Petra, one of the New Seven Wonders of the World, dates back before the time of Christ. Impressive architecture, yet to today’s standards, it is hard for me to fathom how they accomplished this 2,000-plus years ago.

I have been privileged to visit Petra in the country of Jordan. There are few places where I stand in awe, but this is definitely one of them.

On this particular trip, I remember all the tourists either walking down a long corridor to Petra or loading onto horses. Watching others being led on horses, I thought (which I should never do) a horse would be fun. Thus, I mounted my trusty steed.

There is this need within my being to preface this upcoming scenario. Though we own horses (now retired from competition and riding), I have never considered myself to be a great rider. In fact, I often refer to myself as a Wal*mart Cowboy. You know, put quarter in and hope not to be thrown.

So back to our story . . .

Mounting the steed, the Jordanian owner took off at a gallop himself. This man must be in his 60’s and he is yanking his horse with me in tow.

Why he runs only leads to speculation . . . but speculation is what I do best. Is he needing money for the casino and trying to make all the money he can? Is he extremely competitive and feels the need to outrun all the other horses? Do others make fun of his horse and is trying to prove something? Does he have to get back to baby sit so his wife can get her nails done? Does he think my six-foot, 220-pound frame is too much for his horse?

Whatever his reason, the last one becomes an issue. Fortunately, there is a saddle horn to hang onto, because the owner racer very fast marathon runner has the reins in hand. While I hold on for dear life, I try to slip my feet into the stirrups. Having done so, I nearly knock myself out with my knees. The previous rider must have been a four-foot Arab jockey.

Now desperately trying to get my feet out of the stirrups before I lose consciousness, I find this very difficult at breakneck speed. Throwing my head back to avoid a knockout blow, I finally yank my feet free.

Of course, this has problems of its own. I now find myself flailing about on the saddle, holding on for dear life. Though I last longer than eight seconds (I do make it all the way), bailing seems like a reasonable option to playing mister bobble head for the next few minutes.

Finally, we finish the long corridor and arrive at Petra. Gladly dismounting, I think the horse and owner are both snickering. Whatever . . . but I will walk back . . . and may even skip my next couple of rides at Wal*mart.

This afternoon, my wife and I had a salad bar lunch. We both enjoy salads and I prefer vegetables and fruits to meat. This does not mean I do not eat meat, as we had great steaks just last night at Texas Roadhouse. However, one steak a month is enough for me.

Let me see . . . I am a rambling man . . . oh yes, salad. While building my lettuce masterpiece, I came upon the olives; green and black. My mind jumps to Spain.

While in Spain, there was a certain man I took to by the name of Mattias (Matthew). Mattias had several qualities I liked:

• He was a hard working man.
• He thrived working outside.
• He reminded me a lot of my dad (the Spanish version).
• He was a jovial man.
• I liked his name.

As to his name, I had always thought if God blessed me with four boys, I would name them Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Also, if I was to start a port-a-john business, I would probably call it St. Johns. You see, God does know what He is doing . . . we have four girls and I do not have a port-a-john business. Oops, back to my story.

Mattias worked the land for some wealthy Spaniards. The owners were not always there, so Mattias and Teresa (a lady who cleaned the stately mansion) would invite us to their little homes on the property for cena (dinner).

One beautiful and sunny day late into the year, Mattias wishes to show me the olive orchard he tends. He had told me several stories and was very proud of the orchard. Anxious to spend time with him, I jump at the chance. Walking among the rows of trees, I listen to Mattias’ olive oratory in fluent Spanish with my non-fluent ears.

When he takes a breath, I jump in with a question.

“I see all the beautiful black olive trees, Mattias, but do you have any green olive trees?”

Mattias gives a very hearty laugh. He turns to me with a broad smile and says, “Black olives are just ripe green olives.”

Well, if you don’t just learn something everyday . . . except for Spanish, that is.

Yesterday, I was driving my truck when it hit me . . . I missed my pastor. He was going to be gone for Sunday and I would miss his speaking. Last Monday Pastor left for Israel. How could he do such a thing knowing I would be so envious? Okay, maybe he did not know that, but I am.

