For Sparta

My name is Draco Mesos.  Putting quill to parchment I write these, what may be my last thoughts.  The time has come, or it will in a few short hours.  The time wherein I meet my destiny or earn my fate.  I write this to my Mater in the hopes she will receive this journal once the battle is set and done.  A Spartan trains his entire life for the chance of achieving glory for his family.  My Pater, Lycurgus the Wolf was brave to the end and won great honor for our family.  It is rare, but his fellows did bring him home on his shield, his body retrieved from the battlefield when others were left behind.  The gods have taken them into their arms, consoled them on the loss of their material bodies, but they too will live on through the centuries.  As my father will and if the gods smile upon me, so will I.  I am his only son and it is up to me to continue his legacy.

Our journey is far and while Spartans prefer to travel by horse or foot, this journey is long, necessitating the finest ocean-going sailing ships ever built.  Each trireme is capable of holding 1,000 fighting troops and crew. When at war we always travel the ocean tides in twelve vessels, twelve being the number of our gods and is a sacred number to all Greeks.  Sparta only recently has developed the skills to build our own ships, small in size, but fast as the bolts of Zeus.  Of the twelve vessels, four are Spartan.  We will form into our phalanxes the moment we touch shore and lead the charge into the enemy.

A scant few hours ago I and my two best companions were on the deck enjoying the warm sea air which had whipped my red chiton cloak behind me, my nakedness underneath revealing hard, chiseled muscle.  We turned to hear the sound of footsteps; Pamphilos, my servant had come up behind us, a tray of wine and three glasses in hand.  I remarked to him he must have read my mind to which he immediately answered if the mind is small, it is easy to read.  We all laughed at his wit.  In truth, he would never dare speak to me thus, but when with my two companions, he had certain liberties. This was his right, within reason, as a Helot, a man born neither slave or freeman.  Slung across his back was a large cloth pack.  He gave us each a survival pack consisting of rations, a dagger, and a lightweight square of cloth to be used for numerous purposes.

Ever thoughtful Pamphilos.  He reminded us of our last sea voyage where a young Spartan in his youthful daring leaned over the side of the ship we were on. The winds shifted, he lost his balance and fell overboard.  His body was found three days later partially devoured by monsters unknown.  Some speculated it was harpies, others, the dreaded Kraken.  Pamphilos said if he had had his survival pack on he may have survived.  We each poured a libation of wine into the sea in memory of him.  Fool that he was, he was still Spartan.

I no longer enjoyed the feeling of elation I’d originally had on the open deck.  The sky was black, lightning flashing across the skies.  Zeus was angry.  Thankfully, Poseidon was not; the seas were calm.  As the sky was black, so too was the sea and for a moment I thought I saw a monstrous beast traveling underneath our vessel with eyes as large as our round hoplon shields.  My companions did not notice.  I left it unmentioned for we were all contemplating our mortality, putting us all into a somber mood. Damn you, Pamphilos.  We then heard to call for food. I will continue this journal entry afterward.

Hellenes and Spartans differ on what is important and what is not.  Before a battle, food to the Hellenes is a source of nourishment and little else.  Military food on their plates is bland but full of the nutrients one needs.  To us Spartans, food is a luxury that we are denied during training from the age of seven until we are considered true Spartans.  I recall my first attempt at stealing food through an open window.  I was seven.  I looked about and saw nothing except a table of fresh food.  Fruits, vegetables, and a small portion of meat.  I was entranced by the sight and smell which led to my getting caught.  I remember the giant of a man coming toward me, calling me a little thief.  He struck my face with an open hand and followed with a kick to my starving stomach.  Later the next year, he would become my teacher of pagration, the Spartan skill of deadly unarmed combat.  His name was Pamphilos.

Food is meant to be fresh, healthy and most importantly, delicious.  We sat and had our meal of . . .

It is time.  The alarm klaxon is chiming, the call to arms from the speaker above my head loud and clear, ‘Prepare for landing!  Prepare for landing!  All infantry prepare for combat drop in t-minus ten minutes!’  Mater, forgive me, I must finish today’s entry electronically.

“Recorder on.  Vocoder diary of Draco Mesos, date 3521.10.28, recording time 1545.  This is for you, Pater, Mater.  May the gods be kind to me and grant me victory for our family honor.  For the record, I am carrying pater’s weapons; those wielded on his last day.  His favored aether dagger and Spartan Infantry Spear are ready to draw blood in the name of Ares, our god of war.  Pater’s Chain Sword with its deadly titanium steel saw teeth, in his hands, severed many enemy heads and limbs.  May I do the same, the Twelve willing.  I must remember to thank Pamphilos when I return for readying my panoply including polishing my Spartan composite body armor and helmet.  Computer, switch to open microphone . . .”

“This is you commnander. Combat drop commencing in 5. . . 4 . . . 3 . . .2 . . . 1!”

“MAY THE GODS PROTECT US!”

“I HATE THESE DROPS!”

“SOMEONE WAKE UP SOKRATES!”

(Sounds of braking thrusters and internal rattling as the dropship descends through the atmosphere followed by a loud thud as contact planetside is made).

“EVERYONE, BY THE NUMBERS, PHALAXES FORM UP ONCE WE TOUCH GROUND!”

(Sounds of war cries, stamping steel-shod boots, banging of shields until the lines form).

“Draco recording.  We have formed into our phalanx, but . . . the enemy is nowhere to be seen.”

“Draco, where is everyone?”

“I don’t know.  This is the correct landing site, but no enemy in sight.”

“This silence is deafening.”

“FORMATION, PREPARE FOR CONTACT!”

(Sounds of distant rumbling, building to a slow thunder as the enemy approaches).

“BY THE GODS, WHAT ARE THEY!?”

“BY ZEUS! MINOTAURS!”

“We were told we were fighting other humans, Draco!  What do we do?

“WE STAND AND FIGHT!  THIS WILL BE A GLORIOUS DAY FOR SPARTA!  THIS IS A GLORIOUS DAY TO DIE!”

“Final words, Draco recording.  I will return, Mater, carrying my shield, or on it.  The gods are praised.  Sounding off.”