A view over the northern part of Rhodes, with the fourteenth century Palace of the Grand Masters at centre. The sixteenth century fortifications are in the foreground: notice just how thick the walls are, and how wide the ditch in front of them is. Behind is Rhodes’ great harbour. On the central mole, just right of the cruise ship, is the Tower of the Windmills, built in the 1440s-50s but badly battered by Ottoman artillery in 1480.

Rhodes now is a place of sun-bleached streets, t-shirted visitors ambling past brightly-painted houses thinking glad thoughts, rightly congratulating themselves they made the decision to come to a place that’s already wildly exceeding their expectations. Everywhere there’s verdant greenery, shading trees and cresting waves of purple bougainvillea breaking over the honey-coloured stone.

At this point there’s a danger of saying something like “this charming modern exterior hides a darker past,” but we’d never be so trite. Not directly, anyway, and fortunately for your time here, there’s no hiding involved, just the need for a storyteller to bring it to life. Because everywhere in the old town, Rhodes’ medieval past is visible, and street by street the Knights of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem proclaim their role in the city’s making. From the time they seized the city in the early fourteenth century until their expulsion by perhaps the greatest Ottoman ruler amid the roar of cannon-fire and the clash of sword and armour, the Hospitallers made Rhodes as we know it today, and left us extraordinary events to retell.

A tower near the Tower and Gate of St Paul in the north of the city. It’s one of the oldest in the fortifications, as you can see by its height and angularity – it’s less well adapted to resist artillery. It dates to the 1370s. The ‘swallow-tail’ merlons (the standing part of the battlements) are a typical feature of Rhodes’ walls.

The Street of the Knights, dating to the fifteenth-early sixteenth centuries. The Inn of France is visible to the right, crowned by turrets and with the tricolore flying above.

Most, in thinking of Rhodes and the Knights, will have in mind the grand inns, the auberges, of the Steet of the Knights, drawn back to the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, the eye tracing upward past its characteristic black lanterns and tall, impressive facades housing the gathering places of this martial brotherhood and its ‘langues’ of lands and powers alternately faded and familiar. Some might follow the street to its ending and come to the great Palace, literally towering over the city, still proudly asserting the absolute authority of the Grand Master of the Order with its machicolated drum turrets, spacious courtyards and stern, lofty walls. That’s only natural: these are places that inspire anyone who comes to them. But for the most extraordinary stories of the Rhodes of the Knights, it’s worth turning to the more utilitarian architecture of the city’s walls, once a place of rubble, constantly-changing fortunes and desperate bravery.

The Hospitallers of course came here after the fall of the Crusader states in the east, where they had their origin. Determined to continue their role as warriors for, and protectors of, the Faith, they inserted themselves into the forefront of the contest, where Turkish ghazi warriors were doing very much the same thing. And here they remained, ruling an archipelago-state in the Dodecanese at the vanguard of the incessant conflicts of the fourteenth to sixteenth centuries, a period so bloody and eventful that one wonders how an ordinary life could ever be lived within it. As it wore on, the Ottoman Turks became ever more clearly the victors, and the Knights came into an ever more exposed, ever more isolated position, one that resulted in two of the most dramatic, hard-fought sieges in history and one which has left us some of the most magnificent defensive walls in the Mediterranean.

The courtyard of the Archaeological Museum, once the Hospital of the Knights of St John and built by Grand Master Antonio Fluvia (1421-1437). It was badly damaged both in the siege of 1480 and World War 2.

In the first siege (there were in fact others, but we’ll restrict ourselves to the two most famous), the Ottomans landed a typically vast force and threw themselves at the already strong fortifications for weeks, from May to August of 1480. Battering cannon made vast breaches, assaulted by huge forces to the fanfare of drum and trumpet, and ultimately beneath the black flag that signified No Quarter. Reading about both sieges is exhausting even from the comfort and safety of a book’s covers as the Turks come so close to triumph, only for an unbelievable resistance, or the efforts of the Grand Master himself, to throw them back. At the end of any account of 1480, as you put the book down, you can almost hear the panting and exhaustion; feel the elation as the besieging fleet makes its departure.

It’s at this point that Rhodes is particularly interesting for the student of fortifications, for the Knights knew how close-run a thing it had been, and how close they had come to disaster. And here they stood with mutilated walls, stones spilling across the ditches without, certain that that Grand Turk’s men would come again. In a world where the Ottomans were masters of huge siege cannon, an update was necessary.

The D’Amboise Gate, the work of Grand Master Emery d’Amboise (1503-1512), and part of a major strengthening of this sector of the walls. Note the squat drum towers. Over the portal is a marble plaque depicting an angel holding the coat of arms of the Order of d’Amboise accompanied by the words DAMBOYSE MDXII, telling us the work belongs to the last year of the Grand Master’s reign. The vertical slits either side indicate the former position of a drawbridge.

There’s a danger of getting dry and technical here – and the technical details of bretèches and tenailles, barbicans and counterscarps are interesting. What makes them live – as so often when talking of siege warfare – is seeing the competing minds and aims at work. Seeing how new methods are brought in, new layers of defence to seal the weaknesses, to give hope and time to those within. And so – over the lifetime of safety that the defenders of 1480 bought – you see everywhere around the city the girdling line of walls puts on muscle. Deep, broad ditches push the attackers away and make it harder for their guns to strike the walls, artillery towers and forts – some of them surprisingly familiar to British viewers who've seen those of Henry VIII – appear and new, extra layers of stone armour the city, all clad with the arms of the knights and Grand Masters, and images of the saints, the surest protection.

As a result, when the host of Suleiman the Magnificent landed in 1522, the task they had to face was all the more difficult. It’s worth thinking about what all that defensive science, all the structures, meant for them. The charge towards landward walls their artillery could not easily get at to break, which were in any case now so much thicker and able to bear the weight of the cannonballs we can still see embedded in them or scattered across the floors of the ditches. And to get to those hidden walls, you need to descend the vertical face of that huge, broad ditch, the face of them now rising colossally above you as you reach the bottom. In the depths of the ditch, you’re shot at from ramparts and towers, or from the gun embrasures in their bases which sweep the level space between which you have to cross. Firearms, blades and glass grenades, mines and bombardment – everything that makes a siege so uniquely terrifying and hard-fought – decides the back-and-forth of what follows.

The outer entrance to Rhodes’ harbour. On the far mole is the St Nicholas Fortress which began as a relatively simple tower in the 1460s. Badly damaged in the great siege of 1480, it was surrounded by the slanting walls of the visible artillery outwork by Grand Master Pierre d’Aubusson (1476-1503), making it a key point in the defence. It was again severely battered in the 1522 siege. D’Aubusson himself was very nearly killed in the 1480 siege, severely wounded while leading a ferocious counter-attack at the Tower of Italy. Aged 57, and already wounded by an arrow in the hip, he was wounded another four times, including by a janissary’s spear which punctured his lung. Understandably, he devoted much of his reign as Grand Master to improving the defences.

For the Anglophone reader, the epic of the struggle for the English Post (in fact also drawn from Scotland and Ireland) is spine tingling. Enormous mines detonate, bringing down stretches of the wall; fathomless bravery sees the attackers force their way across the hellish interval and plant their banners in the rubble, only to be thrown back by an equally heroic counter-attack. And so, it goes on through September and October until the English langue is effectively wiped out in the city’s defence. This is one of the epicentres, but other stories are written in smoke and horror elsewhere on the line.

For more on them, though, you’ll have to see it with us in person. In the end, numbers tell, but heroism is recognised, and the Knights are able to withdraw – to perform similar deeds with greater success another lifetime later in Malta. For Rhodes, the next few centuries saw a secure Ottoman dominion that had little need of doing anything to the old fortifications rather than repair them and then leave them to grow old in their stories, so that we can pass on what’s written in the stones.

To visit Rhodes with expert guides, join our cultural and archaeological tour Cruising the Dodecanese

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Stageira’s not one of the first rank cities of the ancient Greek world and doesn’t trouble the histories of the period too much, but it did have the lure of a famous name (more on that below…) and turns out to have some pretty interesting archaeology and some great views that certainly repay a visit.

It’s one of a flurry of cities founded, as the story goes, by colonists from the great island of Andros in the Cyclades in the 650s BC, with a few Chalcidians from the long island of Euboea, both east of Athens. A spray of Greek cities was established in the north Aegean in the seventh century, and like some others we can guess that the rich mineral resources of the area were a factor drawing the new city: the north east of the Chalcidice, the three-fingered northern peninsula which is a distinctive marker of the Greek coastline (or Khalkidiki) has silver mines from our period.

