Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

Vallon growled low in his throat.

Wayland cocked his head. ‘Are you going to lower the plank or do I have to jump? I’m not as agile as I used to be, and my swimming hasn’t improved since I left England.’

‘I don’t want you to come out of any misplaced sense of obligation.’

‘I’m coming of my own will.’

‘Does Syth know?’

‘We discussed it most of the night. She’s not happy with my decision, but agrees it’s the right one. There’s no hurry to return to England. She and the children will remain in Constantinople with your family. They’ll take comfort from each other in our absence.’

Someone on the duke’s ship demanded to know the reason for the delay. Vallon looked at Hero. The smile and shining eyes said it all. Behind Hero Wulfstan was grinning like a loony.

Vallon turned to the waiting crewmen. ‘Lower the plank.’

When Wayland arrived on deck, both men embraced. ‘You always did go your own way,’ Vallon muttered. ‘I pray you haven’t chosen the wrong path.’ He broke off and walked blindly away.

The wind was against the flotilla and when Pelican had shoved off into open water, the two tiers of oar ports below deck on each side opened and one hundred and twenty rowers put out their oars. A drum beat a sonorous rhythm and the oars lifted. When the beat was established, a whistle shrilled and the oars dipped in unison. Up they rose again, water flashing in the sunlight, and down once more, the fifteen-foot-long shafts flexing under the strain. Pelican gathered way. The rhythm of the oars speeded up until water ran foaming past the prow.

Vallon looked back at Stork. Pelican was the larger of the dromons — a rakish fighting vessel almost one hundred and fifty feet from bow to stern, only twenty-five feet across the beam. Her crew numbered a hundred and forty, plus about seventy of Vallon’s squadron standing in for the fifty marines she usually carried. Two masts supported the furled lateen sails that gave greater manoeuvrability than the square-rig Vallon had learned to handle on his northern voyage. For combat, she was equipped with a metal-clad ram projecting from her prow, and an armoured wooden castle amidships for archers and catapults. Bronze siphons for spraying Greek Fire had been fitted at bow and stern. The stern cabin, whose roof also functioned as a fighting platform, only accommodated a dozen passengers, including the captain and his senior officers, Vallon, his centurions and Hero. The rest of the Outlanders, plus the off-duty sailors, slept under canvas awnings on deck.

The supply ships, Thetis and Dolphin , were a type of dromon called chelandia , with broad hulls adapted to carry horses and cargo. Crewed by a hundred men, they were slower than the fighting dromons under either sail or oar. Thirty of Vallon’s squadron, together with the muleteers and other non-combatants, had been divided between the transports. The arrangement was to rendezvous at the northern end of the Bosporus before proceeding in convoy across the Black Sea. Already they were in the strait’s southern mouth. Vallon watched Galata approach. He could even see his villa and knew that Caitlin would be up there holding the girls and telling them not to cry. Hush now. Your father will be home soon.

Three years!

He saw Wayland staring landwards with a bereft expression that flexed in a forced smile when he noticed Vallon’s attention.

‘I would have suffered more pain if I hadn’t joined you.’

‘And your pain softens mine. Wayland, I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you and Hero at my side.’

‘Don’t forget me,’ said Wulfstan.

Vallon’s laugh sounded like a sob. ‘You, too, you Viking rogue.’

Wayland made a fist, shoved it into Vallon’s arm and turned away to watch Constantinople dropping away behind them.

Pelican and Stork reached the Black Sea in mid-afternoon and anchored off the Ancyraean Cape — so named, Hero told Vallon, because here Jason had taken on board a stone anchor for the Argo during his quest for the Golden Fleece. The supply ships didn’t catch up until the sun was flaring behind the soft black contours of the Thracian coast. During the night the wind shifted full west and at dawn the fleet hoisted sail and set course for Trebizond. It was the twenty-sixth day of April.

When the coast had sunk from sight, Vallon assembled his squadron and told them their destination. They took the news calmly, unable to absorb the scale of the enterprise or the distances involved. For most of them, the realm of China was a destination as abstract as heaven — or hell. On that first day they were just glad to be away from barracks, bound for a mysterious empire where the natives talked like cats, concubines minced on bound feet and dragons were as common as crows.

Warm airs wafted them east all day and when Vallon woke next morning, the same favourable wind was pushing them along. He stood at the bow, watching flying fish skimming the waves.

Hero joined him. ‘At this rate we’ll reach Trebizond within a week.’

‘And our journey will have hardly begun.’

‘Admit it, part of you is thrilled to be off on such a grand venture.’

‘That’s what makes me feel guilty. It’s always harder on the ones we leave behind. What about you, Hero? Is there anyone who grieves for your absence?’

‘My colleagues will miss me, I expect. Apart from them, there are only my sisters.’

‘The Five Furies, you used to call them.’

‘Marriage has mellowed them. I’m the proud uncle of seven nephews and five nieces now. This journey will save me a fortune in presents.’

Vallon sensed that Hero felt awkward talking about personal matters and changed the subject. ‘Let’s take a closer look at the Greek Fire siphons. I’ve only seen them in action at a distance and I’d like a better understanding of how they work.’

Iannis the ship’s captain was reluctant to stage a demonstration. ‘General, the siphons are only used in battle, and even then only in extremis. Greek Fire poses almost as much danger to the ship that fires it as to the target.’

Vallon was insistent. ‘As military commander, I need to know our fighting capabilities.’

While sailors reefed sails and a team readied the bow flame thrower, Vallon and Hero examined its mechanism. The incendiary compound was ejected from a swivel-mounted bronze barrel with a mouth cast in the shape of a roaring lion. From the rear of the flamethrower a copper tube, fitted with a valve to regulate the flow of oil, led to the fuel reservoir — a welded iron chamber pressurised by a bronze plunge pump. Underneath the reservoir, mounted on wheels, stood a bellows-fanned charcoal brazier to heat the fuel.

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.’