Abreas the Lewd

256 BC

Two years passed easily, making it 4998 years more of Corinth. The day was as normal as ever, and Cleopatra is lounging about on her chair, eating a few berries here and there.

"Oh, for the love of all that's holy, Cleo," exclaimed Markus, her personal guard, as he marched in. "You can't just sit around all day, you know!"

"You're my personal guard, not my father or my husband-brother, stop ordering me around, your princess, and look after my son crawling over there." Cleopatra rolls her eyes.

Her son, the an heir to the throne, is a mere toddler, and apparently, the fate of the kingdom depends on whether he learns to sit still today or not. The room is bathed in a gentle light that filters through the gold-embroidered curtains, casting a warm glow over the opulent furnishings and the marble floors.

The air is thick with the scent of exotic flowers, their sweetness almost too much to bear. It's a stark contrast to the bustling market outside down the hill, where the common folk haggle over goods that could never grace these royal chambers.

"I can't believe I have to share the Acrocorinth with whores! Markus, can you believe that? There are a thousand whores on this hill!" Cleopatra whines, munching on dates.

"Well, you can't expect to be the only one enjoying the view," Markus quips, earning an eye roll from the princess. The Acrocorinth is a rocky outcrop that overlooks the city of Corinth, a strategic position that's been fortified since the Bronze Age.

It's the perfect spot for Macedonian royal palace, and unfortunately, the perfect spot for a brothel too (Temple of Aphrodite). The sound of distant laughter and bargaining wafts in from the brothel, grating on Cleopatra's nerves.

"I hope someone kills them all, the Greeks won't do it, then will the Romans?" Cleopatra's voice is as lazy as the afternoon sun slanting through the windows.

Her eyes are half-closed as she watches her son play with a golden rattle. It's a rare moment of peace in the royal court, and she's determined to savor it, despite Markus' protests.

In these past two years Corinth has been peaceful, resources are flowing from Iberia as Euenios is there plundering the place and Damasos, King Demetrius II, and more of the others are here too.

A loud noise rattles in one of the halls, the smell of alcohol permeating through to Cleopatra's nose. "Is that drunk around again?"

"Ah, the prodigal prince returns," Markus says with a sigh.

The door to the chamber swings open, and in stumbles Prince Abreas, his arm wrapped around a scantily clad woman whose giggles are as loud as his stagger. The woman's hair is as wild as the party they've just come from, her eyes glittering with a mix of excitement and fear at being in the presence of the princess.

"Cleo, my dear," Abreas slurs, raising his wine-filled cup. "Meet my...friend."

"I'm your aunt."

"Ah, yes, the lovely Auntie Cleo," Abreas says, grinning like a fool. His grip on the woman's breast tightens, and she giggles, trying to push his hand away. Cleopatra sighs heavily, setting aside her berries. She can feel a headache building behind her eyes.

"Are you done with your pilgrimage?"

Prince Abreas squints, trying to focus on Cleopatra's face. "Pilgrimage? Oh, the party! It was divine, Cleo. You should've seen the entertainment. They had acrobats, and dancers, and...oh, what's her name," he says, nodding towards the woman at his side.

"Oh Zeus, just get the hell out of here."

Cleopatra's voice is a mix of exasperation and resignation. Markus moves to stand between the couple and the toddler, his hand resting firmly on the hilt of his sword. The woman giggles nervously, tugging at Abreas' arm.

"Something must have happened to push the Romans to Greece. Those people are usually barbaric, but now they're here." Markus contemplates with himself.

The toddler giggles at the sight of his uncle, reaching his chubby arms out for the shiny cup. The woman at Abreas' side looks around the room, her eyes widening at the opulence. She's clearly used to a different kind of grandeur, one that involves velvet and silk rather than gold and marble.

"Ugh, keep that whore out of here, Markus, your musings are not helping the situation, if you really want to save Macedon, go to Damasos, the hell out of here!"

Cleopatra's voice is a sharp snap that cuts through the room's frivolous atmosphere. She stands abruptly, the chair she was lounging in screeches against the floor. The toddler, startled, clutches at the golden rattle with a wail. Markus rolls his eyes but complies, taking the unsteady prince by the shoulder and guiding him and his 'friend' out the door.

"Remember, Abreas, we have a council meeting tomorrow. Try not to be too... divine." Cleopatra's sarcasm hangs in the air as the door closes behind them, the sound of Markus' stern voice fading away.

She scoops up her son, holding him tight to her chest to shield him from the harshness of the world outside, and the sudden quiet that fills the room. His tiny heart beats against her, a gentle reminder of the responsibilities she has to uphold.

She cradles him, her eyes lingering on his soft features, so innocent and oblivious to the chaos that brews beyond the palace walls.

"Krateros, in the future you will die." She whispers, kissing his forehead.

...

..

.

The corridors of the palace echoed with the sound of Abreas' unsteady footsteps as he navigated the grandeur with the grace of a newborn foal. The prostitute, her name a forgotten whisper from the evening's festivities, clung to his arm, her laughter a shrill counterpoint to the solemn silence of the halls.

