Bullets, Teeth & Fists

by Jason Beech

  5.

  Agis looked to Zeus for an answer, but the great one in the sky sent him nothing. The goat had not cooperated in its death. He had climbed nimbly up the crags to the precarious plateau which jutted from the rock, only for the goat to realise its options of escape limited. It attacked him, going for a headbutt. He dodged enough to avoid a head crack, but not enough to avoid a hit. The wind left him. He maintained enough of his senses to grab one of the animal’s horns as he fell backwards. He screamed out as the beast bleated, and somehow he turned the animal as they fell. It broke his fall on the rocks below. His bones crunched like an Athenian ship on the rocks, but the impact did not hurt as much as the horn which pierced his leg. It stood bloody through his thigh. Agis’ Spartan training told him to shut his mouth and accept the pain, but as he regained breath his lungs threw out rebellious yells at the hot pain which consumed him. He pushed up from the animal. His tunic slurped away from its exposed intestines. He slid his leg from the horn. Each jagged bit of it tormented. His teeth must crunch to dust with the grind. He pulled himself free and stared upwards at the clear sky. Let the sun dry his sweat. He breathed deep through his nose. Smelled blood, guts, and his own stench.

  A flock of birds flew overhead. He couldn’t help notice the one which strayed from the rest. He turned his face away and imagined his father telling him “You’re a useless shit, be a man” again. The beatings Pharnaces gave him – thank the gods that had ended – and the rough sex he needed to endure to secure that Spartan bond and secure his future greatness. He never quite dampened that “is it worth it?” attitude. It came back to him now as he managed a seated position. He ripped his lower tunic to wrap around the wound he feared would fester. He sliced the goat’s guts, used both hands to rip it wider, and spilled its innards on the hot rock his bare feet scarcely registered. He poked at them with his knife, rearranged them with his fingers. He infused Sparta, breathed deep through his nose as if the entrails held the city’s aroma. What else could he be but a Spartan? An Athenian? Those feminine arseholes? Even the lowest god would not deign to shit on them and their plays. Democracy made them weak – they spent too much time in debates – and voting. What can you get done that way? Pharnaces spat at their name as much as he did the Persians’. A Spartan I must remain, he confirmed, as if he had a choice.

  The animal’s insides gave him the shivers. First the stray bird, now the funny-looking guts. His treasonous thoughts had brought ill luck. To avert a fearful fate he needed to make his last kill. Strymon lived in the village below.

  6.

  Myrto smashed Talos’ wooden sword from his hand. Talos cowered as Myrto smacked over the head with his. It took Talos out of the game. Myrto dodged the swing from Peiros, but fell over the bucket which lied behind him. Peiros and Galenus saw victory and lunged for him. Glory blinded their tactics. Myrto jumped to his haunches, rolled between the boys who fought each other to batter his head first, and smacked them on theirs from behind before they could turn. Myrto laughed as all three rubbed away their sting.

  “You’re all useless,” he taunted. “How will we destroy the Spartans with you lot in my army?”

  They resented his jibes, but then made fun of his mathematical skill. “At least we can count.”

  “Maths won’t crack a Spartan’s skull open.”

  Galenus shook his head. “I don’t know. They’re thick; a mathematical problem might make their heads explode.”

  They laughed, but stood alert as Myrto nodded to the hills. They sensed an opportunity for adventure.

  “Did you hear the scream earlier, from up there?” Myrto said.

  Talos and Galenus had not. Peiros nodded his head like a chicken pecked at its feed.

  “We should go up and see what it came from.”

  Myrto recoiled from the tremble in Talos’ lower lip. His friend would live under his wife’s rule when he married.

  “What noise?” Galenus shielded his eyes from the bright sky as he searched the hill.

  Peiros opened his arms wide. “Some beast, really big scream, half-man, half-I don’t-know… some monster Homer never mentioned. It can’t be Cyclops …”

  “He’s dead.” Galenus shuffled.

  “I know that … Zeus.” Peiros pushed Galenus for thinking him an idiot.

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Whatever it is, we have to look.” Now Myrto had battered their heads, he wanted a monster’s skull as a more significant prize.

