Chapter III: Stones That Remember

Back at the Citadel, I continued wandering, and soon the path opened into the ruins of the Temple of Hercules.

Built around 160 AD during the Roman occupation, it was once a grand structure meant to honor strength itself.
Now, a few battered columns stood, stubborn and silent, reaching toward the sky.

I tilted my head back, marveling at the sheer size of the columns.
I thought of the people who built this — the artisans who shaped the stones with their own hands, the rulers who ordered the grand designs, the workers who spent their lives hauling, cutting, stacking — stone after stone, under a merciless sun.

As I went past the columns, to my left was the Hand of Hercules — a colossal fragment of a once towering statue, its thick fingers curled slightly, frozen in stone, hinting at the unimaginable grandeur that time had stripped away.

Crossing that, to my right tucked along the slope, was a small museum.

Inside, under dim lights, were artifacts that made the centuries collapse.

A few pots, plain and cracked, dating back over 2,000 years.
A bust — weathered but still noble — of a figure named Tyche.

The placard beneath the bust read:
"Goddess of Philadelphia. Daughter of Zeus."

I paused, puzzled first, and then leaned closer, curiosity prickling at the back of my mind.

Philadelphia?

My brain immediately jumped to the American city — cheesesteaks, Liberty Bell, Rocky steps and all.

What was that doing here?

It couldn’t be a mistake — not in a place like this.
Surely it was me who was missing something.

I decided to wait — to let the question linger — and promised myself I would find out once I was home.
(And I did.)

Amman was once known as Philadelphia, a name given by Ptolemy II Philadelphus, a ruler of Egypt and son of Ptolemy I, the Macedonian Greek general of Alexander the Great.
And Tyche was a symbol of fortune and the embodiment of the city of Amman.

As I wandered further through the quiet hallways, my eyes caught on a simple pot, chipped and weathered, displayed without ceremony.

It was dated back over two millennia — older than empires I had only ever read about.

It was just a pot.
No jewels, no elaborate designs.
Just something meant to hold water, or grain, or oil.

And yet... I couldn't stop thinking about the person who made it.

Who were they?

Maybe a young man, sitting cross-legged in a workshop, spinning wet clay with sunburned hands.
Maybe a woman, the best potter in her village, shaping vessels to trade for food.
Maybe a father teaching his child how to mold the earth itself into something useful.

Their names gone.
Their dreams, their struggles, their laughter and fears — erased by time.

And yet somehow, against all odds, this one small thing remained.
A whisper across centuries.
Proof that someone had lived, and worked, and cared enough to create something that could outlast even memory itself.