A tombstone is a strange place for a birth. But twenty-five years ago, in Gallery 154 at The Met, I conceived the idea for Percy Jackson and the Olympians when I stood in front of this stele, a grave marker for a youth who died circa 530 BCE.
Marble stele (grave marker) of a youth and a little girl, ca. 530 BCE. Greek, Attic. Archaic. Marble, H. 13 ft. 10 3/4 in. (423.4cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Frederick C. Hewitt Fund, 1911; Rogers Fund, 1921; and Anonymous Gift, 1951 (11.185a–c, f, g)
It’s an impressive monument. Nearly thirteen feet tall, it would have been brightly painted when first raised in Attica, Greece, set near a road and visible from a great distance. At the top sits a sphinx, retaining traces of her original blue, black, and red coloration that would have made this guardian of the dead look even more fearsome. She smiles mysteriously down at the observer. Perhaps a greeting, but also a warning, given the tight coil of her serpent-like tail. She seems to be saying, Look, but do not touch. Her guardianship has been remarkably successful. This stele is the most intact such memorial from the Archaic period.
Marble capital and finial in the form of a sphinx (detail), ca. 530 BCE. Greek, Attic. Archaic. Marble, Parian, H. 56 1/8 in. (142.6 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Munsey Fund, 1936, 1938 (11.185d, x)
Gazing up at her, it’s impossible not to think of the Theban Sphinx, who challenged passersby with her riddle about a creature who walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening. The answer, of course, is mankind. He crawls as a baby, walks upright as an adult, and uses a cane in old age. Standing atop this grave marker, however, our sphinx is a poignant reminder of a particular youth, dead before his prime, his life’s journey forever frozen at noon.
The sphinx sits on a capital—a top stone, shaped like a lyre. Now bare, the stone was once decorated with palmette designs, possibly inspired by lotus blooms, and double-scrolling volutes reminiscent of a ram’s horns. It must have invoked feelings of youthful music, male virility, and rebirth—the ability of an unrooted soul to rise from murky water and bloom again like the lotus flower.
On the main shaft of the monument, two figures stand in profile: the dead youth and a little girl, possibly his sister. We can extrapolate the youth’s name from the inscription on the base: “to dear Me[gakles], on his death, his father with his dear mother set [me] up as a monument.” Megakles is naked, as athletes and gods are often presented, the physical form being something to celebrate, not hide—a manifestation of the divine.
Marble stele (grave marker) of a youth and a little girl (detail), ca. 530 BCE. Greek, Attic. Archaic. Marble, H. 13 ft. 10 3/4 in. (423.4cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Frederick C. Hewitt Fund, 1911; Rogers Fund, 1921; and Anonymous Gift, 1951 (11.185a–c, f, g)
In his left hand, Megakles holds a pomegranate, the fruit of the underworld. A symbol of fertility as well as mortality, it seems an appropriate snack for a virile youth who joined the dead on the verge of becoming a man. From his wrist hangs an aryballos, an oil flask used by athletes for cleaning off grunge and sweat after a rigorous workout. The flask is a poignant reminder of all the future games in which Megakles will not be playing, but it also suggests that he goes into the afterlife ready to enjoy his favorite activities for eternity. He has been cleansed of the grunge and sweat of mortality, and now stands at ease, content, assured, his smile as enigmatic as the sphinx’s. Against a background that was once bright red—itself a color symbolic of death and regeneration—the fully painted youth would have been strikingly lifelike. At his side, his sister holds a flower and mirrors her brother’s smile. She seems ready to follow him anywhere.
The first time I saw this grave marker, I was in Manhattan for the 1999 Edgar Awards. At the time, I was a middle school teacher, writing mystery novels on the side. Greek mythology had always been one of my favorite topics to teach, so a trip to The Met was high on my to-do list.
The Greek and Roman art section holds an embarrassment of riches, but this stele captured my attention more than even Zeus, Poseidon, or Athena. Despite its grandeur, the monument seemed so personal, so intimate and melancholic. As the father of two young boys, I empathized with those ancient parents who had lost Megakles. I considered how long this marker had survived, carrying his image and his name into the future.