I did not even get a chance to offer him advice (as if he needs any :). My advice? Be careful what you eat. Be wary of eating food from street vendors, because you do not know how clean some things are. Otherwise, you could end up running where Jesus walked. =8-O

One memory often returns to me. It is four in the morning. Not exactly the time I want to wakeup, but I am awake nonetheless.

The day before I had flown into Tel-Aviv, where I was accosted by a drug-sniffing canine, and driven to Tiberias by bus. After checking into my hotel, I spent much of my time wandering the shores of the Sea of Galilee and enjoyed all the diverse sights and smells. Before my fatigued body totally collapsed, I returned to my room.

Standing on the balcony, I gazed at the moon and the evening lights on the fishing boats and on the Sea of Galilee (Lake Kinneret). Small waves and reflections of light on the water thrilled my very being. I looked over the beautiful sight as long as possible, but my eyelids betrayed me. Barely having time or energy to undress, I fell into bed asleep.

I slept heavily for approximately six hours. The only thing to disturb my sleep begins as a dream. I faintly hear singing in the distance. It takes some time to realize (and awaken) that I actually hear singing. Dawn has not yet arrived, but the singing I hear is getting louder.

I hurry from my bed and stumble to the balcony. Below I spy a local fisherman making his way to his fishing boat. Apparently enjoying the fresh, new morning, he is singing at the top of his lungs . . . and well, too.  (If I were singing at four in the morning, I would be arrested.) I watch and listen, greeting him with a wave as he glances my direction. He waves without missing a note.

Now awake, I think . . . what a great way to begin a day in Israel. I wish all Mondays could start like this.

Although traces have been found of a settlement here from the 4^th Millenium BC, legend has it that the city of Byzantion, to later become the city of Constantinople and finally the city of Istanbul, was established by Greeks—the followers of Megara near Athens—at Seraglio Point about 660 B.C. near the Bosporus Strait, which links the Sea of Marara with the Black Sea. Seraglio Point today, of course, is famous for its gigantic and picturesque Sultahmet Square (Blue Mosque), the Hagia Sophia Museum, and Topkapi Palace. If we go back to its earliest settlements, there has been a settlement on Seraglio Point for over 7,000 years.

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The city was lost to Persian armies in 479 B.C., but was retaken by Spartan armies in short order. For the next 100 years, the city maintained its independence by allying with either Sparta or Athens, playing the two Grecian powers off against one another. During this period, the city built many beautiful temples to its gods, including Zeus, Aphrodite, Apollo, Artemis, Poseidon and Demeter.

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The city was besieged in 340 BC by Phillip of Macedonia and its walls were severely damaged. Then, it came under the domination of Roman General Septimus Severus, who defeated the city and put its soldiers and bureaucrats to the sword. It wasn’t long however before Severus found he needed to rebuild the city, and the city and its temples were restored and expanded. The city continued to grow and prosper under Roman rule, until by the fourth century A.D., the city became the focus of a power struggle among Roman aristocrats, finally to be taken and ruled by the Roman Emperor Constantine. Later Emperors decided that the empire needed to be split, and many prominent Roman families moved the new eastern “capital.” The City’s name was changed to New Rome in 330 A.D. The first Hagia Sophia was built during this period.

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After the Great Schism of 395 A.D., the Empire was divided into two parts: the western Empire ruled by Rome, and the eastern Empire ruled from New Rome. Once the Roman Emperor Justinian had declared Christianity the religion of the Empire, churches spread rapidly throughout both west and east.

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The city was besieged by Crusaders invading the region by the early 1200’s A.D. and badly damaged. So many artifacts and so much wealth were stolen by the Crusaders that the city fell into ruin and was deserted by the population. In 1281 A.D., the city was taken by the armies of Pope Michael VIII and partially restored. But the Bosporus region was vacated of population. As many as 485 churches and 325 monasteries were built during this period.

