The Lost Throne

44

The leader of the Spartans was named Apollo. His name was derived from the ancient Laconian word apollymi, which meant “to destroy.” And that was how he viewed himself, as a destroyer. His entire life had been dedicated to the art of war. How to attack. How to defend. How to conquer. The lifestyle had been beaten into him when he was a boy, and now that he was in charge, he returned the favor to the next generation — just as his mentor had done for him.

That was how his village had survived. They followed the code of their ancestors.

When the police officers arrived, Apollo was waiting for them. He had watched their slow approach up the treacherous mountain road. It gave him more than enough time to tell the village to be on full alert. In this part of Greece, the local authorities rarely stopped by, and when they did, it was usually for a very specific reason. The last time was a month ago. The cops had been looking for two missing tourists who had gone camping in the Taygetos Mountains and hadn’t returned when they were supposed to. A couple of questions were asked, a flyer with their pictures was shown around, and the police departed soon after.

The whole process had taken less than fifteen minutes.

Apollo hoped for the same efficiency on their current visit.

“Hello,” George Pappas said in Greek. He knew the villagers preferred Laconian, their native tongue, but he wasn’t able to speak it. Neither could Manos or Constantinou.

Apollo wore sandals on his feet and a simple white tunic that hung to mid-thigh. He nodded at them but said nothing. He let his muscular physique and the coldness of his glare do his talking. One look from him stopped most men in their tracks.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Pappas said as he flashed his badge. “We were hoping you could help us with one of our cases.”

Apollo shrugged, refusing to say a word. Instead, he stared with unblinking eyes.

Somehow Pappas found the courage to return his stare. Not only did he have the backing of two armed officers, he was here on official Interpol business. That gave him the confidence he needed to stand up to this guy — even though he scared the hell out of Pappas.

“Stefan,” he said to Manos, “hand me the picture.”

Manos took a step forward, gave Pappas the surveillance photo from Metéora, and then took a quick step back. Meanwhile, Constantinou kept his hand on his gun and his head on a swivel.

Pappas studied the helmeted man in the photo and compared him with Apollo. No way were they the same person. Apollo was at least fifty pounds heavier with a much larger physique. Hell, his arms were nearly as thick as Pappas’s legs.

Side by side, Pappas and Apollo looked as if they belonged to two different species.

“We’re looking for the man in this picture. I’d appreciate if you could take a look.”

Apollo grabbed the photo, expecting it to be another missing tourist. Instead, the suspect in the photo was one of the soldiers that had accompanied him to Metéora.

This was not good. And very unexpected.

Apollo didn’t show surprise — he was too disciplined for that — but his mind started racing. How did the police have a photo from the monastery? What other evidence did they possess? Normally, he didn’t give much thought to the outside world, but on the eve of such an important mission, he knew he couldn’t afford any type of police interference.

He had to stop their inquiry before the cops had a chance to return to Spárti.

“Yes,” he said in fluent Greek. “I know the man. He is a troublemaker in our village. What has he done now?”

The response surprised Pappas. He was expecting to be stonewalled at every turn.

“I’m afraid I can’t say. Our investigation is still pending.”

Apollo nodded in understanding. “How can I help you?”

“Can you show us where he lives?”

“I can do better than that. I can bring him to you.”

Before Pappas could argue, Apollo called out to a few of his men who were lingering in the background, watching the proceedings unfold. When he spoke, his orders were in rapid Laconian. The language sounded similar to Greek, but there were enough differences that Pappas and the other officers weren’t sure what was being said, which made them uneasy.

Pappas immediately asked, “What did you say to them?”

“I said go get the troublemaker and bring him here.”

Pappas frowned. He knew more had been said. “Does the troublemaker have a name?”

“Of course. But you will need to ask him yourself. The code of my village prevents me from revealing his name. We have a code of silence.”

“What about your name? Are you allowed to tell me that?”

He nodded. “My name is Apollo. And yours?”

“George.”

“George,” he said with a smirk. “Such a simple name. One without significance.”

Pappas shrugged off the insult. “We can’t all be named after gods.”

Apollo nodded. Most people didn’t deserve to be named after gods, as he had been.

“Tell me, George, what’s the worst pain you have ever felt in your life?”

“Excuse me?”

“Before you arrived, my friends and I were discussing the worst pain we have ever felt. I was wondering what your answer might be.”

Pappas glanced back at Manos and Constantinou, who were keeping a close eye on the perimeter. Because of the rocky terrain and the nearby trees, it was impossible to tell if anyone was out there. Just to be safe, the two officers unsnapped the straps that held their guns in their holsters. But not Pappas. He was being closely watched by Apollo, and he didn’t want to do anything that might be interpreted as aggressive behavior.

“That’s an awfully strange question. One that might be misconstrued as a threat.”

“A threat? That was not a threat,” he said with a laugh. “But this is a threat.” He moved one step closer. “We have you severely outnumbered. Lay down your weapons or you will have a new answer to my question about pain.”

The color instantly drained from Pappas’s face. There was no way he was going to surrender his weapon — especially since the odds were currently three against one. Still, there was something about Apollo’s words that resonated with truth. Pappas knew it wasn’t a bluff. He realized the man standing across from him was fully capable of making good on his threat.

Pappas said, “If I pull my gun, you’ll be the first to die.”

Apollo glared at him and gave him a one-word retort: “If.”

Before Pappas could react, Apollo slipped a small knife from the folds of his tunic and lunged forward. With a wicked slash, he sliced through the veins and tendons of Pappas’s right forearm, rendering his gun hand obsolete. Blood gushed from the open wound, spurting high into the air and splashing onto the dusty ground.

It reminded Apollo of the eight monks he had killed at Metéora.

Manos and Constantinou were stunned by the quick attack. They reached for their guns a second too late, as two Spartans crept up from behind. Each soldier carried a sword, and each sword hit its mark. The blade that struck Manos was raked across his back. The resulting wound started at his left scapula and ended at his right hip. Every muscle in between was severed, as were some of his ribs. He slumped to the dirt, gurgling, while his lungs filled with fluid.

Death was imminent.

But Constantinou wasn’t as lucky. The Spartan’s sword struck him flush above the elbow. A moment later, most of his arm fell to the ground beside him while he screamed out in agony. His fingers twitched for a few extra seconds like a spider that had been poisoned and was slowly waiting to die. He stared at it, disbelieving, unwilling to accept that his hand was no longer a part of him. As he stared, blood poured from the chunk of meat that hung below his shoulder.

“Bind his wound,” Apollo ordered. Then he pointed to Pappas. “Same with his.”

The Spartans disarmed the cops and tended to their wounds, making sure they didn’t die. At least not yet. Opportunities like this were rare, and Apollo wanted to take full advantage — just as he had done with the missing tourists he had found camping near the village.

The best way to teach the boys was to give them a taste of blood.

They would butcher the cops, piece by piece, until everyone had a turn.

Like a lion teaching his young.