  Peiros smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “We don’t have a sword. Wood’s not going to do the trick …”

  Myrto smiled, happy in his glory. “My dad has one. Don’t know why, he never uses it, but he’s got one …”

  “Off to old man Strymon’s then.” Peiros jumped to his feet. “Can we sneak it out?”

  7.

  Myrto climbed the steep hills with Peiros. Refused to look back at the two cowards behind. He had imagined their own Odyssey – a fellowship together up Mount Olympus, seeking their future from the Delphic oracle, and even crossing the sea to Asia. What an adventure, but he would do it with only Peiros. He could cope with that.

  “I should hold the sword.” Peiros’ lungs didn’t give his words much purchase as they worked overtime for air.

  Myrto climbed these hills each day and he wondered if Peiros could have any use against the monster they sought to kill. Unlikely. As a decoy – but that's all. “You just saw me batter all three of you at once. I’ll hold the sword.”

  Peiros shook his head. Spoke a word after each heavy breath, “You… can… only… rely… on… luck… every so often…”

  “If you don’t shut up Peiros I’ll stick this thing in you.” He waved the rusted sword for the sun to bounce off. Wanted to see it sparkle. The blade was too rough, so he let his arm dangle by his side again. “You beat me once. You’ve used your luck up. You’ll not get any more.”

  “You’re an arse, Myrto. Have we ever told you?”

  “Yes. Yes you have. But I’m an arse holding a sword, so why don’t you save your tongue for whatever is up here?”

  They reached a plateau, flat like a god had launched itself into an Olympic long-jump from here. Peiros raised his hands to Zeus, thankful he had reached level ground. Myrto could tell he longed for the downhill slope all the way home.

  “Remember why we’re here, Peiros.”

  His friend’s fervour cooled. They crouched and almost crawled their way around the open space. Exposed. Every rock hid menace. A beast prowled silent in the shadows, its eyes on them, ready to slice their heads from their bodies.

  “Was this a bad idea?” Peiros swivelled this way and that.

  Myrto turned to him. Hid his worry behind bravado. “We’re here to gain glory. Just imagine its head in the village square. Everyone’ll worship us.”

  He could see Peiros worried more for his own than the monster’s skull. He shook his head in disgust, as if he might shore up his friend’s courage this way. It seemed to work. Peiros stood. Pointed his wooden sword forward, ready to skewer the Cyclops, Medusa, or whatever else made his bones try to escape his skin.

  It came out of the cave to their left, a hole in the hillside that surely led to Hades, silhouetted by the blaze of fire behind him. It had human form, looked as much a child as the two friends, but had a face trained in superiority and hate. Myrto thought he detected confusion, too. The thing walked slow, caked in … blood? Red streaks ran across its tunic, hands encrusted with somebody’s insides. White skin peeked out in patches beneath the crimson paint on his face. Myrto sensed Peiros wanted to run. He also wanted to run. He willed his friend to stand his ground; they had to look good in front of Galenus and Talos when they returned. Now they knew about this trip he already felt the humiliation of a trophy-less return. He'd flinch if he lied. Everybody saw through his tales. His body had received numerous bruises from his father for telling them.

  As Myrto circled round the thing, he wondered why it walked funny. This dae
mon looked pissed off. Myrto planted himself and stood firm. The daemon now stood between the friends, in a line. It glanced between them, weighed up their threat. The glint of a claw shone in the low sun. The sunset reddened his face as much as the daemon’s. He felt engaged, he couldn’t turn back now. He took a step forward and triggered a whirlwind he hardly saw and couldn’t quite believe. The daemon dashed to Peiros, who never moved, and with one slash of its claw sliced his head clean from his shoulders. Myrto fell to his haunches as if this now camouflaged him, worked to register what he just saw. He didn’t have time, the thing launched towards him and swiped. Myrto threw himself to one side, dodged enough so his head didn’t roll away like his friend’s.