It's a pretty good site for an outpost: the early city was able to occupy a nice safe spot at the end of the hogsbacked peninsula, overlooking some good beaches for drawing up ships. It’s still an attractive place for visitors today, though now usually to swim in the sparkling waters, enjoy a meal on the beach or just take in the fine view of islands and headlands. The city obviously did well for itself: early on, in the sixth century, it walled off the very end of the peninsula, evidently having enough to exercise jealous attention, and was able to throw the walls out far further a century later. Houses spread through the interior as the population grew: though much of the peninsula is now covered with thick vegetation, they’ve been found all across it and quite a few are now visible, terraced into the rising and falling terrain. Thanks to excavations since late last century, you can trace the dining rooms and hearths and the little open-air courtyard where the family would busy itself in a lot of its work.

Nor is it just the day-to-day buildings that we find; we have a few shrines, one with several rooms, set evocatively high up on a steep slope over the shore and its dark waters. Another is a sizeable temple, perhaps even a great hekatompedon, a ‘hundred footer’ – a good thirty metres of foundations with carefully cut blocks is still visible on the ground, though we miss the marble decoration which has since found its way museum-ward. Near the centre of the peninsula, we have part of what appears to be the agora, the central place for politics and the market, dominated by the fantastic remains of a beautifully-made stoa, a long building with a shaded colonnade where business, public or private could be done.

The quality of the stonework on this is very high indeed. Add to this the extensive walls of around 500 BC, and we can see that it was a city with pride in itself, and a determination – and a need – to protect what it had. Those walls are pretty impressive and characterful, for even if Stageira was not a massive city, they amount to a sizeable investment, especially with the addition of fortified towers. And why ‘characterful,’ well take a look at the masonry, alternately an unusual style known as ‘Egyptian’ or the intricate polygonal so-called ‘Lesbian’ work, and all in stones of a profusion of colours – particularly all manner of browns, covering practically every hue from the biscuit barrel!

It's a bit of a surprise, then, to hear that Stageira, for all its apparent success, was not a top-tier place: it tended less to dominate others than to get battered by the greater powers, and lord knows there were plenty of those to deal with in its time. By the fifth century it was under the domination of Athens as part of the so-called Delian League. Its attempt to leave that during the Peloponnesian War saw attacks on it by Cleon, who you’ll know if you’ve read Aristophanes or Thucydides. Eventually it found its way, fatally, into the Chalcidian League, an alliance of Greek cities headed by Olynthos, which we also visit. That alliance rivalled Macedonia for power, and when Macedonia truly began its growth spurt under Philip, like the latter, greater, city it suffered for being in the way and was obliterated by Philip in 349 BC.

And that would be that, but for the famous connection. For Stageira’s most famous son was absolutely of the first rank in Greek history, and had profound connections with the Macedonian royal house – Aristotle, no less. By this time, Aristotle was of course tutor to Philip’s son, Alexander, and that brought privileges and opportunity. Aristotle, then, was able to obtain the resurrection of his home-city, and it was refounded – though it’s not entirely clear if Philip or Alexander was the final agent. The city was never quite what it had been, but it gained another few centuries of life thanks to its dutiful citizen. In return, if a very late source of the kind we’d normally be a bit wary of is to believed, after his death Aristotle’s body was repatriated to Stageira and a kind of shrine, the Aristoteleion, set up to honour his memory. Recently, it’s been suggested that a structure found near a spot where walls of several periods braid together might even be this very building. More than a few are sceptical, and more work needs to be done, but its an interesting spot in its own right, and at the very least it’s appropriate that the question needs to be teased by argument over the evidence, even if the tingle that you get from potential proximity to such a famed individual’s last resting-place might be verging on … irrational(?)

To visit Stageira with expert guides, join our cultural and archaeological tour of Macedonia.

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Rethymno’s Fortezza

Rethymno’s Fortezza crowns a great craggy rock over the town on the northern shore of Crete, sure to draw the eye whether you’re immediately under its towering thick and sloping walls, or marvelling from the distant hills as you drive by, its honey-ochre stone perfectly set against the vivid blue of Crete’s seas. From either viewpoint it dominates your perception of the town: it feels enormous, impregnable and a sure symbol of safety. It’s a clear marker of the Venetian investment in the town and island.

And in the sixteenth century, it was all too necessary. The Aegean had hardly been a lake of calm in the preceding centuries, as an almost absurd number of powers fought for position, glory and, inevitably here, for trade; but as the fifteenth century waned, the ability for middling powers to weather the challenges, or play one rival off against another became an ever more scarce commodity. It was a period that saw the balance of power tilt irrevocably in one direction as the Ottoman Turks mastered Greece and entrenched their domination of the Balkans and Anatolia. Constantinople, the Queen of Cities, fell and an Empire that has lasted seemingly forever was winked out of existence; Ottoman power carried itself to Egypt and the plains of Hungary. The Knights of St John were thrust out of Rhodes as the Turks took to the sea. This is the time of their famous sea-captains – Dragut, Barbarossa, Uluç Ali – and of the routing of the Christian powers’ fleets at Preveza and beyond as the Mediterranean threatened to become an Ottoman lake.

Amid all this, there remained a few remnants in the Aegean of the western Christian land-grab after the Fourth Crusade, with various Genoese, Venetian and other holdings sprayed here and there through the Aegean. But in the sixteenth century, the Ottomans began to tidy up the map.

View of the shipsheds from the Venetian Fort in Heraklion

And that’s where our Fortezza comes in.

Venice, the ruling power in Crete since the early thirteenth century, recognised the growing threat to Crete and its other scattered possessions in the Aegean and Adriatic. How valuable they all were is shown by the scale of the response, because Rethymno’s Fortezza isn’t the totality of it: there are also vast and awe-inspiring new fortifications and huge warship sheds to be seen on our tour at Chania and Heraklion, and these are almost the tip of the iceberg. Which is where you might see a problem coming in, and it’s not the only one.

A guerite or covered guard post

With that in mind look at the great mass of the Fortezza, its walls hugely thick and massy, projecting in and out with pointed bastions and fleches and think of the cost and time. And then add Chania, Heraklion and a dozen other places to the emergency needs at the same time. And the shipsheds. And the warships within, and the sailors, and then the garrisons and the stradiots and other mercenaries and the guns... Put all the costs of that together; remember that the existence of the expanding power of the Sultan and his fleets scything into your livelihood mean that you haven’t got a choice, and then be glad that your job isn’t to make the Venetian budget work.

All of this explains something of how the Fortezza came into being, because for all the clear evidence of money and other resources being lavished to transform this great rock into a fortress, if you follow the story, and know how to read a Renaissance fortress, the limits of Venetian wealth, power and planning quickly become apparent. First there’s the sheer amount of time it took to get to what you can see. It began way back in the 1530s and began well with one of the great military architects, Michele Sanmicheli, being hired to fortify the entire town in the latest scientific style. But it proceeded achingly slowly until eventually, by 1570, it was almost ready…

At which point the corsair Uluç Ali (ironically, himself an Italian renegade) landed and laid the town to waste from end to end. The Fortezza, begun in the aftermath, was a second-best option: to defend a much smaller, cheaper area and move everyone from the smoking rubble into this straitened circuit. Even with the labour of over 100,000 Cretans, though, the work was still not quick, and, as people do after disasters, the Rethymnians gradually ceased to wait and resettled amid the debris of the bigger, older city and made new lives out of the ruins. Instead, then, the Fortezza became a redoubt: home to the government and garrison, with the people encroaching outside.

This reduced plan might have worked if history and events weren’t so bothersome and complex. In fact, for a while, it did, helped a little by the rebuffs to Ottoman power at Malta and Lepanto. Though the latter especially was temporary in its effect, the Venetian possessions did gain something of a reprieve. And reprieves mean those people move back into the town and the frightening amount of money for colossal defensive programmes look even more alarming…and unnecessary.

View of the Venetian Harbour and Fortezza

So, though the Fortezza is in many ways a textbook fortress of the sixteenth century, it was never given every element it should have been. As to what’s missing, well, you’ll have to come around the site with us to hear that tale in full. And believe me, it’s worth it because the Fortezza is impressive not just for its magnificent architecture, but for its wonderful views to the distant and implausibly beautiful peaks of the White Mountains, and down to a town that is a precious treasure house of transplanted Italian architecture in its churches and palazzi. It feels worth defending.

But for a while that seemed less urgent. Until in 1646, as the Civil Wars sputtered out in Britain and the Thirty Years was nearing its bloody end in Europe, the Venetians found themselves in the early stages of their own hideous cataclysm: a war that would last a generation and be renowned for its hideous profligacy with lives, and for the longest siege in history - The Cretan War.

But if you want to hear how that panned out, you’ll have to join us up high on the Fortezza’s wall-wreathed crag to hear the story where it happened. A reminder of the breadth of our tour’s story, which just begins with the extraordinary Minoans.

