Rome: Tempest of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series)

by R. Cameron Cooke

  But now, she waited to kill Lucius, and perhaps that was the hesitation he detected on her face. Of course, she would have to do it, for Lucius did not intend to kill Postumus. Should he assassinate a senator of Rome in such a manner, his life would be forfeit. Whether Rome was ruled by Caesar or the Senate, he would never be able to escape such a tarnish. At the same time, he thought killing Antony, Caesar’s favorite lieutenant, an equally self-destructive solution. Calpurnia and Libo had each planned well in choosing him as their assassin, for he was expendable.

  He watched now as the tall senator and the equally tall Antony appeared deep in discussion, with Libo and the aides looking on. The squad of marines milling about on the beach, just below the Faun’s prow, held their shields and javelins nonchalantly, only half-paying attention. Most appeared more concerned with dodging the incessant rain of droppings from a mass of seagulls flapping overhead. Five hundred yards away, Antony’s legionaries on the far side of the little islet looked to be similarly distracted.

  The conference between the great men appeared to be coming to a head now. Antony was approaching Postumus, the bastard brandishing a smile on that ape-browed face of his.

  Lucius selected his target carefully. It was a clear shot, with no obstructions. There was no way he could miss. He watched Libo’s hand and waited for the signal. Libo looked nervous, or enraged, Lucius could not tell which, and he was just beginning to wonder if the admiral was ever going to give the signal, when suddenly the admiral’s hand came up and touched his brow.

  A heartbeat later, Lucius pulled the pin and the engine recoiled, flinging the deadly missile into the air. Lucius watched the flight of the bolt to see if he had judged the wind correctly, and he had. The missile was flying directly where he had aimed it.

  A silent satisfaction came over him as the shaft struck its target squarely in the torso, only to be surpassed by the satisfaction he felt next as all Hades broke out on the tranquil little islet.

  XXVIII

  Both delegations turned to discover the source of the blood, for neither Postumus nor Antony were injured. They gaped in horror at the gory point of the shaft that now protruded from Flavius’s abdomen. Flavius’s face was white with disbelief as a torrent of red streamed down his legs to be picked up by the wind and sprayed in the direction of Antony and Postumus. He finally fell to the ground, writhing grotesquely, the firmly lodged shaft repeatedly beating against the sand with every twist of his body. Within moments, the lifeblood had ebbed and his form went motionless, locked in an attitude of agony.

  A collage of confused expressions crossed every open-mouthed face as each man tried to discern from which side the missile had come and for whom it was meant. Antony immediately backed away, as did Postumus, each suspecting deceit on the part of the other. Antony paused for a moment, shooting Postumus and Libo an irritated look before turning on his heel to leave.

  “There is treachery here, gentlemen,” Antony casually called over his shoulder as he departed. “But you shall pay for it. Yes, you shall pay for it.”

  Any chance that Libo might have salvaged the plan by driving his own blade into Antony’s heart vanished in that moment, as the green-plumed knight drew a sword and placed himself between Libo and the retiring general.

  “What in Jupiter’s name just happened, Admiral?” Postumus snarled, obviously infuriated as he glanced disbelievingly at Flavius’s bloody corpse.

  But Libo did not answer and shouted for the two score marines to come to them. The band clattered across the sand and quickly formed a ragged line in front of their commander. There were enough of them to overpower Antony’s small squad of legionaries. If they hurried, they might stop Antony from escaping, and perhaps the treasure craft, too.

  On the cusp of ordering his men to pursue, Libo stopped when one of the marines pointed behind him in open-jawed amazement, and exclaimed, “Mother of Juno!”

  Libo wheeled around to see that the treasury gold was not the only thing Antony’s flotilla had brought to the little island. Before his eyes, the decks came alive as the canvas shades were thrown back revealing fully armed troops packed tightly into each vessel. Whether Antony had intended them for some trickery of his own, or simply as a contingency should the meeting go awry, there was no way to know, but he had certainly brought enough men to tip the balance decidedly in his favor. At least two centuries began pouring off the craft and wading through the foam – legionary foot-soldiers bearing shields and javelins, and archer auxiliaries holding staves and quivers high above their heads. As the stream of warriors reached the dry sand, they quickly formed into lines, and it was evident that they intended more than just defense.

  “I asked you a question, Admiral!” Postumus demanded.

  Libo ignored him, urgently scanning the mass of gleaming helmets and shields, seeking out Antony, but the general was nowhere in sight. The treasure ships had already begun to push off, their bows swinging around to head for the safety of the inner harbor. Perhaps Antony had already boarded one of these and was making good his escape. Libo eyed the unwieldy craft with a revulsion that was only matched by his own frustration. In spite of shedding the weight of so many men and arms, the vessels were still low in the water, loaded down with gold and silver. It would take some time for them to pull across the harbor. He reckoned he had one chance to stop them – but only if he moved quickly.

  He reached out and grabbed a nearby marine.

  "Return to the Faun! Tell the captain he is not to wait for us. He is to get underway without delay. He is to pursue those vessels." He pointed at the treasure ships shoving off from the other side of the island. "He must sink them at all hazards! Understood?"

