Midas: Fiction and Fact

30 May 2010

The so-called Tomb of Midas in Gordium

King Midas of Phrygia is best known from Greek legend: the story about the drunken Silenus, the story about “the Midas touch”, the story about the donkey ears, and several others, including a nice parallel to the Roman story about the Lacus Curtius.

Yet, the Greeks also remembered him as a real king, the first to send presents to Delphi. This Midas had fought against the Cimmerians, had been defeated, and had committed suicide. He is almost certainly identical to the Mit-ta-a of Muški mentioned in the Annals of the Assyrian king Sargon II.

I’ve made a new page, which you can find here.


29 May 2010

A man and a bul on an ivory inlay

I am still moving all kinds of pages that are in the wrong directories if I want to migrate Livius.org to a CMS, and this time, it’s Gordium‘s turn. We’ve visited the capital of Phrygia twice, in 2003 and 2008, and it remains one of the most impressive sites I know. Imagine a vast plain, with dozens of funeral mounds. The largest of these is called “tomb of Midas“.

Opposite this tumulus is a museum, where you can also see the mosaics from the Phrygian citadel and a Galatian tomb; other objects can be seen in the Museum of Anatolian Civilizations in Ankara – like the finds from the Tomb of Midas. I’ve put it all together on this page, and I added a note on the river Sangarius.

Only thirty pages to go…

Greek and Roman Household Pets

27 May 2010

A cat from Side

One of the gems in Bill Thayer’s LacusCurtius is the Antiquary’s Shoebox, a collection of articles – 153 if I counted correctly – from old scholarly journals. This stuff is often still valuable, but usually hidden for you and me in pay sites like JSTOR. It remains inexplicable and unacceptable that people have to pay taxes to allow scholars to do their work, and that they have to pay another time to have access to the results.

Today’s addition is Francis Lazenby’s piece on “Greek and Roman Household Pets“, from the Classical Journal 44 (1949). Enjoy!


25 May 2010

Part of the decoration

About three weeks ago, I revisited Didyma, one of the oracles of Apollo. From my first visit, in 2003, I remember that I was disappointed. It was big, just big, and some parts of the sculpture were nice, but there was nothing really interesting. To be honest, that remains my opinion – even though I am well aware that only the dead and the mad never change their mind. It’s big, yes; the sculpture – see picture to the right – is nice, indeed; but the site is not nearly as interesting as, for example, the oracles of Delphi or Siwa.

Still, I took some photos, and today, I renewed the Didyma webpage. One of the improvements is that I could ask photos from the Louvre and the Istanbul Archaeological Museum. Nothing spectacular, but at least the webpage is now a bit more complete.


24 May 2010

Tomb of Cyrus

I fondly remember my first visit to Pasargadae, the capital of Cyrus the Great, the founder of the Persian Empire. Although it was an amazing idea to be at the place where the great conqueror had actually lived, but the plain itself was what impressed me most. It still does. Although there’s a village next to it, it feels as if the place is terribly empty.

Our photos have been online since 2003. Much has improved since then. The road that made it possible to reach Gate R and Palace S by car, which created vibrations that threatened the monuments, has been removed (I remember a team of Afghan laborers, two summers ago, destroying the pavement with big hammers). Inexpert repairs to the tomb of Cyrus have been reverted, and in general, everything looks better than it used to.

It was about time to update my webpages. So here it is, and here are other links: Gate R, the bridge (small page), the audience hall in Palace S, the residential Palace P, the water works in the garden, the Zendan, the Tall-i Takht, and finally the tomb of Cyrus, with a rare photo of its interior. Plus: a reference to a cuneiform text that may be related to the destruction of the Tall-i Takht in 280. It doesn’t prove much – as always, there’s a lacuna where it shouldn’t be – but at least it’s probably worth a thought.

A Sarcophagus from Antioch

23 May 2010

The deceased, pooring a libation

Searching through my collection of pictures, I stumbled across some photos we took about three years ago in the Archaeological Museum of Antioch (which, as it happens, is built on the exact place where the Crusaders, having found the Holy Lance, famously broke out from the besieged city). So here it is, a nice, well-preserved sarcophagus from the mid-third century. Nothing really special, just nice, and evidence that Antioch was still a prosperous town during that age of crisis.

