David Robbins: Spartan Run

By then the bowman had the transmission in reverse. He saw the Spartan bearing the dynamite racing down the steps and floored the accelerator. There was a thump behind him, and the transport bounced into the air, as if going over a curb. Instead, when he glanced forward, he spotted the crumpled form of a crushed trooper who hadn’t moved out of the way fast enough.

The withering fire from the remaining Spartans persisted, they ran after the van, the man with the explosives shouting instructions. Teucer had them all in front of him. He slammed on the brake pedal, reached over to the toggle switches, and activated the machine gun.

The big fifties made mincemeat of the soldiers. They were perforated repeatedly, thrashing and jerking, then flung to the ground. The man carrying the dynamite made a futile effort to light the fuse, but several slugs bored through his skull and dropped him on the spot.

Teucer turned the SEAL about and exited the public square, bearing to the west, finally having made up his mind. He could take a hint as well as the next guy. Since Blade had explicitly commanded him to seek out Rikki, that’s exactly what he would do. The gravel road was deserted and he made good time. After a mile he spotted a solitary figure far ahead, a lone man in a red loincloth running on the north side of the road.

A messenger.

The bowman recalled the comments made by General Leonidas, and slowed. If he was right, the runner must be in the act of conveying a message from General Catenas to Agesilaus. Obviously the communication must not get through.

Should he blow the man up?

No, Teucer decided, shaking his head. Such a drastic step would be a waste of firepower. Discretion called for taking the runner prisoner and conducting an interrogation to discover the message. But how should he accomplish the task? Simply pulling over and pointing an arrow at the guy might work; it also might make the runner take off. He had to be clever.

What to do?

Only 40 yards later the answer came to him, and he abruptly pulled over to the side of the road and switched off the engine. Next he leaned across the console and extended his arm fully so he could unlock the passenger door and open it a crack.

Now he was all set.

The messenger came on at a strong clip, arms and legs pumping, his gaze riveted on the ground in front of him in total concentration.

Grinning, the bowman slid into the passenger seat and waited, placing the compound bow in his lap. The information the man bore might be critical to Dercyllidas’s cause. He thought about the runner he’d seen earlier and wondered if this was the same man. Because he foolishly hadn’t paid all that much attention, he didn’t know for sure. Another fact about the messenger struck him.

Strange people, these Spartans.

Since General Leonidas knew that orders and other information were relayed from the Royal Palace to the barracks by means of professional runners, and since the officer knew Agesilaus would undoubtedly use such a means during the course of the civil war, why hadn’t Leonidas simply posted troopers along the road to ambush the messengers? Was it another of their strange traditions, like only using swords and spears against other Spartans?

The bowman’s musing was disrupted by the approach of the runner, who now had only 50 feet to cover. He calculated the man in the loincloth would pass within a foot or two of the SEAL, close enough for him to get the job done.

Keep on coming, speedy.

Teucer gripped the handle and tensed his right arm, gauging the distance carefully. He froze when the runner glanced up and stared at the van. Would he stop? Were his suspicions aroused? But the man never slowed down.

Perfect.

Sprinting at full speed, his body coated with sweat, the Spartan came alongside the transport.

Teucer was ready. He shoved the door wide at just the right moment, causing the runner to crash into the steel-like plastic with a resounding thud. The door swiveled on its hinges, and the messenger was knocked flat on his back, dazed, the breath forced out of him by the impact.

Clutching his prized bow, Teucer jumped down and notched an arrow.

He stepped up to the stunned runner and aimed the tip of the shaft between the Spartan’s eyes. “Surprise, surprise, friend. I wouldn’t move if I were you.”

“You fool!” the man snapped, shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

“It’s against the law to interfere in any manner with a royal messenger.”

“Those laws only apply to Spartans. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m wearing all green, not red.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“I want answers.”

The Spartan scowled and glanced at the SEAL. “I knew I should have given that vehicle a wide berth, but I was anxious to get back to the palace and report. My shift is almost over.”

“Spare me your sob story. And don’t change the subject,” Teucer admonished. “I want to know the message you carry.”

“I’m not carrying any.”

Teucer leaned over the runner, holding the arrow point a fraction of an inch from the other man’s nose. “At this distance the shaft will penetrate all the way through your head. Which is it going to be? Answers, or your death?”

“I prefer to die.”

“Suit yourself,” Teucer said, and shrugged for effect. He pulled the bowstring back a quarter-inch farther.

The prospect of imminent dead brought a worried look to the messenger’s face. “If I were to reveal the information you want, King Agesilaus would have me shot.”

“Who’s to know?” the bowman rejoined.

“I can’t,” the man said, although his tone lacked complete conviction.

Teucer frowned. “I haven’t got all day. Either tell me now or die .”

Conflicting emotions caused by the messenger’s sense of duty and his desire to live fought an abbreviated war on his countenance. “I have a wife and children,” he blurted out.

“I’m sure your widow will be gratified to know that you were thinking about her at the very last.”

The contending emotions intensified, the Spartan’s lips a thin line of frustration, when suddenly he blurted out, “All right!”

“You’ll talk?” Teucer said, wary of a trick.

“Why not? I don’t owe Agesilaus a thing after he assigned me to this lousy detail over my objections.”

“You didn’t want to be a messenger?”

“Hell, no. I was content in the regular army. Then he spotted me at the Games, taking part in the foot races, and decided he wanted me as a runner.”

“It sounds like something Agesilaus would do.” Teucer tactfully observed. “He’s treated you like dirt. Here’s your chance to get even. Tell me the message you’re supposed to relay.”

“I was sent from the Royal Palace with orders for General Calchas, and now I’m taking his reply back.”

“What were the orders?”

“To burn down Dercyllidas’s barracks within the hour.”

Teucer thought of Rikki. “And the response from General Calchas?”

“He intends to try and convince Leonidas to surrender. If that doesn’t work, Calchas will torch the barracks.”

The bowman slowly let up on the string and took a stride backwards.

He had to reach the barracks and warn the martial artist and Dercyllidas’s men. “All right. Stand up and continue on your way. And don’t worry. I’ll never tell a soul about this.”

“Thanks,” the messenger stated gratefully, rising with an effort. He skirted the door and made toward the east without so much as another look at the Warrior.

So there were a few dissidents in the Spartan ranks, Teucer reflected as he quickly climbed into the SEAL and slammed the door. He moved behind the wheel, deposited the bow and arrow on the console, and started the vehicle. He’d begun to think of all the Spartans as infallible machines. The discontented runner had been the proverbial exception that violated every rule.