ATHENS – The Empire of Trebizond. Some Hellenes have heard of it but have only a vague idea of its time and place. It sounds like something out of C.S. Lewis: “Trebizond must be in Middle-earth. Near Mordor or Gondor… it’s not far from Narnia…”

‘Trebizond’ evokes magic and mystery, but for Hellenes with roots in its territory, its other name from the ancient past to the conflicted present, Pontos, unleashes floods of memories… and tears.

I am sharing my remarkable journey from Athens to Constantinople to Trapezounta to the city of Kutaisi in Georgia, the third continuously occupied city in the world, and the capital of the Kingdom of Colchis, the land of the Golden Fleece and the final destination of Jason – yes, I became an Argonaut.

Before beginning the tale that began late afternoon on August 13 from one of Constantinople’s main bus stations – a brief tram ride (#5) from the Phanar and the Ecumenical Patriarchate – a word about Pontos, whose main Greek portion stretches along the Black Sea from the region of Bithynia, near Constantinople, far east to Georgia –

Trapezounta is actually… north of eastern Syria.

When the civil wars during the aftermath of the Battle of Manzikert in 1071 opened the gates of Asia Minor to the Seljuk Turks – yes, another case of Greeks hurting themselves as much as their enemies did – Byzantium retained the coastal strip due to its being a fertile region rich in mineral wealth and defensible thanks to the Pontian mountains. After the 4^th Crusaders seized Constantinople in 1215, shattering the empire, Trebizond was the name the West gave to the successor state comprised of Pontos and Crimea – it survived until 1461, a bit longer than Constantinople and the Morea.

My last views of the environs of Constantinople featured the lush Belgrade forest and crossing one of the Bosphorus bridges. Before the sun set I caught glimpses of the city of Nicomedia (Izmit), after which the bus plunged into the interior, and I plunged into sleep – not easy for me to do on planes, trains, and buses.

I set my alarm for 5:15 but my soul woke me up at 5, as if saying: “don’t miss even a second of this.” The driver just turned north. On one side of the road was a forest, on the other, bushes and grass – were ancient forests cut down for smelting ore, as in the Cyclades, or more recently for farmland? Is Turkey also plagued by wildfires and arson?

Asia Minor is wonderful land rich in natural and man-made wonders… a trip for Hellenes blends senses of awe, delight… and loss…

The morning light was turning on – an indescribable grandeur is revealed as Homer’s ‘rosy fingers of dawn’ tickled the landscape awake – and my soul, flooding with impressions… and memories. With the interior to our backs, I recalled its great cities – and planned future visits. Due south are the great cities of Amasya and Sevasteia – we passed north of Ankara when I was asleep. Those places were filled with Hellenes… until 1923 – the Asia Minor Catastrophe, the so-called voluntary exchange of population (ethnic cleansing by another name) that followed genocides. I forced myself from the pain of the past to my encounter with the current moment.

I imagine there are not many places on Earth like this, where you feel history rising from the depths – through layer and layer, history’s voices echoing its polyphonous, cacophonous multicultural song of ten millennia – yes, there were agricultural settlements 8,000 years ago in Asia Minor from which scholars like Colin Renfrew believe Indo-Europeans, including the ancestors of Hellenes, emerged (not southern Russia).

I don’t know the sounds and looks of the lives of hunter-gatherer cultures that preceded those farming communities and pro-cities like Catal Huyuk, but from the hands and faces and songs of my yiayias and pappous, my late Thio Giorgo and Thia Maria Zampelis, and my Thio Zanny and his son-in- law Frazesko I can paint a picture in my mind of who and what was there.

The feelings were rising… like the mist emerging from the plains to my left and right, nestled between the Pontic mountains and the great body of water to the north, but… where is it? I don’t see it, and then, of a sudden, “Thalatta! Thalatta!” the Black Sea, treacherous to strangers, bounteous to its friends.

The bus slides into the coastal road (not divided, 60 MPH, treacherous indeed – I hope the driver is fully awake!) and one by one the great Pontian cities (there are few ancient remains, but the feelings, the feelings!) go by: Samsounta. Rizounta. Kerasounta – the  land of cherries – all the magnificent ‘Ountas’ (sounds like ‘Ontos’… the very ‘being’ of our many Pontian friends, I thought.)

With every roadside mosque we pass, I imagine the people in nearby seats hearing me choking back tears, clearing my nose and throat – “Thee mou, giati? Why God?”

And you hear it (what else could it be) the Adagietto – Mahler’s ode to loss… then the pain gets Hellenized – the poignant song Tsompanakos.

But up ahead… I can’t wait… Trapezounta, yes, Trebizond – but my time there is an upcoming story.