Ten men were required to operate the machine. They mustered in leather suits and aprons fire-proofed with vinegar and alum. Vallon noticed that several of the men’s faces bore flame scars. Their leader explained their functions. One man’s job was to tend the brazier and ignite the jet of hot oil at the muzzle. The squad leader aimed the siphon, while another man operated the valve, and two others manned the pressure pump. The rest were firefighters, equipped with buckets of sand and oxhide blankets. Before the team went to work, they spread a layer of sand around the weapon and crossed themselves.
They lit the brazier, and when the coals glowed red, its minder began pumping the bellows. The reservoir made ominous pinging sounds as the metal expanded.
‘General, please stand well back,’ said the captain. ‘It’s not unknown for the cauldron to explode.’
‘I’ve seen it happen myself, sir,’ Wulfstan said behind Vallon. ‘Killed the entire firing crew. I can still smell them roasting.’
One look at the Viking’s face and Vallon retreated half a dozen paces.
The team leader took control of the siphon and the two men at the pump began pressurising the reservoir. The firestarter took up position with a flaming torch. The valve operator stood ready. In their outlandish gear, they looked like agents of Satan preparing to incinerate sinners in the fiery pit.
The leader seemed to take his timing from the sounds produced by the fuel tank. His face knotted in concentration. The tank gave another high-pitched twang. The air around it pulsed and shimmered. Vallon took another backward step.
‘Now!’
The valve operator turned on the oil supply and a jet of hot fuel spewed from the nozzle. The stink of the compound caught in Vallon’s throat and stung his eyes. At full stretch the firestarter lit the stream with a torch. Whoomph. A smoky red and yellow jet of flame sprayed twenty feet from the barrel, the range increasing to more than thirty feet as the men working the pump increased their efforts. The jet formed a reverse arc, the partly vaporised fuel curving down before rising in a fan of roaring fire that fell to the sea and, still burning, drifted past the dromon’s hull in fiery pools.
‘That’s enough,’ shouted the captain, scissoring his arms.
The supply valve was turned off. The flame shortened and died, leaving blobs and dribbles of stinking oil sizzling on the carpet of sand. A sooty belch of cloud drifted away downwind. The team wheeled away the brazier and opened a pressure relief valve on the reservoir, while the rest of the crew stood ready with their fire blankets. When the contraption had been made safe, they looked at each other and puffed out their cheeks as if only divine grace had prevented a disaster.
Vallon bowed to the captain. ‘That was most impressive, and more than a little terrifying. Now that I understand the power of the weapon, I won’t imperil your ship again merely to satisfy my curiosity.’
When the weapon had cooled, Vallon and Hero inspected it more closely. ‘Have you learned any more about the formula?’ Vallon asked. In the wilderness north of Rus, Hero had improvised an incendiary to destroy a Viking longship.
‘I think the main ingredient is a substance called rock oil that seeps from the ground in parts of Persia and the Caucasus. As for what makes it stick to whatever it touches… I imagine they use plant resins – dragon’s blood would be an appropriate choice. Quicklime might be involved, too. Did you notice how the fire burned more intensely when it hit the sea?’
Hero examined the pump. ‘Very ingenious,’ he said. ‘It’s double action, drawing air on the up-stroke as well as the down-stroke. I must make a drawing.’
Vallon laughed. ‘There’s not a branch of science you couldn’t master if you set your mind to it.’ He squeezed Hero’s shoulder. ‘It would have been a much lonelier command without your company.’
Vallon wandered down the deck, exchanging words with his men. They seemed to be in good heart, enjoying the fine weather after months cooped up in their winter quarters. He leaned his hands on the rail and surveyed the convoy, the dromons sailing under shortened canvas to allow the supply ships to keep pace. Pelican cut through the waves within forty yards of Dolphin and Vallon saw Lucas sparring with another trooper on the foredeck.
Wulfstan joined Vallon and watched the troopers cutting and thrusting. ‘The lad’s not bad.’
‘He’s better than that,’ said Vallon. ‘Look how sweetly he moves.’