You can explore Rethymno and the Fortezza on our wonderful escorted tour of Crete.

The post Rethymno and its Venetian fortress, the Fortezza, on the island of Crete appeared first on Peter Sommer Travels.

Visage of a masked ‘cavalry sports helmet’, from the fort at Ribchester, Lancashire, late first to early second centuries AD.

The Roman army is one of the reasons I’m sitting here writing this. As a child living around the fringes of army bases that sort of topic was always going to be interesting, and it became one of the ways the ancient world first got its hooks into me: a fort-gateway drug, if you will. I was helped by school libraries having Peter Connolly’s books with their superb paintings which I’d endlessly try and copy: I can still close my eyes and summon up his fight around the siege engines at Jerusalem, and his pursuing cavalrymen after the Battle of Cremona. Interest in soldiers became an interest in ancient history and broadened to include as much about it as I could possibly absorb. So, while the Roman army didn’t remain my sole focus, I’m definitely a target audience for this exhibition and may have made noises audible only to dogs when I first heard it was to happen.

Fragment of a relief from a mausoleum showing legionaries in battle-formation, early 1st century AD. From Glanum, St-Rémy-de-Provence, France.

So does it match up for me, and is it still worth seeing for people who inexplicably manage to go for hours without cohorts on their mind? Absolutely yes on both counts. There are some minor quibbles which we’ll get to, but they shouldn’t stop you: everyone should find something of interest here, and if you’ve an even passing interest in the Roman army, it’s pretty much essential that you go.

I had one obvious question as soon as the exhibition title was announced, because it struck me that even the British Museum would have trouble mounting an exhibition of legions alone from its own material and what it could obtain by loan. Of course the Roman army was made not just of the high-status legions - Roman citizens when they joined the army - but, among others, also of auxiliaries (non-citizens, but from the peoples within the Roman empire) and naval troops. Very sensibly, despite the title, these are included, which means we get to see some of the most famous pieces drawn from Hadrian’s Wall, the Antonine Wall and Egypt. In fact, one of the conceits of the exhibition is to follow Claudius Terentianus, whom we know about from a second-century family papyrus letter archive in Egypt; he served first with the ‘marines’ and then graduated to the better-paid, more prestigious legions after some deft greasing of networks and palms.

Silver bust of the emperor Galba looking rather Brando-in-The Godfatherish, AD 68-69; from the House of Galba at Herculaneum.

For the exhibition, it’s a good device to make those unaware of the different branches get the idea, and to begin to see the ramifications of having these different types of service. Now, while this broader approach would have made it easier to mount the exhibition just from what’s to be had in Britain (museums on Hadrian’s Wall, the Antonine Wall and Colchester are all well represented), the British Museum has once again benefitted hugely from generous loans by institutions in Germany, France, the US and Italy. The amount and quality of material which anyone with an interest in the Roman army will be able to tick off their bucket list is very impressive; no: staggering. Few would have the resources to go and hunt down all these objects in so many different locations. Flicking through my old Peter Connolly book, young me was able to cheer over and over again at the appearance of things he’d finally got to see that he never expected to.

Portrait head of the empress Julia Domna, marble, probably from Rome AD 203-217 © Yale University Art Gallery, Ruth Elizabeth White Fund.

How does it all work then? The arrangement adopts an approach that isn’t exactly novel but is a pretty sensible one that breaks things down for the new viewer and ticks off most of what you’d expect to find in an overview. Essentially the exhibition is organised around the ‘life cycle’ of a soldier, so we get recruitment, training, camp life, musicians and standards, ancillary services (blacksmiths, food supplies etc), weapons armour and battle and then the majority of the other topics we’d expect: the wider role of soldiers such as in keeping civil order and ‘policing’, life off-duty (gaming, bathing and the like), families (wives and children, the folks back home), slavery (soldiers both owned slaves and took slaves on campaign; both are touched on), the legal rights and privileges of soldiers and, finally, retirement. This is accompanied by backdrops that vaguely suggest a camp’s street as you go up the main lateral of the exhibition space, with a hint at a barrack block off to one side.

Don’t ask me to talk about highlights. I mean, I will – but only if I can stress that these will be very different depending on your interests and where you’ve been before. So, for example, if you’re one of the wise people who’ve joined us on Hadrian’s Wall, while you will love the material from there and happily recognise it, finds newer to you may be more exciting. For those who haven’t been to Vindolanda, say, the organic remains and writing tablets will be particularly breath-taking.

Tombstone of Regina, the freedwoman and wife of Barates of Palmyra, from outside the Roman fort at South Shields (Arbeia), just south of Hadrian’s Wall; second century AD © TWCMS

Those who’ve come for ‘army’ as much as ‘Roman’ will have an absolute feast: this is one of the best touring gatherings of armour, weapons and famed tombstones of soldiers wearing them likely to happen. But there is far more to the exhibition than that. All soldiers spend most of their time not fighting, but bored or in drudge work; and then there are their families, legally recognised or not, and those around them – civilians or the conquered - affected for good or ill by the dropping of hundreds or thousands of men representing an imperial power into their vicinity.

For people coming to this topic anew there will be surprises, I think. Surprises firstly in the scope of what we can study about this institution. Not just wars and battle tactics. These new viewers may be surprised to learn how difficult it could be to get into the army, especially the legions. The need for certain physical characteristics, and even letters of recommendation – I expect people will be struck to discover some of these still exist and can be seen and read. Training you probably know about, but what archaeology can bring us given the right conditions is also pretty mind-blowing, as shown by one of the ox-head archery targets from Vindolanda, pock-marked by dozens of arrows shot into it, or the vaguely anthropomorphic and man-sized wooden target from Carlisle. Those same conditions give us a pretty sizeable spread of an army tent, and even wooden tent-pegs. For different reasons, Egypt’s different conditions gives us items whose survival really does astound, like the red woollen sock with its separate toe, just under a couple of millennia old.

Vindolanda’s writing tablets are here, represented by some of their most famous examples including the Sulpicia Lepidina birthday invitation, with what is probably the first writing by a woman in Britain, and the Brittunculi tablet, dismissive of the ‘little Brits’’ martial abilities. I suspect you’ll also find the modern look of the medical instruments fascinating, especially given the compartmentalised little bronze box some of them were found in. In this less directly warlike category, particular standouts for me were the dice-tower, shaped like a small latticework siege tower, designed to obviate gaming shenanigans with loaded dice; it’s something I’d first read about when working on my doctorate, and here I was looking at it; and then a chunky gold ring proclaiming its owner to be a custos armorum in charge of the armoury of Legio XXII Primigenia. A man evidently proud of his position.

Painted Roman scutum, third century AD, from Dura Europus © Yale University Art Gallery

The army’s place in the empire is partly dealt with in connection with, who else, Septimius Severus - the emperor who on his deathbed advised his sons to stick together, pay the soldiers, and ‘sod the rest’. So we see loyalty expressed in the images of emperors on standards – an amazing survival – and the truly exceptional staved-in large silver bust of the Emperor Galba from Herculaneum. The emperors, you come away aware, were quite determined to know the question “you and whose army?” could be safely answered. Loyalty wasn’t just welded by the emperor himself: we know of several empresses with the title mater castrorum (‘mother of the camps’) expressing their caring relationship with the troops; and given the occasional propensity of soldiers to soppiness, it’s likely to have been quite effective. Prime representative of this at the exhibition is Severus’ wife, Julia Domna, with her instantly-recognisable melon-hairdo (mind you, the exhibition’s suggestion that this coiffure slightly resembles an army helmet did make me don my sceptical face, and would probably not have been the best response on her return from the hairdresser’s tender ministrations).

Bronze helmet (with modern replica cheekpieces) from the River Rhine near Eich, Germany. As we can see from the punched detail on the neck-guard, it was owned by Marcus Arruntius from Aquileia near later Venice who served in the century (80-man unit) of Sempronius. (Private collection, image ©British Museum)

At the exhibition’s far end, have another famous woman with a royal name, if not status: Regina on her tombstone from South Shields (a site we visit on our tour), one of the finest pieces from Roman Britain. Wonderful to see, but also a good example of the social impact of the Roman army: though depicted as the epitome of staid Roman matronhood, she had been a slave with an implied origin in Essex or Hertfordshire, freed by her master – who in turn was from Palmyra in the Syrian desert and had some connection to the army - and then married to him. Neither was Roman in origin yet everything proclaims their Roman-ness (nearly everything: when you go, look below the Latin inscription to see what I mean).

The only topic that did seem to me to be largely missing, and it is a large one, is religion. The eclecticism of Roman military religion is a major sphere of study, and its absence was a surprise, but you can go and find out more about it in the museum’s Roman Britain gallery, or come to Hadrian’s Wall if you want to know more.

