If the Faun got through, Antony’s vessels would be sunk for sure. If the Faun got through, the slaughter of this day would have been worth it.
Then, as Libo watched, the Faun’s masts suddenly changed aspect. She was turning, inexplicably, maddeningly toward the fort. She turned so sharply that her masts leaned heavily and her larboard side seemed to dig into the water. To make such a turn in the middle of such a narrow, rock-lined channel was utter madness, even without the menace of an enemy fort. Libo grasped for some explanation. It came to him, in the space of a few heartbeats, and left him cursing his own impetuousness and lack of foresight. For the Faun had not turned of her own volition. She had run upon a cable, strewn at an angle across the neck of the passage. Now she staggered along the unseen obstruction, unable to push through it, and with too much momentum to back away. The cable was probably made of stout iron links such as those Libo had seen used in ports of the Far East during petty trade disputes between kingdoms. Whatever its make, it was too stout for the Faun’s rowers to overcome. Libo watched in utter helplessness as the bireme’s impetus carried her along the angled barrier like a sheep to a slaughter pen, until she grounded on the rocks directly beneath the fort’s towers.
The next moment, the sky filled with streaking yellow darts that rose from the fort and descended upon the helpless Faun. There could be no escape. Her decks and masts burst into flames as glowing bolts laced with pitch drove into the oak bulwarks spreading fire and death. The oars no longer moved, the rowers having long since abandoned their benches to join the frantic figures that now ran to and fro on deck, searching for a means to escape the raging inferno. They leapt over the side in droves, some alight, some flailing. Flickering strands of burning cordage dropped into the sea, and the tenuous masts soon followed. Before the fort’s engines could loose their third volley, the whole ship was an indiscernible, fiery mass.
It was over now, Libo knew, the realization of the complete and utter nature of the defeat overshadowing his thoughts like an evil spirit. Had Centurion Lucius Domitius been among those escaping the Faun, or had he died in the flames? Had he laughed when his dart struck Flavius, leaving Antony unscathed, setting into motion the chain of events that had allowed the traitor to escape, had destroyed the Faun, and had allowed the treasury reserves to be carried away? Did that son of a whore find it amusing to see the shocked look on all of their faces?
Two paces in front of Libo a marine was felled by a pilum that had been thrust into his ribs by a crouching legionary. In an uncontrollable rage, Libo dashed forward, batted the spear aside and buried his sword in the legionary’s gullet. Then in one sweeping motion, in which he harnessed all of his rage, he lopped off the man’s head, and in the tottering helmet, saw the face of Lucius Domitius, and it would replace the face of any man he fought this day, for he held nothing but disgust for the centurion now. But in a truthful moment, and with the clash of steel resounding around him, Libo knew that it was really his own fault for putting such trust in one who had been his enemy only days ago. How could he have been so stupid? He had led these men to their deaths. He had sent the Faun into certain destruction. He was their admiral, and he was responsible. They would search him out in the afterlife, clawing at his soul for retribution, for a youth deprived, for an honorless death in a barren place unwatched by the gods.
The legionaries closed in, and Libo cast aside his thoughts to take up sword and shield in the dwindling battle line with his warriors. He fought beside them, hammering at the enemy shields and striking injurious blows at every opportunity. Blood sprayed from open arteries. The air was thick with the odor of the dying. The press of the jostling combatants was enormous, and he found himself hacking and slashing, not caring if the next jabbing steel point ended his life.
But then, the fates intervened once again.
The press of the enemy suddenly relaxed, and then was no longer there. Libo glanced over his shield and, before his red-hued eyes, the enemy formation came apart. Legionary after legionary cast aside the encumbering shields and javelins and darted for the shore off which sat their one remaining craft. Upon seeing this, many of the archer auxiliaries followed suit.
“Blessed Jupiter!” one of the marines cheered, and then the others joined in, raising their blood-stained blades above their heads. Libo looked to see what had caused such revelry amid a carpet of the dead and dying, and when he saw what they were cheering about, he nearly joined in the euphoria.
Three triremes had landed on the seaward side of the island, and from their decks spilled a horde of marines and sailors, at least a hundred in number, all gleaming with arms and all shouting the battle cry. The trireme captains must have pushed their crews to the limits of endurance to get them to row so swiftly, for Libo knew well that these three ships came from the inshore squadron, which had been cruising off the coast several leagues away.
Faced with a new group of warriors that looked to be even more daunting than the one that had slain so many of their comrades, and filled with the knowledge that the one remaining vessel could not possibly carry them all off, Antony’s troops had broken. The fresh swordsmen chased the fleeing legionaries and archers into the surf, where men reached with desperate hands, clamoring to be pulled aboard the overloaded craft. But many of these were batted away by their own comrades, for the encumbered vessel was already teetering as it pushed away from the shore and steered for the harbor. Those unfortunate enough to be left behind met the vengeful blades of their pursuers and turned the lapping waves scarlet as they were slaughtered without mercy.
Libo bent over to catch his breath, dropping both sword and shield in the sand. But as he spit the blood out of his mouth from an earlier blow that had dislodged a tooth, he saw a shadow appear beside him. He looked up to see that it was Postumus, his face as inscrutable as it had been before the battle, or any other occasion, detached and unaffected by the gore all around him. He was staring at Libo as if waiting for an answer.
“Well?” the senator said impatiently.
“Well what?” Libo replied puzzled.
“I asked you a question, Admiral. My adjutant is dead, and the deal with Antony in shambles. I demand an explanation! What happened? Who shot that arrow?”
Normally a brutally honest man, Libo felt that this time he was justified in deviating from the truth, especially when dealing with a man whose own loyalties were questionable.
“I tell you plainly, Senator, I know not. There are indeed agents of the enemy lurking within the fleet. I suspect it might have had something to do with the attack on Lady Calpurnia the other night.”
Postumus shook his head disgruntledly and walked away, either dissatisfied with the answer or uncomfortable with the direction Libo had intentionally steered the discussion.
Some marines walking by were chuckling to themselves, and Libo overheard the words Scribonius Libo Basadan. Perhaps that would be his legacy, he mused, the conqueror of Basada. He had conquered a useless strip of sand devoid of water and life, and which would soon become the burial ground for these mangled corpses all around him. Like a nagging pain, he felt the weighty burden of command return to his shoulders, for his fleet was low on provisions and water. It would be difficult to maintain the blockade much longer – and now he faced a most difficult decision.