Thessalonica

“Oh, I can tell him that,” George answered. “I can tell him any number of things. Whether they’re true or not. . .” He shook his head. “That’s different.”

In a strange way, George enjoyed mounting to the stretch of wall near the Litaean Gate that had become almost as familiar to him as his workshop. Up here, at least, he knew who his enemies were and from which direction they were likely to strike.

Rufus and John stood on the wall now. “God bless you, George,” John said. “You’re as reliable as my bladder after three mugs of wine.”

“Thank you so very much.” The shoemaker made as if to examine John’s neck, then whistled as if astonished. “I see Rufus still hasn’t tried strangling you. I wonder why not.”

“I’m an old man.” Rufus got into the spirit of raillery in a hurry. “This sprout here, he’s too quick for me to catch him.”

“I love you both.” John planted a big, wet kiss on George’s cheek, which led both of them to make disgusted noises. “You’re as bristly as a boar’s back,” John exclaimed. “But, like I said, you’re here, which means I don’t have to be. See you soon, I expect.” He strode toward the head of the stairs, whistling one of Lucius and Maria’s better tunes--not that that was saying much.

“Who’s up with you, George?” Rufus asked.

“Sabbatius,” the shoemaker answered.

Rufus made a face. “I’m liable to be up here a while, then. By St. Demetrius, I’m liable to be up here his whole time on the wall, if he’s gone and got outside a whole great lot of wine the way he sometimes does.”

“I can only think of once when he didn’t come up at all,” George said, “and if you didn’t put the fear of God into him then, he’ll never have it.”

“If he were in the regular army, I wouldn’t have just screamed at him,” the veteran answered. “He’d have got himself a beating, or else someone would have taken a sword to his thick neck. You can’t do that kind of thing. I should have given him worse than he got as things are. With us under siege here, the militia are the regular army. I must be getting soft.”

George found that unlikely. He reckoned it unwise to say how unlikely he found it. In lieu of saying any such thing, he pointed out from the wall and asked, “Any sign of the Slavs’ coming down with the plague?”

Rufus shook his head. “Not so I’ve noticed, anyhow. That kind of curse, if God grants it, usually comes later than you wish it would.” Motion at the top of the stairs made his eyes flick in that direction. “Speaking of curses coming later than you wish they would--”

Actually, Sabbatius wasn’t late, or wasn’t very late, anyhow; George had been early. “Hah!” Sabbatius said. He smelled like wine past its best days, but he usually smelled like that.

“A good day to you,” George told him. There were people with whom he would sooner have spent his time up on the wall--the faces of almost all the members of his militia company flashed before his eyes--but telling Sabbatius what he thought of him wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t even mean they could avoid stints together. It would just make them snarl at each other. George saw no point to that.

Rufus didn’t leave right away. George sometimes wondered if the militia captain had set up housekeeping on top of the wall. Aside from that, Rufus also had a habit of staying around longer than usual when Sabbatius was coming up for his turn, no doubt to make sure Sabbatius could get through that turn without falling asleep or starting to see things that weren’t there.

Except for squinting against sunlight that didn’t need to be squinted against, Sabbatius seemed in good enough shape this morning. He walked out to the edge of the wall to see what the Slavs and Avars were up to, which was more than he often did. When he started to laugh, George wondered if he was seeing snakes and aurochs instead.

But he pointed to show the shoemaker and Rufus what he was seeing. “Look!” he exclaimed. “They’ve got the galloping trots.”

Sure enough, a couple of Slavs were squatting just beyond archery range from the wall. A couple of more were running for the trees. One of them, realizing he wasn’t going to make it, also suddenly assumed an undignified posture. More and more of the besiegers seemed afflicted.

“Isn’t that nice?” Rufus said happily. “One of their cooks must have tossed something bad into the stewpot last night, and now they’re paying for it. I’ve been in armies where things like that happened.”

“Look at them,” Sabbatius said again, in high glee. “The whole bunch of ‘em’ll be sick by this afternoon, looks like.”

George stared out at the Slavs. “Do they just have bad stomachs,” he asked, “or is that the plague Bishop Eusebius asked for?”

“What?” Rufus snorted and started to laugh. “You think God’s answering Eusebius’ prayer through the Slavs’ arseholes? Because …” He couldn’t go on, but doubled over, grabbing his knees as he guffawed.

“Do miracles have to be fancy?” George said. “You know dysentery. Have you ever seen a whole army come down with the runs as fast as this?”