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In 1453, the city was attacked and conquered by the Turkish army of Mehmet II. The city then became a Turkish city. The Hagia Sophia was made into a mosque, as were most of the churches throughout the city. However, the Ottomans generally permitted their subject states and cities to retain their religious practices, including Christianity, as well as some degree of local control. While the Sultan’s power as ruler was absolute, the Empires policies tended toward an enlightened dictatorship. Thus began the era of the Sultans of the Ottoman Empire. The Ottomans maintained fierce control of the empire, which stretched from Persia into north Africa, around the Meditaranean Sea, and north into Europe at its zenith. The Empire lasted through the early Twentieth Centure.

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However, during the Nineteen Century, the Empire began to break apart and the power of the Sultans to falter. The Balkans fell away in revolt, and Europe threw off the Ottoman yoke as well. By 1912, the Bulgarians were at the gates of Istanbul, and in short order the City was under the control of British and French armies. The Ottoman caliph fled the country in 1922.

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At this point, a local revolt against foreign control arose led by young Turkish officers under the leadership of a charismatic officer, Mustafa Kemal Attiturk. The allied armies were defeated at the disastrous landing of the allies at the narrow peninsula at the Dardinelles, and Attiturk declared a secular Turkish Republic. In the period following, the new Republic demanded the exodus of its Christian population and the repatriation of its Islamic populations from Greece. In this exodus, Christian turks and Greeks of many generations in Turkey were forced to flee the country, leaving all they had behind. And the last shadows of the Eastern Roman Empire and its strange history faded from the land. Today, Turkey is 98 percent Islamic. Ankara is the capital city. And Istanbul lives partly in the modern world of a secular state, partially in its Islamic traditions, and partly in its sometimes glorious and sometimes tragic past.

For photos of Istanbul and its magnificent sites, see the photo section.

I have been privileged to travel to several countries and live in two (not counting Nebraska). This brings countless memories.

One such time and place was San Justo Desvern, eight miles west of Barcelona, Spain. I made a four-block daily trek to get bread and donuts for the day. It was three blocks east and one block north, all up hill. The return was nice because I would place my legs and feet on coast and ramble home with little expended energy.

On this particular sunny day, I had walked my way uphill three blocks, turned the corner and arrived at the "panaderia". I stand in line, impatiently waiting my turn. I am impatient because I feel very conspicuous. The modest crowd about me is predominantly female; I am at least ten inches taller than anyone; I am the only blonde in the entire town, and my Spanish is worse than my ability to sing and clap at the same time.

When it is my turn, I point to what I want and say something that sounds more like hurling with my head stuck in a toilet. I pay for and receive my bread and donuts. I quickly leave the panaderia and other customers to head home.

As I am briskly walking down the sidewalk, my mind tells me they are amused by my hillbilly Spanish. My paranoid thoughts are interrupted by a donut rolling down the sidewalk in front of me. As I watch it I think, “Some poor fool lost his donut.”

Then two more donuts rush in pursuit of the first. At this point I should be amazed that three donuts were rolling perfectly down the sidewalk. Yet all I can imagine is someone has lost their breakfast and is probably swearing at this very moment.

Then, as if hit in the head by a huge loaf of day old bread, a horrifying thought comes to me. Hastily I glance down at my right hand . . . just in time to see the last of the donuts escape from my bottomless bag. Looking up again, I now see a half-dozen donuts sailing down the sidewalk in front of me like the Spanish Armada.

My mind begins to race. How do I handle this major crisis in my life and still look cool? Only two options present themselves. First, I can suck up the embarrassment, chase and pick up the fallen breakfast. I can hear their laughter as I imagine this scenario. Second, I can ignore the donuts and continue home.

Quickly weighing the two, I choose to look up into the sky and pretend nothing has happened. Turning the corner comes none too soon. I hurriedly walk home paranoidedly wondering what the Spaniards are saying about me . . .  Worse yet, how do I explain the meager breakfast to my family? *sigh*

It's almost 8 am and only 19 degrees. Burrrrrrrrr! But in probably 3 hours it'll be 45-50, then by 3 it'll be 65. Crazy weather here.