Common Errors (33): Cradle of Civilization

23 May 2010

Bronze Age city Ebla

One of the things that made me smile in Damascus was the use of slogans. Tourists are attracted with the sincerely brilliant “Come to Damascus. Get a vision”. (The place where Paul of Tarsus saw the light is along the main road to Bosra.) Less felicitous was a series of posters that showed the president, apparently modeled on Harvey Dent and even including a paraphrasis of his slogan (“I believe in Syria”).

Another slogan states that Syria was the “cradle of religions” – which indeed attracts visitors. Western Christians come to Damascus to see the place where Paul escaped across the city wall. I once flew from Tehran to Damascus in the company of a group of pilgrims who wanted to visit the tomb of Huseyn, the third imam.

Most relics are of rather doubtful authenticity – the window from which Paul was lowered is medieval – but there is a more serious problem with this religious tourism. To understand it, we must go back a while, two centuries, to Berlin. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, the government of Prussia was reorganizing its educational system, and founded a new university that was not based on a medieval model, but on the needs of science and scholarship. Generally speaking, this reform was a great success, and many modern universities are based on the Berlin model.

However, for ancient historians, the new model was disastrous, because it became part of two faculties. People studying ancient Greece and Rome had to learn Greek and Latin first, and had to visit the subfaculty of classical languages; those who wanted to study the ancient Near East, had to attend courses at the subfaculty of Semitic languages. What had always been a unity, now became divided – and unfortunately, this division became popular in other countries.

In those days, the Greeks and Romans were a source of inspiration to the civilized, liberal bourgeoisie, which believed that the ancients had been free people who thought rationally. Classical Athens and Rome were, therefore, studied from a humanist point of view. On the other hand, scholars interested in the Near East studied the past to better understand the Bible. This was considered to be so important that, once the cuneiform script had been deciphered, priority was given to the publication of those tablets that helped to illuminate the rise of Judaism. Administrative documents, for example, were neglected.

So, in the nineteenth century, one part of Antiquity was explored from a humanist point of view, and the other from a religious perspective. Texts were selected accordingly, and it was inevitable that the difference was projected on the past itself. People started to think that the ancient Near East was the cradle of our religions and that Greece marked the rise of rationalism.

At the beginning of the twentieth century, all this started to change. Cuneiform tablets have shown beyond reasonable doubt how much the ancient Babylonians had achieved as scientists, echos from Semitic poetry have been found in the oldest Greek literature, and books like Eric Dodds’ famous The Greeks and the Irrational have made it clear that it is silly to think of the ancient Greeks as Enlightenment philosophers avant la lettre. No professionally trained historian can accept the previously mentioned dichotomy.

Unfortunately, they are still employed in the mass media – think only of Frank Miller’s 300 (review) and a book like Tom Holland’s Persian Fire (review). Occasionally, a serious scholar succumbs to the charms of simplicity, like classicist Paul Cartledge and political scientist Anthony Pagden, who are apparently serious when they write that East and West are involved in an eternal struggle between freedom and despotism, rationalism and mysticism.

The truth is that there is not so much difference between on the one hand Greece and Rome, and on the other hand the ancient Near East. It is quite ironical that the Syrians have accepted the western prejudices about the “cradle of religion”. Syria has a lot more to offer than that.

<Overview of Common Errors>

General Update

22 May 2010

Tomb of Amyntas, Fethiye (Telmessus)

Right now, Livius Onderwijs (the school in Holland that owns Livius.org), owns some 36,000 photos, and although I’m dreaming of make it all available, I first must finish the conversion to a content management system. That will take some time, because the website is not the first priority. Nevertheless, I managed to make some additional stuff available. It’s not worth summing up everything, but you may like the bizarre landscape of Bin Tepe, the tombs and theater of Telmessus (modern Fethiye), and the museum pieces of Laurum (Woerden).

I also put online an article on Polybius that was published earlier in Ancient Warfare magazine. If you have time to read only one article, make sure it’s this one, because the man is really interesting.

Apollodorus of Damascus

22 May 2010

Apollodorus (?) (Glyptothek, Munich)

I am blessed because I am in the position to travel widely. Usually, I have a camera with me, and sometimes, it happens that I can combine things. Webpages based on these combinations, I find most satisfying.

