In the Heart of Darkness

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 the 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.