Imperial Fire

The Black Sea and the Caucasus
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Stars were multiplying in the east when Vallon’s squadron began filing aboard Pelican. Midnight had passed before everyone had found a berth and stowed their kit. Still no sign of the duke. Vallon couldn’t even send to find out what was delaying him because the Logothete had ordered the quay to be sealed. The general paced the dock with mounting impatience. The stars were paling before Skleros and his entourage trotted up with about as much urgency as a group of clubmen returning from a good dinner. Some of the ambassador’s company were the worse for drink. It was all Vallon could do to contain his anger.

‘My Lord, the minister gave clear instructions that we were to sail under cover of dark.’

The duke’s bottom lip drooped. ‘My dear general, do you really think our departure would have gone unnoticed after all the bustle of the last fortnight?’

‘My Lord, we’re carrying enough treasure to attract every pirate in the Black Sea. It’s imperative we observe all security measures.’

‘Oh, stop fussing,’ Skleros said. He yawned and looked around. ‘Now then, if you’d be so good, I’ll need some men to see to our horses.’

Vallon’s windpipe burned with suppressed rage. ‘That gentleman will learn I’m not to be trifled with,’ he told Josselin.

‘Thank God we’re sailing on separate vessels.’

Lucas was among the party who loaded the duke’s mounts. Josselin had assigned him to one of the cargo ships because of his horse-handling skills, and even in his fuming temper, Vallon noticed how neatly the youth coaxed a high-strung steed up the gangplank.

The sun was sliding up over the rim of Asia when Josselin approached. ‘Everybody aboard and everything loaded, sir.’

Vallon looked around at the empty quay. No one had come to see them off. No priest to bless the enterprise with holy water. No proud flags flying from the mainmast. Vallon had received his last instructions from the Logothete the morning before and bade farewell to his family after a private service in St Sophia. A last glance and he strode up the gangway. ‘Cast off.’

Crew members drew up the plank. A gang of dockers began unhitching the mooring cables. Pelican was almost floating free when a commotion at the far end of the wharf drew Vallon’s attention.

‘Hold hard!’ Wulfstan shouted.

But Vallon had already seen the tall blond man loping down the quay with a bow slung over his shoulder, a dog at his side and a porter pushing a hand cart scurrying in their wake. ‘Get a move on,’ he cried to the dockers.

‘No, wait!’ Hero shouted. ‘We can’t sail away without saying farewell.’

Wayland drew up beside the ship and smiled lopsidedly at Vallon. ‘That was sneaky — telling me you wouldn’t be sailing until next week.’

‘I was acting in your best interests.’

‘I’ll decide what’s good for me.’

‘Who told you we were leaving?’ Vallon demanded. He spun round. ‘Wulfstan, was it you?’

‘It was me,’ Hero said.

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.’

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.

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.

‘Fetch the treasure,’ Vallon told Gorka. ‘It’s in the cabin.’

One of the duke’s men tried to block the door and Gorka clubbed him aside with his sword hilt. Vallon wrenched Skleros towards the side and handed him over to a squat Seljuk with a moon face all the more frightening for its impassivity. ‘Guard him close.’

The leading battleship was less than a mile to starboard, foam curling from its prow. Gorka and his men staggered out of the cabin, burdened by the treasure chests. A collective failure of nerve rooted the duke’s men to the spot.

‘Josselin, order those ships to stand off. Tell their commanders that we’re on imperial duty and will treat any attempt to close as an assault. Tell them I have the duke in my custody.’

Vallon waited until every man was in the boats before taking his place. They’d found space for six of the duke’s company and the craft sat low in the water. Wulfstan balanced on one of them, exhorting the rowers to put their backs into it with a string of expletives almost poetic in their intensity. No hymn-singing now. He was back in his element and rejoicing in it.

Pelican’s hull blocked Vallon’s view of the oncoming battleships. ‘Josselin, what are they doing?’

‘Shortening sail, sir. They know something’s amiss.’

Pelican’s hull loomed over the boats. Hands stretched down. ‘Take the duke first, then me.’ Two men plucked Vallon on deck. Grabbing Skleros, he ran to the other side as an amplified voice drifted from the dromon.

‘Dungarios of the Eastern Sea, carrying imperial despatches for Duke Michael Skleros.’

The duke wriggled in Vallon’s grasp. ‘I told you.’

