally with Cusina during the same conflict (Procop. Vand. II.25.15). Antalas likewise had variously thrown in his lot with Belisarius, Solomon, and Stotzas in the past, and in the aftermath of the coup he allied with the Dux Byzacenae Marcentius after falling out with Guntharis (Procop. Vand. II.27.2–4; Cor. Ioh 4.367–371).

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The wars of the 530s and 540s, in other words, were often struggles between different imperial factions, which commonly mobilized Moorish allies in support of their own interests, rather than simple conflicts between “Roman” and “barbarian” forces. Antalas’ initial break with the Byzantine administration occurred in 544, and coincided with a similar revolt among the Laguatan confederation of Moors in Tripolitania. These new tensions may have resulted from changing environmental factors in the aftermath of the plague, from the application of a harsh new imperial policy towards limitanei and frontier allies, or perhaps from a combination of these elements, but the policies of individual frontier commanders certainly made a bad situation worse. Procopius provides two different accounts of the outbreak of the Laguatan revolt that followed the murder of 79 of their ambassadors on the orders of the Dux Tripolitaniae Sergius, but this may have been more than the simple diplomatic blunder that he suggests (Procop. Vand. II.21.2–12; SH 5.28. Modéran, 2003: 289–309). Certainly, the Dux seems to have been seeking military allies at this time: his subordinate Pelagius was later dispatched to Solomon at the head of two allied Moorish tribes, only to see them turn against him, and Pelagius accused of treachery (Cor. Ioh. III.409–410; PLRE III. Pelagius 1). Equally seriously, Sergius’ profound unpopularity among the other African commanders prevented a coherent response to the chaos that he had helped to create. One commander, John Sinisiolus, refused to take to the field alongside him, and the Dux Byzacenae Himerius was forced to surrender Hadrumetum as a result of the confusion that followed (Procop. Vand. II.22.3–4; 23.2–32; Cor. Ioh. IV.8–17); Sergius then refused to relieve the city in spite of the pleas of its inhabitants (Procop. Vand. II.23.20–21). Even Corippus, whose account of the same period is often dismissed as blinkered imperial propaganda, emphasizes the tragic effects of divided leadership. Speaking of the elevation of Sergius to the joint command of the African military alongside Areobindus after the death of Solomon, he laments: Rivalry and confusion divided the wills of our own rivals, and each despised his equal and remained at cross-purposes with him. The state was split into two factions and each had its own leaders. One of the men might proudly consider himself first in the realm, but the other refused to be second. Africa lay barren in the wake of barbarian plundering and wept. (Cor. Ioh IV.96–102; tr. Shea p.113)

The appointment of John Troglita to overall command in Africa in 546, and the successful campaigns that followed, did a great deal to disguise these weaknesses, but Corippus’ narrative is clear that the army of 548 was still far from unified and that the general played an important role in keeping it together (cf. Cor. Ioh VII.242–261; VIII.59–163). Our impression of the military situation after 550 is distorted by the absence of similarly detailed narrative sources, but there are occasional hints that basic divisions of this kind did continue. The successive waves of military reorganization in Africa during the last quarter of the sixth century, including the formal appointment of the Magister Militum per Africam, and eventually the creation of the position of exarch, may have been attempts to address these problems (cf. Malalas 495; Joh Bic. a.569, 570, 571; Theoph Sim III.4.8, VII.6.6–7).

Justinian’s Christian Province The imperial conquest was greeted more warmly by the African church than by any other group in the region, and this encouraged Justinian’s sense of his own divine mission. When the Council of Carthage gathered in the Spring of 535, the first such meeting for a decade, the assembled bishops were effusive in their praise for an emperor who offered liberation after more than a century of heretical captivity at the hands of the Arian Vandals (Coll Av 85). Justinian sought above all to integrate Africa within the wider Christian commonwealth. In the first months of the occupation, the religious laws that applied elsewhere in the empire were extended to Africa, on the assumption that these could be applied relatively seamlessly (CJ I.3.54). The first directives that related specifically



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to the church in Africa, issued in 534, are no longer extant but can be pieced together from references in later legislation (Merrills and Miles, 2010: 248–251). At this stage, the emperor adopted a relatively lenient position towards the Arian church in North Africa, presumably in the hope of minimizing resistance to imperial control, integrating the secular and episcopal elites within the new regime, and perhaps limiting the economic disruption that would have been caused by the redistribution of church estates. However, this approach hardened after the meeting of the Carthage Council in 535 when the Nicenes refused to allow Arians to be admitted into their church, and were supported in this by the papacy (Coll Av. 85–88). By August 535, Justinian restored all churches, ecclesiastical lands, and other goods from the Arian establishment to the Nicene, and formally extended existing legislation against Jews and Christian heretics (Nov Just 37). The same law recognized the exemption of church lands from taxation. In this way, the Nicene church was restored to its exclusive position within the African provinces. Justinian engaged most directly with the North African church on a provincial level, just as he had with the civic administration. Much of the legislation relating to African Christianity was drafted by the emperor himself, and while some contemporaries were skeptical of such intervention, his sincerity was generally appreciated (Honoré, 1978: 24–26). The emperor regarded Carthage as the Christian capital of the region, and honored its bishop Reparatus with the unprecedented title of Archiepiscopus in acknowledgement of the historical importance of his diocese and the bishop’s personal support for the occupation (Nov Just 37.9; Nov Just. 131.4; Vict Tun a.554.2; 563.1; cf. Markus, 1979; Kaiser, 2007: 105–109). Justinian also recognized the existing hierarchies within the other African provinces and the primates of Numidia and Byzacena were honored with similarly exalted titles in chancellery correspondence, even if these may not have been formally granted (Nov Just App 2, 3; Kaiser, 2007: 116). Although some scholars have suggested that long-standing tensions between the provincial churches of Africa, Byzacena, and Numidia resurfaced in this period, there is little clear evidence that this was the case (Kaiser, 2007: 136–154). The bishops of each region continued to meet regularly in provincial councils, and evidently regarded the province as their principal point of collective affiliation, but the rivalries between different primates that had occasionally surfaced in the later Vandal period seem not to have continued under Byzantine rule. Justinian received embassies from the different provincial churches and was at pains to present himself as their natural patron. An extant sanction of 541 to the Primate of Byzacena assures the church of his concern to protect its long-standing privileges and may have offered tax relief in response to its appeal (Nov Just. App. 2). A similar document from the following year, in which the emperor reiterated his concern to police the customary rights of the local churches, was probably sent to the primates of all of the African provinces (Nov Just. App. 3). Just as the practicalities of Byzantine political government were worked out most fully on a municipal level, so too were the bishops the most effective agents of religious change. We know frustratingly little about the wider episcopal networks of the mid-sixth century and after, particularly in contrast to the well-documented fifth century, but bishops certainly remained crucial religious and social leaders throughout this period (Durliat, 1982; Leone, 2011–2012: 13–18). Two hundred and twenty bishops from across Africa gathered at the 535 Council; given the great distances and difficulties of travel that had always hampered such gatherings, it is likely that the actual number of bishops in office at that time was considerably greater (Coll Av 85). Provincial councils were held across Africa in 646, when 69 bishops attended the gathering in Carthage, as did 44 in Byzacena; full records do not exist for either Numidia or Mauretania, but it is likely that they were much smaller (Maier, 1973: 80–84; Kaiser, 2007: 113; Leone, 2011–2012: 14). There is some indication from these seventh-century episcopal lists that the precise distribution of dioceses changed considerably over the century of Byzantine rule, but this had always been the case in Christian Africa, where dioceses were always numerous and rarely fixed (Maier, 1973; Leone, 2011–2012). We do occasionally catch glimpses of bishops and other churchmen assuming their duties as civic leaders. Deacon Ferrandus of Carthage, for example, composed a Letter to Count Reginus, which positioned the cleric as a natural champion of the civilian population against the

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potential abuses of a military administrator (PL 67: 928B–950A; Cooper, 2007: 31–37; Whelan, 2018: 407–416). Reparatus of Carthage also played an important role in the power politics of the 540s, albeit with unfortunate consequences, as we have seen. In crises, churchmen could even assume military responsibility themselves, as was the case with the priest Paulus following the fall of Hadrumetum or Verecundus of Iunci during the siege of his city (Procop. Vand. II.23.18–25; Cor. Ioh VII.479–494). Bishops also played a vital role in church building programs. Procopius and Evagrius celebrate the role played by the emperor in facilitating the refashioning of the Christian landscape, but inscriptions consistently emphasize the importance of bishops or local secular patrons in church building, restorations, or the deposition of relics (Conant, 2016; Leone, 2011–2012: 16–17). That innumerable new churches were erected or rebuilt in the early years of the Byzantine occupation is not to be doubted, but archaeological and epigraphic evidence shows that church building was an ongoing process, as was the case with secular constructions, in which waves of building and reconstruction followed throughout the later sixth century. New architectural styles developed in this period, including the systematic incorporation of existing elements within new church buildings, as is clear at Sabratha (Leone, 2013: 215–229). Often, the reoccupation of prominent churches previously held by a rival sect would be marked by an internal reorganization, which could involve the reorientation of the building through the introduction of new altars, martyria, or baptisteries, and this seems to have been particularly common in the early years of Byzantine Africa (Yasin, 2016). Internal rebuilding of this kind would profoundly alter worshippers’ experience of sacred space, and thereby re-imagine the church. If the newly walled towns of Justinianic Africa spoke to a new form of militarized citizen, the massive churches showed that these also remained Christian spaces. Justinian’s dream of a Christian Africa, seamlessly integrated into the wider imperial commonwealth, faced its greatest obstacle in the so-called Three Chapters crisis of the 540s and 550s (Modéran, 2007; Conant, 2012: 317–324; Dossey, 2016). The controversy arose in around 543 from Justinian’s attempt to placate Monothelite sympathizers within the imperial circle by retrospectively condemning elements in the writings of three Greek theologians that had been ratified by the Council of Chalcedon in 451. This was a somewhat obscure issue, which meant little to many members of the Latin Church, as several African authors confessed, but the issue rapidly escalated nevertheless (Ep Pont. 997). Pope Vigilius I initially condemned the emperor’s actions for assuming the right to challenge conciliar authority, and was supported in his opposition by several prominent African churchmen. After considerable pressure, Vigilius recanted, but the African position solidified in a Council in Carthage in 550, which condemned the Pope for his backsliding. Justinian’s response was to exert pressure on the church through its provincial hierarchy. In 551, Archbishop Reparatus, Firmus the primate of Numidia, and two representatives of the primate of Byzacena were brought to Constantinople and pressured into compliance. Of the four, only Firmus immediately acquiesced with the imperial line, but Reparatus was imprisoned for his role in the Guntharis uprising and was replaced as Bishop of Carthage by the more sympathetic Primosus. Thereafter, the African church tended increasingly toward the imperial position. Although parts of North Africa did continue to resist, and the theologians of the region generated an astonishing volume of writing in defense of the Three Chapters, the tide had clearly turned. By 556 Bishop Primosus of Carthage began to persecute the last holdouts through corporal punishment, imprisonment, and exile (Vict Tun a.556.1). There can be little argument that the Three Chapters dispute represented a major point of conflict between the imperial court and parts of the African episcopal establishment, and that this certainly affected the stability of Byzantine rule in the region, particularly during a period of social, military, and demographic upheaval. However, the collision of the very different intellectual traditions that created the crisis, did not generate an intractable opposition between “African” and “imperial” Christianities. From a relatively early stage of the occupation, African clerics were attracted by the extensive eastern theological and conciliar traditions hitherto unknown to them



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because they were largely written in Greek. Ferrandus of Carthage had compiled a summary of eastern conciliar decisions (the Brevatio Canonum) at around the time of the occupation, and in the 540s Primasus of Hadrumetum commissioned the imperial quaestor Junillus to summarize the ideas of different theological schools in his Instituta regularia divina (Maas, 2003). These works reflect local enthusiasm for participation in a wider intellectual world, as much as a skepticism towards it. Significantly, the Three Chapters dispute was not so much a conflict between “eastern” and “western” theologies, as a debate over authority within the church (Dossey, 2016). Evidently the position of many African clerics was initially shaped by their own experience of persecution under the Vandals, as well as by long-standing debates over secular authority that could be traced back to the “Donatist” dispute in the fourth and early fifth centuries. These traditions did not lead inevitably to unthinking opposition, however, even if the overview of the dispute provided by Victor of Tunnuna, and the sheer volume of extant material that was written in defense of the Three Chapters by African theologians, encourage this view. The imperial mouthpiece, Mocianus, for example, who was sent back to his native Africa to solidify Justinian’s support, used the language of the Donatist dispute to brand his opponents as heretics and schismatics (Modéran, 2007: 52–54). Somewhere in between falls Liberatus of Carthage’s Breviarum, which summarized Nestorian and Monophysite theology for an African audience in the later 550s; this was hostile to the condemnation of the Three Chapters, but contrived to take a fairly sympathetic line towards Justinian himself (Meier, 2010). Perhaps most telling is the relatively rapid collapse of institutional resistance within Africa itself, which crumbled over the course of the 550s. Although African spokesmen were still debating the issue in Constantinople in 565, and Facundus’ Epistula Fidei was written in 568, the dust had more or less settled by then (Vict. Tun. a. 565.1). In the same year, the bishops of Byzacena – once the stronghold of resistance to the imperial position – wrote to the emperor Justin II asking for formal recognition of their old privileges. As Y.Modéran has argued, it is possible that renewed military difficulties in the second half of the sixth century made recalcitrant churchmen more willing to throw in their lot with the power of the state (Modéran, 2007: 79–82).

Conclusion A detailed understanding of Byzantine North Africa is all but impossible to develop for the period after Justinian’s reign. Scattered textual sources allow us to piece together certain aspects of the changing religious landscape of the later-sixth and mid-seventh centuries (Adamiak, 2016), or to provide a narrative of warfare during the last decades of the imperial occupation (Kaegi, 2010, 2016), but these merely provide glimpses of a society in moments of upheaval, rather than a more rounded image. Justinian’s rule in North Africa also experienced periods of profound crisis, particularly during the tumultuous 540s, when plague, external war, internecine conflict, and a deep religious schism all shattered the stability of the region, but the comparatively rich textual sources for the early decades of imperial rule, combined with an increasing appreciation of the evidence of material culture, better allows us to set these upheavals in their context. Most of the old imperial territories in Africa still lay beyond the reach of the eastern empire, and followed their own trajectories in the period before the Arab conquests, but the provinces of Carthage, Byzacena, and Numidia, which returned to imperial control in this period, were affected deeply by their re-integration into the Mediterranean world. While these areas seem not to have experienced abrupt social or economic change in the immediate aftermath of the occupation, the introduction of new political structures, and new forms of state intervention in religious life had dramatic implications nonetheless. Justinian may have been overly optimistic in his view of the occupation as an unqualified success, but the deep impact of his restoration of imperial rule to the African provinces was clear.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The author would like to thank Simon Loseby, Bruce Hitchner, and Ine Jacobs for help in the research and writing of this chapter.

FURTHER READING Diehl (1896) remains the standard starting point for discussion of Byzantine North Africa: an up-to-date synthesis incorporating modern archaeological understanding is long overdue. Cameron (1982, 1984, 1989, and 1993b) are fine overviews of the major textual sources, as a starting point for rethinking this period. They are conveniently gathered together in Cameron (1997). Pringle (1981) is the clearest overview of the archaeology of Byzantine fortifications and of the military history, particularly of the sixth century, and this is now complemented by a stimulating overview of the seventh-century narrative in Kaegi (2010). The papers collected in Stevens and Conant (2016) cover many aspects of Byzantine Africa and are recommended as an introduction to more recent scholarship, particularly on the archaeology and on the religious disputes of the period.

REFERENCES Adamiak, S. 2016. Carthage, Constantinople and Rome. Imperial and Papal Interventions in the Life of the Church in Byzantine Africa (533–698). Rome. Albertini, E. 1932. “Ostrakon byzantin de Négrine (Numidie).” In Cinquantenaire de la Faculté des Lettres d’Alger (1881–1931), 53–62 Algiers. Allen, P., and Neil, B., eds. 2015. The Oxford Handbook of Maximus the Confessor. Oxford. Ast, R. 2016. “1–17. Latin Ostraca from Vandal North Africa.” In Mélanges Jean Gascou textes et études papyrologiques, eds. J.-L. Fournet and A. Papaconstantinou, 7–32. Paris. Baratte, F., and Bejaoui, F. 2010. “Les fortifications byzantines d’Ammaedara.” CRAI 154.1: 513–538. Bonifay, M. 2013. “Africa: Patterns of consumption in Coastal Regions vs Inland Regions: The ceramic evidence (300–700 AD).” In Local Economies? Production and Exchange of Inland Regions in Late Antiquity, ed. L. Lavan, 529–566. Leiden. Bonifay, M. 2018. “The distribution of African pottery under the Roman Empire. Evidence versus interpretation.” In Trade, Commerce, and the State in the Roman World, eds. A. Wilson and A.K. Bowman, 327–352. Oxford. Börm, H. 2013. “Justinians Triumph und Belisars Erniedrigung. Überlegungen zum Verhältnis zwischen Kaiser und Militär im späten Römischen Reich.” Chiron 43: 63–91. Brown, T.S. 1984. Gentlemen and Officers. Imperial Administration and Aristocratic Power in Byzantine Italy AD 554–800. Rome. Cameron, A. 1982. “Byzantine Africa: The literary evidence.” In Excavations at Carthage, VII, ed. J.H. Humphrey, 29–62. Ann Arbor. Cameron, A. 1984. “Corippus’ Iohannis: Epic of Byzantine Africa.” Papers of the Liverpool Latin Seminar 4: 167–180. Cameron, A. 1989. “Gelimer’s Laughter: The case of Byzantine Africa.” In Tradition and Innovation in Late Antiquity, eds. F.M. Clover and R.S. Humphreys, 171–190. Madison. Cameron, A. 1993a. “The Byzantine reconquest of N. Africa and the impact of Greek culture.” GraecoArabica 5: 153–165. Cameron, A., ed. 1993b. The Byzantine and Early Islamic Near East. 3.States, Resources and Armies. Princeton. Cameron, A. 1997. Changing Cultures in Early Byzantium. Aldershot. Conant, J.P. 2012. Staying Roman. Conquest and Identity in Africa and the Mediterranean, 439–700. Cambridge. Conant, J.P. 2016. “Sanctity and the networks of Empire in Byzantine North Africa.” In Stevens and Conant, eds., 201–214. Cooper, K. 2007. The Fall of the Roman Household. Cambridge. Curta, F., ed. 2010. Neglected Barbarians. Turnhout.



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De Vos, M. 2000. Rus Africum: terra, acqua, olio nell’Africa settentrionale. Trent. Diehl, C. 1896. L’Afrique Byzantine: histoire de la domination byzantine en Afrique (533–709). Paris. Dossey, L. 2016. “Exegesis and dissent in Byzantine North Africa.” In Stevens and Conant, eds., 251–268. Dunbabin, K. 1985. “Mosaics of North Africa in the Byzantine Period.” Études anciennes 17: 8–29. Durliat, J. 1979. “Magister Militum/Στρατηλατησ dans l’Empire Byzantin.” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 12: 306–320. Durliat, J. 1981. Les Dédicaces. D’ouvrages de défense dans l’Afrique Byzantine. Rome. Durliat, J. 1982. “Les attributions civiles des byzantins: L’exemple du diocèse d’Afrique (533–709).” In Internationaler Byzantinistenkongress. Wien 4.-9. Oktober Akten 2, 2. Kurzbeiträge, 4: Soziale Strukturen und ihre Entwicklung, 73–84. Vienna. Durliat, J. 1989. “La peste du VIe siècle: pour un nouvel examen des sources byzantines.” In Hommes et richesses dans l’Empire byzantine, eds, C. Abadie-Reynal, C. Morrisson, and J. Lefort, 107–119. Paris. Esmonde Cleary, S. 2013. The Roman West AD 200–500. An Archaeological Study. Cambridge. Fentress, E. 2013. “Diana Veteranorum and the dynamics of an Inland Economy.” In Local Economies? Production and Exchange of Inland Regions in Late Antiquity, ed. L. Lavan, 315–342. Leiden. Fenwick, C. 2013. “From Africa to Ifrīqiya: Settlement and society in Early Medieval North Africa (650– 800).” Al Masaq 25.1: 9–33. Ford, S.S. 2018. “Carthage, Exarchate of.” In The Oxford Dictionary of Late Antiquity, ed. O. Nicholson, 298. Oxford. Gärtner, T. 2008. Untersuchungen zur Gestaltung und zum historischen Stoff der Johannis Coripps. Berlin. Ghalia, T. 2005. “La villa romaine de Demna – Wadi Arremel et son contexte.” Africa n.s. 3: 79–86. Handley, M. 2004. “Disputing the end of African Christianity.” In Vandals, Romans and Berbers. New Perspectives on Late Antique North Africa, ed. A.H. Merrills, 291–310. Aldershot. Hays, G. 2016. “Sounds from a silent land: The Latin poetry of Byzantine North Africa.” In Stevens and Conant, eds., 269–294. Hitchner, R.B. 1988. “The Kasserine Archaeological Survey 1982–1986.” AntAf 26: 7–41. Hitchner, R. B. 1990. “The Kasserine Archaeological Survey 1987,” AntAf 26: 231–260. Honoré, T. 1978. Tribonian. London. Hurst, H. 1993. “Excavations in the Southern Part of the Carthage Harbor, 1992–1993.” Centre d’études et de documentation archéologique de la conservation de Carthage 13: 10–18. Jacobs, I. 2013. Aesthetic Maintenance of Civic Space: The “Classical” City from the 4th to the 7th c. AD. Leuven. Jones, A.H.M. 1964. The Later Roman Empire 284–602. Oxford. Jonson, T., Blet-Lemarquand, M., and Morrisson, C. 2014. “The Byzantine mint in Carthage and the Muslim mint of Africa – New metallurgical findings.” Revue Numismatique 171: 655–699 Kaegi, W.E. 1965. “Arianism and the Byzantine Army in Africa 533–546.” Traditio 21: 23–53. Kaegi, W.E. 1981. Byzantine Military Unrest 471–843. An Interpretation. Amsterdam. Kaegi, W.E. 2003. Heraclius. Emperor of Byzantium. Cambridge. Kaegi, W.E. 2010. Muslim Expansion and Byzantine Collapse in North Africa. Cambridge. Kaegi, W.E. 2016. “The Islamic Conquest and the defense of Byzantine Africa. Reconsiderations on campaigns, conquests, and contexts,” In Stevens and Conant, eds. 65–86. Kaiser, W. 2007. Authentizität und Geltung spätantiker Kaisergesetze. Munich. Kaldellis, A. 2016. “‘Procopius’ Vandal War. Thematic trajectories and hidden transcripts.” In Stevens and Conant, eds., 13–21. Lafaurie, J. 1961–1962. “Un solidus inédit de Justinien Ier frappé en Afrique.” Revue Numismatique: 167–182. Laporte, J.-P. 2002. “Zabi, Friki: notessur la Maurétanie et la Numidie de Justinien.” AntTard 10: 151–167. Lassère, J.-M. 2015. Africa, quasi Roma. 256 av. J.-C.–711 apr. J.-C. Paris. Leone, A. 2007. Changing Townscapes in North Africa from Late Antiquity to the Arab Conquest. Bari. Leone, A. 2011–2012. “Bishops and territory: The case of Late Roman and Byzantine North Africa.” Dumbarton Oaks Studies 65.6: 5–27. Leone, A. 2013. The End of the Pagan City. Religion, Economy, and Urbanism in Late Antique North Africa. Oxford.