Gilded-bronze draco-standard, about AD 200, Niederbieber, Germany © Landesarchäologie Außenstelle Koblenz

Well, then, its an exhibition about more than arms, armour and war. But given its subject, those are going to be important and there’s a really impressive array of big hitters here, some of the most famous objects from the entire empire. We have some magnificent tombstones depicting soldiers, including the famed centurion Facilis from Colchester, and Marcus Caelius who was killed in the Varian disaster, in his case a cenotaph since his body was not recovered (this is a copy, but a good and imposing one). We have cavalry trappings which seem to name the owner as serving in the unit of Pliny the Elder, more famed for his writing career and eventual death in the eruption of Vesuvius.

Then we turn to an object that for me is worth the entrance alone: the exquisitely painted shield from Dura Europus on the Syrian frontier, a vanishingly rare survival (missing its metal boss, but nicely paired with the similarly highly-decorated bronze boss from the mouth of the Tyne – both, I note in exactly the same arrangement as they appear in Peter Connolly’s painting: an ‘easter egg’ for afficionados?). We have a row of swords and helmets which show us that the Roman soldier’s appearance – and fighting techniques – did not remain static for two centuries. This begins with a so-called ‘jockey cap’ type helmet which I’d need some persuading to believe was worn by a Roman soldier; it’s always, I think rightly, been displayed in the Iron Age Britain galleries. But it illustrates an important point: the Romans were very happy to take inspiration and models from their opponents and run with (charge with!) them, so we can see how much Roman helmet design took cues from the Celtic world.

Second/third century iron horse armour for a cataphract or clibanarius (heavily armoured horsemen with lances; think roughly of a mediaeval knight) from the Roman fort at Dura Europus on the Syrian frontier. © Yale University Art Gallery, Yale-French Excavations at Dura-Europos.

Next to these are the famous and distinctive hooped, banded cuirasses of Roman armour now known as lorica segmentata, not only the Corbridge cuirass, but Newstead too. Amazing. You’ll find parts of catapults, pilum-heads an actual [!] draco (the dragon head from one of the cavalry standards with a tail that would flutter in the wind of the charge) and a whole series of cavalry mask-helmets with their alienating, impassive visages. The Ribchester one takes the prize for me; others will be excited to see the relative newcomer, the Crosby Garrett helmet, unearthed from Cumbria as recently as 2010. And then you can move on, noticing what looks out of the corner of your eye in the dim lighting like, what? A log?

Lorica segmentata cuirass from the Varus Disaster battle-site at Kalkriese, north-west Germany, AD 9 © Museum und Park Kalkriese.

And then you look properly. And, in my case, sotto voce, you say “no way!” because you never expected to see the great scaled horse armour from Dura. You’d seen it in old black-and-white photographs by the original Yale team, and painted reconstructions, but here it is, scales delineated by atmospheric shadow and entirely splendid.

And that doesn’t complete the grin-inducing elements on this score, because there’s a select but brilliant cluster of material from Kalkriese, the – or a – site of the Varian Disaster, the Battle of the Teutoberg Forest in AD 9 which so shook the Emperor Augustus. Again, these are some of the pick of the crop: a shackle for prisoners, another lorica segmentata cuirass (an important one, because unexpected: we use to think this form of armour developed later, but here it is, firmly in the early rather than mid first century AD) and then one of the things I’ve most wanted to see and hadn’t known would be here, so a wonderful surprise.

Bronze mule or donkey bell from the Varus battlefield at Kalkriese, AD 9; it was found stuffed with grass.

The donkey bell.

One of the archaeological finds that I find most pregnant with meaning. For it was found stuffed with grass to stop it making noise. By this time, the men of Varus’ three legions, Marcus Caelius perhaps then still alive among them, knew they were in deep trouble. Let there be silence while we wind down the miles to safety. Let us gain a little time before they know we’re moving….

All to no avail.

A small thing, smaller than I expected. Possibly my favourite thing there.

Crocodile skin used perhaps as armour, though alternatives have been suggested (religious use?), Manfalut, Egypt, third or fourth century AD © British Museum

So far it’s been an excellent exhibition, but I did say there might be some gripes, so let’s get them out of the way. Now, to be clear, none of these should stop you going. So; firstly the lighting is pretty low, and I don’t think that’s all due to the presence of ancient leather and papyrus, since it’s increasingly common in displays, and BM exhibitions. It makes occasional details difficult to see, especially when the lighting that there is takes the form of pinpoints which don’t always illuminate in the best way and also make it harder to see through some of the glass which is (a bane of my museum life…) far too reflective.

Some of the space could perhaps have been better used to spread people around a bit more now numbers seem well and truly back to those before the pandemic: it would avoid pinch points and looking at objects with a press of faces behind them on the other side. One or two items could have been shown to more advantage – the Lugdunum burial for example might be easily missed, and a few would have been better at different heights. All of these grumbles are things that could have made a very good thing better, so let’s not obsess about them.

Instead let’s take our leave by saying goodbye, as the exhibition enables us to, to some of these soldiers and those they impacted, because we should always remember that these objects are interesting because of the stories they tell of lives. Some of these men, and their endings are very immediate as we pass through the exhibition, and form some of its cornerstones. Early on, we have the Roman soldier from Herculaneum, killed horribly in the Vesuvian eruption, laid flat on his back, arms pugilistically raised, with his weapons and equipment around him; we have two more skeletons seemingly buried illicitly in Canterbury in the second century, both probably soldiers, one originating from as far away as east central Europe; killed and dumped with their swords in what seems to have been an unmarked grave.

Bronze ‘discharge’ diploma of Marcus Papirius of Arsinoe in Egypt, a rower in the Alexandrian fleet for 26 years, dated 8 Sept AD 79, granting rights of citizenship to himself, his wife Tapaea and their son Carpinius. From Egypt. © British Museum

Next to them is the recent discovery of the skeleton of a crucifixion victim from Cambridgeshire, the remnants of a nail still in his ankle, his death likely overseen by soldiers. Finally I pause not at a body, for that is gone, but the leavings of one. This is the Lugdunum soldier I mentioned a little earlier, fairly certainly killed in the vicious battle that took place there in AD 197 between the forces of Septimius Severus (Julia Domna’s husband) and the Roman army of Britain, vying for empire under its governor, Clodius Albinus. Roman soldier fighting Roman. We know Severus won; our man here, girdled with a fine belt on which were bronze letters ironically making the popular phrase felix utere (‘use luckily’) did not. For me, this was another particularly striking encounter that I’d long looked forward to.

Gaming board for the bandit game, ludus latrunculorum, from Vindolanda, Northumberland © British Museum

Last of all I’ll mention the ‘diplomas’, the bronze documents recording, in beautifully flowing letters, the arrival of auxiliary soldiers at the end of their official term of service and thus a grant of citizenship.  There are several of these scattered around the exhibition, and they are among the finest you’ll ever see. And they remind us that for all the years of toil and mind-numbing fatigues, for the times when that was punctuated by battle and fear and friends lost, and maybe regret over punishments administered and lives ruined, there would also be memories of dice games in bath-houses, friendships and perhaps marriages (think of Regina) made for these soldiers to take with them along with their tidy pension, discharge money and the diploma that proved they were now a Roman citizen, no mere provincial; Latin speaking, with new rights and expectations. It’s worth ending with that thought: that the Roman army was an engine for far more than just conquest.

Catalogue

The exhibition is accompanied by a handsome, if pricy, book, though it’s really more a “book to accompany the exhibition”. I do rather miss the existence of a traditional catalogue. Most people will absolutely prefer this as a readable introduction without overly-academic articles (albeit occasionally in need of an editorial and fact-checking eye); it just makes it a bit less useful for those with more scholarly interests.

Interested in the Roman army or the wider Roman world? Why not take a look at our Exploring Hadrian's Wall or Exploring Rome tours?

Or you can see our full schedule of expert-led archaeological tours.

The post A visit to the Legions: a review of the British Museum's exhibition appeared first on Peter Sommer Travels.

Interior of the Doric temple at Segesta

There are at least a thousand reasons to visit Sicily, the great island - indeed the largest in the Mediterranean - that forms the triangular football to the boot that is the Italian peninsula.

They are all very good reasons, including amazing landscapes, a uniquely complex and delicious cuisine, a history that is diverse and multifaceted beyond belief, excellent wines, a vast array of archaeological sites, an even vaster one of historical towns and villages. A great way to explore all of those aspects is our Exploring Sicily tour.

But one key reason to visit the island is missing from the list above: ancient Greek temples!

Not all Sicilian temples are well-preserved, but the ruins are very evocative, especially in spring!

