In Rhodes, hordes of tourists cluster each summer at Mandraki Harbor, where the Colossus is thought to have stood. Around A.D. 650, more than eight centuries after its collapse, it was broken up by Arab plunderers and sold as scrap metal. Today, not a toenail remains, though local entrepreneurs peddle souvenir T-shirts, spoons and cups emblazoned with the statue’s image. (In 1999, the citizens of Rhodes announced a memorial to be built on the site, though work has yet to begin.)
As for the two Wonders of Asia Minor—the Temple of Artemis and the Mausoleum—they were devastated by earthquakes, barbarians and vengeful Christians. Scraps of both lie in the British Museum in London, but their sites are hauntingly bare. In an ironic genuflection to the cycles of history, chunks of the Mausoleum’s original masonry were used to refortify the Castle of St. Peter at Bodrum, which was restored in the 1970s as a museum dedicated to underwater archaeology.
And, as the city of Alexandria reminds us, there is always hope for finding “lost” Wonders. In 1994, Asra el Bakri, an Egyptian filmmaker creating a documentary about Alexandria’s Eastern Harbor, noticed some huge stone blocks just below the water’s surface off Fort Qait-Bey, on a promontory at the heart of the old city. Within a year, French marine archaeologists had catalogued just under 3,000 chunks of masonry, some of which is thought to be the lighthouse, scattered about the ocean floor. Soon they were raising the magnificent statues that once stood by its side. The sculptures are believed to have fallen there during earthquakes that struck the region from late antiquity to the 14th century A.D.
“As a news story, it was definitely very sexy,” says Colin Clement, spokesman for the Centre d’Etudes Alexandrines (CEA), the French organization leading the work. “It seemed like everyone wanted to film or photograph what we were doing.” More recently, marine archaeologists discovered the frame of a nearly 40-foot-high double door that was once part of the lighthouse. Using computer graphics, CEA archaeologists are now piecing together how the edifice would have looked and functioned. “Little by little, from campaign to campaign, we have more results,” says Jean-Yves Empereur, director of the CEA, emphasizing that he is attempting to reconstruct all of ancient Alexandria graphically, not just a single monument.
One tour company, ignoring warnings that the harbor’s untreated sewage may cause typhoid, offers recreational diving to the lighthouse stones as well as to two dozen fragmented sphinxes on the sea bottom. For its part, the Egyptian government has floated plans for an underwater marine park, which tourists would visit in glass-bottomed boats. “Why not?” says Clement. “What’s the point of doing the work if it’s just for a few academics reading fusty, obscure journals?”
Of course, one Wonder has dropped off today’s grand tour entirely—the Hanging Gardens. “Things have been going very badly for Babylon over the last 20 years,” says Harriet Crawford, chairman of the BritishSchool of Archaeology in Iraq. Saddam Hussein’s “reconstruction” program, begun in 1987, devastated the Meso-potamian city’s venerable ruins. As a self-styled new Nebuchadnezzar, Hussein built a luxurious palace on a hill above the excavations of the original royal palace, then ordered the ancient edifice rebuilt using bricks stamped with his name. The Hanging Gardens—Babylon’s trademark feature—played a key role in this farce: courtyards and passageways were built to integrate the supposed site of the gardens into the reconstruction. Ironically, new research carried out by Stephanie Dalley and others of the Oriental Institute at Oxford University suggests the gardens may not have been in Babylon at all, but in Nineveh, the ancient capital of Assyria in what is now northern Iraq. Nor are they thought to have been built by Nebuchadnezzar, but an Assyrian king, Sennacherib.
Misguided though it was, the work in Babylon shows the power of the past to shape the present. In seeking to connect himself to Iraq’s most glorious era, “Hussein saw the significance of Babylon,” says Crawford. “He used it as a symbol of national identity and triumph, to unite all the factions in Iraq.”
The fate of the original Seven Wonders has long provoked a wide spectrum of reactions, from melancholy meditations on human vanity to the transience of man’s achievements. But if their most obvious lesson is that our finest creations will one day turn to rubble, it is a lesson that we resolutely refuse to learn. Which is only as it should be, as the ancient Wonders’ durability—if only in our imagination—so eloquently testifies.