Lucas evaded an attack, sprang back, dashed his opponent’s shield to the right and then, with time to spare, hit him a back-handed inswinger from the left.
‘What do you reckon?’ Wulfstan said. ‘Think he’d have the beating of you?
‘Give it a year, and even you’ll have the better of me. It’s called growing old.’ Vallon cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Nicely done,’ he shouted, ‘but don’t rely too much on the edge of your sword. It’s not a good one and against armour the chances are it will produce only a shallow cut or bruise. Use the point more.’ Vallon drew his own blade and demonstrated a few tight moves. ‘See? It delivers a more lethal thrust. Even your piece of scrap iron will punch through mail if you put enough weight behind it.’ He caught his breath. ‘Another thing. Fighting with the aim of killing with the point keeps your body more centred, exposes less arm and flank. Try it.’
Lucas backed away and raised his sword. Wulfstan chuckled. ‘Compliments and advice from the master – he’ll be made up for the day.’
Vallon turned back to Lucas on an afterthought. ‘How’s your Greek coming on?’
‘Etsi ki etsi, kyrie.’
‘Good. Keep it up.’
Wind and weather stayed so benign that even Vallon had to remind himself that the Black Sea crossing was only the first and shortest leg of their journey. Once they reached Trebizond, they faced a land march of four thousand miles through unknown and probably hostile territory. Would the horses and pack animals stand up to it? No, they would have to find new mounts and hire camels. Would the men’s resolve and discipline hold in the face of boredom, sickness and the inevitable distractions of booze and women? Almost certainly not. The occasional scrap might even be a blessing, helping to maintain morale, but with a fighting force only a hundred strong, Vallon couldn’t afford to lose any men in combat. And then there was the duke, a hideous liability. Concern after concern floated through his mind, only to dissolve in the flawless blue sky. If any expedition had been blessed with a favourable start, it was this one.
Around noon on the sixth day out of Constantinople – only one more day to Trebizond – Stork manoeuvred to within sixty feet of Pelican and one of the duke’s men hailed Vallon through a speaking trumpet.
‘His Excellency invites you and Master Hero to toast our good progress over a meal.’
‘It’s too soon to celebrate. I’d be delighted to raise a beaker when we reach Trebizond.’
Duke Skleros, dressed in layers of silk, took the trumpet. ‘Vallon, we got off to a bad start and I fear the fault lay with me. In Trebizond it will be all formal banquets and empty speeches. Let’s talk man to man. I promise a good luncheon.’
The swell was gentle, the breeze just strong enough to fill the sails. Vallon saw Captain Iannis spectating from the castle amidships. ‘Can you transfer me safely?’
‘Yes, General.’
Officers bawled orders and teams of sailors reefed sail until Pelican was making no more than steerage way. A gang lowered a gig over the side and dropped a rope ladder into it. Gingerly, favouring his stiff ankle, Vallon climbed down, glad of the strong hands that reached up to steady him.
On board Stork, Skleros ushered his guests into his cabin, where half a dozen of his entourage were assembled. Glass and silverware gleamed on the dining table. The chests containing the gifts for the Song emperor stood locked and chained in one corner.
‘A toast before we dine,’ Skleros said. ‘To a safe and successful journey.’
Vallon and Hero raised their beakers. ‘Safety and success.’
At table, stewards serv
ed a main dish of roast ortolans that had been netted on their spring migration, blinded, force-fed on millet and figs until they were four times their normal weight, drowned in wine and then cooked guts and all, only their feathers and feet removed. Skleros ate four of them, ravaging the carcasses and dabbing at the grease running down his chin. His conversation was inconsequential, mainly scurrilous gossip about court hangers-on. He kept plying his guests with strong Thracian wine.
After the second refill, Vallon placed a hand over his glass. ‘No more, thank you. I’ll need a steady head and legs to make my way back.’
‘Now then, General,’ Skleros said, spitting out the last beak. ‘Tell us what you think of our chances.’
‘Of reaching China?’ Vallon glanced around at the company. ‘There’s no point worrying about the unknown perils. Time enough for that when we run into them – and we will. It’s the logistics that most concern me – finding enough food, fodder and water. We have plenty of gold, but I’m not sure how far that will take us when we reach the deserts of Turkestan.’