Greek temples are one of the earliest well-defined expressions of what we now recognise as the Western tradition in architecture, and one of the most influential ones by a vast margin to this day. They go back to the 8th or 7th centuries BC, and, as the name entails, they are indeed a key achievement of the Archaic Greeks, originating in what is the south of modern Greece, where Greek temple architecture appears to have its main roots, probably derived from local wooden predecessors.

Doric Temples
The Greek mainland's architectural style is the Doric one, considered to be the most austere and "male" in character. On our Exploring Athens, we see no less than three key examples of that purest form of Greek temple: the Parthenon on the Athenian Acropolis, most emblematic of all Greek temples, the Temple of Hephaistos in the city's Agora, the best-preserved example in Greece (both are from the mid-5th century BC), and the wonderfully set temple of Aphaia on the island of Aigina, predating them by half a century.

Ionic temples
In the eastern Aegean and Asia Minor, temples were famous for their own development, the more elegant and "female" Ionic style, conceived about a century after the Doric one. The most prominent examples are at Samos, Ephesus and Didyma, all of them monumental in size. You can see one of our other posts about the great Ionic temples.

What's so remarkable about the Greek temples of Sicily then?

The short answer is simply that Sicily possessed a greater density of monumental temples than any other area of the Mediterranean, and now contains more well-preserved examples than anywhere else. Not only do they make for an unusually rich ensemble of particularly impressive ancient monuments, but moreover, each of them has its own distinctive character and peculiar features, its own history and its own specific setting within a town- or landscape.

The so-called Temple of Hera at Agrigento

The reason for Sicily's wealth in such a specific type of monument lies in the early history of the island. In the 8th century BC, Sicily became a target of Greek colonisation, which affected much of the Mediterranean and Black Sea. Greek settlers, mostly from the city states of the Southern Greek mainland, set off to found a whole series of new cities in the island, including Syrakousai (modern Syracuse), Akragas (Agrigento), Messene (Messina) and Selinous (Selinunte). In fact, Sicily (and the south of the Italian mainland) received so many Greek colonies that the region was later called Megale Hellas or Magna Graecia ("Great Greece").

These settlers brought their Greek identity, lifestyle, culture and traditions with them, a package that also included their religion. The great temples of Sicily are the most striking expression of that package. First of all, they fulfilled the practical need of providing a place of worship or sanctuary with a house for the statue of the respective god or goddess. At the same time, the choice of an architectural type from the "motherland", the Doric temple, served as a clear indication of the colonists' background and cultural alignment. Soon, the size, format and individual characteristics also began to express the "new" cities' wealth, ambition and specific Sicilian identities.

Remains of the Temple of Apollo at Syracuse (Wikimedia: Berthold Werner)

Syracuse (Syrakousai), founded by Corinthians in 733 BC, was originally limited to the small island of Ortygia, which is still the heart of its Old Town. Two major temples are found on the islet.

The temple of Apollo is one of the oldest among the Greek temples of Sicily, built before 550 BC. Although it is only partially preserved, its monumental character is still appreciable through the closely-placed thick columns, as is its already very Sicilian plan, with an adyton, an inner holy-of-holies housing the statue of Apollo, at the back of the internal sanctuary. An inscription on the front steps names Kleomenes as its architect and Epikles as the creator of the columns - such a proud commemoration of the builders would have been unthinkable in mainland Greece at that time.

For the modern visitor, the temple of Apollo at Syracuse is outshone by that of Athena, one of the most spectacular sights in Sicily. Erected by the local tyrant Gelon after a great victory over the Carthaginians in 480 BC, this was another monumental Doric temple, built of local limestone (which would have been covered in fine stucco), with a superstructure of marble imported from the Cyclades, some 900km (550mi) away.

What makes the temple of Athena unique, and not just among the temples of Sicily, is the fact that it still serves as a place of worship for its city after nearly 2,500 years. It was rededicated as a Christian church around AD 600, later served as a mosque, and now is Syracuse's Roman Catholic cathedral. Hidden behind an ornate baroque façade, the visitor finds what is essentially an Early Christian basilica built into and around the basic structure of a Late Archaic Doric temple.

"Temple of Concordia"  at Agrigento/Akragas

Agrigento (Akragas) was settled by people from nearby Gela and from faraway Rhodes around 582 BC. The city flourished especially in the 6th and 5th centuries BC, after which it frequently changed hands between Greeks and Carthaginians before eventually falling to Rome.

During its heyday, Akragas appears to have spent a lot of resources on lavish architecture, a fact criticised by the 5th-century BC philosopher Empedocles, who was himself a citizen there: The Agrigentines live delicately as if tomorrow they would die, but they build their houses well as if they thought they would live for ever. Indeed, Akragas is known to have had at least ten large temples.

The most impressive of them today is the one traditionally called the Temple of Concordia, although its deity remains unknown. Dated to c. 425 BC, it is among the last of the Greek temples of Sicily to be completed. It counts as one of the three most completely preserved Greek temples across the ancient world (the others being the so-called Temple of Poseidon at Paestum near Naples and that of Hephaistos in Athens). The inner shrine, outer colonnades and pediments all survive in what is essentially their original state, showcasing the fine proportions of Classical architecture. Its good preservation is thanks to its early conversion into a Christian church.

A fallen antlantid from the Temple of Zeus at Agrigento/Akragas

Also visible at Agrigento are substantial remains of three further large temples, including the structure known (probably falsely) as the Temple of Hera. The most noteworthy of them, however, must be the huge Temple of Olympian Zeus, of which only foundations and fallen masonry survive. Built by the local tyrant Theron (brother of the aforementioned Gelon) after the 480 victory, it was dedicated to the chief god. While modelled on the idea of the Doric temple, it was in fact a highly unusual structure for several reasons, including its huge dimensions (110 by 52m or 360 by 170ft), its partially walled-off colonnade, and the use of massive block-built "atlantids", relief figures of giants, to support the superstructure. Some scholars have interpreted the Temple of Olympian Zeus as a hybrid of a Greek Doric exterior and a more Carthaginian/Phoenician interior.

You can read more impressions and view more pictures in our post about the ancient temples at Agrigento.

Selinunte/Selinous: Temple C (Wikimedia: Janusz Rec?aw)

Selinunte (Selinous) is located in the far west of Sicily. It was founded in 628/627 BC by Sicilian Greeks from Gela, with some involvement from Megara near Athens. In many ways, it was an outpost among the Greek cities of Sicily, located close to the Phoenician/Carthaginian centres of power. This certainly did not stop its inhabitants from engaging in the construction of temples: we know of at least seven, several of them of massive dimensions.

Four were located on the acropolis, the hilltop citadel of the city. One of them, Temple C, is still very impressive. We do not know what deity was worshipped at Temple C, of which one side is preserved. It dates to before 550 BC. It shares some similarities with the slightly older temple of Apollo at Syracuse, such as the adyton at the western end of the sanctuary, housing a statue of its god or goddess. Nonetheless, its columns and overall proportions are more graceful. Especially impressive, however, are the grooves that allowed the huge bronze doors at its eastern end to open and close. It was approached via a monumental stairway of eight steps, the oldest we know in the Greek World. The museum at Palermo holds examples of its rich sculptural decoration.

Temple E, the Temple of Hera, at Selinunte/Selinous

A second group of three huge temples stood just to the east of Selinunte, by its harbour. Two, G and F, lie in ruins, but the third, temple E stands proud, partially as the result of modern reconstructions. This was the temple of Hera, wife (and sister) of Zeus and goddess of matrimony. From the mid-5th century BC, this temple incorporated a strong influence from the Greek motherland, where the style we now call "Classical" was then in full swing, while also following Sicilian architectural traditions. Temple E is characterised by a harmony of proportion that is unusual among the great temples of Sicily. Its sculptural decoration, while modest in quantity, is among the finest achievements of Greek art in Sicily. Overall, it is strongly reminiscent of the very slightly older and far less well-preserved temple of Zeus in Olympia, a site that would have been familiar to many Sicilian Greeks, due to the athletic competitions held there every four years.

The temple at Segesta in its glorious setting

Segesta, inland from Sicily's northwestern extremity, is in a way the odd one out among the cities mentioned here. It was not the product of Greek colonisation, but founded in the mists of time by Elymians, a local Sicilian tribe. Throughout its history, it chose a role between the Greek and Carthaginian spheres, adopting aspects of Greek culture, but not necessarily allying itself with its Greek neighbours. Segesta was in constant conflict with nearby Selinous. Nevertheless, late in the 5th century BC, the Segestans engaged in the construction of a fine Doric temple on a hill outside their city, probably using expert builders from their rival and enemy Selinous. Perhaps due to the outbreak of war, it was never completed. Its remains look complete at first sight, with the exterior colonnades and pediments in place. On a closer look, one notes that the delicate column flutings and other sculptural details were not applied, and that the temple is lacking an interior sanctuary. With its relatively late date and in its incomplete state, the temple at Segesta is a fit point to end this post about the important architectural achievement that are the Greek temples of Sicily.

