From Mount Lycabetus, I look out over two and a half millennia of Athens. The city looks as if it washed up here on the tides of the Aegean. The walls are pale as seashells, windows glistening with mother-of-pearl. Neighborhoods splash up the mountain foothills, shimmering as if with sea-spray. Skimming the waters of the Aegean, island silhouettes scissor through the noon-haze. Why didn’t Homer have a word for this Olympic azure?