We're headed off to tour Indian ruins with some college studetns that are visiting during Spring Break. We'll see go to the Grand Canyon as well. So much amazing stuff to see, the painted desert, the colored stripes of the mountains, the total primative living conditions as we drive through the Navaho reservation. Everyone should experience the high desert. Do we have a travelouge forum in here? Maybe I'll post some of the awesome pictures.

A funny thing happened on my way to the airport. (Stop me if you have heard this one.) Once again, I am waiting in line at Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv. An IDF (Israeli Defense Force) soldier approaches me and asks me to follow him. He has the gun - I follow.

When separate from everyone, he asks to see my passport. Handing it to him, he asks if he can hold mine while I take his back in line to have it checked. He says he wants to ensure the staff is paying attention to their jobs. I had always heard “never give up your passport", but who am I to argue with a soldier? We switch passports and I return to my small group of friends.

I share what is happening and my friends gasp. “Are you crazy?? Don’t you know not to give up your passport?” (Duh! I already thought that.)

I tell them in hushed tones, “He’s got a gun.”

They jerk their heads his way . . . while hiding behind me. “Don’t look,” I tell them. “Besides, all of the soldiers have guns.”

I cast an anxious glance at the soldier. He is looking at me. He smiles and nods his head. I try to smile back. I begin to sweat (what I do best). Now second in line to have my passport checked, I shoot (No, don’t say shoot!) give another glance to the soldier. He again smiles and nods.

My mind wanders and wonders. Could this soldier be setting me up? Maybe he is slightly off center or battle fatigued. What if they think I am a terrorist? How many years in prison can I get for smuggling an IDF soldier’s passport?

I hand the young woman my his passport. She looks at me and then the passport. She looks back at me . . . time has ceased to exist (expecting the same for my life).

Smiling at me she says, “This is the second time today he has given me his passport.”

Oh my gosh! What I went through just so he could flirt with the cute woman! *sigh*

Walking down the street in Spain to the local bodega is usually a pleasure. This time, there was a moderate amount of apprehension. This was my first solo flight. I am booted out of the nest and am expected to fly or . . .  Why does there always have to be an ‘or’? I mean, would it upset some vast eternal plan if there was not an ‘or’ in every situation?

Anyway, with my Spanish an inferior quality of nonexistence, I am armed to the teeth for the bodega. We are going to have BLT’s and all I have to remember is one little word, ‘lechuga’ (lettuce). That’s it. No mas. A simple task for a college educated man.

Quickening my pace downhill, I find myself repeating the word over and over in my head. “Lechuga.” Lechuga.” “Lechuga.” When the transition from psyche to vocal takes place, I am not sure. Audibly I find myself saying, “Lechuga.” Lechuga.” “Lechuga.”

Talking to myself in public does not bother me (I hold to this solemn practice to this day), but saying ‘lettuce’ repeatedly might give people bizarre impressions of thus lanky blonde gringo.

Stepping into the tiny bodega whets my appetite as hundreds of foreign aromas greet me. The store is large enough to hold 8-10 people semi-comfortably, so I stuff myself in with the other 15 sardines. Barely over six foot, I nevertheless tower above the Spaniards.

I patiently wait my turn, while two women (as opposed to ‘ladies’) entering after me continually move me forward with their grocery bolsos. Either that or they were trying to bag my backside for a foreign takeout. I move forward under duress, giving body hugs to all in front of me.

Finally my turn, the man behind the counter asks, “¿Que quieres?”

My moment has arrived. With all the confidence I can muster, I blurt out, “Luchega.” Somewhere within a block-and-one-half, ‘lechuga’ turned into ‘luchega’. The buzzing gossip of the three million other customers goes silent as all the Lilliputians stare up at me.

The owner looks dumbfounded. “¿Que?”

I gulp. There was an immediate expulsion from my armpit sweat glands. “Luchega?” I scarcely utter.

