Aphrodisias

The first thing you notice is the quiet. Poplar leaves turn over in the breeze. Somewhere a tractor hums, far off, and marble glows softly along the path — white, grey, and blue-grey, everywhere you look. Aphrodisias sits on a high plateau, ringed by mountains, far from the coastal crowds. Ancient cities are rarely this calm. Walk a few steps and the stone begins to perform: fluted columns, carved letters, a face looking out of a frieze. This city was made by sculptors, and it never lets you forget it.

The city took its name from Aphrodite, the goddess of love, but the goddess worshipped here was older and stranger than the familiar Greek one. She began as a local Anatolian mother goddess and slowly merged with Aphrodite over time. Her cult statue did not wear flowing robes. It wore a stiff, sheath-like garment covered in bands of carved figures — suns, moons, and mythological scenes. Pilgrims travelled long distances to her sanctuary, and the shrine made this city's name.

Geology explains almost everything else. About two kilometres from where you stand, the hills hold quarries of fine marble in white and blue-grey. With endless material close at hand, Aphrodisias trained sculptors the way other cities trained soldiers. A carving school flourished here for centuries. Signatures of Aphrodisian sculptors have been found on statues across the Roman world, from Greece to Italy. Marble skill was this town's export industry, and emperors were among the customers.

The modern world almost missed all of this. In 1958, the Turkish photographer Ara Güler was driving back from an assignment and lost his way. He ended up in a village called Geyre, where farmers lived among the ruins. He photographed men drinking tea beside ancient columns and playing cards on fallen capitals. The pictures travelled around the world, and scholars took notice. A wrong turn on a country road reintroduced a lost city to the twentieth century.

The man who answered the call was Kenan Erim, a Turkish archaeologist working with New York University. He began excavating in 1961 and gave the rest of his life to this city — literally. He worked here every season until his death in 1990, and he is buried on the site, beside the monumental gateway. Over the same decades, the village of Geyre was gradually moved a short distance away, so the ancient city could come back into the light.

That gateway, the Tetrapylon, is the best introduction to local taste. Built in the second century, it marked the approach to the sanctuary of Aphrodite. Its columns come in clusters, and several are fluted in spirals, a flourish few cities attempted. Above them sit carved pediments filled with ornament. The gate collapsed long ago, but the excavation team re-erected it from its original blocks. Stand under it and you see what a city of sculptors did for fun.

Now find the Sebasteion, the site's great surprise. It was a processional avenue flanked by porticoes three storeys high, built in the first century and dedicated jointly to Aphrodite and the Roman emperors. Marble relief panels covered the upper levels — emperors shown as gods and heroes, Greek myths, and personified nations, dozens of scenes in all. Many panels survive, and the best are displayed in the museum. Imagine walking this corridor with carved figures rising on both sides.

At the northern edge of the site waits the stadium, and it may be the best preserved in the ancient world. It stretches about two hundred and seventy metres, with rounded ends and seating for roughly thirty thousand people. Athletes competed here in running, wrestling, and boxing. In later centuries, part of it was adapted for gladiator spectacles. Climb a few rows and sit down. The seats are original, and the silence in the long oval is remarkable.

The Temple of Aphrodite itself had a second life. Around the fifth century, Christians converted the pagan temple into a large basilica church. Rather than demolish it, builders took the temple's columns apart and repositioned them to shape a longer hall. Fourteen columns still stand. The result confuses first-time visitors, and enjoyably so — you are looking at a temple turned inside out. The goddess left, the congregation changed, and the marble simply carried on.

Leave time for the museum near the entrance. It holds the cult statue of Aphrodite, battered but recognisable, along with portrait heads, sarcophagi, and reliefs from the Sebasteion. Look closely for unfinished pieces and practice carvings from the sculptors' workshops. They show the chisel marks of students learning the trade. Few museums anywhere let you watch, step by step, how a block of stone became a Roman senator or a god.

Recognition came slowly and then fully. In 2017, UNESCO added Aphrodisias to the World Heritage list, and it included the ancient quarries in the listing — a rare honour that treats the raw stone and the finished city as one story. Beyond the famous monuments, wander to the council house with its marble seating, and the grand baths. Pomegranate and poplar trees grow between them. The plateau farms around the ruins as it always has.

Before you go, stop at any block of carved marble and follow one line with your eyes — a curl of hair, an acanthus leaf, a letter in Greek. Someone stood here, in this light, and cut that line with a steady hand. The mountains around you have not changed since. The tractor still hums somewhere beyond the poplars. For a moment, the distance between that carver's morning and yours feels very small. Carry that with you to the gate.