Bibulus cast a casual glance at the ship before turning his attention back to the shore, and said simply, "I see no such person."
Libo was frustrated by this answer, but turned to see that the admiral had indeed spoken the truth. The middle-aged noble had quite disappeared amongst the cluster of legionaries that now desperately parried the thrusts of the Greek pikes. Libo did, however, pick out the centurion just as the big man's sword ripped open the throat of a sailor in a move that hardly spanned the blink of an eye. A spray of blood from his victim's open neck speckled the centurion's face and helmet, but it seemed to have little effect except to make him look more hideous and imposing to his attackers.
The Greek captain soon recognized the difficulty this new warrior would present and directed two of his better armed swordsmen to advance on the centurion. Moments later, both men were stumbling to the rear, one clutching a blossom of crimson burgeoning from his groin, the other clawing at the slit in his helmet where a thrust of the centurion’s gladius had entered and turned one eye into jelly.
Libo considered that the noble might be sitting on the deck just behind the centurion, unable to stand from whatever injury he had suffered earlier. Or perhaps he was already dead and lying amongst the growing number of Romans that had fallen to the unceasing thrusts of the deadly pikes. The Roman defense would fail. That much was clear. The Greeks were too numerous. Libo felt that he had to do something. If not now, then never.
"Admiral, I have changed my mind. I have made my choice, and I choose to spare the life of that legate, if he still lives. I beg you to call a stop to this at once before he is harmed by those filthy Greeks."
"It cannot be stopped," the admiral said dismissively. "The augury has chosen. Besides, I prefer the dirty Greek to the treasonous Roman."
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.