Forlorn and Melancholy

                It is an amazing thing; to sit in the very place foretold by Saint John the Divine as the exact site of the Apocalypse: The Throne of Satan, the high alter in the Red Basilica, in what is now Bergama, Turkey, but what once was Pergamum, the jewel of Asia. Bergama is not at all an imposing city, quite the contrary. It is bustling, yet not hectic, thriving, but never ostentatious. The people are friendly, the street clean. It is not the sort of place one would imagine the beginning of the end. It is a good thing that I do not agree with Saint John, or I might have been filled with fear or loathing. Even in John’s day, the choice of Pergamum is an odd one, given that the Asclepion, the famed local hospital, was the stomping grounds of Galen, the Father of Western Medicine. He performed medical miracles, from brain trepanning to cataract surgery circa 210 BCE. The city state itself was home to the ancient world’s second largest library, a repository of knowledge and learning. In short, not the sort of city where one might imagine the Great Evil rising up to destroy every last vestige of the world we know.

                Whilst sitting on the large uneven boulder that is Satan’s Throne, I did not feel any quaver of evil. Is it possible that John was wrong? That the Red Basilica is in fact not the point where the Apocalypse shall begin? I am no theologian, so I shall not tread there. It did make for interesting conversation as my brother and I then walked away from the Basilica (a Christian house of worship converted from the much older Egyptian devotion to Serapis and Isis – it is amazing how one faith builds upon the ruins of another) and began the steep climb up the hill for the summit, where sat the remnants of one of the ancient world’s greatest cities.

                Pergamum was mighty. It was learned. It was doomed. It did not fall to Rome militarily, as did so many other Asian powers. It was bequeathed to Rome by Attalus III who had no male heir. It was not beaten, but it was diminished. Time always acts as the great conqueror. Jeremy and I climbed upwards, along the motorway. Large buses full of Asian and European tourists streamed by, to discharge their passengers, allowing them a few scant hours to wander the remains of a city that once dictated the politics of an entire region. A shepherd motioned to us, indicating a hole in the fence. It would allow us access to the ruin, even though we were only part way up the slope, avoiding the hubbub at the summit. We thanked him in anglicised Turkish; he smiled and shook our hands. It was a pleasant exchange where all parties spoke, none understood the other, and all left happy.

                We continued to climb. There was a strong wind, blowing hot and dry, howling through the scattered stones, the leaning broken pillars, eroding the plinths and columns. This was a city founded by Lysimachus, a general to Alexander himself. It housed a library with over 200,000 texts. Modern medicine traced its roots to Galen at the Asclepion. It was a city that moved the world. And now it was nothing more than jumbled broken heaps of stone.

                A security guard had spotted us, and came hustling down to chide us in Turkish. We had not intended to avoid payment, had just assumed we could pay when we reached the summit. Although we could not make out his words, his meaning was clear. We followed him, double time, to the ticket kiosk, far above, where we waited our turn as some fat Germans fanned themselves, and chattering Asians photographed the two of us with the guard in tow. The summit was oddly devoid of charm. The Alter of Zeus, which should have graced it, hanging ethereally above the valley, is gone, stolen to the Berlin Museum, where it sits reconstructed in a room. Not here, where it should be, dominating the ruins. The theatre, the Temple of Trajan, all of the ruins that are left, still cannot fail to impress. The soaring marble edifices of houses both public and private, it is all almost too much; and the wind, still howling, raising up dust and memories. We stroll about, taking it all in. We spend hours, walking, looking, and thinking on the past.

After a time, as yet more busses rumble in, keeping to their hectic scheduled pace, we decide it is time for us to go. We retrace our steps, wending our way from the high city, through the descending layers. The remains of gymnasiums, bath houses, homes, temples all cross our paths. It is hard to tell one building from another, as so much is lost, broken, and given to time. As we reached the gap in the fence where our ascent began, Jeremy looked back and said “This is a forlorn and melancholy place.” I cannot help but agree. It was a city that moved the world, and now it is nothing more than an afternoon stop off for bus tripping tourists eager to snap a photo or steal a rock. The glory has faded, leaving behind nothing but broken stones, and a dry wind that stirs the dust. Time conquers all things.