Belisarius I Thunder at Dawn

by David Drake

  "Easily. They're letting the basket ships set the pace instead of the akatoi. Those corbita are slow to begin with. And if they're packed with cataphracts—and all their armor—they'll be a lot more sluggish than usual."

  He leaned over the wall of the fighting platform and began shouting orders to his crew. The ship began taking a new heading, but Belisarius did not bother to watch. His concentration was focussed on the scorpions.

  John, he saw, had chosen his weapons well. The scorpions were that type of stone-throwing catapult which were called palintonos. The name was derived from the "fold-back spring" design which allowed the two torsion arms to swing forward further than was possible in the more traditional "straight-spring" euthytonos. The weapons were mounted on the same type of tripod base which Roman engineers used for cranes and hoists. The scorpions were then fitted onto a swivel attachment atop the tripod. The end result was a weapon which could be tilted up or down as well as swung sideways in a complete circle.

  Romans did not manufacture their artillery engines to the same degree of standardization as would be common in future eras. But, from long experience, Belisarius recognized that the two scorpions were both in what was considered the "11-pound" class—that being the weight of stone shot each was capable of hurling. Using that weight of shot, they had an effective range of well over 400 yards.

  "How heavy are your firebombs?" he asked Eusebius.

  "A little over eight pounds. Not more than nine."

  Belisarius nodded.

  "We should have a range of almost five hundred yards, then."

  Again, he examined the scorpions. The weapons were placed on either side of the wood-castle, far enough apart to allow the engines to be swiveled without the six-foot-long firing troughs impeding each other. Unfortunately, of course, there was no way that both of them could be used simultaneously to fire over the same side. As they—to use Aide's expression—"crossed the T," one of the scorpions would be out of action completely.

  For an idle moment, Belisarius pondered alternate ways of emplacing artillery on a ship. Almost immediately, another image came from Aide.

  A steel ship, very sleek for all its gargantuan size, plowing through the sea. Cannons—three of them abreast—were mounted in a strange sort of enclosed swivel—

  Turret.

  —directly amidship. Two enclosed swivels—

  Turrets.

  —were mounted toward the bow, one toward the stern. Those cannons could be brought to bear in any direction. All nine could be employed in broadsides, to starboard or port. Six could also fire across the bow, and three across the stern.

  "Oh, well," muttered Belisarius. "We'll have to make do with what we've got."

  The enemy fleet was now almost within catapult range. The nearest ships were off their starboard bow at a thirty-degree angle. Examining the situation, and doing his best to estimate relative speeds, Belisarius decided that they would be able to use both scorpions for at least three minutes before the port scorpion could no longer be brought to bear.

  "I'll handle the starboard scorpion," he announced. "Valentinian, you're in charge of the other one. Eusebius, you keep us supplied with firebombs."

  He started to give orders to the twelve other soldiers standing on the platform, but saw there was no need. All of them, experienced artillerymen, had already taken their positions. Each scorpion had a six-man crew, not counting the aimer. Two men stood on either side of each scorpion, ready to turn the windlasses which cranked back the torsion springs. That work was exhausting—especially when done at the breakneck speed required in battle—so each man had a relief standing right behind him. The two men would alternate between shots. A loader fit the bomb into the trough while the sixth man engaged the claw which held the bowstring until the aimer pulled the trigger. Those last two men also had the job of helping the aimer move the heavy trough around and seeing to it that the strut which supported the end was properly adjusted for the desired range.

  Everyone hurried to their tasks. Within a minute, the scorpions were ready to fire. Belisarius announced that he would fire first. With the help of his crew, he lined up the heavy trough so that the scorpion was bearing on the nearest of the enemy ships. As soon as he saw the target bracketed between the two "ears" which served as a rough aiming device, he yanked on the little lever which served as the weapon's trigger.

  The scorpion bucked from the recoil. Not sixty yards away, the firebomb slammed into the sea with enough force to rupture the clay container. A ball of flame splattered across the waves.

  "We're at sea," muttered Belisarius. Somewhat lamely, he added: "I forgot."

  In land warfare, he had never had to worry about the heaving of a ship's deck. He had fired the catapult just at the moment when the ship's bow dipped into a trough.

  Valentinian fired five seconds later. The cataphract had learned from his general's mistake. He timed his own trigger-pull to correspond with the bow lifting to a wavecrest.

  His firebomb lofted its majestic way toward the heavens. Quite some time later, almost sedately, it plopped into the sea. There was no eruption into flame, this time. The firebomb plunged into the water at such a steep angle that, even if the clay container ruptured, the naphtha/saltpeter contents were immediately immersed in water.

  Harmlessly, in other words. Not least of all because the firebomb landed two hundred yards away from the nearest enemy vessel.

  They were still four hundred yards from their foe. Just near enough to hear the faint sounds of catcalls and jibes.

