The Lost Throne

69

Driving as fast as he could, Petros explained his plan to Dial and Andropoulos. “There is an old goat path up the western side of the mountain. It starts near Agíou Pávlou and crosses toward the southern face. If we hurry, we might be able to beat the soldiers to that point.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” Dial demanded. “We could have set up shop on the mountain and pinned the Spartans in.”

Their cart hit a dip in the road. They all bounced roughly in their seats as Petros struggled to maintain control. He temporarily eased off the accelerator until he had righted things.

“It is not that simple. The path is too narrow for this cart to fit.”

“Then how would we get up there?”

“Motorcycles.”

Dial stared at him in disbelief. “The monks have motorcycles?”

“Last year,” Petros said, “two men came to Athos on a trip across Greece. They brought their motorcycles over on the ferry and parked them outside our walls. The men were supposed to stay for three days. Once inside, they fell in love with the monastic life. One of the abbots gave them permission to stay longer, and they haven’t left since.”

“And their bikes?”

“We moved them into storage.”

“But there’s two of them, right?”

“Yes, only two.”

“But there’s three of us.”

Petros nodded. “Someone will have to ride double.”

“I am very experienced,” Andropoulos said from the backseat. “I have owned a motorcycle for many years, so I can drive one up the path.”

“What about you?” Petros asked Dial as their bumpy ride continued.

Dial groaned in frustration. He hadn’t driven a bike in decades. And even then, he had never taken one off pavement. Throw in the darkness factor, and Dial realized he had no choice.

He would have to rely on Andropoulos.

Payne stared at a photocopy of the treasure map that they had made in Limnos, and then glanced at the rock face above him. It was fifteen feet high and angled back toward them. There was no way they could climb it without the proper equipment.

“What now?” Jones asked as he shined his light on the ridge.

“We have to go around it.”

“Which way?”

“If we go east,” Payne said, “we’re moving closer to the largest monastery on the peninsula. There’s no telling how many guards will be over there.”

“What about west?”

“There are several monasteries and sketes, but they’re a lot farther away.”

“What do you think, Allison?”

She blinked, surprised that they were asking her opinion. “Let’s go west.”

Payne nodded his approval. “You heard the lady. West it is.”

Petros accelerated on the dual-sport bike, which was street legal but had off-road capability, and rocketed up the goat trail. Andropoulos and Dial were next, only they took things much slower. Their headlight lit the way as they crept past the weeds and trees that lined the narrow path.

“Are you all right?” Andropoulos shouted over his shoulder.

Dial ignored the question. “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

“It can go much faster.”

“Then quit talking and start driving.”

Andropoulos grinned. “Yes, sir!”

In a flash, their speed tripled, and Dial found himself holding on for dear life. The young cop proved his skill by accelerating and turning like an expert. Despite the extra weight, they found themselves catching up to Petros less than a minute later.

They rode like this for nearly 3 miles, cutting across the western face while gradually climbing higher. Dial did calculations in his head and tried to figure out how high they had to go in order to guarantee that they would be ahead of the Spartans. Unfortunately, it was an equation he couldn’t solve without knowing all the variables.

When did the Spartans arrive on the peninsula? How fast were they moving? Were they headed straight up the mountain, or did they start to angle toward the east or west?

Actually, Dial wasn’t even sure when the Spartans would stop marching. Maybe they were heading to a cave that was only a thousand feet from the shore. If that was so, they might have overshot the Spartans by several hundred feet.

A few seconds later, Dial found out that wasn’t the case.

The two Spartans heard the roar of the engines long before they saw the headlights approach. They quickly repositioned themselves along the footpath, preparing for a sneak attack. One crouched behind a boulder to the south of the trail. The other remained standing, hidden by a thick grove of trees. On the battlefield, Spartans would never relinquish their shields — it was considered the ultimate sin, because it left other soldiers in the phalanx unprotected. But here, where mobility was more important than defense, it was the right thing to do.

Both Spartans clutched their swords with two hands, ready to strike.

Petros led the charge over the crest of the hill. He was fifty feet ahead of Dial and Andropoulos, barely within range of their headlight, when the Spartan in the trees launched his assault.

As Petros sped through the night, the Spartan stepped forward and swung his weapon with all his strength. Years of discipline and training went into that swing, and it showed when his blade made contact. One moment Petros’s head was attached to his neck; the next it was spinning through the air as the rest of his body shot forward on the motorcycle. Somehow the bike stayed upright for several feet before it tilted off the path and crashed into a tree, tossing the headless corpse into the air like a scarecrow in a dust storm.

Dial saw none of this from his position on the back of the second bike. But Andropoulos saw it all. The sword, the head, and the Spartan who blocked their path. Not wanting to suffer the same fate as Petros, the young Greek went into a controlled slide — hitting the brake and shifting his weight in order to minimize the impact of his fall. His front wheel went sideways, and so did he. Dial fell first, tumbling off the back of the bike and skidding to a painful stop on the upslope of the mountain. Andropoulos was dragged twenty feet farther, tumbling along the rock-strewn turf until his momentum slowly died.

When everything stopped moving, Dial and Andropoulos were left sprawling on the side of the road. Both of them were conscious, but badly bruised and scraped. Somehow their motorcycle had twisted around on the ground, so its headlight was now pointed back at them. The bright beam of light allowed them to see, but what they saw was frightening.

Two Spartans were coming in for the kill.

Dial reached down for his gun, his fingers fumbling with the strap on his holster. Seconds passed before he heard the quiet snap that allowed him to yank his weapon free. But by then it was too late; the Spartan was upon him.

He kicked the gun out of Dial’s hand and laughed as he did. He was going to enjoy this. His sword was already slathered in blood, fresh from his recent kill. Now he could add some more.

Two victims in less than a minute. His ancestors would be proud. The Spartan lifted the sword above his head, ready to drive it through Dial’s chest.

And all Dial could do was watch.