The Seven Wonders: A Novel of the Ancient World (Novels of Ancient Rome)

by Steven Saylor

  The crowd roared with laughter. Athletes jumped up and down, grinning and slapping each other on the shoulder. In a spontaneous act of homage, some of them followed Protophanes’ example and stripped off their loincloths, then waved them above their heads. The action spread like wildfire through the procession. In a matter of moments, every one of the hundreds of athletes was naked and had his arms in the air. The onlookers were delighted.

  I looked back at the wall and saw that Simmius had vanished; the Cynic must have climbed down the far side, into the Altis enclosure. Protophanes remained atop the wall for a moment longer, soaking up the adoration of the crowd, then jumped down to rejoin his fellow athletes, who cheered and swarmed around him, playfully pelting him with their discarded loincloths.

  I glanced at Antipater, half-expecting to see another sentimental tear run down his cheek, but his expression was grave.

  “Are you not amused, Teacher? Much as I might tend to agree with your fellow Sidonian, I wasn’t sad to see someone shut him up. What a grating voice he has!”

  Antipater shook his head. “I fear it’s the judges who are not amused. Look at them.”

  The purple-robed elders at the head of the procession had come to a halt and were staring, stone-faced, back toward the commotion. They whispered among themselves, then at last turned around and strode on. The grinning athletes fell back into ranks and resumed the procession. Protophanes strutted past us, smiling and waving to acknowledge the accolades of the crowd, unaware of the judges’ dour reaction.

  As the last of the athletes passed by, the crowd gave a final cheer and then quieted down. Gradually, people resumed the business of shopping, eating, and otherwise amusing themselves. The day’s excitement was over. The swearing of oaths by the athletes and the first of the competitions would begin the next morning.

  “There’s still an hour or two of daylight left. What shall we do now?” I asked Antipater. I feared he might suggest that we attend a philosophical debate or poetry recitation, but instead he pointed toward the Altis enclosure. Above the wall I could see the marble roof of the Temple of Zeus, and some of the golden shields that decorated the frieze above the columns.

  “We came here to see a Wonder of the World, did we not? I should hate for us to miss a single one of the competitions in the next few days, so why not see it now?”

  To this proposal I enthusiastically agreed.

  * * *

  There was a queue to enter the Temple of Zeus. A donation was demanded of each visitor, and admission was by guided tour only. Our group of fifteen gathered at the bottom of the steps. There we were met by a young guide who informed us that he was a descendant of Phidias, the Athenian sculptor who had created the fabled statue of Zeus.

  “As you may know,” the guide said, “the statue is of a type invented by Phidias which is called ‘chryselephantine’—the god’s flesh is made of ivory, while his hair, sandals, and drapery are plated with gold. The statue of Athena by Phidias that stands in the Parthenon in Athens is of this same sort. The gold is incorruptible, but the ivory must be regularly oiled and polished to prevent it from cracking. Here in Olympia, this sacred duty was bequeathed to the descendants of Phidias. It is our hereditary honor to anoint the statue of Zeus. Thus we serve the god, and also the memory of our ancestor, who was the greatest of all the sculptors who ever lived.”

  This seemed a rather extravagant claim, and a bit suspect, coming from a descendant. But I decided to reserve judgment until I saw the statue for myself.

  “Before we enter the temple, allow me to give you some history, and to point out some architectural details,” the guide continued. “The Temple of Zeus was completed in time for the eighty-first Olympiad; that was three hundred sixty-four years ago. The statue of Zeus was not installed until some twenty-four years later, in time for the eighty-seventh Olympiad. Thus, the statue you are about to see is three hundred forty years old. When you see it, you will understand why it is commonly said that nature created the elephant so that Phidias might harvest the tusks to make his statue.”

  I rolled my eyes. “He certainly fawns over his ancestor,” I whispered to Antipater, who shushed me.

