The Artists’ Sacrifice

September 14, 2025

A short story inspired by the artists who created the Parthenon Marbles. The unsung heroes whose craft has shaped the history of art.

"A soft pink glow on the rafters signals the dawn from the other side of the site. Brief words exchanged amongst the workers. He enters through a dense network of wooden posts, platforms and ropes. Nothing betrays what will become the largest marble span of the known world. An awe-inspiring gateway, appropriate only for gods.

As he leaves the Propylaea behind him, master Phidias greets the dark familiar silhouette against the dawning light. A daily ritual of secret pride. Towering above the leather tents of the workshops that fill the site, the Parthenon is still wrapped in the wooden structure of the scaffold.

Today is the day for the deed to be paid. The ultimate sacrifice for any artist. His eyes are drawn to the tip of the large crane, rising above the temple to the east.

The year is 432 BC. Since the city decided to rebuild the holy citadel after the Persian invasion, no other major buildings have been started yet. He looks towards Mount Pentelikon to the north. He can almost trace the route of the marble blocks arriving from the quarry through the valley. So much more work to be done. He can picture the outline of Erechtheion that will soon hide the mountain from view. He doesn’t yet know that the temple of the Karyatids will be delayed for another 11 years due to the Peloponnesian War.

And still, the construction of the Parthenon alone has attracted thousands of men to the city. So many of them he now knows personally, after all these years. They respectfully greet him as he crosses the site. The brightest minds, the most gifted artists that Greece could spare. Under Phidias, they produced the pinnacle of classical art and architecture. A structure of unparalleled geometrical sophistication and precision, adorned with sculptures of idealised beauty, yet so natural in their every detail.

He arrives in front of the east entrance of the Parthenon

A group of men stand silent in a semicircle. Artists and their assistants, lean men with tight muscles under their sun-darkened skin. Motionless, in front of the three priestesses leading the ceremony. He nods as they lift their eyes and quietly joins them. He knows the meaning of this day for all of them.

With the soft humming of the female voices and the smell of incense rising from the cauldron, he feels as if he joins in a collective trance experience. The men’s gaze stays fixed to the structure in front of them: layers of cloth and leather neatly wrapped around a body, on a wooden platform. A network of ropes formed into an intricate web around it.

The statue of Dionysus.

They had prepared the sculpture with protective layers the day before. Now ready to be lifted into its final position.

Phidias cannot remember who had the ingenious idea for a composition of statues in reclining poses that would effortlessly fit in the triangular spaces of the pediment. He would never claim it for his own.

Like all other sculptures of the pediment, Dionysus was completed weeks ago. Finished in the round, he was placed in front of the temple for citizens and officials to visit and admire. He is the first one to be lifted into position.

Once installed in his place on the pediment, sixteen meters from the ground, a large part of him will be hidden from view, forever. The painstakingly detailed sculpting of the god’s earthly anatomy at the back will be out of sight. Never to be seen by mortals again. Only enjoyed by the gods.

The artists’ sacrifice to Athena, and the honour of dedicating their art to the protector of their city.

The song of the priestesses becomes a whisper. What can these men feel about the future, at this moment? In their trance, do they have visions of Dionysus’ fate? That, twenty-five hundred years later, a distant generation would still be admiring him.

In a foreign land, under a different light, displaced, but rescued. Even more, worshipped as one of humanity’s most prized treasures.

Is it possible that they can sense this honour?"