Knowing business would slow to a crawl (or even cease for the day) the owner begins to point and ask at the same time, “¿Esto?” “This?” “¿Eso?” “That?” I never have seen so many things in one microscopic store so fast.

My self-confidence is bolstering to new lows. I would rather be bobbing for anchovies. However, it is as if I have started a new game show and everyone wants to play. There were so many “¿Estos?” and “¿Esos?” and little fingers pointing in different directions, I become faint and nauseous.

Finally, the now sweaty proprietor claps his hands and exclaims, “Lechuga!” The room goes silent. As if shown a cue card, everyone in the room simultaneously throws their hands into the air and cheers to congratulate the winner of the grand prize.

Everyone but me.

I wish I was home having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.

The setting is Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv, Israel. This was my first trip to the Middle East. I was somewhat nervous due to CNN’s often biased and repetitive coverage of conflict.

Upon arrival, I am shuttled to the airport and herded in with many other arrivals. I wait in one of several long straight lines to have my passport approved. Making my way about half the line length, a female soldier approaches our line with her drug-sniffing canine. We all watch as she walks the length of the line with the German Shepherd between her and us.

On her return trip, she stops where I am standing and taps her finger my fanny pack. Actually I call it a belly bag, as I wear it in front of me. The ‘nose’ places her front paws on my chest and began sniffing the bag. This cowboy just about wet his chaps.

Many unpleasant thoughts come to mind. I hope she does not think my aspirins are drugs. What if a drug mule has planted cocaine on me? What if the dog does not like my cologne and attacks? What if the dog does like me and is a male instead of a female? Too many scenarios.

Fortunately, Shultzie finds nothing of interest and gets down. The female soldier walks away (laughing, I bet) with her canine.

A man I highly respect walks over to me and say’s with a devilish grin, “I thought you were toast, Tim.”

Well, it could have been worse, I suppose. Say, if I had been a bone or even worse, a cat.

 According to archeological records, there has been a settlement at the site of ancient Pergamon at least since 3000 BCE—which puts us in the Stone Age. (“Perg” or “Berg” is an Anatolian word meaning “castle.”) Early in its history, this site was quite close to the sea, and bordered on the Bogazasan River, making it a trade city linking inland areas to the sea and providing a logistical route for goods to take from inland to trading partners elsewhere. Military and governmental interests must also have been served by the city’s location, for the city was strategically located to defend the hinterland from pirates and invasions by sea from hostile neighbors and to tax merchants who wished to trade with overseas markets or the hinterland. Over the several millennia since the city’s earliest years, the alluvial valley has filled with silt however, and the river found new pathways to the sea, so that the city no longer has so easy access to the sea.

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What is known of the city prior to the age of Alexander the Great is mostly mythology and speculative. But at the time of Alexander’s birth in 316 BC, Asia Minor was under Persian rule. He came to Anatolia when he was but 18 years old, attacked Persian positions, and quickly won the war. True to his natural talents in converting enemies into allies, he appointed the widow of the Persian commander to administer Pergamon. Fifteen years later however, Alexander was dead, and his Empire was thrown into chaos as his generals fought among themselves for control of the sprawling Empire.

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One of his Commanders, Antigonos, took command of a nearby area of Anatolia, but sparred with other Commanders, Seleukos and Lysimachos, who had taken up in Syria, Mesopotamia and Western Anatolia over who would rule the city. Lysimachos and Seleukos allied with the Egyptian King when Antigonos attacked them. During this war, Antigonos took Pergamon, but then lost it. He remained King of Syria however, and watched warily as Lysimachos took up in Pergamon. With Antigonos’ treasury to finance his power, Lysimachos launched a building program, building not only temples and new facilities at the base of the Pergamon Acropolis, but also building the more southerly city of Ephesus.

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In order to consolidate his power, Lysimachos established diplomatic relations with other cities and nations and married two daughters of powerful leaders in Egypt and Persia to cement those alliances. He also moved his huge treasure to Pergamon for safekeeping. But Lysimachos proved to be a ruthless and paranoid ruler, and after having his own son murdered because he was becoming too popular with the army and populace, he was betrayed by his own military commander to Seleukos and killed in a brief war. Pergamon then came under the rulership of Lysimachos’ castle commander, Philetairos—the very man who had betrayed him to Seleukos.

