Thessalonica

by Harry Turtledove

  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.

  “That’s the other reason I don’t believe the story you’re telling,” John said. “If I’d been dodging Slavs for however long it was, I wouldn’t want to stick my nose outside the wall now. There are still barbarians skulking through the woods, you know. You remind me of the clever fellow during the storm at sea. He saw everybody else on the ship grab something to save himself with, so he took hold of the anchor.”

  “Heh,” George said. “Have you used that one at Paul’s place yet, or are you trying it out on me first?”

  “I’m trying to keep you from getting killed,” John said with some asperity. “I thought you’d gone and done it once, with a little help from your friend Menas, but then you came back again--however you came back again.” He gave George a dark look. “And now you want to go out there some more. You used to be such a sensible fellow.”

  “I’m sensible enough to know when I need to do some hunting,” George said. Someone else went out of the Litaean Gate. George pointed. “See? I’m not the only one, either. Why don’t you nag him for a while?”

  “I’m not his mother--I’m your mother,” John said, which startled a grunt of laughter out of George. John threw his hands in the air. “All right, go ahead. See if I care. But if you come back dead, don’t run crying to me saying I didn’t warn you.”

  George contemplated following that through to its logical conclusion, but his own logical conclusion was that it didn’t have one. He walked out through the gate. When he looked back, John was still framed in the gateway, staring out after him. The tavern comic shook his head and turned back toward the center of the city. George headed out to the woods.

  Once trees and brush screened him from view, he took Perseus’ cap out of the large leather wallet he was wearing on his belt in place of the more usual pouch. John had assumed he’d be bringing small game back to Thessalonica in it. He would, too, if he caught any. Meanwhile, though, the pouch let him take the cap out unnoticed. As soon as he put the cap on his head, he was unnoticed, too.

  He headed north, toward Lete. When he got farther up into the hills, he intended to take off the cap, in the hope that a centaur or satyr would find him then and guide him to the pagan village, which he was still unsure of finding without such aid. In the meantime, he killed several rabbits that, thanks to Perseus’ cap, never knew he was there. It wasn’t sporting, but he wasn’t hunting for sport--he was hunting for the pot.

  He spent the night in a chilly bed of leaves and boughs. Early the next morning, noises from beyond the brush ahead made him move forward cautiously. He had seen a couple of small bands of Slavs in the woods: poor, hungry-looking fellows for whom he would have felt more sympathy had he not known they would have cut his throat if he were visible. If he was coming up on another such, he wanted to make sure they had no idea he was anywhere close by.

  These noises, though, weren’t quite like the ones the barbarians had made. As George drew closer, he realized they weren’t like any noises he’d ever heard in the woods. As he drew closer still, he realized that didn’t mean they were altogether unfamiliar.

  Thanks to the cap, he made no noise working his way through the undergrowth. He bit down hard on his lower lip to keep from exclaiming, which would have been heard. He’d found a satyr, all right: there on the stump of a toppled forest giant stood Ampelus. And there, back to the satyr, golden tail in the air, stood Xanthippe the centaur. Nephele hadn’t been interested--which was putting it mildly--but the female had said other centaurs would sometimes sport with satyrs.

  And some sport it was, too. Ampelus had both equipment and stamina to make George acutely aware of his merely human shortcomings (a most appropriate word) in those regards. At the end, when Xanthippe let out a sound half moan, half whinny, what George felt--as opposed to what the female centaur felt--was closer to awe than to excitement.

  And, even afterwards, Ampelus tried to persuade Xanthippe to stay for another round. The centaur laughed. “One--and in especial one of that sort--sufficeth.”

  “Not for me,” Ampelus said grumpily. Sure enough, the satyr’s body showed how ready it was for another go.

  Xanthippe laughed. “Then thou mayest sate thyself.” Centaurs habitually used the familiar second-person pronoun when speaking to satyrs. Was it, here, the familiarity of insult or intimacy? A bit of each, George thought.

  Laughing still, Xanthippe cantered away. Ampelus took a few trotting steps after the female centaur, then seemed to realize the game truly was over. The satyr stroked its own flesh. If what had gone before failed to satisfy it. . . it was, George supposed, true to its own nature.

  With Xanthippe gone, the shoemaker thought he could reveal his own presence without embarrassing anyone-- not that Ampelus was liable to embarrassment under any circumstances. As soon as George took off Perseus’ cap, Ampelus stiffened, now with wariness rather than lust. Before the satyr could flee, George stepped out into the clearing.

  “Oh. Is you.” Ampelus relaxed. An enormous grin stretched over the satyr’s not-quite-human features. “You know what I do?”

  George knew exactly what the satyr had done. He shook his head anyhow. “Could you tell me on the way to Lete?” he asked.

  “All right, I do,” Ampelus said. “Sooner tell you than other satyrs. They talk too much in front of centaurs, and I get a kicking like you don’t believe.” The bruise Nephele’s hoof had given the satyr was gone from its flesh by now, but evidently not from its memory.