  “The temple itself is a marvel. It is two hundred thirty feet long and ninety-five feet wide, and stands sixty-eight feet high. The apex of the pediment is surmounted by a thirty-foot statue of Nike, goddess of victory; appropriately, she gazes down on the ancient stadium to the east, from which the runners can look up to her for inspiration.

  “Any questions? No? In a moment, then, we shall enter the antechamber of the temple. There you will see a statue of King Iphitos of Ellis, who established the games here at Olympia. He did so at the behest of the Oracle at Delphi, who declared that all Greeks must cease fighting and lay down their arms in the months preceding the Games. Thus did the Olympiad bring to the Greeks the boon of peace and put an end to constant warfare.”

  “It’s the Romans who enforce the peace between us now,” mumbled a man behind me. Others in the group grunted to acknowledge this comment. Though they had no way of knowing that I was Roman, I suddenly felt self-conscious.

  “In the antechamber,” the guide continued, “you will also see the heavy bronze shields that are carried in the footrace of the armored hoplites on the last day of the Games. And around the top of the chamber’s walls you will see a frieze that depicts the labors of Hercules, an inspiration to the athletes who come here and a reminder that, like Hercules, they must constantly prove themselves. Now, if you will follow me—”

  I raised my hand. “Actually, I have a question.”

  The man behind me, who had mumbled the anti-Roman comment, made a grunt. I felt painfully aware of my Roman accent, but pressed on. “You mentioned the shields carried by the hoplites in their race. But I’ve been wondering about the gilded shields that decorate the frieze that runs all the way around the temple. What do they signify?”

  “An excellent question! There are twenty-one gilded shields in all. They were donated some fifty-four years ago by the Roman general Lucius Mummius when he visited Olympia after he put down the revolt of the Achaean League.”

  “After he stamped out the last flicker of Greek resistance!” hissed the man behind me. Antipater looked back at the man and shushed him.

  The guide continued. “It was feared that Mummius would do to Olympia what he had done to Corinth—loot the temples and shrines, perhaps raze the entire site—but instead Mummius saw fit to honor the Altis with new statues of Zeus, and to donate the golden shields that you see adorning the frieze of the temple.”

  “Paid for by booty from defeated Greeks!” growled the man behind me.

  “In gratitude,” the guide went on, “the city of Ellis, which administers the sanctuary of Olympia, erected an equestrian statue of Mummius, which stands in a place of honor among the statues of gods and athletes here in the Altis.”

  “And should be pulled down!” declared the man behind me, no longer lowering his voice.

  “You there!” said the guide. “I remind you that we are about to enter the house of Zeus. You will not raise your voice again—indeed, you will not speak at all once we enter the temple—or I shall have you ejected. Do you understand?”

  I turned around to take a good look at the grumbler. He was a brawny fellow with blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard—perhaps a former athlete himself. He stared back at me for a moment, then at Antipater, who was also looking at him. The man looked elsewhere and mumbled a begrudging acknowledgment to the guide.

  We followed the guide up the steps to the entrance, where the huge bronze doors stood open. I paused for a moment to gaze up at the massive marble columns of the portico, then followed the group into the temple.

  Perhaps the statue of Iphitos and the hoplites’ shields were impressive, but I could not say, for upon entering the antechamber I had my first glimpse of the statue that occupied the farthest recess of the temple, and from that moment my senses could register nothing else.

 
; I forgot my discomfort at the anti-Roman sentiment I had just encountered. I gaped, and would have walked straight on, directly to the statue, had not Antipater taken hold of my arm. The guide droned on—recounting each of Hercules’ labors, I imagine—but I did not hear. I stared in awe at Zeus seated upon his throne.

  There are rare moments in life when the mind refuses to accept what the eye beholds, because the thing beheld simply cannot exist in the world as we know it; it has no place in nature, is thus unnatural and therefore cannot be. Almost always the mind is correct and the eye is mistaken, duped by an optical illusion; but until this tug-of-war between mind and eye is resolved, a kind of stupor grips the beholder. So it was when I beheld Zeus—for surely this was not a mere statue, but the god himself.

