The beach at Olympos doesn’t look like a postcard. The sand here is dark, flecked with pebbles, and the sea moves lazily, as if it has already outlived all the wars and storms that once raged in this bay. Between the cliffs, the view opens onto the harbor, and you realize you’re not just stepping into a coastal corner — this is a former portal to other worlds. Once, ships moored here loaded with amphorae, slaves, trophies, and the scents of foreign seas. Now there are tourists, but in their eyes there’s still something of people who’ve escaped their old lives and are hiding at the edge of the map.
Two thousand years ago, this place was ruled by a man whose name sounded like an ancient incantation — Zenicetes. A pirate who gathered around him the homeless and the rootless, turning Olympos into the capital of a thieves’ empire. The Romans came for him, as they always did — with cold calculation and catapults. Quintus Caecilius Metellus wiped his power from the face of the earth, but the city didn’t disappear. It simply became a shadow. Empires came and went, but Olympos remained — like an empty purse from which the gold has been taken, yet still smelling of it.
Today, all that remains of the port are lines of stone blocks that disappear into the water. On the beach lie stones that were once part of the quay, now serving as sunbeds for gulls. The sea still touches these stones with caution, as if checking whether they’re alive. Close your eyes, and you can hear the clink of chains, the shouts of rowers, the whistle of ropes. Sometimes it feels like you’re standing inside an old photograph that someone forgot to finish painting.
In legend, Olympos was under the protection of the gods. Or perhaps under their indifference. Nearby, in the mountains, the Chimaera burns — an eternal flame breathed out by the monster slain by Bellerophon. The hero left, the fire remained. And the gods, it seems, were in no hurry to reclaim it. They allowed humans to play at pirates, to build empires, to steal from the sea and from each other — until it all burned on the pyres.
First, a place loses its gods. Then — the people who know why it exists. Then we arrive: with maps in our smartphones, cameras, and the certainty that we’ve discovered it anew. But we haven’t discovered anything. We’ve just found someone else’s belonging in a house where no one was expecting us.
When you leave the beach and head toward the ruins, it becomes clear: Olympos hasn’t died. It has simply gone deeper — to where the stones still remember footsteps and the sea still remembers the silhouette of a sail on the horizon. Perhaps the gods will return. Or perhaps they’re just watching to see who else dares to steal something precious from them.
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