“Yes, mother, with it or on it.”
“This is the shield your father took to six wars with him. Against the Persians, against the Athenians, and against the helots. He came back with it five times, and at the end they brought him back on it.”
“I’m not worried, mother. This one’s going to be light skirmishes, short battles. Just the regular annual campaign against the helots. They are poorly trained and only armed with unsharpened kopis and slingshots. Also they are inferior to us: underfed, physically weak, most of them feeble minded.”
“True, but there’s strength in their numbers. Remember, your father was killed by helots ten autumns ago. According to witnesses, a myriad of them descended on him, he fought bravely but eventually died by a thousand cuts. The battle was lopsided from the get-go; a legion of hyenas, only a few lions.”
“According to the latest census the helots now outnumber us civilized people seven to one.”
“Well, that’s why we must carry out frequent attrition campaigns. Rodents must be treated like rodents. Also watch out for those Cinadon types who live among us. They’re in the army too.”
“Heard about the Cinadons. The enemy within.”
“They’re false prophets preaching outrageous propaganda such as all men are equal. Mindboggling, the Cinadons want to portray the helots as human beings! What next, the donkeys are people too?”
“The sages tell us, the Cinadons pollute the minds of well-intentioned citizens during peacetime, and in battle they run away to save their hides.”
“When the chips are down, it’s fight or flight, and for them it’s always flight. Such word does not exist in a Spartiate’s vocabulary. On your father’s body not a single wound was deep enough to be fatal. Apparently he was slowly bleeding away while still dispatching a bunch of them.”
“Eventually every Spartiate worthy to be called an honest man dies in battle. All of us even our kings give our lives for the State. Our blood is spilled so that Sparta remain Spartan.”
“I’ll be the first to admit, a death in the family is devastating, and all Spartan mothers feel the same way. Still we prefer grieving for one who died on his feet to having one who survived kneeling and begging for mercy. On my udder’s milk I raised a man, a Spartiate. Spartan men do not run, never retreat.”
“I know, mother, with this shield or on it.”
“When the battle noise gets deafening and you’re surrounded by raging helot-subhumans, you’ve got to take at least seven with you. Their rotting carcasses will fertilize the land. We Spartans live forever in our blood.”