‘What orders?’ Vallon bellowed.

‘For the duke’s eyes only.’

‘Where did you sail from?’

‘Trebizond.’

Vallon swung the duke round. ‘Trebizond? There’s not a ship built that could have sailed from Constantinople to Trebizond and then put back to sea in time to intercept us. The only reason they’re expecting us is because they knew of our voyage in advance.’

Skleros had regained possession of himself. ‘Very possibly,’ he said. ‘You’ve lived in Constantinople long enough to know how difficult it is to keep secrets. An imperial order whispered in a palace closet will be the talk of the taverns by midnight.’

‘No,’ said Vallon. ‘This is your doing.’

The duke’s face grew inflamed. ‘How dare you! Remember who you’re addressing.’

Vallon’s manner was implacable. ‘It was you.’

‘Nonsense. Where’s your evidence? I could make the same accusation against you.’

‘I spoke to no one.’

‘Not even your wife?’

Vallon flung him away. ‘We’ll settle who’s to blame soon enough.’

The officer on the battleship raised his megaphone. ‘Transfer the duke to the admiral’s ship for instructions regarding your mission.’

‘If you want him, you’ll have to come and get him.’

Skleros tugged Vallon’s sleeve. ‘You’re only making things worse for yourself. Those ships carry six hundred men and marines. Pointless to resist. You can’t save your career, but you still have a chance to save your life.’

Vallon’s lip curled. ‘I thought you knew nothing of military matters, yet now you reel off the enemy’s strength.’

The duke looked around, shaking his head, before fixing a tragic gaze on Vallon. He gave a weary sigh. ‘You’re a damn fool. If you’d stayed longer at table, we could have settled everything to everyone’s satisfaction. But no. The first glimpse of a sail and you run around like a rabid dog.’

A chill closed around Vallon’s spine. ‘So I’m right. You’ve sabotaged our expedition.’

‘Saved us from certain death,’ Skleros hissed. He leaned back. ‘Admit it, Vallon, you have no more appetite for this adventure than I do. I saw it on your face the day we met.’ He brought his face closer. ‘Only I have firm evidence of the emperor’s folly.’ He nodded, one plump finger wagging, his voice dropping to an intense whisper. ‘We’re not the first expedition to set out for China. The emperor deposed by Alexius sent a delegation last spring. A carrier pigeon brought news of their fate in December. They’d lost three-quarters of their men and run out of food and water. Nothing has been heard of them since. They’re dead. Do you want to meet the same fate?’

Vallon stared at the war galleys. Hundreds of armed men lined their sides. ‘Those ships aren’t part of the Eastern Fleet and they’re not carrying an admiral. Who commands them?’

‘Close relatives and trustworthy friends.’

‘What arrangement have you made?’

‘Allow them to come alongside and escort us into Trebizond.’

‘Then what? I’ll be transported back to Constantinople and executed for treason.’

‘Neither of us can return to the capital. You’ll have to remain in Anatolia. The duchy is effectively independent. In Trebizond you’ll be beyond the emperor’s reach.’

The situation was spinning out of Vallon’s control. ‘My wife and family are in the capital.’

‘So are mine, waiting for instructions to join us. As soon as we reach port, send a message to your lady. A ship will be waiting. I’ve arranged it. In a week or two you’ll be reunited with your family.’

‘Lose my home, my career?’

Skleros’s carnal breath gusted into the general’s face. ‘I’ve lost much more. Both of us can build a new life in Trebizond. Better that than dying among barbarians a thousand miles from home.’

‘And my men?’

‘Trebizond has need of soldiers. They’ll find employment.’ Skleros had seized the initiative. ‘Listen, Vallon. Why do you think the emperor chose you for this mission?’

‘My experience of travel in hostile lands.’

Skleros tugged Vallon’s arm. ‘Yes, yes, all that. But something else.’

Vallon frowned. ‘Because I saved the emperor’s life?’

Skleros gave a gleeful laugh. ‘And something before that. You stood up in front of his generals and told him that it would be foolhardy to engage the Normans. And you were right. And when you’d been proved right, you rubbed salt into the wound by rescuing the emperor from his own vainglory. You don’t move in court circles as I do, but believe me, at private banquets and bath houses, important men whisper your name and smile at the irony. They haven’t forgotten — and nor has Alexius — that Basil the Macedonian, one of our greatest emperors, began his career as a foreign general.’

