The Shipwreck of Theseus
A Zeno the Stoic Adventure.
Hail Lambpoonies!
What follows is a new epilogue for The Dog. Or the prologue of an entirely new story. Who can say?
304 B.C.
Zeno watched his life wash ashore, piece by shattered piece.
Only a fraction of his ship had arrived on that beach alongside him. Flotsam, jetsam, and his personsam mingled among rocks and sand under the Mediterranean sun. Purple dye stained the beach as he lay on his back, his chest heaving with each breath. Overhead, seagulls screamed displeasure at whatever upsets birds.
It could have been worse. He'd made it all the way from Citium in Cyprus, even if his boat hadn't. His dyes hadn't, either. Not intact. But he had. Athens. The city of drama, commerce, comedy, learning, science, philosophy, and more than a few tragedies. In this town, things moved. Events occurred. It couldn't be helped.
Even the dogs barked with wisdom here. Mostly. Everyone had heard stories of Diogenes the Dog, who had spent many years in Athens before retiring to Corinth. He’d also heard of Plato and his Academy, Aristotle and his Lyceum, and an interesting newcomer named Epicurus, who owned a Garden that wasn't at all like the other gardens.
Though one beach looked much like another, he knew he was near Athens for one simple reason. The smell. Piraeus specifically, the dock district of the city. There was no other reek as rank or unique as the Piraeus. He'd shipped his purple dyes all over the Mediterranean to satisfy wealthy obsessives. He'd smelled a lot of smells, many foul and crustacean, like the refineries where they made his dye from stinky sea-critters. But nothing compared to the raw, unbridled brine of the Piraeus.
The air cut and howled its way as it invaded unfortunate nostrils, salting the fresh wounds as it went. The naked eye could almost see it, if they weren't pouring tears in a last, desperate act of self-preservation.
Once, he'd spent a week offloading his dyes there. By the sixth day, he had become used to the constant olfactory assault, inspiring a mild panic in himself as he worried his nose had retired completely. But on the seventh day, he stepped in some road crap and delighted himself by working the wet feces from his sandal with a stick. He'd retched in disgusted delight at his sense of smell's survival. It was like a gym for his nose.
He sat up and surveyed his dark-skinned body. His squat legs were bruised and scraped. His flabby gut was uncut, his scrawny arms similar to his legs, and his head intact atop his crooked neck. It was like that before the wreck and would remain so. No injuries of real note, unlike his tunic, which appeared to have gone missing. Miraculously, his sandals had survived, which as the only stitch he wore, made him feel more naked than not. He panicked for a moment as he surveyed the beach in shame and embarrassment for both witnesses and something to wear.
Before long, he spotted a sack. It was soiled, filthy, and looked older than the beach. Zeno lifted it up and onto his head, pulling it down over his body, punching holes with first his head then his hands. It would do until he could get a proper tunic sorted in the city. He set out to do just that.
He wandered east along the beach, coming closer to the city. As he did, signs of civilization clustered more often. First a couple shacks, then a few tiny, rotted out piers piercing the seafoam, and finally, the shipyards came into sight. The beating heart of the Athenian navy, countless ships had been erected there.
He watched men laying fresh timber, and a thought occurred to him.
If he could put his ship back together, piece by shattered piece, and restock it with his Phoenician dyes, would it be the same ship it had been? Or would it be a brand-new ship? A life was like a ship. Sort of. Memory and ideas the material it was built from.
Maybe a vacation was what he needed. He was rich, after all. Obscenely wealthy. His ship had been insured, as well as the most likely dead slaves who had rowed it. Zeno would be fine if he took a bit of time off. He wanted to know if a rebuilt ship was the same as it was.
Taking a deep breath, immediately regretted, he reminded himself catastrophe was often a full-throated opportunity in disguise. And a man was only injured if he believed he was. Zeno had only lost his shirt, really. And his sack had started to grow on him, anyway.
He wandered north through the city, following signs pointing towards its center, passing hundreds of other pedestrians. He steeled himself for their pitiful glances and averted eyes, but many stared right at him, smiling. There was one exception, where a man had thrown a stick at him like a spear with a grin. Zeno simply hurried along, leaving his cheerful attacker and stick behind.