Take Apollodorus of Damascus. His story is online at LacusCurtius (here), I could take a photo of his possible portrait is in the Munchen Glyptothek, and I found an inscription in the garden of the Damascus Archaeological Museum. The forum he built in Rome is among the best known monument of the city. The only thing I’ve never seen is the ruin of his famous bridge, but it is represented on the Column of Trajan (casts in the Victoria and Albert Museum and in the Museo nazionale della civiltà romana), and it is represented on coins. And I put everything together here.

Common Errors (32): Teutoburg Forest

22 May 2010

The narrows, reconstructed

The Battle in the Teutoburg Forest in September 9 CE was, for a long time, recognized as a major turning point in European history. The Romans lost three legions (XVIII, XIX, and probably XVII), and many scholars have argued that this made the Romans retreat to the western bank of the Rhine, leaving the territories in the east unconquered. As a result, Germany was born. There is a lot to be said against this. For example, archaeologists have always dated all Roman objects prior to 9, but are now realizing that there is evidence for continued Roman presence in Germany.

But that is not the common error I want to discuss today. I want to argue that the Teutoburg Forest was not a forest. Granted, the Roman historian Tacitus refers to a Saltus Teutoburgiensis (Annals, 1.60), but for centuries, no one knew where this was, until Renaissance scholars argued that it had to be somewhere near the Upper Weser, in a densely forested area. They found what they were looking for: the hills known as Osning, between modern Rheine and Detmold. In the nineteenth century, the Osning was renamed Teutoburg Forest. However, archaeologists have found the battlefield at a place called Kalkriese, north of Osnabrück. The ancient name was given to the wrong site.

But as I said, there was not a forest at all. Of course Tacitus’ saltus can mean “forest”, but it can also mean “narrows” (e.g. Livy 36.17, and Livy, Periochae, 22.8, 49.13, and 67.8.). This meaning better fits the situation, as the Kalkriese site is indeed a narrow stretch of land between a hill and a great bog. The author of Tacitus’ source must have thought of this, and Tacitus must have misunderstood this information.

But from pollen research we know that there were no big trees, and the only ancient author who refers to them is Cassius Dio, who is well-known for the way he adds details to his stories to give them some local color. Those barbarians on the edges of the earth,  in his view, ought to live in an inaccessible country, full of mountains and forests. Naive faith in our sources has seriously impeded research – and perhaps we’re lucky because of that, because now, Kalkriese was found by professional archaeologists, and not looted in the eighteenth century by antiquarians.

<Overview of Common Errors>


22 May 2010

Chapeau! (Coin of king Apollodotus of Bactria)

Although James McGrath‘s blog Exploring Our Matrix looks a lot like a Lost fansite these days, I found something that was for me like a gold nugget: Word of the Day: Contextectomy. The word was coined by someone Mr McGrath calls “Jay”, but he himself is responsible for this definition:

You take a term (or a text, phrase, passage, or story), remove it not necessarily or not merely from its literary context but also from its linguistic, cultural, social and historical context, translate it into English if it isn’t in English already, and then assume it means whatever the “plain sense” of the English seems to be to you.

Of course, this is essentially a shift of metabasis, but “contextectomy” is adequate to describe on particular variant of this fallacy. Besides, by using a medical expression (an “-ectomy” is the name of the surgical removal of an organ) in a scholarly – ahem – context, people will smile, and will remember it better. So, chapeau to Jay and James McGrath.

Leonidas’ Obscenity

21 May 2010

Torso of a Spartan hoplite, found at Sparta and identified as a memorial statue to Leonidas.

I recently made a remark on this blog that Leonidas’ famous reply to Xerxes‘ demand to hand over his weapons, that the great king could μολὼν λαβέ, did not mean that the great king ought to come over and fight to obtain the Spartan’s weapons, although it is usually translated as “come and get them”. Mr Steven Saylor invited me to elaborate on it, and I gladly do so, because I like Mr Saylor’s novels.

In the first place a remark that is slightly beside the point. I will assume that the words – which are only known from Plutarch‘s Laconic Sayings, 225D – are historical, although Herodotus states that all Spartans were killed at Thermopylae, and presents his account of the battle as an opinion (introduced by gnomê, 7.220). Although μολὼν λαβέ is not transmitted by Herodotus, later authors could not interview witnesses either, and it is reasonable to ask whether the words were actually spoken. This, however, does not influence the meaning of μολὼν λαβέ.

