Thessalonica

“You’re--you’re right.” Dactylius spoke in tones of wonder, as if he’d seen a revelation straight out of the Apocalypse of St. John.

The monk wandered away. He’d developed a list from the wine he’d taken on, as a ship would list after taking on water. Anger washed through George, sweeping away fear. After a moment, the anger flowed away, too, replaced by a more characteristic sour satisfaction. “I don’t even have to think up things I’d like to do to the bastard for giving me such a start,” he said to Dactylius.

“Why not?” the jeweler asked. “I was thinking of things like that.”

George’s smile was broad, almost beatific. “Because before long that fellow’s going to have to go back to his monastery, and the abbot there will take care of everything we could dream up, and more besides.”

“Oh, my,” Dactylius said, almost as if he’d had another vision, but this one of the pleasant sort.

They paced back and forth along the wall for most of another hour. Nothing happened. That suited George fine. He would have been delighted to go home after his turn was up, slide into bed next to Irene, and, if he woke her up, say Nothing happened. She would be happy and relieved. He was already happy and relieved, the monk having turned out to be a monk.

He wondered when he would be relieved in a different sense of the word. The moon was a good way up in the sky. Hours were hard enough to gauge during the day, let alone by night, but he thought the men who would replace him and Dactylius should be climbing to the top of the wall soon.

He promised himself he wouldn’t tell them about the monk.

A moment later, he too forgot about the poor sot From out of the blackness of the woods to the north and west of Thessalonica came a long, cold, fierce, hungry howl. All the adjectives formed in George’s mind as the howl echoed and reechoed in his ears. None of them described it He’d heard wolves before; when winter came down hard, they often drew near the city to see what--or whom--they could take. He did not believe for an instant that this sound had anything to do with any wolves he’d heard during hard winters, though.

Beside him, Dactylius jumped and crossed himself. George did not blame the excitable little jeweler in the least. “That’s not a wolf,” Dactylius said, as if someone had declared it was. He seemed to realize as much; after a brief pause, he went on, “But what else could it be?”

“It was a wolf--of sorts.” George spoke with an odd certainty, as if his mouth had adjusted to the horrid hunger of that sound faster than his wits had. After a moment, his wits caught up. “It must have been one of those wolf-demons the satyr was telling me about when I went hunting a few days ago.”

“Christ have mercy,” Dactylius exclaimed. Such an oath would have been plenty to drive away any of the old pagan Greek spirits who heard it. For a moment, George hoped it had had the same effect on the Slavic demon. But then the wolf howled again, and was joined a moment later by another. The two howling together were more than twice as bad as one howling alone. They made George feel as if he, up on the walls of Thessalonica, were on an island of faith and piety in the middle of a dark sea . . and that the sea was rising, threatening to wash over him and his little island as if they did not exist and were of no account.

“Devils!” Dactylius whispered.

George did not argue with him. George knew he could not argue with him. Those were devils out there. Instead, he said, “Devils don’t prevail against God. That’s what the Scriptures say.”

He did a better job of reassuring his friend than he did for himself. He believed he’d told the truth, but it was a long-term kind of truth. How many Christians had been martyred for the faith before it prevailed in the Roman Empire? If God chose for His own reasons to give Thessalonica over to the foe who knew Him not, He would do that. George could only hope that was not what He had in mind.

No, that wasn’t the only thing he could do. He could also do everything in his power to keep the barbarians out of the city. God might offer the way, but men had to provide the means.

“St. Demetrius!”

At first, George thought that was only in his own mind, seeking intercession with the divine. Then he realized the call had come from someone else. “St. Nicholas!” he answered.

“Thought you were asleep up here,” Sabbatius said, advancing to take his turn on sentry-go. “Did you hear the wolf a few minutes ago?”

George looked at the tubby newcomer. “I thought it was your stomach growling,” he said. But he could not stay jocular long. “Yes, we heard it.”

He and Dactylius descended from the wall and lighted torches at one burning down there by the base so they could find their way home. They carried their weapons home with them, too, which was enough to repel any thieves who might have skulked through the streets of Thessalonica in the darkness.