Erlan’s head turned to see, not twenty yards away and heading straight at them, a massive iron-clad keel. ‘Breathe!’ he screamed in horror, then, tearing Arbasdos off the oar, he plunged them both down and down and down into the pitchy deep.

I will live, he’d told Lilla. It seemed like a damn thin promise now.

Far below in the silent depths, he looked back up and saw the great hulk of the ship passing overhead like a storm cloud, trailing flames in its wake. Above him was like some dreadful vision of Ragnarök – when the Final Fires would destroy all things and the Nine Worlds would meet their doom. The ships, the sky, the sea. . . burning. Everything, burning.

He turned away and dragging the general with him he swam and swam until his lungs were nearly bursting and he was sure they must be clear of the fires above. Only then did he rise, kicking away the darkness below, kicking towards the memory that suddenly sprang into his mind . . . His father’s hand reaching under the surface of the waves as the last of the air burned in his lungs, reaching, reaching for him, lifting him out of the stormy depths. . . his father. . . Father!

They burst through the surface in a shower of spray. They were clear. Clear and drifting with the current out into the Marmara Sea. He kicked to keep their heads above water, kicked till his thighs grew leaden with fatigue. Kicked for hours, it seemed, or maybe only minutes, he couldn’t tell. All the while his limbs grew colder and stiffer. He was aware only that the sounds of strife grew fainter. Silence slowly filled his ears. And then, out of the silence, spoke a voice as blunt as an old axe. ‘Christianós?’

Erlan thought he must be dreaming.

‘Christianós?’ again.

He twisted his head and there was a little boat. A strange face leaning out of it. ‘Rhōmaios?’

‘Yes!’ he gasped, half-choking with relief. ‘Eímaste Rhōmaioi! Rhōmaioi!’

The man laughed. ‘Ahaa, friends!’

Moments later they were pulled over the side of a skiff manned by one of the deserter crews from the Egyptian fleet. Erlan flopped onto his back, exhausted, his chest heaving. ‘Your ships,’ the seaman cried gaily, ‘they are winning!’

Erlan pulled himself upright and looked where the man was pointing. He could see the fire-runners still manoeuvring, jets of flame devouring their prey. Only a few of the Arab fleet remained. Most were going under or already burning. To the south, the remnant of the Egyptian fleet was also aflame.

The caliph’s last roll of the dice had failed.

Beneath him, Arbasdos groaned. ‘The ship. . . I lost the ship.’

‘Aye. But you won the battle,’ Erlan murmured. Not that the son of a bitch deserved it.

And all Erlan could think of then was his sword lying at the bottom of the sea, and his fat friend wreathed in fire.