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Leone, A., and Mattingly, D.J. 2004. “Vandal, Byzantine and Arab rural landscapes in North Africa.” In Landscapes of Change. Rural Evolutions in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, ed. N. Christie, 135–162. Aldershot. Lillington-Martin, C. 2018. “Procopius, πάρεδρος / quaestor, Codex Justinianus, I.27 and Belisarius’ strategy in the Mediterranean.” In Procopius of Caesarea: Literary and Historical Interpretations, eds. C. LillingtonMartin and E. Turquois, 157–185. London. Maas, M. 1986. “Roman history and Christian ideology in Justinianic reform legislation.” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 40: 17–31. Maas, M. 2003. Exegesis and Empire in the Early Byzantine Mediterranean. Junillus Africanus and the “Instituta Regularia Divinae Legis.” Tübingen. Maier, J.-L. 1973. L’épiscopat de l’Afrique Romaine Vandale et Byzantine. Rome. Markus, R.A. 1979. “Carthage-Prima Justiniana-Ravenna: An aspect of Justinian’s ‘Kirchenpolitik’.” Byzantion 49: 277–302. Meier, M. 2003. Das andere Zeitalter Justinians. Kontingenzerfahrung und Kontingenzbewältigung im 6 Jahrhundert n.Chr. Göttingen. Meier, M. 2010. “Das Breviarum des Liberatus von Karthago. Einige Hypothesen zu seiner Intention.” Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 14: 130–148. Merrills, A. 2021. “The men who would be king: Moorish political hierarchies and imperial policy in Byzantine Africa.” Al-Masa ˉq 33: 14–29. Merrills, A., and Miles, R.T. 2010. The Vandals. Oxford. Miles, R.T. 2020. “Late Antique Carthage. Historical and archaeological contexts.” In The Bir Messaouda Basilica. Pilgrimage and the Transformation of an Urban Landscape in Sixth Century AD Carthage, eds. R.T. Miles and S. Greenslade, 9–23. Oxford. Modéran, Y. 2003. Les Maures et L’Afrique Romaine (IVe – VIIe siècle). Paris. Modéran, Y. 2007. “L’Afrique reconquise et les trois chapitres.” In The Crisis of the Oikoumene: The Three Chapters and the Failed Quest for Unity in the Sixth-Century Mediterranean, eds. C.M. Chazelle and C. Cubitt, 39–82. Turnhout. Mordechai, L., and Eisenberg, M. 2019. “Rejecting catastrophe: The case of the Justinianic Plague.” Past and Present 244.1: 3–48. Morrisson, C. 2003. “L’atelier de Carthage et la diffusion de la monnaie frappée dans l’Afrique vandale et Byzantine (439–695).” AntTard 11: 65–84. Morrisson, C. 2016. “Regio dives in omnibus bonis ornata. The African economy from the Vandals to the Arab Conquest in the light of coin evidence.” In Stevens and Conant, eds., 173–198. Newfield, T. 2018. “Mysterious and mortiferous clouds: The climate cooling and disease burden of Late Antiquity.” In Environment and Society in the Long Late Antiquity, eds. A. Izdebski and M. Mulryan, 89– 115. Leiden. Parnell, D.A. 2017. Justinian’s Men. Careers and Relationships of Byzantine Army Officers, 518–610. London. Pringle, D. 1981. The Defence of Byzantine Africa from Justinian to the Arab Conquest. Oxford. Pringle, D. 2002. “Two fortified sites in Byzantine Africa: Aïn Djelloula and Henchir Sguidan.” AntTard 10: 269–290. Puliatti, S. 1980. Ricerche sulla legislazione ‘regionale’ di Giustiniano. Milan. Reynolds, P. 2016. “From Vandal Africa to Arab Ifriqiya. Tracing ceramic and economic trends through the fifth to the eleventh centuries.” In Stevens and Conant, eds., 129–171. Riedlberger, P. 2010. Philologischer, historischer und liturgischer Kommentar zum 8. Buch der Johannis des Goripp. Leiden. Sessa, K. 2019. “The new environmental Fall of Rome: A methodological consideration.” Journal of Late Antiquity 12.1: 211–255. Shea, G.W. 1983. “Justinian’s North African strategy in the Johannis of Corippus.” Byzantine Studies 10.1: 29–38. Stevens, S.T., and Conant, J., eds. 2016. North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam. Washington, DC. Tommasi Moreschini, C.O. 2001. Flavii Cresconii Corippi. Iohannidos Liber III. Florence. Treadgold, W. 1995. Byzantium and its Army 284–1081. Stanford. von Rummel, P. 2010. “The Frexes: Late Roman Barbarians in the shadow of the Vandal Kingdom.” In Curta, ed., 571–604.



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Vössing, K. 2010. “Africa zwischen Vandalen, Mauren und Byzantinern (533–548 n.Chr).” Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum 14: 196–225. Whelan, R. 2018. “An ascetic state? Fashioning Christian political service across the early sixth-century Mediterranean.” Studies in Late Antiquity 2.3: 385–418. Whitby, M. 1993 “Recruitment in Roman armies from Justinian to Heraclius (ca. 565–615).” In Cameron, ed., 61–124. Wickham, C. 2005. Framing the Early Middle Ages. Oxford. Wilson, A. 2001. “Review of de Vos 2000.” Libyan Studies 32: 186–188. Yasin, A.M. 2016. “Beyond Spolia: Architectural memory and adaptation in the churches of Late Antique Africa.” In Stevens and Conant, eds., 215–236. Zarini, V. 2003. Rhétorique, poétique, spiritualité: La technique épique de Corippe dans la Johannide. Turnhout. Zuckerman, C. 2002. “Haute hiérarchie militaire en Afrique Byzantine.” AntTard 10: 169–175.

CHAPTER 23

Late Roman, Vandal, and Byzantine Coinage in Africa Cécile Morrisson

The memory of a great French Africanist: Jehan Desanges (3 January 1929–23 March 2021)

Introduction As one of the most prosperous provinces in the empire, especially in the third century ce when it was spared the raids, invasions, and internal feuds that plagued the West, Roman Africa needed and could rely on a large circulating medium, provided by the local mint when active and mainly by other imperial ones North of the Mediterranean. As the stock dwindled and was less re-provisioned from declining Western Roman mints in the fifth century, Africans under the Vandals resorted to imperial gold increasingly derived from the East and to local issues of silver and bronze coins, in a complex mix of pseudo-imperial, regal, and at times anonymous issues. In 533 the Byzantine reconquest re-integrated Africa into a unified Mediterranean monetary system. The Vandal innovations were, however, not discarded and contributed to a synthesis of Western and Eastern elements that characterize the Byzantine coinage in Africa, which continued to support the active fiscal system and economic exchanges of the province well into the seventh century. Its peculiar gold issues were even continued for a while by the Umayyads.

Coinage and Its Use in Africa in the Early Fifth Century Contrary to Asia Minor where the provincial coinage had lasted into the early third century, Africa had no such coinage after the early first century ce and depended mainly on the mint of Rome for its coin supply with the sestertius surviving longer there than it had north of the Mediterranean. In the late third century (ca. 291–298 ce), Diocletian stabilized the gold coinage with an aureus at 1/60 pound (5.42 g), and restored a fine silver coin at 1/96 (3.38 g), completing the series

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.



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with a heavy white-washed billon nummus (ca. 10 g, 3.8% Ag) and a copper neo-antoninianus (ca. 3 g). Gold was a prerogative of the central mints of the Augusti, the mark SM (Sacra Moneta) indicating that they were acting in the presence of the comitatus. When Maximian Herculius crossed to Africa to supress the revolt of the Moorish tribe of the Quingentiani in 296, the Carthage mint re-opened and issued all denominations, from aurei to copper. Like the other new administrative divisions, called dioceses, Africa had a mint emitting silver, billon, and copper. During this brief period the African mint did not follow the usual contemporary typology, a feature that endured in later phases along the same line: instead of the almost universal GENIO POPVLI ROMANI elsewhere, it revived specific regional types like the personnification of Africa with a captured lion at her feet, alluding to the beasts the province had long provided for the circus, or Carthage standing in a long robe holding fruits in both hands with the legend FEL(ix) KART(hago). Unlike the other diocesan mints that lasted well into Late Antiquity, Carthage was active only until 307, when Maxentius probably transferred the bullion and the mint workers to Ostia, wary of the discontent that led to the usurpation of imperial power by Domitius Alexander (308–311) (Hendy, 1985: 379–381). Alexander issues displayed the usual African types but added to the Standing Carthage personnification the legend INVICTA ROMA FEL(IX) KARTHAGO (“Fortunate is Carthage, so long as Rome is unconquered;” Clover 1993, art. IX), stressing his opposition to Maxentius. When Constantine recovered Africa in 311, the mint was not re-opened, showing how central authorities feared leaving the monetary instruments of symbolic and financial power to would-be usurpers. Indeed, none of the subsequent rebels, Firmus (370–375), Gildo (397–398), or Heraclian (413) were ever able to issue coins, though some modern historians have attributed to them a few fifth century anonymous silver ones (for correct attributions, see later).

The Vandal Coinage: From Pseudo-imperial to Regal and “Autonomous” Issues On the eve of the Vandals arrival, the circulating medium was composed of solidi, still provided mostly by the Western mints from Italy or Gaul, which were progressively replaced by those from the more active Eastern ones (Constantinople and nearby Nicomedia or Cyzicus) in the course of the fifth century (Morrisson, 1987), while silver was becoming increasingly scarce and the small bronze pieces became most common, as evidenced by their numerous stray finds or deposits in excavation layers of the period (see, for example, Brenot, 2012, for the deposit and finds in the fifth century “maison de la rotonde et du cryptoportique” on the Odeon hill in Carthage). Like other Germanic rulers in the West, the Vandals did not immediately strike coins with their own titulature (Suchodolski, 1980; Grierson and Blackburn, 1986): Gunthamund (484–496) was the first to do so, 45 years after Geiseric entered Carthage. A large issue of silver pseudo-imperial coins in the name of the deceased emperor Honorius, of irregular fineness (92–55%; 90–60% for the siliquae) imitating siliquae of the later part of the emperor’s reign probably date to the 470s, either late in the reign of Gaiseric or in the early years of Huneric (Morrisson and Schwartz, 1982). A rare issue with the female personification of Carthage and ANNO IIII or V KAR(thaginis) on the reverse refers to the fourth and fifth regnal years of Huneric (480–481), probably following the renewal of an agreement with the Eastern Roman Empire in 478 and playing on the similarity of the king’s name with that of the emperor (Morrisson, 2003). This issue forms a transition before the regal silver coins with the names of all the kings from Gunthamund to Gelimer, mostly with their value marks and more consistent in weight and fineness (Morrisson et al., 1988). The different weight standards of pseudo-imperial and regal issues show the priority of the former, a normal succession observed with varying delays in all barbarian coinages of the period.

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Pseudo-imperial silver in the name of Honorius

Domino Nostro AE

“Denarius” coin

Royal silver issues

AE Geilamir Autonomous NIIII

Autonomous copper issues Standing Lady Carthage series

Autonomous copper issues Standing Warrior series

Figure 23.1  Vandal silver and copper coins (reduced size).

The royal silver coinage begins with Gunthamund, who appears to be the “organizer of the economy,” in the words of (Clover 2008: 10). He struck a full series of three denominations marked DN C (100 denarii), DN (50 denarii) and N XXV (25 denarii), and is probably responsible for introducing the first anonymous large bronze coins (folles) and perhaps the first small bronze coins (nummi) with the name of the king. His successors followed suit but struck only the two lighter coins marked now DN  and XXV, as well as the small bronze coins. See Figure 23.1 and Table 23.1. As can be seen from Table 23.1, the elaborate plurimetallic system of the Vandal kingdom had no gold, not even any pseudo-imperial gold issue, unlike the other Barbarian states, which started coining solidi and tremisses in the name of ruling emperors from the 420s (Visigoths), 430s (Suevi), 470s (Burgundians), 490s (Ostrogoths), and 500s (Franks). Several reasons may account for this fact: first the wide availability of Roman gold in the kingdom that accrued from the existing stock, the result of plunder across the Mediterranean, and finally the continuing commerce between Africa and the Mediterranean (for a map, see Morrisson, 2016: 176, figure 9.1), which remained unchecked by the conquest, albeit with an increased focus on Southern Gaul and the Iberian peninsula (Reynolds, 2016). Second and most importantly perhaps, “the Vandals of the African heartland were Roman clients … suffering changeable treaty relations” (Clover, 2008). They respected the monopoly of imperial gold that was breached only once by Theoderic on his medallion of three solidi in 497, by Theodebert in 537, by Clotaire II and other Merovingian kings from 613, or by the Visigothic king Leovigild and successors from 567. Only once perhaps did they attempt such an issue, represented by a curious tremissis in the name of Honorius with an African die axis and ligatured epigraphy preserved in the Bardo Museum collection (Morrisson, 1976: 462, n. 6), though it could well be a Visigothic imitation.



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Table 23.1  The Vandal monetary system.* Gold

None

Silver

Copper

Anonymous pseudo-imperial silver

Protovandalic Anonymous issues

Siliqua

Half-siliqua

DOMINO NOSTRO etc.

DNHONORIVSPPAVC | VRBS ROMA 1.54 g

VICTORIAAVC 0.69 g D

HONORIVSPVSΛT | ANNO IIII or V K(arthaginis) 1.3 g

(Gunthamund) (= denarius – Hahn, 1981; Castrizio, 2004) (D = 500 = 1/500th siliqua – Callu in Morrisson, 1976) (1/500th pound – Grierson and Blackburn, 1986) ± 0.7 g

 in wreath; rosette;  (“Protovandalic issues)

± 0.58 g; ± 0.44 g

—

Royal silver (denarii value) 100 denarii 50 de-narii DN| C

DN or DN|

± 1.3 g

± 0.7 g

Autonomous (“municipal”) copper issues (nummi value)

Royal nummi

25 denarii

42 N

21 N

12 N

4 N

1 N

N | XXV or XXV

N XLII

N XXI

N XII

N|IIII

Standing Carthage

Standing Carthage

Standing Carthage

Bust left

XLIIbelow XXIbelow horse head horse head

XIIbelow horse head

/Standing warrior

Standing warrior

Standing warrior

8.87 g

5 g

10.08 g

7.56 g

4.5 g

1/96

1/384

1/512

1/1000

1/ 3000

1/12000

1/4

1/12

1/16

1/42

1/125

1/500

(42 ≥ 1 /12 of siliqua of 500 N)

(21 ≥ 1 /16 of siliqua of 500 N) 1/5 den = 1 nummus

± 0.35 g 11.4 g

1.5 g ±0.5 g

Values of the different denominations in solidi

1/24

1/48

in siliquae

1 1/2

In denarii -Hendy

100 denarii 50 den = 250 N

in denariiCastrizio

100 denarii 50 den = 1/56 sol = 200 N = 1/28

= 500 nummi

solidus = 400 nummi

25 den =  8 1/3 den 125 N = 42 N

6¼ den = 21 N

≥ 2 1/3 den =  12 N

≥¾ den =  4 N

25 den

[5 ¼ den

[3 den

1 ¼ den = 1 den = 4 num = 1/11200 nummi sol

[10 ¼ den

= 1/112 ± 1/280 sol ± 1/560 sol sol = 100 = 40 = 20 nummi nummi] nummi]

= 1/896 sol = 10 nummi]

*Weights are average values. For copper coins, one may prefer maximum values (Castrizio, 2004: 744). Note: one siliqua (or carat) = 1/24th solidus in value or its equivalent in silver. At a 1:12 gold silver ratio, ca. 2.25 g. Follis is the name given in texts to the heavy copper coin of 40 nummi of Anastasius I, and hence that given by most numismatists to the Ostrogothic coins with XL and to the Vandal ones with XLII. Before the creation of these coins the follis was a notional unit.

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The other peculiarity of the Vandal system lies in the ubiquity of marks of value on silver and copper coins. These were not unknown on Roman coins and had appeared indeed in times of the Diocletianic reforms or later on a few Constantinian coins, but were never employed as systematically as with the Vandals. This has generated various interpretations in an attempt to reconcile them with the observed weights, the structure of contemporary Roman or Byzantine denominations, and textual data about the value of the solidus in copper: namely Valentinian III’s novel of 445 ce, which designates 7000 to 7200 nummi, the 12,000 nummi value deducted from the scale of dues cited in the edict of Anastasius preserved in the inscription of Abydos, and the problematic monetary references of the Tablettes Albertini found in a remote area of Numidia. This document, dated to Gunthamund’s 10th regnal year (494), records the sale of a slave, aged six, of good health and habits for the price of auri solidum unum et folles septingentos aureos obbrediacos ponderi plenos numero unum semis (“one gold solidus and 700 folles of pure gold and good weight counted for a semis”). Most authors have rejected Grierson’s 1959 identification of the follis in the text with the NXLII coin, and his correction of semis into semuncia – which he himself renounced later – returning to the equivalence of the solidus with 1400 folles (based on the understanding of 700 folles = one semis, i.e., half-solidus). This interpretation implies this is not the 40 or 42 nummi heavy coin of the Vandals, the Ostrogoths, or the reformed pieces of Anastasius, but still a notional follis of 5 nummi, which in turn implies a solidus valued at 7000 nummi (Morrisson, 1976; Callu, 2013). However, the evidence of the Tablettes Albertini may be not valid for the whole of the kingdom, since it comes from a marginal territory, where coin circulation and trade were limited and prices low, with ratios possibly different from those in the capital and the coastal areas. The main difficulty resides in the interpretation of the double tarifing of the coins: silver in denarii and copper in nummi, and the establishment of a reliable correlation between the two. Hendy (1985: 482) assumed that the DN or DN/L coin was a half siliqua of 250 nummi and therefore that the denarius was worth 5 nummi. Based on metrological considerations that cannot be discussed here, Hahn (1981) considered the denarius equal to 2½ nummi and Asolati (2012) to 3 nummi. Arguing from an (unwarranted)weight similarity between the D(enarius) coins attributed to Gunthamund and the anonymous N IIII, Castrizio (2004) choses 4 nummi, a relationship that revives the ancient sestertius value of a 1/4 denarius and leads to a more coherent reconstruction. The choice is in fact between scholars who try one way or another to accommodate the Vandalic marks of value within a Western Mediterranean koinè of circulating medium (from solidus down to nummi) and those like Castrizio who sustains an “isolationist” interpretation in which the valuations in denarii and nummi refer only to units of account used for two separate systems, the royal and the “municipal,” respectively. The creation of the heavy copper multiples of the nummus poses the problem of the relation of the reform of Anastasius I firmly dated by Count Marcellinus to 498 with these two Vandal series. It seems that Anastasius was simply following the Western model established with the heavy folles struck by Odoacer in the name of Zeno in 477 (Clover, 1991; contra Hendy, 1985) and followed by the the N XLII/Carthage personification issue either then or later under Gunthamund (484–497) (Morrisson, 2003: 72–73; contra Hahn’s later dating in 523–530). The debate is a complex one but the balance has shifted in favor of the anteriority of the Italian and African innovations. Beyond the modern trait of systematic marks of value, the Vandal coinage is remarkable for its return to Punic iconography on the early silver coins (anonymous and Hilderic’s), which feature the personnification of Carthago as a female figure holding ears of corn and mostly on the autonomous copper coins that feature also Lady Carthage as well as the two legendary figures associated with the foundation myth of the city, a standing soldier and the horse’s head reputed to have been found on the site as an omen of its military greatness to come (Clover, 1993, art IX). The same



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tendency affects the Ostrogothic coinage; in both cases it may be attributed to local élite members attempting to create a new consensual identity that was neither imperial nor Barbarian. Whatever its specific character, Vandal money responded to the needs of an active economy: Barbarian conquest had changed Africa’s relations with Mediterranean commerce but had not destroyed them (Reynolds, 2016; Conant, Chapter 21).

The Byzantine Reconquest: Integrating Africa in the Imperial Monetary System (533–695) (see Figure 23.2) As happened later with Justinian’s reconquest of the Ostrogothic kingdom, continuity prevailed in the monetary sphere. The peculiarities of the Vandal monetary system were retained, and it was the Byzantine system that adapted itself to the existing one (see Table 23.2). The system was now topped with solidi that the African prefecture was entitled to issue. The first solidi featured in the exergue the mint-mark AΦΡ(ika) in Greek letters, but the following ones used the CONOB mintmark (i.e., Constantinopolis obryzum, “refined gold” of the Constantinople standard) that was now the rule for all the other imperial mints (monetae auri), Constantinople, Thessalonica, and Ravenna, and indeed they retained the same value and fineness as the metropolitan one. The African solidus remained around 98% most of the time and was still at an average 97% under Constans II and 98% under Justinian II (Jonson et al., 2014). Several denominations of silver coins continued to take over the role that the fractions of the solidus, semissis, and mostly tremissis (almost never struck in Byzantine Africa) played in the East. In spite of their high face value (a half siliqua of 50 denarii was worth circa 6 folles, i.e. 240 nummi when one could survive on a daily amount of 5 nummi) silver coins were widely used as their frequent occurrence among excavation finds demonstrates (see Carthage Michigan, 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978). As with the Vandal period, the silver coins apparently were reserved for the interior circulation in the province; none has ever been found outside Africa (Morrisson, 1989). The same applies to the new African solidi of which only one specimen has a non-African provenance (Jericho). Compared to the Vandal period, Byzantine monetary production of all metals, including copper, was much more plentiful, a difference that could be related to the resumption of the Roman– Byzantine taxation system in the province that Justinian’s novel of 534 (CJ, Ι.27.1) ordained to be financially self-sufficient. The gold production has been estimated from the number of dies observed in the corpus of preserved coins and reveals a progressive increase in quantities issued, beginning with Justin II but consistently from Tiberius and Maurice onward (Morrisson, 2016, figures 9.9–9.14 with earlier references), probably in connection with the creation of the magistri militum of Byzacena and Numidia (Prigent and Morrisson, 2018: 1827–1828). Here again the Carthage mint signals its originality: in contrast with Constantinople where solidi bear at the end of the reverse legend the signature of 1 of the 10 officinae (workshops), they are dated by the regnal year and the indiction, or the indiction alone from Maurice onward. Within each reign die estimates reveal a lustral (quinquennial) rhythm that was due to the donatives distributed to the military every five years and continues into the reign of Heraclius. Another peculiarity is the evolution from a type very close to that of the capital toward the so-called “globular” type solidi. The blank and linear border diameter of the coins decrease from circa 20 to 5 mm accompanied by a decrease in engraving relief and an increase in thickness (Delamare et al., 1984, esp. 27). Such a change entails a dramatic decrease in the energy required for striking from 20 to 1. It also saves on the hammering needed to flatten blanks and extends the duration of dies because the imprinted surface is much smaller.

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Solidi:

Justinian I

Heraclius

Maurice

Heraclius and H. Constantine

Phocas

Constans II and Constantine IV

Arab-byzantine

Silver coins: Justin II Theodosius son of Maurice

Copper coins: Justinian I follis

Heraclius “consul” half-follis

Heraclius, Eudocia and H. Constantine

Justinian I nummus

Justin II and Sophia half-follis

Constans II half-follis

Justinian II Follis

Figure 23.2  Byzantine and Arab-Byzantine coins from the Carthage mint (reduced size).

Table 23.2  From Vandals to Byzantines: the adaptation of the monetary system. Vandal Coinage Gold None issued

(solidus value)

Silver

Copper (nummi value)

Siliqua

1/2 siliqua

1/4 siliqua

100 den

50 den

25 den

500 N

250 N

1/24

42 N

21 N

12 N

4 N

1 N

125 N

42 N

21 N

12 N

4 N

1 N

1/48

1/96

42 ± 1/12 of siliqua of 500 N

1/1000

1/3000

1/12,000

1/2 siliq.

1/4 siliq.

1/8 sil

40 N

20 N

10 N

5 N

1 N

also:

1/3 siliq.

1/6 siliq.

