Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

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 served 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.