The Pep Talk
A short play
SPARTAN MOTHER: 40–45yr, stately woman
HER SON: soldier in uniform, around 20yr, boyish face, tall, slim
TWO SPARTAN GIRLS: (in the background on the left, giggling) teenagers
SEVERAL SPARTAN SOLDIERS: (in the background on the right, milling about) all young
MOTHER: (hands her son an old battered shield). Either with this shield, son, or on it. You are one of the Spartiates and a soldier now.
SON: (takes the shield) Yes, mother, with it or on it.
MOTHER: This is the shield your father took to six wars. 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.
SON: 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.
MOTHER: True, but there’s strength in their numbers. Remember, your father was killed by helots ten autumns ago. Apparently 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.
SON: According to the latest census the helots now outnumber us civilized people seven to one.
MOTHER: 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.
SON: Heard about the Cinadons. The enemy within.
MOTHER: They’re false prophets preaching outrageous propaganda such as all men are equal. How about facts? Spartan children can read and write by the age of ten, they even know a little about poetry, philosophy. A helot is illiterate in his whole life and can count only with the help of his fingers. The short fragmented sentences they use in their communication sound like dog barking at the moon. Still the Cinadons want to portray them as human beings.
SON: According to the sages during peacetime the Cinadons pollute the minds of well-intentioned citizens and in battle they run away to save their hides.”
MOTHER: When the chips are down, it’s fight or flight, and for them it’s always flight. No such word exists 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.
SON: 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.
MOTHER: A death in the family is devastating for every Spartan mother but we prefer grieving for one who died on his feet to having one who survived kneeling to the enemy. On my udder’s milk I raised a man, a Spartiate. Spartan men do not run, never retreat.
SPARTAN GIRLS: (giggling, waving)
MOTHER: (yells at them) Shoo! Beat it, lil bitches! Once my son returns from the battle, mud and blood on him, he can do you and your mothers too.
SPARTAN GIRLS: (run away, still giggling)
MOTHER: (points at the shield) The Law of Nature, son, with it or on it.
SON: (nods) Yes, mother, either with this shield or on it.
MOTHER: (opens her arms)
SON: (embraces her and slowly walks away toward the other soldiers)
MOTHER: (teary eyes but stone faced, yells after him) 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.
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A sketch in short-story form was published in Friday Flash Fiction on March 1, 2024.