1/24

1/48

1/96

1/288

1/576

1/1152

1/2304

1/11520

1/36

1/72

Byzantine Coinage Solidus 1 (solidus value)



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One is left to speculate about the administrative and financial reasons that may explain both characteristics: was the latter technical move destined to save on production costs or to ensure a larger production with no proportional increase in seigniorage (the charge exacted by the state for the exercise of minting rights)? No texts and no parallels in other periods contribute an answer, but the life cycle of gold coins in Carthage, as measured by the chronological span of the hoards, falls from around 80 years in the sixth century to 38 years in the seventh century (Morrisson in Guéry et al., 1982: 66). This may be taken as a sign of a higher velocity in circulation in the province and surely of an efficient taxation collection and frequent reminting. The link with taxation is obvious from the quinquennial rhythm of gold striking, while the annual dating of coins may have been designed to implement their recycling at regular intervals to the benefit of the fiscus. Indeed, the abundant copper issues also follow a quinquennial pattern (see Hahn, 1973, 1981), which could well be associated with compulsory recalls of the coinage. Grierson suggested that it could have been aimed at preventing the use of African gold outside the province. This is consistent with its absence in the archaeological evidence but contradicts the rule of the universal value of imperial gold proclaimed, for example, by Justinian’s Pragmatic Sanction for Italy (554). However, it is fairly obvious that the gold–copper relationship in Constantinople and the East and Carthage differed by 17% in the 590s: the value of the solidus in terms of folles was 360 in Sardinia versus 1 to 420 in the East (Durliat, 1982: 9; Morrisson, 2016: 182, n. 42). We cannot ascertain whether this difference translated into lower prices in Africa, as some clues indicate. However, it is not implausible considering the large availability of staples (wheat and oil) in Africa and the higher urbanization rate in the East. However, the diffusion of coin finds within Africa is evidence of a monetized economy: hoards (mostly gold and a few silver) are concentrated in the most productive provinces of Proconsularis and Byzacena, which account for some 82% of all the gold coins preserved (map, see Morrisson, 2016: 176, fig. 9.16), while copper finds reflect more the realities of archaeological excavations or random discoveries reported by peasants. The monetary picture seems consistent with the pattern of ceramic production (Bonifay, Chapter 13). Numismatic indicators contribute more clearly to the picture of Africa’s exports in the Byzantine period. Pottery studies have shown that they continued in the late sixth century and first half of the seventh century, however at an inferior level to that attained in the early sixth century, targeting mainly Western regions, whether Byzantine, from southern Spain to the Italian peninsula and the Adriatic coast, or Visigothic and Frankish ones (Reynolds, 2016). The diffusion of gold and mostly copper coins follows the same pattern (Morrisson, 2016: 195, fig. 9.17 – see Figure 23.3), while the Eastern finds are compatible with the grain exports documented by the ARS unearthed in Butrint, Nicopolis, Argos, or Saraçhane. However, this overall picture has to be qualified as a majority (70%) are Justinian’s issues, most of them minimi of the 530s and 540s (Gandila, 2016), which might have come to the Danubian frontier or to Campania and the Adriatic shore together with soldiers moving from Africa to other fronts (Morrisson, 2003: 82). However, the many finds in the Peloponnesus and their persistence until the seventh century, and association with African ceramics, point to a commercial provenance. Such an origin is undoubtedly the case for Merovingian Gaul and the Visigothic Mediterranean littoral and the Balearics, except for Cartagena and Malaga, where the exceptional quantity of ARS 105s and spatheia indicate the provisioning of the Byzantine outpost that belonged to the province. In Gaul they follow the trade routes attested by other archaeological material. Almost all reigns are represented by one or several Byzantine coins and African issues represent half the total of all coins found from the seventh century, reflecting the ceramics partition between African and Eastern ware (Reynolds, 2016: 141): their distribution follows the Rhône–Rhine route via the Saône, the Garonne valley from the ancient port of Narbonne, and the Loire and Seine valleys, the latter giving access to the ports providing one way of access to Britain (Lafaurie and Morrisson, 1987; Morrisson, 2016: 197, fig. 9.18). Although the quantities of these exports were not as large as in the 520s, their survival concurs with the evidence of coin production and distribution in attesting the resilience of the economy of Byzantine Africa into the late seventh century and the persistent importance of its grain production for the capital, though not on the scale we may presume in the 610s and 620s when it compensated for the loss of Egyptian wheat to the Persians (Prigent, 2006).

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Figure 23.3  Distribution of Byzantine coins from Carthage found outside the province of Africa.

The Byzantine Legacy in the Early Arab Period (698–711) Little is known about the economy of Umayyad Ifrikiya even if a few ceramic assemblages sketch some traces of continuing production – e.g., in Nabeul – on a declining standard and exports attested in the Crypta Balbi eighth-century deposit or the San Peyre (Gard) one in Southern France where an Arab seal of the Umayyad period has been found with African amphorae Keay 50, and 61, a Tunisian lamp, and an Aegean or Cypriot LRA 13. medieval archaeology is still a parent pauvre compared to the accomplishments and progress of the classical and late Antique one (Reynolds, 2016: 147; Fenwick, Chapter 24). Similarily, the first century of Umayyad rule in Ifrikyia is documented by much later historical sources relying on tradition (Tāhā 1989; Ben Abbès, 2004), making it difficult to contextualize the numismatic evidence. It is clear, however, that starting from the recapture of Carthage by the Muslims under Ḥassān ibn al-Nu’mān al-Ghassānī in 79/698–699, the Arabs, having taking control of the existing mint and possibly part of its personnel, though already a division had moved to safety in Sardinia which continued for a while to strike “Africanlooking” coins, managed to “islamize” the coinage and adapt it to their fiscal needs. Continuity is striking in the fabric and iconography of the Series I solidi modeled on the two busts, one of Heraclius and Heraclius Constantine, retaining their globular form. As happened on the Arab–Byzantine issues in Umayyad Syria, the cross-potent on the reverse is transformed into a T-bar or globe on pole on steps while the obverse (imperial names) and reverse legends (VICTORI AVG and variants) give way to abbreviated legends that provide either some Latin version of the shahāda or a variety of religious formulae that invoke the various attributes of God with a clearly anti-Tri­ nitarian character (Walker, 1956: 55–58; Jonson, 2014, full tables), e.g., ΝΟΝΕΣΤ SΝΙSΙΙPSΕΣΟΛΣΙΣETNONABET for NON EST DeuS NISI IPSE SOLus Socios ET NON hABET (there is no God but God alone and he has no associates) and INNNIMISRCUNSDS for IN Nomine DomiNI MISeRiCordis UNuS DeuS (in the name of the God, the Merciful, God alone). Series II kept the globular fabric but shifted almost entirely to an epigraphic aniconic design except on the fractions that retained the T bar pole on steps. The reverse inscription now included



Late Roman, Vandal, and Byzantine Coinage in Africa 419

the mint and on some of them the indiction date, a trait also retained from the Byzantine  coins: INNNIMISRCSLdFREIN and in centre . RCIN II. or IIII. for IN Nomine DomiNI MISeriCordis SoLiDus FeRiTus IN AfRiCa INDictione II – IIII (in the name of God the Merciful, this solidus was made in Africa in indiction two to four). It tells us that they were issued from the second to the fourth indiction, i.e., 84–87/703–06, which leaves six years (698–703) to accommodate the rather plentiful and experimental Series I. Semisses and tremisses were now making up the bulk of the coinage that account for the fact that no more silver coins were struck. The weights of solidi were rather close to those of the Byzantine coins but the fineness was significantly lower: Series I was 88% Au only versus 96% for the Byzantine solidi and Series II, phase 2 (Epigraphic, dated type) was only 85%-86% (and lower in weight as well). The high dispersion of data, the substantial differences between the minimum and maximum gold content for each of the Series/Phases suggest that, unlike the Byzantine authorities, the early Islamic mint could not control quality or had no consideration for maintaining a standard gold content. This debasement challenges the historian: how can it be explained? It seems to indicate that the Arabs had neither access to a new source of gold nor found any important Byzantine gold stock in the treasury (had the Byzantines managed to bring it to safety?) and that the fiscal cycle was not providing as much as it did before, probably because of reduced agrarian production due to the circumstances (exile of managerial landlords, disruption of commercial links and outlets for exports, hoarding, etc.). Recent analyses of trace-elements in order to investigate the origin of the metal offer a first track of investigation. As already pointed out by Gondonneau et al. (2000), the ratio of platinum to gold (Pt/Au) shows that Arab–Latin and epigraphic dinars were all struck from the same ore as the previous Byzantine coinage (Jonson et al., 2014, fig. 23 – see Figure 23.4). It is only with the Aghlabid coinage in the early ninth century that a much lower platinumto-gold ratio is observable in African issues. One must therefore entirely exclude the hypothesis of any arrival of West African (“Sudanese”) gold before this date, when well-known texts and trace element studies give clear evidence for the phenomenon (Gondonneau and Guerra, 2002: 582). The hypothesis proposed by Timothy Garrard (1982) that a trans-Saharan gold trade began in the fourth century must be discarded. Archaeometrical data concur with the historical arguments developed by Jehan Desanges from 1978 onward (Desanges, 1978): literary sources do not Pt/Au 1,000

100

10

1

Carthage

Constantinople

Sardinia

Arab-Byzantine Umayyad coins from Ifriqiya

Aghlabid coins from Ifriqiya

Figure 23.4  Comparison of platinum to gold (Pt/Au) ratios for Byzantine Carthage, Constantinople, and Sardinia, Muslim North Africa, and Aghlabid Ifriqiya.

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support the theory of a major trans-Saharan trade route that provided the civilizations of the ancient Mediterranean basin with much of their gold in Antiquity. According to Abdellatif Mrabet (1994), neither Rome, nor the Vandals, nor the Byzantines were able to control the Saharan sites (e.g., Ghadames, Ouargla, Sidjilmasa, or Tamdult) that were already beyond the limes in the third century, and the Berber nomadic and semi-nomadic tribes in these areas were in constant conflict with the Byzantines. This is not to deny the existence of a trans-Saharan trade route from 1000 bce down to Late Antiquity, but the gold that was coined in Carthage in the sixth to early eighth centuries did not originate from this channel. It remains to see how the debasement was carried out: following lines developed by Barrandon for eleventh-century Byzantine gold, the silver: lead traces ratio in the alloy imply that n ­ on-purified, native, gold was added in the available coined metal to debase the North African Islamic coins. How did this non-purified, native gold bring the existing Byzantine stock at an average 97% fineness into an average 88% one, and where did it come from? For historical reasons, Balkans, Danubian, and Caucasus gold resources, altogether to be excluded for their high platinum trace level, cannot be envisaged. Considering that Ifrikya’s leaders, Ḥassān ibn al-Nu’mān al-Ghassānī and/or Mūsā b. Nuṣayr were subordinate to the governors of Egypt, some provision from the Eastern Egyptian mines is the most plausible hypothesis. The present state of research on Egyptian mines, though progressing at least for the Ptolemaic era, does not offer many gold samples from ancient mines dated layers. However, gold from the Eastern Egyptian desert is characterized by a high silver content in the range of 20 to 30% (against 80 to 70% Au), a composition that could have brought about the observed result by adding between 1.3 parts to 0.55 parts of “new gold” to 1 part of “Byzantine” alloy (Jonson et al., 2014: 683–687). More thorough investigations will test or challenge this hypothesis.

FURTHER READING The Wroth catalogue of the British Museum collection (1911) was the major reference until it was replaced by Hahn (1973) for the Vandals, Hahn and Metlich (2000, 2009) for Byzantine coins from 533 to 610, while Hahn (1981) is still the reference for the period 610–698. For historical reasons, French scholarship has long dominated the literature, from Courtois’ (1955) chapter commenting on Vandal coins to the many studies by Lafaurie (1959, 1962), by the Algiers-born epigraphist and numismatist Salama (2001), Callu (Salama and Callu 1990, Callu 2013), Morrisson (1976, 1987, 1989, 2003, 2016), and others, that cover large parts of the coin production, with first-hand research on its dating and its metallurgical composition, and coin circulation apprehended from hoards and excavation coin finds. The French share was reduced in the 1950s with Grierson (1950) pioneering articles that identified the gold issues of Maurice and Heraclius and their indictional dating and are worth reading for their exemplary methodology. Hendy followed suit in a fundamental chapter of his 1985 Studies on the Byzantine Economy, still essential reading for the African monetary system (Hendy, 1985: 482–484). British and American scholars were then instrumental in publishing and analysing the coin finds from various sites explored in the Save Carthage UNESCO campaign (1973–1985) above all the University of Michigan team directed by J. Humphrey. They brought a decisive contribution to our understanding of the abundant issues of small bronze coins, heretofore given en bloc to the Vandals, that can now be distributed among various Eastern and Western mints. Their material is a decisive source for Pottier’s (1983) and Bijovsky’s (2012) clear updates on the characteristics of this small change, which was disseminated over the whole Mediterranean area in the fifth to sixth centuries. Less attention was devoted to rural sites but increasingly a few publications have brought to light coin finds that bear witness to the relative monetization of the countryside or inland sites (Abram, 2019, for Aïn Wassel; Baldassari, 2007, for Uchi Maius). In the wake of the UNESCO campaign, F.M. Clover wrote several important studies destined for a general new study of Vandal history, which never materialized but are assembled in his The Late Roman West and the Vandals (1993): two pertain directly to



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the coin topic, examined in the light of contemporary inscriptions and literary evidence. The Vandal monetary system still attracts diverging interpretations of the relationship between metals and its specificities compared to contemporary Late Roman or Byzantine systems (Castrizio, 2004; Steinacher and Berndt, 2008; Asolati, 2012). Lastly, the Dumbarton Oaks 2012 symposium on North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam marked a renewed interest in America. Therein Morrisson (2016) put in context the results of four decades of studies for the economic life of Africa and early Ifrikiya.

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Secondary literature Abram, S., 2019. “Monete.” In Rus Africum IV. La fattoria Bizantina di Aïn Wassel (Alto Tell, Tunisia). Lo scavo stratigrafico e i materiali, eds. M. de Vos Raaijmakers and B. Maurina, 330–338. Oxford: Archaeopress. Asolati, M. 2012. PRAESTANTIA NUMMORUM Temi e note di numismatica tardo antica e alto medievale. Numismatica patavina 11. Padoa (“I nominali da XLII, XXI e XII nel sistema monetario vandalo: multipli del nummo e multipli del denarius ?”, art. 6). Baldassari, M. 2007. “Reperti numismatici dalle aree dei frantoi (2.200, 22.000, 24.000 e 25.000).” In Uchi Maius 3, I frantoi. Miscellanea, ed. C. Vismara, 289–302. Sassari. Ben Abbès, M., 2004. L’Afrique byzantine face à la conquête arabe. Recherche sur le VIIe siècle en Afrique du Nord. PhD, Université Paris X-Nanterre, février 2004. Ben Slimene Ben Abbes, H. 2008. “La production de la monnaie d’or en Afrique byzantine au viie siecle: etude statistique.” In eds., L’Africa Romana. Le richezze dell’Africa. Risorse, produzioni, scambi, Atti del XVII convegno di studio, Sevilla, 14–17 dicembre 2006, Volume 2, eds. J. Gonzalez, P. Ruggeri, C. Vismara, and R. Zucca, 1151–1164. Roma. Bijovsky, G. 2012. Gold Coin and Small Change: Monetary Circulation in Fifth-Seventh Century Byzantine Palestine. Numismatica antica e medievale 2. Trieste. Brenot, C. 2012. “Dépôt monétaire et catalogue des monnaies de fouilles” and “Les monnaies.” In Carthage, colline de l'Odeon: maison de la rotonde et du cryptoportique: (recherches 1987–2000), Volume 2, eds. C. Balmelle et al., 561–596 and 719–730 Coll. de l’Ecole francaise de Rome 457. Rome. Brenot, C., and Morrisson, C. 1983. “La circulation du bronze en Césarienne occidentale à la fin du Ve siècle: la trouvaille de Rabelais-Aïn-Merane.” NAC 12: 191–211. Callu, J.-P. 2013. “Ostrogoths, Vandales, Lombards, à propos d’un livre récent” (review-article of Asolati 2012). RN 170: 651–657. Carthage Michigan 1975 (1976, 1977, 1978) = Excavations at Carthage 1975 conducted by the University of Michigan, Volume I, T.V. Buttrey ed., Tunis 1976 (The Coins, T.V. Buttrey); Idem 1976, vol. IV, ed. J.H. Humphrey, Ann Arbor, 1977 (The Coins, 1976, T.V. Buttrey and R.B. Hitchner); Idem 1977, Volume V, ed. J.H. Humphrey, New Delhi, 1980 (The Coins, 1977, W.E. Metcalf and R.B. Hitchner); Idem 1978, Volume VII, ed. J.H. Humphrey, Ann Arbor, 1982 (The Coins, 1977, W.E. Metcalf). Castrizio, D. 2004. “Per una rilettura del sistema monetale vandalo (note preliminari).” In M. Khanoussi, P. Ruggeri, and C. Vismara, eds., Atti del XV Convegno Internazionale di Studi su “L’Africa Romana”: Ai confini dell’impero: contatti, scambi, conflitti, Tozeur 11–15 dicembre 2002, 741–755 (slightly reworked as “La monetazione dei Vandali” in Guerrieri, mercanti e profughi nel Mare dei Vandali, Atti del Convegno Internazionale (Messina, 7–8 settembre 2009) Vincenzo Aiello ed. Messina, DICAM, 2014, 145–158. English summary as “Vandals in the Mediterranean. The monetary system” in SOMA 2011, eds. P.M. Militello and H. Öniz. Oxford, 2015, BAR Int. Ser. 2695/II, 997–999). Clover, F.M. 1991. “Relations between North Africa and Italy, A.D. 476–500: Some numismatic evidence.” RN 6th ser. 33: 112–133.

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Clover, F.M. 1993. The Late Roman West and the Vandals. Variorum CS 401, Aldershot: “Felix Carthago” art. IX (1986) and “L’année de Carthage” art. XI (1990). Clover, F.M. 2008. “Introduction – Toward a History of the Vandals.” In Das Reich der Vandalen und seine (Vor-) Geschichten, eds. G.M. Berndt and R. Steinacher, 9–13. Vienna Courtois, C. 1955. Les Vandales et l’Afrique. Alger and Paris. Delamare, F., Montmitonnet, P., and Morrisson, C. 1984. “Une approche mécanique de la frappe des monnaies: application à l’étude de la forme du solidus byzantin.” RN 6th ser. 26: 7–45. Desanges, J. “Remarques critiques sur l’hypothèse d’une importation de l’or africain dans le monde phénicopunique” (1978), “Aperçus sur les contacts transsahariens d’apres les sources classiques” (1984), reprinted in Desanges, 1999, Toujours Afrique apporte fait nouveau (Paris), 49–55 and 239–47, respectively. Durliat, J. 1982. “Taxes sur l’entrée des marchandises dans la cité de Carales-Cagliari à l’époque byzantine (582–602).” DOP 36: 1–14. Gandila, A., 2016. “Going East: Western money in the Early Byzantine Balkans, Asia Minor and the Circumpontic Region (6th–7th c).” RIN 117: 129–188. Garrard, T.F., 1982. “Myth and metrology: The early trans-Saharan gold trade.” Journal of African History 23: 443–461. Gondonneau, A., et al. 2000. “La frappe de l’or à l’époque de l’expansion musulmane et les mines de l’ouest de l’Afrique: l’apport analytique.” In XII. Internationaler Numismatischer Kongress Berlin 1997: Akten, 2 volumes, eds. B. Kluge and B. Weisser, 1264–1274. Berlin. Gondonneau, A., and Guerra, M. F. 2002. “The circulation of precious metals in the Arab Empire: The case of the Near and the Middle East.” Archaeometry 44.4: 573–599. Grierson, P. 1950. “Dated solidi of Maurice, Phocas and Heraclius.” NC 6.10: 48–70. Grierson, P. 1959. “The Tablettes Albertini and the value of the Solidus in the fifth and sixth centuries AD.” JRS 49: 73–80. Grierson, P., and Blackburn, M. 1986. Medieval European Coinage. I The Early Middle Ages (5th–10th centuries). Cambridge. Guéry, R., Morrisson, C., and Slim, H. 1982. Recherches archéologiques franco-tunisiennes à Rougga III. Le trésor de monnaies byzantines. Coll. de l’École française de Rome, 60. Tunis, Paris, and Rome. Hahn, W. 1973. Moneta Imperii Byzantini, I, Von Anastasius I bis Justinianus I (491–565). Vienna, Akademie d. Wiss. Hahn, W. 1981. Moneta Imperii Byzantini, III, Von Heraclius bis Leo III./Alleinregierung (610–720). Vienna. Hahn, W., and Metlich, M. 2000. Money of the Incipient Byzantine Empire (Anastasius I to Justinian I., 491– 565). Vienna. Hahn, W., and Metlich, M. 2009. Money of the Incipient Byzantine Empire Continued (Justin II-Revolt of the Heraclii, 565–610). Vienna. Hendy, M.F. 1985. Studies in the Byzantine Monetary Economy. Cambridge. Jonson, T. 2014. A Numismatic History of the Umayyad Caliphate in North Africa and the Iberian Peninsula, PhD, Oxford. Jonson, T., Blet-Lemarquand, M., and Morrisson, C. 2014. “The Byzantine mint in Carthage and the Muslim mint in North Africa – New metallurgical findings.” RN 171: 655–699. Lafaurie, J. 1959. “Trésor de monnaies de cuivre trouvé à Sidi Aïch.” RN 6th ser. 2: 113–130. Lafaurie, J. 1962. “Un solidus inédit de Justinien Ier frappé en Afrique.” RN 6th ser. 4: 167–182. Lafaurie, J., and Morrisson, C. 1987. “La pénétration des monnaies byzantines en Gaule mérovingienne et visigotique du VIe au VIIIe siècle.” RN 6th ser. 29: 38–98. Morrisson, C. 1976. “Les origines du monnayage vandale.” In Actes du VIIIe Congres international de Numismatique, New York-Washington 1973, eds. G. Le Rider and H. Cahn, 459–472. Paris and Basle Morrisson, C. 1987. “La circulation de la monnaie d’or en Afrique à l’époque vandale. Bilan des trouvailles locales.” In Huvelin et al., eds., 325–344. Morrisson, C. 1989. “Carthage: the moneta auri under Justinian I and Justin II.” In Studies in the Early Byzantine Gold Coinage, eds. W. Hahn and W.E. Metcalf, 41–64. American Numismatic Society. Numismatic Studies 17. New York Morrisson, C. 2003. “L’atelier de Carthage et la diffusion de la monnaie frappée dans l’Afrique vandale et byzantine (439–695).” Antiquité Tardive 11: 65–84.



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Morrisson, C. 2016. “‘Regio dives in omnibus bonis ornata’ African economy from the Vandals to the Arab conquest in the light of coin evidence.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds. S. Stevens and J. Conant, 173–198. Dumbarton Oaks Byzantine Symposia and Colloquia. Washington DC Morrisson, C., Brenot, C., and Barrandon, J.-N. 1988. “L’argent chez les Vandales: plats et monnaies.” In Argenterie romaine et byzantine, Actes de la Table Ronde Paris 11–13 Octobre 1983, eds N. Duval and F. Baratte, 123–133. Paris Morrisson, C., and Schwartz, J.H. 1982. “Silver Vandal coinage in the name of Honorius.” Museum Notes (American Numismatic Society) 27: 149–179. http://www.jstor.org/stable/43573652. Mrabet, A. 1994. “Numismatique et histoire: Les débuts du trafic transsaharien de l’or.” In Les Assises du Pouvoir, temps médiévaux, territoires africains, eds. O. Redon and B. Rosenberger, 213–223. Saint-Denis. Pottier, H. 1983. Analyse d’un trésor de monnaies en bronze enfoui au VIe siècle en Syrie byzantine. Cercle d’Etudes Numismatiques. Travaux 10. Bruxelles. Prigent, V. 2006. “Le rôle des provinces d’Occident dans l’approvisionnement de Constantinople (618–717): Témoignages numismatique et sigillographique.” MEFRM 118.2: 269–299. Prigent, V., and Morrisson, C. 2021. “Les bulles de plomb du Musée national de Carthage: Source méconnue pour l’histoire de l’Afrique byzantine (533–695/698),” CRAI 2018/4, 1803–1834. Reynolds, P. 2016. “From Vandal Africa to Arab Ifrīqiya: Tracing ceramic and economic trends through the fifth to the eleventh centuries.” In North Africa under Byzantium and Early Islam, eds. S. Stevens and J. Conant, 129–171. Dumbarton Oaks Byzantine Symposia and Colloquia. Washington DC Salama, P. 2001. “Inventaire complémentaire des solidi tardifs découverts dans l’Afrique du Nord.” NAC 30: 253–270. Salama, P., and Callu, J.-P. 1990. “L’approvisionnement monétaire des provinces africaines au IVe siècle.” In L’Afrique dans l’Occident romain (Ier s. av. J.-C. – IVe s. ap. J.-C.). Actes du colloque organisé par l’École française de Rome (1987), 91–116. Rome: École française de Rome. Steinacher, R., and Berndt, G. 2008. Minting in Vandal North Africa: Coins of the Vandal Period in the coin cabinet of Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches Museum.” Early Medieval Europe 16.3: 252–298. Suchodolski, S. 1980. Les débuts du monnayage dans les royaumes barbares, Mélanges … Lafaurie, 249–256. Paris. Tāhā, A.W.D., 1989. The Muslim Conquest and Settlement of North Africa and Spain. London. Walker, J. 1956. A  Catalogue  of  the Arab-Byzantine and Post-reform Umaiyad coins (= A Catalogue of the Muhammadan Coins in the British Museum, Volume II). London Wroth, W. 1911. Catalogue of the Coins of the Vandals, Ostrogoths and Lombards … in the British Museum. London. Note: All RN’s articles are available for free on www.persee.fr and several other articles by Morrisson on https://cnrs-lb.academia.edu/CecileMorrisson. Note: This publication uses the font Athena Ruby (Build 021), courtesy Dumbarton Oaks, Trustees for ­Harvard University, Washington, D.C.