During this walk, a voice streamed out the door of a bookstore and he stopped to listen.
“If we wanted a good friend, how should we start on the quest? Should we seek first for one who is no slave to eating and drinking, lust, sleep, idleness? For the thrall of these masters cannot do his duty by himself or his friend.”
Stepping inside the bookstore, Zeno saw the voice's source standing and reciting from memory. The man gestured with his hands as he did, clearly lost in the performance.
The orator continued. “What of the man who is such a keen man of business that he has no leisure for anything but the selfish pursuit of gain? We must avoid him too, I think.”
Whew, Zeno thought. Good thing he'd started his vacation just hours before. He asked the clerk at the counter, “What is he reciting?”
Bored, bookstore clerk eyes turned to him. “Xenophon's Memorabilia. Five bucks to take it home.”
“Take what home?” Zeno pointed at the performer. “Him?”
“No, you nerd. A copy of Memorabilia.”
“Oh,” Zeno replied. “I'm a bit strapped at the moment.”
“Then get out.”
“Where can I find people who write or say things like this Xenophon?”
The clerk pointed at the exit as a dirty, hunched man with a staff and long, grey beard shuffled by.
“Fine, fine,” Zeno pouted. “I'm leaving.”
“Good. But I mean that hunchback is what you're after.”
“Really?”
“I guess so, nerd,” the clerk spat. “He's poor and homeless, too.”
Zeno ignored that last bit as he hurried out the door after the man with the staff. He called after him, “Sir! Sir! Excuse me! Pardon! Sir! If I may?”
Turning, the man looked Zeno up and down before saying, “I don't care what you may or may not.”
“The clerk told me you knew something about philosophy.”
“I sure do. Philosophy is for nerds,” the man declared solemnly. “Now, go away. Creeping Egyptian vines freak me out.”
“I’m Phoenician!”
“Your identity is not my problem.”
“My identity doesn’t concern you?”
“Nope. Nothing concerns me except the next zinger I fling at the prostitutes and whatever they toss back. Those chicks are hard, man. No better workout for the mind than getting into a shouting match with one of those pump-dumpsters.”
“What is a pump-dumpster?”
“Doric Greek for Phoenician.”
Zeno grinned. He was already learning the local lingo. So cool. “Can I come with you?”
“I’m pretty sure I just told you no. I can't have pump-dumpsters hanging about tanking my reputation.”
“Can I ask one question then?”
“That's up to you, guy.”
“If a ship was torn down and its parts all put back together, is it the same ship?”
“That's a stupid question and you're stupid for asking it. I already told you identity stuff is boring. That question doesn't get us closer to understanding anything real. Now, piss off.”
"What about rebuilding a life?”
Crates stopped and grinned a hunchbacked grin. This fellow was a bit fussy, the kind of casual fuss a good teacher beats out of a student within days. He'd done it before. He had several puppies by now.
But there was something about the fat, little Phoenician who stood before him. He reminded him of another he’d known. That man had died decades ago, but he still sought those like him. He had been assured there would always be those like him. Sometimes, he even carried his old friend’s lantern as he roamed the city, filling faces with its light, seeking the honest yet finding only liars asserting honesty.
That man was gone forever. But perhaps, he thought, he had found the raw material to rebuild an honest man. Maybe.
“Hey,” the hunchback asked, squinting in suspicion. “Are you an honest man, by the way?”
“Gods no,” Zeno exclaimed with a rare giggle. “Gods, gods, gods. No, I am not and have never met one. I'm a merchant.”
“Okay, you know what? Come with me, my little Egyptian vine. You can do my chores.”
“Phoenician!”
“Excuse you,” Crates replied. “Now we just need to find you a walking stick. Nice sack, by the way.”
NEXT CHAPTER:
Did you enjoy this? That’s weird and you’re weird for doing that. But here’s a sample chapter from a whole book filled with this kind of stuff.
I dig this world and historical fiction in general. Compelling writing that held my attention. And I d/k why I love the idea of the dye maker but that’s a really cool idea.