  The marine nodded and sprinted off in a stir of powdery sand.

  "Have you gone mad, Admiral?" Postumus gaped incredulously. "We cannot stand against Antony’s troops!”

  Libo watched the Faun and waited as the marine leapt from the shallow surf to reach the rope ladder and surmount the bulwark. Moments later, sailors bearing axes appeared on the bow and immediately began hacking away the anchor cables. Satisfied with this, Libo finally turned to the fuming Postumus.

  "Draw your sword, Senator! I will not let Antony see us fleeing like some common rabble. We will stand and fight. Should the fates demand it, we shall die in this place! Now arm yourself, for they are coming!"

  Still glowering, Postumus grudgingly unsheathed his own sword and took up a position behind the line of marines beside Libo. It had been many years since the aging senator had stood in the forefront of battle, and he held the weapon as awkwardly as a cithara player might hold a cornu. Libo found amusement in this, but his jollity was short-lived. A battle cry erupted from the century of legionaries, and the bristling formation began to advance. They marched deliberately and in perfect step, a line of white shields four ranks deep, gliding across the sand like a great marble slab.

  Libo knew that his marines were hopelessly outnumbered. The Faun had drifted out from the shore now, and with her any hope of escape. The realization of this seemed to overtake his men at that same moment as one helmet after another turned to catch a fleeting glance at the bobbing bireme. But their thoughts were abruptly broken by the hiss of javelins in the air. The legionaries had advanced to within throwing range, and now the six-foot pila came down all around Libo’s men, some sticking upright in the sand, some penetrating shields, a few drawing blood. Several of the marines plucked the javelins from the ground and hurled them back at the enemy formation. But, strangely, after casting the first volley, the legionaries halted and threw no more, nor did they advance. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, holding their remaining javelins behind their immense shields.

  Libo found this behavior puzzling, but it afforded him a moment to study the unblemished faces staring back at him. The legionaries were young, probably fresh recruits from the Italian countryside, and probably only a few months in the ranks. They were, however, well-drilled and drew a sharp contrast to his own ragged line of warrior
s. His marines were sea-faring men, and though that life inherited its own forms of discipline, the uniformity that was common among the legions was unknown to them. They were individuals, used to fighting singly or in small groups as was often called for in boarding actions or raiding parties. They bore shields of varying size and nearly every kind of weapon, most more befitting a melee within the confines of a few feet of deck planking than an open, pitched battle on land.

  The marines jeered at the stopped century, calling them runts, cursing them, and demanding they come taste the steel of real warriors. It was more out of exasperation than true arrogance. In spite of their bravado, Libo suspected they knew as well as he that they did not stand a chance against the disciplined legionaries whose battle-proven formations could roll over them without a second thought. Libo still wondered why the legionaries had stopped, but the reason soon became clear.

  A squat centurion with a cross-plumed helmet appeared in the front rank and shouted a command over his shoulder. Instantly, the ranks of legionaries knelt in place, revealing the century of archers that had formed up just behind them. Libo and his marines watched helplessly as eighty arrows were notched onto eighty strings, and the bows bent back in a collective creak of straining wood. Then, like a swarm of angry hornets, the arrows took flight, a full volley that zipped over the heads of the legionaries and then sliced into and through the files of marines. The round shields carried by most of Libo’s men were much smaller and lighter than those of the legionaries, and afforded far less protection, and his men suffered for it. A man to his front shrieked and fell backwards, a feathered shaft buried in his eye. Another clawed at an arrow that had pierced his thigh, spilling a red stream onto the white sand. Several others fell down the line as more volleys came, one after another. Libo narrowly avoided several of the deadly missiles, the iron point of one stopped only by the flat of his sword. He saw Postumus crouching behind his two bodyguards. One of them extended a shield, intercepting an arrow that likely would have killed the senator. It was a valiant move, but it left the bodyguard exposed long enough that his outstretched torso received three of the feathered shafts, his mail shirt slowing one of the iron tips but not stopping it from bursting his heart.

  The marines were dropping by the handful, but they could do little. They cast the spent javelins back at the well-protected legionaries, largely to no effect. There were half a dozen bowmen among Libo’s own troops, scattered down the line. They wore wide-brimmed hats to keep the sun from affecting their aim. They sent arrows back toward the enemy with great accuracy, felling several archers, but their shots were a mere nuisance when measured against the torrent of missiles coming from Antony’s ranks.

  There was no cover on this barren spit of sand, and Libo saw that the only way out of the arrow storm was to close to a melee with the legionaries. This, of course, was exactly what the legionaries wanted, a motley line of sea fighters rushing against their waiting shields to have groins and abdomens opened by the deadly jabs of the gladii. In spite of this, Libo knew he had little choice. Better to die on the sword fighting than to be struck down by the faceless arrow. But before he sent them all charging to their deaths, he would try to give them a fighting chance.

  Libo quickly summoned his few bowmen to him.

  "Stay beside me,” he commanded. “Shoot only at who and what I tell you!"

