Spartan Run

CHAPTER SIX

Blade had no idea what to expect when they reached Sparta. Although he entertained no preconceptions, he was nonetheless astounded by the awe inspiring spectacle that unfolded before his wondering gaze as he drove the SEAL along the gravel road into the heart of the city. He couldn’t bring himself to regard Sparta as a town, even though there were only 900 or so inhabitants, not when he beheld the marvelous architectural wonders situated in a narrow valley lined by steep cliffs. “This is incredible,” he breathed in amazement.

“A century of labor has gone into Sparta,” Captain Chilon stated proudly. He sat in the front passenger seat, his Uzi trained on the giant.

From the wide seat came a pertinent comment. “Spartan labor or the labor of the Helots?” asked Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.

Chilon glanced at the man in black. “Spartans aren’t laborers. We’re soldiers. Yes, the Helots built our city, assisted by criminal conscripts.” He paused. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Did the Helots do so willingly?”

“Most did. Not all Helots are dissatisfied with their status, as your tone implies.”

Blade was concentrating on the marble and granite structures. He felt as if he’d gone through a portal in time and somehow wound up in ancient Greece. During his schooling years at the Home he’d studied the history and culture of that country, and he remembered being impressed by photographs of the Parthenon, the Erechtheum, the temple of Poseidon, the temple of Apollo, and many others. Now here they were again, rising right before his eyes, resplendent in the bright sunlight, every bit as magnificent as the originals after which they were obviously patterned.

At the very center of the city, surrounded by a public square, sat an enormous Doric structure, its colonnades glistening, rearing ten stories high.

“That’s the Royal Palace,” Captain Chiton disclosed.

Blade simply nodded.

Spartans were everywhere, easily distinguished by their red clothes.

Even Spartan women wore red: red blouses, red skirts, red dresses, red shoes. Red ribbons or bows adorned their long hair. In contrast, the Helots in the city wore drab hand-me-downs or homemade clothing.

“Park in front of the Palace,” Chiton directed.

There was no need to ask exactly where to stop because a portion of the public square served as a parking area. Four jeeps were aligned in a row, each with a Spartan seated behind the wheel, apparently ready to depart at a moment’s notice.

Chiton noticed the direction of the giant’s gaze. “Only our most skilled drivers are assigned to the Transportation Squad. Usually only the Kings, the Ephors, or one of the high-ranking officers in the Crypteia use the jeeps.”

“You mentioned the Crypteia before,” Blade noted. “Is it a branch of your army?”

“The Crypteia are our secret police.”

“What purpose do they serve?”

Captain Chilon, who had his window down, waved at a Spartan strolling along the sidewalk. “The Crypteia help keep the Helots in line. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but the Helots outnumber us Spartans by a substantial margin. If it wasn’t for the secret police, the Helots might be inclined to revolt.” He paused. “They’ve tried in the past, and always without success.”

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“About what?”

“About whether or not there might be a flaw in your system,” Blade said.

“The Lawgivers designed a perfect government. Our system of checks and balances has served us well for over a century. There aren’t any flaws,” Chilon declared snobbishly.

Blade pulled the transport in alongside the nearest jeep and turned off the engine. He looked back at Rikki and Teucer, who were seated between Spartans, and smiled, only he smiled in a certain way, a very precise smile in which he touched the tip of his tongue to his lower lip while at the same time he tapped his right forefinger on his chin. To a casual observer the smile and the tap were innocent enough, but to the martial artist and the bowman they conveyed a secret message.

Because of the nature of their work, because the Warriors were frequently placed in life-or-death situations where verbal communications were impractical, a series of hand and facial gestures had been developed to enable them to convey messages without anyone else being the wiser.

Blade stared at each of them, and although neither Warrior reacted he knew they understood his instruction: STAY ALERT. FOLLOW MY LEAD.

“Everyone out,” Captain Chilon said, and opened his door. He extended his left arm toward the giant. “I’ll need those keys.”

“I’d prefer to keep them,” Blade said, debating whether to turn them over or put up a fight. The mission must come first, he reminded himself.

Reluctantly, he dropped the keys into the officer’s palm.

“Thanks. I’ll take good care of them,” Chiton said, and slipped them into his left front pocket.

“I hope so,” Blade responded. He slid out and moved around in front of the grill, studying the Royal Palace. A flight of ten steps led up to the first floor. Stationed at regular intervals all around the perimeter were Spartans armed with the traditional short swords and nontraditional M-16’s.

In short order Captain Chiton had his men lined up by twos. In front of them, bound at the wrists, was Rick Grennell. The officer indicated that the Warriors should walk ahead of the Helot, then he took the lead and headed toward the steps.

“Shouldn’t our vehicle be locked?” Blade asked.

“Why?”

“What if someone steals our provisions?”

Captain Chiton laughed. “No one will steal a single article. Petty thievery doesn’t occur in Sparta.”

“Never?”

“Not ever.”

“How did you Spartans accomplish that miracle?”

“It’s really very simple,” Chiton responded. “The penalty for stealing is to have both hands chopped off at the wrists. Since the law went into effect approximately ninety years ago there hasn’t been a single incident.”

“I wonder why,” Blade commented wryly.

“We also have a very low homicide rate,” the officer bragged. “The last murder in Sparta occurred seven years ago.”

“What’s the punishment for that? Beheading?” Blade joked.

“How did you guess?”

