An arrow shot past, skinning a red seam off his hip. He glimpsed a sailor with a curved blade, a flash of beard, black teeth, a spiked helm. Erlan dipped outside the man’s cut, smashed his pommel down on the outstretched forearm, feeling bone shatter, then ripped Wrathling across his face giving its edge a second taste of blood.

Einar was killing, too, but more Arabs were pouring over the midships into the bloody mayhem. The sea was bubbling up from the stern like a boiling kettle, the pitch of the deck increasing, boarding planks flipping away like twigs in the hands of a child. Some vanished between the ships tipping a dozen Arabs into the fiery waves.

The drummer was dead, head split like a smashed pom-egranate; the fire-crew had abandoned their hole and were fighting, and dying, on the main deck. The sheer number of blood-mad Arabs was overwhelming, all bent on avenging the Byzantines’ cruelty. Arbasdos was still on his feet, swearing and hacking his way through the Arabs left on the forecastle. Erlan saw Einar hew off a man’s shield arm then bury his axe-blade into his ribs. Gods, he looked a long way from home, the poor bastard, and terrible as Tyr himself.

Another Arab sprang forward, this one driving the general backwards over a body at his feet. Arbasdos tripped, fell, the Arab spear drew back for the kill but Erlan saw it and lurched forward, thrusting his blade in so hard it drove to the hilt. He wrenched Wrathling free, now a slick of stinking gore. Arrows spat and rattled about him. Behind him sounded a yelp of pain. He turned to see Arbasdos pawing at a shaft in his shoulder. ‘Up,’ screamed Einar at him, ‘up, you miserable turd – there’s more of ’em!’

There was another crash as the Arabs threw down a second boarding plank. The boat gave a sudden lurch. Dark sea rushed into the hold. Erlan watched in horror as the box of fire-pots slid inexorably towards the edge of the foredeck. It seemed to hover there for a heart-stopping moment, then over it went.

An instant later a squall of fire ripped up through the floor in a thunderous blast of heat. The whole world was burning. The rear of the foredeck was blown clean away. Arbasdos was screaming. One of his legs was on fire. Erlan called Einar’s name but couldn’t see him. Somehow a boarding plank had survived and down it poured more of the enemy, shrieking like demons.

‘Come on, you goat-fucking sons of Shaitan!’ Davit screamed, rearing up like a wounded bull.

Erlan remembered the emperor’s order. Arbasdos was no traitor, that was for sure. But did he deserve to live?