Back to topic. The common translation “come and get them” is misleading because there is no reason to assume that Leonidas was referring to weapons, plural. A more correct translation would be “having come, take”. Although Plutarch says that these words were written, and Xerxes’ translator must have believed these words referred to the weapons, it is certainly possible that the soldiers with Leonidas understood them differently. If there had been any doubt, one obscene gesture would have been sufficient. A free translation like “my weapon in your —” is just as likely as the more prudish “come and get them”.

I think a coarse translation is more likely. The ancients often used sexual imagery to describe victory and conquest – think only of Caesar‘s famous remark that he would “mount on the Senate‘s head” (Suetonius, Caesar, 22.2). A less famous, but closer parallel is offered by two pictures on a small vase in the Hamburg Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe, which show an Athenian about to rape a Persian, who (according to the inscription on that vase), says “I am Eurymedon, I’m screwed”.

Besides, isn’t obscenity part and parcel of the military language, in each and every society? Although I knew what to expect – I’ve been in the army myself – I felt quite embarrassed when I read Swofford’s Jarhead (2003; I liked the book in general, though). And I think I do not have to point out what General McAuliffe‘s reply to the Germans during the Battle of the Bulge, “Nuts!”, really meant.

The Portrait of Artaxerxes II Mnemon

20 May 2010

Artaxerxes II

Achaemenid art was not very innovative. In the days of Darius I the Great, the basic forms were established, and later artists did not really change these patterns. A king was shown sitting on a throne (example), or killing an animal (example), or sacrificing (example). On seals, there is some variation, but essentially, the Achaemenid artists preferred to emulate good art instead of inventing something new.

As a consequence, they never invented the portrait, and all kings look like Darius, with the same beard. Until now, I knew only one representation of an Achaemenid king by an artist who wanted to show what the ruler really looked like: the portrait of Artaxerxes III Ochus in the Amsterdam Allard Piersonmuseum, made in Egypt. We may perhaps add the Darius III Codomannus on the Alexander mosaic, although I can hardly believe that the Greek painter whose design was used as a model, had really seen the great king.

In the Archaeological Museum of Antalya, I discovered another candidate: Artaxerxes II Mnemon is represented on the tomb of (probably) the Lycian leader Pericles of Limyra. Unfortunately, it is very damaged, but the man clearly has his tiara tied up so that it stands erect. You can also recognize the diadem. Did the sculptor really see the great king?

Socrates’ Obscene Last Words

20 May 2010

The Silenus-like Socrates (Louvre)

I recently made a remark on this blog that Socrates‘ last words were obscene, to which Mr Steven Saylor replied that he liked me to elaborate on it. I gladly do so, because Mr Saylor is the author of several nice novels (here‘s his website).

The story is told by Plato and can be found in the Phaedo (118a). Socrates has drunk from the poison cup, walks around to make the venom do its work, sits down, and the executioner touches him, telling him that his body will become stiff; when this stiffness will reach his heart, he will pass away.

Now when the stiffness reaches the lower part of Socrates’ torso (ἦτρον), Socrates “uncovers himself”. The now naked part of his body is not mentioned, but there is no reason to assume that it was his head, as nearly all painters represent this scene. (The custom to cover one’s head when one senses one was going to die, was Roman.) With at least one part of his body uncovered, Socrates’ final words are, “We owe a cock to Asclepius”. The Greek word that Plato uses, “ἀλεκτρυών”, has the same meaning as the English “cock”.

Being touched, stiffness, the lower part of the body, uncovering oneself, a cock: Plato offers no less than five signal words, and the listener must have understood what Plato did no say, that the dying Socrates had, to use the medical phrase, a “terminal erection”. Socrates’ last words, fitting for a man whose portrait is modeled on Silenus, were a joke.


Eva Keuls, The Reign of the Phallus (1985)

Xenophon’s Portrait

20 May 2010

Xenophon (Museum of Aphrodisias)

In 1988 or 1989 – I do not remember exactly – I spent a holiday in Andalusia. On my way back, I visited Madrid, where I wanted to see the Lex Irnitana. It’s now in Seville, of course, but back then it was a very recent discovery that would be shown to the world on a worthy location in the Spanish capital. However, I was too early, and ended up in the Prado Museum, where I saw a bust of the Greek author Xenophon.

