15
336 B.C.
Dio was home. Not Sinope, the city of his fathers. Nor Athens, where he'd learned so much. Corinth. Where he had felt love. Where he had chosen to return the favor. Where his oldest friend and his family yet lived. Family he’d chosen after the fact. After being sold.
He was still a citizen of the world, owing allegiance to no one, owned by none. But a dog needed a home and a dog always returned if he could. Tail between his legs or otherwise, no matter how long it took, the best boys always came home.
He’d expected resistance from the city, but fame sprints faster than any shuffling old man could hope to. Corinth vibrated with chatter about the homeless man who had stood face to face with Philip and his snake crazy, seventh wife.
The Macedonians were utterly unopposed now, having conquered all of Greece but Sparta under a banner of allyship. The cities were allowed to govern themselves, with Macedon keeping the peace, and so long as Macedon approved of said governing.
Local government were no more than hand puppets, but this didn't represent much of a change.
Avoiding Sparta was not an oversight on Philip’s part. They’d managed to reject his attentions with a single word and a silent threat. Dio wondered at the reputation needed to accomplish something like that. He wondered how historians would spin it.
The way Dio heard it, Philip opened diplomatic relations with Sparta like so. “If once I enter into your territories, I will destroy you all, never to rise again.”
The Spartan reply was typically Spartan. They simply replied with, “If.” No more.
When Philip asked if he should approach Sparta as a friend or foe, the Spartans replied with, “Neither.” No more.
They mostly spoke with their spears. Philosophy was not their thing, but Dio couldn’t help admire their sassy, frugal mouths, even if the rest of their bodies were fascist, totalitarian weirdos. Food sucked, too.
Corinth, though, was still much the same as Dio had left it. Ignoring the tracksuit sporting garrison keeping the peace and power in Philip’s hands. The Cranium was still there, near the tomb of a world famous prostitute named Lais. Dio’s kind of town.
He lounged on the steps leading to that gymnasium, watching men and women walk by on their way to somewhere else. Corinth wasn’t as busy or noisy as Athens and if Dio truly intended to retire - which he sort of did - it would do nicely. No one should bother him here.
The orphans he neglected in Athens had grown. They’d all survived to adulthood thanks to themselves. If they could manage to survive Philip as well, they’d live full lives. They’d already gotten started. They made hasty, head-pounding racket and called it music.
Even the Academy had to rethink exactly what they thought music was after hearing the scoundrels pound out ninety second spastic anthems. Dio hoped they'd tour soon. Corinth was a party town and they'd fit right in around the bar scene.
The assembled people of Corinth, upon receiving Dio, immediately offered him things. They offered him jobs, a free house, and similar objects of civilization. He denied them all, saying he didn’t want their chains. He’d been a slave in Corinth already. No thanks, even if it had been a ton of fun.
But when a mob of people are intent on doing someone well, a paltry protest from the intended victim can hardly deter them. They voted him a large wine jug, which they placed near the city agora, and which he neither accepted nor rejected. It was just there if he wanted it.
They even filled his beloved drinking bowl with fresh water every morning.
Some nights, he slept there. Others, he slept elsewhere. But always, he slept under the stars in full sight of gods and men. This drove Xeniades insane. Dio’s old master still lived and every night they got together to laugh and drink and talk. But Dio never stayed.
Once, Xeni brought Dio to his counting house while showing him around the city. Just once. Dio's name alone was enough to conjure chaos, but when he appeared in person, one of Xeni's best coin counters swept all the coins from the table in a fit and quit.
Not only did he seem to believe a slave could quit, he was last seen streaking naked through the city, screaming, “I want to be a dog!” Several elderly women were injured during the escape, but no charges could be filed, as no men had seen it happen.
When Xeni heard this, he stared hard at Dio, who whistled and looked everywhere but at him.
“Well,” Xeni demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“About what? I have a lot of things to say for myself. I'm my biggest fan.”
“About costing me my best counter!” Xeni cried. “Do you know how hard it is to teach a Greek to count?!”
“That's hurtful, Xeni,” Dio replied. “Of course I don't. I wouldn't even try. Pythagoras was absolutely nuts and not Greek at all, you know. Afraid of beans. But I can't be responsible for what other people do. That's just madness. It never ends.”
“You're just avoiding your responsibility,” Xeni pouted.
“You're just avoiding his responsibility. Think better of people, Xeni. Humans may be hot garbage, but we're trash with minds capable of reason. Responsibility comes with that. Sentient rubbish of a sort. Only tyrants want us to believe we have no will.”
“Yes, Dio,” Xeni said. “I just wonder why, when you're around, people make choices that cost me money.”
“Freedom ain't free,” Dio twanged.
“Isn't it supposed to cost the people who want to be free?”
“What?”
“Why does it cost me money for them to be free?” Xeni pressed.
“I don't make the rules, Xeni. I just pretend they exist when it's convenient. Besides, you probably don't even know his name.”
“I don't have to as long as we have pizza parties once a year! Momus? Monimounds? Mymuni? Guh,” Xeni deflated bemused, unable to recall the name. “I did miss you, Dio. This house hasn't been a home without you.”
“Shucks,” Dio blushed. “I missed your wife.”
“We all do, Dio,” Xeni spluttered through tears. “We all do. The whole damned city.” Dio knew what he meant, even if Xeni somehow still didn't.
The moment, fleeting as moments often are, shattered as the strong, confident voice of a newsman carried through the window from the street. “Philip is dead! Killed by Pausianus! Who was also killed! We'll never know why the rape victim killed his rapist! Alexander is king!”
Welp, there it was. They meant Olympias killed Philip so Alexander could be king. It took her years, but that plot bore fruit finally.
Crates was right after all. The son would inherit his father's work, his property, and all of his bloodlust for glory. Everything but his STDs. He'd have to collect his own.
If Alexander didn't derive libido dominandi from Philip, Achilles was still his hero. It was said he slept with a copy of Homer under his pillow, and any sober reading of Homer clearly shows Achilles was a gods damned cunt.
Disappointed I didn’t get through the whole chapter without using that word, huh? Don’t be mad at me. Alexander is the one who killed thousands of people because poetry. Get your outrages straight, people. Honestly.
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