CHAPTER 24

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Introduction On 8 June 632, the Prophet Muhammad died in Medina. Ten years later, a vast territory stretching from Egypt to Iran was under the control of his followers. It was at this moment that the first Arab raids against Cyrenaica from Egypt took place, and in subsequent years raiding continued in bursts, venturing each time further westwards. In the 670s, with the foundation of Kairouan in central Tunisia, these periodic expeditions turned into a serious attempt to subdue and seize Africa from the Byzantine Empire. This proved not to be as easy as the rapid Arab conquest of the Middle East: decades of fighting between Arabs, Berbers, and Byzantines followed before the Arab commander Hasan bin Nu’man captured and destroyed the Byzantine capital, Carthage, in 697/698. After this success, the Umayyad armies and their Berber allies swiftly advanced as far as Tangier, the last Byzantine stronghold in Morocco, before invading Spain in 711 (Brett, 1978; Kaegi, 2010; Manzano Moreno, 2010; Fenwick, 2020b). These events have traditionally marked the “end” of ancient Africa. The Arab conquests were thought to bring about a dark age, permanently disrupting Mediterranean trade networks and causing a rapid dissolution of urban life and society, a product of a violent and destructive conquest by rapacious Muslim hordes, a view popularized in the nineteenth century when Europeans first encountered the ruins of classical towns in the Middle East and North Africa and refined by Pirenne in his grand opus Mohammed and Charlemagne (1939). Various attempts have been made to overturn this narrative for North Africa, most notably by Yvon Thébert and Jean-Louis Biget (1990), who argued in a seminal paper that it exaggerates both the scale of collapse after 700 ce and the degree of rupture with the classical world. In the last three decades, an explosion of archaeological research has further called into question such neat “ends” (Gelichi and Milanese, 2002; Pentz, 2002; Leone, 2007; Fenwick, 2013, 2020a; Stevens and Conant, 2016), but the notion of a rupture between the ancient and medieval world has proved a remarkably difficult one to dispel completely. The reasons for this are twofold. The first and most often invoked is a lack of evidence for the seventh and eighth centuries. We simply do not possess anything close to the number of written sources for early medieval Ifriqiya that exist for classical Africa or the heartlands of the early Islamic Empire. The Arabic sources for early medieval North Africa consist of a handful of slim and laconic conquest accounts, geographies, and legal texts composed several centuries after the events they describe (Picard, 2011). Archaeology poses a different set of challenges A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.



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(Fenwick, 2013: 11–14). Agendas set in the colonial period privileged the Roman period with disastrous consequences for Late Antique and medieval archaeology (see Stone, Chapter 2). Early excavations at iconic Roman archaeological sites often exposed extensive medieval remains, but these were usually destroyed without being recorded in order to reach the fora, monumental public buildings, and élite houses of the early Roman period. At Dougga, for example, the forum was filled with medieval buildings and kilns, which were removed without being planned or recorded. The limited archaeological work that explicitly targeted medieval sites, fixated on monumental architecture at a handful of palatial sites (e.g., Raqqada, Mahdiya, the Qal’aa of the Beni Hammad), the architectural study of a few early mosques and ribats (fortifications), and the collection of luxury items, such as decorative stucco, metalwork, and glazed ceramics (Cressier, 2013; Fenwick, 2020a: 12–29), all of which appear in the ninth century or later. In the last two decades, re-examination of earlier reports combined with new fieldwork on the post-classical history of Roman sites has begun to transform our understanding of the transition from Byzantine Africa to Islamic Ifriqiya (Pentz, 2002; Fenwick, 2013, 2020a), but progress is slow. The second stems from disciplinary divisions. Classical and medieval scholars tend not to engage with each other’s work enough and, when they do, rarely unpack the different paradigms and models that each other uses. This has proved particularly problematic for the transitional period of the seventh and eighth centuries, which has primarily been studied by classical rather than medieval archaeologists and historians (e.g., Février, 1983; Thébert and Biget, 1990; Pentz, 2002; Leone, 2007; von Rummel, 2016). Despite the excellent work of these scholars, there is an enduring, but decidedly unhelpful, tendency on the part of many other classical scholars to counter an “Islamic” culture with a “classical” culture in a way that suggests not only that the Arab conquest of Africa brought about radical cultural and social change, but also that archaeologists can distinguish neatly between the pre- and post-conquest periods in the material record. Neither assumption is correct. Just as Roman historians and archaeologists have demonstrated that the Roman conquest of Africa did not instantly create a recognizably “Roman” package that could be differentiated easily from “Punic” and “Numidian” material culture and challenged such essentializing labels (e.g., Mattingly, 2011), so too medieval historians and archaeologists see the complex processes of Islamization and Arabization as distinct and regionally variable phenomenon in North Africa that significantly post-date the Arab conquests in the seventh century (Brett, 1992; Cressier, 1998; Valérian, 2011a; Fenwick 2020a). This fraught history of scholarship has unfortunate consequences when it comes to assessing the impact of the Arab conquests on North African society. Not only are there large geographic gaps in our knowledge (especially Algeria and the Sahara west of the Fazzan), but almost nothing is known about the most important cities of medieval Africa (Tunis, Kairouan, Sousse, Tripoli, Tlemcen), all of which are still occupied today. Indeed, outside Morocco, our knowledge of early medieval activity is largely constrained to famous Roman archaeological sites (such as Leptis, Sbeïtla, Haidra, Dougga, Sabratha, Tocra) that failed at some point during the middle ages. The biggest challenge, however, is dating. We lack good ceramic markers to accurately date medieval occupation (Cressier and Fentress, 2011), such that the eighth and much of the ninth century is effectively invisible to archaeologists. Bleak as this picture may appear, we possess more material and written evidence for early medieval North Africa than we do for the first centuries bce and ce, another poorly documented period but one that scholars have been less wary of studying – and in recent years, more willing to re-visit old assumptions about the Roman conquest (see Sanmartí, Chapter 4; Mattingly, Chapter 5; Hobson, Chapter 7). This chapter first provides a brief overview of the historical background of Africa under the caliphate before turning to tackle five key areas of debate: urban collapse and continuity, the transformation of the classical city, the countryside, the economy, and religious change. Throughout it draws on scholarship from classical and medieval scholars and integrates the archaeological and textual evidence for this pivotal period.

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Background: Africa under the Caliphate (697/698–800) When the Arab armies finally captured Carthage, North Africa was incorporated into the Umayyad Caliphate (661–750), an empire that stretched from Atlantic Morocco to the Indus and was more than twice the size of the Roman Empire at its height (Fenwick, 2020b). North Africa was one of the latest additions by some decades; Egypt and Syria–Palestine had been seized from the Byzantines and Mesopotamia from the Sassanians in the 630s and 640s. Africa’s late conquest had important implications: by 697/698 the Caliphate already had a professional army, a standardized currency system, and a centralized Arabic-speaking administrative system (Kennedy, 2004). An explicitly Islamic visual culture had also developed in the Middle East, abundantly evident in new city and palatial foundations, the introduction of new architectural forms such as congregational mosques, the use of Arabic as the epigraphic language of display, and the introduction of an aniconic coinage (Grabar, 1987). Immediately after the capture of Carthage, a series of administrative changes were imposed to bring the new province in line with the rest of the Caliphate (Figure 24.1). Hasan bin Nu’man introduced a new taxation (the kharaj) on the Christian town-dwellers and those of the Berbers who had not converted to Islam during the conquest era. New coinage was minted immediately: gold dinars and bronze fals were initially imitations of Byzantine gold solidi and bronze nummi from North Africa but within a few decades North African coinage (with the addition of silver dirhams) followed the empire-wide model of an aniconic coinage (Bates, 1995; Jonson et al., 2014). During the conquest period, Ifriqiya had fallen under the authority of the governor in Egypt, but in 705 it was made its own wilaya (province). Following the model of the eastern Umayyad provinces, it was governed by a wālī (governor), usually directly appointed by the caliph. In turn, he appointed ‘amil (sub-governors) to rule Ifriqiya-proper (Africa Proconsularis and Byzacena), Tripolitania, the Zab (Numidia), Near Sus, and Far Sus. He also was responsible for appointing the governor of alAndalus (Spain). North Africa was further subdivided into kura (districts) and rustak (cantons), each with their own military commander based in the district capital (Djaït, 1967). Although the Umayyads and the Abbasids laid claim to the entirety of the Maghreb, their rule was effectively restricted to the zone of former Byzantine Africa, where they ruled by military force (Fenwick, 2020b). Scholars have no clear idea of the total numbers of troops based in North Africa, but according to the fourteenth-century historian ‘Ibn Idhari, the numbers were small, perhaps 50,000 men from different tribes on the Arabian peninsula who had first served in Egypt during the seventh century, and a further 130,000 men, largely from Khurusan (modern Iran and Afghanistan), imported by the Abbasids in the late eighth century when they re-captured Africa after a period of rebellion (Talbi, 1966). In the far west, this army was augmented by Berbers who had converted to Islam during the conquest era, and participated in the conquest of Spain or subsequent raids against the African periphery or the Mediterranean. North Africa did not remain part of the caliphate for long. The Umayyads and the Abbasids never managed to establish firm control over North Africa and the eighth century was characterized by repeated rebellions and revolts of both the local Berber populations and rival factions in the Muslim armies (the jund). Early on, new Muslim successor-states emerged in Sahara and the far West: the Barghawata (744–1058), Rustamids (761–909), Idrisids (789–974), and the Midrarids of Sijilmasa (c. 750–976). Finally, in 800, even Ifriqiya-proper was lost to the Caliphate when the Abbasid caliph Harun al-Rashid appointed Ibrahim al-Aghlab, son of an Iranian Arab commander, as hereditary emir of Ifriqiya (see Talbi, 1966; Anderson et al., 2017).

Urban Continuity vs Collapse The Arab conquests were certainly not as catastrophic for North Africa as traditionally imagined. Peter Pentz (1992) describes the arrival of Arab forces in Syria–Palestine in 635–640 as an invisible conquest, because it is so difficult to see signs of destruction in the archaeological record. The same

Figure 24.1  Map showing major towns in early medieval North Africa (© Corisande Fenwick).

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is true for North Africa. Archaeologists have found few traces of fire, building collapse, or sudden abandonment that can be dated securely to the second half of the seventh century. Our one clear case of destruction comes from Carthage, the Byzantine capital of Africa (Vitelli, 1981; Stevens, 2016; Fenwick 2019). Captured in 697–698 by Hasan bin Numan, later written accounts tell us that the city was abandoned by its Byzantine inhabitants who sailed away; the city was subsequently sacked, its walls destroyed, and the harbor filled in. While rhetorical exaggeration certainly colors these accounts, the archaeological evidence does suggest seventh-century destruction and severe urban collapse in many areas of the city, though not everywhere. With the exception of Carthage and perhaps Thuna (later to become Tunis), almost all of the major towns of Byzantine Africa seem to have suffered little damage and continued to thrive in the Middle Ages (Fenwick, 2018, 2019). The Arab conquest brought significant administrative changes with implications for the organization of the urban hierarchy (Fenwick, 2020a: 53–81) The Umayyads founded two new cities – Kairouan and Tunis – which became the most important administrative and commercial centers in North Africa. Kairouan was established in 670 in central Tunisia as a misr (pl. amsar), that is a place to house the Arab Muslim troops and their families separately from existing inhabitants and where they could be controlled and paid by the state. It became the inland capital of the new province of Ifriqiya, displacing Carthage, which had served as provincial capital. The harbour-city of Tunis was built in ca. 705 to replace the Byzantine capital, Carthage, which had been captured and destroyed in 697/698, and took on the role of capital of northern Tunisia and the main port for the Muslim navy (Lézine, 1971). Existing towns continued to play an important role in civic and military administration: the Byzantine regional capitals of Béja (Vaga) in northern Tunisia, Sousse (Hadrumetum) on the Sahel coast, and Gafsa (Capsa) continued to be district capitals in the medieval period (Djaït, 1967, 1968). Alongside the new foundations of Kairouan and Tunis, these towns formed the backbone of the medieval urban network. They share some common characteristics: they tend to be large, administrative centers that had usually obtained the juridical status of municipium or colonia and in Late Antiquity became bishoprics. They are situated in strategic places on inland and coastal routes and had usually been fortified by town walls or intra-mural fortifications in the Byzantine period that were restored or rebuilt in the eighth and ninth centuries – particularly those on the coast or ancient Numidia. Archaeology does provide evidence of some unfortified sites that continued to thrive in the early medieval period (e.g., Sbeïtla), but it is clear that most substantial towns were fortified in some manner by the ninth century at the latest. Perhaps the most significant determinant of urban success in the middle ages was the presence of a Muslim garrison, which seems to have acted as a motor for economic demand and urban growth as in the Middle East (Kennedy, 2002; Fenwick, 2020a). Alongside this marked continuity, however, the total number of functioning cities did decline significantly between the sixth and ninth centuries and we see a simplification of the urban hierarchy (Fenwick, 2013). The dense distribution of small towns in northern Tunisia seem to have been particularly affected: many of these towns of the Tunisian Tell were abandoned or reduced to very little between the seventh and ninth centuries. Excavations at the small urban sites of Uchi Maius, Musti, Althiburos, and Chemtou found clear signs of abandonment in some zones between Late Antique layers and later medieval re-occupation of the ninth or tenth century (Gelichi and Milanese, 2002; Kallala et al., 2011; Touihri, 2014). In southern Tunisia (anc. Byzacena) and eastern Algeria (bc Numidia), small towns also disappear, particularly on the coast, but large, fortified, urban sites on major routes and ports, such as Sousse, Tobna, Haïdra, and Biskra, continue to thrive. Further to the east, in Tripolitania and Cyrenaica, a different picture again emerges. In antiquity, towns were limited to a few good anchorages along the treacherous Libyan coast and there is no evidence for urban abandonment in the middle ages (King, 1989). Identifying when and why these towns ended is difficult and we must be very careful about equating urban collapse with political events such as the Arab conquest. Several major cities had already been de-populated and abandoned in Late Antiquity. The huge port-city of Utica, the first city to be founded by the Phoenicians in North Africa, was abandoned by the fifth century in response to the silting up of the harbour (Chelbi et al., 1995). The coastal cities of Meninx and Cherchel seem to have faltered in the sixth century and been reduced to little more than villages (Potter, 1995; Fentress et al., 2009). These are extreme examples and would merit further examination, but my point is



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simple: some very large towns (and ones that archaeologists know very well) had already disappeared decades, if not centuries, before the first Arab raids. Nonetheless, by the ninth century, the urban network had changed significantly from the densely urbanized landscape of small and large towns that characterized the early Roman period. Carthage, the capital city of Africa under Punic, Roman, Vandal, and Byzantine rule had been destroyed and replaced by two new cities: Kairouan, the new capital in the south, and Tunis, the new harbor-city and district capital in the north. In contrast, the large, prosperous, administrative centers of Roman Africa continued to be important centres in Muslim Ifriqiya and benefited from the presence of soldiers, administrators, and traders. Most changes in urban patterns, however, were not related to the direct intervention of the Muslim state and their speed and chronology varied for individual towns.

The Transformation of the Classical City Divisions between classical and medieval scholars have proved particularly unhelpful when it comes to reconstructing the topography of the early medieval city in North Africa. Archaeologists and historians have devoted a considerable amount of attention to the transformation of the classical city in Late Antique North Africa in recent years (see especially Leone, 2007). Urban developments in the old towns of North Africa after the Arab conquest are much more difficult to understand, in part because of the difficulty in dating eighth-century activity and accordingly medieval scholars have tended to focus on the new foundations of Kairouan and Tunis, known largely from written sources and on later urban trends (Marçais, 1954; Lézine, 1966; Mahfoudh, 2003). However, in the last few decades, our knowledge has begun to increase rapidly through a combination of new archaeological work at sites like Uchi Maius, Belalis Maior, Sbeïtla, Haïdra, Althiburos, Chemtou, Zama in Tunisia, Volubilis, Thamusida, and Rirha in Morocco and the re-evaluation of earlier excavation reports (see summaries in Cressier, 1998; Fenwick, 2013, 2018, 2019, 2020a: 58–78) The picture that emerges is of the great degree of urban variability in the early middle ages. The new foundations of Kairouan (670) and Tunis (c. 705), both built on or near existing settlements, mark an obvious break with the classical city in urban planning. Precise information is much less plentiful for Kairouan and Tunis than for new foundations elsewhere in the Caliphate. Nonetheless, the later Arabic texts have allowed scholars to reconstruct the key points in their development. Established as new Muslim cities to house the Muslim soldiers and ever-growing Muslim community, they included new types of buildings including mosques and the dar al-amara (governor’s residence) that had never been seen before in North Africa. Kairouan was laid out on an orthogonal plan (Bahri and Taamallah, 2019) with a large congregational mosque and dar al-amara at its center and a souq. This urban model had been formalized early on in the conquest of Iraq and Syria–Palestine in the 630s and 640s and was brought to North Africa (Akbar, 1989; Bacharach, 1991: 112–117). The new cities of Kairouan and Tunis would have looked very different from the hundreds of old towns of North Africa filled with churches, temples, theatres, monumental baths, and fora. The fabric of these towns had already undergone significant changes during Late Antiquity in response to changing patterns of public euergetism, the decline of the classical municipal system, and the rise of production and processing in cities (Lepelley, 1992; Leone, 2007). During the sixth and seventh centuries, the construction of town walls and intramural fortresses under Byzantine rule had significantly transformed the urban fabric of many towns (Pringle, 1981). At the same time, public spaces and buildings were adapted for other uses and some industrial and agricultural activities moved into towns (Leone, 2007: 266–279). Many sites also contracted in size in Late Antiquity: outlying suburbs were often abandoned or given over to burials or industrial activities. At Bulla Regia, for example, the core of the city continued to be occupied into the middle ages but the northern residential sector was given over to burials and industrial activity at some point after the sixth or seventh century (Leone, 2007: 242– 244). These trends are often thought to have accelerated after the Arab conquest, with occupation reduced to small scattered zones of habitation within the ruins of the Roman town (Duval, 1982). This model works only for Carthage, the one city that seems to have been destroyed in the aftermath

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of the Arab conquest. Here it is clear that the vast area inside its walls (400 ha) was reduced to a series of small agricultural villages, perhaps centered around the Byrsa hill, which seems to have retained some semblance of an urban function (Stevens, 2016; Fenwick, 2019). Beyond Carthage, a rather different picture of continuity emerges. Most of the large towns that dominated the settlement hierarchy seem to have continued to exist in their basic form, though the pattern and chronology of urban change varies from site to site. Thus Leptis, for example, continued to be the same size as in the seventh century, comprising a walled settlement of circa. 28 ha around the port area with some small pockets of occupation outside the walls around the market, chalcidicum, circus, and hunting baths (Cirelli, 2001). Other towns such as Belalis Maior seem to have grown by the addition of extra-mural quarters in the eighth or ninth century to house new Muslim occupants (Fenwick, 2013). Similarly, the basic urban street grid plan did not change significantly from Byzantine to early Islamic times in most North African towns. Although streets may have been narrowed by the addition of shops or the expansion of housing, the main arterial Roman streets were in continuous use during early Islamic and later medieval times. We see this very clearly at Sbeïtla, where the thresholds of new medieval houses followed the lines of the Roman insulae (Béjaoui, 1996). Town walls and intramural fortresses continued to be one of the defining features of early medieval cities, a legacy of Byzantine rule. The incoming Arab-Muslims seem to have taken over these fortresses, occasionally re-building or restoring them depending upon need in the early phase. Very few new fortifications seem to have been constructed under the Umayyads: the only known example is a small fort at Belalis Maior that overlies a Byzantine basilica and is dated to the early eighth century (Mahjoubi 1978). With the recapture of Africa by the Abbasids, there is a clear investment in building monumental fortifications anew or strengthening the existing defenses at the biggest towns. The Muslim foundations of Kairouan and Tunis were given walls in the 760s and by the end of the eighth century a new style of coastal fort, known as “ribat,” were being built in some quantity along the Tunisian coastline to protect coastal towns and villages from marauding Byzantine fleets in the Mediterranean (Djelloul, 1995). As we shall see in the final section, the religious fabric of old cities changed only very slowly. Churches continued to be a key feature of the early medieval city and very few mosques were built in quantity before the ninth century. At several sites, there is evidence of new building activity following designs and plans of Late Antique North Africa. At Carthage, the basilica-planned building, basin, and mosaic at the Rotonde de l’Odéon has recently been re-dated to the late eighth century (Caron and Lavoie, 2002). If this dating is correct, it demonstrates that North African mosaic traditions continued into the eighth century (indeed there are tenth-century mosaics at Mahdiya). Baths (hammams in Arabic) continued to be an important feature of medieval towns and urban lifestyles, though we understand this phenomenon very poorly. Large monumental bath complexes had been reduced or re-purposed by the sixth century (Thébert, 2003), but at many towns, the Roman and Late Antique baths must have continued in use for some time. At Tocra, for example, the central baths existed in a reduced version at least until the eighth or ninth century, as attested by the Kufic inscription on the threshold (Jones, 1984). New baths were also built in the post-conquest period. The small hammam at Volubilis built within the eighth-century complex is the best-documented: a small four-roomed structure with a plunge bath and a hot-room, it shows both connections with earlier North African traditions and new Eastern traditions (Fentress and Limane, 2018). Bath complexes associated with hot springs also probably continued in use, such as those at Aquae Flavaniae (Henchir el-Hammam), still in use today. Our limited understanding of baths and bathing patterns is particularly problematic given the importance of ritual ablutions in Islam and the high numbers of hammams noted for individual cities by later Arab geographers like al-Bakri in the eleventh century (Thébert, 2003: 431–433).

The Countryside Medieval North Africa was famed for its agricultural wealth and our understanding of the medieval countryside has improved signficantly in recent years (Fenwick 2020a: 81–104). The Maghreb produced large quantities of olive oil, wine, wheat and barley, honey, saffron, dates, fruits, sesame



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oil, cotton, as well as textiles, leather, and other animal products that were exported all over the Islamic world (Vanacker, 1973). The astonishing agricultural productivity of certain regions of North Africa (the Medjerda, Cap Bon, the Sahel, and the oases) and the large numbers of agricultural villages is frequently remarked upon from the ninth century when the first Arabic geographies appear, and there can be little doubt that the region was a major agricultural producer at this point (Talbi, 1981; Mrabet, 1995). The situation in the seventh and eighth centuries is far less certain but it is evident that some regions had seen a considerable drop in rural settlement numbers well before the first Arab raids (Leone and Mattingly, 2004). Immediately after the conquest, land grants were given to the Arab army and their Berber allies in the early eighth century (this practice was not common elsewhere in the caliphate), some of which were substantial estates comprising one or more villages (Talbi, 1981: 208–214). Presumably these estates were held by the state, church, or local elites under the Byzantines and confiscated by the Arabs as part of the spoils of the conquest. Unfortunately, little more is known about the countryside in the post-conquest period. Few excavations of rural sites have taken place and North African field surveys are characterized by a near universal failure to date survey finds beyond the useless category of “Islamic” and have all too often ignored the medieval period completely. Only a handful of survey projects (Jerba, Leptis Magna, UNESCO Libyan Valleys Survey) have systematically recorded the presence of medieval occupation, and they found it impossible to identify eighth-century activity in the absence of secure chronological markers. As a result, many scholars have seen this as a moment of crisis and decline for the countryside after a Late Antique boom in the fourth to sixth centuries (see, for example, Leone and Mattingly, 2004; Wickham, 2005). Archaeologists are more easily able to identify rural sites again in the ninth and tenth centuries when we possess contemporaneous sources attesting to North Africa’s agricultural productivity. Rural settlement boomed on the island of Jerba where the numbers of sites had doubled by the tenth century and small farms covered the landscape. There is a striking shift in the location and type of sites from the Roman period, however, which may be connected with the immigration of Ibadi settlers to the island (Fentress et al., 2009; Holod and Kahlaoui, 2017). Elsewhere in Tripolitania there is also a significant increase in rural settlement density from the late eighth century, particularly in the coastal area near Leptis Magna, where new fortified villages and towers appear in quantity (Munzi et al., 2014). The situation in the Libyan pre-desert is more ambiguous, but many of the Late Antique qusur and settlements continued to be occupied, and there were substantial medieval villages in the northern wadi-systems (Sjöström, 1993; Barker, 1996). Around the same time, small villages begin to re-appear at sites like Uchi Maius, Althiburos, and Chemtou in the Tunisian Tell, seemingly after a hiatus in occupation (Kallala et al., 2011; Fentress et al., 2014; von Rummel, 2016). The difficulties in identifying eighth-century rural sites notwithstanding, it is unlikely that agriculture completely collapsed in the seventh or eighth century, and we might rather view the late seventh and eighth centuries as a period of less intensive agricultural exploitation in the absence of large-scale export trade to other areas of the Mediterranean (Wickham, 2005: 720–794). By the late ninth century, however, North Africa was regaining the prosperity that it had until the late sixth century. Both the archaeological evidence and literary sources support a picture of a prosperous countryside of estates, farms, and villages in the literary sources. Indeed, the limited evidence we possess points to a significant increase in agricultural exploitation across North Africa to meet local and external demand that continued into the tenth and eleventh centuries.

