Libo nodded, looking at the spot on the chart where the admiral had placed a finger, the seventy mile stretch of open water that separated the western Greek islands from the Calabria Peninsula in Italy. Should the Rhodians manage to get across, they would be in a position to coordinate with Antony and assist the Caesarian general in getting his troops over to Epirus. Thirty warships could not defeat Bibulus’s combined fleet, but they could certainly create diversions that would open large gaps in the blockade, large enough for Antony to exploit.
“I cannot risk moving the entire fleet that far south. Antony would surely send his transports across the moment he discovered the Adriatic was clear. But, I will risk two squadrons on such an errand.” He turned to face Libo and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You are my most skilled commander, my young friend, and you have never failed me. You have been loyal throughout, and I trust you implicitly – even as I do my own sons.”
A moment of uneasiness suddenly descended between them, and Libo hoped that his own brief confusion was not betrayed by his expression. For it was well known that the two sons of Bibulus had been murdered more than two years ago, during the admiral’s tenure as proconsul of Syria. Libo saw the admiral’s eyes register embarrassment at the slip of the tongue, and then the pain of that tragedy that must still haunt his soul.
“I am entrusting this task to you, Libo,” Bibulus said formally, after a few quiet moments spent composing himself. “You will leave at once. Take Aquila and Equo squadrons, and destroy the Rhodian fleet. I will leave the specifics to you. Destroy them, and return to the Adriatic as fast as you can.”
VI
The oarsmen cast uncertain glances at the newcomer in their midst, the tall man with the broad shoulders whom the overseer had chained to oar twenty-eight. If they did not see the rippled forearm extending from the torn tunic, they could not miss the many scars that told of a violent past. He said nothing as the lock was fastened to his ankle, as a wild beast might accept its captivity, but only for a little while.
"Deploy, oars!" Came the command from aft, and four hundred rowers on two decks, thrust out the forty-foot oars, as if the Argonaut were a giant mosquito preparing to take flight.
"Cruising speed!" Came the next order. A heartbeat later, the drums began their ceaseless cadence, the oars rose from the strain of four hundred glistening backs, and then dipped into the water in perfect unison, immediately putting way on the giant flagship.
The stranger rowed, too, in spite of the discomfort of his new surroundings. The dank air, the stench of hundreds of confined men, and the dim lighting seemed to have no effect on him. In fact, he appeared more in his element with every stroke of the oar, and quickly impressed upon those around him that he was a man more accustomed to discipline, hardship, and order than to freedom. This was most apparent to those sharing his oar when they felt their own loads lighten considerably, the newcomer's strength easily surpassing that of two men.
The mass of arms and backs moved in synchronicity, and though every man felt the tilt of the hull as steer oars dug into the water to steady her on her new course, they had no comprehension of where they were going. They simply stroked and pulled, stroked and pulled, in an endless monotony, an endless rhythm that quickly brought each struggling man to a state of mindless oblivion, the only way to remain sane under the excessive labor. Some snuck a glance at the stranger mid-stroke, expecting him to tire quickly, but he did not. His thousandth stroke had the same vigor as his first. And so there was no reason at all for the overseer, who walked along the platform between the rows of sweating men, to strike the newcomer across the back with his whip. It was a stinging strike, and it came without the slightest warning.
"That's to teach you respect, no?" the overseer, a Greek man, said laughing, as he looked down into the eyes of the tall man who now glared back at him balefully. The whip had cut through his tunic and had left a deep gash running across his broad back from one shoulder to the other.
"I am called Barca," continued the Greek. "But you will never use my name. You will never speak unless told to. You are no longer a soldier. You are like all the others now, a slave, nothing more." The Greek then leaned over so that the tall man could hear him clearly. "They tell me you were a centurion, with many battle honors, that you are accustomed to giving orders, and that you might be hard to break. Hear this now, tall man. You will give no more orders. You, all that you are, all that you will ever be, now belong to this ship and to Barca. You will sit in that spot, on that oar, eighteen hours of every day, and you will spend the other six in the pens." The Greek then smiled. "I leave it to you to decide which is better, no? You can forget about who you were. That man no longer exists. Ah, but you look at me now with those defiant eyes, as if I am the fool and you the master. You do not believe me, no? But it is true, tall man, so very true. Your former life has ended. Your sword and armor have been distributed to others. Your battle decorations have been thrown over the side."
At this, the newcomer turned to face him with a hateful scowl, and looked as if he might spit in his face. Although he did not, the move made his oar miss the stroke. Instantly, Barca drew back and let fly with the whip, bringing it down sharply across the backs of the newcomer and the other men on the oar. He whipped them again and again, until they had resumed the proper rhythm, each man cringing and cursing at the sting of the fresh wounds on his back, but not daring to let the oar falter again. All except for the newcomer, whose eyes did not show pain, only hate, as he stared back at the overseer.
"Do not forget, tall man," the bemused Barca said before moving along. "You serve me, now."
Lucius Domitius, Centurion of the Tenth Legion stared straight ahead as he pushed and pulled on the polished wood that had been held by countless doomed hands before his. A grim countenance overshadowed his tanned and chiseled face. He ignored the reproachful glances from the men beside him, as he ignored the drops of blood that now crept down his back to merge with the sheen of perspiration. The other rowers were mere galley scum, criminals and the condemned, and whether they received a lashing due to his own negligence, he cared little. Though he was surprised to see how sickly they all looked, and it was evident from their rib-lined bellies and their yellow eyes that they were not being fed their proper ration.
"Row, you bilge scum!" the overseer shouted to the mass of straining backs from further down the line. "You think you'll get special treatment, just because you got half-rations this morning? I've got a ration for you!"
The whip cracked several times, and men cried out in pain.
Lucius very much desired to strangle this crowing Barca with his own whip, and vowed that he would do it before long. But, for now, he would comply.
He was weary from the long night spent weathering the storm, the long morning struggling to hold the transport's grumbling crew together through the terrifying voyage to the Epirus coast, and then the tribulation and utter savagery of the melee, from which he alone had emerged. The pain along his back, though biting, served to invigorate him, and he chose to focus his thoughts on the events of the past days rather than the dismal circumstances under which he now toiled.