Mountain of the fallen gods

AS a tribute to man's ego, and belief in his own immortality, the mountain altars of King Antiochus are up there with the Pyramids writes Elaine Potter.

Monumental ... giant heads on the terraces of Mount Nemrut / Elaine Potter

Mountain of the fallen gods

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert ... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Standing atop Mount Nemrut, in Turkey's far east, one can't help thinking of those words from Shelley's poem Ozymandias.

Here are gods dethroned, decapitated, their heads rudely propped on gravel mounds, virtually the only remaining symbols of the short-lived Commagene kingdom, whose rulers claimed to be the descendants of Alexander the Great.

The statues decorate two vast terraces built on either side of the mountain by King Antiochus, who ruled this piece of eastern Anatolia between 64BC and 38BC.

As a tribute to man's ego, and belief in his own immortality, Mount Nemrut is up there with the Pyramids.

Apart from claiming descent from Alexander, Antiochus encouraged his subjects to worship him and his forebears as gods, and had cult centres built all over the kingdom.

Mount Nemrut, the largest, was intended to attract worshippers for all time. Antiochus even left detailed instructions to his subjects. On the days of his birth and coronation, people were to climb the mountain to attend rituals, conduct sacrifices and make offerings.

Walkways and a huge altar were built for this purpose. Between them was an enormous tumulus, or burial mound, built of small stones, which added 75m to a mountain already 2150m high.

Supervising these proceedings from the nearby limestone terraces was Antiochus himself, taking his place among other immortal figures in the ancient Pantheon: the goddess Commagene; Zeus, father of the gods; Apollo; and Hercules.

Flanking these figures were two lions and two eagles – the king of the beasts and the king of the skies. Antiochus saw himself in exalted company indeed.

The statues themselves are still in place only because of their sheer size. Zeus, the tallest of those on the east terrace, is built of 31 blocks, weighing up to five tonnes each. The entire figure weighs 105 tonnes.

But I'm glad they're still on their mountain. Somehow, they wouldn't have the same grandeur sitting under artificial lights in a museum. The downside is that statues – and visitors – are exposed to the elements.

It could be argued that Nemrut has suffered more since being 'discovered' by Europeans in the 1880s than in the preceding 1800 years.

It has not, for instance, necessarily been enhanced by early archaeologists. One of them tried to blast her way into the king's burial chamber through the not-so-subtle application of high explosives. When the dust settled, there was no burial chamber, but the tumulus had been reduced by 25m.

Other signs of wear and tear are evident on the detailed stone reliefs. Several on the western terrace, showing Antiochus and his relatives greeting the gods, are barely recognisable.

One of the greatest treasures still visible is the so-called zodiac lion: a relief showing a lion, 19 stars, Jupiter, Mercury and Mars. A crescent moon, symbol of the Commagene kingdom, hangs around the lion's neck.

The carving shows the positions of the planets on July 7, 62BC, and is recognised as one of the oldest depictions of a horoscope.

Photographs don't really convey the sense of majesty – and sadness – one feels at Nemrut.

It's so remote – and the landscape so unforgiving – that no one even attempts to farm up here.

Then there's the sense of loss. This was once a rich and powerful kingdom, yet in the course of barely 300 years it was established, blossomed, then swallowed by the Roman empire. Virtually the only reminders it ever existed are the weathered, fallen gods of Mount Nemrut.

They may not come to worship him, but visitors still climb the steep slope of Nemrut today to marvel at Antiochus's wondrous folly.

The guidebooks suggest you time your visit so you can enjoy sunset from the western terrace. The alternative suggestion, followed by some masochists, is to head for the mountain after midnight and enjoy a dawn service on the other side.

To my mind, it's more satisfying to visit Nemrut in the full light of day, when both terraces can be enjoyed, and you can appreciate the grandeur of the surrounding hills and valleys.

There are, however, some things the guidebooks don't tell you:

Mt Nemrut is 55 bone-crunching kilometres from the nearest civilisation, the small town of Kahta, and the quality of the roads varies from good to the sort of muddied scratch mark any self-respecting goat would avoid. It's narrow, steep and twisting. Tour buses can't get there. And if you break down, you're on your own.

There's a gut-busting, 500m climb up the side of the tumulus. I was too tired to measure the gradient, but suffice to say it's STEEP.

There is no toilet at the top.

Do not attempt the climb if you suffer any of the following conditions: wonky knees, bad ankles, dicky heart or vertigo.

It's impossible to reach in winter. In summer, bugs the size of 10c pieces want to drink your sweat.

Unless you're very sure of your fitness, take advantage of the 'Nemrut Express' – one of the donkeys tethered at the foot of the climb – which can be hired for a few lira.

Yes, to get to Nemrut, you really have to want to see it. More than 1300km from Istanbul as the crow flies, it's a little out of the way. Actually, it's a lot out of the way. But if you make the effort, there's a lot to enjoy in this part of the world.

One of them is Arsameia, the site of the Commagene summer palace and a stopping-off point on the processional trail to Mt Nemrut.

The site of the old castle, or Eski Kale, is peppered with caves, tunnels, and inscriptions commemorating the cult of Antiochus. Above one of these tunnels is an astonishing 3.3m high relief showing Antiochus shaking hands with Hercules.

The relief is said to have been found by accident – an archaeologist kicked a slab and, turning it over, found it bore one of the most beautiful reliefs discovered in the area.

And here it is in situ – not a replica, but the real thing, standing in splendid isolation on this rock-strewn hillside.

The view from Arsameia is stunning. Climate change over the years has shrunk the river and reduced the fertility of the surrounding countryside, but the rolling hills and the patchwork of distant farms convey an echo of long-long majesty.

Rounding a bend in the road, you catch site of the new castle, or Yeni Kale, on a crag at the head of the valley. The orange and grey rocks, yellow, green and mauve vegetation, all set against a startling blue sky, make this an awesome sight.

Not far away is the Cendere bridge. The Romans, recognising good building material when they saw it, took blocks from the nearby Karakus tumulus to build this crossing in the second century AD.

The bridge is still in use, and boasts dedications to Emperor Septimus Severus, his wife Julia Domna, and their son, the Emperor Caracalla.

The column bearing a dedication to Caracalla's brother, Geta, was removed after Caracalla not only had his brother killed, but ordered that his name be obliterated from monuments throughout the empire – which explains why today's Cendere bridge is one column short of a colonnade.

Final stop is the Karakus tumulus, another burial mound built over a royal grave and decorated with statues, columns and reliefs.

There were originally three groups of limestone Doric columns with a plinth at the top. Today, it's possible to make out only the defiant eagle on the eastern side, the remains of a crouching bull, and a handshake relief showing Mithradates II and his sister, Laodice.

A lone lion surveys the terrain from ground level – a crumbling reminder of a once-proud kingdom.

The Sunday Telegraph