It has always been some kind of frustration to me that I forgot to take a photo, because I like to add pictures to my articles. I had to use a black-and-white photo, found on the internet, which was at least something, but because someone else had taken that photo, I felt a bit uneasy about copyright. More frustration was to come, because on two occasions, friends visited the Prado, tried to make the photo I needed – and were kindly told that photography was not permitted. I will leave it to others to explain what on earth makes a museum forbid visitors to study, back home, again the objects (mens sana qui mal y pense).

But now, in Aphrodisias, I suddenly saw a herm with, on the one side, Socrates, and on the other side the son of Gryllus. Of course that bust was placed in front of the window, which made photography difficult, but here he is: the one and only Xenophon.

An Ancient Rorschach Test

18 May 2010

A graffito from the Marble Street in Ephesus

The irreverent British comedy show Spitting Image once aired an episode in which Ronald Reagan was unable to remember the name of a new Soviet leader. Fortunately, one of his assistants came up with a plan: a set of pictures, each representing a syllable. The first one was a mouth/throat, the second one a sheep, the third a cook: gorge-bah-chef, “Gorbachev”. However, when Reagan had to read the rebus aloud, he said “Mister Mouth-Sheep-Toque”, adding something like “Mouth Sheep Toque, Mao Zedong, wasn’t he Chinese or something?”

This illustrates a well-known art historical problem: how to interpret a symbol or a drawing? You can go wrong, terribly. An example from ancient history is the little graffito from the Marble Street in Ephesus, which shows a crowned lady, a heart, and a foot. It is often said that this is a road sign, indicating that there was a brothel in the neighborhood.

Last week, I heard the story repeated by a tour guide who took the heart to be a wallet with coins, “no money, no honey”. This is a nice story and the people clearly liked it, and it must be admitted that the ancients did not depict the heart as we do, so it may indeed be a wallet.

However, the problem is that we have no clue whether this interpretation is correct. One argument was that there is a building in the neighborhood that has been identified as a house of pleasure, but this is based on an inscription that refers to a paidiskeion, which can mean brothel, but can also mean latrine – and there is indeed a latrine over there. So, this argument turns out to be invalid. What remains is the picture itself, which can represent anything, although the closest iconographic parallel to the crowned lady is Tyche, who is always shown with a mural crown. If we accept that the woman is indeed the goddess of fortune, we can understand the wallet, but the foot remains a mystery.

Personally, I think that the interpretation of our graffito as an advertisement of a brothel, tells more about modern archaeologists than about the past. There used to be a tendency to regard the ancient Greeks and Romans as sexually less restricted than we are. Every barmaid, every shopkeeper, every woman not working at home was immediately interpreted as a prostitute. I was reminded of a cartoon, called “He had seen enough with the Rorschach test”, which showed a man leaving the psychologist’s office, slamming the door behind him, saying “What dirty a old man, with those filthy pictures!”

A Life of Maimonides

17 May 2010
Moshe ben Maimun

Moshe ben Maimun

Today’s new item on my site is medieval rather than my usual haunts of Antiquity and American history — but I’m not too old to learn new tricks, even if my Dog has to teach them to me. It’s in fact such a departure for me that I have no commentary and no context for it, and those who find it useful will just have to enjoy it: David Yellin and Israel Abrahams’ elegant, streamlined little book, Maimonides.

Limits to Tourism

16 May 2010

The Bouleuterion (or Odeon) of Ephesus

Tourism can kill people. I almost saw it happen today in the bouleuterion of Ephesus. There was a large group of tourists in front of us, and when they left, a man and a woman remained sitting on one of the ancient seats. The man sat down, his head hanging down, while his arms, which were also hanging down, were making strange, uncontrolled gestures.

It was not a pretty sight, and I was glad that one of the people traveling with me is a doctor. He went to the man and gave him something, which seemed to help him pretty swiftly, so that he seemed a bit weak only when an ambulance arrived, just two or three minutes after we had made a call. The man tried to walk back to the exit but collapsed, and was carried away to the ambulance.

He did not suffer from a heat stroke or dehydration. It was early in the morning on a cool day. The cause of his collapse may have been Stendhal Syndrome, a fatigue about which many jokes are made, but which can be quite nasty. (I remember leaving Florence with someone who fell seriously ill once we were in Rome.) To this may be added the stress of a visit to a site full of people, thousands and thousands of them, addressed by guides who use amplifiers to make themselves heard. Ephesus is the capital of mass tourism.

