Steven Saylor - The Seven Wonders

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.