Renegade Reborn (30 page)

Chapter Fourteen: The Wolf of Sparta

During my many travels within the realms of earth, Gisbo, I came upon a warrior culture of vast renown, The Spartans. They were the first culture I visited where everyone was unified under one banner, one race, one purpose. There were many aspects to this society that I chose not include within the Renegade credence. I consider all life sacred, where the Spartans saw weakness of any kind, as a means for death, rather than means for improvement.

But, that being said, there was much I did draw, and learn from them, and the two biggest virtues, were self-denial, and simplicity. It was these virtues that I helped adapt within the Renegade philosophies, as well as many of their fighting technique. You will now live through the life of one of my honored friends from another space, another time, known as Likos. I have a feeling that walking in his steps, you will find much in common.

Take from this life, his strengths, but also notice what I believe to be the true meaning of self-denial, and simplicity. You may see things differently, but in my eyes, I see self-denial, or put another way, selflessness, as a means to give to others your strengths, your skills, your life.

In simplicity, I see the means to not overcomplicate things, to keep things natural. In my humble opinion and experience, it is only when things in their basest forms, are altered, and forced to change do things go wrong. I hope, I pray, that through this journey, you glean much, and add their wisdom, and strength, to your own!

–
Vadid the Valiant

“Self-Denial and Simplicity. I am ready, he is ready, take him,” The woman, clad in bloodied robes said as she handed her newborn son to the soldier.

“You honor your state and country. Self-Denial and simplicity. You embody this well,” The soldier said. In one arm, he cradled the babe and reached out his other hand. The bed-nurse handed him the bottle of aged, dry wine, the divining rod between weakness and strength, or, in the ways of the Spartan warrior, life or death.

The soldier poured the wine over the babe, it screamed, and writhed, and wriggled in displeasure, squeezing its little fists tightly together.

“Weak. Too weak for Spartan life. Put it in the basket with the rest,” The soldier ordered. The bed-nurse beside him bowed, and took the babe away. The mother did her best to hide her sorrow, and it was enough for no one but herself to take notice as the guard passed her on and moved to the next.

The soldier knew his captain would not be happy. Already, six out of seven newborn boys were to be discarded, destined for the bottom of the cliffs, too weak for Spartan life, but now, here he was, on the last, the seventh, where the situation for him had suddenly become quite personal . . .

“Hello, wife,” The Spartan soldier said. The woman smiled.

“Hello, husband,” The wife said.

“Are you ready?” The Spartan soldier asked.

“Self-denial, and simplicity my husband. He is ready, I am ready, but, are you?” The mother asked. The Spartan paused for half a moment. He didn’t like how it felt, this sudden pause, and did his best to push down and swallow all emotion, and weakness that was creeping up his throat. It was enough for no one else, but his wife to notice, as she handed the babe to her husband, and he couldn’t help but look it in the eyes. He knew this would either be a mistake, or a triumph, when something unexpected happened. Rather than looking at closed slits, he was staring into the most beautiful, most piercing dark hazel eyes he had ever seen in one other person.

The babe’s mother.

“The wine,” The soldier ordered. The bed nurse beside him placed the bottle in his hand, and with much effort, the soldier, the father, poured the wine over his newborn son, starting from the head, as it rolled down its face, then his body. The soldier waited, watched, expecting to hear the babe cry, but there was nothing. No sound. Just silence, just wonderful silence. He did his best to hide the smile, creeping across his face, but failed.

“This one, keep it with the mother. I will return for it in seven years. The blood of Sparta itself, flows in this one . . . what is his name?” The soldier asked.

“Likos . . .” The woman said.

“The name for wolf. A strange choice,” The soldier said.

“For strange times,” The woman said.

“Coddle him not. It will make him strong.” The soldier said.

“Strong as you my husband,” The wife said.

“No, he will be stronger,” The soldier said. “Because, he came from you,”

“Likos! What? How!?” Leobotas asked, staring at Likos with an exasperated smile.