If you are interested in seeing these impressive monuments, along with prehistoric cemeteries, Phoenician settlements, Norman churches, baroque towns and much more, combined with fabulous food and wine, you should join us on one of our epic Sicily tours.

The post The Great Temples of Sicily appeared first on Peter Sommer Travels.

Wild flowers in the spring at the ancient city of Aptera on Crete in Greece

Have you been to Crete? Have you explored the remarkable Minoan places, explored the dramatic mountains and coastline and savoured the wonderful cuisine, often considered the best in Greece? Oh and have you heard that there tends to be a few beautiful wildflowers carpeting the ancient cities and wider landscape each spring (like above)?

A view of the White Mountains in West Crete seen from the coast near Rethymno.

Trying to describe our tours of Crete, which we think are quite extraordinary (not surprising considering all the time and effort we have put into creating them), it would be very easy to pull one of those glib "Crete: island of Contrasts" descriptions. So let’s do that. What might you see there? What hits me most when I remember?

The Mycenaean Throne Room at Knossos, centrepiece of the Palace in its very Late Bronze Age form. The discussion as to whether this room is a Cretan/Minoan feature or a Mainland Greek/Mycenaean one is a key part of the stories we tell you in Crete.

The first time at Knossos seeing everything you’ve been storing up to see there since childhood, how it’s all expected and unexpected at the same time. The goosebumps as you see the Throne Room, the central element of the palace in its latest, Mycenaean phase, Evans’ reconstructions, and also the bits the books and photographs don’t prepare you for: the setting! The view to Mount Iouktas, the key open-air sanctuary when the palace was thriving!

The Central Court of the Minoan Palace of Phaistos, its lost parts eroded down into the Mesara Plain.

The end-of-the-world drop-off into space at the end of the Great Court of Minoan Phaistos, from a solid, safe mass of rooms, bureaucracy and opulence to unexpected nothingness over the beautiful green Mesara, that sea of olive trees.

A view from inside the biggest tomb at the Late Minoan cemetery at Armenoi, looking out towards the light of the world outside.

The thrill of the entrance to the great tomb at Armenoi, the descending stairs to the steep runway, all russet-red cut from the rock, dappled by the trees in the cool, quiet oak wood. A dark doorway far below. Allow yourself a little Indiana Jones moment as you step down…

A view across the Venetian fortress of Rethymno (the Fortetsa) to the White Mountains in West Crete.

Standing on the battlements of the huge Venetian Fortezza at Rethymno, with, away in the distance Mount Ida, a vast, broad-winged white seabird, stark against the deep blue sky, lower slopes invisible as it hovers, and with dragon-teeth crags of the White Mountains and the Akrotiri Peninsula in the opposite direction.

The beach at Kato Zakros during a less-brutal moment. Peaceful Mediterranean beauty, concealing long history. During the Bronze Age, the coastline was further out and so was the harbour.

Waves crashing on the beach at Zakros, near the Minoan palace and town. A tough landing for the Minoan sailors who would have used it; now filled with excited chatter and the smell of good food. What a view to be had while you’re eating: the stark, unforgiving cliffs and chasms of Crete’s brutally entrancing wild east.

Souda Bay as seen from Aptera

Standing by the walls of the Ottoman fort at Aptera, the Roman city behind you. Gazing over the thick blue of the bay with its postcard-perfect Venetian castle below. Few places could be prettier, few filled with so much catastrophic drama, from medieval times to the last war. Crete has an unfair share of history….

So many letters, so many words, so many sentences, so many consequences. The Gortyn Code should be World Heritage as an early and detailed law text and one of the longest surviving Ancient Greek inscriptions.

The sheer size of the Greek inscribed law code at Gortyn, sweeping along for ever, letters black in shadow against the terracotta-coloured stone, still defining boundaries over two-and-a-half millennia for a long-gone citizenry, or are they still here, tending their fields and groves unfazed by the shadow of millennia?

The view from where we stay in the south of Crete.

And to close a day, a late afternoon on the heights at Thalori. Relaxing in the beautiful village after visiting the little Byzantine church; the evening meal’s ready and there’s the prospect of raki [these are Paul's own italics] if you fancy. Golden shadows lengthen over the hills, shaping their slopes. In the distance, there’s the deep cleft in the rock down to the Libyan Sea, and the remarkable pinnacle of rock which makes this place unforgettable, a pinnacle that was a major place of worship during the Bronze Age, visible as far away as Phaistos and further. The goats are out as the sun westers and there’s the clonk and tinkle of bells, but otherwise, silence.

Certainly makes me want to be there. You? We look forward to welcoming you on our Exploring Crete tour.

A panoramic view of the Mesara Plain on Crete, taken from the foothills of the Asterousia Mountains during a research trip in October 2019.

The post What do you see from here? - the island of Crete in Greece appeared first on Peter Sommer Travels.

Peter Sommer, with his trusty crook, in the late summer of 1994, back in Istanbul at the end of his first Turkish experience.

Gazing out of the window on a train to London recently, I was rather shocked to realise it will shortly be the 30th anniversary of my 2,000-mile walk across Turkey, retracing the route of Alexander the Great. Surely it couldn’t be 30 years since this rather harebrained adventure changed the whole direction of my life! Flicking back through some notes, I discovered that March 21, 2024 will precisely mark the 30th anniversary of the first time I set foot in Turkey, which kick-started a long and enduring love affair with the country and sparked a passion for travel. Three days later, March 24, marks exactly since when I actually began my expedition, taking my first stumbling steps from Troy, with an ancient battlefield near the Syrian border set as a very distant goal.

Back in 1994, having finished a Masters in Ancient History and Archaeology at university, I opted to leave the library and dusty books behind, yearning for a more hands-on experience. Alexander was in some ways an obvious example to follow: he too had yearned to explore his world, and I’d studied his campaigns and life in detail. I was inspired by photographs of remote valleys, mountain passes and ancient cities taken by Victorian travellers who had sought Alexander’s trail.

In Istanbul, Peter saw the Alexander Sarcophagus in the Archaeological Museum. Discovered at Sidon (nowadays Lebanon) in the 19th century, it depicts most probably the battle of Issus, showing Alexander the Great defeating a Persian enemy. It is usually considered a work of the late fourth century BC, i.e. from within a generation of Alexander's lifetime.

Now, in order to really get a sense of the man and his journey, the longest military expedition ever undertaken, I felt I needed to get out on the ground and travel at the same speed as his army, which meant travelling on foot. Logically, I decided to start my personal quest at Troy, where Alexander first set foot in Asia, and planned to spend the next four and a half months walking as far as Issus, the location of Alexander’s second epic battle against the Persians, just north of the Syrian border. I spent much of the previous year planning the expedition, working out where I was going to try and walk, based on the ancient road system and Alexander’s strategy, asking for sponsorship in the form of tents, water purifiers and boots and writing to would-be patrons for support. Fortunately, Sir Ranulph Fiennes, the explorer, and Michael Wood, the historian and broadcaster, agreed to back my journey.

Peter Sommer crossing a wooden bridge in northwestern Turkey on his trek following the footsteps of Alexander.

Before setting off to Istanbul, apart from one family holiday in a Spanish resort, I’d never been abroad. I expected the expedition to be an incredible archaeological and historical adventure. What I hadn’t expected was that my walk would inspire a lifelong passion to travel and explore, that I would fall head over heels in love with Turkey and that by pure serendipity, through a random meeting, I would end up creating and leading archaeological tours that would eventually lead to the birth of Peter Sommer Travels.

Throughout my journey I discovered the myriad wonders of Turkish cuisine, incredible landscapes and seascapes and an extraordinary number of stunningly well-preserved ancient sites. But it was the spirit and character of the Turkish people that proved the greatest revelation. Time and again I was overwhelmed by their incredible warmth and hospitality. Night after night they welcomed a young, dirty and sweaty foreigner shouldering an overweight backpack into their homes and showered him with foodstuffs to carry the following morning. This in itself was life-changing, but it was a chance encounter that led to the birth of my travel company.

The best way to remember the extraordinary man that was John Freely is through his many books...

