Spartan Run

by David Robbins

  The Spartan officer’s features hardened. “Is this true, Grennell?”

  “No,” the Helot answered. “It’s a lie. They’re just trying to get your sympathy. It’s a lie, I tell you.”

  “No, it’s not,” interjected a newcomer to the conversation, and Erica emerged from the house.

  Blade noticed a curious reaction by the officer. Chilon’s stern expression shifted, becoming instantly friendly, almost regarding her with open tenderness and affection. The Spartan’s eyes seemed to drink in her beauty like a thirsty man quenching a parched throat.

  “Ms. Johnson,” Chilon said formally.

  “Captain,” Erica responded with equal formality.

  “Are you saying these outsiders are telling the truth?”

  “I am. They saved me from a mutation and were giving me a ride home when we ran across Mr. Grennell. He tried to shoot them.”

  “You were attacked by a mutant?” Chilon asked, momentarily indifferent to the matter of the rifle.

  “I’m fine, really,” Erica said softly. “The bowman over there shot it.”

  Captain Chilon looked to the east, where his men were busy reviving the man in green. “Then we owe him a debt of gratitude. I’m almost sorry we had to knock him out.” He turned to Grennell. “So not only did you break the law about owning firearms, but you lied to me as well.”

  “I didn’t lie to you,” the Helot said. “I’d never lie to a Spartan officer. She’s lying, just like them.”

  “And why would Ms. Johnson lie?”

  “Because she has the hots for that bowman.”

  No one, least of all Grennell, anticipated what would happen next.

  Captain Chilon abruptly clamped his right hand on the Helot’s shirt and lifted, actually raising Grennell into the air with just one arm. He spun and hurled the Helot from him, causing Grennell to sprawl onto the cement walk. “Take this man into custody,” he bellowed.

  The three Spartans on the left side of the porch promptly ran around to the front. Two of them seized Grennell and rudely hauled him erect.

  Blade checked on his companions. He was relieved to find Teucer awake and standing. Rikki stood next to a window, his arms at his sides, his eyes not missing a thing.

  “Your fate is now in the hands of the Ephors,” Chilon was telling Grennell. “And you know the usual punishment for violating the firearms law.”

  “But I’m a loyal Helot!” Grennell said. “I’ve never used the rifle against a Spartan. My family has owned a gun for decades, and not once have we used it to violate the law.”

  Captain Chilon smiled grimly. “So your family has possessed an illegal gun for decades?” He faced to the west and called put, “Martin, get out here!”

  Blade was surprised to behold another Helot appear. The man resembled Grennell enough to be his brother.

  “Your older brother has informed me of the rifle your family owns,” the officer declared.

  Martin Grennell gulped and wrung his hands together. He cast a despairing look at his sibling, gnawed on his lower lip for a few seconds, then blurted out, “The rifle belongs to him, not the whole family.”

  “You lying sack of manure!” Rick Grennell shrieked. “Tell them the truth!”

  “It is the truth, sir,” Martin told Chilon. “I don’t know where he got the gun. But as the Lord is my witness, the gun is truly Rick’s.”

  “Leave the Lord out of this,” Chilon snapped.

  “Martin, you scum!” Rick shouted. “You’ll pay for this! You always were worthless, you know that?”

  Captain Chilon looked at the pair of soldiers restraining the older Grennell. “Shut him up.”

  One of the Spartans whipped his right fist straight up, catching the prisoner on the jaw. Grennell’s eyelids quivered and he slumped in their arms.

  “And as for you,” Chiton said to Martin, “you can run home and tell your parents the Crypteia will be paying them a visit soon.”

  “But we’re innocent!” Martin wailed.

  “I’m a soldier. It’s not my responsibility to evaluate innocence or guilt, I simply report to my superiors, and once they learn of this incident you can be sure the Crypteia will be dispatching men to your farm.”

  Martin took an anxious step backwards.

  “Go!” Chilon barked.

  Like a frightened rabbit, Martin Grennell whirled and raced off.

  “Miserable cowards,” Chilon muttered.

  “Where did Martin come from?” Erica spoke up. “I didn’t realize he was here.”

  The officer’s anger evaporated once he gazed at her. “We were on patrol on Highway 76 when we ran into him. He claimed he’d been out hunting with his brother, although he never mentioned anything about a rifle. Told us that he’d witnessed his brother being captured by strangers in a green vehicle. Said he hid in the woods when they jumped Rick. He also claimed you had been taken by the same strangers.” He paused. “Naturally, my first thought was to come here and investigate whether or not you were missing.”

  “Naturally,” Erica said, her lips curling in a curious little grin.

  Blade listened to the narration, able to piece together the missing pieces of the puzzle. Rick and Martin Grennell hadn’t been out hunting, as they asserted. Rather, they’d been following Erica, and he could readily imagine the reason. For now it would be better if he kept the secret to himself. Such information might prove valuable later on. He abruptly became aware of someone next to his elbow and glanced down at Martha Johnson.

  “Captain, all this nasty business is very distressing. Would you care to come in for a cup of tea?”

  “Thank you, but no. We must be on our way,” Chilon answered courteously.

  “I have some already on the stove,” Martha said. “It wouldn’t be a bother. And we do so enjoy your, visits.”

  “I wish we could stay for a while,” Captaia Chilon stated. “Our duty dictates otherwise. Perhaps next time we pass this way on patrol.”

  “We’ll look forward to it,” Martha remarked.

  “Excuse me,” Harry interjected.

  “Yes?” Chilon responded.

  “The Grennells are good friends of ours. What will happen to them?”

  “I wouldn’t go around bragging about your friendship, were I you,” the captain advised. “As far as their punishment is concerned, Rick will either be put to death or sentenced to the quarry for life. Martin might receive a lesser sentence. Their parents may be placed on probation.”

  “Thank goodness,” Harry said. “The parents are decent folks, not like their boys.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Captain Chilon. “But it’s been my experience that inferior genes are responsible for breeding inferior offspring.” He gave a courtly bow to Erica, and walked from the porch.

  Blade followed, Rikki a few feet behind. “How do you propose traveling to Sparta?”

  “We’ll walk,” the officer answered.

  “Why not drive in our van?” Blade suggested.

  Chilon halted and studied the transport. “How do I know you’re not trying to trick me?”

  “As one Warrior to another, I give you my word. There’s room inside for three of your men and Grennell. The rest can ride on the roof. There’s plenty of room to sit next to the solar panels. I also promise I’ll drive slowly.”

  “It would save time,” Chilon mentioned thoughtfully. “All right. But we’ll have you and your men covered the whole time.”

  “I understand,” Blade said.

  “Then on to Sparta,” Captain Chilon commented, and motioned for his soldiers to move toward the transport.

  On to Sparta, Blade thought, and hoped his diplomacy wouldn’t result in their deaths.

  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 ye
t. 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?