Economy and Exchange The Arab conquests famously in the Pirenne thesis brought about an economic collapse (Pirenne, 1939). In recent years, the Pirennian model has been adjusted slightly and scholars broadly agree that there was a significant drop in Mediterranean trade and maritime commerce of bulk staple

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goods (grain, oil, and ceramics) in the seventh and eighth centuries (Hodges and Whitehouse, 1983; McCormick, 2001). Chris Wickham has convincingly argued that North Africa’s unusual dependence on large-scale export trade in grain, oil, and ceramics was particularly affected by the weakening of Mediterranean economic networks (Wickham, 2005: 728; now modified in Wickham, 2019). Recent work on numismatics and ceramics supports this image of a region already in economic crisis before the first Arab raids and less embedded in Mediterranean networks, though still a significant exporter of goods (Bonifay, 2004; Morrisson, 2016; Reynolds, 2016). Trade and exchange continued even among the fighting and insecurity of the latter half of the seventh century. Tantalizing hints of the links between North Africa and the wider Mediterranean world come from one of the earliest letters in Arabic, sent from a merchant in Kairouan to another merchant in the Nile Valley of Egypt in the mid-to late seventh century and certainly before the fall of Carthage (Raghib, 1991). It attests to a significant trade in wine, clothing, and other goods (probably by sea) between the two regions as well as the existence of a large Arabic-literate merchant community and a complex credit system. Further evidence of continuing long-distance trade comes from the significant quantities of ARS (African Red slip ware) and amphorae found at major entrepots across the Mediterranean in the second half of the seventh century, particularly in Rome, Tarragona, Marseille, Corinth, Paphos, Chios, and Constantinople (Reynolds, 2016: 143–147). After the capture of Carthage, trade with the Caliphate and Byzantine Mediterranean continued by land and by sea, though fineware imports cease in this period and do not revive until the ninth or tenth century with the introduction of glazed pottery techniques. As in antiquity, the old connections between Tunisia and Italy and Sicily remained the strongest despite the fact that these regions were under Byzantine control. Our best evidence for interaction comes from letters between Rome and the African church on ecclesiastical matters and accounts of merchants moving between Africa, Europe, and Byzantium (McCormick, 2001). The Crypta Balbi and San Clemente assemblages attest to trade between Muslim Africa and Byzantine Italy in the eighth century (Reynolds, 2016), whilst on Jerba, globular amphorae dating to the eighth to tenth centuries found on many sites and produced in local kilns closely resemble amphorae produced in South Italy and along the North African coast (Holod and Cirelli, 2011: 174). The Arab conquest, in this respect as in others, did not mean economic collapse for North Africa, though it is clear that the scale of Mediterranean trade did not match that of the fourth to sixth centuries. The bulk of trade and exchange was regional and continued to operate within the same localized exchange networks as in the Byzantine period, albeit on a significantly smaller scale (see Bonifay, 2004: 201). Excavations at Sidi Jdidi, Pupput, and Neapolis show that northern Tunisian workshops continued to produce and distribute ARS well into the eighth century, though of a poorer quality with a whitish fabric (Bonifay, 2003: 563). Pottery manufactured in central and southern Tunisia continued to circulate in medieval Jerba as it had done in earlier periods (Fontana, 2000: 100). The ceramics produced at the medieval kiln in the Flavian Temple at Leptis Magna circulated into its hinterland (Cirelli et al., 2012: 772). Even the glazed ceramics produced at the new city of Kairouan in the late eighth century had a very localized distribution within Tunisia (Louhichi and Picon, 1983: 45). These small overlapping regional networks were more broadly linked by longerreaching Mediterranean and Saharan trade networks for more valuable goods such as gold, slaves, glass, precious metals, textiles, and spices, all of which are difficult to identify archaeologically. Matters begin to change in the late eighth century when Saharan trade began to play an increasingly important part in the economy. Trade links with sub-Saharan Africa had already been established in the Roman and Late Antique period (Wilson, 2012), but it is clear that there was an upsurge of Saharan trade following the Arab conquest. There were three predominant routes, one in the east running south from Tripoli through Fazzan, a second from the Warjila and Qardaya oases in southern Algeria via In Salah to Gao in Niger, and the third in the Moroccan Sahara running south from Sijilmasa to Awdaghust. Gold and slaves, supplemented by ivory, dates, salt, and precious stones appear to have been the main exports to the Maghreb. In the 730s, shortly after the conquest of Morocco, an expedition was dispatched south of the Atlas “as far as the land of the blacks” to bring back “as much gold as wanted” (Ibn ‘Abd al-Hakam, 195–196). At some point between 747 and 755, the governor ‘Abd al-Rahman ordered wells to be dug leading from



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southern Morocco to the Sudan (al-Bakri 156), that is to say, on the Sijilmasa route. Shortly afterwards, there is a major shift in the trace element composition of both gold dinars and silver dirhams under the Abbasids (750–800), surely linked to the use of new West African gold sources as well as the opening of silver mines in Algeria and Morocco (Rosenberger, 1970; Gondonneau and Guerra, 2002: 582–584). Coin finds of late eighth-century silver North African dirhams across the Caliphate, Byzantium, Carolingian Europe, and the Baltic (Ilisch, 2005) testify to the important and new role that North Africa played in the Islamic world-system at this early stage. Widespread economic revival seems to date to the mid-to late ninth century (and especially the tenth and eleventh centuries) on the current evidence (Fenwick, 2020a: 105–128). High-prestige items such as ornate glazed ceramics, metalwork, and textiles circulated, and trade and commercial networks flourished linking North Africa to sub-Saharan Africa, Europe, and Iraq (Anderson et al., 2017). Mediterranean and Saharan trade underwrote an economic boom: the cities and countryside were transformed by the construction of new forms of monumental architecture as well as by urban growth, a surge in rural settlement, and investment in infrastructure.

The Arab Conquest and the End of Christianity? The question of the religious impact of the Arab conquest on North Africa and in particular the demise of Christianity is a charged one (see Fenwick, 2020a: 129–142 for an overview). As Mark Handley (2004) has demonstrated, there has been a tendency amongst classical scholars to assume that Christianity only survived precariously after the Arab conquests and that there was a large-scale and rapid conversion to Islam. A rather different perspective is taken by medieval scholars who have instead stressed the Arabic and Latin European literary and documentary evidence for continuity of substantial Christian communities after the Arab conquests and certainly until the eleventh century (Talbi, 1990; Savage, 1997; Prevost, 2007; Valérian, 2011b), following a similar chronology as elsewhere in the Islamic world (Bulliet, 1979). When considering this question, it is important to recognize that on the eve of the conquests, North Africa was not a wholly Christian region. The Byzantine holdings and coastal regions of eastern Algeria, Tunisia, and coastal Libya were largely Christian with small pockets of Judaism, while the Berber interior was a mix of Christian and Jewish groups with perhaps a majority practicing polytheistic or animistic religions (Benhima, 2011: 316–325). These different religious histories have important implications when considering the separate questions of the impact of the conquests on Christianity and that of conversion to Islam. In the western Maghreb, under control of the Moorish states, Islam seems to have spread relatively quickly (Brett, 1992). The Arabic sources claim that the Berbers were not “People of the Book” (Christian or Jewish) and made their submission as pagans. Accordingly, in name at least, they were regarded as Muslim converts who paid the alms (sadaqat) of believers. There is limited archaeological evidence for such an early conversion, but the lack of pig bone at sites in the far West, such as eighth-century Volubilis (Fentress and Limane, 2018), does support a swift change to Muslim dietary prohibitions against pork consumption. At Volubilis, too, eighth-century burials followed Muslim practices, lying on their sides and facing towards Mecca (Akerraz, 1998). With the emergence of successor Muslim states in the late eighth century and a first wave of urbanization in Morocco and western Algeria, mosques begin to be built on a wider scale in the major old and In the region of Byzantine Africa, by contrast, the spread of Islam was slow and Christianity remained the dominant religion for several centuries (Mahjoubi, 1966; Talbi, 1990; Handley, 2004; Valérian, 2011b). Churches continued to be the major religious foci of many of the old towns, though it has proven difficult to demonstrate this archaeologically due to a tendency to date church abandonment to the seventh century. At Sbeïtla, for example, a medium-sized town that had an astonishing eight churches in use in the seventh century, including a double cathedral complex, five smaller churches, and a cemetery church, there is no evidence for a sudden destruction or abandonment of any churches after the Arab conquest. In the following centuries, some churches were re-purposed for industrial or other uses, presumably reflecting a decline in the size

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of the Christian community over time, but at least two churches (Basilicas IV and V) continued to be used into the tenth century (Duval, 1982: 625). Christians did not simply continue to use existing churches, but also built new ones. One Qustas (Constans) successfully petitioned to build a church at the Muslim capital of Kairouan itself in the eighth century, and funerary inscriptions attest to the existence of a substantial Christian community and church officials there into the ninth and tenth centuries (Talbi, 1990). Inscriptions found at En-Ngila in Libya reveal significant Christian communities in the ninth and tenth centuries (Bartoccini and Mazzoleni, 1977). Mosques were not built in quantity in the seventh or eighth century outside the provincial capital of Kairouan, Tunis (and perhaps Tripoli), where large numbers of Muslims lived (Fenwick, 2013). In the old towns, mosques seem to have been initially confined to fortresses, presumably for the Arab garrison troops, as in the citadels of Belalis Maior, Bagaï, and Tobna (Marçais, 1954: 29–30). It is only in the mid-ninth century that congregational mosques and smaller oratories began to be built in many of the towns in Aghlabid Tunisia, coinciding with archaeological evidence for the abandonment or re-purposing of churches. The great mosques of Kairouan, Tunis, Sousse, Sfax, and Monastir built by the Aghlabid emirs all survive today in their ninth-century form in testament to this mosque-building surge (Marçais, 1954; Lézine, 1966). By the eleventh century, most towns possessed a congregational mosque and several smaller mosques and Islam seems to have been the dominant religion.

Conclusion All historians must grapple with the question of when to end their accounts. This Companion follows in a long line of scholarship that sees the events of the Arab conquests as marking the “end” of ancient Africa. The seventh century was certainly a turning point in Mediterranean history. The peoples of North Africa were caught up in larger processes of empire formation, changing trade routes and the spread of new religions that had consequences still visible today. Nonetheless, the length of the Arab conquest of North Africa – a process that took nearly six decades – is a salutary reminder that “ends” are rarely as neat as scholars might like to imagine. There can only have been a handful of people who, when Carthage finally fell in 697/ 698, were old enough to remember the initial raids into Cyrenaica from Egypt, some 56 years earlier. Regime change did not mean the “end” of the old cities, towns, and villages or the abandonment of the ways of life described in the other chapters of this volume: people did not suddenly de-populate the countryside or the towns; they did not stop eating their meals off ARS or speaking Latin, Punic, and Berber. They did not renounce their religions – Christianity, Judaism, and various pagan cults – all of which survived and thrived for centuries after the conquest. As always, with continuity came significant change. The new Muslim rulers attempted to integrate Byzantine and Berber Africa into one vast new province: they imposed new laws, taxation systems, a new currency, and an administrative language as well as establishing a new capital city, Kairouan, that displaced Carthage for the first time in over a thousand years. Two hundred years after the Arab conquest, the townscapes and countryside of North Africa looked very different, but there is no reason to suppose that the changes at the moment of conquest were any less or any more catastrophic for the peoples of North Africa than the transformation of Africa into a Roman province.

FURTHER READING For a comprehensive introduction to early Islamic North Africa, see Fenwick (2020a). For a general introduction to the history of the conquests and early Caliphate, see Kennedy (2004), supplemented by Brett (1978) and Manzano Moreno (2010) for North Africa. For general historical overviews of Islamic North Africa, see Abun-Nasr (1987) and Sénac and Cressier (2012). For archaeological syntheses, see Fenwick (2020a)



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supplemented for Ifriqiya by Pentz (2002) and Fenwick (2013), and for the Maghreb al-Aqsa by Boone and Benco (1999) and Cressier (1998).

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Index

Abbasids  426, 430, 433 ‘Abd al-Rahman  434 Abigas River  33 Abthugni 306 fortification of the forum  395 acts of the Scillitan martyrs  128 Adherbal 45 Aedemon 157 Afri  see Libya and Libyans Africa (province)  154 African ceramics  227 see also African Red Slip ware African communities joined to Rome  105 loyal to Carthage  105 African cookware  223 African edict  see Justinian, Justinianic Code African Latin  205, 342 African Latin literature  241–242 Africa Nova  45, 102, 103, 143, 155, 204 African Passions  236 African Red Slip ware  222–223 bowls 12 category A, Carthage  222 category C, Byzacena  222 category D Carthaginian suburbs  222 Gulf of Hammamet  222 rural estates  222 commodity or container?  224 “continental” 227 decrease in dispersion  228 location shifts  222–223 production centers  226 Tiddis 196 during Vandal century  380

African resistance  162 Africa Proconsularis  103, 206, 222, 223, 236, 241, 247, 248, 252, 258, 261, 264, 274, 290, 294, 300, 354, 357, 359, 360, 377, 379, 380, 392, 426 Africa 144 Carthage 144 amphitheaters 261 archaeology of  122–123 Byzacena, Hadrumetum (Sousse)  144 division of  144 governance system  122–123 public market  265 questions regarding provincial boundaries 144–145 Tripolitania, Lepcis Magna  144 urbanized 48 Zeugitana 144 Africa Vetus  103, 143, 155, 204, 221 Africitas  241, 342 Agathocles  45, 88 agency/identity theory (Revell)  18 Agonistici 355 agriculture  5, 14, 50, 210, 379 see also grain; olives; wine-making Byzantine North Africa  396 and climate  28 early medieval  431–432 estates 206 field surveys  206 Garamantes 65 Lixus 203 locusts 207 luxury foods  211 natural risks  207–208 oasis agriculture  65

A Companion to North Africa in Antiquity, First Edition. Edited by R. Bruce Hitchner. © 2022 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2022 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

440

Index

pre-Roman North Africa  202–203 rents 205 in the Sahara  29 seasonal pastoralists  322 small farms  206 southern Tunisia  35 surplus production  14 taxation 204–205 technological changes  34 and urbanization  76 vegetable oil  33 water availability  206 wheat 33 Ahenobarbus  see Domitius Ahenobarbus, Lucius Aïn Hammam (Thugga), aqueduct  265 ala Gemelliana  268 ala I Pannoniorum  163, 267 Alalia 91 the Alans  168, 375, 376–377 Albertini Tablets  205, 380, 396, 414 Algeria  3, 4, 6, 9, 10, 12, 24–27, 32–34, 41, 48, 52–54, 56–57, 74–75, 152, 206, 208, 221, 229, 262, 324–325, 327, 391, 425, 428, 432–433 Algerian Djurdjura  28 Algiers-Biskra diagonal  27 alphabetization of populations  233 Altava  161, 326–328 Althiburos  11–13, 15, 43, 45–50, 56–57, 93, 190, 202–203, 211, 292, 428–429, 431 agriculture 15 Capitolium 250 ceramics 52 defensive 4th century BCE wall  47 excavations 173 metallurgy 15 Numidian culture  52 opus africanum, absence of  52 Phoenician-Punic artifacts  52 radiocarbon dating  15 Amalfrida  323, 383, 384 Ammaedara (Haïdra)  6, 143, 157, 363, 364, 382, 425, 428, 429 churches 363–364 fortifications 395 amphitheaters  164, 178, 259, 309 Africa Proconsularis  261 Caesarea 261 Lepcis Magna  261 Roman Carthage  124–125 Sabratha 261 Thysdrus 261 Uthina 261 amphorae  50, 69, 108, 120–122, 193, 203, 212, 221–222, 225, 227–229, 300, 380, 396, 418, 432 Africana I  223 Africana II  223

Africana IIC  223–224 Byzacena IID  224 contents unknown  223–224 Dressel  20, 223 Dressel  26, 16 Dressel  30, 221 in Fazzan  227 handles attached to neck  223 handles attached to shoulders  223 Monte Testaccio  223–224 pitched or unlined  223 Pompeii 221 Tripolitanian I  223 Tripolitanian III  223 amphora production centers  221, 226 Africa vetus  221 Algeria 221 Byzacena 221 Carthage-Utica 221 foodstuffs containers  223 identification archaeometry 221 stamps  see amphora stamps surveys 221 kilns 212 models 222 petrographical analyses  221 spatheion 224 Tripolitania (Libya)  221–222 Tunisia 221 Zeugitana 221 animal husbandry  203 annona  122, 124, 131–132, 134, 205, 207, 212, 228, 300–301, 396–397 Antalas  323, 345, 398, 401–402 Anthologia Latina  130, 333 Anthologia Latina 38–80R  339 versus serpentini  339 Anthologia Latina 90–197R, Codex Salmasianus 338–339 anthropization 31–36 anticyclone  24, 26, 30 antiquities services  9 Antonine baths  125–126, 132, 248, 252, 395 axially symmetrical  262 imperial scale  262 Romano-Carthaginian sculptural decoration 262 Appian  46, 82, 88, 89, 101, 103–105, 110, 142, 146 Apuleius  143, 233–235, 239, 286, 332 Apologia  207, 235–236 Florida 235–236 Metamorphoses 235–236 Aquae Calidae  175 aqueducts  14, 35 Aïn Hammam  265 Aïn Hammam (Thugga)  265



Index 441

to Antonine baths  125 Caesarea 265 Carthage  126, 254, 265 Volubilis 264 Zaghouan  125, 126 Arab conquests  391, 405 boundaries 427 Carthage 429 Christianity and  433–444 “end” of ancient Africa  424 gap in written record  425 historiography  425, 426 reuse of churches  434–435 urban continuity vs collapse  427–428, 429–431 “Arab Kingdom”  3 archaeobiological data  48 archaeology 9–24 agriculture  11, 14 Jewish populations  12 arches, monumental Arch of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus 255–256 Arch of Septimius Severus and Caracalla  256 Arch of Trajan  256–257 Arch of Trajan at Lepcis Magna  255–256 Double Arch  256 “Double Arch” at Musti  255 Lambaesis 267 Tetrapylon of Septimius Severus  256, 257 architecture 247–284 architectural transformations  252 blended 248 blended architecture  251 civic and religious  249–255 civic complexes  248 cross-regional studies  247–248 and decoration  249 “glocalization” 249 “idea of the city”  248 influences 247–249 Lepcis Magna  248 monumental arches  255 non-Roman architectural influences  248, 251, 253 opus africanum masonry  251 patronage 248 public 248 reuse of monumental space  252 Roman influences  247–248 Romano-Carthaginian art  251–252 sculptural decoration  252–253 theaters 248 urbanization 248 viewer’s experiences  248–249 architecture, public  see fora complexes; temples Arch of Caracalla  264 Ardeleanu, S.  42, 108–109 Arian influence  344

Arianism  355, 375, 380 aridification  29–30, 32–33 Byzantine era  397 Aristotle  82, 90, 91 praise of Carthage governance  81 Arnobius of Sicca Veneria  30, 392 Aduersus nationes 238 criticism of pagan religion  238–239 rhetoritician 238 training of Lactantius  239 arrest of Christians  168 arrest of pagans  168 ARS  see African Red Slip ware artemesia 30 Artemisia  27, 29, 32 Asclepius  89, 195 Aspar 168 Assuras  49, 175, 358 Assyrian military activity  84, 91 Atlas des centuriations romaines 204 Augustine of Hippo  6, 10, 129, 154, 240–241 anti-Donatism 336 baptism and ordination  240 biographies of  240 The City of God  240, 241 condemnation of public entertainments  309 Confessions 240 death date  168 founder of monasticism in Africa  365 letters  240, 306, 310 Manual for the Instruction of the Uneducated 309 poetry 336–337 Psalmus contra partem Donati 336 sermons 240 treatises 240 Augustus (Octavian)  103, 143, 156, 157, 165, 174, 175, 179, 191, 192, 239, 240, 252, 253, 258, 291 Garamantes and  66 Roman Carthage  120, 122, 134 Aurelius, Marcus (emperor 161–180)  126, 146, 163, 185, 191, 235, 254, 256, 259, 271 Aurès Mountains  25, 29, 30, 33, 51, 156, 157, 184, 185, 317, 322, 323, 325, 396, 400 Austuriani nomads  167, 319 Auzia  161, 265, 319 Ayoub, Mohammed  67 Azibi n’Ikkis  52 Baal Hammon  (see also under temples) 83, 85, 195, 285, 287, 288, 289, 290, 295, 296 Babba 175 Badian non-Latin inscriptions  107 onomastic research  107 Bagradas valley, inscriptions  148, 204 Balaterus 160 Balbus, L. Cornelius  66, 143, 156, 158

442

Index

Banasa  146, 174–175, 251, 265, 269 Baradez, Jean  159–160 Barcid family  94–95 barley, bce presence  202 basilicas Basilica Aemilia  252 basilica exercitatoria 268 Basilica I  357 Basilica of Carthagenna  362 Basilica of Uppenna  357 Bir Messaouda  133, 134 Damous-el-Karita  129, 133 Dermech  129, 133, 362 Ksar el Kelb  355 Maiorum 129 Mcidfa  129, 133 Sufetula (Sbeïtla)  362–363 Bassus, C. Artorius  207 bath of House of the Labors of Hercules  264 bath of House of the Meridian  264 baths  125, 126, 129, 132, 176, 178, 183, 185, 189, 196, 262, 266, 269, 309, 342, 344, 380 Antonine baths (Carthage)  262 asymmetrical 262 Hunting Baths  263 axially symmetrical Antonine baths  262 Baths of Licinius  262–263 East Baths  263 Hadrianic Baths  262 Large East Baths  262 bath of House of the Labors of Hercules  264 bath of House of the Meridian  264 baths at House of Venus  264 Baths of the Capitolium  264 Battle of Himera (480 bce)  92 Baths of Julia Memmia  263 Baths of Trajan  263, 264 Bulla Regia  395 early medieval North Africa  431 Garama 264 Hadrianic Baths  262–263 axially symmetrical  262 sculptural decoration  262 half-axial 262 high concentration in North Africa  262 Hunting Baths, sculptural decoration  263–264 military baths at Gholaia  267 private baths (Volubilis)  264 River Baths  264 Tocra 431 Baths of Julia Memmia  263 Bulla Regia  263 Battle of Sbeïtla  399 Bavares 166 beekeeping 211 Bei al Kébir oued  34