When I landed in Istanbul, I had just one contact, John Scott, the British editor of Cornucopia, a magazine about Turkey and its rich culture. I’d never met him but had got in touch to see if he might be interested in me writing a diary of my journey. While I was in his office, his phone rang. Having told the caller that he had a 24-year-old archaeologist with him who was just about to embark on an epic adventure, he passed me the phone. I found myself talking to the celebrated John Freely, the author of countless travel guides and books about history and archaeology as well as a Professor of Physics. He told me to get in a taxi and come and see him at the University where he taught, high on the hills overlooking the Bosphorus. I had already booked a bus ticket to Troy to start the walk and didn’t have long until it departed, but he waved away my anxieties and insisted I come. We spent a glorious couple of hours together in his study, poring over maps and books. For some wonderful reason, he took me under his wing, telling me he’d follow my journey and to call him as often as I could (this was before the era of mobile phones) and that he would assist by introducing me to contacts along the way, which is how I ended up having tea one day with the granddaughter of Turkey's last Sultan.

Peter, high up on the Anatolian Plateau, on the way to Gordion.

From Peter's 1994 photographs: an ancient roadway near Tarsus.

Those many weeks of walking left an indelible impression on me. Perhaps they deepened my connection with Alexander the Great, but they certainly brought me close to Turkey and its people, and also to myself and my own future - although I did not necessarily realise then. I marvel to think how many wonderful places, places I still admire after all these years, I saw for the first time during my walk: the breathtaking city of Istanbul, where you breathe history at every step; the fabled walls of Troy, a place mixing archaeological significance with timeless legend; the ruins of Sardis, my first glimpse of a truly Anatolian capital; the stunningly monumental remains of the great cities of Ionia: worldly Ephesus and brooding Miletus; the rugged region of Caria on the southwestern tip of Asia Minor and its eastern neighbour, Lycia, full of mysterious and atmospheric ancient sites, and so many more beyond. Even now, 25 years later, when I visit those places I feel the same tingle of excitement and wonder...

During Peter's walk, the first stop in most villages was the tea-house, where large crowds would assemble to welcome him, but also to see what was going on and to look at his collection of old maps...

At the end of my walk, I flew back to Istanbul and met up with John. He asked me what I was going to do next, before making his own suggestion, “You should start leading archaeological tours”. Prior to that, the travel industry had never occurred to me as a possible career. I have no idea where he conjured that thought from, but for me his words became a prophecy. Within two years I signed up as a consultant to create and lead archaeological tours for a British travel company, Simply Turkey. It was then only a short matter of time before I chose to set out on my own and Peter Sommer Travels was born. John passed away in 2017, aged 90, and I will always remember him incredibly fondly for his unique influence on me.

The UK Times reported on Peter's walk after it took place.

If that weren’t enough, the expedition opened up yet another series of opportunities. Not long after the walk, Michael Wood, the celebrated documentary presenter who had become one of the patrons of my adventure, called to say that he had been asked to make a four-hour TV series, In the Footsteps of Alexander the Great, for the BBC and PBS in the US, and would I like to come and work on it. Although I was two-thirds of the way through a PhD., I jumped at the chance and soon found myself in Tajikistan, Uzbekistan and Turkey, once again on Alexander’s trail. By happy accident, I ended up working as a documentary producer/director filming all over the world for the next ten years, all the while running tours in my spare time.

From Peter's 1994 walk: approaching the Cilician Gates, the famous mountain pass in southeastern Turkey, just as Alexander had done 33 centuries before.

It’s now 22 years since I began Peter Sommer Travels. I can’t quite believe how time has flown and how my whole working life has been shaped by a series of fortunate strokes of chance, all of which stemmed from a rather foolhardy 21-week hike as a young man.

In some ways, 1994 seems a long time ago, but the trip and the experience of walking through Turkey did indeed set Peter on a course that is still continuing. It is surprising how many of what are now our Turkish itineraries on both land and water he already touched upon during that first voyage: all of them. Of course, In the Footsteps of Alexander derives from the 1994 adventure, but so do our tours in Ionia, Caria, Lycia and elsewhere in Turkey. Why not join Peter himself, or one of his colleagues, on one of them? But it goes even further: the passion for travel and exploration that Peter discovered then, and for sharing them with others, has inspired Peter Sommer Travels to move beyond Turkey itself, so that we now offer tours and cruises in six different countries. It all goes back to that sun-tanned youth and his madcap idea!

The post The 30th Anniversary of Peter's Walk across Turkey appeared first on Peter Sommer Travels.

Spectacular late 5th century BC pillar tombs overlook the Roman theatre at Xanthos, one of the key sites of ancient Lycia

Lycia is in many ways an archaeological wonderland. Even within Turkey, a country rich in well-preserved ancient sites, the region stands out for its wealth of evocative ancient remains, all set within a very beautiful Mediterranean landscape.

It is hardly a surprise, therefore, that Lycia figures among Peter Sommer Travels' offerings in a big way, with no less than four different itineraries of our escorted gulet cruises focusing on the area.

It should be stressed, however, that Lycia may well be the most mysterious of the ancient landscapes we travel. For those used to many of the classical sites in the Mediterranean, it is an intriguing mix of highly familiar features and supremely strange ones.

A submerged tomb at Kale (ancient Simena).

So, what's so special about Lycia?

Lycia can be roughly defined as the large, not quite semicircular peninsula that protrudes southwards from the shore of Asia Minor between the cities of Fethiye (ancient Telmessos, on the border of the ancient region of Caria) and Antalya (ancient Attaleia, already in Pamphylia, Lycia's Eastern neighbour). Its landscape is defined by a rugged shoreline with a series of mountain chains rising directly behind most of it, traversed here and there by a number of river valleys.

Tomb facades, overlooked by a pillar tomb, at Xanthos

The term Lycia appears to be an exonym, i.e. a name not used by the Lycians themselves, but by outsiders, such as Greeks and Romans. Its origins go back to the 2nd millennium BC, when the great Hittite empire occasionally referred to a grouping called the Lukka. The Lycians called themselves Trmmis or Termyloi and had their own (Indo-European) language. For a few centuries, they also had their own alphabet, derived from the Greek one.

In spite of Lycia's wealth in archaeological sites, much of the region's history remains quite enigmatic. One of the reasons for the relative lack of specific sources is the fact that for most of its early history Lycia was not a defined political entity or state, another is simply that it was rarely at the centre of historical developments.

Little is known of the region's prehistory and early history. Although Homer already mentions it repeatedly, Lycia only really becomes visible around the 7th and 6th centuries BC, when the Greeks' eastward expansion led to occasional contact between Lycia and parts of the Greek World, especially nearby Rhodes. By the mid-6th century BC, along with the rest of Asia Minor, Lycia was conquered by the Persians. In the middle of the 5th century, when Athens was at the height of her power, actively pushing against the Persians in Anatolia, Lycia briefly joined the Delian League (or Athenian empire), perhaps not voluntarily.

Ancient theatre at Phaselis, were Alexander the Great spent the winter of 334/333 BC

This did not last long: by the late 5th century, Lycia had repelled Athenian attempts at regaining control. For a few generations, Lycian communities thrived under the dynastic rule of local aristocrats, but under Persian sovereignty. In the 4th century, the region was incorporated into the Persian satrapy of Caria and governed alongside its western neighbour by the Hecatomnids, the same dynasty that produced Mausollos, whose monumental grave at Halikarnassos was counted among the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. With Alexander's conquest of Asia Minor in 334/3 BC (he wintered in Phaselis on Lycia's eastern coast), Lycia became part of the wider Hellenistic World, later to be Romanised, Christianised and so on.

A whole series of rock-cut tombs at Myra

The key cultural expression of this complex and unusual history is Lycia's archaeology, especially its unique funerary architecture. In fact, the earlier history of many Lycian sites is much more visible in the form of monumental cemeteries than in that of settlements, fortifications and so on. Especially during the "dynastic" period around the turn of the 5th/4th centuries BC, regional centres such as Xanthos, Tlos, Lymira or Pinara were embellished with large and elaborate built or more often rock-cut tombs that are unique to the region, incorporating a local Anatolian background while freely adopting both Greek and Oriental elements.

The impression is that the Lycians were well aware of their interesting and somewhat unusual position at the interface of the Greek/Western and the Persian/Eastern cultural spheres, and that they quite deliberately made use of both influences, uniting them with the local tradition to create an architectural vocabulary that was and remains unmistakably Lycian in character.

Temple tombs at Fethiye (ancient Telmessos)

Lycian tombs are supremely strange at first sight. Archaeologists divide them into various separate types, including rock-cut "house tombs", free-standing "house tombs", and so-called "pillar tombs". "Temple tombs" also occur, but may be a little more international in character. The details of these monuments, often cut from the sheer rock, include imitations of wooden architecture, perhaps suggesting Lycian houses or shrines, but also carved motifs inspired by Greek sculpture and even Greek myth, and likewise Eastern motifs. Since Lycia was not politically unified at the time, the tombs are an important expression of regional identity and of local individualism at the same time.

