Persepolis

Listen first. Your footsteps on the broad stone terrace, a dry wind moving over the plain, and very little else. Under your feet is grey limestone, worn smooth by centuries of sun and sand. Behind you rises a bare, rocky mountain. In front of you, a forest of broken columns stands against a very wide sky. This is Persepolis, and for a short, intense period it was one of the great ceremonial centres of the ancient world.

The name you know is Greek. It means simply "the city of the Persians." The Persians themselves called it Parsa. Today, many Iranians use another name — Takht-e Jamshid, the Throne of Jamshid. Jamshid is a legendary king from Persian epic poetry. Long after the real builders were forgotten, local people believed this place could only have been made by a mythical ruler. The real story is no less remarkable.

Construction began under Darius the Great, in the late sixth century before Christ. Darius ruled the Achaemenid Empire — the first Persian empire, which stretched from Egypt and Anatolia to the edges of India. His son Xerxes continued the work. Later kings added their own halls and gates. So what you see is not one building. It is the work of several generations, laid out on a single enormous platform.

That platform is the first surprise. Look at its edges. Part of the terrace was cut directly from the foot of the mountain, and part was built up with huge, carefully fitted blocks. Many of these blocks were joined without mortar. Instead, metal clamps held them together. You can still find the small, shaped cavities where those clamps once sat. Over time, people pried much of the metal out.

Now think about how you arrived. Visitors climb onto the terrace by a grand double staircase. The steps are wide and unusually shallow. It is often said that they were designed so that dignitaries in long robes could climb slowly and with dignity. Some people say horses could climb them too. Whatever the reason, the effect is clear. You do not rush into Persepolis. You rise into it, one easy step at a time.

At the top stands the Gate of All Nations, built under Xerxes. Huge stone guardians flank the doorways. They are bulls on the outer side, and winged bulls with human heads on the inner side. Similar guardian figures appear in older Assyrian palaces in Mesopotamia, and the Persians adopted the idea. An inscription here names Xerxes as the builder. Look closely at the stone, too. Travellers in the nineteenth century carved their own names into it, and some of those graffiti are still visible.

From here, the path leads to the Apadana, the great audience hall. Its roof was once carried by tall, slender columns. At the very top, these columns ended in carved capitals shaped like the front halves of two animals, back to back. Wooden beams rested between them. Only a few columns still stand today, but they give you the scale. Try to picture a dark cedar ceiling high above, and the hall full of shade.

The true treasure of the Apadana is on its staircases. Here, in low relief, a long procession moves across the stone. Delegations from all over the empire walk in single file. Each group wears its own clothes and brings its own gifts. You will see people leading animals, carrying cloth and vessels, and bringing tribute to the king. Each delegation is led by a Persian or Median official who holds a visitor by the hand. It is a gentle gesture to carve in stone.

Here is the second surprise. For a long time, people imagined that slaves built monuments like this. But in the 1930s, archaeologists found thousands of clay tablets in the fortification walls. Most are written in Elamite, an old language of this region. They record rations of grain, wine and beer paid to workers. The tablets list men and women, skilled craftsmen and labourers from many lands. Some even show extra rations for new mothers. Persepolis was built by people who were paid and counted.

As you walk on, you will find the remains of other buildings. There is a small, elegant palace of Darius, with polished stone doorframes that still shine when the light hits them. There is also the vast Hall of a Hundred Columns, now mostly a field of column bases. Throughout the site, one image appears again and again — a lion attacking a bull. Scholars are not sure what it meant. Some connect it to the seasons and the coming of spring. Others see it as a symbol of royal power.

The end of Persepolis came suddenly. In 330 BC, Alexander the Great conquered the Persian Empire and took the city. Soon afterwards, the palaces burned. Ancient writers disagree about why. Some describe a deliberate act of revenge for the Persian burning of Athens. Others tell a story of a drunken feast that got out of control. The fire destroyed the wooden roofs. Ironically, the burning also helped preserve the clay tablets, which survived buried in the ruins.

Look up at the mountain behind the terrace. Carved into its face are royal tombs, with decorated stone façades. More royal tombs lie a short drive away at Naqsh-e Rustam, cut high into a cliff. Nearby, too, are the scattered remains of Istakhr, a city that grew important in later centuries, after Persepolis fell silent. The plain around you has held power for a very long time. In 1979, Persepolis was added to the UNESCO World Heritage List.

Before you leave, stand still for a moment near the edge of the terrace. Look out across the plain, the way the kings once did. Then turn back toward the reliefs. The faces of the delegations are calm. They have been walking toward the king for about two and a half thousand years, and they have still not arrived. As you go, notice how the shadows move across the column bases. Notice the quiet. And take one last look at those shallow steps, as you walk slowly down them.