  At last the guide ceased chattering and stepped past me, inviting the group to follow. With Antipater still holding my arm—a good thing, for I needed his touch to steady me—I moved forward. Each step brought me closer to the god. Larger and larger he loomed, until I felt almost suffocated by his presence. As vast as it was, the temple could hardly contain him. Indeed, were he to rise from his throne, the temple would have been unroofed and the columns scattered.

  The dim lighting contributed to the eerie effect. The doorway faced east, to catch the rays of the rising sun, and to allow Zeus to gaze out at the stadium in the distance; by late afternoon, the daylight that penetrated the temple was soft and uncertain, supplemented by braziers on tripods and by torches set in sconces along the high galleries on either side. A long pool directly before the throne of Zeus reflected his image, along with flickering points of light from the flames. The pool added yet another element of unreality, for there was something very strange about the surface. It seemed somehow denser than water, shimmering with a reflectivity more akin to polished black marble. When we reached the edge of the pool and stared down at it, I realized that it was not filled with water at all, but with olive oil. This was the reservoir used by the descendants of Phidias who daily anointed the statue.

  The voice of the guide gradually penetrated my consciousness. “The throne of the god is itself a remarkable creation, larger and more opulent than the grandest monument to be found in many a city. Fierce-looking sphinxes form the arms of the chair; their wings curve up to support the god’s elbows. The massive struts and sides of the throne are covered with exquisite paintings and sculptures depicting tales of gods and heroes. Not even the smallest portion of the throne is without ornament; every surface is decorated with elaborately carved marble, or plated with precious metals, or encrusted with sparkling jewels. If Phidias had created nothing more than the Throne of Zeus, we would still say he was the greatest of all artists.

  “But behold Zeus himself! The awesome serenity of his visage beneath the golden wreath upon his brow, the majesty of his broad chest and powerful arms, the elegance of the golden drapery that falls from one shoulder and covers his loins. In his left hand he holds a scepter surmounted by a golden eagle. In his right palm he displays to us winged Nike, goddess of victory. Some say that Phidias took his inspiration from the Iliad; when Zeus merely nodded his head, says Homer, ‘All Olympus to the center shook!’ Others think that Phidias must have beheld Zeus with his own eyes.”

  “I can believe it!” I whispered.

  “Now, if you will follow me back toward the antechamber, we shall ascend to the gallery, and you will be privileged to behold the statute at even closer quarters.”

  As we made our way up a narrow spiral staircase in single file, my attention was briefly drawn from the statue. In a daze I took in the sumptuous architectural details of the temple interior. This was a smaller structure than the great Temple of Artemis in Ephesus, but impressive nonetheless. What amazing wealth these Greeks had accumulated in previous centuries, and what remarkable artists and engineers had lived among them!

  When we reached the gallery I paused to lean over the parapet and look down at the long reflecting pool, which seen from above was utterly black. Another group of tourists had just entered and were gazing in awe at the statue.

  Antipater hissed at me, and I hastened to join the rest of our group at the western end of the gallery. Our guide was silent, which seemed appropriate, for no words could adequately capture the sensation of standing so near the god. Pressed against the balustrade, I stood as close as any mortal could to the face of Zeus Almighty. Had the god turned his head, we would have been eye to eye. Even seen this close, the details of his golden beard, ivory flesh, and lapis eyes were uncanny. Had he blinked, or raised his mighty chest with a sigh, or shaken his head to unloose the golden curls upon his shoulders, I would not have been surprised, for in that moment I had no doubt that the vessel created by Phidias did in fact contain the god.

  I flinched, for by the flickering light I perceived a tremor of intent. Zeus was about to turn his face to mine! I braced myself, for were the god to speak, his voice would surely be more deafening than a thunderclap.

  Then I blinked, and realized the movement I perceived had been an illusion, for no one around me had reacted to it, and the statue remained just as it was. Fool! I said to myself. Everyone knows the gods in temples never speak aloud. They express themselves through oracles, or dreams, or flights of birds that only augurs can decipher.

