Harry Turtledove - Thessalonica

“It was a nasty sort of thing, wasn’t it?” Sabbatius said.

Soberly, he said, “I’ve had visitors I liked better--even my mother-in-law, come to think of it.” That was a slander upon Irene’s mother; before Helena had died of the plague in the epidemic a couple of years earlier, she had been as pleasant a woman as anyone could want to know.

“You can be a funny fellow, George--you know that?”

Sabbatius said. “And you’re not mean when you’re funny, the way John is.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the shoemaker replied. “My mother-in-law, God rest her soul, would have thought you were wrong.” He let a judicious pause stretch. “But Irene would be angry if I called her a bat.”

“Heh, heh--if you called her a bat. Heh, heh.” Sabbatius’ shoulders shook with laughter. “That’s good. I wish I’d thought of that, so I could have said it for myself.”

Very likely, Sabbatius would be saying it, at any chance he got. People who hadn’t heard it before might be impressed. For those who had heard it, it would soon be one more cliche in Sabbatius’ arsenal. George sometimes wondered how--or if--his companion thought when he didn’t have a maxim handy.

The shoemaker strode along the wall, looking out into the darkness beyond the city with fresh intensity. Looking availed him little. For all he knew, a vast army of large bats with glittering red eyes and glittering white teeth flapped and flew out there, just beyond where his eyes could reach.

All at once, he turned and strode to the opposite side of the walkway atop the wall, the side that let him see down into Thessalonica. In the middle of the night, though, the city was nearly as dark as the rough and overgrown country beyond it.

“What are you doing?” Sabbatius asked. “It’s almost like you think the bats are spying on us, or something.”

George hadn’t thought that. No. George hadn’t fully realized he thought that. But once Sabbatius said it, he knew it was true. He wished the satyr he’d met had mentioned these bats along with the wolves. Then he would have had a better idea of whether he was shying at shadows. With the notion firmly planted in his mind, he was going to worry till he found out about them one way or the other.

He shook his head. No again. If he found out about the bats one way, he would stop worrying. If he found out about them the other, he’d worry more than ever.

He kept on staring into Thessalonica, though he knew it was likely to be futile. With so few lights burning, he wasn’t likely to spot a bat if one was there to be spotted, and even less likely to recognize it for what it was.

No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than something flew in front of a torch burning outside a little church in the heart of the city. It was gone almost before he’d seen it. And even if it had been there, it might well have been a nightjar, swooping after insects drawn to the light of the torch.

So he told himself, again and again. He wished he would have had an easier time making himself believe it.

When Rufus and Dactylius--as odd a pair in their way as George and Sabbatius were in theirs--came up to take the before-sunrise shift on the wall, George told them of what he and his partner had seen. “I don’t know what it means,” he said, “but you ought to know about it.”

“If the sign of the cross will make the creatures run-- uh, fly--away, we should be all right,” Dactylius said.

Rufus drew his sword from its scabbard. “This has the shape of the cross, too,” he said, holding up the weapon. “If we can’t drive off the cursed things, we can always kill them.”

He lived in a simple world: not the same sort of simple world as did Sabbatius, for he clearly saw more facets to it than did the rather stupid militiaman, but simple in the sense that he firmly believed every problem possessed in uncomplicated, direct, and usually obvious solution. George wished he could believe something as satisfying is that.

“Anything else?” Rufus asked. George and Sabbatius shook their heads. The veteran went on, “Well, I expect a hero like Dactylius and me’ll be able to keep any giant bats from flying off with the city till the sun comes up. Why don’t you boys go on home and get some sleep?”

That was uncomplicated, direct, and obvious. So far is George could see, it overlooked no hidden difficulties.

Some problems were simple. George descended from the wall and headed back to the dwelling above his shop. He kept looking for bats all the way there, though. That he saw none relieved him only a little.

George peered back toward Thessalonica, though hills hid it from view. He liked living in the city, but he also liked escaping from it from time to time. With luck, he’d bring back some game for Irene to throw in the pot or some mushrooms to make a stew more interesting. Without luck … He shook his head. Here he was in the fresh air, away from city stinks. If that wasn’t luck, what was?

He looked around. Somewhere not far from here, he had met the satyr that had started him worrying about the Slavs and Avars and their gods and demons. He hoped he would meet the creature again, or another of its land. Bishop Eusebius--any priest--would have set a penance on him for entertaining that kind of hope.

His broad shoulders went up and down in a shrug. For one thing, he hoped he might learn more from the satyr than he had at their previous meeting. And, for another, he was curious. He tried not to admit that even to himself, but he had never been much good at such mental games.

So long as he stayed on the road--the track, really-- he was unlikely to meet up with the satyr or any other supernatural creature. Almost all the men who used the road these days were Christians. They carried the power of their faith with them, making areas they frequented uncomfortable for lesser powers. Not only that, rabbits were easier to find off the beaten track.

And so George plunged into the woods. He had a bow and an arrow in his hands, a full quiver on his back, and a knife at his belt. If brigands wanted him, they would have a busy time of it before they finally pulled him down.

He moved as smoothly and quietly as he could. He was no great scout, to slip among the trees with neither animals nor men having the slightest notion he was anywhere nearby. He knew that--and if he hadn’t known it, Rufus would have got the idea across to him in no uncertain terms. But he seldom came home empty-handed when he went out hunting, so he supposed plenty were worse at the game than he, too.

Something behind a bush moved. George nocked the arrow he carried, then settled into immobility. Out from behind the bush came … a mouse. George let out a silent sigh. If he hit the little animal with an arrow, there wouldn’t be enough left to take home. I should have brought along a cat, he thought, smiling at the conceit.

In a leather sack on his belt he had some cheese, some bread, a little flask of olive oil in which to dip the bread, and a fine, fat onion. He also had a wineskin on his belt. He knew he could drink water instead, but that didn’t mean he wanted to. Besides, the sweet scent of wine might help lure a satyr his way, as it had before.

When shadows and his belly both said it was more or less noon, he sat down on a log to eat the food Irene had packed for him. The mouse was the nearest thing to game he’d seen all day. If he didn’t come across something--or even that patch of mushrooms he’d thought about before--by evening, his wife would have some pungent things to say to him when he got back to town. He shrugged! That had happened before. It was sure as need be to happen again.

He had bread in one hand and the little flask of oil in the other when a hedgehog, perhaps disturbed by his sitting on the log, came out and scurried over to a nearby drift of leaves, in which it took refuge. He knew people who ate hedgehogs when they caught them. He didn’t get up and go after this one. He wasn’t any of those people.