  "Again," growled Belisarius. Gingerly, the loader placed a firebomb in the trough. The other artillerymen ratcheted back the torsion springs and engaged the claw. Belisarius sighted—compensated for the roll, guessed at the pitch—yanked the trigger.

  He did, this time, manage a respectable trajectory. Quite respectable. Not too high, not too low.

  And not, unfortunately, anywhere in the vicinity of an enemy ship. Another harmless plop into the sea.

  The catcalls and jibes grew louder.

  Valentinian fired.

  Extravagant failure; utter humiliation. His second firebomb landed farther from the enemy armada than had his first.

  The catcalls and jibes were now like the permanent rumbling of a waterfall.

  Belisarius glared at Honorius.

  "For the sake of God! This damned ship's—"

  He gestured angrily with his hands.

  "Pitching, yawing and rolling," filled in Honorius. The sailor shrugged. "I can't help it, general. On this heading—which you ordered—we're catching the worst combination of the wave action."

  Belisarius restrained his angry glare. More accurately, he transferred it from the seaman to the enemy, who were still taunting him.

  He pointed at the fleet.

  "Is there any way to get at them without having this miserable damned ship hopping around like a flea?" he demanded.

  Honorius gauged the wind and the sea.

  "If we head straight for them," he announced. "We'll be running with the waves instead of across them. Shouldn't be—"

  "Do it!" commanded Belisarius.

  Honorius sprang to obey.

  Aide protested.

  Cross the T! Cross the T!

  Shut up! If you think this is so easy, you—you—damned little fat diamond!—you crawl out of that pouch and do it yourself.

  Aide said nothing. But the facets were quivering with some very human sentiments.

  SULK. POUT.

  Then:

  You'll be sorry.

  By the time the scorpions were re-armed, Honorius had altered the vessel's course. They were now rowing directly toward the enemy. And, just as the sailor had predicted, the ship was much steadier.

  Much steadier.

  Belisarius and Valentinian fired almost simultaneously. A few seconds later, the taunts and catcalls were suddenly replaced by cries of alarm and screams of pain.

  The two nearest akatoi erupted in flames. The rounded bow o
f the one Belisarius fired upon was burning fiercely. Valentinian's shot caused even greater havoc on his target. His firebomb must have ruptured against the rail of that ship's bow. Instead of engulfing the bow in flames, the naphtha had spewed across the ship's deck like a horizontal waterfall of flame and destruction.

  A deck which was packed with heavily armored cataphracts.

  The scene on that ship was pure horror. At least a dozen cataphracts were being roasted alive in their iron armor. Several of them, driven to desperation, leapt off the ship into the sea. There, helplessly dragged down by the weight of their equipment, they drowned.

  But they were dead men, anyway. At least their agony was over. Those who remained aboard were like human torches. In their frenzied movements, they helped to spread the flames further. John's hellish concoction was like Satan's urine. It stuck to everything it touched—and it burned, and burned, and burned, and burned. Within thirty seconds, the entire deck of that ship was a holocaust.

  Then, the holocaust spread. The steersman, seeing the fiery doom coming toward him, made his own leap into the sea. Unlike the cataphracts, he was not encumbered with armor and could hope to swim.

  Swim where? Presumably, to the nearest ship. Unfortunately, by deserting his post he caused the burning ship to head into the wind and waves. The corbita coming immediately behind was unable to avoid a collision.

  The flames now spread to that ship. Most of the spreading came from the entangled sails. But some of it came from the frenzied human torches which clambered aboard.

  Two ships were now completely out of action.

  Neither Belisarius nor Valentinian paid much attention. They were too busy dealing with their next victims.

  For Belisarius, that victim was the same as his first. Coming closer to the ship whose bow he had already set afire—now, at a range of three hundred yards—the general aimed his scorpion amidships.

  He was deliberately trying to imitate Valentinian's shot. His first shot missed—too low, scattering flames across the sea fifty yards before the target. But, after a quick adjustment of the trough's strut, he succeeded with the next shot. His firebomb ruptured against the enemy ship's railing and spewed destruction across its packed deck.

  That ship was out of action.

  As he waited for his artillerymen to rearm the scorpion, Belisarius observed Valentinian's next shot. Valentinian was also trying to copy his first success.

  He misjudged, however, and his shot went a little high.

  No matter. Both he and Belisarius learned another lesson in the brand new world of naval artillery warfare.

  Sails and rigging, struck head-on by a firebomb, burn like oil-soaked kindling. Within five seconds, that ship was effectively dismasted, wallowing helplessly in the waves.

  Yet—

  The cataphracts standing on the deck below were—for the moment at least—unharmed.

  Unharmed, and filled with fury. Belisarius could see dozens of them beginning to bring their powerful bows to bear. Less than three hundred yards away—well within range of cataphract archery. In moments, his little ship would be swept by a volley of arrows. The rowers below would be reasonably safe in their enclosed shelters. But all of the men on the wood-castle had only the low walls to protect them.

