Harry Turtledove - Thessalonica

“Who says I can’t?” John demanded. “And if he’s not to blame for the way he acts, who is?” If John couldn’t play logic-chopping games with the priest, he’d play them with George.

The shoemaker, however, didn’t feel like playing. “Why don’t you ask the khagan of the Avars? I’ll bet he’d give you a better answer than that priest could.”

John glared at him. George looked back steadily. That look didn’t abash Theodore anymore, but John hadn’t been exposed to it so often. He shuffled his feet like a boy caught stealing grapes. “Sometimes you’re too serious for your own good,” he grumbled.

“Yes, that’s probably true,” George said, which only made John eye him with even more annoyance than he had before. George could make no sense of that. When he realized he could make no sense of it, he started laughing. He didn’t explain what he found funny. John got angrier still.

The next time George went out hunting, he saw neither satyrs nor Slavs. That suited him fine. He also saw one rabbit, and missed it, which pleased him and his wife not at all. “Look on the bright side,” he told her. “I don’t have to go tell anything to Bishop Eusebius.”

“Thank God for that,” Irene said. “You got by with saying too much to him once. Doing it twice would be tempting fate.” This was the first time she’d admitted George had got by with telling the bishop about the satyr. He decided to accept that, and gladly, and not worry too much about the rest of what she’d said. Concentrating on the good and not letting the rest get under his skin was one of the reasons his marriage went along as well as it did.

Dactylius came in just then. Sure as sure, he was carrying bow and arrows and had a sword on his belt. Sure as sure, he said, “You’ve forgotten again.”

“I don’t know what difference it makes,” George answered sourly. “I can’t hit anything today anyhow.” But he got his own weapons and headed down to the practice field with the jeweler.

They went past St. Demetrius’ basilica along the way. The broad doors were open. The hexagonal silver roof of the ciborium not far inside the entrance glittered, catching a little of the slanting late-October sun.

The reflections drew George’s eyes to the church. His glance was wary, as if he expected Bishop Eusebius to burst out and rush toward him with either more questions or, just possibly, with red-hot pincers. Nothing of the sort happened; the only person who did come out of the church was a gray-haired woman wearing black, who had probably gone in to pray for the soul of some recently deceased relative.

George did hit the mark a few times. No one harassed him for not shooting better, because Paul the taverner seemed unable to frighten the targets, let alone hit them. “Next time, you don’t want to drink up all the wine in the place before you take your shots,” Rufus told him.

“I did no such thing,” Paul said indignantly. “It’s only that other people have had more practice than I have.”

“Well, in that case, go gather up your arrows--if you can find them all; God only knows where some of them have got to--and shoot off another quiverful. This time, at least try to shoot ‘em toward the targets.” Rufus pointed at the bales of hay.

“You don’t want to give him too hard a time, or he’ll cut you off at his tavern,” John said, stirring up trouble.

He got it Rufus expressed in great detail what he would do if Paul presumed to take so rash a course. Cutting it off was one of the milder things he came up with. His bloodthirsty bellowing formed the background to Paul’s search for his missing arrows. The taverner took a long time to find them, despite or maybe because of Rufus’ running commentary.

“No wonder Jesus had nasty things to say about publicans,” John remarked. That got him back in Rufus’ good graces, but made Paul send him such a dirty look, George wondered if he’d ever be welcome to perform at the taverner’s place of business again. Sometimes paying attention to something more than the moment’s joke was a good idea.

By the time Paul did stick the last arrow into his quiver--and by the time Rufus counted them all (counted them twice, in fact, when he lost track on his fingers the first time)--daylight was fast draining out of the sky. “I think you did it on purpose,” the militia commander said. “Now all you lugs get off with less work than you might.”

“Maybe we could get enough torches to keep on practicing even after sunset,” Dactylius said.

“Maybe we could light you up instead,” Sabbatius muttered. “For once, we get off easy, and you want to spoil it?”

Rufus, fortunately, did not hear that. “It’d be too expensive,” he told Dactylius. “Bishop Eusebius, if it’s for the church, he’ll pay whatever it takes. But if it’s for anything else, you got to cut the coppers out of him with a knife. You’d think so, anyhow, way he bellyaches.” He stretched and grunted and pointed northwest, back toward the part of the city where most of the militiamen lived. “To hell with it. Tonight, we go home.”

Not even Dactylius argued with him after that. George, for instance, knew Irene would be glad to see him home. Carrying his gear with him, he trudged off the practice field.

“Who’s for some wine?” Paul asked when they neared his tavern. After a moment, he added, “Everyone can come on in.” Rufus kept walking. Paul sighed. He was more worried about profit than about the insults he’d taken from the veteran. Sabbatius did go in. Knowing him, he would be there well into the night and wake up with a thick head in the morning.

“What about you, George?” Dactylius asked.

The shoemaker shrugged. “Not tonight, I don’t think,” he answered. “I have some work that could use finishing.” He shook his head. “I always seem to have some work that could use finishing. Ah, well--if you intend to keep eating, better to be too busy than the other way round.”

“That’s true.” Dactylius nodded several times, rapidly. “A man who isn’t doing anything can’t sell anything, and a man who can’t sell anything isn’t going to eat.”

As they drew near the basilica of St. Demetrius, George sniffed. The air in Thessalonica always smelled smoky, what with so many fires going to cook food and heat homes. Still. . . The militiaman came round a corner. George pointed. Sure enough, a black cloud was pouring out of the open doors of the church.

For a moment, everyone simply stared in dismay. As in any city, fire was the great fear in Thessalonica. Once every generation or two, a great blaze would level whole districts. Again, the shoemaker thought of all the fires burning all the time: lamps, cookfires, hearths, smiths’ fires, potters’ ovens…. No wonder the flames got loose every so often.

“It’s the saint’s ciborium burning!” Dactylius said.

Priests were dashing out of the basilica, past the six-columned dome erected over St. Demetrius’ tomb. Layfolk from nearby buildings came running. Those who had buckets of water splashed them onto the blaze. George could see at a glance that that was like trying to hold back the ocean with a spoon--the fire was far past putting out. If God was kind, it would not spread to the rest of the church, or to any other budding in Thessalonica.

“Not much wind,” Rufus said. “Sparks won’t go flying all over the place.” He’d been thinking along with George, then. “Something, anyhow,” he grunted.

Dactylius, who spent his days working with precious metal, eyed the silver dome of the ciborium. It wasn’t solid silver, but silver laid over wood--wood now burning. “That’s going to melt,” he said. “It will run just like water, and splash down onto the floor above the tomb.”