Thessalonica

“Most of you lugs understand what I’m talking about,” Rufus said. “The ones who don’t…” His shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. “All we can hope is that God will have mercy on them when they see Him, on account of we already know they’re going to see Him pretty fornicating quick.”

That comment left the militiamen--perhaps even including Sabbatius--thoughtful when they returned to their exercises.

Mosquitoes buzzed in the night. Crickets chirped. Somewhere not far outside the walls of Thessalonica, an owl hooted. Since it was nighttime, George knew the pagan Greeks would have taken that for a good sign, a sign Athena was nearby. Even he, good and believing Christian though he was, got nervous on the rare times when he heard an owl calling by daylight.

He looked out from the wall, west toward the woods and toward the monastery of St. Matrona, which was a little fortress in its own right. It was far enough from the city that it disappeared from view, or nearly so, at night or during the misty days so common by the sea.

Beside George, Sabbatius whistled while he walked. The shoemaker glanced over at his companion in some annoyance, though Sabbatius was only another dim shape in the darkness. “Can’t you put a stopper in that?” George said. “If there are barbarians lurking in the bushes, they’ll know just where we are.”

“So what?” Sabbatius answered cheerfully. “You can’t shoot a bow for anything during the night, and I like to whistle.”

“I’d like it more if you did it less often, or if you did it better,” George told him, that seeming likelier to have good results than something like, If you don’t quit making noises like a starling with its tail caught in a door, I’m going to sew your lips shut.

He might as well have said exactly what he meant, for Sabbatius grumbled, “You’re as bad as John,” and subsided into hurt silence. Since it was silence, George had no trouble putting up with the hurt that informed it. When he didn’t apologize, that only hurt Sabbatius more.

Somewhere out in the woods, a wolf howled. Sabbatius gasped and tried to yank out his sword and nock an arrow at the same time, thereby succeeding none too well at either task.

“I think that’s only a wolf, not one of the Slavs’ demons,” George said. “Hearing it doesn’t make your blood turn to water.”

“No, eh?” Sabbatius was breathing hard; the howl had given him a good fright. “Well, I think it was one.”

“All right,” George said. “I might be wrong.” He didn’t feel like arguing about it. For one thing, he had no way to prove he was right. For another, arguing with Sabbatius wasn’t usually interesting enough to be entertaining. He yawned. The two of them had the middle watch this time. Eventually, he would be able to go home and go back to bed. At the moment, eventually felt a long way away

Sabbatius, in a touchy mood, decided to be offended because George wouldn’t passionately insist he was correct. “You must not think you know much,” he said loftily.

Next time, by the Virgin, I’ll bring needle and thread and I will sew his lips shut. One thing he did know, though, was not to quarrel with a fool. “We are supposed to be on the same side,” he reminded Sabbatius.

“Well, yes,” his comrade said, with the air of a man making a great concession, “but--” He stopped suddenly with a wordless exclamation of dismay, flailing his hands around his head. “Gah! A bat! It almost flew into my face.”

“They eat bugs, I think.” George scratched a mosquito bite. “I’m in favor of anything that eats bugs.”

“This one looked like it wanted to eat me,” Sabbatius returned. “Didn’t you see its glittering eyes?”

“I didn’t see it at all.” That was true, but it had the effect of offending Sabbatius all over again, as if George had called him a liar. George had done nothing of the sort, but trying to convince Sabbatius of that would have been more trouble than it was worth. He sighed and kept quiet.

And then, suddenly, the bat was fluttering in front of him. He’d never paid bats much attention; they skimmed through the night, when he mostly stayed indoors. He was sure, though, he’d never seen one like this. Sabbatius might not have been bright, but he knew what he’d seen: the bat’s eyes did glitter, red as blood.

Its teeth glittered, too, as if it wanted to sink them into something larger and more flavorful than a moth or a mosquito. Of itself, George’s hand shaped the sign of the cross. The bat’s eyes no longer glittered; just for a moment, they glowed, as if torches had been kindled behind them. Then the creature flew away: or, for all George knew, it simply disappeared. At any rate, it no longer flapped its wings in front of his face.

He turned to Sabbatius. “You were right. That was a large bat.”

“What? You mean you did see it, too?” Now Sabbatius sounded amazed.