  "Ready!" cried the loader.

  Belisarius threw his weight against the heavy trough. The loader and the claw-man helped swivel the scorpion around. As soon as it bore, Belisarius yanked the trigger.

  The cataphracts on the enemy ship were just starting to draw back their bows. Some of them loosed their arrows—but, flinching, missed their aim. Most of the cataphracts, seeing the firebomb speeding right at them, simply ducked.

  The side of their ship erupted in a ball of flame. There was not the instant destruction which they feared, true. Belisarius' shot struck too far below the rail to scatter the naphtha across the deck in that horrible waterfall of flame. But, soon enough, they would be dead men. And they knew it.

  Trapped on a vessel which would burn to the waterline. Trapped in heavy armor. Trapped in the middle of the Bosporus.

  Belisarius' ship plowed past them at a range of two hundred yards. He could see some of the enemy cataphracts, through gaps in the black and oily smoke. They were no longer even thinking about their bows, however. All of them that he could see were frantically getting out of their armor.

  In less than ten minutes, he realized, he had destroyed half of the Army of Bithynia's cataphract force.

  But he did not have time to find any satisfaction in the deed. Belatedly, he realized that his reckless straight-ahead charge, for all its immediate effectiveness, had placed him and his men in mortal peril. Instead of standing off at a distance and bombarding his enemy, he was plunging straight into their massed fleet of ships. There were archers on all of those ships—hundreds of them. Thousands of them.

  Within two minutes, they would be inundated with arrows.

  A voice, pouting:

  I told you so.

  Sulky self-satisfaction:

  Cross the T. Cross the T.

  Valentinian had already reached the same conclusion.

  "We're in a back alley knife fight, now. Only one thing to do."

  Belisarius nodded. He knew the answer to their dilemma.

  Valentinian had taught it to him, years ago.

  Chop the other mindless idiot first.

  He turned to Honorius. The seaman's face was pale—he, too, recognized the danger—but was otherwise calm and composed.

  "Straight ahead," he commanded. "As fast as you can. We'll try to cut our way through."

  As he brought his scorpion to bear on the next ship in line, he caught a glimpse of Valentinian crouched over his own weapon. An instant later, the cataphract's scorpion bucked. The deck of a nearby corbita was transformed into the same hell-on-earth which had already visited four cataphract-laden akatoi.

  Valentinian grinned, like a weasel.

  Seeing that vicious grin, Belisarius found it impossible not to copy it. Time after time, in years gone by, as he trained a young officer in bladesmanship, Valentinian had lectured him on the stupidity of fighting with a knife in close quarters.

  Valentinian should know, of course. It was a stupidity he had committed more than once. And had survived, because he was the best close-quarter knife-fighter Belisarius had ever met.

  He heard his loader:

  "Ready!"

  The closest enemy ship was a corbita, but Belisarius aimed past it, at the next approaching akatos. He feared the archery of those cataphracts more than he did the bowmanship of common soldiers.

  He fired. Missed. Although the ship was hardly pitching at all, it was still rolling, and his shot had been twenty yards too far to the right.

  His men rearmed the scorpion and Belisarius immediately fired. Another miss—too high, this time. The bomb sailed right over the akatos' mast.

  Windlasses spun, the men turning them grunting with exertion. The loader quickly placed the bomb, the claw-man checked the trigger.

  "Ready!" called the loader. Belisarius took aim—more carefully, this time—and yanked the trigger.

  For a moment, he thought he had fired too high again. But his firebomb caught the mast two-thirds of the way up and engulfed the akatos' rigging in flames.

  Behind him, he heard Honorius call out an order to the steersman. Belisarius could not make sense of the specific words—they were spoken in that peculiar jargon known only to seamen. But, within seconds, as he saw their ship change its heading, he understood what Honorius was doing. The seaman was also learning—quickly—some of the principal lessons of the new style of naval warfare.

  That akatos is out of action, but its cataphracts can still use their bows. Solution? Simple. Sail somewhere else. Stay out of archery range. Let it burn. Let it burn its way to hell.

  He started to tell Valentinian to pick out the cataphract-bearing akatoi first, but saw there was no need. Valentinian was already doing so. His next shot s
ailed past a nearby corbita, toward an akatos at the extreme range of almost five hundred yards. Valentinian was as good with a scorpion as he was with a bow. He had deliberately shot high, Belisarius saw, knowing that a strike in the rigging was almost as good as one of those terrible deck-sweeping rail shots.

  Another akatos began burning furiously.

  "Ready!" called his loader.

  Belisarius scanned the ship-crowded sea hastily, looking for one of the two remaining akatoi.

  He saw none. Hidden, probably, behind the close-packed corbita. Their swift charge had placed them in the middle of the enemy armada.