In the Heart of Darkness

by Eric Flint

  "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 of 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 th
e deed. Belatedly, he realized that his reckless straight-ahead charge, for all its immediate effectiveness, had placed he 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 sailed 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.

  There was no time to waste. One of those corbita was within two hundred yards. Common soldiers could shoot arrows also. Not as well as cataphracts, true, but—at close range—good enough. Already, arrows from that approaching corbita were plunging into the sea within yards of their ship.

  He aimed his scorpion. Missed. Fired again. By luck—he had been aiming at the rigging—his shot struck the rail and poured fury across the enemy's deck.

  Valentinian struck another corbita. Then, cursed. His shot had been low. The firebomb had erupted almost at the waterline. The enemy's hull was starting to burn, but very slowly.

  Hurriedly, Valentinian fired again. This time, cursed bitterly. He had missed completely—his shot sailing ten feet over the enemy's deck.

  Meantime, Belisarius set another corbita's rigging aflame. Then, after two misses, set another aflame.

  They were surrounded by enemy ships, now, several of them within bow range. Arrows were pouring down on them like a hail storm. The rowers' shelter sprouted arrows like a porcupine. In his own little cabin at the stern of the ship, the steering officer was crouched low. The thin walls of his shelter had been penetrated by several arrow-heads. But he kept calling out his orders, calmly and loudly.

  Arrows thunked into the walls of the wood-castle. Fortunately, due to the height of the fighting platform, the men on it were sheltered from arrows fired on a flat trajectory from the low-hulled corbita. But some of those arrows, fired by better or simply luckier archers, were coming in on an arched trajectory.

  One of the windlass-crankers suddenly cried out in pain. An arrow had looped over the walls and plunged into his shoulder. He fell—partly from pain, and partly from a desire to find shelter beneath the low wall. His relief immediately stepped forward and began frantically cranking the windlass.

  As he waited—and to give himself something to think about other than oncoming missiles—Belisarius watched Valentinian fire a third firebomb at the same misbegotten corbita.

  Belisarius had never seen Valentinian miss anything, three times in a row. He didn't now, either. The shot was perfect. The firebomb hit the rail right before the mast, spewing death over the deck and destruction into the rigging.

  His loader:

  "Ready!"

  Belisarius turned, aimed—

  Nothing. Empty sea.

  They had sailed right through the enemy fleet.

  A movement in the corner of his eye. He swiveled the scorpion hurriedly, aimed—

  A dromon, scudding across the waves, right toward them. John of Rhodes, standing in the bow, hands on hips, scowling fiercely.

  His first words, in the powerful carrying voice of an experienced naval officer:

  "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

  His next:

  "You could have wrecked my ship!"

  A minute later, after the galley was drawn alongside, the Rhodesman scampered aboard and stalked across the deck. Before he even reached Belisarius, he was gesturing with his hands. Making an odd sort of motion, as if cutting one hand with the other.

  "What were you thinking?" he demanded hotly. "What were you thinking?" In full stump now, back and forth, back and forth: "Imbecile! This is a fucking artillery ship!" One hand sawing across the other: "In the name of God! Even a fucking general should have been able to figure it out! Even a fucking landsman! You stay away from the fucking enemy! You try to bring your artillery to bear without getting close! You—you—"

  Hands sawing, hands sawing.

  Belisarius, smiling crookedly: "Like `crossing a T,' you mean to say?"

  John's eyes widened. His hands paused in their sawing. Fury faded, replaced by interest.

  "Hey. That's a good way of putting it. I like that. `Crossing the T.' Got a nice ring to it."

  Another voice. Sulky. Self-satisfied:

  I told you so.

  Belisarius chuckled.

  "I suppose my naval tactics were a bit
primitive," he admitted.

  Image:

  A man. Stooped, filthy, clad in rough-cured animal skins. In his hand he clutches an axe. The blade of the weapon is a crudely shaped piece of stone, lashed to the handle with rawhide.

  He is standing on a log, rolling wildly down a river. Hammering fiercely at another man, armed and clad as he is, standing on the same log.

  Stone ax against stone ax.

  Just ahead is a waterfall.

  Chapter 26

  After Belisarius and Valentinian were aboard the dromon, Belisarius stared up at John of Rhodes standing on the pamphylos' wood-castle.

  "Are you certain, John?" he asked.

  The naval officer nodded his head firmly.

  "Be off, Belisarius!" Then, with a wicked grin:

  "I'll say this much—you may be the craziest ship captain who ever tried to commit suicide, and certainly the most lethal."

  He waved his hand about, encompassing half the Bosporus in that gesture.

  "You destroyed six out of the eight akatoi and another half dozen corbita. And I sank three corbita with the galley. That's well over a third of Aegidius' entire army and three-fourths of his cataphracts. Look at them!"

  Belisarius scanned the Bosporus. Even to his landsman's eye, it was obvious that the enemy fleet was scattering in fear and confusion.

  A sudden thought came to his mind. John voiced it before he could speak.

  "Besides, I think Aegidius is dead. He was probably aboard one of the akatoi, which means that the odds against his survival are three-to-one."

  Belisarius nodded.

  "That has all the signs of a leaderless army, if I'm reading the ship movements correctly."

  John snorted. "They're like so many motherless ducklings paddling every which way." Again, he waved his hand.

  "Be off, Belisarius. You're needed in Constantinople now, not here. The dromon will bear you to shore faster than any of those ships can reach land. I, meanwhile—" He patted the scorpion next to him. The wicked grin returned in full force. "—will continue to put the fear of God in those bastards." With a fierce glower: "From a distance, like an intelligent man."

  Belisarius smiled and turned away. Then, hearing John's next words, smiled broadly. " `Crossing the T.' I like that!"