Béja (Vaga)  53, 428 Belalis Maior, early medieval  430 Belezema Plain  33 Belisarius  169, 385, 395, 399–401 occupation of Carthage  131 Bellum Africanum  155 Bellum Civile (Appian)  104 Bellum Iugurthinum (Sallust)  154 Bénabou, Marcel  5, 10 Benchétrit, R.  31 Berbers  4, 5, 10–11, 77, 317, 329, 417 conversion to Islam  433 historiographically absent  41 in Latin literature  345 kingdoms  5, 319 languages 50–52 migration 51–52 origins of  76 Protoberber 51–52 resistance 4 Berthier 195 Bey of Tunis  3, 119 Birebent, J.  33 Bir el-Jebbana  123 Bir el-Zeitoun  123 Bir Massouda  84, 86, 87 basilica 134 wild fowl bones  203 Blad Guitoun, tomb-tower  324 Blench, R.  51 Bocchus I  45 Bocchus II  45 Bonchor 53 Boniface, Count  168, 377 Bonifay, Michel  16 borders 158–160 Bordj Helal bas relief  56 Bordj Jedid cisterns  125 Bou Arada  207 boundaries 205 boundary stones Flavian 103 La Malga  104 Vespasian 101 Bourgou on Jerba  174 Bourguiba, Habib  120 bovines decrease of  48 increased age at slaughter  48 Brigades Topographiques of the French army  4 broad beans  203 Broca, Pierre-Paul  10 Brock, M. D.  342 Brown, Peter  6, 304, 305 Brun, A.  32 building shapes and materials  50 Bulla Regia  10, 173, 365

baths 266 early medieval  429 Bu Njem, excavations  158 Byrsa Asclepius, temple to  123 excavation 120–121 groma point  121 temples 123–124 Byzacena  see Byzacium Byzacium 221–222 ARS category C  222 Berbers from  345 ceramics, Byzantine era  396 Byzantine Carthage  129, 131–134 administrative reforms  132 Antonine baths  132 archaeology of  120, 132–133 burial practices  132 Christian capital  403 church-building 134 minting of coins  132 monophysite dissidents  134 as pilgrimage route  133, 134 production sites  132–133 restoration work  132 trade and  132 Zaghouan 132 Byzantine North Africa  391–409 African non-Imperial tendencies  404 agriculture 396 annona  396, 397 architecture 395 attempts at unified Christianity  402–403 Carthage as Christian capital  403 Christianization of landscape  395 civil administration  392–393, 397 dangers of military autonomy  399 economy 395–397 importance of towns  394–395 importance of walls  394–395 internal military conflict  401 Justinian  see Justinian lack of study  391–392 Laguatan revolt  402 military organization  399–401 Monothelite sympathizers  404 Moorish incursions  400–402 natural disasters  397–398 opportunities for advancement  393 persecution on non-Nicenes  403 population estimates  396 rebellion of Stotzas  401 reconstruction of churches  404 religious history  391 restoration and organization of Nicene church 403–404 role of bishops  404

Index 443 taxation 397 textual sources  393, 394, 395 textual sources regarding  395 Three Chapters crisis  404 transformation of Vandal churches  395 cabotage 227 Cabrera III (shipwreck)  225, 227 Caecilian, bishop of Carthage  129 Caecilius Metellus, Q.  155 Caelestis (see also under temple)  123, 130, 183 Caesar, Julius  see Julius Caesar, C. Caesarea  143, 144 amphitheater 261 aqueduct 265 circus 262 military role  160–161 Roman houses  269, 272, 273 theater  258, 259 Caesarea (Cherchell)  160 epitaph 164 Caesariensis, fort of Rapidum  268 Caillemer, A.  204 Caius Iulius Iuba  47 Calama 178 stelae to Baal Hammon  290 Caligula, Gaius (emperor 37-41)  45, 143, 144, 156, 157 Camarina A (shipwreck)  221 Campanian black-glazed ware  108–109, 175 Camps, Gabriel  5, 11, 27, 41, 52, 54, 56 canon olearius  228 Capellianus 166 Capitoline Games  234 Capsa (Gafsa)  34, 133, 157, 205, 366, 428 Caput Vada  385, 394 Carandini, Andrea  6 carbon-  14 dating archaeology and  84 vegetal environments  27–28 Cardinal Lavigerie, Archbishop of Algiers  4 Carmen adversus Marcionitas 337 Carrié, Jean-Michel  306, 307 Carte Nationale des Sites Archéologiques et des Monuments Historiques 14 Cartennae 175 Carthage  18, 43–44, 49, 81–100, 147, 153–154, 159, 202, 212, 222, 251–252, 263, 286–287, 305–306, 323, 357, 362, 365, 377, 393, 430–431 Antonine baths  125, 130, 132, 183, 248, 262, 263 aqueduct  125–126, 264, 265 archeological history of  119–120 ARS category A  222 barley (bce)  202 basilica 252

444 burials inside city walls  365 Carthaginian peninsula  82, 83 Christianity and urban topography  362 Christian monuments  362 circus 262 defeat by Syracuse  94 early medieval  430–431 and Etruscan cities  91 forum 183 foundation 84–85 granaries, coastal  212 harbors and canals  123–124 La Malga cisterns  30, 126 legacy data  12, 13 libraries 81 as micro-region  18 military actions  91–93 peoples of  42–43 piracy 91 Punic  4, 5, 81 rebuilding of  174 recent urbanization of area  82 Roman  4, 119 Roman colonization  119–141, 183 as a Roman colony  101–104, 143, 165 in Roman imagination  81 Roman lens on historiography  106 as Roman veteran colony  165 Save Carthage Campaign  5, 6 in Sicily and Sardinia  92–93 technological advances  93 topography of  82 trade network  91, 93 treaty with Rome 509 BCE  91 urbanization  82, 85–87, 94, 173, 203 urban planning case study  183 Carthage (Byzantine) Moorish relationships with  323 networks of influence  323 textual sources  323–324 Carthage (Punic) amphora sherds  203 fruit cultivation  203 Carthage (urban planning) Byrsa 183 Koudiat el Hobsia  183 refoundational grid  183 Carthage (Vandal)  130–131 archeological history of  130 Geiseric 323 Hasding court  323 textual sources regarding  130 trade and  131 wealth of  131 Carthage, aftermath of destruction  101, 103 boundary stones, Flavian  103 Carthage, archaeology of  4, 82–90

Index Amphitheatre 84 Bir Massouda  84, 86, 87 building biography  85–86 the Circus  84 defensive walls  89 gaps in record  92, 93 harbors and canals  83, 88–89 military harbor  83, 88 necropolises  84, 89, 92 Punic phase  83–85 Punic structures  86 Quartier Didon  83, 84, 87 Quartier Hannibal  83, 89 Quartier Magon  83, 87–88 religious activity  85 residential quarters  84 sanctuary of Baal Hammon  84 sea wall  87 Sicily and Sardinia  92 socioeconomic inequalities  87–88 Theodosian Wall  128, 132 UNESCO International Campaign (1974–1986) 83 University of Hamburg  84, 85 Carthage, colonial capital  122, 123 Roman governance system  122–123 Carthage, political system  90 magistrates 90–91 textual sources regarding  90–91 Carthage, sack of (439 ce)  168 Carthage, south suburban  125 Carthage, textual sources  81–82 Aristotle 82 Diodorus of Sicily  82 Greek textual sources  82 Herodotus 82 Histories (Polybius) 82 Isagoras 82 Mago 81 Orosius 82 Philinus of Agrigentum  82 Phoenician epigraphic corpus  82 Plato 82 Polybius 82 ritual textual sources  82 Roman textual memory  82 Sallust 82 Silenus Calatinus  82 Sosylus of Lacaedemon  82 Thucydides 82 Carthage, western suburban  125 Carthagenna basilica  129, 133 Carthaginian African culture, questions regarding 45–46 castellum  45, 46, 177, 273 castris 163

Cato 339 Cave of Bacax  295 centuriation  31, 104, 105, 204 ceramics  14, 16, 73, 228, 417 see also African Red Slip ware; amphorae Byzacium 396 Byzantine era  396 during late antique era  380, 425 early medieval dispersion  432–433 Zeugitana 396 Cereres  123, 195, 289 Cereres Punicae  289 Ceuta (Septem), urbanization at  48 Chaal Charfaoui watershed  29 Chabin, J.-P.  30 chariot races  261 chariots in art  77, 256 in literature  77 Chemtou  421, 438 marble 221 Chevalier, R.  204 Christian basilicas inside Carthage  129–130 necropoleis 129 Christian Carthage  see Byzantine Carthage Christianity in North Africa  128, 354–372 African non-Imperial tendencies  404 Arianism  355, 357–358, 403 bishoprics  358, 359, 360, 361 Byzantine 402–403 Byzantine hierarchies  403 under caliphates  433–434 cult of the martyrs  355 Donatism  see Donatism internal divisions  354 monasteries 365–366 Monothelite sympathizers  404 Nicene church of Africa  357 persecution of non-Nicenes  403, 404–405 role of Byzantine bishops  403–404 in the Roman army  168 in Roman North Africa  168 urban graves  365 urban topography  358, 362, 395 Vandal Arian churches  358–359 Vandal period  355 Vandals and Arianism  357 wealth of the African church  366–367 Christian literature in Africa  236–241 Cyprian  see Cyprian dialogue 237 hagiographic literature  236 Latin apologetic tradition  238 Tertullian  see Tertullian Cillium, Monument of the Flavii  274 Cillium-Thelepte region, field surveys  380 circular monument  129–130

Index 445 Circumcellions (Circumcelliones)  168, 308, 311 Donatism and  357 circus  121, 124, 130, 191 Roman Carthage  124–125 circuses 261–262 Caesarea 262 Carthage 262 decorative stone  262 Lepcis Magna  261–262 Cirta  144, 155, 173, 175 defensive water courses  46 citizenship  163, 204 colonia 177–178 municipium 177–178 city walls, growth of suburbs  132 civic classifications  177–178 civic promotion  177–178 civil wars  103, 155 civitas  177, 190, 191 Classic Garamantian period  68–69 Claudian  168, 318 Claudius (emperor 41-54)  143, 144, 148, 157, 165 Claudius Maximus, Gaius  143 “climate boundary”  27 climate history  27–31 agriculture 30 carbon-14 dating  28–29 eleventh century  32, 33 see also Hilalian invasion erosion 30 European colonization  31–32 hydrology 29 increased humidity  29 rainfall 30–31 Roman period  32 solar intenstity  29–30 temperature 30–31 climate variability  31–33 Coarelli, F.  54 coastal Tell  27 Coastlines Survey (Tunisia)  15 Codex Salmasianus  333, 341, 343, 345 African identity  345 Anth. Lat. 38–80R  339 Anth. Lat. 90–197R  338–339 Cato 339 Coronatus 339 Felix 339 Florus, P. Annius  333 Luxurius 338 Medea (Geta)  334 Symphosius 336 cohors II Flavia Numidarum  163 cohors II Sardorum  163, 268 cohors VI Dalmatarum  163 coins, coinage  19, 410–423 Alexander mint  411

446 aureus 410 Byzantine diffusion across Roman empire  417, 418 Byzantine minting  396–397, 415, 417 Byzantine reconquest  415–418 Byzantine silver coins  415 Byzantine solidi  415 Carthage mint  411, 415, 416 coin hoards  301 continuity of Vandal monetary system  415, 416, 417 debasement of gold content  419–420 diffusion within Africa  417 early Islamic minting  418–419 effect of taxation  415 gold 411 gold as imperial currency  412 Gunthamund issues  411 hoards 417 “islamization” of coinage  418 neo-antoninianus 411 nummus  411, 414 platinum and gold content  419 relative to ceramic production  417 Series II solidi  418–419 Series I solidi  418 small change  301–302 solidi 411 stabilization by Diocletian  410–411 Valentinian III  414 value of  414 Vandal coinage  411–415 Vandal innovations  410 Vandal issue  412 Vandal monetary system  411, 413t, 414 Vandal use of Punic iconography  414–415 colonia  120, 122 promotions to  177, 178, 179, 180 colonial science  32 colonnaded streets  257 architectural transformations  257 Cuicul 257 Lepcis Magna  258 Ptolemais 257 Volubilis 257–258 Columella 34 columnar capitals  252 Comité des Travaux Historiques et Scientifiques 4 commercial architecture  265 public markets  265–267 Africa Proconsularis  265 Auzia 265 Banasa 265 Bulla Regia  266 Cuicul 266 Gigthis 266 Hippo Regius  266–267

Index Lepcis Magna  266 Numidia 265 Thamugadi (Timgad)  266 Thibilis 266 Thugga 266 Volubilis 265 storage buildings (horrea) 267 gaps in archaeological record  267 Commission de l’Afrique du Nord antique 4 Commission d’exploration scientifique de l’Algérie 4 Commodian Carmen apologeticum 335 Carmen de duobus populis 335 Christian poetry  344 Instructiones 335 Commodus (emperor 180-192)  124, 157, 189, 207, 251 conductores  146, 148 Congress of Berlin (1878)  3 Constantine, administrative reforms  166 Constitution of Carthage  90 referenced by Aristotle  90, 91 Corinthian columns  257, 259, 260, 261, 265 Corippus, Flavius Cresconius  323, 325, 332, 333, 342–343, 393 ekphrases 344 Iohannis  341, 345, 394, 398 In laudem Iustini Augusti minoris 341 Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (Volume 8) 4 Cornelius Scipio Africanus Aemilianus, P.  81, 101, 142, 144, 153, 154, 174 Cornelius Scipio Africanus, P.  94, 153, 154 Cosinius brothers, market square at Cuicul  188 Cote, Marc  33 Cotopitai  see Circumcellions Council of Carthage 411 CE  328, 354–355 484 CE  324 535 CE  402–403 550 CE  404 Council of Chalcedon 451 CE  355, 404 council of citizens  46 coup against Nero  161 cremation, Punic influence  54 Cuccureddus de Villasimius  92 Cuicul  147, 196, 211, 254, 267 basilica 251 case study  187–190 Christian construction efforts  189 city plan  187–189 colonial religious furniture  189 colonnaded streets  257 curia 251 expansion beyond walls  189 forum  188–189, 251 granaries, inland  212

hemicycle fountain  264 influence by Lepcis Magna  254 Market of Cosinius  251 monumental development  188 processional street  189–190 public market  266 Roman foundation  251 suburban civic architecture  189 theater 260 veteran colonies  187 wool production  211 cult of Eshmoun  123 curse tablets  293 Cusina  323, 345, 401 Cyprian, St.  30 Ad Demetrianum (Cyprian)  238 Ad Donatum  237, 238 Ad Fortunatum 238 Ad Quirinum (Cyprian)  237 on baptism  237–238 correspondence 238 De bono patientiae 238 De habitu uirginum 238 De mortalitate 238 De opere et eleemosynis 238 De oratione 238 martyrdom of  237 persecution of  237 Cyprian, Bishop of Carthage  129 Cyrenaica  28, 248 agora 254 architectural continuity across eras  271 architectural transformations  254 Caesareum 254 House of Jason Magnus  271 north necropolis  275–276 porticoed street  257 rebuilding under Hadrian  254 Temple of Hermes  271 theater, Greek-type  260 water monuments, Greek-style  265 Cyrene House of Jason Magnus  270 Roman-style theaters  260–261 Sanctuary of Apollo  264, 265 theater 259 water monuments, Doric-style  265 wooden theater  260 Damous-el-Karita  129, 133 Daniels, Charles  67 Datus, Nonius  165 Davis, Diana  32 De ave phoenice (Lactantius)  335 Decian persecution  129, 237, 238 Decianus, Caius Macrinius  166 decolonization across North Africa  5

Index 447 decorative stone Aswan granite  252, 265 Cap de Garde marble  262 Carystian marble  254, 257, 258, 263, 265 coralline breccia  262 Egyptian granite  254 Luna marble  258 Mysian granite  263 Numidian marble  109, 252 Pentelic marble  254, 257, 263, 265 Phrygian marble  260 Proconnesian marble  254, 257, 263 Troad granite  252 Delattre, Père  4, 12 Demna, granaries, coastal  212 de Planhol, X.  30 De re rustica 3 (Varro)  211 Despois, J.  5, 25, 33, 35 Diana Veteranorum survey  396 Dido (Elyssa)  84, 334, 341 Diehl, Charles  4, 392 Deities “African” 288 Baal  123, 255 Baal Hammon  285 Baal Holy Lord  292 Bacax Augustus (Libyan)  290, 295 Balcoranensis 288 Cereres  123, 195 Cereres Punicae  289 Demeter  123, 195 Dii Mauri (the Moor Gods)  289 Eshmoun 195 Juno Caelestis  123 Malakbel (Palmyrene)  290 Neapolitanus 288 “Roman” 288 Saturn  123–124, 191, 195, 289–296 Saturn/Baal 123–124 Tanit  123, 183, 287 Tinnit 85 Tophet 124 Yarhibol (Palmyrene)  290 diocese of Africa  167 Diocletian (emperor, 284–305)  144, 239, 300 persecutions  129, 355 reforms  211, 304, 306 stabilization of coinage  410, 411 Diodorus Siculus  45, 82, 88, 91, 92, 174, 190 discontinuous barriers in frontier border  158–159 Djebel Fortass  56 Djebel Mazela  48, 54 Djerba 203–204 domestic architecture,  269–272 Domitius Ahenobarbus, Lucius  142 Donatism  129, 311, 321, 354–357 Circumcellions  308, 311, 357

448

Index

cult of the martyrs  355 The Donatist Church  4 The Donatist Church (Frend, W.H.C)  4 Donatist controversy  129 lack of archeological evidence  355 map 356 origins of  354–355 questions of rurality  355 Robba 327–328 strong in Numidia and Mauretania  354–355 textual sources regarding  355 Dossey, Leslie  301, 302, 311Dougga (see Thugga) 425 Dracontius, Blossius Aemilius  332–333, 337–338, 343 Aegritudo Perdicae 338 Christian poetry  344 De laudibus dei  337, 338 epics 337 epithalamia 337 poems 337–338 rhetorical pieces  337 Satisfactio 337 Dresch, J.  33 dromedaries  205, 212 drought and aridity  31 historiography of  14, 36–37 textual sources regarding  31 western Mediterranean  31 Dust Veil  392, 397–398 Duval, Noël  5–6 Early Garamantian period  68 early medieval North Africa  426–434 East Baths, Leptiminus/Lamta  262–263 economy 220 annona 228 demand driven  228 imperial 227–228 provincial 227–228 regulated trade  228 edict of Caracalla  163 Egypt  33, 35, 50, 69, 72, 76, 211, 225, 253, 272, 420, 424, 426 Egyptian reliefs, of Libyans  76 Ehret, Chr.  51 ekphrases Corippus, Flavius Cresconius  344 Luxurius 344 el-Bekri 125 El Haouaria quarries  87, 92 El Haouaria sandstone, reuse  121, 122 el-Idrisi 125 El Khroub, funerary monuments  54 El Ksour funerary monuments  48–49, 50–51 necropolis at  54

urbanization 49 Ellès 54 necropolis at  54 El Mahrine, ceramic workshops  222 emmer, bce presence  202 emphyteusis 207 Encyclopédie Berbère (Camps, G)  11 environment, North Africa  24–36 continental 26–27 degradation of  24 humidity  26, 29 inland steppic climate  25–26 Mediterranean zone  24–27 north supratropical zone  26 societal impact  31 transitional zone  24–25 epigraphic evidence African  162, 163 legio III Augusta  163 Thugga 47 equestrian families 164 praefecti gentium 162 procuratorship  145, 146, 157, 160, 205 erosion  25, 28, 31, 33 The establishment of French authority in 1830  4 ethnonyms 47 euergetism  181, 248, 254, 257 Eurosiberian anticyclone  30 Evagrius  295, 394 exarch (exarchate)  132, 134, 399, 400, 402 excavations Aïn Wassal  396 Aïn Wassel  14 Althiburos  11, 173 Bu Njem  157–159 Demna Wadi Arremel  396 Fazzan 11 French colonial period  9 Gheriat el-Garbia  158 Jerba 12 Tamuda  41, 45, 48 Thamugadi (Timgad)  12 Wadi Demna  14 Faculté des Lettres 4 Facundus, Epistula Fidei  405 faïd  see hydraulics, water reserve Falbe, C.T.  204 familia Caesaris  142, 145 Fantar, M’hamed  11 fasti Africani  142 the Fazzan  6 Fazzan  11, 41, 47, 48, 64–66 climate history  65–66 desert landscapes  65–66 different than Phazania  67



Index 449

foggara irrigation system  70 funerary monuments  48 Garamantian settlements  66 Garamantian sites  69 imported amphorae  227 irrigation 64–66 oasis agriculture  49 urbanization 49 Felicity, martyrdom of  237 Felix 344 Codex Salmasianus  339 Felix, Minucius, Octavius 237 Fentress, Elizabeth  6, 7, 41, 42, 43, 46, 51, 77, 385 Ferchiou, N.  49 Fezzan 34 field surveys  13–15, 206, 208, 272 Cherchel (Iol Caesarea)  14 Cillium-Thelepte region  380 Dougga (Thugga)  14, 396 Kasserine (Cillium)  14, 396 Leptiminus/Lamta 221 Libyan Valleys  14, 15 Neapolis/Nabeul 221 Segermes  14, 396 Tunisian heritage management  14 Tunisia  14, 15 Zana 14 figs 203 fineware 228 see also African Red Slip ware expansion of production  300–301 reduction in production  432 Firmus, rebellion of  167–168, 320–321 First Punic War  72, 94, 153, 203 Flavianus, M. Valerius  164 flax 211 floods, destruction by, textual sources regarding  31 Florentinus  339, 343 Florus, Lucius Annaeus  234 Epitomae de Titio Liuio bellorum omnium annorum DCC libri duo (Florus)  234 fortuna 234 on North African History  234 uirtus 234 Florus, P. Annius  333 foggara irrigation system  70 see also hydraulics, aquifers food production fish sauces  223 gaps in archaeological record  220 olive oil  223 salted fish  223–224 wine  223, 224 fora complexes  249–251 Banasa 251 Byzantine fortification of  395 Capitolia 249 Carthage 183

Cuicul  188–189, 251 Cyrenaica 254 imperial motifs  252 Lepcis Magna  248, 250, 253–254 Rome 252 Sabratha  250, 253 Thamugadi (Timgad)  185–187, 250 Thugga  191, 192, 250, 251 Tiddis 193 Utica 252 fortifications, Ammaedara  395 fossa regia  43, 101–103, 144, 154 expansion beyond  155, 159 fountains, monumental  264–265 Cyrenaica 265 decorative complexity  264 hemicycle at Cuicul  264 ornamentation 265 Ptolemais 265 Sufetula (Sbeïtla)  265 as urban decor  264 Volubilis Arch of Caracalla  264 North Baths  264 fragility of the environment  31 Franco-Prussian War  3 Fraxinenses 166 French colonial period départements 27 excavations 9 focus on Roman period  9, 27 French protectorates Morocco 3 Tunisia 3 French School (Rome)  4 frigidarium Carthage (colonial)  130 Carthage baths  125, 262 Cuicul 189 Fronto, Marcus Cornelius, self-identification as Libyan 235 fruit trees, bce presence  203 Fudina 53 Fulgentius of Ruspe  344, 365, 366, 379, 381, 382 Psalmus contra Vandalos Arrianos 338 Fundus Tuletianos  (see also Albertini Tablets) 379 funerary architecture and art  5, 14, 48–49, 50, 51, 53, 70, 75, 108, 109, 145, 160, 207, 248, 274, 342 Althiburos  47, 56, 57 architectural complexity  274 Djedars  326–327, 328 dolmens 48 eclectic ornamentation  273–275 inscriptions  120, 273, 274–275 large tumuli  54 monumental mausolea  273

450

Index

Ghirza 275 multilevel funerary towers  54 Numidian Royal architecture  273 the Medracen monument  273 “Tomb of the Christian Woman  273 Punic influence  54 Roman-period mausolea, Africa Proconsularis  274 Sabratha 174 Siga 174 social hierarchy  48 Thugga 174 Tiaret  326–327, 328 tower-tomb type Blad Guitoun  324 Cillium 274 El Khroub  273 Mausoleum B (Sabratha)  273–274 Monument of Atban  273 Siga 273 Tripolitania 275 tumulus tombs  325–326 funerary offerings  55 funerary practices  53–56 offerings 55–56 Gaetuli (Gaetulians)  30, 42, 44, 49, 75, 155, 163, 234, 235, 236, 318 Gafsa,  see Capsa Gaiseric, king of the Vandals  131, 168 Galba, Sulpicius (emperor 68-69)  143 Gammarth, Villa of  88 Gamphasantes 66 gang plow  33 Garama (see Jerma) architectural transformations  253 baths 264 Garamantes  7, 42, 44, 49, 57, 64–77, 143, 157, 158, 159, 161, 173, 234, 240, 253 Gargola, D.  105 Garma (See Jarma) Gasr ed-Dueirat, mausoleum  274, 275 Gastel, necropolis at  56, 57 Geiseric 323 Gelimer 323 Gellius, Aulus  177, 235 Gemellae camp  159 Gennadius 399 gentes 146 geoarchaeology 15 geomorphology 29 geophysical surveys  16 Simmithu  16, 17 Germa  (see Jarma) German Archaeological Institute in Rome  83, 84, 87 Geta, Hosidius  334, 343 Getulians  42, 47 Ghadames 66