  He questioned why he wanted to see if his friend was alright. Peiros clearly had no ability to stand up. He’d seen it. His head had tumbled solo. His friend… twelve years of friendship taken away in the blink of an eye. Emotion filled his throat. A gulp released the blockage, but tears now streaked his vision. The thing headed for him again, slower this time. Held its leg. Myrto dragged even his peripheral vision from Peiros and locked the thing in the eye. Blocked a swipe with his sword. The rusty thing held and he aimed a blow at the daemon. It dodged that and the second blow. It held his third swipe with his left hand, his grip strong on Myrto’s arm, and attempted to stab him in the gut with his right. Myrto pulled away, let go of his sword, and hopped back from the lunge. This bloodhound took jagged steps towards him. Stepped on Myrto’s sword as if it meant nothing. Shame on the beast, he thought, that sword had passed down the generations. He would inherit it from his father, and he would pass it to his son once he had his way with Adonia.

  Myrto backed up. Recognised the human inside this daemon. It no longer had an air of the thoughtless beast it did before. Still, it wanted to kill him. It seemed to guide him where it wanted him to go. Myrto had the swiftest look over his shoulder and realised the beast had guided him to the cave’s mouth. Timing. Time it right. It lunged, Myrto stepped to his right. Blood trickled from the cut. He sprinted for his sword. Couldn’t see it. It didn’t lie behind that or this rock. It fell round here, he knew it. He heard the rustle of dry grass behind him. The beast-man-boy struggled towards him, its limp worse with each step. Myrto’s steps faltered, his arms dangled limp by his sides as he searched in vain for his weapon.

  There … he ran for it, turned, and swooped his back low to avoid the throat slit, in turn swinging his iron death machine into the daemon’s side. The thing dropped to its knees and puffed like poor Peiros had up these hills. His sword had not done much but wind the thing. He ran his fingers down its blunt, impotent edge. The daemon kneeled before him, at his mercy. He didn’t wish to give it, but doubted his sword could remove its head. It keeled over to its side, unsure whether to hold its leg or the side of its rib-cage.

  Myrto stuck his sword into the ground - it could stab earth at least - and walked to his friend. He squatted, made a pat on his friend’s back, and used his other hand to wipe his tears. He moved to his friend’s head and lifted it with both hands like a cup. Stared at his face. Peiros' eyes looked like he had thought of nothing but a conundrum before he died. He had failed to react. Had not known what came upon him. Myrto staggered back to the daemon as he held, arms outstretched, his friend ahead of him. He turned Peiros’ face to the monster.

  “Look what you did, bastard… look.”

  “I… did… nothing.”

  Myrto slumped to the ground as exhaustion took him. Held his friend by the hair, now. He realised the lack of respect and placed him the best he could on the grass so he looked his killer in the eye. The monster’s a boy, he realised, not much older than him, but built a lot better. Myrto glanced between the head and his adversary. Couldn't help but swell with pride that he had held his own, despite the boy fighting with a limp. He examined the hole in his leg in the dying light. It festered, yellow mixed with red open flesh. He ought to finish the job. He had won; the boy’s head belonged to him. The boy’s claw, a short sharp sword, lay by his side, of no danger. Myrto fingered the cut in his arm and winced at the pain which inched up to his shoulder. He fell backwards into slumber.

  8.

  Agis held his knife like he would never see Sparta again, the weapon like his last link to the homeland. He had managed to drag the boy into the cave to examine him by the fire. The Messenian looked an unworthy opponent, but Agis had fallen to his sword. He could not use his leg as an excuse. His father would scorn him. Pharnaces would whip him.

  He hunched over the helot and brought the knife down to the boy, the blade on his cut. His flesh sizzled from the burn and he woke up with a scream. Agis placed his other hand on his chest to keep him down.

  “Be quiet. I’m mending your cut.” The boy looked like a rodent trapped in a lion’s mouth. “I’m not here to kill you. You’re too easy.”

  Once he had eased the other’s fears, Agis moved back to the fire and inspected his thigh wound. It looked a little better since he had seared the flesh with his blade hours before.

  “Who are you?” the boy eventually asked.

  Agis didn’t expect his voice to sound so high. He expected it to have broken. It added to his humiliation. “Agis,” he replied, looking into the fire. “Who are you?”

