Size mattered for the builders of this enormous Greek temple – Pisistratus, the Greek tyrant, and Roman Emperor Hadrian – and it inspires awe even in ruins.
Athens' monuments and temples are world-class icons thanks to their beauty, history and symbolism – but the reputation of the Temple of Olympian Zeus rests firmly on its size. That's only fitting for a temple to Zeus, King of the Gods, and ruler of Mount Olympus. But ironically, while this enormous temple was started by the Greeks in the 6th century BC, it was a Roman Emperor who completed it – 630 years later.
Take a look at the 15 remaining columns, each 17 metres high, and you might be tempted to think it was the sheer size of the temple (it had a hundred and four of them originally) that made it such a drawn-out project. In fact, it was more down to Athenian disdain for pride. The temple was started under the rule of Greek tyrant, Pisistratus. When Athens became a democracy, it decided that this was a vanity project they could do without – and left it unfinished.
Which says something about the man who did finish, it in the 2nd century AD – Greek-loving Roman Emperor Hadrian. He had the Temple of Zeus (or Naos tou Olimpiou Dios) completed in the finest Pentelic marble, and then filled it with statues of himself, and an enormous ivory-and-gold statue of Zeus, for the temple's inner sanctum. It lasted for a 100 years, before being sacked by the Herulians. Since then, most of its gigantic columns have been toppled and plundered for their fine building stone.
That carried on for next two millennia. There's even an inscription from the 18th century, on one of the columns, stating that Tzisdarakis had "destroyed one of Hadrian's columns with gunpowder." He was the Turkish governor of Athens, who needed the marble for the mosque he was building at the time. Now the Temple of Olympian Zeus is better-protected, and even though it's a pale shadow of what it once was, it still pulls in the crowds. Some come here because it’s the biggest temple built in Athens. Others to muse on how even the largest of them eventually topple, and fall.