“Caught it wandering around the sewers,” Likos said, holding up a live, wriggling fox by the tail as it snipped and yelped, trying to get at its capturer.

“Are you . . .” Leobotas started.

“Sharing? Of course, brother! They starve us to teach us strength, but I say, strength comes to those who don’t get caught . . .” Likos said. Leobotas rubbed his hands together eagerly.

“I have no idea how the taste of fox is, but, anything, anything at all for sustenance! I . . . oh no,” Leobotas asked. Suddenly, a group of older boys made themselves known.

“Well, now, what have we here? Planning to eat that without telling us?” Teleklos asked. Likos flashed a look of disinterest towards the older boy.

“Yup,” Likos said, as he held the fox down, and lifted up a large stone above the creature’s head. Teleklos suddenly grabbed at Likos’s wrist, tightly.

“I’ve never much cared for you, Likos. You don’t show your elders respect, nor take your beatings from us willingly! It is Spartan Code, Spartan tradition! And you squander it!” Teleklos said.

“I’ll squander your mother, your sister, and your face should you not let go,” Likos said. Teleklos had heard enough. He launched Likos up onto his feet and reeled back to strike him, only to hear a horn blow from behind. The boys all turned to see one of the Captain’s of the guard approaching.

“Hey! You there, boys, what is this commotion?” The Captain yelled, making his way over and freezing all the boys in their tracks.

“Quick! Get rid of it! Or we’ll all get beatings!” Teleklos whispered. Likos, not ready to release the promise of food, quickly shoved the crazed, wriggling fox under his shirt, and crossed his arms, holding it in place. The other boys, older included, looked at him as if he were mad, and maybe he was.

“Now, what seems to be the ruckus? Boys such as yourselves should be seen, not heard as you train, and,” The Captain stopped, noticing Likos. “Why is it that whenever there’s trouble, you’re never too far away, Likos?”

“Sir, there is no trouble here, I assure you,” Likos said with a straight, unwavering face. The Captain looked him right in the eyes, and smiled.

“Whether that was truth or not, you said it with confidence and surety. Well done, Spartan. The rest of you could learn from this one,” The captain said, turning and walking away.

As soon as the Captain was out of view, without warning, Likos suddenly released a pent up grunt of displeasure, ripping the fox free from his undergarments, and there, within the foxes mouth, was a five inch, thick strip of his own skin.

“Likos! By Zeus’s beard!” Leobotas yelled as Likos pulled up his shirt to reveal a portion of his stomach, eaten, and torn into by the fox’s teeth and claws.

“You mean to say, you, you kept that straight face, to keep us all out of trouble?” Teleklos asked.

“No, I did it to keep me and Leobotas out of trouble.” Likos said.

“All the same, it seems even the elders can learn from the youth. Self denial, and simplicity . . . this action of yours will become a story. It embodies everything about the Spartan Way. When I tell stories of courage to the youth tonight, they will hear of this, along with their youth someday. You have earned my respect, Likos,” Teleklos said.

“I had the dream again last night. Of a different life, a different time, as if, in my dreams, I live another life, a truer life than this,” Likos said as he munched on a dead rat. He tried to ignore the taste, but damp hair and hot, sun-boiled, metallic tasting blood can only be ignored for so long.

“You’re lucky to even have rest, Spartan,” Leobotas said. “What we are doing is entirely against the rules,”

“First off, I’m not a Spartan yet, and if you remember Ajax’s announcement that there are no rules, how can we be breaking anything?” Likos argued as he tossed the other half of the rat to his friend, a friend he had known since life itself. Leobotas took off the Rat’s head with one bite as if he were trying to pull a cork off a bottle with his teeth.

“This tastes like shit,” Leobotas said.

“You would know. I told you it wasn’t a good idea.” Likos said.

“At least it was warm,” Leobotas said.

“Remember salted pork?” Likos asked.

“No, I don’t think I do.” Leobotas said.

