Spartan Run

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Do you have any idea what this is?” King Agesilaus queried imperiously.

Blade refused to give the man the satisfaction of a reply. He stared at the field in front of him, which extended to the east for 300 yards, then glanced over his right shoulder at the Royal Palace. He’d been escorted, under tight security, from the audience chamber and out a door at the rear of the structure. Now he stood at the edge of the field, with Spartans on both sides and to his rear, all Agesilaus’s soldiers except for two.

Both General Agis and Major Xanthus had insisted on accompanying the king. They’d told him they wanted to witness the Marathon of Death, and Agesilaus had gladly assented.

“This is a training field,” the ruler was saying. “When those assigned to palace duty aren’t required for specific tasks, they come out here to hone their skills. During the midday meal break dozens work out instead of eating.”

Blade surveyed the field. A gravel track ringed the outer boundary, evidently for jogging and foot races. There were bales of hay set up at one point, stacked three high, to which targets had been attached. There were also practice dummies dangling from wooden scaffolds. Each dummy was the size of a man and had white circles painted on its cloth surface to signify human vital points.

“Do you see the men I sent out?” Agesilaus asked.

The Warrior couldn’t miss them. Eight riflemen were positioned along the outside of the track, spaced equal distances apart. Between them they covered every square inch of the field.

“If you try to flee, you’ll be shot,” the monarch stated gleefully. “If you break the rules, you’ll be shot. And if you don’t follow my instructions to the letter, guess what happens?”

Blade glared and clenched his fists.

“Allow me to explain about the Marathon of Death,” Agesilaus went on.

“Occasionally a Spartan fails to perform his duties as required, or exhibits inferior ability in combat. If the violation is serious enough, as in a case of suggested cowardice, the offender is given the opportunity to prove himself by running the Marathon, If he survives the tests he’s redeemed. If he doesn’t, then it’s taken as an omen that he wasn’t fit to be a soldier, that the charges against him were true.”

Curiosity compelled Blade to speak. “What kind of tests are you talking about?”

“Ahhh. I have your undivided attention at last,” Agesilaus said sarcastically. “The tests are very simple, actually. Yost primary goal will be to run around the entire track.”

“What else?”

The ruler took a few steps and pretended to be studying the field. “Now let me see if can remember all of them.” He chuckled. “Yes. I think I do.”

“Impossible,” Blade said.

“What?” Agesilaus said, his train of thought disrupted. He glanced at the giant, clearly puzzled.

“It’s impossible to think unless you have a brain,” Blade elaborated, and indulged in a self-satisfied smirk.

The monarch glowered. “Is your petty witticism supposed to anger me?

A man of my stature is above such trifling insults.” He turned to the field again. “Now where was I? Oh, yes. Your tests.”

“Have you ever run the Marathon of Death?” Blade interrupted him again.

Agesilaus, his resentment transparent, pivoted. “Don’t be absurd. Why should I submit to a lowly test of courage?”

“I figured as much,” Blade said. “In fact, I’ll bet you’ve never even been in combat. You’re a coward, the kind who hides behind his royal office and lets others do his dirty work.”

At the word “coward,” Agesilaus went livid. He hissed and took a step toward the prisoner, his hands upraised, about to strike.

Blade braced for the attack, his plan of action already thought out. If he could get his arm around the would-be tyrant’s neck, he might be able to reach the SEAL. None of the Spartan would do anything to endanger their ruler’s life, and a simple threat to snap the power monger’s neck should do the trick.

Suddenly Agesilaus halted, a crafty gleam lighting up his eyes, and lowered his arms. “Damn, you’re good. You almost tricked me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Blade said innocently.

“Sure you don’t,” Agesilaus snapped, and pointed at the targets 50 yards distant. “You can see that bales of hay have been arranged in a row from north to south as backing for the targets used by our archers and shooters. Your first challenge involves a test of speed. You’ll run along the track until you are even with the bales, then move off it and wait for the signal. When I give the word, you’ll race from one end of the bales to the other, passing directly in front of the targets. Should you survive, you will return to the track and continue.”

“Will I be dodging automatic weapons fire?” Blade asked caustically.

“No. Arrows,” Agesilaus said, and glanced at a nearby Spartan.

“Lieutenant, move your squad into position.”

The officer nodded and promptly led nine other soldiers, each armed with a bow, out onto the field. They jogged to within 30 feet of the bales and arranged themselves in a corresponding row, each archer standing directly in line with one of the targets.

“After the test of speed comes the test of skill,” Agesilaus went on.

“You’ll run until you reach the area where the dummies are set up for the soldiers to practice their swordsmanship. Four men will be waiting for you there.” He indicated a quartet standing to his right and and they sprinted off. “Should you vanquish each and every one, then you’ll return to the track and complete your circuit.”

“Pardon me, King Agesilaus,” General Agis interjected. “Isn’t it traditional for the test of skill to pit one runner against only two opponents?”

“Yes, but I’m making an exception in this case. I wouldn’t want our huge friend to become bored.”

Agis frowned but said no more.

“And now we come to the last test, the test of endurance,” the ruler said. “You see, not only must you complete a circuit of the track, but you must do so without being wounded.”

“And if I am?” Blade inquired, surveying the track solemnly.

“Then the riflemen posted around the perimeter will open fire and riddle you with bullets,” Agesilaus stated, grinning maliciously.

The Warrior glanced at a soldier who was holding his Bowies. “Am I permitted to carry weapons? I’d like to take my knives.”

