The marines were dropping by the handful, but they could do little. They cast the spent javelins back at the well-protected legionaries, largely to no effect. There were half a dozen bowmen among Libo’s own troops, scattered down the line. They wore wide-brimmed hats to keep the sun from affecting their aim. They sent arrows back toward the enemy with great accuracy, felling several archers, but their shots were a mere nuisance when measured against the torrent of missiles coming from Antony’s ranks.
There was no cover on this barren spit of sand, and Libo saw that the only way out of the arrow storm was to close to a melee with the legionaries. This, of course, was exactly what the legionaries wanted, a motley line of sea fighters rushing against their waiting shields to have groins and abdomens opened by the deadly jabs of the gladii. In spite of this, Libo knew he had little choice. Better to die on the sword fighting than to be struck down by the faceless arrow. But before he sent them all charging to their deaths, he would try to give them a fighting chance.
Libo quickly summoned his few bowmen to him.
"Stay beside me,” he commanded. “Shoot only at who and what I tell you!"
Between the gaps in the shields, Libo looked out across the barren space separating the opposing lines and scanned the legionary formation until he found what he was looking for.
"There is your target!" he said, pointing with the tip of his sword.
The first man chosen to die was the centurion, who glanced once too often over the rim of his shield. He went down with two arrows in his neck. Next, Libo pointed out the optio of the century, distinguished by the tall hastile propped in the sand beside him. The wooden staff was used, on most days, to keep the soldiers in line, but on this day it had served to mark its bearer for death. Five arrows flew at the optio, and then he, too, fell clutching his throat, gasping for air from a severed windpipe. The signifer, bearing the century standard, was the next to die. The first arrow knocked the wolf head helmet off his head, while two more planted themselves in the shield of the legionary next to him. As the signifer turned, scanning the ground for his fallen cover, the fourth arrow struck at the base of his skull, driving into his brain and killing him instantly. His lifeless body crumpled amongst the gaping soldiers around him.
The enemy archers were still sending arrows at Libo’s marines, whose angled shields were so full of feathered shafts they might have been quivers, but his own archers were dealing devastating counter-blows as well, killing the leaders on which the green legionary recruits so heavily relied. The savor of this triumph did not linger long. Two of Libo’s bowmen received their death wounds simultaneously, the enemy archers having shifted their aim to deal with the new menace.
Libo was moments away from ordering a general charge, when he saw another officer filing through the legionary shields from the rear. Libo instantly recognized him as the green-plumed knight that had accompanied Antony. He evidently had come to the front to assume command of the leaderless legionaries, and he strode proudly amongst the crouching soldiers, showing no visible concern for his own safety, as if in direct defiance of Libo’s bowmen. In so doing, he made himself Libo’s final target. He fell, pierced by three arrows that had sought out the gap between his bronze cuirass and the cheek pieces of his helmet, a crimson waterfall spilling over his useless armor.
Before the dust settled from the knight’s collapse, while the legionaries stared at the twitching form of their senior officer, Libo gave the command and his marines rushed forward screeching like a pack of demons unleashed from the underworld. Without being told, they formed into a crude wedge and then surged across the sand. A few javelins sailed into the ranks, but these did not find flesh, only upturned shields. Then, the leading marines barreled into the legionary formation with all of their momentum, knocking over several of the crouching soldiers in the front line. Some marines used their opponents’ large shields as springboards, leaping over the heads of the front line to land amongst the startled rear ranks. This proved fatal to some, who were instantly hacked to death by half a dozen gladii, but some were successful, swinging axes and swords in quick maiming strokes that seemed berserk and uncontrolled in nature but were in actuality delivered with startling precision. They cut deeply into unprotected legs, hewed off hands at the wrist, and lopped off toes, their boarding actions having taught them that maiming a man in battle was just as effective as killing him. They hacked and slew in an ever widening circle, and soon the entire wedge of marines – only a score or so still on their feet – had pushed deep into the century and had filled the circle, now beset on all sides.
Libo and Postumus had followed in the heart of the wedge and now stood at the bloody center of this circle. Libo could see that the maneuver had succeeded in removing his men from the barrage of arrows, for none came while they were in such close proximity to the legionaries, but even after subtracting the mass of dead lying in red pools at their feet, Antony’s troops still outnumbered them.
This would be their final moment – a final stand.
He looked wildly at Postumus, wishing for some sort of inspiration, some sort of united pact of honor to die in the service of the republic together, but the senator was too busy avoiding jabs and strokes. In one hand he held his unblemished gladius, while in the other he clutched the back of his bodyguard’s corselet, steering the blood-spattered warrior at each new threat as one might yield a weapon. The skilled blade-for-hire had already killed two legionaries that had smashed through the defensive ring, and as Libo watched he opened the neck of another. Postumus did not seem resigned to death. Instead, he was protecting his life as though he were a young man yet to experience the wonders of this existence.
Libo cared only for one thing now. If this were to be his last act, he wished to go to his death knowing that he had struck at least one blow for the republic. With this in mind, he stepped up on a legionary corpse and looked over the top of the raging melee, hoping to catch sight of the Faun traversing the channel to the north which separated Basada from the mainland. And there she was! Her masts were clearly visible, moving against a backdrop of drab hills on the mainland beyond. Looking at the body of water to the west of the island, beyond the mass of helmets and swinging weapons, Libo spied the Faun’s prey, the four treasure craft with their green canopies, slowly crawling across the harbor. They were within the Faun’s grasp, but she must first navigate through the channel. She must avoid the shallows on the south side of the channel, while staying clear of the fort on the north side. The fort stood at the end of the mainland promontory and guarded the entrance to the harbor. Within its walls stood several towers which undoubtedly held throwing engines that could reach across the the narrow water passage. But if the Faun stayed to the south side of the channel, at the extreme range of the engines, then she had every hope of getting through with only marginal damage, if any. Libo had every confidence that the Faun’s captain had taken the necessary precautions, keeping his rowers at full stroke, and his fire crews standing ready with buckets of seawater.
As the Faun entered the hazardous stretch of water, Libo expected to see missiles taking to the sky, but he was astonished when not a single projectile was loosed. There were helmets above the fort’s ramparts, and he could see the trails of black smoke emanating from the pitch pots inside, but no missiles flew. If they did not loose their barrage soon, the Faun would be through without a scratch, for her oars were rising and falling at a pace that must have every oarsman heaving for air and straining every last muscle to its limit.