“I do, somewhat, but it’s just beyond my reach.” Likos said.

“Quit complaining. Persian’s do that.” Leobotas said. Likos laughed.

“Would you believe the Persians have something called “Furniture” In their dwellings?” Likos asked.

“Furniture?” Leobotas asked, confused.

“Yes, my father described it as something you sit your ass upon to relax within your dwelling place.” Likos said. Leobotas looked at him wide-eyed.

“By the beard of Zeus, I don’t believe it! What weaklings!” Leobotas said.

“It’s laughable indeed my brother,” Likos said, letting out an exhaustive sigh. “We have been sitting within this cave for seven days now. There’s no sense in both of us dying you know,”

“I heard you the first twenty times over these last few days.” Leobotas said.

“Then accept my offer, brother, take this stone, kill me, and return home a Spartan. Only one from each group may return. It was fate and misfortune that we were put together. The Gods, are oh so cruel,” Likos said, as he pried a sharpened stone out of the head of one of the many dead comrades laying about.

“Everything we’ve done together . . . We outlasted thirty encounters over these past months, together as brothers, as a team, and now, our opponents lay here dead, beside us. Only one can return home a Spartan. We’ve known this from the start.” Leobotas said, batting away the blood caked stone Likos offered him.

“Still, it was you who killed eight of the thirty compared to my five. You are obviously the better man,” Likos argued.

“Only because you wore them down, and watched my back,” Leobotas said.

“Hmph,” Likos mumbled.

“There is but one way to discover the better man. We both know it,” Leobotas said. “A Spartan sits here, and it’s one of us,”

“Let us wait then, just, one more day,” Likos said. Leobotas shook his head.

“We are weak brother. Say we do wait ‘til the morrow, only to settle it, and not have enough strength to return alive?” Leobotas said.

“There must be another way.” Likos argued.

“In the life of a Spartan, there is but one way, and that way is Glory. Only one of us can receive it, only one of us will earn the right to be called Spartan.” Leobotas said and it was then, tears swam down his face. “I . . . I’ve never wanted this. Never! Look at this, look at me brother! Tears do not flow down a Spartan’s face! I am no Spartan!”

“Brother, I do not believe tears are a sign of weakness, but the sign of a heart.” Likos said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Leobotas quickly smacked it away and slowly rose to shaky feet.

“To be a Spartan, you musn’t have a heart. We both know this. Come at me brother!” Leobotas pleaded. His words sounded distant, as if they weren’t real.

“Brother, I,” Likos started, only to receive a heel kick to his mid-section. Likos thought the pain from the strike would bring him clarity. It didn’t. Even as he rose to his feet with bloodlust in his eyes, what he was doing didn’t feel real, as if he were but a floating specter, watching from above, as brother fought against brother, friend fought against friend, to the death, all for the name . . . Spartan . . .

Likos rushed at him now, just like he did every other opponent before, just as a wolf attacks its prey, not out of spite, but dogged survival. They grappled across the cave and quickly tripped over one of their dead comrades. Entangled together, they crashed to the floor with Likos gaining the upper hand.

Out of reflex, atop of his brother’s back, Likos wrapped his left arm under his brother’s chin in a chokehold, and held on tightly. Even then, his father’s voice whispered to him, “Seven seconds to sleep, twenty seconds to kill.”

Likos held on as his friend kicked and thrashed and counted, 1, 2, 3, 4, when suddenly, he found himself letting go at the sound of his own heart beating. It reminded him of his humanity, it reminded him of what he was actually doing, and he let go. Leobotas rolled off him and both young men lay next to each other now, weak, breathing hard, as stalagmites dripped dew onto their battered bodies when suddenly, Likos realized that he was the only one breathing.

Quickly, he turned to his friend, his brother, and saw the broken spear jutting out through his right eye socket. Likos wasn’t cutting off his friend’s breath at all. His breath had already left him. The broken spear he had fallen upon in their struggle, had taken it from him.