Harry Turtledove - Thessalonica

Menas’ wife didn’t scream. The noble did: “Ho! My men! Help! To me! A murder! To me!”

George whacked him again. He howled. Down the hall, George heard the servants stirring. That was liable to be trouble. If they came after him, they could trap him in these narrow halls without having to see him. Then, if he wanted to escape, he’d have to cut his way through them, which he hadn’t intended to do.

But the servants did not come to Menas’ rescue. Instead one after another, they ran outside, into the chilly night. Maybe the doorman had told them what sort of visitor the household had. Maybe they weren’t interested in rescuing Menas any which way. George wouldn’t have been.

He laughed, unpleasantly. “You see what the wages of injustice are,” he boomed, trying to sound as impressive-- and as much unlike George the shoemaker--as he could.

“Who--who--who are you?” Menas, now, Menas sounded like an owl.

His wife had a different question: “What are you?”

“I am an angel,” George declared, as he had for the servant. Menas’ wife crossed herself. George had already seen--and was very glad--that that did not destroy the power in Perseus’ cap. He went on, speaking to Menas: “Wretch, God did not give you back your legs so that you could use your regained bodily vigor to wrong those who have done you no harm. The grave awaits such wickedness, the grave and eternal torment.”

He didn’t sound like himself. After a moment, he realized he did sound like Bishop Eusebius. That was all right, he supposed; angels could reasonably sound like churchmen. Churchmen certainly thought they sounded like angels.

“But--I’ve never done anything like that.” This was not the angry, blustering Menas George had come to know and loathe. This was a frightened Menas. But it was also an utterly bewildered Menas. With no small shock, George realized the noble had no idea he’d done anything wrong or reprehensible.

Hesitantly, Menas’ wife spoke up: “Maybe, dear, maybe the angel means that shoemaker who was persecuting you.”

George felt like kissing her, though that wouldn’t have done his impersonation any good. If he’d had to mention himself, Menas was liable to have put two and two together.

On the other hand, maybe he wouldn’t have. Menas seemed to have trouble putting one and one together. “That Gregory or George or whatever his name was?” he exclaimed. “Not likely! He deserved whatever happened to him, the way he spread lies about me through the city.”

He never knew how close he came to having his big belly ripped open by a sword he never saw. “Fool!” George shouted. “Arrogant idiot!” He whacked Menas with the flat of the blade again. The temptation to let it turn in his hand, to slash instead of whacking, was as strong in his mouth as the maddening taste of wine in a centaur’s. Menas cringed. Fighting down the urge to murder, George went on, “Being a liar and a cheat yourself, you reckon all men possessed of a like mean-spiritedness.” He knew he was stealing that phrase from Father Luke, but did not think the priest would mind. “The shoemaker told you the truth: he did not slander you.”

Menas hadn’t even bothered to remember his name. That infuriated him more than almost anything else.

“Really?” The rich noble sounded astonished. “Everyone said he did.”

“And you believed gossips and liars, not the man himself,” George said scornfully. “Know you not what rumor and gossip are worth?” He still thought Menas hadn’t listened very well to what “everybody” said, too, but kept quiet about that, not wanting to escape trouble by putting John into it.

“What must he do to be saved?” Menas’ wife asked the question, perhaps because she thought her husband wouldn’t.

Stirred by that, Menas spoke up, in a petulant voice: “I suppose you’re going to tell me I have to pay him ten pounds of gold, or something outrageous like that.” He stuck out his chin and looked stubborn.

Did he suspect George was George, and not an angel at all? Or had he been visited by a veritable angel before, and made to pay compensation for whatever he’d done to prompt the visit? George wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He answered, “Leave the man at peace and trouble him no more. That will suffice. Obey me not, and the grave and the pangs of hell await you.”

“I’ll obey,” Menas said quickly. “I will.” Now he sounded perfectly tractable. George wondered why. It occurred to him that, if Menas were an angel (an unlikely thought), he would have demanded money in exchange for good behavior. George’s not doing so must have struck the noble as particularly holy, even downright angelic.

He didn’t mind Menas’ thinking him holy. He didn’t want Menas thinking him soft. He walloped the noble with the flat of the blade again, and shouted, “Obey!”

By then, Menas’ head was probably ringing like a gong. George hoped he hadn’t broken that head, although his own heart wouldn’t have broken if it turned out he had.

Deciding the wisest thing he could do was not overstay his welcome, he left the bedchamber then. For good measure, he slammed the door shut behind him, which made Menas’ wife scream. George didn’t mind that; if she was impressed with him as an angel, she would help hold her husband to the straight and narrow.

As things were, George discovered he’d almost stayed too long. After fleeing the house, a couple of servants had nerved themselves to go back inside. “We’d better see if there’s anything left of the boss,” the one in front said to the other, who seemed to be doing his best to walk in his footprints.

“Hope not,” the one behind him said--but he said it quietly, in case Menas should have disappointed his hopes.

George flattened himself against the wall of the corridor. That just gave the servants room to squeeze past without touching him. As soon as they were past, he shouted “Beware!” and ran for the door. Their frightened shouts rang most enjoyably in his ears as he dashed out into the night.

More servants were coming toward the house. So were a couple of neighbors. So was a priest; the church of the Archangels wasn’t far away, and somebody must have run and fetched him. George wasn’t sure the power in Perseus’ cap could survive an exorcism aimed directly at it. Then again, he didn’t have to put it to the test, and he didn’t. Hoping--and praying a little, too--the lesson he’d given Menas would stick, he dodged around the people cautiously approaching and headed home.

John said, “Let me make sure I understand this. You hung around in the woods until the Slavs and Avars got driven away. Then you came back into Thessalonica through one of the gates we opened to come out and chase ‘em.”

“That’s right,” George said. And it was right. It omitted a good deal--and all the most interesting parts--but it was the essence of what had happened. George was as well pleased to have the interesting parts omitted.

John rolled his eyes. “There’s only two problems with it. The first one is, I don’t believe a word of it. How come nobody saw you coming in?”

“I don’t know,” George answered stolidly. He’d said the same thing whenever any of his friends asked him that question. Even more stolidly, he went on, “I suppose everybody was too busy staring at the herd of centaurs to pay any attention to one ordinary shoemaker.”

The tavern comic grunted. “If I hadn’t seen them with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe that, either. I’m still not sure I do.”

“Fine. Don’t believe it, then. Believe we’re still under siege,” George said. “Me, I’m going to go out there and do some hunting.” The Litaean Gate loomed up ahead of the two men.