  Still, as the tour reached its end and the guide led us back to the entrance, I kept looking over my shoulder, feeling the gaze of Zeus upon me.

  As we exited the temple and reemerged into daylight, I blinked and shook my head, as if awakening from a dream. The guide seemed unfazed. After all, he gave this tour many times each day, and was privileged to actually touch the statue to anoint the ivory. He handed each of us a small wooden disk. “Use it today, and this token will allow you to visit the workshop of Phidias for half the usual donation requested. The workshop still contains the actual tools and molds used by the master sculptor and his assistants.”

  “Shall we press on to see the workshop, Gordianus?” said Antipater.

  I sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I think I should lie down for a while. It must be the heat.” I felt a bit chagrined, because it was usually Antipater who grew tired first.

  “Very well, let’s return to our host’s pavilion. The crowd will be up and milling about until long past sundown, but there’s no reason we shouldn’t go to bed early.”

  “Should we buy a bit of food from one of the vendors, so as to have something to eat later?”

  “Oh, I suspect there will be plenty to eat and drink in the pavilion, anytime we need it. Our host can afford to be generous.”

  The sun was low on the horizon as we crossed the Altis. The statues all around cast long shadows. One of the longest was that of a warrior atop a horse. His Roman armor made him conspicuous among the naked bronze athletes. I paused to read the Greek inscription on the pedestal:

  TO THE HONOR OF LUCIUS MUMMIUS

  COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE ROMANS

  THE CITY OF ELLIS ERECTS THIS STATUE

  IN RECOGNITION OF HIS VIRTUE

  AND THE KINDNESS HE HAS SHOWN

  TO ELLIS AND TO THE REST OF THE GREEKS

  I gazed up at the figure of Mummius. His bland face showed no emotion. One hand held the reins of his horse. The other was raised in a gesture of peace.

  “So here it is, the statue the guide mentioned. What do you think of it, Teacher?” I turned my head, only to see that Antipater was striding quickly on. I hurried to catch up.

  * * *

  Back at our quarters, I fell onto my cot and was asleep at once.

  In the middle of the night I woke, prompted by a need to pass water. I stumbled out the flap, still half-asleep, and made my way to a nearby trench that had been dug for the purpose. The moon was nearly full, filling the valley with a dull white light and casting stark black shadows. Not everyone was dozing; above the general quiet I heard echoes of drinking songs and bits of distant conversation, and here and there I saw the glow of a few campfires that were still burning.

>   I returned to the tent, lifted the flap to our quarters, and was about to duck back inside when I heard a voice coming from elsewhere within the pavilion.

  “Something will have to be done about him, and soon!” The speaker seemed to have raised his voice in a sudden burst of emotion. He sounded oddly familiar. Someone answered him, but in a much lower tone that was barely audible.

  The first man spoke again. “Harmless? It’s all an act! The fellow’s dangerous, I tell you. Deadly dangerous! I think he’s a spy for the Romans.”

  This prompted another hushed reply, and then the first man spoke again. His voice was naggingly familiar. “Whether he’s a spy or not, he’s still liable to expose us as agents of Mithridates. The Sidonian must die!”

  At this, I was wide awake. Not only had Antipater been recognized, but someone was talking about killing him—someone in the very pavilion where we were sleeping!

  I ducked under the flap. The little room was so dark that I could barely make out the shape of Antipater on his cot, apparently sound asleep. But when I reached out to shake him awake, what I took to be his shoulder turned out to be only a pillow and some folds of a blanket.

  “Teacher?” I whispered.

  Antipater was gone.

  I stood stock-still in the silence and listened. I no longer heard the others elsewhere in the pavilion. Had they heard me whisper? I considered trying to find my way through the maze of flaps and dividers to confront them—whoever they were—but decided that would be madness. If they thought Antipater was a Roman spy, they would know that I was his traveling companion, and would surely wish me harm as well. What had Antipater been thinking, to arrange for us to lodge in a pavilion full of agents for the King of Pontus?