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 The Greek had not even withdrawn his javelin before the centurion's blade sliced through his neck in a powerful backhanded blow that beheaded him in the blink of an eye.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."