Chapter 10: "Laodicea" - Part C
No Longer Slaves
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The last violet smear of sunset still clung to the western peaks when I reached Neptune’s Trident, a low‑beamed drinking house squatting among wagon ruts and tether posts on Laodicea’s caravan road. Though the Lycus Valley lay a hundred Roman miles from the Aegean sea, the tavern flaunted the sea‑god’s chipped trident above its door as if Poseidon himself might wander in for watered wine. Perhaps it was jest, perhaps superstition—sailors and camel drovers alike trusted symbols more than magistrates—but the sign served another purpose: it told every man who trafficked in motion that here, within these smoke‑dark boards, journeys were bought and sold.
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