Skleros began tucking into a spiced lemon custard flan, shovelling it over his pendulous lower lip. ‘I have every faith in you and your men.’
‘I must say, Your Excellency, that your own attitude is remarkably sanguine.’
Skleros rotated a hand, giving priority to another mouthful. Once he’d swallowed it – minimum chewing – he fixed Vallon with his tiny eyes. ‘I’m a stoic, General. The vicissitudes I’ve suffered mean I can embrace no other philosophy.’ He lifted a querying gaze past Vallon and seemed to nod. Vallon turned to glimpse a figure vanishing through the door. A servant shut it behind him.
Skleros had resumed talking. ‘Yes, Vallon, fortune has dealt me some harsh blows. My estates in Cappadocia were so large you would have needed a good horse to cross them in a day. All gone, lost to the vile Seljuks. I can’t look on those heathen mercenaries of yours without a shiver of rage. Have another slice of flan. I certainly mean to.’
Someone nudged Vallon’s ankle under the table. Hero was pulling a face at him, indicating the door. ‘I think you should take a look outside,’ he said in English.
Skleros laughed. ‘Speaking in a foreign tongue. Come, come. That’s not polite. Share what you have to say with us.’
Vallon made an apologetic grimace. ‘I’m sorry. Hero was reminding me that I’d arranged to test the ship’s catapult this afternoon.’
‘Cancel it. We’ll be in Trebizond tomorrow.’
‘No, my men will be waiting for me. I’m sorry to leave such a splendid meal, but I really must be getting back.’
Skleros’s eyes sidled. His men seemed edgy, keyed up, as if waiting for a signal. ‘I insist,’ he said. ‘We have important matters to discuss.’
Vallon rose. ‘They’ll have to wait until we reach Trebizond.’
Skleros screwed up his soiled napkin and tossed it on the table. ‘Oh, very well, but I must say I find your manners somewhat wanting.’
Vallon stepped out into blinding sunlight to find Pelican cruising an arrow flight off Stork’s starboard beam. Wayland and Josselin stood on the tower, jabbing towards the south.
‘What is it?’ Skleros demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ said Vallon. ‘Bring me that speaking trumpet.’
Josselin had already found one. ‘Ship to the south-west. Looks like one of ours.’
Vallon peered from under a shading palm and spotted the tip of a white thorn nicking the horizon. ‘What course?’
‘Heading our way.’
Wayland said something to Josselin. ‘Two dromons,’ the centurion shouted. ‘Three-masters. Wayland thinks they’re flying the imperial flag.’
‘How long before they run up to us?’
Josselin consulted Pelican’s captain. ‘Not more than half an hour. They must be making twice our speed.’ Josselin pointed at the tubby transports wallowing in the dromons’ wake.
The situation left Vallon vexed and uncertain. Almost certainly the approaching ships were Byzantine vessels, but that didn’t mean they were friendly. Since the Seljuks had captured most of Anatolia, dispossessed Greeks had established several pirate bases on the Black Sea coast. If Stork and Pelican heaved to now, allowing him to return to his ship, the delay would enable the approaching vessels to catch up. On the other hand, after the duke’s odd behaviour, he didn’t want to be on Stork when they arrived. He glanced over his shoulder to see Skleros and his men arrayed outside the cabin, waiting to see which way he’d jump.
‘Excuse me,’ Vallon said. He steered Hero out of earshot. ‘Do you think the duke was told about the ships while we were at table?’
‘I don’t see what else it could have been.’
‘Then why didn’t he share the news with us?’
‘Perhaps he was enjoying stuffing himself too much.’
Vallon studied the approaching ships. Now the leading vessel was hull clear and its companion’s sails notched the horizon.
‘Or else he was expecting the ships and wanted to keep us on board until they intercepted.’
‘He couldn’t have known they’d be in this place at this time.’
‘No, but if he’d posted a lookout at the masthead, he would have learned of the ships long before our men spotted them. Long enough to make sure we were still on his vessel when they ran up to us.’
