Operation: Congo

- 13 -

Banks and Wiggins were herded out of the king’s chambers and into an emergent dawn. The king went to the left. They were led right onto a platform that looked out over what looked like a warren of narrow streets of roofless houses built in a concave area, a smaller crater on the outside rim of the larger one beyond. The walls were sculpted into tiers of seating. The population of the town, somewhere around a thousand people at Banks’ guess, lined the lower banks of seats; at one time, if the place had been full, it might have held as many as ten thousand.

A cheer rang ’round the natural arena at the appearance of the two men then a louder cheer as all the heads turned to look higher up behind Banks and Wiggins. The king came out onto a high balcony that had another of those impressive stone thrones. He wore a high headdress of multicolored feathers and a cloak of the same draped around his shoulders reached all the way to the ground around him.

He raised his arms and addressed the people in their own language, his voice carrying easily in what was a naturally amplifying enclosure. There was a lot of cheering.

“So what’s this now?” Wiggins said at Banks’ side.

Banks’ attention had turned away from the crowd down to the warren of streets below them. The whole floor of the arena was empty of movement and as Banks’ gaze went from one length to the other, he knew what he was looking at.

“Fucking Minoans, right enough,” he muttered.

“What’s that, Cap?”

Banks waved his hand to encompass the arena.

“There’s our test, Wiggo. It’s a bloody maze. And I’m guessing they expect us to be rats and run it.”

His theory was confirmed when the king addressed them directly, in English. He called down to Banks from above.

“Have you guessed the nature of the test, Captain?”

Banks waved at the labyrinth below.

“We run it, right?”

“Correct.”

“And if we make it to the end we go free?”

The king laughed and the crowd laughed with him, although it was clear that none of them understood the conversation going on.

“No, sir. If you make it to the end, you join the tribe. You would make fine members of my guard, I think. But do not have any qualms on that front. No one has ever completed the test.”

“It’s a bloody maze. How hard can it be?” Wiggins said.

Banks smiled thinly.

“I don’t think we’re going to be in there alone,” he said. “Like Theseus, we’ll have a monster to contend with.”

The king clapped his hands with glee.

“I do like an educated man. And you are right.” He clapped his hands again, louder this time, and there came a rumble of cogs and gears. Banks looked towards the sound to see a raptor standing behind a gate that would only have to lift another few feet to allow it passage into the maze. A young rider armed with a long spear sat high on its back.

The crowd cheered wildly as the youth raised the spear above his head.

“As you are tested, so are we,” the king said. “The young have feathers to earn.”

“Weapons?” Banks asked. “Let us have one of our rifles and we’ll soon see how many feathers fly.”

“You have your wits. That will have to suffice.”

The sun came up over the rim of the crater and that appeared to be the signal for the games to commence. Six spear-carriers herded Banks and Wiggins forward to the edge of the platform where a narrow set of steps led down into the shadows of the maze. Somewhere behind the king a drumbeat sounded. The crowd shouted and cheered in reply.

“The gate opens on the tenth beat,” the King called down. “Best get moving, sir.”

They got moving.

A second drumbeat echoed around the maze as they reached the bottom step and headed into the warren of walls.

“Which way, Cap?”

The gate with the raptor behind it was to their right. A dark alleyway stretched ahead to their left.

“Let’s change the odds and take a shortcut,” Banks replied and pointed to the wall to his left, the top of which was some four feet above their heads. “Just like back on the training ground, Wiggo. Think the two of us can get your lardy arse up there?”

“Ah, fuck, I was always crap at this game,” Wiggins replied. A third drumbeat sounded.

“I’ll give you an incentive, shall I? Get the fuck up there right now or yon beastie will have us for breakfast.”

“Same promise as last time? It’s your round and I get a fag at the top?”

“Deal. Now move, Corporal.”

It went easier than Banks had hoped. He boosted Wiggins up, the corporal then lay half over the top reaching down and Banks was able to jump, lock hands, and swing and haul himself up beside the other man.

A fourth drumbeat sounded.

The crowd went wild, although whether it was at the sound of the drum or at the sight of the two men now standing high up on top of the labyrinth wall, Banks neither knew nor cared. The wall was a foot wide, enough room for them to travel along at a walk, scary if they decided to run.

“Double-time, Wiggo,” he said. “Let’s put some distance between us and yon beastie while we can.”

The fifth drumbeat sounded as they started off, heading left away from the gate.

They came to the first decision point as the sixth drumbeat sounded. Banks, in the lead, mentally tossed a coin and headed left; the warren looked more densely packed in that direction with many more chances to lose a pursuer. But within ten yards, he saw the flaw in his thinking—he’d considered the top of the wall to be a pathway. It was of a kind, but he’d forgotten he was on top of a wall in a maze; mazes have gaps between the alley walls, many of them in a good labyrinth, all the easier to get lost in.

One of the gaps was coming up directly ahead, six feet wide between them and the next stretch of wall.

“Okay, fuck,” Wiggins said. ‘I’m crap at this game too.”

The seventh drumbeat sounded.

Banks didn’t give himself time to worry. He took the distance between himself and the gap at a run and jumped. In mid-air, he had a bad moment when he thought he’d misjudged it and was coming up short then his left foot landed on stone. He took two stumbling steps, had a wobble, and sat down hard, straddling the wall with a leg on each side.

He turned carefully so that he was facing towards Wiggins.

“Piece of pish for a hard lad like you, Wiggo,” he shouted, patting the top of the wall in front of him. “Come on, I’m watching out for you.”

Wiggins launched himself across the gap. The crowd screamed as the corporal, having definitely misjudged his jump, barreled full tilt into Banks, almost throwing both of them off the wall. It was only the captain’s upper body strength, grabbing Wiggins by the waist and manhandling him up to straddle the wall, that kept them on top.

The crowd cheered as both men retained their balance.

The eighth drumbeat sounded.

“On your feet, Wiggo. We’re going too slow.”

“Bugger that. We’re up here, the beastie’s down in the alley. We’re safe.”

“Only if it can’t climb,” Banks replied.

“Fuck me, Cap, do you have to spoil everything?”

They got to their feet and started along the top of the wall again, still heading left.

It seemed like only seconds later that the ninth drumbeat sounded.

The crown noise went up a notch. Something hit the stone near Banks’ feet and he looked up; they had come far enough left to be within throwing range of the crowd. A large overripe fruit had splashed against the wall just inches from his toes. Another piece of fruit, better thrown this time, arced out of the seating area. Banks judged the flight of it, took three quick steps forward, and plucked it out of the air one-handed. He took a large bite, passed it to Wiggins who took another, and both of them took a bow as the crowd cheered.

Then they were moving again, Banks leading them more right than left, out of range of any more dangerous missiles than fruit. They arrived all too soon at another gap, ten feet across and too far to jump.

The tenth drumbeat sounded. The sound of wooden cogs and squealing rope echoed around the arena as the gate lifted.

A raptor roared and the crowd went wild.

The hunt had begun.