Palmyra

Listen first. There is wind here, and almost nothing else. It moves across open desert, through rows of honey-coloured columns, and over loose stone that crunches under your shoes. The light is hard and bright, and the limestone holds a warm, golden colour that changes through the day. Somewhere beyond the ruins, palm trees move in the breeze. That green line of palms is the reason this city ever existed.

Palmyra grew around an oasis in the middle of the Syrian desert. A spring fed the gardens and the groves. For travellers crossing between the Euphrates River and the Mediterranean coast, this was a place to drink, rest, and trade. The local name was Tadmor, an ancient word that survives today in the name of the modern town beside you, Tadmur. The Greek and Roman name, Palmyra, is usually understood to mean the city of palms.

The great years of the city came in the first three centuries of the common era. Palmyra sat between two powers — the Roman Empire to the west and the Parthian, and later Persian, empires to the east. Palmyrene merchants organised caravans that carried goods across the desert. Silk, spices, perfumes, and precious stones passed through here. The city grew rich by moving other people's treasures from one empire to the other.

That wealth shows in the stone around you. Palmyra was a Roman city in many ways, with colonnades, a theatre, and temples. But look closely and it is something more mixed. The people spoke a local form of Aramaic, an ancient language of the Near East. They worshipped gods from Mesopotamia and Arabia alongside Greek and Roman ideas. Many inscriptions here were carved in two languages, Greek and Palmyrene Aramaic, side by side.

Here is a detail many visitors miss. One of the most important documents from this city is not a poem or a royal decree. It is a tax list. A long inscription set out the duties charged on goods entering the city — on slaves, oils, animals, and more. It is one of the longest trade texts known from the Roman world. Today that stone is not here at all. It stands in a museum in Saint Petersburg, in Russia.

Now turn your attention to the long avenue of columns. This is the Great Colonnade, the spine of the ancient city. It runs for roughly a kilometre and once had covered walkways on both sides. Shops and public buildings opened onto it. Notice the small stone brackets that stick out from many columns, about halfway up. They once held statues of honoured citizens — often wealthy merchants who had paid for caravans or public works.

The most famous figure from this city is a woman. Her name was Zenobia. In the third century, after her husband Odaenathus was killed, she ruled Palmyra on behalf of her young son. Then she did something bold. She broke away from Rome. Her armies took control of Egypt and much of the eastern Mediterranean. For a short time, this desert city stood at the centre of an empire of its own.

Rome answered. The emperor Aurelian marched east and defeated Zenobia's forces in the early 270s. Palmyra was captured, and after a later revolt, the city was punished harshly. What happened to Zenobia herself is uncertain. Ancient writers tell different stories. One popular version says she was taken to Rome and paraded in chains, then lived quietly in Italy. Other accounts give her a darker end. Nobody knows for sure.

The city never returned to its old power. It continued as a smaller town, a military post, and later a settlement inside the walls of its own great temple. Up on the hill above the ruins, you can see an Arab castle, often named after the Lebanese prince Fakhr al-Din. From up there, the whole layout becomes clear — the colonnade, the temple enclosure, the oasis, and the open desert stretching away in every direction.

To the west of the city lies the Valley of the Tombs. Wealthy Palmyrene families built tall, square tower tombs here, with many levels of burial spaces inside. They also carved portraits of the dead in limestone. These faces are calm and detailed. Women wear heavy jewellery and patterned headdresses. Men hold scrolls or cups. Each portrait carried a name in Aramaic, so that the person would be remembered.

And now the hard part of the story. In 2015, the armed group known as the Islamic State took control of Palmyra. They killed Khaled al-Asaad, a retired archaeologist who had cared for these ruins for decades. They blew up the Temple of Bel, the Temple of Baalshamin, several tower tombs, and the monumental arch that once marked a bend in the colonnade. When you look at piles of broken stone here, some of that damage is very recent.

The Temple of Bel was the religious heart of the city. It was dedicated in the first century to Bel, a great god of the Mesopotamian world. Its huge courtyard walls still give a sense of scale. Inside, the main shrine is now largely gone. Archaeologists around the world have since used old photographs and digital scans to record what was lost. Some damaged pieces have been taken away for study and repair.

What remains is still remarkable. The theatre, though damaged, still curves into its seating. Rows of columns still line the avenues. Weathered faces still look out from the stone. Palmyra was already a ruin long before modern war reached it. It had survived earthquakes, conquest, and centuries of sand. What you see today is a city that has been damaged many times — and is still standing in parts.

Before you leave, stop for a moment. Look along the line of columns toward the palms. Feel the dry air and the heat coming off the stone. Merchants once walked this avenue after weeks in the desert, tired and dusty, looking for water and a fair price. The road they followed still runs past you. As you walk away, listen again for the wind. It is the same wind they heard.