Blade glanced over his right shoulder at the six Spartan troopers. One of them had his Commando slung over a shoulder. Another had Rikki’s AR-15, which the Spartans had appropriated from the rear section of the SEAL. At least Rikki still possessed his katana, Teucer his bow, and he had his Bowies. If they weren’t accorded a friendly reception, they stood a fighting chance of reaching the transport. Once they were inside the virtually impervious van there was no way the Spartans could stop them from leaving.

Which reminded him.

The Founder had left only one set of keys for the SEAL. Blade had recently learned from an acquaintance in the Free State of California that machines existed capable of duplicating any key ever made. He wanted to have spares of the transport’s set produced at the first opportunity.

Captain Chiton made for a huge door at the top of the steps. He returned the salute of a guard, which consisted of pressing his clenched right fist to his left breast. “Are both kings in attendance?”

“Yes, Captain,” the guard replied.

“Good.” Chiton said, and paused while the trooper rapped loudly three times.

Blade heard a faint, click. The door swung slower inward, pulled from within.

Chiton motioned for them to proceed and entered the Royal Palace.

Inadvertently tensing, Blade stayed on the officer’s heels. The three soldiers who had opened the door stood at attention as the party passed.

Ahead was a great hall, all polished and grand just like the exterior, with Spartans lining both walls.

“These men are part of the Three Hundred,” Captain Chiton mentioned proudly.

“The Three Hundred?” Blade repeated.

“The three hundred best soldiers are selected to serve as bodyguards to the kings. To be picked for the Three Hundred is a special honor. Any Spartan warrior would give his right arm to be chosen.”

“Are you part of the Three Hundred?”

“Not yet. All candidates must be at least thirty years old. I still have six months before I’m eligible, but I have every hope of being nominated when the time comes.”

“Wait a minute,” Blade said, doing a few mental calculations. “How many men are there in the Spartan army counting the Three Hundred?”

“Approximately five hundred and fifty. There are also fifty police.”

“Which means there can only be about three hundred women and children in Sparta,” Blade said.

“Yes. You’re remarkably well informed about our population.”

“How can this be? The ratio of males and females is all wrong;”

“True, and through no fault of ours. I’ll be honest with you. There has been a chronic shortage of women for many years. No one knows why, but most of the female babies die. So do a lot of the males, but not quite as many. The doctors speculate there might be some form of contamination in the area, either radiation or a chemical toxin. They can’t isolate the source, however.”

“What about the Helots?”

“What about them?”

“Are they also afflicted?”

“Yes, but not to the same degree.”

“Then I’d guess Spartan men must take a fair number of Helot women as wives.”

“You’d guess wrong,” Captain Chilon responded, his voice lowering slightly, almost sadly.

“Why?”

“Because it’s against the law for a Spartan to marry a Helot. Even for a Spartan to show interest in a Helot is to flirt with banishment or worse.”

“The law makes no sense,” Blade stated.

“It did years ago when the Helots were always making trouble. And too, the Lawgivers wanted to keep the Spartan bloodline pure.”

“How do the Spartan men feel about the situation?”

“What we feel is unimportant. Our duty is to serve our kings and safeguard our city-state. This we will do no matter what the cost.”

Blade fell silent, contemplating this new revelation. Now he understood the game Chilon and Erica Johnson played, and realized the consequences should he reveal the officer’s secret. Another thought occurred to him, the real reason Rick Grennell had been in the same area as Erica, carrying a rifle no less. What would happen if Grennell told Chiton’s superiors?

They had advanced for over 40 yards along the corridor, passing many doors en route. Directly in front of them loomed another enormous door, only this one hung open. Beyond was an incredibly immense chamber packed with Spartans, both men and women, as well as a few children and Helots. A dozen soldiers were posted just outside, all at attention.

“This is the audience chamber,” Captain Chilon disclosed.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, blocking their path, and saluted.

“Halt, please, Captain Chilon.”

The officer saluted. “Captain Tyrtaios. Is there a problem?”

“You have strangers with you.”

“Yes.”

“They’re armed. You know the law as well as I do. Armed outsiders may not be admitted to the audience chamber under any circumstances whatsoever.”

“I take full responsibility for them,” Chilon stated.

Captain Tyrtaios pursed his lips and studied the Warriors. “This is most irregular. I trust you have an excellent reason?”

“Of course.”

“Then they will be permitted to enter, but six of my men will accompany you.”

“Take, whatever steps you deem necessary.”

Tyrtaios moved aside and pointed at six of his detail. As Chilon started forward again, Tyrtaios leaned closer and whispered, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I.”

Blade scanned the chamber. A red carpet covered the floor except at the far end. There, on the east side, on a spacious dais, were a pair of matching gilded thrones on which sat men wearing full red robes and golden crowns. Behind the thrones, in a line from north to south, were ten more soldiers. Unlike the Spartans. Blade had encountered so far, these ten carried bows, powerful longbows, and on their backs perched quivers containing red shafts.

Captain Chilon walked toward the dais, his shoulders squared, his horsehair crest swaying.

Every man, woman, and child stopped whatever they were doing to stare at the newcomers.

The two men on the thrones reacted differently. On the left sat a blond man who sported a full beard and bushy brows. He regarded the party intently, yet calmly. Not so the other king. An exceptionally lean man with black hair down to his shoulders and dark eyes, he leaped to his feet and jabbed his right hand at them.

“Chilon, what’s the meaning of this? You dare bring armed outsiders into the audience chamber?”

The officer saluted and halted a few yards from the base of the dais.

“King Agesilaus, I beg your indulgence. These men are here on a peace mission. Please hear them out.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses? I won’t tolerate a threat to my royal person.” Agesilaus shifted and glanced at the ten archers. “Kill them!”