The Lost Throne by Chris Kuzneski Page A

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.”

18

    A ndropoulos pulled his car to the front entrance of the hotel. Dial was waiting for him, staring at the rocky cliffs that faded into the morning mist. He was wearing jeans and the same boots as the day before but opted for a long-sleeved shirt instead.
    No sense breaking the dress code two days in a row.
    Thanks to Dial’s comment about his suit, Andropoulos had changed as well. He wanted to placate his boss from Interpol, so he had copied his wardrobe: jeans, dress shirt, and hiking boots.
    “Good morning, sir,” Andropoulos said as Dial climbed into the front seat.
    Dial nodded, then studied the Greek from head to toe. “No time for a haircut?”
    “Sorry, sir. I worked late last night.”
    Dial grunted, trying his best not to smile. “Anything to report?”
    Andropoulos pulled into traffic. Despite the early hour, the narrow streets were filled with tourists who were hoping to see all the local sites in a single day. “Three of the monks have been identified, including the abbot. The other two were foreigners. One was from Russia, the other from Turkey.”
    “Turkey? I thought that was a Muslim country.”
    “Ninety-nine percent are Muslims. The other percent is mostly Orthodox.”
    Dial considered the information and nodded.