Now, as Libo’s ships pursued the transports whose decks teemed with legionaries loyal to the dictator, he wondered how so many fools could be convinced to follow the delusions of such a man. Of course, he knew the answer. Rumor had it that Caesar had sacked Rome’s treasury reserves to fund his war of take-over. All of these so-called Romans that now marched in Caesar’s army were in actuality nothing more than mercenaries. Men, who were devoted to one loyalty, that of money, and who cared little who ruled Rome, as long as the exorbitant pay kept coming their way.
The thought made Libo fume inside, and any embers of sympathy still burning within him were quickly snuffed out.
“I grow weary of this chase,” he said at once. “Signal them to heave to, or they will be shown no mercy.”
The signals were sent up the masts, but no answer was returned. The oars of the two craft continued to dip and sway to the beat of the drums.
Libo sighed, and then commanded, “Make battle speed!”
The ship’s master relayed the order to the overseers, and instantly the Remus began sprinting through the water. Like a school of porpoises, her consorts mimicked her movements, keeping perfect station in two lines abreast.
“Ready catapults!” the mate ordered.
A pair of sailors lugged a pot of smoking pitch between them and cautiously doused the ready missile with the burning paste. As the deadly projectile smoked and threatened to set the entire engine aflame, the catapult crew made final adjustments and then waited for the command.
“Let fly!”
The straining hemp was released, and the flaming missile took to the sky. It sailed with a low trajectory toward the nearest transport, a trail of smoke marking its path. It seemed to hang in the air for a long moment before finally splashing into the sea just off the vessel’s bow. The close call stirred a new vibrancy among the transport’s rowers, the prospect of a fiery death driving them to pull with a vigor that was more in time with the panicked beating of their hearts than with the beat of the drum. This had the exact opposite effect from that which was intended, and the oars quickly fell out of rhythm. From the deck of the Remus, Libo could clearly see the pilot on the transport’s stern, shouting with mad gesticulations for his steer oarsmen to drive her straight, but there was little they could do. The transport began to answer to its stroke oars rather than its steer oars, wallowing this way and that, as a honey bee vainly struggles on the water’s surface by frantically moving its useless legs. Two more burning projectiles sizzled overhead, raising the panic on board her to a new height.
Libo could make out several soldiers on her deck. They were Roman legionaries, all Caesarian troops, bedecked in full battle regalia, evidently making ready for a boarding action. How many of them knew the futility of their preparations? How many knew that their ship would never come within a sword’s stroke of the Remus, nor any other ship in Aquila Squadron?
“Let fly!” the mate shouted again.
This time, the flaming missile did not miss. It soared over the narrowing space of water, the wind nearly extinguishing its flames. But when it crashed through the ports serving the larboard side bank of oars, leaving a jagged hole to mark its passage, the flames suddenly rekindled. Burning pitch splashed amongst the rower benches, promptly starting fires that could be seen as twinkles of orange flame through the remaining ports. Screams resounded from the belly of the transport, a crescendo of inhuman sounds as men were burned alive, as if the cry came from deep within the mammoth lungs of a giant water beast.
A high, arcing missile from one of the other warships landed amidst a crowd of legionaries in the center of the deck, instantly setting tunics, hair, and helmet plumes alight. Another struck the high prow, and then ricocheted back onto the foredeck, the burning mixture incinerating all who had stood there. Soon, more missiles hit than missed. They struck again and again, until the whole ship was ablaze from stem to stern. Such precision was unheard of in most fleets, especially when contending with tossing seas, but Libo’s squadron was different. Libo had taken special care to give his ships an advantage by placing a master of artillery on each of his vessels. They were hand-picked engine craftsmen from the east, Parthians mostly, each skilled in the delicate arts of artillery. They had come at a prodigious price – a price Libo had paid from his own purse – but their proficiency in battle had proven crucial to the squadron’s success on more than one occasion.
The burning transport’s mast now toppled, and her abandoned oars fell blazing into the sea. Blackened and naked figures ran blindly over the side, their tunics and hair burned off. Others still ablaze searched in vain for the quenching sea, but ultimately crumpled to the deck to die. Sickened by the sight, and once again feeling a thread of empathy for his foe, Libo glanced at the mate.
“Let your arrows fly,” Libo ordered. “Put the poor devils out of their misery.”
“Once shot, I cannot recover those arrows, commodore,” the mate protested. “They will be badly needed if we are to remain on station as we have for so long. Those men over there will die, either way.”
“Your point is well taken,” Libo said sullenly. “All the same, let them fly. I will not stand by and watch fellow Romans suffer in such a manner.”
The mate nodded reluctantly, and then motioned to the marine centurion on the Remus’s forecastle, where a score of archers stood with bows at the ready. Soon the bows were twanging in unison, the volleys of arrows flying in rapid succession, wave after wave, until the burning ship’s deck and structure bristled with feathers and everything was still. By the time the squadron had pulled past the transport, she was an indiscernible burning mass.
The remaining ship, seeing the fate of its consort, surrendered to the inevitable. She hove to at once, shipping her oars and running up the appropriate signals of surrender. Her captain undoubtedly hoped such an action would bring mercy.
“I’d rather not expend any more pitch on this riffraff, commodore,” the mate said, still smarting at the waste of perfectly good arrows. “Shall we ram them? Aurora and Pluto have taken a turn. Perhaps we should allow one of the other ships to have a go. It will give our boys practice, and keep their minds off their empty bellies.”
Libo said nothing, but stared out at the surrendered vessel, the orange pennant at the masthead once again catching his eye. It made him exceptionally curious, and he found himself straining his eyes to discern the figures walking about the distant deck – Greek sailors, Roman legionaries, oarsmen and slaves. Many stared back at him, but none appeared out of the ordinary. Several of the legionaries were heaving over the side, their stomachs evidently unaccustomed to the roll of the sea. Last night’s blow had been an exceptionally powerful one and would have incapacitated all but the stoutest of them.
But what in Juno’s name was the significance of that orange pennant?
Libo looked at the position of the sun. The day was running on, and he had a rendezvous to keep.
“Signal the transport to follow,” Libo said. “She is to travel in the center of our formation. Tell them, any deviation off course and they will be sunk.”
The mate was obviously unhappy with his commodore’s decision, but nodded obediently and relayed orders to the signalmen.
Soon, the transport was moving again. She took a long time to come about and move up behind the flagship, but once their prize was on station, signal flags flew, and the combined fleet made a sharp turn to the north, heading up the Greek coast under the clearing skies, leaving smoldering wreckage and floating bodies cresting and sinking amidst the waves.