Symbol of my Oppression

The sinews of war starts from the bones of the dead, or something like that. The City of Corinth has been peaceful for a few months but today the gale has been blowing in the opposite direction.

The streets are quiet, eerily so. It's the kind of quiet that makes you want to check your tunic for your pouch. The cobblestones are gleaming as if they've just been licked by a giant cat. There's not a soul in sight, not even a stray dog rummaging through.

Sickness has been in the air since the beginning of the wine spill that ravaged a third of the city, a shipment of wine from the other Greek Cities brought in by merchants has spilled into the streets, and the tsunami drowned a few dozen people.

That's not all, the sickly sweet stench has attracted flies and locusts, devastating the crop yields throughout the farms surrounding the city. Compounding with all that, the Macedonians are continuing to recruit soldiers into their legions.

The market square is deserted, the usually bustling center of commerce is now a ghost town. The awnings hang limp and sad, as if they too have succumbed to the weight of the recent disasters. The only sounds are the distant calls of seagulls and the occasional clank of metal from the armory where soldiers are sharpening their weapons.

The war is stretching the patience of these people thin, and Greece's city of Love hasn't had their temple empty of patrons for a long time, and the whining of these holy whores are similar to the whining of the general population.

The fate of Corinth hinges on their whores getting dicked, and the fate looks bleak. 

Reading the palms of Corinth are a few teenagers and old folk hiding like rats in the sewers, their organization aiming to free Corinth from Macedonian tyranny, to be free and join the new alliance made by Sparta and Athens.

Their whispers are hushed as they huddle in the shadows, but the passion in their eyes burns like the fires of Mount Olympus. They're young, brash, and ready to spill their blood for their city. They're not exactly the heroes of legend, but desperation has painted them in its colors.

For 82 years Corinth has been deprived of her independence, ceaselessly appeasing the Macedonians, but now that Macedonia is on their last ropes in Greece, there is only one more city left to liberate from the Empire of these barbarians.

The rebels move silently, spreading across the city, and in a tavern on the outskirts, their leader, a young man named Dionysus (I ran out of names), maps out their strategy on a stale piece of parchment with a stick of charcoal. His hand is steady, his eyes determined. 

The room is dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the flickering candles, casting long shadows across the faces of his comrades. The whispers of their plans mingle with the distant sound of a lyre, a reminder of the culture and freedom they are fighting for.

Dionysus's hand traces over the map, marking key locations with the charcoal stick. His gaze lingers on the city's gates, the very symbol of their oppression. "We strike at dawn," he murmurs, his voice a mix of resolve and the gravity of the moment. "The element of surprise is our only advantage."

The streets erupt in activity as the darkness envelops the city, as the resistance fighters of Corinth gather in their respective meeting places, and in one of the aristocrat's houses, in the large open forum the light of torches illuminate the faces of the conspirators.

In the middle stand two people, one is holding a Spartan Doru and the other is Dionysus. Dionysus steps up to the wooden lectern, addressing the thirty or so people in front of him. Around the city lights flickering like fireflies are flickering in the moonlight.

It's as if a normal night, Corinth is just busy after all with parties, gambling, drunk orgies and all of the above but this time, the houses are not participating in debauchery.

Dionysus clears his throat, the young man grips the sides of the lectern, looking stern. 

"Children of Corinth, it has been 80 years. Philip conquered our city, and our liberty has slowly been stripped. Another 15 years, and we'll be slaves! Tomorrow we'll tear down those gates, they are a symbol of our oppression! We'll let the Spartans into our city to liberate us! And today, will be the last day of the Empire!"

"Last day!"

The Strong Greeks yell out in pride, agony and desperation, but the anger and joy on their faces tell it all, they are ready to die for their city's eternal freedom.

As the tides of Attica pull back, the moon in Lamia shines bright, and the drums beat loudly in Pergamum and Rhodes, the entire Greek world is mobilized for war.

Just like Thebes before them, Corinth will soon follow her steps.

...

..

.

King Demetrius is standing atop the Acrocorinth, overlooking the city, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. His fingers tightly grip the cool marble of the parapet, the tension in his knuckles visible even from afar. He's been getting reports of strange happenings, whispers of rebellion that seemed to float on the very air itself. He knows that something is brewing in the city he holds in his iron grasp.

The moon casts a silver glow over the rooftops, and the shadows dance with the flickering light of the torches that line the walls. His mind is a storm, as he ponders the fate of his empire. Corinth is the jewel in his crown, the gateway to the Peloponnese, and if it falls... There is no more Macedonian Empire.

Demetrius paces the length of the Acrocorinth, his sandals slapping against the cold stone. He's a man who's seen too many battles, felt the weight of too many lives on his shoulders. His armor is polished, a stark contrast to the crumbling stones beneath his feet. He's lost too much already; his father, his men, his pride.

He can hear his troops whispering all the time, if he was half the man Alexander was Macedonia wouldn't be in this mess, the world would have been Macedonian.

But alas, he wasn't. And the world was slipping away from him like sand through his fingers, grain by grain. Demetrius knew the stakes. He knew the whispers of Sparta and Athens forming an alliance were more than just tavern talk. They were the harbingers of a storm that would sweep across the Greek world, and he had to act fast.

The city lay before him, a sprawling city of shadows and moonlit rooftops. It was a sight that could have been beautiful if not for the weight of dread that pressed down on his heart. The stillness was deceptive. He knew the rebels were out there, hiding in the shadows, plotting to rip his city from his grasp.

But one thing that always bothers him, is that they speak of Alexander, all of them as if mocking him speaks of Alexander! 

They speak of the great conqueror in whispers and hushed tones, as if invoking his spirit could somehow save them from the mess that they're in. The very name echoes through the corridors of power like a taunt, a constant reminder of what he's not.

At 45 years old, King Demetrius II is no longer Prince Gyros, the young and brash warrior who fought alongside his father, who would bully his siblings here and there. 'I kind of miss, Euenios...' Demetrius hasn't even used his real name since his father died, and a singe tear falls from his eye. It has been a thankless decade, full of retreats, defeats, and death.

He fought multiple battles against the Romans, the ones in Pella, Thessalonica, Larissa, and more. Even if he won sometimes, each battle would squeeze out the Macedonians out of Greece one by one.

The whispers grew louder in the night, like a crescendo of crickets before a storm. "Alexander," they'd say, "Alexander would have done this," or "Alexander would have done that." It was like a mantra, a spell to invoke the power of a ghost that no longer walked these lands.

Demetrius sighs heavily, his eyes drooping with exhaustion. The crown felt heavier with every passing day, a weight that no amount of victory feasts could ever lighten. He was tired, not just physically but spiritually, of being compared to a man who had conquered the world before he could even grow a decent beard. His father had been a giant, a legend, and now the very ground of Corinth felt like it was trembling beneath his feet, threatening to swallow him whole.

If his father, the pudgy man was once the man who defeated Pyrrhus, his grandfather is the living God of Athens, and his great-grandfather the King of Asia. What. Was. He?

Demetrius felt like the forgotten son, the one who's destined to live in the shadows of his ancestors, the one who had to fill the shoes of giants. He was tired of being the man who could never live up to expectations. His reign was a joke, a tragicomedy played out on the grand stage of history.

Demetrius II sighs, looking out to the moonlight.

"If I died tomorrow, they'd still speak of Alexander."