Libo could not take any more of the admiral’s delusions, and could no longer contain his irritation. "I'm sorry, my lord, but nothing of the kind has happened! That creature no more speaks for the gods than it does for its own infantile mind! That man over there, about to be hacked to pieces by common sailors, is a senator of Rome. I am sure of it. Even if he is not, it seems plainly obvious that you must –"
"Be wary, my dear Libo," Bibulus regarded him coolly, almost as if he did not recognize him. "You have enjoyed my favor in the past. I have permitted your occasional impertinence because of your skills as a sailor and your astuteness as a commander. But be warned, it is possible to stretch those privileges too far."
Libo fumed silently. A feeling of hopelessness overcame him as more Romans fell. The centurion was trying to rally them, trying to get them to rush the Greeks as one, but there was a lackluster nature to their defense, that of men who had submitted to the certainty of death. Libo turned away, sickened, having seen too many Romans fall this day. But then, a shrill chorus of screams and cries in a dozen different languages filled the air. Libo turned back to see a rush of stark naked men bursting from every hatchway. There had to be one hundred or more. They swarmed over the deck, screaming wildly with a mad bloodlust on their faces. Some also emerged from the portals and climbed up and over the sides, like a creeping vine of red-striped backs and bare buttocks. Black-skinned Nubians, olive-skinned Asians, pale-skinned Gauls and Germans, and many other races made up this enraged mob. Undoubtedly, these were the transport's slaves, somehow released from the chains that had restrained them belowdecks. The Greek master must have acquired every slave he could find from every port on the sea to man his oars. Like all slaves, they came from the ranks of criminals, defeated armies, and conquered peoples. Too many such men aboard any vessel was unwise, lest the captain relish living under the constant threat of mutiny. Being a rower on a ship at sea was one of the most grueling tasks one could undertake, and it was often difficult to press enough freedmen and men of the lower classes to fill the benches. Pressed men were preferred over slaves, because most had a family and a life ashore that they hoped to return to someday, and that simple fact usually kept them loyal to the ship. Slaves, on the other hand, had nothing to look forward to but more pain and hardship. Still, even Roman warships, including Libo’s own, resorted to using slave rowers when it was expedient.
Slave uprisings were the stuff of nightmares, and a nightmarish scene now played out on the deck of the transport as the bare-skinned mob grabbed up fallen weapons to lay into their former masters. Somehow, in spite of this stew of races, cultures, and origins the slaves had managed to organize and had perfectly coordinated their attack. They fell upon Greeks and Romans alike, taking both formations completely by surprise.
Libo saw one giant Nubian slave place the neck of a wounded Greek in the crook of his massive arm and wrench the flailing sailor's neck from its spine. He then cast aside the lifeless, twitching body. He did this to two more Greeks before he was confronted by the Greek captain, who thrust the point of a javelin into the Nubian’s chest until the red tip emerged from his back. The Nubian fell dead, but more slaves took his place in a rush of human flesh that nearly hid the Romans and Greeks from Libo's view. In their rush to get at their foe, many of the bare-footed slaves slipped on the red slickened planks and fell, and struggled back to their feet coated in blood. There were so many slaves, and Libo could scarcely see how the Greeks and Romans could hold them off. The mull of naked men revolved about the glimmer of flashing blades at their center, and these blades were dealing out lethal blows, striking down one slave after another. Spouting arteries shot into the air. Slaves limped to the rear, missing hands or toes. The stroke of one high-swept gladius took the head off of a screaming German. Through all of this carnage, slowly and deliberately, the mass of slaves began to thin.
Then Libo saw them. As the slaves melted away, a small band of blood-covered Greeks and Romans remained. The Greek captain was there, his javelin well-blooded, as were the swords of the two surviving sailors with him. A few paces away, across a deck strewn with mangled bodies, the two only remaining Romans faced them. One was the large centurion. He was helmetless now, and looked exhausted, barely able to hold up the crimson gladii he clutched in each hand. At the centurion's feet, knelt the other Roman holding his hand over a bleeding wound in his own abdomen. This was the noble Libo had seen before, and now the only thing that stood between the noble and the Greeks was the fatigued centurion.
