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    NeoSparta
    NeoSparta
    NeoSparta
    Ebook141 pages1 hour

    NeoSparta

    By David Downey

    ()

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    About this ebook

    In 346 BC, a young Alexander the Great persuades his father to attack the military city-state of Sparta.

    That fateful event is the snowflake that triggers an avalanche of an alternative history spanning 2,300 years, marking the end of ancient Greece as we know it, and resulting in a Sparta ascendant.

    And now in modern times, Xenophon, Sparta’s Ambassador to the United States, must use all his strength, wits, and cunning to quell an escalating crisis between a crippled US and a Spartan Empire all too eager for war.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid Downey
    Release dateJul 31, 2016
    ISBN9781536526769
    NeoSparta
    Author

    David Downey

    David Downey is the author of NeoSparta, the short story collection Goddess, and the apocalyptic horror novel The Alpha And The Omega. He currently lives in San Jose, California, where he works as an engineer, to support his career as a writer. He is working on the opening novella of a sci-fi serial.

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      Book preview

      NeoSparta - David Downey

      346 BV (Before Victory: Πριν από τη Nίκη)

      ’If’?!

      Alexander flipped the papyrus over and back again.  ’If’ is the only word on this scroll!  He turned his fury to the messenger.  Is this the only document we received?

      King Philip couldn’t help but chuckle.

      What do you find so humorous, father?

      The King of Macedon motioned for the poor messenger to leave them, the terrified look on his face adding to his mirth.  A grown man—a herald in the Macedon infantry—terrified of a 10-year-old boy. He took a gulp from his bronze wine horn.  Granted, the 10-year-old boy is the king’s son...

      Valiantly maintaining his military bearing to not flee outright, the messenger pivoted and hurriedly marched out of the royal tent.

      Be assured, that is the Spartans’ full reply, said Philip.  They are notorious for being a people of few words.

      Alexander shook the message in his fist.  "How can this be their only response to your declaration of war?"

      I warned the Spartans thus: ‘You are advised to submit without further delay, for if I bring my army into your land, I will destroy your farms, slay your people, and raze your city.’  And their reply: ‘If’.

      The king watched the realization wash across his son’s face.  How dare they!

      The Spartans are also notorious for being supreme fighters, said Philip, before pausing to pick a meddlesome grape skin out of his teeth with a fingernail.  The best in the world.

      ‘Supreme fighters’? Alexander spat.  Sparta’s ‘supreme fighters’ could not march through Thessaly.  You did.  They could not subdue Athens.  You did!  You have united all of Greece.  Save arrogant Sparta.

      Sparta is but a horse riding blister on the testicles of Greece.  They are merely an annoyance.

      Do the Spartans realize we have just easily captured their hallowed Thermopylae!? Alexander fumed, oblivious to what his father just said.

      The king motioned for the boy to approach his solid wooden chair, which had served as a throne during this latest of campaigns.  Into his ear, he whispered, The treasures of Persia await, my son.

      Alexander slowly backed away, his eyes looking dead ahead, his mouth a tight line.  Just when Philip hoped the audacity of his secret aims—Of conquering the Persian Empire!—would be enough to sate his son’s war lust, he said, If you do not wish to attack Sparta, then please grant me the honor.  If I succeed, you will get all the glory.  And if I fail, you can claim it was all your wayward son’s fault.

      Alexander, always so dramatic, like an Athenian.  To him, everything is epic, Philip reflected, as he pushed himself out of his makeshift throne, its legs sinking into the packed soil beneath the rug.

      Yet, your vision matches your genius.  You are a brilliant boy, he thought, caressing his son’s cheek, looking down at him with pride.  Even more so than me when I was your age.  You will make a fine general someday, perhaps even a great king.  He walked past him. But now you are just that: a boy.

      Drinking horn in hand, Philip flapped open the tent’s entrance. He was met with a crisp gust of wind from the Aegean Sea. Its gulf stretched to his right, looking like a vast sheet of copper, tarnished aqua-marine over most of its surface, gleaming metallic only in a streak beneath the rising sun.

      To his left was the rest of his war camp.  Between the hundreds of haphazard tents rose clouds of dust, kicked up from men, beasts, and carts.

      And directly in front of him, at the foot of the hill where his royal tent was perched, was the fabled pass of Thermopylae.  More than a hundred years ago, pinched between the sea and this hill, 300 Spartans had defended this pass against 100,000 Persians for three days.  And I just captured it without raising a spear.  The king laughed at the sight of some of his drunken soldiers, frolicking naked on the pass’ shore below.

      His attention wandered back to the camp, to a corral of horses. He silently began naming the docile, fenced in creatures after his conquests: Paionia, Illyria, Amphipolis, Pydna, Potidea, Philippi, Maroneia, Abdera, Methone, Thessaly, Pagasae, Thrace, Olynthus, Thermopylae…

      Outside the pen, riders of his elite royal cavalry were taking turns trying to break a stubborn, bucking steed.  Sparta.

      Philip sensed Alexander at his blind side.  Sparta’s sun is setting.  Macedon’s is rising! his son implored.

      He took a swig of wine.  Wiping his chin on the sleeve of his tunic, King Philip declared, I shall lead the attack on Sparta.

      Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA

      1962 AV (After Victory: Mετά τη Nίκη)

      Xenophon’s attacker was choking him from behind.

      Belly down, Xenophon fought the primal instinct to claw at the hands around his neck.  Instead, he focused all his effort on his arms and legs, on pushing himself off the ground.

      With a strength rivaling Hercules, he managed to get up on his hands and knees, lifting his attacker up with him.  Now all Xenophon had to do was to simply flop over, and he would be on top.  Then he would be free to repay his attacker in kind.

      But his attacker knew this, which was why he rolled off Xenophon's back and released his grip around his neck.  Blinking the white spots of dizziness out of his vision, Xenophon wheezed as he inhaled deep.

      Still on all fours, Xenophon felt a palm jam into his ribs, a shoulder ramming into his hip.  His attacker was trying to tip him over, to begin his assault anew.

      Though still dazed, Xenophon knew enough to extend his opposing arm and leg, like a pair of kickstands, in hopes of keeping him from toppling over.

      With his shoulder, his attacker began shoving him.  The heel of Xenophon's palm and the edge of his foot plowed into the earth, as he was pushed farther and farther.  His attacker's legs were pistons, pumping faster and faster, his penis swinging between his thighs, his testicles a tight mound against his pelvis.  With his free arm, Xenophon tried grabbing hold of the meat of his attacker's back, but his grip kept slipping off dirty sweaty flesh—

      Point! barked the referee.

      Xenophon noticed the line of white chalk beneath him, just as his attacker disengaged.  His attacker had succeeded in driving him out of bounds.

      Getting back to his feet, Xenophon brushed off the dirt caking his hands.  No longer wrestling, he quickly began feeling cold again.  The frosty Philadelphia dawn, coupled with the incandescent field lights above, rendered his breath into buttery puffs.  The icy earth at the soles of his bare feet sent goosebumps up his naked skin.  His scrotum tightened to the point of aching.

      As the referee escorted him back to his starting position, Xenophon noticed other wrestlers, as well as some runners from the surrounding track, were gathering to watch his match.  No doubt the score—tied one to one, next point wins—roused their interest.  Plus the fact that their boss—the Spartan Ambassador to the United States—was a contestant, stoked their curiosity.

      But Xenophon knew the overriding reason

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