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 warriors. 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.