This was the plan of the Greek captain all along, of course. He pushed his two remaining sailors at the centurion, knowing that once his men had spent the last of their strength dealing with the last two Romans, it would be a relatively easy thing for him to slay them, leaving himself as the last man standing and thus the only man that would receive the admiral's clemency. It would have worked, had the centurion truly been as dog-weary as his hunched shoulders and drooping blades seemed to intimate. But it was a ruse, as a crocodile sunbathing on a riverbank might lull a passing wildebeest into thinking he was asleep. The centurion's blades were mere flashes of light in the late day sun, batting aside the thrusts of the Greek swords and severing the hands that held them. Both men died in quick succession after that, a gladius buried to the hilt in each man's neck, useless sword arms pulsating blood with their final heartbeats.
Libo had never seen anything quite like it. The centurion had handled the inferior sailors in a manner that was a marvel to behold. His face bore no malice. His moves were neither flamboyant nor extravagant as Libo had often seen gladiators use to the delight of the mob in the arena. Each move was succinct and efficient, with an odd beauty about it. It was like watching the seemingly effortless tapping of a seasoned sculptor bringing an inanimate stone to life. But this centurion was an artist of death, and he was brutally efficient at it.
As amazing as the centurion’s sword craft was to behold, he had made one error. His attack had left him over-extended and had created an opening that was easily exploited. The Greek captain, shocked at the quick fate of his men, took advantage of the opportunity and stepped behind the centurion. With one kick to the chest, he knocked the wounded noble onto his back. Then, with one fluid motion, the Greek drove his javelin deep into the knight's unprotected abdomen, penetrating just beneath the edge of the armor. Perhaps he had done it out of mirth, after recognizing that he would never defeat the centurion in single combat. He cried out in a victorious roar that also carried in it tones of frustration at knowing his own fate. And that fate was not long in coming. The Greek had not even withdrawn his javelin before the centurion's blade sliced through his neck in a powerful backhanded blow that beheaded him in the blink of an eye. The Greek's death was so abrupt that his headless body stood poised and still clutching the javelin for several long moments. By the time it finally collapsed upon the tilted deck, the severed head had rolled away.
The marines on the Argonaut erupted in cheers and shouts of admiration at the blooded centurion who now stood alone with blades dripping amongst the corpses of his vanquished foe. He seemed not to hear the accolades, but instead cast a somewhat despondent look at the prostrate noble, who now squirmed and vomited blood as the javelin in his chest slowly drew the life from his body. The centurion knelt beside him, but his every attempt to reach for the javelin and yank it out, and thus quickly end the man's suffering, was feebly batted away by the noble's pale hands. The noble gestured for the centurion to come closer, and the warrior obeyed, turning an ear to hear the man's dying words. Libo saw the blood soaked lips move, but the utterance looked so feeble, he doubted if the centurion could have discerned any of it. Moments later, the punctured and bleeding body went limp and did not move again.
Libo was sure that he had seen a look of bewilderment and then comprehension cross the centurion's face as he had listened to the last statement of the dying man, and it instantly set Libo to wondering. Might the centurion know about the orange pennant?
A gangplank was quickly run out to span the narrow gap between the two ships, but the centurion made no movement toward it. Still holding the red-streaked swords, he scowled at the admiral with defiant eyes, as if he were gauging the likelihood of hitting his mark were he to hurl the blades from where he stood.
"You have triumphed over the others, Centurion,” Bibulous said, seemingly ignorant of the murderous look. “Therefore, you shall live, just as I vowed, just as the gods have ordained."
The centurion did not respond, but continued to stare, and for the first time Libo saw that an old scar ran down one side of the warrior’s chiseled face.
“Drop your swords, Centurion,” the Argonaut’s captain commanded, stepping up beside the admiral. "Drop them, and step across."
When this drew no response, the annoyed captain summoned a troop of archers to the rail. But even as the creaking bows were drawn back, and the barbed points were aimed at his heart, the blood-stained centurion did not flinch. He seemed intent on following his comrades into death.
