The Lost Throne

17

The phone rang at the crack of dawn, roughly an hour before Nick Dial planned to wake up. He rubbed his eyes, rolled over in the hotel bed, and checked his caller ID. It was Henri Toulon, the assistant director of the Homicide Division, calling from Interpol Headquarters in France.

If it had been anyone else, Dial would have let it go to voice mail. But since he had been trying to reach Toulon for the better part of a day, he decided to answer the call.

“Hello,” Dial said with sleep in his throat.

Toulon spoke with a French accent. “Bonjour, Mr. Boss-Man. Did I wake you?”

“You know you did.”

“Oui, I know. That is why I called. Just to wake you. My entire day revolves around Nick. Bonjour, bonjour, bonjour!”

Dial grinned at the sarcasm. “Let me guess. You’re mad about yesterday’s message.”

“Message? You left me a message?” Toulon put a cigarette in his mouth and desperately wanted to light it. “Sorry, I heard no message from you. I was too busy taking a nap and drinking wine in your office. Then I ate some stinky cheese, just to improve the smell.”

“Wow. You’re really pissy today. Do you want to talk later?”

“No,” Toulon said. “I want to talk now. I want to get this over with.”

Dial grimaced, not sure if Toulon was mad at him or not. Then again, it was too early in the morning to actually care. “Did you get my e-mail? I sent it from my phone.”

“One moment. Let me check.”

While Toulon checked his computer, Dial climbed out of bed and walked across the tiled floor of his spacious suite. Somehow Andropoulos had booked him a great room in the Divani Metéora, a luxury hotel in Kalampáka. It was so close to the monastery, he could stare at the towering cliffs from his private balcony.

“Oui. I found it. Give me a moment to read it.”

“Take your time,” Dial said as he wandered into the bathroom.

Toulon spoke again a few minutes later. He was staring at his computer screen, trying to make sense of the two images that Dial had sent to him. “What am I looking at?”

“Pictures of the killers.”

“You are teasing, no? How did you get these?”

“The monks had a nanny cam.”

Toulon spat out his cigarette in disgust. “I hate those damn things! I have been caught with too many nannies.”

Dial laughed, realizing that Toulon wasn’t joking. “Sorry to hear that, Henri. But in this case, we really lucked out. It’s the biggest break we’ve had.”

“This is quite helpful. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I am an expert on Ancient Greece.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re an expert on everything.”

“Oui, this is true. I am quite good.” Toulon ran his fingers over his gray hair, which was pulled back in his trademark ponytail. He certainly didn’t look the part of an Interpol officer. But his brilliance more than made up for his attitude and attire. “What do you want to know?”

Dial picked up hard copies of the two photos. “Let’s start with the sword.”

Toulon clicked on the first image, then enlarged it until the sword filled the screen. He focused on the details, searching for the nuances that would define the weapon. It didn’t take long for him to reach a conclusion. “This is a xiphos. It was used by a hoplite.”

“A what?”

“A hoplite. An infantryman from Ancient Greece.”

“How can you tell?”

Toulon sneered. “Do not insult me! I can tell with a single look because I am an expert. If a doctor said to you, ‘Nick, you are dying of a brain tumor,’ would you say, ‘How can you tell?’”

“Definitely.”

Toulon paused. “Yes, you are right. I would ask him, too. That is a bad example.”

“Come on, Henri. Stop goofing around.”

“Fine! I will just tell you.” He mumbled a few curse words in French before he continued his lecture. “Look at the style of this sword. It is simple. It is plain. No fancy hilts. No fancy pommels. This is the blade of a soldier. Not an officer.”

Dial scribbled some key phrases on a piece of paper. “Go on.”

“Now look at its length. It is a short sword. Maybe one meter long. It is perfect for close combat. Very sharp. Very strong. The kind they used in the phalanx.”

“The phalanx?”

“The wall of soldiers at the front of an attack. The hoplites.”

Toulon leaned back and put the cigarette in his mouth. He still needed his morning fix. With a cautious eye, he glanced around the office, searching for anyone who outranked him. When he saw no one, he decided to light up. Rules be damned.

Dial said, “I know it’s just a picture, but can you give me a time period?”

“Maybe if I held the blade, but not from this photo.”

“Come on, Henri, take a wild guess. Are we talking Russell Crowe in Gladiator or Harry Hamlin in Clash of the Titans?”

Toulon blew smoke into the air. “We are talking Nick Dial in Clueless.”

“Be nice,” Dial warned him, “or I’ll fine you for smoking.”

Toulon coughed, practically swallowing his cigarette in the process. How did Dial know he was smoking? He looked around again. Maybe the sneaky bastard had a nanny cam.

“That is insulting,” Toulon said. “I would do no such thing.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Now answer my question. How old are we talking?”

“The second one. Harry Hamlin.”

Dial smiled. He loved making Toulon think in American terms. It was one of the simple joys in his life. “But this weapon is a replica, right?”

