‘No, Sergeant.’
‘Just do it. The rest of you stand by. Watch that door, the stairs — don’t let anybody in until this is over. Got that? And be ready to replace the others at the pumps and the hose. And you, Northlander. Watch. Listen. Draw. Show your Roman master how clever we Carthaginians are.’
The man Sili muttered, ‘Or at least the Syrians from whom we long ago stole this trick.’
‘Shut up, Sili. Just have the wick lit and ready. All set, lads? Get pumping. Hold up that hose. Hold it up!’
Soon black liquid was squirting fitfully out of the hose. Nelo saw it rain down on Carthaginians and the Hatti and their colleagues alike. It was just mucky, oily sludge, and none of the fighters even looked up from the work of slaughter as it fell on them.
But Gisco called down in his own tongue, ‘Fall back! Down there — fall back!’ To the blank astonishment of the Hatti, the Carthaginian soldiers broke and ran, as if leaving the way into the city clear.
Sili brought forward a lit taper. At arm’s length, cautiously, he applied it to the sludge as it emerged from the nozzle.
And the stream turned into a jet of fire, liquid, dense, brilliant, yellow-white, that poured from the hose and rained down over the Hatti and their allies below. Where it touched a man it burned furiously, and though the men rolled on the ground and beat at the flames with their bare hands, it would not be doused. One man hurled himself into a horse trough, but even water would not quench the flaming liquid, which clung and scorched and blazed.
The men holding the hose had been terrified when this fiery breath had leapt from the nozzle. They would have abandoned their place if not for Gisco’s roar. Now they yelled in triumph, as the Hatti below screamed. But then the hose burst, just behind the nozzle, showering the men’s hands and arms with burning stuff. They fell back howling, burning.
Gisco pushed them aside and ordered two more men forward. ‘Bring that fresh hose! Bring it now!’
Nelo stared, at the carnage outside by the gate where screaming men were turning to human torches, and inside this gatehouse where soldiers he had barracked with just last night rolled and writhed in agony, and Suniatus and the other man pumped, terrified, and he drew and drew.
62
In the Sea of Indh, the ship was struck by a great storm.
There had already been trouble, from bandits in the water and boats and rafts full of nestspills, all imploring passage. The great continent of Indh, to the north of here, was in turmoil as Mongols invaded from the north, fleeing the cold, to meet ferocious resistance from the Hindu population and the Turkish sultans who ruled them. Avatak had watched Bayan and the rest of the crew fend off skinny, half-starved nestspills with oars and pikes as they crowded around on their waterlogged craft, some of them holding up infants for sanctuary. All this added to the anxiety of the crew, who, Avatak learned, were much perturbed by the disruption of wind and weather patterns which had always been predictable on these great ocean highways. Even without human threats sailing had become a much more chancy business.
And now, the storm. It took days to gather. The first sign Avatak noticed was a steadily rising swell that lapped against the ship’s hull, gathering into white-flecked waves that rocked the vessel. That was alclass="underline" the air was calm, the sky clear of cloud, only the sea was restless. But the sailors watched the weather anxiously, muttering in the coarse Persian that was their common argot that it was not the season to expect such conditions. Then a lid of feathery cloud covered the sky, and descended, horribly quickly. Lost in grey fog, the sailors began to make fast the sails and lash loose goods and fittings in place. The captain brusquely told the passengers to stay in their cabins, and they were given a couple of days’ ration of biscuits and beer to keep them happy.
Pyxeas had barely stirred from the cabin anyway, and complained only when the rocking of the ship, the howl of the wind, disturbed his concentration. Avatak spent a lot of time standing at the window, holding down the scraped leather cover to keep the draught out of the cabin. He watched the sea surge, and the wind tearing at the crests of the waves, scattering spray that flew horizontally. He began to see strange sights in that sea, trees uprooted, a dead cow floating with its legs stuck up in the air — debris from the land where the storm must already have struck. He saw nestspills too, their fragile craft smashed, bloated bodies drifting in rags.
Still the seas rose, still the winds gathered until no man could stand on deck, still the clouds raced over the sky, dark and menacing. And suddenly the rain lashed down, coming in horizontally, hammering against the hull, leaking through the slightest gap. It washed into the cabin and over the scholar’s pages, evoking furious complaint, unless Avatak held the leather cover firmly in place with both hands.
Then, suddenly, the storm went away. The sea was calm again, the rain vanished, the winds dropped. Avatak and Pyxeas exchanged puzzled glances; this did not seem natural. The air felt warmer than it had done for days, warm and humid, sticky. Avatak cautiously peered out of his window. By a peculiar golden light he saw a flat sea littered with debris — some of it having come from the ship, barrels, what looked like a snapped mast — but, further out, there was a mass of cloud, low, racing by.
‘The eye of the storm,’ Pyxeas said, marvelling. ‘Remarkable. I’ve heard travellers tell of it; I never expected to experience it myself. But don’t relax, Avatak; the storm is not done with us yet.’
He was right. Soon that wall of cloud roared towards the ship, and they were plunged back into the storm as abruptly as they had left it.
The ship survived the storm, thanks largely, Avatak suspected, to the clear-thinking command of al-Quds, although if you listened to Bayan’s bragging it was all down to him. A handful of crew had been lost, one passenger, and one hold had been broken open and flooded, drowning a few pedigree goats.
On the first calm day, Avatak went down to the ship’s galley and returned with a small tray. A very small tray. It bore two biscuits, flour and fat baked and compressed until they were hard as fired clay, and one sack of weak beer. Thus their ration for the day.
Pyxeas, as was his wont, had spread his work over the cabin’s two bunks, the small table, the open trunk, even the floor, and Avatak had to be careful where he stepped. He found an empty spot on one of the bunks and set down the tray. Then he sat on the floor, his back against the closed door, and got to work at mouthing one of the biscuits, hoping to soften it a little before a first attempt at biting into it.
The ship rolled, and Pyxeas looked around uneasily, as if remembering where he was. ‘You’re back! I didn’t see you return.’
Avatak was used to that. ‘Scholar, when you work, you see nothing else but the work.’
The wind shifted, and a slaughterhouse stink drifted up from the holds.
Pyxeas pressed a cloth to his nose. ‘The ability to concentrate is a rare gift, boy,’ he said. ‘One you would do well to acquire. I myself would never have dreamed I would be able to achieve substantial work in conditions like this, in this, this cage.’
‘Yes, scholar.’
Pyxeas noticed the tray with the single remaining biscuit, and the sack of beer. ‘What’s this, breakfast?’
Avatak sighed. ‘Dinner, scholar. It’s later than you think. But actually that’s breakfast, lunch, dinner, supper, rolled into one. Not even bribing Bayan helped this time.’
‘I thought the captain promised to reprovision. Fresh fruit, he said! Fresh water!’
‘He’s not been able to put into the ports, scholar.’
‘Why not?’