"Wait! Stay your arrows!” Libo interjected. The centurion was his only hope of solving the mystery of the orange pennant, not to mention the only survivor in a flotilla of thirty-one ships, and Libo was determined that at least one should be saved. “Admiral, in the name of Neptune, I beg for this man's life. As you said, the gods have chosen one to be spared. There can be no question that this centurion is the one. Surely, he has honored the gods with the valor he has shown today. Surely, he has honored your victory and has pleased all of these men who observed his mastery of the sword. This is a great feat of arms that will be retold by your men among their homes and families, and back in Rome. Would not such an ignoble ending mar this great tale? No matter how errant his loyalties, this brave man cannot be slain in such a way. Let your men proudly tell their eager listeners how the warrior was then spared by the magnanimous Admiral Bibulus. Let the mercy of Bibulus be the glorious ending to this glorious tale. If that is not enough reason to spare him, Admiral, then I appeal to your vast knowledge of the gods and their ways. You and I are men of the seas and the winds. We both know how each day we surrender our lives to their mercy and to the gods who restrain them. Please consider, my lord, that we risk the wrath of those very gods if we dispose of their chosen one in such a disgraceful manner."
Bibulus's face softened slightly, some fragment of Libo's words resonating with his fear of the deities. He looked once across at the warrior and then back to Libo.
"No mindless slave of Caesar's will ever set foot on this ship bearing arms, my dear Libo," he said sardonically. "I leave it to you to convince him. Otherwise, the bow will finish this."
Libo nodded his appreciation, and then moved to the edge of the gangplank, very much aware that the admiral now eyed him shiftily.
"Step forward, Centurion," Libo commanded.
The centurion complied, still holding the swords, not as one about to surrender, but as one might step into the arena to face an inferior opponent. With each step the archers drew their bows tighter, prompting an angry gesture from Libo for them to stand down.
"You fought well, Centurion. But then I see that you are no stranger to battle." Libo pointed to the blood drenched medallions adorning the front of the centurion's mail shirt.
The centurion remained silent, never once taking his eyes from Libo's, but in that intense stare, Libo could see that the bestial bloodlust of combat was beginning to subside, and that the ferocious warrior was slowly being replaced by the cognitive man.
"I am not your enemy, Centurion. Nor are you mine, I suspect. We fight against Caesar and the tyranny he brings, not against Rome's loyal soldiers. You and the soldiers of Rome are our brothers."
The centurion glanced once at the heaps of bodies strewn all around him and shot a surly glance back at Libo, the slightest trace of a smirk on his lips. "Then you have sent many of your kin to the afterlife, this day."
It was the first time Libo had heard the centurion speak, and he was surprised to detect a clear refinement in the soldier’s speech, an articulateness that extended beyond the army camp and spoke of some level of education.
"Our misguided brethren, yes," Libo finally said with solemnity. "But I assure you, we are not your true enemy. What is your name, Centurion?"
"I am called Lucius Domitius of the Tenth Legion."
"You are a valiant warrior, Centurion Domitius, a true master of the fighting arts. Rome is blessed to call you one of her sons."
"I am from Spain."
"Yes, well, you are Roman all the same, and even though you and your friends have allowed yourselves to be lured by Caesar's empty promises of pensions and land, it is still possible to come back to the fold, to rekindle your devotion to the city and people you once swore to protect."
"The last time I was in Rome, many of her Senators and knights were absent. Perhaps their devotion could also be questioned."
Libo detected a jestful nature to the centurion’s tone, and suddenly realized that the man was toying with him, parrying every one of his arguments as he might knock aside the jabs of sword and spear. This man was intelligent, and that was good. An intelligent man could be reasoned with.
"Come now, Centurion. You do not fight for Caesar, nor for Rome, nor riches, nor any of the other fanciful reasons put to verse by those who have never tasted war. We are soldiers, you and I. We fight for our comrades, and no one else. The brave ones lying at your feet died gloriously. If you do not live, who will tell of their bravery? Who will honor their sacrifice, if not you? Will you trust these others not to twist the tale in the retelling? Will you let them claim these Caesarian soldiers died like women, on their knees, begging for mercy? If you, too, are slain, there will be no one to challenge this lie. I leave it to you, Centurion Lucius Domitius of the Tenth. Give the word and I will let the arrows fly. You will have gained nothing. Your name and theirs will be forgotten – or, at worst, tarnished. On the other hand, drop your swords, cross this bridge, and you will preserve their honor as well as your own life. I leave it to you."
