Thessalonica

With a yawn, he said, “I’m turning in. Fighting a war is harder work than making shoes.” A lot of warfare, he’d discovered up on the wall, consisted of doing nothing. The moments when he wasn’t doing nothing, though, he knew he’d have those moments printed on his memory till a priest chanted the burial service above his corpse.

No one argued with him, but what he’d said didn’t mean making shoes was easy. His wife and daughter washed the supper dishes in the last fading glow of twilight. When full darkness fell, everyone went to bed.

Lying there beside George, Irene asked, “Have we beaten them back for good, then?”

For the first time in all the years since they’d wed, he got the feeling she wanted him to lie to her. Try as he would, he couldn’t do it. “I don’t know,” he answered, but I don’t think so. They’ll try something else, or maybe he same thing over again, to see if it works better the second time.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. “All right.” It wasn’t, lot by the way she said it. But he didn’t hear her. He’d heady fallen asleep.

V

Some nights, George did not want to go straight to bed. After the noble Germanus gave him a good price for a second pair of embossed boots like the ones he’d bought before the siege of Thessalonica started, the shoemaker, coins jingling in the pouch he wore on his belt, went over to Paul’s tavern to spend some of his profit as enjoyably as he could.

He was glad to duck inside. “Close the door!” someone yelled, even as he was doing so. It was chilly outside, but fire kept the tavern cozy.

He looked around for people he knew. Sabbatius sat at a table by the wall, not far from the fire. He didn’t see George. He was already slumped against the wall, half asleep. In the couple of years they’d been in the same militia company, George had never found out what he did for a living. Drink, mostly, as far as the shoemaker could see.

Paul was frying in olive oil some squid a customer had brought in. Fishing boats still sailed out onto the Gulf of Thessalonica to help keep the city fed. They didn’t go far from shore, though, not when autumn storms could blow up almost without warning. The hot, meaty aroma of the sizzling squid sent spit squirting into Georges mouth.

He made his way toward the taverner, who used wooden tongs to take one of the squid out of their bath of bubbling oil and pass it to the fellow who’d given them to him to cook. “Hot!” the man yelped, sticking burned fingers in his mouth. Paul gave him the other fried squid. He burned his fingers on that one, too, but then began to eat.

“Red wine,” George said. Paul filled his mug. He lifted it in salute. “A pestilence on the Slavs!”

Everyone who heard that toast drank to it. George poured down the wine, tossed another follis on the counter, and held out his mug for a refill. This time, he sipped instead of guzzling. He was a moderate man, sometimes even in his moderation.

Somebody waved. George pointed to himself. “No, I don’t want you,” John said. “I’m trying to talk that dipper on Paul’s wall over there to sit by me.”

Shaking his head, George plunked himself down on a stool by John. “Are you going up there tonight?” he asked, pointing to the little raised podium where entertainers performed.

“Easiest way I know to earn my wine,” John said.

“It wouldn’t be for me,” George said. “I’d sooner have the Slavs shooting arrows at me than stand up there and tell jokes in front of a big crowd of people.”

“Yes, well, when they don’t laugh, they’re meaner than the Slavs, too,” John said, a faraway expression on his lean face--he was, George thought, probably remembering times when they hadn’t laughed. After a moment, one of John’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. “They’re generally drunker than the Slavs, too,” he added.

“You can joke about making jokes,” George said. “What do you do when they don’t laugh?”

“Die,” John said succinctly. “It happens. If it happens too often, you have to go out and work for a living. I’ve done that, too. Telling jokes is more fun--and besides, I’m no good at anything else.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” George said. “You could work in a stable, because--”

He didn’t get away with it, not this time. “--Because I already know everything about horseshit,” John finished for him. “Ha. Ha. Stage fright isn’t the only reason you don’t go up there, pal.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” George said. “I tell jokes the way you make shoes. I admit it.” He looked sidelong at John. “Of course, when I make shoes, I don’t run the risk of having to get out of town in a hurry because I’ve made somebody with more money than me angry.”

“What? You mean you didn’t tool germanus likes pretty boys into those fancy boots you made for him?” John said. “I’m disappointed in you. Maybe you did it in tiny letters, or in fancy ones that look like part of the design till you see them just right?”