David Robbins - Spartan Run

“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.

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?”