As night approached, the two warships left their moorings and moved forward under the power of gigantic oars that projected, in three banks, from their massive hulls. Tom had been told that two hundred men were needed to work them, mostly slaves and prisoners of war.
He could see the huge catapults on their decks and watched as the big ships were made ready for action. His own artillery pieces stood nearby. The Gorms had been withdrawn and the girls of the royal guard were in place to stop any act of treachery by the gun crews.
The first of the ships reached the shallows and released a tracer round to gauge distance. The flaming ball raced overhead and fell harmlessly into the water. Tom returned his attention to the gun crews. Their sergeant stood beside him. Earlier, he had briefed the man on the correct course of action, stressing the need for strict discipline and telling him to hold fire until he gave the command.
The sergeant remained stony-faced throughout the briefing, one hand on his sword and the other beneath his cloak. He remained stony faced now. Nothing seemed to perturb him.
A second tracer round was fired from the ships and they began a steady bombardment. Tom was impressed by the accuracy of the shots. A couple of warehouses were hit and a munitions dump went up in flames. He eyed the closing gap between the ships and the shore and judged that the time had come for action.
'Get ready!'
He raised his baton and prepared to give the command that would bring his carefully laid plans to fruition. The advancing ships were invulnerable to attack by the natives but sitting ducks when faced by mutinous troops of the imperial army, armed with deadly weapons.
'Return fire!'
He snapped out the order that would launch the counterattack. But nothing happened. The sergeant remained as stony faced as before. Tom turned to him.
'What are you waiting for?'
'Not time yet.'
'But ... I gave an order!'
'I no take orders from you.'
'You don't what?' Tom bellowed.
'I no take orders from natives.'
The sergeant opened his cloak.
'I take orders from General Bollino ...'
Tom saw the crossbow pointing at his chest and didn't doubt that its armour-piercing bolt could pass right through him. He looked at the girls of the guard for support but their eyes were on the gun crews. Agonising moments followed.
'Prepare to fire.'
The sergeant barked out an order.
'Aim at markers five and eight.'
The huge beams swung round. Jars of boiling pitch were removed from braziers and loaded onto the catapults. Firebrands lit the jars. Wooden chocks were knocked away. The beams swung up. The slings at their ends swished and balls of blazing pitch streaked into the sky.