“Tell me, Nick. Do you know when Ancient Greece flourished?”

“Before Christ.”

“Several centuries before Christ. Now look at this picture. Does this sword look that old to you? Of course not. Therefore this sword is a replica.”

“Yet real enough to kill someone.”

“Oui. In that way, it is quite real.”

Dial nodded, thinking back to the blood at the crime scene. For a blade to pass through the bones and tendons of someone’s neck, it had to be remarkably strong. Probably some type of high-grade steel, he figured. Just to be sure, he made a note to ask a local blacksmith.

“Okay. What about the other picture? Anything helpful?”

Still puffing away, Toulon switched images on his screen and zoomed in on the photograph of the warrior. He studied his uniform, focusing on the intricacies of his armor, the shape of his full-size helmet, the way he held his sword. All of it looked authentic.

“Well,” Toulon said, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“Good news first.”

“If I had to guess, I would say this man is dressed as a Spartan.”

“Why do you think that?”

Toulon took a long drag on his cigarette, enjoying the flavor before he blew the smoke out of his nostrils like a cranky French dragon. “Notice the design of his headgear. No patterns. No decorations. No fancy flourishes. This is a helmet, not a work of art. If it had been Corinthian or Trojan or even Athenian, it would have been far more ornate, since those cultures supported the arts. The Spartan culture did not.”

He paused, taking another drag.

“Now look at the cuirass — the bronze armor that protects his chest and back. It is plain, too, except for the ridges of the rib cage and stomach. This is a design used by the Spartans. The muscular contours were meant to scare the enemy. And trust me, they did.”

“Anything else?”

“That is all for now. I’ll look some more once I drink my coffee.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” Dial finished his notes and was about to hang up when Toulon cleared his throat quite loudly. “What now?”

“You are forgetting something, no?”

“I said thanks.”

“No. It is not that. You still haven’t heard my bad news.”

“Crap, that’s right. What’s the bad news?”

Toulon smiled, eager to show off his knowledge. “The bad news is identical to the good news. If I had to guess, I would say this man is dressed as a Spartan.”

The comment puzzled Dial. “What’s your point?”

“Tell me, Nick, what do you know about the Spartans?”

“Not very much. They came from Sparta and they liked to fight.”

Toulon shook his head. “That is the understatement of the year.”

“How so?”

“How so?” he echoed, as he leaned back in his chair. “Since the dawn of man, there has never been a culture like the Spartans. From the moment of their birth until the time of their death, all Spartans were consumed by one thing: the art of war.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“Oui, I can give you thousands.”

“Great. But let’s start with one.”

Toulon took another puff. “Let’s start at birth. When a baby was born, the child’s father took it to a group of elders who decided, right then and there, whether the child was worthy of Sparta. If it was small or weak, it was immediately taken to Mount Taygetus, also known as the place of rejection, where it was thrown off the mountain.”

“They killed their own babies?”

“Oui. They killed their own babies.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That is simply the beginning. When a Spartan boy reached the age of seven, he was enrolled in the agoge. It was like a military boarding school except far more brutal. The boys were stripped, beaten, and underfed, all in the hope of toughening them up. This went on for ten years, until they were ready for the crypteia, a secret initiation where their most promising youths proved their worth. These teenage boys were abandoned in the countryside with simple instructions: kill any Helots they saw and steal anything they needed to survive.”

“What’s a Helot?”

“The Helots were conquered subjects who worked the lands. This allowed the Spartans to focus all their time and energy on war, not farming.”

“And the boys killed them in cold blood?”

“Oui, but only Helots who were up to no good. This, of course, accomplished two things: It taught the boys how to hunt human flesh, and it kept the Helots in line. Simply put, they were too scared to rebel or run away from Sparta.”

Dial grimaced at the brutality. “And you think these guys are Spartans?”

“No, no, no! Do not misunderstand me. I think these men were dressed as Spartans. Whether they are or not, I do not know.”

“But could they be?”

Toulon laughed. “Nick, you must realize that Sparta was conquered centuries ago. Today it is a series of crumbled ruins. Nothing more.”

“I know that, Henri. But look at the facts. Two days ago a group of men attacked a nearly impenetrable fortress and slaughtered everyone inside. Then, for good measure, they threw all the bodies off the mountain — just like the flying babies you mentioned. And even though they were wearing body armor and helmets and carrying swords, there were no witnesses to the crime. That means these guys moved with great stealth.”

Dial paused, trying to calm the emotion in his voice. “I don’t know about you, but doesn’t that sound like the warriors you just described?”

“Oui,” he said. His tone was Suddenly, serious. “It certainly does.”

“So, as crazy as it sounds, let me ask you again. Could these guys be Spartans?”

Toulon puffed on his cigarette one last time, then smashed it into an empty cup until the embers were no more. “If they are, I’d hate to be the man who’s chasing them.”