Chapter 2

The Krypteria had been busy. The count from the annual 'War' was 267 Helots killed, Spartan losses nil.

Alexander always thought of the annual wars after the harvest, as more of a cull. The Helots, already out numbered the Spartans 20 to one, the element of total fear had to be maintained and re-enforced, or an able and intelligent Helot might persuade his fellow slaves to rise again in revolt.

It was a brutal policy and one he never really questioned. After all, when you have the power to 'legally', kill, rape, torture or otherwise humiliate another nation, you tend to become addicted to the 'high' such power gives you.

It was human nature to be merciless. It was the will of the GODS on Olympus that the dirty, lazy, lying degenerate Helot should be kept under Sparta's hobnailed boot forever; that was what Alexander and many of the other members of the Krypteria thought.

He now had four more Helots on his conscience, if his conscience allowed him to feel any guilt that is.

The winter was closing in and he was heading home to the family farm.

The route took him close to his old Agoge (school/commune) and out of affection and loyalty; he headed up the path to the buildings of the Agoge.

Although it was drizzling and a cold breeze lifted his kilt and caressed his balls and penis with icy fingers, he was only wearing his kilt and a short woollen cloak. It bellowed wetly in the strong breeze as he approached the training fields of the school. He took his cloak off and draped it over his arm. He was not in the mood to be reprimanded for softness.

There as he expected were the current batch of Adolescent students running, wrestling and sword and dagger fighting naked in the drizzle and cold wind.

Each had a lean muscular physique with scrotums and penis shrivelled by the cold breeze.

Training never stopped. An enemy might attack on a cold wet winter morning or a hot summer afternoon. The only lesson was endurance and readiness.

His old Tutor, Plutarch, was watching the training with interest and many loud shouts of encouragement and abuse.

"You rabble of Athenian mother-fucking-Persian-dog balls!" He yelled, "My crippled mother can run faster then you" slapping the butts of the boys sprinting past him.

"My 99 year old Helot one-legged-whore-slave could beat the life out of you with a ball of wool!" He growled at the wrestlers "Grab him you bastard and hurl him. You can play kissy-kissy later"

"Send you into battle?" He bellowed pacing up and down watching the sword fighters go through their paces

"I wouldn't send you against a flock of tethered lambs you cock suckers"

There were other tutors doing more or less the same thing, the boys were slapped, struck with birch rods or verbally abused by every trainer there. Any who fell were kicked and spat on until they struggled to there feet and continued.

Alexander watched it all with nostalgia. The same terms of abuse. The same motivational slaps and kicks. The same type of boys being turned into men.

Which one or ones, were Plutarch's charges? As always, Plutarch showed no favouritism in training. Whichever boy was getting masturbated or sucked or butt fucked by Plutarch, he was not getting any special kid glove treatment here.

Plutarch would rather die then send a boy out untrained to face the Gods knew how many enemies. If anything, the fuck toy was being run harder, hit harder, and trained harder then any other cadet. Plutarch really loved the boys and wanted them to be the best and survive the wars Sparta had to wage.

Training over the boys were ordered to a stream swollen by the rain and pushed or kicked in.

"Wash!" A tutor yelled, "I don't want the Mess fouled by your perfumed bodies".

Alexander walked slowly over to Plutarch.

Although no cadet or Tutor had acknowledged his presence, they had all known he was approaching. They were seasoned warriors and cadets with 9 or 10 years of training. If they had not been paying attention, they would have died years ago in a training failure or a skirmish.

"Took you own sweet time getting here" Plutarch said gruffly Looking Alexander up and down slowly.

"I am amazed some Helot slut hasn't chopped your balls off by now. Where is my training I ask? I could have sent a junior cadet with a toy wooden sword to kill you. So careless!"

Plutarch was an old warhorse who joked that he had been around since the Trojan War. It was impossible of course but for a man in his late 50's he was in great shape. Lean, tough and well able to beat any younger Warrior with the balls to challenge him.