Gheriat el-Garbia, excavations  158 Gheriat-el-Garbia fort  31 Ghirza 274–275 Gholaia  166, 267 abandonment of  166 Gigthis granaries, coastal  212 public market  266 Gildo, rebellion of  167–168, 320–322 textual sources  320–321 glocalization 249 Gordian III (emperor, 238–244)  166 Gracchus, C.  104, 120, 122, 155 death of  104 grain  14, 131, 148, 227, 228, 289, 300, 377, 380, 432 connection to ARS production  224 export commodity  225 trade good  124 granaries, coastal  212 grapes 203 Gray Terra Sigillata  228 the great fire  126 Great Nymphaeum  248 sculptural decoration  265 great succession crisis  161 Greek culture, adoption by Numidians  43 Gregory, exarch of Carthage  134, 399 Grierson, P.  417 Gsell, Stéphane  4, 5, 28, 30, 35, 44, 46 Gulf of Gabes  24, 25, 26, 29 Guluga 53 Gunthamund (Vandal king)  205, 375 Arian heresy  357–358 coinage  411, 412, 414 Dracontius and  337, 344, 379 Guntharis 401 Gunugu 175 gypsum crystals  30 Hadrian (emperor, 117–138)  30, 157, 161, 177, 178, 252, 254, 265, 267, 333 epigraphic evidence  159 visit to Carthage 128 ce  125–126 Hadrumetum(Sousse)  142, 144, 212, 221, 402, 404, 425, 429, 434 burials inside city walls  365 granaries, coastal  212 Hamada al-Hamra  26, 55 Hammam Lif  12 Handley, Mark  433 Hannibal  81, 93–95, 153 Hannon the Great  44 harbors and canals  123–124, 131–132 hard wheat, bce presence  202 Harvester of Mactar  207, 304, 308 Hasdrubal Gisco  50 Haua Fteah cave  15



Index 451

Haverfield, Francis  10 Hays, John  6 Hecatompylos 173 Heliogabalus (emperor)  206 Hellenistic Mediterranean  108–109 Hellström, M.  191 hemicycle water architecture  264–265 Henchir Abassa  57 Henchir el Oust, granaries, inland  212 Henchir Godmet  210 Henchir Mided, necropolis at  54 Henchir Ramdane  53 Heraclian  168, 411 Heraclius  134, 366, 399 Hergla, granaries, coastal  212 heritage management  14 Herodotus  42, 66, 72, 76, 82, 287 Nasamones people  73 Hiempsal  45, 53, 54 high Algerian–Moroccan plains  26, 27 High Plains of Constantine, environment, north Africa 27 Hilalian invasion  32 Hilarianus, de Cursu Temporum  241 Himilco, Phameas  105 Hippo Diarrhytus (Bizerte)  110, 175 Hippo Regius (Hippo, Annaba)  10, 45, 129, 143, 168, 173, 205, 240, 241, 266, 268, 307, 308, 310, 322, 365, 366, 377, 385 granaries, coastal  212 public market  266 Histoire ancienne de l’Afrique du Nord (Gsell)  4, 28 Historia Augusta  124, 125 Florus, P. Annius  333 Histories  (see also Polybius) 82 historiography, drought  31, 35 historiography of North Africa  3–7 African independence  10 African orientation  5 climate during Roman era  5 decolonized  19, 35 Roman orientation  3–5 scientific analysis  35 Hitchner, R. Bruce  33, 34 Hobson, M.  181Homoean church (see also Arianism) 130, 131, 159 Honorius (emperor 393-423)  159, 168, 205, 354, 377 House of the Greek Charioteers  128 House of the Rotunda  131 House of Venus  264 Hr. el-Hami, tophets  293 Huneric 375 edict of  381 engagement and marriage to Eudocia  377–378 support of Arianism  383 Hurst, H. R.  123–124

hydraulics aquifers 34–35 Fezzan 34 sandstone 35–36 textual sources regarding  34 classical irrigation  33 archeological evidence, Tunisia  34 hydraulic resources, ancient  28 technology  5, 212 water reserve  34 Hodna 34 southern Tunisia  34 Iaudas 325 Ibiza, founding of  91 Ifriqiya  see Arab conquests imperial estates  148, 205, 207, 379 indigenous archaeology  18–19 indigenous peoples Greco-Roman sources  74 pre-Roman North Africa  74–75 rock art  76 Syrtes 74 indigenous resistance to outsiders  4 Indo-European languages  43, 48–49, 51, 65 inhumation  54, 92 inscriptions  4, 6, 10, 51, 70, 82, 107, 123, 128, 142, 148, 164, 207, 289, 341 euergetic activity of the elites  128 insignia triumphalis 143 Iol-Caesarea  6, 14, 144 iron  18, 43, 47, 55 irrigation  33, 67, 206, 379 foggara 70 on the Sijilmasa route  433 Isagoras 82 Islam 426 archaeological evidence of conversion  433 spread across western Maghreb  433, 434 Italy, in Libya  3–4 Iubaleni 319–320 Iuno Caelestis  130 Jarma (Garama)  11, 49, 51, 66, 67, 68, 70, 73 Jerba (Djerba,  see also Meninx) 11, 12, 174, 190, 221, 226, 431, 432 jessour  see hydraulics, water reserve Jewish populations  12 Jewish Revolt (115–116 ce)  254 Juba I  45, 53, 57, 103, 143, 155 Juba II  143, 165, 258, 273 Jugurtha (nephew of Micipsa)  45, 154–155 Jugurthine War (112–106 bce)  47, 105, 143, 154–155 origin of  154 Julius Caesar, C.  45, 103, 104, 122, 143, 155 dissolution of Numidian kingdom  103, 143

452

Index

re-founding of Carthage  156 Jullian, Camille  10 Justin  44, 82 Justin II (emperor 565–578)  341, 405, 415 Justinian (emperor 527-565)  129, 131, 132, 169, 323, 341, 375, 384–385, 395, 400, 402–403, 415 direct engagement with church in Africa  403 first edict  392–393 Justinianic Code  392–393 Pragmatic Sanction for Italy  417 response to retaking Africa  391 second edict  399 Three Chapters crisis  404 Justinianic Plague  392, 397–398 Kabylia, Algeria  4, 58, 324 Kairouan  428–430, 432, 434 Kbour Roumia, funerary monuments at  54 Kelibia 92 Kelsey, Francis  5 Kerfala 56–57 Kerkenna 173 Kerkouane  5, 10–11, 43, 92 Ibn Khaldoun  32 Kharga oasis  35 khettara.  See hydraulics, aquifers kingship as marker of urbanization  46, 47 variations in naming practices  46 Kissi, burial commodities  73 Kobbat Bent el Rey  128 Kroll, H.  342 Kroumiria Mountains  28 Ksar el Kelb, cult of the martyrs  355 La Blanchère, René Du Coudray  9 labor, rural  306–308 abuse of  207 categories of free people  207 imperial estates  207 inscriptions 207 seasonal workers  207 slaves 207 taxation of  207 l’Académe d’Hippone (1860)  4 Lactantius 238 On the Death of the Persecutors 239 De ave Phoenice 335 De opificio Dei 335–336 The Divine Institutes 239 hexameter poem  335 historian of religions  239 rhetoritician 239 trained by Arnobius  239 Laetus of Nepta  391 L’Africa Romana series  4

L’Afrique Byzantine (Diehl)  4 Laguatan revolt  402 La Malga  120, 123 cisterns  30, 126 see also aqueducts, Carthage Lamasba 33 Lamasba Tablets  206 Lambaesis  30, 143, 144, 159, 187 Arch of Septimius Severus and Caracalla  256 fortress 267 four-way arch  267 granaries, inland  212 groma 267 inscriptions 147 urbanization 165 Lambafundi, tophet  293 Lameria, rock cut wine press  209 Lancel, S.  342 languages of scholarship  3 la permanence Berbère 4 La résistance africaine à la Romanisation (Benabou) 5 Large East Baths  262, 263 Laroui, Abdallah  10 la Société historique algérienne (1856–1857) 4 Lassère, J.-M.  181 Late Antiquity, as an emerging field of study  5–6 Late Garamantian period  68 architecture 69 fortified towns and villages  69 late Latin poetry  332–353 Aegritudo Perdicae 338 African Latin style  342–343 Africitas 342 Anth. Lat. 38–80R  339 Anth. Lat. 90–197R  338–339 art and  343–344 Augustine of Hippo  336–337 Carmen adversus Marcionitas 337 Carmen de Iona 337 Carmen de Sodoma 337 Cato 339 Christianity and Secularism  344 Christian themes  344 Codex Salmasianus 343 Commodian  332, 335, 344 Corippus, Flavius Cresconius  332, 341, 343–344 Coronatus 339 De iudicio domini 340 De resurrectione mortuorum 340 Dracontius, Blossius Aemilius  332, 337–338, 343 ekphrases 343–344 experimentation 343 Felix 344 Florentinus  339, 343 Florus, P. Annius  333 Fulgentius of Ruspe  338 Geta, Hosidius  334, 344

Lactantius  332, 335–336 Licentius of Thagaste  337 Luxurius  332, 338, 343, 344 Maurus, Terentianus  334 metrical inscriptions  341–342 multilingualism 345 Nemesianus  332, 335, 344 North African attributions  332–333 Optatian 344 Parthemius 340 Priscian of Caesarea  341, 342, 343, 345 prosimetric works  332 Publilius Optantianus Porfyrius  336 racial themes  344–345 role of rhetoric and education  343 Serenus, Septimius  334 syllabic quantities  343 Symphosius 336 Verecundus of Junca  341 late Roman, Vandal, and Byzantine Africa  6 Late Roman Africa  299–315 agricultural labor  306 agriculture  300, 304 annona 300 artisanal production  301–302, 306 Christian and civic life  308–310 Christian approach to charity  309–311 Christian competition with spectacula 309 coloni 306–307 economy 300–302 education 308 emphyteutic renters  303 enforcement of coloni law  307–308 expansion in long-distance trade  300–301 historiography 299–300 impacts of tax reform  300 imperial hierarchy  304–305 impoverishment 306 increased presence of gold  302 large landowners  303 manufacturing increases  301 markets 301–302 power and privilege  304 privatization of the imperial domains  303 property relations  303–304 rental homes and workshops  306 rights and obligations of landowners  303 rural identities  311 rural laborers  306–308 shifting notions of charity  309–310 slave labor  306–307 social position, non-imperial  306 urban entertainments  308–309 urban plebs  305–306, 309 Lebu  see Libya and Libyans L’École supérieure des Lettres d’Alger 4 legatus 156

Index 453 legio III Augusta (Third Augustan Legion, Tertio Augustani)  156–159, 161, 165–166, 167 epigraphy 163–164 legio IX Hispana 157 legions, reduction in size  167 lentils 203 Lepcis Magna  167, 176–177, 204, 206, 221–222, 248, 253, 256, 258, 261, 262, 263–265, 266, 272, 299, 431–432 Lepelley, Claude  4, 240, 241 Lepidus, M. Aemilius (proconsul)  143, 156 Leptiminus/Lamta  16, 223, 227 East Baths  263 excavations 221 field surveys  221 iron melting workshops  301 Late Roman manufacturing  301 sprawling growth  175–176 Les Cités de l’Afrique romaine au Bas-empire (Lepelley) 5 Lesser Kabylia, inscription  324 Les Vandales et L’Afrique (Courtois)  4 Levantine coastal cities  84 Leveau, Philippe  6 lex agraria (111 bce)  104 African section  105 lex Hadriana de rudibus agris 204 lex Livia 105 lex Manciana  204, 211 lex Pompeia de provinciis (52 bce)  144 lex Rubria 104–106 l’Histoire de l’Afrique du Nord (Gsell)  36 Libya and Libyans  3, 6, 11, 14, 26, 34, 41–63, 72, 74, 76, 107–108, 148, 173, 193, 206, 260, 262, 247, 273, 285, 287, 288, 433–434 Carthaginian contributions to the development of 50 cultural makeup  42–43 funerary monuments  54–56 funerary practices  53–56 Greco-Latin sources  44 languages  42, 50 Libyan art  57 Libyan Sahara  64–80 Libyc language  233 Libyo-Punic culture  5 Libyphoenician communities  75 material culture  42 Meschela  43, 45 non-urban places  43, 46 Phelline 45 Punic 42 Theveste 45 Tocca 45 urban formation  45–46 Libyan monarchies  44 Greco-Latin sources  44–45

454

Index

Libyan religious beliefs  53 deities, pre-Roman  53 deities, Roman era  57 Punic influence  54, 57 Libyan script  50–52 bilingual Libyan–Latin inscriptions  52 Canary Islands  51 on ceramics  51–52, 53–54 description of  51 epigraphy 5 funerary 51–52 multiple alphabets  75 in official texts  52 Phoenician alphabet  51–52 in rock shelters  51 stelae  51, 53 tifinagh  52, 56 Libyan Valleys survey  15 Licentius of Thagaste  337 limes  27, 158, 167, 178 linear defenses  159 linked open data  19 literary africitas, absence of  241 Little Ice Age  32 Liverani, Trans-Saharan trade  72 Livy  45, 82, 105 Lixus, agriculture  203 local archaeologies  18–19 Lollius Urbicus, Q.  194, 195 Lucius Nonius Asprenas  157 Luxurius  332, 343, 345 Codex Salmasianus 338 ekphrases 344 epigrams 338 luxury consumer goods  18 Macellum (macella)  205, 265, 266 Macer, Clodius  161 Mackensen, M.  31, 211 Mactar  10, 54, 56, 176, 207, 212, 262, 289, 304, 308, 395 Macurgum  53, 288 Madauros  4, 165, 175, 178, 205, 207, 235, 357, 381 Maghreb  5, 6, 9, 10, 14, 27, 41, 45, 48, 49–51, 53, 54, 58, 74, 75, 81, 84, 93, 152, 161, 162, 163, 164, 166, 169, 204, 220, 229, 289, 290, 317, 319, 321, 325, 391, 426, 430, 432, 433 magic texts  207 magnetometric analysis  16 Mago  81, 202–203 Maison des Masques  365 Maison du Paon  365 mandracium 131–132 Marcellinus, Ammianus  167, 319–321 Marius, C.  47, 104, 155, 156, 163 Martyrs, cult of the Donatist martyrs  355

Ksar el Kelb  355 Thignica 355 Timgad 355 Masaesylian kingdom  44 Mascezel  168, 320–322 Masinissa  44, 45, 46, 47, 50, 52, 53, 154, 190–191 Massalia (Marseille)  32, 91, 432 Massylian kingdom  46–47 Masties  319, 324, 325 Masuna  319, 326, 327, 328 Mattingly, D. J.  227–228 Mauretania  45, 46, 48, 50, 52, 108, 143, 155, 157, 168, 318, 377 Mauretania Caesariensis (Caesarea)  47, 144, 146, 157–158, 160, 174, 175, 206, 232, 252, 264, 265, 284, 300, 320, 322, 324–328, 334, 358, 377, 392, 400, 403 Mauretanian kingdom  46–47 Bocchus I  47 Mauretania Sitifensis  355 Mauretania Tingitana  13, 47, 144, 146, 149, 157–158, 162, 164, 165, 167, 175, 252, 264 amphora production  221, 224 blended architecture  248 drought 31 Spanish diocese  167 Tingis 144 Mauri (Maurousioi, Moors, Moorish)  6, 31, 44, 56, 168, 312, 317–331, 400–401 Maurus, Terentianus De litteris 334 De metris 334 De syllabis 334 Maximian (Augustus 286–305)  167, 411 Maximinius Thrax (emperor 235–238)  166 Maximus of Madauros  173 Maximus the Confessor  134 Maxula (Rades)  175, 212 granaries, coastal  212 Mcidfa  129, 133 Medea (Geta, Hosidius)  334, 340, 344 Medjerda River and Valley (ancient Bagradas River)  29, 93, 148, 178, 181, 204, 205, 207, 209, 212, 224, 358, 359, 360, 431 Medracen  15, 54, 55, 273 Medracen funerary monuments  55 Megara Hyblaia  85 Megara quarter (peninsula)  88, 203, 362 Meninx  176, 178, 212, 248, 252, 301, 305, 428 granaries, coastal  212 judicial basilicas  248 Late Roman manufacturing  301 sprawling growth  175–176 urbanization 305 Mercenary War (Truceless War)  93 Merrills, Andy  376 Meschela 45 Micipsa  45, 47, 52, 54, 154, 251



Index 455

tomb of  56 Middle Atlas  25, 28 Mididi 48 migration  6, 67, 76, 77, 107, 110, 176, 227, 308 Miles, Richard  376 military architecture  267–268 Bu Njem  268 fort of Gemellae  267 fort of Gholaia  267 fort of Rapidum  268 Lambaesis  267, 268 ornamentation, Lambaesis  267 Thamusida 268 military conflicts in North Africa, shifting historiography 162 military diplomas  157 military installations  161 military terminology, late  167 M’lakou (Oued Soummam)  320 Modéran, Yves  6, 405 Mommsen, Theodor  4, 101 monasteries  133, 365–366 Bigua 366 Byzantine 366 Carthage 366 Damous el Karita  366 female monasteries  365, 366 Fulgentius of Ruspe  365, 366 Hippo 365 Mandracium 366 Monasterum Clericorum  365 Thagaste 365 Monceaux, Paul  233, 234, 235 monotheletism 134 Monte Sirai  92 Monte Testaccio  212, 223–224, 228 Moorish family  164 Moorish horsemen  163 Moorish incursions  401 Moorish king (kingdoms)  44, 168 Moorish tribe(s)  162, 166, 169 Moors, Moorish,  see Mauri Morocco  3, 4, 6, 10, 12, 25, 26, 27, 29, 34, 41, 49, 51, 52, 54, 74, 75, 77, 84, 103, 203, 220, 247, 262, 424, 453, 426, 429, 432, 433 Mozia  92, 94 Mrabet, Abdellatif  34, 420 Mukhtar, Omar, execution  1931, 3 municipium  145, 165, 177, 178, 179, 180, 196, 251, 428 Murzuq  26, 64, 66, 69 Musti  248, 256, 358 Double Arch  255 fortification of the forum  395 Musulamii  144, 146, 157, 163, 234, 235 Napoleon III  3 Naravas  46, 47

Nasamones people  73 Nasamonian uprising  157 National Museum of Carthage  119–120 Neapolis  88, 105, 175, 221, 224, 288, 432 Neapolis/Nabeul, field surveys  221 Neboit, R.  31 Nebuchadnezzar II  91 necropolises  41, 48, 49, 54, 56, 57, 58, 83, 145, 147 see also funerary architecture and art Nemesianus  332, 335, 342, 343, 344, 345 Cynegetica 335 Eclogues 335 secular work  344 Nero  142, 147, 161, 205 Nicene church of Africa, suppressed by Vandals 131 Nicene creed  380 Nicivibus Saturn 292 tophet 292 Noctes Atticae (Gellius)  177 nomadic pastoralism  32 Nonnia Primitiva  289 Notitia Dignitatum  166, 167 Nubel and sons  167–168, 318, 319–322 b. Nu’man, Hasan  418, 420, 424, 426 Numantia, siege of  154 Numidia  3, 5, 44, 103, 156–157, 204 adoption of Greek and Punic culture  45 Africa Nova  47 ceramics, Byzantine era  396 cities 47 given to Sittius  155–156 incorporation into Mauretania  47 marble 176 Masaesyli 44 Massyli 44 Numidia Cirtensis, Cirta (Constantine)  144 Numidia Constantina, Constantina  144 Numidia Militana, Lambaesis  144 political entities  48 prosperous harvests  31 public market  265 Punic influence  52 Roman textual sources  44 as Roman vassal  47 social hierarchy  50 Numidia-Carthage interactions  11 nymphaeum  248, 258, 264, 265 Great Nymphaeum at Lepcis Magna  248, 258, 265 of Hercules  265 Sala 264 oak forests  29–30 oasis  32, 34, 35, 42, 49, 65–77, 157, 159, 173, 174, 206 Octavian (see Augustus)

456

Index

Odeon hill, theater (Carthage)  124, 125, 126, 128, 129, 130, 183 Oea/Tripoli  66, 73, 207, 226, 235, 255–256 amphora production  221–222 olives cultivation  14, 27, 205–223 olive oil  124, 212 olive presses  206, 208–211 oppida  45, 49, 174, 176, 177, 193 Optatian 344 Optatus of Milev  240, 311 Against the Donatists 240 opus africanum 122 Oran  25, 26, 27, 45 Oranian Tell  27 Orosius  82, 154, 320, 321 Historiae Adversus Paganos 241 osteological analyses  15–16, 76 Ouargla oasis  32, 420 ovicaprids 203 pagi civium Romanorum 177 pagus  122, 142, 177, 190, 191 palaeobotanical studies  16, 202 paleoecology, climate fluctuation  24, 28 Palmyrenorum 163 palynology  15, 27, 29, 229 Panella, Clementina  6 Park of the Roman Villas  128 Parthemius 340 pastio villatica  210, 211 peas 203 Pentz, Peter  426 peregrines  163, 164 Pères Blancs  see White Fathers Pérez, Buenacasa  366 Perpetua, Vibia  125, 128–129, 131, 133, 143, 362, 382 biography 237 martyrdom of  237 Passion of Saints Perpetua and Felicity 236–237 prison diary  236 per strigas organization  85 pertica Carthaginiensium  103, 122, 154, 248 Peutinger Table  177, 197 Peyras, J.  49 Peyssonnel, Jean André  4 Phazania  64, 66 Phelline 45 Philinus of Agrigentum  82 Phocaean Red Slip Ware  228 Phoenician–Punic world  49, 81, 84, 88, 91, 93, 255, 286 Phoenicians  5, 6, 7, 11, 15, 29, 41, 42, 49, 50, 51, 52, 67, 74, 75, 81, 82, 84, 85, 88, 89, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 101, 103, 108, 203, 255, 286, 287, 288, 291, 294, 428

Phrygian gold leaf  91 phytogeography  24, 27 Picard, G.-C.  127 pigs  48, 203 Pilcher, W.  52 Pirennian model  431 Plain of Sfax  29 Pliny the Elder  7, 33, 34, 46, 66, 74, 77, 101, 103, 110, 144, 147, 174, 204, 241, 255 on irrigation  35 plows 33 PNEK survey  208, 209 poetry competitions  234, 334 pollen analysis  28, 29, 32 aridification 33 humid phase  33 Polybius  49, 82, 90, 92 polydisk plow  33 pomegranates 203 Pompeians  105, 143, 155 Cn. Pompeius Magnus  45, 103, 122, 155 Pompey  103, 155 Pontius of Carthage, Vita Cypriani 237 populi leiberei  105, 106 Possidius of Calama  241 praepositus limitis 167 pre-and protohistoric North Africa  5 prefecture of Africa, exarchate  131, 132, 135, 392, 415 pre-Islamic funerary monuments  5 pre-Roman archaeological levels  5 Prima (saint)  131 Prima Flavia Pacis  167 Primasus of Hadrumetum, Instituta regularia divina 405 Priscian of Caesarea Institutiones grammaticae  341, 342, 343, 345 panegyric epic on Anastasius  341 Proconsular Acta  236 Procopius  7, 33, 131, 319, 323, 325, 326, 329, 366, 383, 392, 393, 394, 395, 397–398, 401, 402, 404 Vandal Wars 397–398 Proto-Urban Garamantian period  68, 71 funerary monuments  50 provinces creation of  142–143, 156–157 decrease in governors’ power  167 increase in number  167 Ptolemais  252, 256, 257, 265, 270, 272 Colonnaded Palace  270, 272 fountains, monumental  265 Ptolemy, son of Juba II, King of Mauretania  45, 144, 157, 261, 262 public entertainment, monuments for  124–126 Publilius Optantianus Porfyrius  336 Punic

official language  50, 233, 289 weights and measures  50 Punic Carthage  81–100 archaeology of  120 Hellenism 81 necropolises 83 temples 123–124 textual sources regarding  88 Punic culture  5 adoption by Numidians  42 Punic Iberia  94 The Punic Wars  93–95 First Punic War  44, 94, 153, 203 Second Punic War  44, 45, 94, 108, 153 Third Punic War  94, 103, 105, 119, 142, 153, 154, 203 Pyrrhus (son of Achilles)  338 Pyrrhus (patriarch),  134 Pythian games  125, 183 qanat  34, 35, 70, 206 Quadrilatère de Falbe  83, 89, 124 Quartier Dido(n)  83, 84, 85, 87, 91 Quartier Hannibal  83, 89, 90 Quartier Magon  83, 87 Quattuor publica Africae  145, 146, 147, 149, 207 Quietus, Lusius  164 Quinn, J. C.  42, 43, 108 Quinquegentanei  166, 167, 318 Quodvultdeus  130, 241, 382 Book of promises and predictions of God 241 Rachet, Margeurite  4 rainfall  15, 24, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 33, 34, 67, 75 coastal Tell  27 northern Africa  27 Oranian Tell  27 precipitation  25, 28, 29, 35, 202, 206, 208 Saharan zone  27 Rakob, F.  54 Ras Enghela, granaries, coastal  212 Ravenna 168 diplomatic relationships  323 mint 415 opposed to Gildo  320 power center in late Antiquity  321, 322 Rebu  see Libya and Libyans Regulus, Marcus Atilius  153 religion in pre-Roman Africa  286–290 (see also under individual deities) Baal Hammon  287 burned sacrifice  287 close connection between Saturn and Baal Hammon 289 Demeter and Kore  287 Dii Mauri (the Moor Gods)  289 inland North Africa  288