‘What’s your crime?’

‘My name. I’m a Phocas, cousin of the emperor deposed by Alexius and his scheming bitch of a mother.’

Vallon felt dull-witted. He shook his head. ‘Alexius wouldn’t spend a fortune just to get rid of one of his generals and a treacherous duke.’

When Skleros smiled, his eyes disappeared. ‘How little you understand Byzantine politics.’ He waved at the treasure chests. ‘That gold amounts to less than what it cost Alexius to build a private chapel in which to confess his sins.’ He held up a finger and his voice fell to a hush. ‘But for us, General, a fortune, a solid foundation on which to rebuild our lives.’

Vallon’s hopes, shakily constructed from the start, had collapsed in ruins. Skleros recognised his dismay and followed up. ‘Another thing. You have a beautiful wife. You’ve spent longer on foreign service than you’ve been at home.’ Skleros flinched and held up a placating hand. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I’ve heard nothing to suggest that your lady is anything other than a faithful partner. But at dinner parties I’ve heard several wealthy and well-connected gentlemen who would like to separate you from your mistress.’ He gripped harder. ‘Three years, Vallon. That’s how long we’ll be away, maybe longer. That’s how long your wife will have to endure an empty bed.’

Vallon felt cold. ‘What part does the Logothete play in this?’

Skleros loosened his grip. ‘Who knows? He spins and weaves, knotting saint and sinner into warp and weft.’

Vallon took a shuddering breath. ‘I have to consult my officers.’

‘There’s nothing to consult about. The expedition’s finished. Even if you could escape, you’ll lose the supply ships.’

Vallon looked at Skleros as if seeing him for the first time. ‘I thought you were a fool, a lazy glutton without a thought in your head except where your next meal would come from.’

The duke tittered. ‘Cleverer men than you have made the same mistake.’ He sobered and his eyes grew round with false sincerity. ‘I won’t hold it against you. You’re just a simple soldier trying to do your duty.’

‘Yes,’ Vallon said. ‘A simple soldier.’

‘So I forgive the rough treatment you’ve subjected me to. Now then, do as I command and you’ll receive a share of the gold and treasure.’

‘How much?’

Skleros cocked his head like a bird about to spear a worm. ‘A quarter would be fair, I think.’

Vallon stepped back. ‘I’ll weigh everything you’ve told me.’

His squadron watched in mystified silence as he made for the tower, summoning Pelican’s captain and Otia the Georgian centurion to join him. He climbed up to the platform and faced his officers. Wulfstan sneaked alongside.

Vallon’s tone was wooden. ‘Those are pirate ships and the duke is in league with them. He says that if we follow them into Trebizond, we’ll be free to start afresh with a share of the gold.’

Wulfstan spat. ‘Well, that was a short expedition.’

‘I don’t believe him. If they wanted us to go to Trebizond, they could simply have waited for us to arrive. I think they hoped to board us without raising suspicions, disarm us and slaughter us. They would have killed the crew and sunk the ships, leaving no trace of their crime.’

‘Are we going to fight them?’ Josselin asked.

Vallon cleared his throat and stood straighter. ‘Only if we have to. Captain, can Pelican outrun those ships?’

‘General, I’m not going to — ’

‘I asked you a question.’

Iannis swallowed. ‘We’re lighter and more nimble. I’d wager we have the beating of them as long as this breeze holds. If it fails, their speed under oars would be greater.’

‘Where would we run to?’ Josselin asked. ‘Sinop is the nearest friendly harbour, but it must lie more than a day upwind. Voyage north and we’ll fall into the hands of Rus warlords or steppe nomads. Sail east and we’ll end up in Armenia or Georgia.’

Vallon’s wits were beginning to fall into place. ‘We won’t find a safe haven in Armenia. It’s in Seljuk hands and has close relations with Trebizond. Our documents guaranteeing safe passage wouldn’t be worth the ink they’re written in.’ Vallon squinted east. ‘Captain, how far are we from Georgia?’

‘If this breeze holds, we should sight the coast tomorrow morning.’

Vallon looked for Otia. ‘That’s your country. What kind of reception can we expect?’

‘Not a friendly one. It’s only forty years since Byzantium went to war against Georgia, and my compatriots have long memories.’

‘We’re not going to invade the place, just make a safe landfall until we work out our next move. Captain, can you find a peaceful spot to put us ashore?’