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Philetairos seeking support invited his two brothers to come to Pergamon from Delphoi--Attolos and Eumenes, and not having any heirs, adopted his nephew, Eumenes I, as his son. After his death in 263 BC, Eumenes I became King. At this time, deposed Commander Antigonos, sensing perhaps a moment of vulnerability for the new ruler, demanded the city’s treasure back from the young King and Eumenes was forced to go to war to protect his kingship. The young king attacked his enemy in Syria, defeated Antigonos, and in the retreat, Antigonos died. With Syria defeated, Eumenes took advantage of the opportunity take Syrian territory, restored the Acropolis and built new castles as outposts to guard the lands he now ruled. To secure his eastern borders, he paid a “tax” to a tribe of Galatians, the Tolisgots, so he needn’t maintain armed men there. Eumenes proved to be a popular and well loved ruler, creating at Pergamon a center of artistic and scientific learning. After 22 years of governing, Eumenes I died, the first of the legendary Pergamon Kings.

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After the death of Eumenes, his brother Attolos took the throne. Attolos, feeling that the deal cut by his brother with the Galatians dishonored the city, cut off the tribute the city was paying to Tolisgots. The Tolisgots then moved against him, and the resulting shift in the balance of power in the region kept Attolos in a state of war for the next 43 years of his reign. Other border tribes allied themselves with Seleukos in Syria and moved against the city, but Attolos met and defeated them one by one. As a result, the State of Pergamon was expanded from the Sea of Marmara to the Toros Mountains. Seleukos’ in Syria then moved against Pergamon but was killed in the fighting as well. His sons, Seleukos II and Antiochus Heirex, took up the reigns of power in Syria, but turned to fighting one another, giving Attolos the opportunity to join forces with Seleukos II and between them defeat the armies of Antiochus and the rest of the Galatians. Again, the Pergamon Empire expanded.

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The growing power of the Pergamon bloodline however was threatening to more than just Syria and nearby tribes. The defeated Antiochus turned to another ally, Achaios, to help him retrieve the land lost to Pergamon, and thus Pergamon now found itself besieged by yet another enemy. But Antiochus soon felt threatened by his new allies, and so he paradoxically found himself allied shortly against Achaios with Pergamon itself. This war took four years and lasted until the allies had cornered Achaios in Sardeision castle, where he was killed by his own soldiers.

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Undoubtedly weary of war, Attolos turned to the west for new allies, seeking diplomatic relations with Greece. But when Macedonian king Phillipos V threatened Pergamon’s ally, the Aetolia Union, Attolos came to the Union’s aid and allied with Rome. Until his death in 197 BC, fought the Macedonians, trying to drive them out of Asia Minor, but could not defeat them.

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Attolos ruled Pergamon for 43 years, and was credited for building Pergamon’s famous library—a library that made even the Egyptian Queen Cleopatra jealous enough to deny Pergamon Egyptian papyrus.

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Upon the death of Attolos, the third Pergamon King took the throne: Attolos’ son, Eumenes II. Eumenes immediately faced new warfare and showd his mettle by defeating Phillipos V of the Macedonians and Antiochus III, the king of Seleucids. With these victories, Pergamon’s rule now stretched as far north as Canakkale.

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Eumenes II ruled for 38 years—the period known as the Golden Age of Pergamon. Pergamon became a center for artists, poets, historians, the sciences, mathematics, literature, ship building, fine architecture, manufacturing and philosophy. The Temple of Zeus was completed. The library begun by his father was expanded. The city became a place of beauty and culture known throughout the Mediterranean.

