Most people walk right past it without even noticing. It’s the gate at the lower end of the staircase leading to the Propylaea of the Acropolis. Two low towers, a silent stone opening. Few realize that this modest structure was once the only thing standing between invaders and the sacred summit. And to bring it back to light, they had to use gunpowder.
This gate was built around 270 AD, following the sacking of Athens by the Heruli. It wasn’t designed to impress. It was built to keep people out. The Acropolis was no longer a site of worship—it had become a fortress. And this gate, once the starting point of the road to the goddess, now sealed everything off behind stone and towers.
But the gate itself was a product of reuse. It was constructed from marble blocks and column drums taken from another, much older monument: the Choregic Monument of Nicias. This Doric-style monument had once celebrated a victory in a choral competition, and its inscription can still be seen above the gate—a tribute to glory, sacrificed in the name of security.
Today we know it as the Beulé Gate, and for centuries it stood forgotten. Neither the Franks nor the Ottomans made use of it. They covered it, built over it, ignored it. Then, in 1852, a young French archaeologist named Charles-Ernest Beulé became convinced there was something buried beneath.
He began digging with a shovel, but the ground had hardened over the centuries. The concrete of history wouldn’t yield. So he called for help from sailors in the French navy stationed in the Aegean—and brought explosives. Sixty-eight kilograms of gunpowder. He blasted through the soil, and the marble gate finally emerged. He believed at first he had found the original entrance built by Mnesicles, but it was later confirmed to be of Roman construction.
The discovery was celebrated with fanfare. King Otto and Queen Amalia visited the site. France honored Beulé. He himself carved an inscription in ancient Greek: “France discovered the gate of the Acropolis”—his name, naturally, included. Greek archaeologists accused him of vanity. One even described him as “the man who tried to blow up the Acropolis.”
And yet, the Beulé Gate still stands. Built from broken monuments, forged in fear of sieges, unearthed through explosives and sheer human persistence. It’s the first thing you see when ascending toward the Acropolis—and perhaps the most misunderstood.