Iannis eyed the eastern horizon. ‘The mouth of the river Phasis. The coast there is flat and marshy, inhabited only by fishermen.’

‘Make for it.’

Josselin indicated the warships to windward. ‘How do we get away from them?

Vallon’s eye fell on the catapult — a trebuchet with a timber throwing arm twenty feet long, the short end counterweighted with a basket of sand that must have weighed close to a ton. He glanced at Wulfstan. ‘You used catapults in the Mediterranean. What’s that thing capable of?’

Wulfstan studied the machine with a professional eye. ‘I’d say it could hurl a thirty-pound rock more than five hundred feet.’

‘How far would it toss the duke?’

Wulfstan spluttered with laughter. Even Otia’s face twitched in a smile. ‘I calculate that he’d fall a way short of the galley, but he’d make a fair old splash.’

Hero was shocked. ‘Vallon, I hope you’re joking.’

‘Fetch him.’

The Seljuk minder bundled Skleros up onto the roof. The duke looked around at the faces and found no comfort in them. His voice quavered. ‘I trust that I’ve made you see sense.’

Vallon’s nod had all the hallmarks of defeat. ‘Yes, after considering all aspects of our situation, I realise our position is almost hopeless.’

Skleros exhaled in relief. ‘Good. I knew you were a practical fellow at heart. Remember the — ’

‘Almost hopeless,’ Vallon snapped. ‘A position with which I’m depressingly familiar.’ His gaze flicked towards Wulfstan. ‘Lash him to the beam.’ He turned to face the captain. ‘Raise sail. Josselin, meet any move on the enemy’s part with a volley of arrows.’

Four men dragged Skleros kicking and screaming to the trebuchet and hoisted him onto the beam. The officer on the battleship raised his megaphone. ‘General, what are you doing? If any harm comes to the duke, you’ll pay with your life.’

‘What’s your name?’ Vallon shouted. ‘When someone threatens me, I like to know who I’m dealing with.’

‘Thraco,’ the officer said. ‘A cousin of Duke Skleros.’

‘You asked me to transfer him to you, and since he’s confessed his crimes and I have no more need of him, I’m returning him as promptly as I can.’ He glanced sideways to see the duke held by arms and legs astride the beam, Wulfstan poised to release the trigger that would propel the human missile with the speed of a departing arrow. ‘On my command.’

‘No!’ Skleros screamed. ‘Please God.’

‘Make it quick,’ said Wulfstan. ‘His nibs has shat himself.’

Vallon raised the megaphone again. ‘It seems that the duke has changed his mind and wants to stay on Pelican. If you wish to save him, you’ll let us sail away without hindrance. Remember, we have six more of his men to use for target practice. I’m sure you don’t want to see so much blue blood wasted.’

‘Vallon, if any harm comes to the duke…’

Vallon lifted an arm as Pelican gathered way, her slopping motion smoothing into a glide. She was almost out of earshot before Thraco’s final words reached him. ‘Vallon, you’re only delaying the inevitable. You’re cornered. You can’t defend your supply ships. Without food or horses…’ Distance swallowed the rest of his message.

Vallon let his breath go. ‘Release the duke and clean him up.’ He climbed down to the deck and the first face he saw was Aiken’s, lips drawn back in a rictus of disgust.

‘Don’t look at me like that. You chose to come by outsmarting yourself. This is war and war doesn’t know logic or reason.’

Aiken backed away and Vallon took up position in the bow. He was still standing there at dusk.

‘The war galleys have captured the supply ships,’ Josselin said behind him.

‘I’m not blind.’

Josselin hovered. ‘General, can you tell me your plans? The men are anxious and — ’

‘I’m still assessing our situation. As soon as I’ve found a way out, I’ll tell you.’

‘Very good, General.’

It was almost dark when Hero stepped up to Vallon’s side. They watched night drawing down and Venus winking in the east.

Hero broke the silence. ‘Would you really have shot the duke from the catapult?’

‘If I’d had to,’ said Vallon. ‘Only a temporary reprieve, I fear. With the amount of treasure we’re carrying, the pirates might decide that Skleros and all his other nobles are worth sacrificing.’

‘You’ll find a way out,’ Hero said. ‘I remember you telling me that a good commander is one who, confronted by a dead end, would hack out his own path.’

When Vallon turned, Hero had gone and he stood alone under the overarching night.