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With the death of Eumenes II in 159 BC, the kingdom of the Pergamon Kings began to disintegrate. Before his death, Eumenes arranged the marriage of his wife to his brother, Stratonike so that his 12 year old son, Attalos III, would have strong guidance when he ascended the throne. Attalos’ first mistake once king was to dethrone the Cappadocian King, Oropher, and replace him with his brother-in-law Ariarathes. Then, the king of Bithynia began to probe the Pergamon borders and asked Rome to side with them. Then, the Kingdom of Prusias attacked the city of Pergamon, sacked and burned it, and bottled Attolos III up in the Acropolis.

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Rome however sided with the young Attolos and other city-states allied with Pergamon came to her aid. Attolos II reigned for 21 years, restoring the city after it burned, and financing many monuments. During his reign, the famous Asklepion where medical care was available was established.

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His son, Attolos III, took over at his death. Closely attached to his mother, Attolos III was known as a “poisoner,” allegedly deliberately poisoning sick patients so as to have subjects to experiment upon to find “cures.” He died in 133 BC while working on a statue of his mother, leaving the rule of the country (in his will) to the Romans.

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The population did not wish to be ruled by Rome and revolted, lead by an illegitimate son of Eumenes named Aristorikos. Rome sent an army to the city to pacify it. Aristorikos’ army defeated the Roman force, but a second Roman army was sent in 130 BC. This time, Aristorikos was captured and secreted away to Rome where he was murdered. Wealthy citizens moved away from the city to protect their wealth from Roman taxes. Rome dealt ruthlessly with Pergamon’s restless populace, and granted her enemies portions of the kingdom’s lands in exchange for aid in subduing Pergamon’s population and rioting colonies in other cities.

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During the rule of Caesar in Rome, Pergamon thrived, but it was not to be for long. Her artists began to abandon the city for freer environments elsewhere. And when Rome gifted Egypt’s Queen Cleopatra with Pergamon library’s 200,000 books and parchments, the city’s role as a scientific and literary center ended. Pergamon continued as a Roman colony under a succession of Roman emperors. During this time, Temples and monuments were built to the Roman Emperors, but the artistic, scientific and literary life of the city never recovered. In 166 AD, the plague swept through Pergamon, killing thousands, and it was again destroyed by earthquakes during the reign of Emperor Valerianus I (253 – 260 AD). The role and significance of the city by this time was eclipsed by its sister city, Ephesus, to its south.

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When Emperor Dilkletianus divided the Asia Province into smaller provinces, Pergamon became a part of the new Asia province (284-305).

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By the beginning of the fourth century AD, the Roman Catholic Church had become dogmatic and literalist in its theology, and it turned to an attack of the remaining vestiges of the “old religions” of the Empire. Pergamon was known as a center for many religions and cultures, but by the Church, it was known as “The Devil’s Throne.” In 313 AD, Emperor Constantine declared Christianity a free religion, and during the reign of Emperor Theodosios, Christianity became the official religion of the Roman Empire (379 AD).

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The Western Roman Empire collapsed under the attacks of barbarian tribes by the end of the fourth century AD, but the Eastern Empire continued. Pergamon of course was a vassal city, administered by government and military staff of the Emperor. When the Empire was divided, Pergamon was given to the Byzantine Latin Empire, but in fact functioned as a part of the Nikeia Empire.

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In 1301, the armies of the East were defeated by Turkish armies entering the region, and Pergamon came under the rule of the Turks. By this time, the city was in ruins, but the castle on the mount was useable and in relatively good condition. By 1345, the city and its lands were bound to the Ottoman Empire, where it remained for more than 500 years. In 1922, the city briefly was occupied by Greek forces following World War I, but as a result of the revolution by Attiturk’s forces, it was shortly back under Turkish authority. Under the Lausanne Agreement following Attiturk’s victory, foreign Muslems living in Greece returned and many moved to this area to settle. Today the Acropolis is in ruins, but is a popular tourist attraction due to its colorful past. The village of Bergama at the foot of the mountain also is an agricultural center and tourist attraction.

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To view pictures of the Pergamon Acropolis, taken during our brief visit there in May 2006, please go to this site’s photo library.

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Source: Tevhit Kekec, “Pergamon” (Hittite Color: Istanbul). A guidebook published for English speaking tourists of Pergamon.