On more than one occasion I have said that people ought to pass an exam before they visit an archaeological site. Of course that is a joke, but there is a serious aspect to it. It is ridiculous to hear a guide in, say, Delphi explain that “in those days, Sparta and Athens were the leading powers in Greece” – if you do not know that, it is better not to go to Delphi, because you are unable to appreciate the site and are a frustration to others.

I even think that it is dangerous if too many unprepared people visit a site. If our man had known what to expect and if there had been less people, his brain would have been able to deal with the information; now, Ephesus could easily exhaust him. Although it was good that the ambulance appeared on the scene almost immediately, it is – if you think about it – ridiculous that Ephesus needs to have an ambulance.

Finally, our man was lucky that there was a doctor. But he belonged to a group, and there were so many people that the guide had been unable to see what happened. The other people hadn’t noticed either. Ephesus is simply too spectacular to allow so many people to be there at the same time, even on a day with low temperatures. Tourism can kill people.

Polemo’s Last Words

13 May 2010


The last words of famous people are an interesting subject for a book. Not a book full of quotes – that already exists – but a book that explains why some of them are so well-known. Some are inspiring indeed, like George Harrison’s “love one another”, which summarizes his career pretty adequately. Others are interesting because we don’t know what was meant: did Von Stauffenberg shout something about sacred Germany or secret Germany? Was Goethe seeing the light (“mehr Licht”) or did he say that his bed was uncomfortable (“mir liegt”)? Some were never spoken at all: the man who noted that Casanova had declared he had lived as a philosopher but died as a Christian, was not present – why did he invent it?

We seem to love emotions (Caesar’s disappointed “You too, my child?”) and humor, and are willing to alter the story a bit to create a joke: Vespasian’s last words were not that he feared becoming a god (more…). On the other hand, we do not like obscenities. Although many people believe otherwise, Leonidas’ remark – although technically not his last words – that that Xerxes could “come and take it” did not mean that the great king ought to fight to obtain the Spartan’s weapons (more…), and Socrates’ remark about a cock was not just about a sacrifice (more…).

Laodicea's Syrian Gate

And sometimes, people really make a show of it, like Polemo, the great sophist, or concert orator. These people were incredibly popular and knew how to manipulate the audience by acting as if the world was their stage, all nations were their fans, and they were the greatest actors alive. When you read about them in PhilostratusLives of the Sophists, you get the impression that they were collectively suffering from a histrionic personality disorder.

Now Polemo had had an illness for quite some time already when he ordered his tomb to be build outside the Syrian Gate of Laodicea. When it was almost finished, he announced his approaching death and went to the tomb, followed by a great many people, who saw him entering his tomb. There, he ordered the mason to finish his job: he wanted to die of inedia, not eating and drinking any more. His last words, no doubt carefully prepared, were that the mason ought to hurry a bit, because Polemo did not want the sun to see him reduced to silence.

The place where this pathetic incident took place, is now a parking lot.


12 May 2010

Antonine Nymphaeum

I already knew that the excavations at Sagalassus had produced several quite spectacular results, like that colossal statue of Hadrian that caught the headlines almost three years ago. I also knew the fine website Sagalassos.be, which proves that Flemish archaeologists know how to explain their results to non-specialists. And I had met one of the excavators some time ago. Yet, although I knew that Sagalassos was special, it was almost a shock to see what it actually was. It’s not another Ephesus, but I would not be surprised if it became one of the main sites in Turkey; it’s certainly better worth a visit than Miletus.

It is hard to enumerate what’s there to be seen, but I remember: a wide paved street, the ruins of the temple of Antoninus Pius, the Lower Agora, the nymphaeum of Hadrian, a small street, a bathhouse, a wall, rock tombs, a Byzantine church, and a partly excavated odium. After a short climb, we reached the Upper Agora, with a splendid nymphaeum from the age of Antoninus Pius, a heroon, the temple of Zeus, the Bouleuterion and the Prytaneum, the library, and the Hellenistic nymphaeum, where you can still drink the water. Finally, there’s the theater – the tenth I’ve seen in seven days.

All sculpture has been removed to the museum at Burdur. As the excavations are still going on – the current permit expires in 2018 – it is not surprising that you cannot buy a guide to the site, but you can buy a useful leaflet at the house of the guard. Here, you can also buy tea or coffee, and have a pick-nick in the shade.


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