  “Myrto.” He sat up. Agis absorbed his stare. “What are you?”

  “I’m a Spartan.”

  Myrto backed into the wall of the cave. It pleased Agis that his nation still inspired fear.

  “You look like a devil.”

  “I feel like one. You’re a helot.”

  The boy spat at him, hitting him in the eye. Good shot, he thought, and wiped it clear.

  “I’m not a helot. I’m a Messenian - and proud of it.”

  “What do you have that makes you proud? Your people are not much better than slaves.”

  “I beat you.”

  Agis bristled and stopped short of pointing to his leg. He placed the goat he killed earlier over the fire. The branch on which he skewered it rested on two Y-shaped branches stuck into the ground.

  “We were free once, and have beaten you before. My father knows the past better than anyone, and he said Sparta fears us.”

  “Sparta fears nobody. Your father is obviously a liar.”

  Myrto sprung to his heels and scanned the cave for some object. Agis ignored him and concentrated on the goat. “Your sword is still out there.” He waved his hand. “Though why I call it a sword I don’t know. The thing is bronze, barely sharp enough to slit a rat’s throat.”

  “It’s been in my family for generations.”

  “Undoubtedly. It probably hasn’t seen use since Troy fell.”

  “It has seen plenty. It helped conquer the Persians.”

  Agis laughed. “If we relied on a sword like that the Persians would only need to have sneezed and we would all speak Persian now.”

  Myrto slumped to his backside again. “But it brought you down.”

  “My leg.” Agis flinched at his excuse. “Damn you.”

  “My father …”

  “Your father what? Don’t you have thoughts?”

  “Funny question from a Spartan … my father said you’re all automatons. You can’t think for yourselves. You have no freedom.”

  “And yet we’re your masters.”

  Myrto poked the goat. Pulled his hand away fast as his fingers burnt. “You’re masters of our bodies, but not up here.” He tapped his skull.

  Agis pinched the bridge of his nose. Palm-rubbed his eyes. “We control your minds through fear.”

  “Is that a good thing? Does that feel good? Power for the sake of it?”

  “We all seek glory. Glory comes from power. The gods are on our side.”

  “My … we … also look for honour. I don’t see any honour in Sparta. They crush all dissent. You have no minds, you don’t create anything …”

  “We’re not Athenian women; we’re men … what use is creation?”

  “Then destruction? My fri
end?”

  “You threatened me, both of you. Don’t tell me you did not seek glory in my death?”

  Myrto created a trench in the cave’s moist ground with his heel. “We heard your scream. We thought you a monster. Your head would have looked good on a spear in the square.”

  Agis turned the goat, feeling hungry, tired, and desolate. “I’ve wandered these hills for weeks and seen nothing but goats and the odd wild beast. I’m starting to question Homer. I’m starting to question a lot of things.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me?”

  “You beat me. It felt wrong to then kill you. Why didn’t you behead me?”

  “I don’t really know … I think beating you was enough.”

  Agis nodded. Doodled shapes into the ground with the point of his knife. “I have targets … and you’re not one of them.”

  Myrto glanced out of the cave’s entrance. The night’s beasts made eerie sounds in the distance. His look confirmed Agis’ perception, only Agis doubted beasts prowled the hills.

  “What targets?” Myrto filled the trench he'd made.

  “We’re trained to kill from an early age, Myrto. Every moment is about honing our bodies for battle, to maintain our power. We have to crush anything that offers a threat. As boys, we form into Crypteia, sent out into the wilderness to kill. Who better to practice on than helots?”

  “You bastards …”

  Agis nodded. Surprised his new companion. “You’re right, Myrto, we are automatons. Every kill I made I did through expectation, and the moment made me frenzied for it. But each kill has haunted me afterwards. The wild panicked look in each of my opponents … my victims … as they died … it sometimes knocks me sideways.”

  “Who is your target?”

  “A man in the village at the bottom of this hill, called Strymon.”

  “What?” Myrto jumped to his feet, ready to pounce again.

  “Who is he?”

  “You will not leave this cave, Spartan, not without one of us dying.”