“You must be joking.”

General Agis and Major Xanthus looked at one another, and the head of the secret police voiced an objection. “It’s traditional for the runner to be permitted to carry a sword, your highness.”

Agesilaus stared coldly at the officer. “I had no idea you were such a stickler for tradition, my dear general.”

“More than you know, sir.”

“In any event, the traditions you desire to uphold apply exclusively to Spartans, not to outsiders.”

Agis jerked his right thumb at the giant. “He should at least be given a fair chance. That’s the decent thing to do.”

“Tradition and decency,” Agesilaus said sarcastically. “You’re a virtual pillar of moral behavior.”

“Spartans are renowned for their fairness, my lord,” Agis noted. “We wouldn’t want word to get around that we had put an outsider to a rigged test, would we?”

The king’s nostrils flared and his lips compressed. “Rigged? Who would dare accuse me of such an act?”

“Certainly not I,” General Agis said with a slight bow. “But you know as well as I do how tongues can wag. Even if the accusation was untrue, the story might still spread.” He paused. “Why add fuel to the fire, if you get my meaning?”

“I get it, all right,” Agesilaus stated harshly. He stared at the Warrior for a moment, nervously gnawing on his lower lip. “Very well!” to spat.

“The prisoner may take his knives. Never let it be said I’m an unjust man.”

The soldiers holding the Bowies took a pace toward the giant, intending to hand them over.

“Not yet, you ninny!” Agesilaus barked. “You’ll wait until he has gone ten yards on the course, then give them to him. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Blade queried.

Agesilaus’s brow knit. “Not that I know of.”

“If I survive this Marathon of Death, what do I win?”

“Your life.”

“Not good enough.”

The monarch snorted. “Don’t presume to dictate terms to me.”

“I want your promise of safe passage out of Sparta for my friends and myself.”

Agesilaus cocked his head and made a show of squinting up at the sky.

“The sun must be affecting your judgment.”

Blade folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not budging until I have your word.”

“I’ll have you shot where you stand.”

“Go ahead.”

Bewilderment and anger fought for dominance on the ruler’s visage, and anger won. “Don’t think I won’t! Are you prepared to die right here and now?”

“Yes.”

Agesilaus did a double take. “You’re bluffing, outsider.”

“Try me,” Blade said, and be meant every word. He wasn’t about to run the course simply to provide sadistic amusement for the monarch. A pledge of freedom, given in front of witnesses, would be an ideal incentive to see it through. Besides, he told himself, if Agesilaus did give the order to have him shot, he’d try and reach the bastard before the slugs brought him down and snap the man’s neck.

“What harm can such a promise do, your majesty?” General Agis commented. “The odds of him surviving are extremely slim. And even if he does, good riddance to him and his intervention in Sparta’s internal affairs.”

“You have a point,” Agesilaus said, although his tone betrayed marked skepticism. “Do I have your word?” Blade pressed him.

Hissing through clenched teeth, Agesilaus nodded. “Yes, outsider. You have my promise that you and your companions will be permitted from Sparta should you survive the tests.”

“I can’t ask for more,” Blade said sweetly, and glanced at Agis. Why was the officer befriending him?

“Let’s get this underway,” Agesilaus declared. He clapped his hands once, then motioned for the giant to start running. “Off you go, and I hope I never have the displeasure of talking to you again.”

Blade jogged slowly forward, the soldier bearing his knives keeping pace on his left. He glanced at the archers, the swordsmen, and the riflemen, and wished he could use the Commando instead.

What to do?

What to do?

Teucer repeated the same question over and over again in his mind.

Blade had been gone over half an hour. He was under strict orders to leave and go find Rikki. But how could he just up and drive off, leaving Blade to an unknown fate? What if the giant was in trouble? He’d never forgive himself if Blade died.

What the hell should he do?

He’d slid into the driver’s seat as soon as Blade disappeared inside the palace, and now he anxiously tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and stared apprehensively at the keys in the ignition. There was another reason he didn’t like the idea of driving off; he lacked confidence in his ability. As part of Blade’s new policy to give every Warrior going on a run lessons in how to handle the transport, he’d spent several hours familiarizing himself with the operation of the SEAL. He’d even taken the van on several hour-long chaperoned practice jaunts and learned the basics of steering, braking, and negotiating rugged terrain. But he still got a case of the willies at the mere thought of driving any great distance by himself.

Damn these Spartans!

Teucer leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He could use a few hours of sleep, but he dispelled the urge. First things first. The way he saw the situation, he had three choices. He could obey Blade and go rescue Rikki. He could defy the head Warrior and try to find Blade. Or he could sit there and do nothing.

What wonderful options.

He opened his eyes again, then stiffened.

Spartans were pouring from the palace. Ten, 15, 20 of them in rows of two. They quickly descended the steps and fanned out around the SEAL, training their M-16’s and UZIs on the tinted plastic.

Teucer knew he was safe. It would take an industrial diamond drill to penetrate the transport’s nearly impregnable body, and he doubted very much that the Spartans possessed such a device. Once before, about three years ago, the nefarious Technics had used just such a drill to bore a small hole in the side so they could slip a hanger in and unlatch the lock. That was the only time the SEAL had ever been breached.

Two more soldiers emerged, one of them holding an object in his right hand.

Teucer leaned forward, trying to get a good look at the item. The pair were halfway down the steps before he succeeded, and recognition caused him to clutch the steering wheel in dismay.

The Spartan held a bundle of dynamite.