Her breasts, barely contained by the flimsy fabric of her dress, jiggled with each step, drawing the occasional gawks from passing servants who scurried away like cockroaches when Markus' stern gaze fell upon them.

Finally, they reached Abreas' chamber, a garish display of wealth that was a stark contrast to the restrained elegance of Cleopatra's own quarters. The room was a mess of discarded garments, half-empty wine jugs, and the remnants of what once had been a grand feast.

The bed, a sprawling monstrosity of velvet and gold, looked like it had been used as a battleground for a small army. Abreas flopped onto it without a care, pulling the woman down with him. Her giggles turned into squeaks as he fumbled with the strings of her dress.

Markus closed the door with a heavy sigh, his hand lingering on the handle. He knew better than to leave Abreas to his own devices, but Cleopatra had made it clear she didn't want the child exposed to this kind of debauchery.

He took a step away from the door, his boots echoing in the hallway. The corridor was eerily quiet without the prince's entourage. He glanced back, the shadows playing tricks on him, making the door seem to lean inward as if the room itself was about to spill out its contents.

The day quickly spills over to night, and Abreas is now sitting at the edge of his bed, taking a swig of his bottle.

"Why the Romans?" He murmurs to himself, his thoughts a tangled mess of wine and paranoia. The candles in the room flickered, casting jumpy shadows across his face. His mind raced with the whispers of the evening's gossip.

The Romans were a force to be reckoned with, a beast that had consumed nations with the same ease that he had consumed his dinner. They had no respect for the old ways, the gods, or the sanctity of family. They were a plague, a disease that threatened to corrupt the very fabric of Greek society.

"Why are they here now? When did they..." Abreas grunts, standing up. If there's something he loves other than big breasts is Macedonia. Plus it's not like he goes around groping random women, he goes to the Temple of Aphrodite to get the professionals... Honestly he doesn't know what's wrong with what he's doing, others are doing it out in the open in the Temple at least he has the decency to get into his room...

But he knows there's no use in defending himself.

Abreas stumbles over to the window, the curtains fluttering as he throws them aside. The moon is a sliver in the sky, casting a silver path on the sea of rooftops below.

The distant lights of Corinth twinkle like a sea of stars, a reminder of the vastness of the world beyond his debauchery-filled chamber. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his thoughts as muddled as the wine stains on the bedspread.

The Romans, they're the latest in a long line of conquerors, but there's something about their cold precision that sends a shiver down his spine. They don't come with the grandiose promises of the Greeks or the fiery passion of the Macedonians, just the cold steel of their legions and the inexorable march of their ambition.

This drunk man was once a good man, sad backstory and all that semantics, everyone has a sad backstory, obviously Abreas should just pucker up and take it.

But no. Every time he closes his eyes he can see Larissa burning to the ground, and him running away like a coward, the smell of roasted meat the burnt corpse of his lover and illegitimate child, their burnt faces reaching out to him but as the Romans moved around the city wantonly slaughtering the population he ran.

He ran far until he can't run anymore, unlike his uncle Damasos who was outside fighting the Romans he ran. A grown ass 22 year old man ran away. Pathetic, unworthy of even Hades.

"I'm just a fucking coward, a sissy... no, calling me a sissy is disrespectful to the ladyboys in Acrocorinth brave enough to take it up... Am I even a descendant of Alexander?"

Abreas' thoughts swirled in his inebriated mind, a tornado of doubt and despair. He knew his people looked up to him, expecting him to be the hero, the savior of Macedon, but he felt like the furthest thing from it.

His hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles whitening with the effort, as he leaned heavily on the windowsill. The cool breeze that wafted in did nothing to sober him up, but it did clear his head enough for him to realize the gravity of the situation.

With a grunt, he stumbled over to a table laden with half-eaten food and half-finished drinks. He grabbed the nearest pitcher of water and downed it in one go, the cold liquid sluicing down his throat and into his stomach.

He gagged, but it was a small price to pay for the clarity that began to seep into his brain. The room spun less, the shadows grew more defined, and his thoughts began to coalesce into something resembling coherence.

"I am the son of Demetrius II, grandson of Antigonos II, great-grandson of Demetrius I, great-great-grandson of Antipater I, great-great-great-grandson of Thessalonike who is the sister of Alexander the Great, but what the hell am I by myself. Am I simply an avatar of their legacy?" His sober rambling (which is wrong by the way, Antigonos II's mom is already Alexander's cousin) just blurts out of his lips.

The woman beside him looks up with glazed eyes, the alcohol and passion of the night wearing off, revealing the tired lines of a life spent pleasing others.

"Your...highness?" She whispers, unsure of what she's just heard.

Abreas sighs heavily, setting the pitcher down with a clonk. He turns to the woman, his eyes clearing, his voice steady. 

"You can... go home now to the Temple... I will go there tomorrow with a tip for you." Abreas looks away with resolve, there's no need to ever come back to the Temple in the future, there are Romans to fight for Abreas the Lewd.