Selinus: The Cenotaph Above the Abyss (part 1)

Dust of Time

Entrance to the Labyrinth

You approach the sea, but it does not greet you. It breathes — raggedly, heavily, as if remembering. Waves crawl ashore like shadows of drowned armies. No one screams here — not even the gulls. There are no signs, no turnstiles, no guides. Only you and the wind, whispering in borrowed voices. You are standing at the edge of a continent — and at the edge of reality. Because somewhere here, Rome died.

117 AD. The great Trajan, conqueror of Dacia and the East, wounded in one of the battles, was returning home — but never reached the Eternal City. His death in Selinus was not just an episode — it was a signal. The peak of expansion — and the turning point. The emperor’s body was not buried here. It merely stood, like a marker. And then it disappeared. All that remained was the form, an empty shell, a mausoleum without remains. A cenotaph above the abyss.

Past The Empires

Selinus, founded by Greeks in the 4th century BCE, was a modest but important port on the southeastern coast of Cilicia. Its name possibly derived from wild celery (selinon) growing along the banks of the river, now called Kızılsu. Geographically, it stood at the intersection of maritime trade routes and mountain paths connecting the coast to inland Anatolia. The city was drawn into regional conflicts and existed within the gravitational pull of Hellenistic kingdoms — under the Seleucids, and later Rome.

Under Augustus, Selinus gained special status and became part of Roman Cilicia. Roads were built, aqueducts stretched across the valleys, the harbor was fortified. The city entered a period of prosperity. It gained a theater, thermae, forums. Yet unlike Pompeii or Ephesus, it never became a provincial capital. Selinus remained important, but peripheral. Here, Rome was not a showcase — it was infrastructure.

Trajan’s death changed everything. According to tradition, his body remained here for several days. Chronicles claim the sea did not calm during those days. Then the remains were sent to Rome, to be entombed in the base of Trajan’s Column — the ashes of empire, sealed into its own myth. But in Selinus, a cenotaph was left behind. Not a cult site. Not even a proper monument. It simply remained.

The city was renamed Traianopolis — a post-imperial reflex of loyalty. But the name didn’t stick. By the time of Constantine, the city was once again Selinus. History rewound, as if it rejected the substitution. The Byzantines reinforced the acropolis and built a fortress. Then came the Arabs, the Seljuks, the Ottomans. And with each cycle, Selinus became less important. The stones crumbled, the river shifted its course. All that remained was the echo of a city — and the footsteps of those who left it forever.

Fragments of Now

Today, Selinus is a ruin with no ticket booth or guard. It has grown into the body of modern Gazipaşa like an old tattoo on new skin. You walk past apartment blocks, cross a bridge — and suddenly you are in another time. Here:

The acropolis crowns the hill above the river. The ruins of a Byzantine fortress embedded in older Roman foundations.

The aqueduct strides over the Kızılsu. Its arches still hold, as if unaware the century has changed.

The theater, half-ruined but still legible. Steps carved into the rock still able to seat a handful of spectators.

Fragments of the agora, the baths, the warehouses — architecture undone by economics.

The necropolis, stretched across the slopes. Where stone buries silence.

The cenotaph of Trajan is a semi-ruined structure with a tilted plaque, vaguely identifying it. It is neither fenced nor restored. Some suggest the true cenotaph lies elsewhere — perhaps beneath the massive stone structure at the foot of the acropolis. But no one knows for sure. And that’s what makes it a true cenotaph: you don’t know where it is, but you feel it.

Shadows on the Edge of the Mind

A cenotaph is not architecture. It is philosophy. It’s a dent in reality made by absence. Tombs without bodies are not remembrance — they are a system error. Someone is supposed to be here — but they’re not. Only a space that is no longer being filled. Like a zero in the middle of a complex equation. Like a hole in code.

Selinus is where the Empire first learned it was not eternal. Not in battle, not through rebellion or conspiracy. But in the body — a system that simply stopped. When the greatest of emperors died, far from home. His remains sent to Rome, and here only the signal remained: that the empire doesn’t die as a state — it dies as a person.

Maybe that was the gods’ plan. So man would understand that even Rome melts when it touches the void.

How Did We Get There?

The town of Gazipaşa is in Antalya Province, Turkey. The nearest major landmark is Alanya, about 2 hours by minibus. Gazipaşa has a regional airport with daily flights from Istanbul.

The ruins of Selinus are within walking distance of the town center.

Climbing to the acropolis takes about 15 minutes — the path is steep in places but safe.

Water, good shoes, and a hat are essential. There is no shade, no infrastructure.

Best visited early in the morning or at sunset — especially during summer.

Echo in the Void

I stood at the acropolis and looked down. The waves crashed against the shore just as they did two thousand years ago. No one declared the emperor’s death. No one gave a speech. But everything here — from the cliffs to the grass — knew. The nameless cenotaph spoke louder than Rome’s columns.

You stand beside an absence. And you feel it watching you. Not asking, not demanding. Just watching.

It outlived the emperor. And it will surely outlive you.

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