Meanwhile a hail of missiles flew at the Belisarius. Archers and mariners fell, some with arrows, some with spears. Others hurled back insults and war-cries, all at a distance. So long as they didn’t close quarters with the Arab ships, they could keep dousing them with flames and moving on. Kallinikos’s deadly fire did the rest.

Davit disappeared down the steps and returned moments later with a basket crammed with fire-pots. ‘How’s your arm, Northman?’ he grinned, snatching one up. ‘Light the wick and throw the bastard as far as you can!’

He held it to a torch mounted nearby. The wick caught and wasting no time he flung the thing at the nearest galley. There was a splay of orange and in a second two sailors were alight, beating helplessly at the fire engulfing them. It spread instantly to hands, arms, heads until there were only flailing balls of flame where men had stood before.

‘Nasty little buggers, aren’t they?’ Einar picked one out of the pile. Erlan did likewise and soon they were raining them down as fast as they could throw them, not even pausing to see what horror they had inflicted. The chaos was palpable, the order of each fleet completely scattered although there were still Byzantine ships close by them, each one wreaking slaughter on the enemy.

The closest was another Byzantine dromon – the Narses – hosing down the broadside of a foundering Arab war-ship. Mariners were throwing fire-pots. One man went down under an arrow. The wick of his pot was already lit. He fell, the pot smashed in a shower of flames, there were panicked shouts of warning and before anyone could react an enormous fireball exploded under the foredeck, shooting splinters sky high. In a few seconds, the bows of the Narses were a furnace, flames spreading greedily. Oarsmen went over the side to save themselves. Mariners stripped off armour and flung themselves into the deep. But even there, the water was burning now – great slicks of flame floating past with no sign of abating. Erlan saw a man sucked under the hull while others in the water became targets for more arrows and spears hailing out of the black night. It was pure terror. Horror. There was nowhere to go. Nothing to be done. Except die.

The Belisarius, meanwhile, was hunting down its next victim. ‘Here comes another bastard,’ yelled Arbasdos, whooping like a child, the dignity of his office long discarded. ‘We’ll soon have these infidel dogs whipped! Keep on!’