To afford such a monument, the family must have been rich and powerful. That raised a whole set of questions about who is remembered and who is forgotten in history. Countless other grieving families and dead youths disappeared without a trace. But the passing of Megakles was memorialized, thanks to his family’s wealth. Even so, the monument’s chances of survival had been slim. Reading the stele’s plaque, I learned it may have been desecrated and broken along with the tombs of many other aristocrats when the powerful families rose against the dictator Peisistratos. The monument we see today is a reconstruction, pieced together out of half a dozen fragments from around Europe. Some parts, like the young girl’s face, are only replicas of fragments housed at other museums. It is a patchwork, a partial story, but in archaeology, even having that is a miracle.
It reached across the centuries, cut through the dust and rubble of the past, and made me feel a personal, relevant, living connection to the people of long ago.
The monument did for me what I always tried to do for my students. It reached across the centuries, cut through the dust and rubble of the past, and made me feel a personal, relevant, living connection to the people of long ago.
When we returned home to Texas, I didn’t think much about the grave marker for a couple of years. Then, in 2001, two things happened—one personal, one global. At home, our older son began struggling with his schoolwork. He would hide under the dining room table to avoid doing assignments. Reading for him was an ordeal, and the demands of the classroom were making him want to give up. His behavior deteriorated. Soon we learned that he was ADHD and dyslexic. The only bright spot in his second-grade curriculum was Greek mythology, so to keep him interested in going to school, I began telling him myths for bedtime stories.
The other thing that happened that year was, of course, September 11. I was teaching my history class when the news broke of the World Trade Center attacks. For the rest of the day, I found myself leading discussions with my students as we all tried to understand how this could have happened and what it meant for the future. As anyone who lived through that day can understand, I was changed. The horrific images of Ground Zero on the news, the confusion, fear, and anger, the worry for my publishing colleagues in Manhattan…all of it made me question my life. I suddenly felt small and powerless, insignificant. I began thinking about history, and communal memory, and how ephemeral our marks upon the world must be when even our greatest buildings could be reduced to rubble in a single morning.
One night shortly after this, I was telling a Greek myth to my son at bedtime, as had become our new tradition. I had already shared the tales of Perseus, Jason, Heracles, and Theseus. I was running out of heroes. Then I recalled a creative writing assignment I used to give my students: Make up your own demigod hero and choose which Olympian would be your godly parent. I thought about my son’s struggle with learning differences, and how every Greek hero had internal and external trials to overcome along their journeys. I tapped into my feelings of melancholy and despair about what had happened in New York. My mind drifted back to that trip to The Met — all those artifacts from the distant past, having survived countless wars and natural disasters. Especially the stele of Megakles.
Maybe things can last, I thought. Maybe heroes are still needed in the world. On the spot, I made up Percy Jackson and began telling my son about this modern-day son of Poseidon who finds out that his ADHD and dyslexia are signs that he is a demigod. I started Percy’s story in The Metropolitan Museum of Art, during a field trip where Percy’s class visits a stele in Gallery 154. I took some liberties with the actual artifact. I imagined it decorated with a scene of the Titan Kronos devouring his godly children, though why that grim tale would appear on a youth’s grave marker, I don’t know. The main point was that Percy confronts a memorial for a teenager just like him. The stone becomes a symbol of danger, possibility, and memory. It connects the ancient to this very modern New York kid. The Met is the place where Percy first suspects his true identity and discovers his own heroism. The stele, in that sense, is his birthplace.
Greek and Roman Art Galleries, The Judy and Michael H. Steinhardt Gallery (Gallery 154), April 2013. View of Marble stele (grave marker) of a youth and a little girl (11.185a–c, f, g) and Marble capital and finial in the form of a sphinx (11.185d, x). Also depicted: Marble statue of a kouros (youth) (32.11.1), Fragment of the marble stele (grave marker) of a hoplite (foot soldier) (38.11.13), and Fragment of the marble stele (grave marker) of a youth (12.158)
Now when I visit my favorite stele at The Met, I am struck by how much and how little has changed in the world. My sons are now wonderful, successful adults. The oldest has a master’s in higher education and works at a university disability service office, where he helps other young people get the learning accommodations they need. Percy Jackson has been read by millions of young people around the world, most of whom were born well after September 11, 2001. Crises, dilemmas, and disasters continue to roll across the world in waves. But New York is still there, strong and vibrant. And in his sunny gallery at The Met, Megakles still stands, smiling contentedly as he holds his pomegranate, offering comfort and reassurance to those who visit his monument. Grief is survivable. Love can endure. All we can hope to do is live well, be kind, be remembered positively by those who survive us, and hope that the sphinx who watches over the dead guards us as well as she has guarded this fallen youth from Ancient Attica.