‘But why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know. Stay close.’
Josselin hailed him again. ‘Definitely flying the double eagle.’
Vallon put the trumpet to his mouth. ‘Maintain course. Keep close station with the supply ships. Have the men prepare for battle.’
‘That’s preposterous,’ Skleros spluttered. ‘Rescind your order.’
Vallon ignored him. Majestic under full sail, the leading battleships had closed to within two miles. Another flag ran rippling up the main masthead.
‘Ordering us to heave to,’ Josselin shouted.
‘Do as they say,’ Skleros said. He fluttered a hand at the captain. ‘See to it.’
Vallon stepped forward. ‘Wait.’
The captain hesitated, eyes switching between his two superiors.
‘I’m under orders to stop for no one,’ Vallon said.
‘General, you can’t ignore a signal from the admiral of the Black Sea. That’s his flag flying from the foremast.’ Skleros’s tone hardened. ‘Carry on, Captain.’
‘As you were,’ Vallon snapped. ‘The Logothete assured me that the Black Sea fleet has orders not to hinder our passage.’
‘Perhaps they’re carrying messages that affect our mission.’
‘We’ve had ideal sailing conditions since we left Constantinople. To catch up with us, those galleys would have had to leave port within a day of our own departure.’
‘I know nothing about ships and sailing. Heave to and solve the mystery.’
‘Why would the Logothete despatch two ships to carry a message?’
‘General, I haven’t got the faintest idea. I act on the evidence of my eyes and not according to what affrights my imagination. I see an imperial dromon signalling us to stop and therefore, for the last time’ – the duke rounded on the captain and purple blotches stained his cheeks – ‘I demand that you obey without further delay.’
‘Damn it,’ Vallon shouted. ‘I’m in charge of security.’
But the duke’s title carried more weight, and the captain’s orders to heave to were already being relayed. Ropes rattled, yards creaked, sails luffed.
‘Hero and I are returning to Pelican,’ Vallon told Skleros. He raised his voice. ‘Lower a boat.’
No one moved. He swung round. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’
One of the duke’s men fingered his sword hilt and that was all Vallon needed to confirm his fears of treachery. He had his own blade out before the man could even think of drawing. His eyes darted. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You’re behaving like a lunatic,’ said Skleros. ‘Show some dignity. The dromons will be
alongside before you reach your ship.’
Josselin had noticed something was wrong. ‘Do you need help, General?’
‘Send two squads. Transfer all our men on to Pelican, then order the transports to make full sail. You stay where you are and be ready for my instructions.’
A rush of activity as two gigs were lowered. Twenty troopers piled into them and rowed flat out towards Stork. The supply ships began closing up on Pelican.
The duke flapped his arms. ‘Order them back. I’m not having your thugs on my ship.’
‘You don’t have a choice,’ Vallon said. ‘Don’t even think of resisting. You have no more than twenty soldiers in your company and I suspect it’s been many a long year since any of them raised a sword in anger.’
Skleros appealed to Stork’s captain. ‘This is mutiny. Call your soldiers to arms.’
Vallon’s sword shot out. ‘Captain, you’ve defied one of my orders. Defy another and I swear you’ll find my reaction most disappointing.’
Looking sick, the man retreated, muttering to his officers and waving his arms in dismay at the chaos that had engulfed his ship from a clear blue sky.
Aimery was first to pile aboard. Vallon gave him a helping hand and muttered in his ear, ‘I suspect foul play. Take your lead from me.’
Gorka the Basque followed, with Wulfstan in the rear, climbing the ladder one-handed, a knife between his teeth. Vallon made for the ladder and then turned, smiling. ‘Your Excellency, I forgot to thank you for your hospitality.’ Still smiling, he advanced on the duke, seized his arm, swung him round and laid the edge of his sword across his throat. His men had no time to react before Vallon’s troopers menaced them.
‘Take as many as will fit in the boats,’ Vallon ordered. He pointed with his free hand, singling out the most senior of the duke’s entourage. ‘That one, that one and that one there.’
‘You’ll go to the stake for this,’ Skleros gurgled.
Imperial Fire Page 15
