Shadows of ancient times by firstamazon

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Shadows of ancient times

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When Maglor flew over the city, he could tell only by looking briefly from the plane’s window that it had grown a lot since his last visit many decades ago – and almost beyond recognition: white buildings stretched in all directions almost to the horizon line, far to the foot of the hills. Mount Lycabettus, however, still stood proud, a beautiful rocky peak crowned with layers of green trees and white houses.

 

Now that he was on the ground, Maglor felt quite sure: the periphery bustled with new, modern buildings, their summery terraces crowded with plants hanging in each other’s apartments – some unspoken agreement that made the whole a comforting sight. The white reflected the harsh sun, and Athens seemed to glow from where he stood.

 

Once he’d settled on a small hotel close to the National Historical Museum, he strolled down the streets and avenues that took him straight to the city’s center. He passed by bars crowded with tourists and young people who listened to loud music, vanguard restaurants with unusual arrangements of tables – one that looked like a big tree house – bathed in yellow, soft light.

 

Athens’ old center was now an idyllic island of scattered rocks and fallen Jonic and Doric columns. As Maglor walked around the park that surrounded the Parthenon – it’s big mansions, that cave that had allegedly held the most famous Athenian philosopher in Antiquity before his judgment at the Areopagus… 

 

He gave a wistful sigh, as it was his way.

 

Socrates hadn’t been held in that cave but in a house just outside the agora. The house was now rubbish, and there was a plaque that informed: Temple of Ares.

 

Inaccurate, but that was the way with things. It was true that a temple of Ares had stood above that house long after, looming like an eternal judge. But both the hill and the house were long gone, and the rocks lying there could belong anywhere. Maglor walked around the blocks of fallen stone and listened to the rustle of the trees – a soft breeze that lifted his hair and brought to his nose an ancient scent of olives.

 

It didn’t matter how crowded the Parthenon was: one could feel the weight of History in there, perhaps more than anywhere else in the Occident. Maybe that was why Maglor loved that city so much: he could share with the silent rocks the weight of his own past, and he knew he wouldn’t be pressed by it. There were times he could almost forget it. Almost.

 

A group of tourists passed him by with audio-guides speaking a babble of languages. Maglor followed the same path as they did but walked further on up a slope to sit on a shaded bench with the perfect view of the temple of Hephaestus. Three young teenagers casually approached him, seeking refuge from the merciless sun, and sat on the walls closer by.

 

“I’ve heard they opened a new frozen yogurt shop close to the Arch of Adrian. We can go there after we leave the Acropolis museum.”

 

“If the teacher lets us.”

 

“I’ve already talked to her, and she agreed,” one of the girls, a brown-haired one, beamed.

 

Maglor smiled to himself. Frozen yogurt in this heat indeed seemed like the best option.

 

The three teenagers slanted glances at him, and Maglor turned his head away. Although he tried very low-profile looks, the other girl, a blonde, couldn’t stop staring at him, and when their eyes met, Maglor smiled at her.

 

“Are you a teacher?” She asked.

 

Maglor cocked his head. It had been a long time, but he guessed a teacher never really stopped being one.

 

“What gave me away?” He inquired in perfect Greek.

 

“Your glasses,” the boy answered in turn, “and because you are here alone watching that group?” He moved his head towards a pack of young children that seemed unsupervised, making a ruckus and running dangerously around the blocks of stone.

 

Maglor frowned. “Definitely not. If I was their teacher, there would be more order, I reckon,” he said softly. “And they would all have musical instruments in their hands,” he turned and smiled to the group.

 

“A music teacher!” The boy said. “That is nice. What instrument do you play?”

 

“Instruments, idiot,” the blonde girl smirked. “A musician never plays one instrument only.”

 

Maglor huffed laughter. “You are right, though I agree that, to most people, it isn’t that obvious,” he said placatingly. “I play piano, violin, the horizontal flute, saxophone, guitar… but my favorite is the harp.”

 

“Wow, that is amazing! I’ve never met anyone who knew how to play that many!” Her eyes glinted, and Maglor smiled. He knew how to play more than that, of course, but they were so out of fashion that those youths would probably have never heard of them. “I started playing the piano when I was little but had to stop because my family had to sell it,” she continued. “Are you a private teacher?”

 

Maglor opened his mouth and closed, licking his lips. It had been so long… “Not anymore,” he said quietly.

 

“That’s a shame,” she said, a little disappointed. Maglor could do nothing but throw her a sad smile of his own.

 

A cool breeze blew on the canopies from the Areopagus hill behind them, and they all lifted their heads, enjoying its freshness. When they looked back at each other, they chuckled: they had all closed their eyes in bliss. Maglor felt like, suddenly, he had been locked up in a bubble with these three so very young people who reminded him of his cousins in a time before Ancient times.

 

From downhill, a woman cried their names, and the three of them turned in unison. She waved her arm and beckoned to them.

 

“We better go. Time’s up for rest,” the brown-haired girl spoke.

 

“The best frozen yogurt I know is from a small seafood restaurant by the Piraeus,” he smiled.

 

“Thanks for the tip,” the boy smiled and waved, and they trotted back to their group.

 

Maglor watched them go, like he had so many times, with a familiar feeling on his chest. He decided that after a visit to the Parthenon museum – something he did out of pure nostalgia, and because it was one of the best he knew – he would go to the place he had once lived, now called “Athens’ oldest house.” If only they knew how old… 

 

He wandered through well-paved lanes, among scattered rocks circled by fences that archaeologists were still digging up, and made his way to the Benizelos. It looked better than he’d remembered. The front had been reformed, painted, strangely new. Nevertheless, it had been his house for a while, before the wealthiest family of Athens took hold of it, before the revolution.

 

Maglor felt a wave of something he hadn’t felt in a very long time: the wish to visit new places rather than old – which was a paradox in itself, staring at that most antique remain of the past. He thought he would take a peek inside, kill the nostalgic monster that sometimes gnawed at the pit of his stomach... 

 

He turned away instead and continued walking. With the corner of his eyes, he saw something that caught his attention: a frozen yogurt shop nearly deserted, that had the most incredible view of the old house. Maglor ordered one with a mix of fresh red berries and sat at the little tables on the shaded terrace.

 

He ate and simply watched life go by, as he often did. Sometimes, it was all he could do.