"I would rather die here, sword in hand, than as one of your captives. I have witnessed your mercy." He pointed to the mass of burning ships out on the water.
"You will not be killed," Libo said reassuringly.
"Do you swear to that before all these men?" The centurion, who had seemed resistant and hell-bent on dying where he stood only moments ago, now suddenly showed signs of amenability, as if he had been waiting for Libo to say the right words.
Bibulus, who had been petulantly observing the exchange, sighed heavily and spoke before Libo could respond. "In Jupiter's name, you half-wit, we've been all over that. I have sworn that no harm -"
"Not you!" The centurion interrupted so abruptly and with such authority that the stunned admiral seemed lost for words. The imposing warrior then pointed a bloody sword at Libo. "I want your word, not his."
Libo could see that Bibulus was red-faced at the insult and ready to give the archers clairvoyance to shoot, but he had to act before that happened. The incensed admiral looked at him suspiciously, as if testing how he would respond to this undermine of his authority. Then he saw a beguiling expression on the centurion's face, as if the warrior knew exactly the precarious position in which he had just placed him, and was equally curious as to how he would respond. This centurion was either a reckless fool or a calculating charlatan who had perhaps sensed the friction between Libo and Bibulus and had looked to exploit it to his advantage.
"I know I speak for Admiral Marcus Calpurnias Bibulus, as well as myself," Libo said carefully, ever mindful of Bibulus's mistrustful eyes. “Centurion Lucius Domitius of the Tenth Legion, you have our mutual word of honor that your life will be spared. Let the scribe mark it in the log.”
Libo was more immediately concerned with the admiral's reaction to this, but Bibulus seemed pleased and nodded his concurrence. The admiral’s response was scarcely faster than that of the centurion, who immediately pitched the bloody swords over the
side and raised his hands in obedience. The warrior’s surrender had happened a bit too abruptly, and it left Libo wondering exactly who was being played for the fool.
"Nothing here, my lord," the Argonaut’s marine centurion called across the water, after his men had finished searching the sinking ship and driving their swords through every shuddering body. "Soldiers' kits and a hold full of grain, that's about the sum of it. Should we start transferring it all to Argonaut?"
The Argonaut’s captain was about to answer, but then thought better of it and glanced at the admiral for guidance. "The grain, my lord. Shall we fetch it aboard?"
"Are you mad?" Bibulus looked at him as though he had just asked permission to put the flagship on the rocks. "And let Caesar see that we are desperate for rations? That we have stooped to the baseness of common pirates? Oh, he would certainly have a laugh at that, captain. Never!"
"Of course, you're right, sir. Sorry, sir."
The marines ushered the now stripped and shackled centurion across to the flagship at the point of the spear, blood and perspiration rolling off his muscled frame onto the freshly scoured deck.
"He looks fit for the end of an oar," the captain quipped in a poor attempt to hide the awe they all felt. The centurion's broad shoulders were even more imposing when towering only a few paces away, and prompted the flagship’s officers to keep wary hands on the hilts of their sheathed swords. "Clean him up and put him below with the slaves. We'll make good employment of him."
"Begging your pardon, Admiral," Libo said, knowing that he had to act now. He was certain the dying knight had imparted something of importance to the centurion, and he was sure that it was connected to the orange pennant. But he could not simply interrogate the man here in front of all of these others, especially the half-mad admiral, who was too lost in the head to know what to do with the information. "I respectfully request that the prisoner be given to me. As you know, the plague that swept through the fleet last month left me well below my complement of rowers. Besides, this man belonged to Caesar's cherished Tenth Legion, and obviously has a rebellious nature. Let me take him, if it pleases you, sir.”
Rome: Tempest of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series) Page 5
