Thessalonica

One of the Slavs--not the thorough one--made the sick warrior straighten up. Then he slapped him, first on the right cheek, then on the left, then on the right, and then on the left again. He and his colleagues made passes over the sick Slav’s head and in front of his belly. Then they had the fellow open his mouth.

“Did you see that?” Rufus said.

George wasn’t sure what he’d seen, but answered anyhow: “The little gray cloud that came out of his mouth? It didn’t look like the steam you breathe out on a cold day, did it?” He scratched his chin. “I wonder what it was. I wonder what it meant.”

“I know!” Sabbatius exclaimed. “I know!” He bounced up and down in his excitement, like a usually slow schoolboy who saw something his smarter classmates had missed. “They’re getting rid of the evil eye. My granny used to use a ritual like that. She’s from Illyria, where the Slavs have been trouble for years. Maybe they got it there; I don’t know.”

“The evil eye!” Rufus said. “This isn’t the evil eye. It’s a curse of God. I was in the basilica when Bishop Eusebius asked us to pray for it. You can’t get rid of the curse of God the way you get rid of the evil eye.”

“You can’t, huh?” Sabbatius pointed. “Tell that to him.” And, sure enough, the Slav on whom the wizards had tested their technique seemed much livelier than he had been the moment before. He hugged his belly. George hoped that was torment, but it turned out to be delight.

“It isn’t right,” Rufus insisted, as if his eyes were lying.

“Maybe it is,” George said slowly. “What’s the evil eye but a kind of curse? If you can lift one kind of curse with that ritual, why can’t you lift another one if you’re strong enough? And we’ve already seen how the Slavs and Avars worry more about their gods than they do about ours. We have priests protecting our people against their curses. Their wizards are protecting them against us.”

That was just what the Slavic wizards were doing. As soon as they’d cured their first patient, they began shouting again. Two Slavs came over to them this time. The Avar priest danced in front of them. The Slavic wizards performed the same rite as before, although they slapped the face of only one. Both men, however, rocked back on their heels as if slapped. A small cloud of smoke came from the mouth of each. And both warriors walked away far happier than they had approached.

“Sabbatius,” Rufus said with sudden decision, “go run to the church of St. Demetrius and bring the bishop here.”

“Me?” Sabbatius’ eyes widened. “He won’t listen to me.

“Tell him what the Slavs and Avars are doing out there,” Rufus answered. “He’ll listen, I promise you.” His voice roughened. “Now get moving, curse you. I’ll hold your place here--don’t worry about that.”

Sabbatius left. By his expression, he would sooner have stayed and stood around than moved quickly. You argued with Rufus at your peril, though. George said, “I hope he doesn’t stop into a wineshop as soon as he’s out of sight.”

“If he does, I’ll kill him.” Rufus spoke as matter-of-factly as if he were talking about slicing bread. That made him both more believable and more frightening than if he’d ranted and raved.

Out beyond the wall, the Slavic wizards summoned four of their fellow tribesmen. The Avar priest briefly danced in front of them, capering, George thought, like a fool. Then the Slavs singled out one warrior to be slapped. All four of them might as well have been, though, by the way they staggered. All four of them opened their mouths. Four little clouds of vapor escaped. Four Slavic soldiers suddenly seemed free of their diarrhea.

One of them ran and got his bow and started shooting arrows at the Romans atop the walls of Thessalonica. The Romans shot back. When half a dozen arrows fell close by him, the Slav lost the nerve or anger that had sustained him. He turned and ran away. The Romans kept shooting. One shaft caught him in the left nether cheek. He let out a howl George could hear from the wall.

“Let’s see your cursed wizards fix that pain in the arse!” Rufus shouted out to him. George laughed out loud.

But the Avar priest and Slavic wizards paid no attention to the wounded warrior. This time, eight hangdog Slavs stumbled up before them. Again, the Avar performed as if he were a dancing bear. One Slavic sorcerer slapped one Slavic soldier. All eight Slavs might have been slapped. They all opened their mouths. They all expelled vapor-- and, apparently, their illness with it. They all walked away as healthy men would walk.

“What would be next?” George counted on his fingers. “Two eights make--sixteen.”

And sure enough, the Slavs and the Avar cured sixteen soldiers next. Rufus’ lips moved: he was probably performing the same mental arithmetic as George. “It’d be--thirty-two--this time, wouldn’t it?” he said, and the shoemaker nodded, having just reached the same answer. Rufus went on, “If they keep doubling up like that every time, they’ll curse their whole stinking army in a jiffy.”