At around the same time, Lycian rulers begin to mint very fine coinage, essentially following a Greek tradition of craftsmanship, but with their own original contribution, notably the first use of coin portraits we are aware of.

View from the Hellenistic and Roman theatre of Patara, overlooking the bouleuterion, the council chamber of the Lycian league

After Alexander's conquests, Lycia became a more mainstream part of the Hellenistic World. Now substantially Hellenised and politically associated with Hellenistic states (mostly the Ptolemaic Kingdom and later the Rhodian state), the Lycians appear to have fast replaced their own language with Greek, now the lingua franca of the Eastern Mediterranean. Likewise, their society was now based on Greek-style cities, which appear to have reached considerable affluence in some cases, judging from their architectural embellishments.

Even now, the Lycians had not quite finished being original. At some point around 200 BC, they formed a more or less unprecedented political organisation, the Lycian League. This was a confederation of over 20 still largely independent cities and communities. According to its size, each member was represented in a common Council or parliament by one, two or three deputies. The League maintained federal offices and institutions and had its own army. Unlike earlier such organisations, it does not appear to have been dominated by one especially strong member.

View of Patara's Roman aqueduct, namely the section where it crosses a low-lying valley by using pressure pipes and the inverted syphon principle

Remarkably, even after Rome incorporated Lycia into its domains around the middle of the 1st century BC, it permitted the League to continue in existence - minus its army. Lycian cities continued to thrive. Strikingly, they still maintained the very local tradition of tomb architecture, variously modified, that had developed centuries before.

Eventually, Lycia was Christianised and became part of the Byzantine Empire. Most of Lycia's ancient cities were abandoned in the second half of the first millennium AD, when growing unrest and upheaval, especially Arab pirate raids, ended a long phase of relative stability.

For the traveller, there is much to see of this rich and varied history. Great fortified citadels of the Late Classical and Hellenistic period are found at sites such as Xanthos (a UNESCO World Heritage site), Tlos or Limyra. Those sites, each in an impressively dominant location, are surrounded by the distinctive and elaborate tombs of their early rulers.

Part of a Roman bathhouse at Arykanda

Well-preserved cities of Hellenistic and Roman dates are even more common: among the most spectacular are the harbour towns of Antiphellos (modern Ka?), Patara, Andriake and Phaselis, as well as Olympos, strung out along the banks of a river in a deep coastal gorge. In a stunning mountainside setting much further inland, Arykanda is sometimes nicknamed the "Turkish Delphi". At those sites, the visitor admires great theatres, stadiums, council chambers, granaries, the occasional temple and vast Roman bath complexes, but once again, monumental tombs of various types claim pride of place. For the modern visitor, some sites are virtually defined by their graves, for example Classical/Hellenistic Teimiussai and (mostly) Roman Sidyma.

View from the Ottoman castle at Kale, ancient Simena

There are also places of legendary sacredness. At the Letoon near Xanthos, a series of temples and altars mark one of the sites contending for the honour of being the god Apollo's birthplace. Near Olympos, a natural "eternal" flame known as the Chimaira was the spot where the mythical hero Bellerophon was said to have slain that legendary monster. There are also a great many early Christian monuments to be seen, among them countless early churches, e.g. at Patara and Arykanda, but also the great pilgrimage centre on the off-shore island of Gemiler, and the elaborate church of St. Nicholas at Myra.

In short, Lycia is unusually beautiful, mysterious and fascinating - well worth your time. We certainly recommend visiting it, perhaps on one of our classic cruises (the Lycian Shore or Western Lycia) or Walking Cruises (Western Lycia or Lycia) - following part of the Lycian way, the 520km (317mi) hiking track that runs through the region.

The post Ancient Lycia in Turkey - History and Mystery appeared first on Peter Sommer Travels.

Patmos is the site of the Revelation (that is the literal meaning of the Greek word apokalypsi, the place where Saint John the Divine's famous vision - set down in one of the most mysterious and most controversial of the Early Christian texts, the Book of Revelation, is said to have taken place. The Revelation has had an extraordinary strong and lasting influence on Western thought, imagination and literature, but most especially on art. As a result of this tradition, Patmos is home to a major Christian pilgrimage, to the Cave of the Apocalypse, as well as to one of Greece's most significant monasteries, that of Agios Ioannis Theologos, founded in 1088 and set atop of the island's old capital village, the Chora. The monastery is recognised by UNESCO as a World Heritage site.

On all our visits to Patmos, we include the cave and the monastery, but from time to time it's extra special, if, for example, it coincides with the Feast Day of the Assumption of Saint John i.e. his departure from the world of the living. For the people of Patmos, this is one of the three most important annual religious festivals, the others being Easter, a moveable feast, and the Assumption/Dormition of the Virgin Mary on August 15th, both of them major holidays in all of Greece.

On the Feast Day of the Assumption of Saint John, both the cave church and the monastery are extra busy, not with tourist groups, but with local Patmians and with Greeks of Patmian descent living in Athens or further afield, having returned for their island's special celebration. A festive service is held in its main church, both celebratory and funerary in nature, with all the monastery's monks present, as well as the island's priests, the regional bishop, and various visiting clergy - apparently including the Greek Orthodox bishop of New Zealand. The image shows priests leaving the monastery church after the service.

During our visit, we go to the monastery's museum with its manuscripts, including 33 pages of the Codex Purpureus, one of the most precious, most extraordinary treasures of the imperial scriptorium of the Early Byzantine (Late Roman) Empire, icons and archaeological artefacts. We also explore the monastery's main church and side chapels with their superb frescoes and elaborate decorations. During celebratory days, the church is filled with beautiful Byzantine-style chants and one can see locals of all ages worshipping and tasting the sweetened blessed bread after the service, part of an event that defines the islands' collective identity and that has certainly been celebrated there annually for over 900 years (some claim for over 1,900 years).

A local festival or celebratory event is always an opportunity, always a bonus, giving us a chance to participate in a location's life and traditions and beliefs, to make them come to life by seeing them live.

To visit Patmos with expert-guides, take a look at our gulet cruises in Greece.

The post Patmos in the Dodecanese islands of Greece: A Feast Day appeared first on Peter Sommer Travels.

During our 2-week Cyclades tour by gulet, we visit the tiny and beautiful island of Amorgos. Our day on Amorgos has two wonderful highlights. The first is the Chora, the historic capital village. One of the prettiest settlements in all of the Cyclades, a labyrinth of twisting stepped lanes and whitewashed and blue-shuttered houses that exudes a joyful quirkiness and a sense of peaceful modesty from every corner.

It is always a deeply satisfying experience to explore it, and to take in the whole village from the walls of its tiny Venetian castle set on a rocky outcrop overlooking its homes, squares, innumerable chapels and the row of cylindrical windmills set on a ridge above them all.

The second is the island's most famous monument, the monastery of the Panagia (or Virgin) Chozoviotissa. It is one of the strangest structures in the Greek islands: built against a sheer cliff high above the southern shore of Amorgos and overlooking the bluest sea you can imagine, the monastery is an extraordinarily narrow and tall building, dominated by a system of stairways connecting its many levels, housing the chapel, the monks' cells, refectory, library and whatever other spaces were required. This monastery is actually partly cut into the rock and partly built against it. One of the strangest results of this unusual position is that the top floor, housing the monastery's main chapel, is actually the oldest part of it.

The history of the Chozoviotissa is somewhat mysterious. Its official story entails its foundation in 1088 by the Byzantine Emperor Alexios I Komnenos, at the site of an earlier establishment, its origins shrouded in the legend of the highly revered icon it houses, said to have been saved from the monastery of Choziba in Palestine (which is built in a very similar cliff-side location and goes back to the 5th century) during the age of iconoclasm, when icons were outlawed. None of the early history of the Chozoviotissa can be proved - or disproved - easily, as the earlier written records are now lost, but it seems clear enough that we are looking at a structure that has been modified and added to on many occasions, and that may well go back the nearly thousand years it claims.

The dignity of the venerable structure, the quiet serenity it imparts on us and our guests, the stupendous views it offers and its impressive white-washed beauty all make the visit a uniquely memorable experience. It is added to by the hospitality of the monks (the Chozoviotissa has three at present), who serve their visitors loukoumi (Turkish delight), water and rakomelo, a speciality of Amorgos (and other places): a grape spirit flavoured with honey, cinnamon and cloves.

To visit the Monastery of the Chozoviotissa on Amorgos and many other wonderful islands and cultural sites in Greece, why not join our epic Cyclades cruise for just 18 guests.

The post The Monastery of the Chozoviotissa on Amorgos in Greece appeared first on Peter Sommer Travels.