  Between the gaps in the shields, Libo looked out across the barren space separating the opposing lines and scanned the legionary formation until he found what he was looking for.

  "There is your target!" he said, pointing with the tip of his sword.

  The first man chosen to die was the centurion, who glanced once too often over the rim of his shield. He went down with two arrows in his neck. Next, Libo pointed out the optio of the century, distinguished by the tall hastile propped in the sand beside him. The wooden staff was used, on most days, to keep the soldiers in line, but on this day it had served to mark its bearer for death. Five arrows flew at the optio, and then he, too, fell clutching his throat, gasping for air from a severed windpipe. The signifer, bearing the century standard, was the next to die. The first arrow knocked the wolf head helmet off his head, while two more planted themselves in the shield of the legionary next to him. As the signifer turned, scanning the ground for his fallen cover, the fourth arrow struck at the base of his skull, driving into his brain and killing him instantly. His lifeless body crumpled amongst the gaping soldiers around him.

  The enemy archers were still sending arrows at Libo’s marines, whose angled shields were so full of feathered shafts they might have been quivers, but his own archers were dealing devastating counter-blows as well, killing the leaders on which the green legionary recruits so heavily relied. The savor of this triumph did not linger long. Two of Libo’s bowmen received their death wounds simultaneously, the enemy archers having shifted their aim to deal with the new menace.

  Libo was moments away from ordering a general charge, when he saw another officer filing through the legionary shields from the rear. Libo instantly recognized him as the green-plumed knight that had accompanied Antony. He evidently had come to the front to assume command of the leaderless legionaries, and he strode proudly amongst the crouching soldiers, showing no visible concern for his own safety, as if in direct defiance of Libo’s bowmen. In so doing, he made himself Libo’s final target. He fell, pierced by three arrows that had sought out the gap between his bronze cuirass and the cheek pieces of his helmet, a crimson waterfall spilling over his useless armor.

  Before the dust settled from the knight’s collapse, while the legionaries stared at the twitching form of their senior officer, Libo gave the command and his marines rushed forward screeching like a pack of demons unleashed from the underworld. Without being told, they formed into a crude wedge and then surged across the sand. A few javelins sailed into the ranks, but these did not find flesh, only upturned shields. Then, the leading marines barreled into the legionary formation with all of their momentum, knocking over several of the crouching soldiers in the front line. Some marines used their opponents’ large shields as springboards, leaping over the heads of the front line to land amongst the startled rear ranks. This proved fatal to some, who were instantly hacked to death by half a dozen gladii, but some were successful, swinging axes and swords in quick maiming strokes that seemed berserk and uncontrolled in nature but were in actuality delivered with startling precision. They cut deeply into unprotected legs, hewed off hands at the wrist, and lopped off toes, their boarding actions having taught them that maiming a man in battle was just as effective as killing him. They hacked and slew in an ever widening circle, and soon the entire wedge of marines – only a score or so still on their feet – had pushed deep into the century and had filled the circle, now beset on all sides.

  Libo and Postumus had followed in the heart of the wedge and now stood at the bloody center of this circle. Libo could see that the maneuver had succeeded in removing his men from the barrage of arrows, for none came while they were in such close proximity to the legionaries, but even after subtracting the mass of dead lying in red pools at their feet, Antony’s troops still outnumbered them.

  This would be their final moment – a final stand.

  He looked wildly at Postumus, wishing for some sort of inspiration, some sort of united pact of honor to die in the service of the republic together, but the senator was too busy avoiding jabs and strokes. In one hand he held his unblemished gladius, while in the other he clutched the back of his bodyguard’s corselet, steering the blood-spattered warrior at each new threat as one might yield a weapon. The skilled blade-for-hire had already killed two legionaries that had smashed through the defensive ring, and as Libo watched he opened the neck of another. Postumus did not seem resigned to death. Instead, he was protecting his life as though he were a young man yet to experience the wonders of this existence.

  Libo cared only for one thing now. If this were to be his last act, he wished to go to his death know
ing that he had struck at least one blow for the republic. With this in mind, he stepped up on a legionary corpse and looked over the top of the raging melee, hoping to catch sight of the Faun traversing the channel to the north which separated Basada from the mainland. And there she was! Her masts were clearly visible, moving against a backdrop of drab hills on the mainland beyond. Looking at the body of water to the west of the island, beyond the mass of helmets and swinging weapons, Libo spied the Faun’s prey, the four treasure craft with their green canopies, slowly crawling across the harbor. They were within the Faun’s grasp, but she must first navigate through the channel. She must avoid the shallows on the south side of the channel, while staying clear of the fort on the north side. The fort stood at the end of the mainland promontory and guarded the entrance to the harbor. Within its walls stood several towers which undoubtedly held throwing engines that could reach across the the narrow water passage. But if the Faun stayed to the south side of the channel, at the extreme range of the engines, then she had every hope of getting through with only marginal damage, if any. Libo had every confidence that the Faun’s captain had taken the necessary precautions, keeping his rowers at full stroke, and his fire crews standing ready with buckets of seawater.