Index 457 “Libyan” practice  287–288 Melqart 287 molk sacrifice  287 Phoenician Carthage  286–287 Punic inscription and ritual practice  287 Punic pantheons  289 rise of Roman inscriptions and names of gods  289, 290 ritual tariff at Baal Saphon  287 Saturn, national in nature  289–290 Tanit 287 religion in Roman Africa  285–296 Ceres, national in nature  289 Ceres, plural in nature  289 defixiones 293 gaps in archaeological record  286, 291 historiography 285–286 human sacrifice  291–293 molk sacrifice  291–292 natural sanctuaries  295 pre-Roman oikumene 286 ritual practice  291 Romanized gods  288 specificity of local gods  288 textual sources regarding  286 tophets defined 291–293 religious iconography, rock art  76 Republican Africa  101–116 Hellenistic Mediterranean lens  108 Latin inscriptions  107 neglect and reassessment of archaeological artifacts 107–108 non-Roman identity  107–108 “Romanization” of scholarly understanding 106–107 Respublica Castelli Tidditanorum  see Tiddis Rif Mountains  25, 28 Rirha  48, 429 River Baths  264 road building  157, 174, 212 rock art  75–77 Rogatus, Q. Memmius  194 Roman African writers Apuleius 235 Cornutus 234 Florus, Lucius Annaeus  234 Fronto, Marcus Cornelius  234 Gellius, Aulus  235 Juvenal 234 Severus 234 Roman Africa written sources epigraphic sources  233 inscriptions 233 epitaphs 233 Roman army  152–172 alliance with Numidia  154, 155 career histories  164

458

Index

civil wars  155–156 as a community  164 creation of a “Carthaginian enemy”  154 distinct from the army of the Carthaginian thalassocracy 153 epigraphic evidence  163–164 facilitation of acclimatization  165 gaps in archaeological record  164 historiography of  152, 154 incomes 165 local recruitment  163 logistics 165 military engineering  165 occupation of Carthage  154 gaps in the record  154 textual sources regarding  154 operations against Aedemon  157 patronage 155 provincial armies of North Africa  156–157 Punic Wars  153 and religion  168 religious unity and diversity  158 rewards to troops  155 Roman interventions in North Africa  153 settlement of veterans outside fossa regia  155 textual sources regarding  155 Roman Carthage  82, 119–135 cemetaries 127–128 centered on the Byrsa  121 Colonia Iulia Concordia Karthago 120 domus 128 excavations 121 funereal epitaphs  147 gaps in archaeological record  123, 127–128, 143 lower and middle class housing  128 momuments 123–124 population estimates  127 religious continuity with Punic Carthage 123–124 reuse of Punic materials and structures  121–122 Roman reuse of Punic building materials  121 Roman frontier definition of borders  158–159 gaps in archaeological record  158 inscriptions and testimony  159 role of army  158 Roman imperial administration  142–151 administrative titles  145–148 Africa Proconsularis  142, 156–157 Antonian era changes in governance  156–157 Caesarea 143 civil capitol at Carthage  143 cursus 145 expansion 157 funerary inscriptions  145 imperial estates  147–148 imperial freedmen  145–146

imperial slaves  145–146, 147 inscriptions 142 legates 145 Mauretania 143 Mauretania Caesariana  142, 143, 144 Mauretania Tingitana  142, 144 Numidia  142–143, 144, 156–157 procuratores 145 provinces  142–143, 156–157 relationships with gentes 146 role of governor  143–145 role of proconsul  143–145 senators 145 sub-governor administrators  145–146 taxation 146–147 Romanization  3, 5, 10, 33, 45, 107, 108, 152, 162, 164, 248 Roman North Africa Berbers 317 complexity of culture  317 complexity of language  317 textual sources regarding  103–106 Romano-African sanctuaries  255 Romano-Carthaginian art  251–252 Rouahïa 328 Rouvillois-Brigol, M.  32 Rue Ibn Chabâat  121 Rufus, Marcus Licinius  205 rural settlement and land use  202–219 civic classifications  205 pre-Roman 202–204 Roman 204–205 Rusazus 175 Rusguniae  175, 320 Sabratha  4, 34, 143, 174, 176, 226, 248, 250, 253, 255, 259, 260, 261, 274, 289, 291, 302, 358, 385, 404, 425 amphitheater 261 architectural transformations  253 artisans from abroad  260 Christianity and urban topography  358, 362 civic complexes  248 Corinthian columns  260 forum 253 local craftsmen  260 Mausoleum B  273–274 piazza 253 sprawling growth  175–176 Temple of Liber Pater  253 theater  248, 259, 260 Saharan Atlas  25, 34, 35 Saharan reliefs  75 Sahel  221, 225, 226, 317, 428, 431 Sainte Monique  129, 357 Sala  161, 162, 251, 264 Salama, P.  31, 420



Index 459

Saldae 175 Saldae (Béjaïa)  165, 175, 221, 226 Sallust (C. Sallustius Crispus)  45, 82, 105, 143, 155, 204 Bellum Iugurthinum  106, 154 Salomonson, Jan Willem  6 saltuarius 148 Sanctuary of Apollo, Cyrene  256, 257, 259, 260, 264, 265 sandstone  35, 92, 121, 206, 209, 210 Saniat Jibril  68, 272 Sardinia  51, 81, 82, 85, 91–94, 108, 203, 213, 291, 232, 378, 382, 384, 385, 392, 400, 417, 418, 419 satellite imaging  17 Saturn  123–124, 189, 191, 195, 285, 288, 289–293, 295, 296 Save Carthage Campaign  5, 6, 120, 125, 420 Sbeïtla (see Sufetula) 6, 134, 226, 362, 363, 367, 399, 400, 425, 428, 429, 430, 433 Scheding, Paul  18, 181, 191 sculptural decoration  249, 252, 260 on arches  255–257 Augustan style  258–259 baths 262 colonnades and porticoes  257–258 Great Nymphaeum  265 Lepcis Magna  254 Romano-Carthaginian Corinthian order  252–253 Volubilis 253 Secunda Flavia Virtutis  167 Sennacherib 91 Septem (Ceuta)  400 Septemius, Serenus  334, 342, 343, 345 Opuscula 334 Septimius Severus, L.  125, 157, 158, 161, 164, 166, 174, 176, 183, 192, 237, 239, 240, 248, 253, 256, 257, 262, 265, 295, 342 urban expansion under  176 Sertius and Sertia  187 Servilius Rullus, agrarian bill 64 BCE  104 Seven Monks of Gafsa (Capsa)  133, 366 Severan basilica  248, 257 Severan dynasty  144 sharecropping  204, 207, 212, 303 Shaw, Brent  6, 10, 357 Shaw, T.  4 shipwrecks  109, 221, 223, 225 shophetim 46 Sicca Veneria  30, 46, 47, 49, 103, 143, 175, 238, 239, 289, 382 Sicily  6, 29, 31, 44, 49, 82, 91, 92, 94, 119, 203, 221, 225, 227, 269, 271, 291, 303, 366, 377, 378, 383, 432 Sidi Slimane  52 Siga  45, 54, 173, 174, 190, 273 funerary monuments at  54

Silenus Calatinus  82 Silis/Silin  175, 272 Villa of the Nereids  272 Simmithu  16, 17, 55, 57, 173, 175, 176, 190, 251, 252 Sitifis (Sétif)  144, 147, 187, 189, 271, 382 Sittius, Publius  155, 204 Slimani, S.  34 social hierarchy  11, 48, 76 Société de Constantine (1853)  4 Sofeggin oued  34 soil micromorphology  15 Sollertiana domus 365 Solunto 92 Sophonisba 50 Sosylus of Lacaedemon  82 Sousse (see Hadrumetum) South Atlas ranges  25 Spanish diocese  167 spate irrigation  33 spatheion 224 spatial planning  31 stagnum harbor  131 stelae  12, 47, 50, 51, 52, 56, 57, 70, 85, 92, 124, 253, 274, 289, 290, 292, 293 chronology disrupted  59 inscriptions  58, 253 Nicivibus  292, 292 Stephen, St.  133, 366 Stern, Karen  12 St. Mary, Justinian’s church of  132 Stone, David  108, 227 Stora near Rusicade, granaries, coastal  212 Stotzas  397–398, 401 Strabo  56, 105 Sua  42, 395 Suetonius Paulinus  158 sufetes 177 Sufetula (Sbeïtla)  6, 10, 134, 250, 265, 357, 362, 363, 367, 398 Basilica I  358 battle of  134 Battle of Sbeïtla  399 churches 362–363 fountains, monumental  265 funerary epigraphs  398 Justiniac Plague  398 temples 250 Sulla 155 Sullecthum (Salakta)  16, 212, 221, 222, 223, 225, 226 Symphosius  336, 343, 345 preface 336 riddles 336 synagogue  12, 328 synod of Carthage  129 Syphax (King)  45, 46, 47, 50, 190

460

Index

Tabarka mosaic  210, 211 Tablettes Albertini  see Albertini Tablets Tabula Banasitana (Tablets of Banasa)  146, 163 tabula mensuraria 266 Tabuteau, M.  30 Tacape (Gabes)  33, 157, 173, 174 Tacfarinas  66, 144, 157, 163, 234, 240 Tahruna plateau, amphora production  222 Tamazig (see Amazigh and Berber) 4, 5, 7, 42, 50, 74, 375, 385 Tamuda  41, 45, 48, 161 excavations 45 Tamugadi, granaries, inland  212 tanistry 44 Taqallit  71, 72 taxation  153, 157, 158, 255, 300, 403, 417, 434 beekeeping 211 Byzantine North Africa  397 coinage and  415 of labor  207 of land  105–106 Roman imperial administration  146–147, 207 under Umayyad caliphate  427 Tchernia, A.  228 Tedesco, Paolo  302, 308 Tell Atlas  24, 25, 26, 27, 161 Tell Oranais  26 Tell/Sahara interface  27 temperature 28–30 Temple of Milk’ Ashtart-Hercules  252, 253, 275 Temple of Saturn  124, 192, 194, 290, 294, 295 temples 123–124 architectural transformations  253 architecture and ritual  293–295 of Augustus  191 Banasa 251 to Caelestis  183, 191 courtyard-temples (temples à cour)  294 Cuicul 189 Cyrenaica 254 inclusion in theaters  258–259 Lepcis Magna  253, 258 to Masinissa  190 to Minerva  191 as public architecture  249–250, 294 to Saturn  191 Temple B (Thugga)  294–295 Temple of Saturn (Thugga)  294, 295 temple of the source at Zaghouan  126 Thugga 190–191 to Tiberius  191 temples on Byrsa  123–125 Baal 125 Ceres, temple  125 gens Augusta 125 Juno Caelestis  123 Saturn/Baal 123–124

Tanit 125 Tophet 125 Tertio Augustani  167 Tertullian (Quintus Septimius Florens Tertullianus)  121, 122, 134, 236, 237, 238, 286, 293, 332, 333, 334, 337, 340, 391 apologetics 236 on child sacrifice  293 dogma 236 evidence of Christian community at Carthage  236 Passion of the Scillitan martyrs 236 theology 236 Tetrarchy  166, 168, 239 textiles  69, 73, 203, 211, 301, 380, 431, 432, 433 production facilities  211 Thamugadi (Timgad)  13, 176, 184 Arch of Trajan  256–257 Capitolium 249–250 city plan  183–186, 249 civil administration  185 commercial space  186 commercial space outside walls  187 cult of the martyrs  355 development over time  185 expansion beyond walls  186–187 forum  185–187, 249 House of Sertius  269 Late Roman manufacturing  301 legacy data  12 monumental construction outside walls  187 municipal Album 305 planned city  181 population estimates  185 processional streets  185 public market  266 River Baths  264 Roman foundation  249 temples 249 trade location  185 triumphal arch  187 urban planning case study  183–187 Thamusida  161, 174, 212, 264, 267, 268, 269, 272, 429 auxiliary fort  268 basilica exercitatoria 268 granaries, coastal  212 granaries, inland  212 Insula of Nigidius Albanus  271–272 Thanaramusa Castra Albanus  324 Thapsus, battle of  103, 143, 155, 226 theaters architecture and ornamentation  258 Caesarea  258, 259 columns 259 Cuicul 260 Cyrenaica 260 Cyrene 259



Index 461

inclusion of temples  258–259 Lepcis Magna  258, 259 limestone pilasters  260 marble statuary  259 Sabratha  259, 260 Sanctuary of Apollo (Cyrenaica)  260 sculptural reliefs  259–260 statuary 259 Thugga 260 Thysdrus 259 Thébert, Y.  54 Thelepte  175, 366, 379, 380, 395, 399 Thedosius I (emperor 379–395)  320 Theodosius II (emperor 408–450)  168, 377 Theodosius the Elder, comes  168, 320 Theveste (Tébessa)  25, 45, 93, 143, 157, 165, 173, 185, 205, 322, 358 Thibilis  205, 266, 295 Cave of Bacax  295 public market  266 Thignica  205, 290, 355 cult of the martyrs  355 Thimida  47, 173 Thimida Regia  45, 47, 173 Third Augustan Legion (see legio III Augusta) Thrax, Maximinus (emperor)  161, 166 Three Chapters controversy  134, 392, 404, 405 Thuburbo Maius  10, 147, 178, 205, 237, 248, 250 Capitolium 250 monumental construction  178 Thuburbo Minus  175 Thuburnica  155, 175 Thucydides 82 Thugga  51, 192, 193 absence of an urban plan  191 Baths of Licinius  262 bilingual inscription  53, 54 blended architecture  251 Capitolium  250, 251, 266 case study  190–193 civic complexes  248 excavations 174 field survey  208 fortification of the forum  395 forum  191, 192 funerary monuments at  56, 57 as indigenous town  190 monumental construction  191 Monument of Atban  273, 274 Monument of Massinissa  251 olive cultivation  208 opus africanum masonry  251 Piazza of the Windrose  266 pre-Roman municipal titles  47 public market  266 Roman civitas 190–191 Romano-Carthaginian art  251–252

Temple B  294–295 Temple of Saturn  294, 295 theater 260 tomb of Atban  190 Thysdrus  143, 166, 178, 212, 259, 261, 266, 365 amphitheater 261 burials inside city walls  365 granaries, inland  212 rebellion 166 theater 259 Tiaret, Djedars funerary monuments  326, 327 Tiberius (emperor)  66, 103, 144, 156, 165, 191, 192, 251, 254, 293, 415 Garamantes and  67 Tiddis (Castellum Tiddis)  52, 56, 57, 176, 181, 193–196, 212, 301 case study  193–196 caves in cultic use  195–196 cisterns as architectural features  193 coastal trade  193 expansion beyond walls  194 forum 194 granaries, inland  212 incremental growth  176 as indigenous town  193, 195 irregular topography  193–194, 195 monumental construction  195 necropolis at  58 Roman economy  195 Tingi  45, 161, 175 Tingitana, baths  264 Tipasa, “Tomb of the Christian Woman”  273 Tocca (probably Thugga)  45 tomb of Atban  190, 192, 273, 274 tophets  5, 50, 82, 83, 84, 85, 88, 92, 123, 124, 183, 291, 292, 293, 295 trade Late Roman Africa  300–301 overland 212 storage buildings (horrea) 267 trade, Trans-Saharan  69–70 gaps in record  73 Garamantes  69–70, 73–74 gold 74 slaves and slave trade  74 trade goods  165 cereal 267 early medieval North Africa  433 imported food  121 Numidian marble  109, 176 oil 267 wine 267 trade routes along Adriatic coast  225 along Euboean channel  225 overland 227 Sahel to Italy  225

462

Index

to southern Gaul  225 strait of Sicily  227 tracing via African ceramics  225–226, 227 Tripolitania 432 funerary monuments  275 Tripolitania (Libya)  29, 30 Alexandrian influence  253 amphora production  221–222 urban sites  173–174 Troglita, John  341, 393, 394, 401, 402 Trousset, P.  34 Truceless War  93 Tubusuctu (Tiklat)  175, 221, 226 Tunis  429, 430 interest in Carthage  120 Tunisia French protectorate  3 Tunisian National Institute of Art and Archaeology (INAA)  5 Tunisian High Steppe  14, 205, 206 Tunisian High Tell  41, 47, 54 Tunisian National Institute of Art and Archaeology (INAA) 5 Tunisian Tell  14, 428, 431 turning plow  33 Tusca  103, 204 Tyre  82, 84, 85, 91, 287 Uccula 42 Uchi Maius  155, 177, 420, 428, 429, 431 Uchi Minus  177 Ucutumanni 324 Umayyad caliphate  410, 418, 424, 426, 428, 430 civil administration  427, 429 coinage 427 important cities  429 Kairouan 429 simplification of the urban hierarchy  429 taxation on non-Islamic people  427 Tunis 429 Umayyad Ifrikiya  418 UNESCO  see Save Carthage Campaign UNESCO International Campaign (1974–1986)  see Save Carthage Campaign urban design  12, 175 orthogonal  45, 81, 87, 121, 175, 176, 191, 272, 429 per strigas 85 “Roman orientation”  86, 87 urbanism 181 and fourth century Christianity  358 Roman North Africa  173–201 urbanization  32, 33, 47–51, 71–72, 75–76, 108, 125–126, 173–177, 248 urn cremations  92 in sacrifice  287, 291, 293 Uthina (Oudna)  175, 222, 253, 261 ampitheater 261

Capitolium 253 Utica  29, 42, 84, 92, 93, 105, 106, 122, 142, 154, 175, 177, 212, 221, 248, 252, 269, 270, 272, 428 forum 252 granaries, coastal  212 House of the Cascade  269, 270 House of the Figured Capitals  269 judicial basilica  248, 252 Phoenician 30 reuse of monumental space  252 Roman 142 Romano-Carthaginian art  252 sculptural decoration  252, 269 silted harbor  429 Traianeum 252 urbanization 175–176 utilitarian imported goods  18 Uzali Sar (Usalis),  176, 212 Vacurtum 53 Vaga (Beja)  42, 49, 147, 288, 366, 394, 428 Valentinian III (emperor 425 -455)  377, 378, 384, 385, 414 the Vandals  168, 375–390 adoption of Roman forms  379–380 African power reconfigurations  384–385 African prosperity  380 Amalafrida 383 Arianism  344, 355, 375, 380–382 besieging North Africa  377 Byzantine use of vandal monetary system  415 capture of Carthage  377 coinage 411–412 control of North Africa  168 conversion of Nicene churches to Arian  382 defence of North Africa  378 disappearance of,  168–169 edict of Huneric  381 engagement and marriage of Eudocia and Huneric 377–378 in Europe  376–377 fall of  383–385 Geiseric (first king)  323, 375, 376, 377, 378 Gelimer (final king)  375, 384–385 gender and historiography of  376 Hilderic  383–384, 385 Huneric (king)  see Huneric identity 376 Justinian’s attempt to retake Africa  385 Justinian’s defeat of  375–376 kings  375, 381 losses to Moors  168 monetary system  413t political persecution  383 Punic iconography on coinage  414–415 redistribution of estates  379 suppression of Nicene Christianity  380–382



Index 463

Thrasamund (king)  383–384 three theaters of conflict  384–385 treaties with  168 treaties with Valentinian III  377 Vandal identity  376 Vandal–Ostrogothic relations  383–384 “Vandal Renaissance”  380 Varis 53 Verecundus of Junca  332, 340, 341, 404 Vespasian (emperor 69–79)  101, 143, 145, 156, 159, 165 veterans benefits 165–166 Carthage 175 Clupea 175 post-military positions  165–166 veteran colonies  165, 174–175 Victor, Aurelius  126, 239–240 brief biography  240 De Caesaribus 239–240 Victor of Tunnuna  398, 405 Victor of Vita  130, 131, 378, 380, 381, 382 vicus  46, 177, 264, 267, 268 Vigilius I (pope)  404 Vihina(m)  53, 288 vilica 148 villa  46, 88, 125, 147, 181, 210, 227, 272, 273, 367 Athmenia 272 Gasr Nagazza  273 Nador  213, 273 Nereids 272 Nile 272 villas and farms  272–273 castellum of Nador  273 construction techniques  272–273 field surveys  272 Gasr Nagazza  273 Henchir el Guellali (Tunisia)  272 Oued Athmenia (Algeria)  272 Villa of the Nereids (Silin)  272 Villa of the Nile (Lepcis Magna)  272 Virgil (P. Vergilius Maro, Aeneid)  34, 66, 84, 308, 309, 333, 335, 337, 338, 398 viritim (viritane settlement)  104, 155, 156 Vita-Finzi, Claudio  28 Volubilis  10, 45, 144, 161, 162, 173, 174, 176, 248, 251, 252, 253, 255, 256, 257, 264, 265, 266, 269, 270, 272, 291, 429, 430, 433 architectural transformations  252 aristocratic houses  269 Baths of the Capitolium  264 Capitolium 252–253 civic complexes  248 colonnaded streets  257–258 epigraphic cache  162 excavations 174

fountain at North Baths  264 House of the Columns  269 House of the Labors of Hercules  269 House of the Two Olive Presses  269 House of Venus  269, 270 bronze busts  270 mosaic of Acteon and Diana  270 mosaic of the Rape of Hylas  270 mosaic of the Triumph of Venus  270 North Baths  264 orthogonal development  176 Palace of Gordianus  270, 272 private baths  264 public market  265 Romano-Carthaginian Corinthian order  252–253 Volubilitan Corinthian  253 Wadi al-Ajal  65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 73 foggara 70 funerary monuments  70 Garamantian settlements  69 urbanization 70 Wadi ash-Shati  65, 69 Wadi Tanzzuft area  69 walls, evidence of urbanization  50 Walls and Floodwater Farming 35 water availability, Roman law regarding  206 water sanctuaries  254–255 wheat  14, 31, 32, 67, 73, 161, 202, 204, 205, 337, 417, 430 supply to Marseille  33 supply to Rome  33 wheeled vehicles  65 White Fathers (Peres Blancs)  4, 5, 12, 120, 124 excavation of the ampitheater  124 nineteenth century archaeological explorations 120 Pére Delattre  4 Whittaker, C.  93 Wickham, Chris  228, 307, 432–433 Wilson, Andrew  77, 385 winds chergui 26 sirocco 26 wine making  68, 203, 206, 209, 223–224, 301, 431 wine presses  206, 208, 209, 223, 229 wool  69, 203, 211 World Heritage List  120 Würm glaciation  28 Xanthippus 153 Yasmina necropolis  125, 128 “Year of the Four Emperors”  161 Zaghouan  26, 125, 126, 132, 254, 265 Zama (Zama Regia)  45, 53, 94, 101, 103, 143, 153, 154, 173, 429

464

Index

Zana  14, 22, 395 Zaraï (Zeraïa), inscriptions  147, 227 Zegrenses  146, 163 Zemzem oued  34 Zeugitana  144, 145, 221, 222, 223, 224, 358, 393, 396, 401

Zinkekra (Zincheckra)  68, 70, 173 Zitha, amphora production  221 Zucchabor 175 Zuwila 70

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