Thessalonica

“And the shields all piled over there?” George looked out to the very edge of the forest. Even from that distance, the shields were obviously not of the ordinary sort. They were bigger than those either militiamen or regulars carried, and extravagantly faced with iron.

“Tortoises,” Rufus said. “The Slavs’ll stand under ‘em and try to dig out the stones at the bottom of the wall so the ones above ‘em fall down. Of course, life gets interesting under a tortoise. I’ve been under one a time or three, and it’s something I could do without.”

Interesting was not the word George would have used. The Thessalonicans already had piles of stones waiting along the walkway. They also had stacked firewood and collected a goodly number of iron pots in which to boil water. All of the stones and the boiling water would come down on the Slavs. Maybe the shields would hold off the rocks. Could they hold out scalding water?

“What we need,” John said, “is St. Demetrius coming down and working another miracle. I mean, a miracle besides talking through a homely old sinner like our captain here.”

“For a follis, two at the outside,” Rufus growled, “I’d go and tell Bishop Eusebius to lower your worthless carcass down in front of the wall and use it to pad the stonework against the boulders the barbarians are going to fling at us. Any boulder that bounced off your hard head would be gravel the next instant, that’s certain sure.”

“You’ve got your nerve, running down miracles,” George said to John. “What do you think God would do to you for that?”

John flashed his impudent grin. “God is a god of mercy, right? That means He’ll forgive me, I hope.”

“Now there’s a doctrine that would get Bishop Eusebius hopping mad,” George said. John did have his nerve; George, as often with his friend, didn’t know whether to be admiring or horrified.

“Who’s running down miracles?” a deep voice behind them demanded. George turned. There stood Menas, solid and blocky and altogether cured of his paralysis. The noble had a helmet on his head and a stout hammer in his hand. He looked like a man with whom no one sensible would want to trifle. “Where would I be today without God’s kindness?”

John started to answer him. Afraid of what the answer would be, George stepped on his fellow militiaman’s foot. John hissed like a viper. George didn’t care about that. To Menas, he said, “I’m sure you must fit into God’s plan for saving Thessalonica.”

“What?” Menas snapped. That thought plainly hadn’t occurred to him; all he’d worried about was God’s plan for saving Menas. He had a fine glower, one that no doubt struck terror into the souls of everybody who owed him money. “You’re the shoemaker, aren’t you?”

“That’s me,” George answered evenly.

“I’ll remember you,” Menas rumbled. He strutted off, chest out, thick legs striding along as if they hadn’t been useless sticks for years. Maybe that strut was what made a couple of Slavs shoot arrows his way. The shafts missed, but Menas moved a lot faster and with a lot less self-conscious magniloquence after they zipped past his head.

John whispered. “You don’t want to get important people angry at you, George.” He spoke with unwonted sincerity. “I know about that. Why do you think I’m not living in Constantinople anymore?”

“I don’t know,” George answered. “They’re supposed to have good taste back there; that probably has something to do with it.”

Rufus gave him an admiring look. “The Slavs shoot poisoned arrows every now and then. I wonder what they did for poison before your tongue came along.”

“You people don’t need me,” John said. “I think I’ll go off into the garden and eat worms.”

“Thessalonica’s not that hungry yet,” Rufus told him, “and besides, your stretch on the wall here isn’t up yet, either. We’re stuck with you a while longer.”

But out beyond the walls, the sounds of logging and carpentry went on and on.

People filed into the church of St. Demetrius to pray for the salvation of the city and to listen to what Bishop Eusebius had to say both about divine aid and about what mere men needed to do to save Thessalonica.

“We’ll meet you across the square from the church after the service is over,” Irene said. George nodded. His wife and Sophia took the stairs up to the women’s gallery. He and Theodore walked on down the central aisle of the basilica, to get as close to the altar as they could. Not only did that give them a more concentrated feeling of the saint’s warlike power, it also let them have a better chance of actually hearing Eusebius.

George looked up toward the filigreed screen intended to keep men at prayer from being distracted by looking at and thinking about women. In a way, it did exactly what it was supposed to do. In another way, it faded, for he kept trying to spot Irene and Sophia through the screen’s ornately patterned holes.