  Ampelus bragged all the way up to the pagan village hidden in the lulls. George had heard much the same from men. The satyr, by what he’d seen, boasted only of what it had truly done. As much as its incredible performance, that
served to set it apart from mankind.

  As they approached Lete, a woman who had been spreading tunics and cloaks on the branches of a tree to dry paused in her work and stared at Ampelus. The satyr leaped in the air with glee. “Maybe this the one Ithys get,” it said. “You go to village yourself now, George. I have to find this out.” It trotted toward the woman. She didn’t run for her life, so maybe she was the one with whom Ithys had frolicked--which meant Ithys’ bragging hadn’t been a pack of lies, either.

  When George got to Gorgonius’ shop, the carpenter nodded as if he’d been expecting him just then. “See, I knew you’d be back,” Gorgonius said. “Is everything well down in the city?”

  “Yes, the siege is broken,” George answered. A moment later, he realized Gorgonius might have meant something else. “And everything’s well with me, too--I think.” He set Perseus’ cap on a table. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” the carpenter said. “You’re a good fellow, even if you are a Christian.” George jumped to hear the name. Gorgonius laughed. “I can say it. No centaurs or satyrs to frighten now, so why not? I’m willing enough to let you go your way. Your bishops down in the city, though, they wouldn’t be willing to let me go mine.”

  “When there were only a few Christians, pagans persecuted them,” George said with a shrug. “Now it’s the other way around, that’s all.”

  It was Gorgonius’ turn to look surprised. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he admitted. “Shall we drink some wine on it?” When George nodded, he went on, “I’ve got some chicken left over from yesterday, too, if you’d like that.”

  George nodded again. He reached into the wallet, took out a rabbit, and laid it by the ancient leather cap. “Why don’t you take this, then? You can use it tomorrow, or it’ll keep a couple of days more if you leave it out in the cold.”

  “You’re a gentleman,” Gorgonius said. “Don’t go away. I’ll be back with the wine and the food.”

  He brought everything in on a fancy wooden tray he must have made himself. Along with the chicken, he had bread and sun-dried apples. One cup of wine became several. George taught him a couple of tavern songs from Thessalonica that hadn’t made their way up into the hills before. In turn, Gorgonius sang a couple so old they’d been forgotten down in the city. They might have been old, but they weren’t bad. George hoped he’d remember them.

  After a while, Gorgonius said, “You’ll spend the night in my barn again. Better that than finding some place to he up in the woods, I expect.”

  “I should be all right, as long as I have--” George stopped and stared suspiciously at his winecup. Once he left Lete, he wouldn’t have Perseus’ cap anymore. He covered his mistake as best he could, saying, Thanks again.”

  “Any time, any time.” Maybe Gorgonius hadn’t noticed the error anyhow; he sounded pretty vague himself. He held out the dipper. “More wine?”

  “Why not?” George said.

  As he had the last time he slept in Lete, George spent a little while brushing wisps of hay out of his hair and off his tunic when he woke up in the morning. Gorgonius gave him a flat loaf of barley bread and a small flask of wine. “You want to have a care going home, you know,” he said seriously. “You won’t be wearing the cap, mind you.”

  “Yes, I understand that,” George answered. No, the carpenter hadn’t noticed his flub the night before. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  “Come up here again,” Gorgonius said as the shoemaker stepped out into the street. You’ll be welcome.”

  “Why don’t you come down to Thessalonica?” George said. “I won’t tell Bishop Eusebius you’re there.” He realized Irene would have some detailed opinions to express about the prospect of a visit from a pagan. But, since Perseus’ cap had saved not only George but also, very possibly, Thessalonica itself, the shoemaker had some opinions of his own, too.

  “Who knows?” Gorgonius said. “Maybe I’ll even do that. You never can tell.” He sounded as if he might have meant it, and was surprised to discover as much.

  As George headed out of Lete and down toward Thessalonica, he looked around for Ampelus and for the woman who’d been hanging out her wash. He didn’t see either one of them. The laundry she’d hung out was still draped in the tree. George wondered what that meant. She and Ampelus couldn’t still be at it... could they? He supposed satyrs wouldn’t be satyrs if anything along those lines were impossible for them.

  When he got into the woods, he moved as quietly and cautiously as he could. He’d come to take for granted the protection Perseus’ cap gave him. Now that he was without it once more, he knew how vulnerable to his foes he was. If a band of roving Slavs found him, he was in trouble. If a Slavic wolf-demon found him, he was in bigger trouble.

  Perhaps because he was so cautious, he had another good day hunting. He got a couple of rabbits, and also got a squirrel he caught on the ground before it could scramble up into a tree. If he found a place where he thought it safe to build a fire, he’d eat well. If he didn’t, he’d bring the meat home to Irene, who could do tasty things with it beyond toasting chunks of it on a stick over the fire or baking it in clay.

  He was, he supposed, somewhere a little more than halfway to Thessalonica when he came across the Slav. Each of them stepped into the same small clearing at the same time. George’s sword was in his hand. The Slav carried a heavy javelin or light spear. If he threw it and hit George, he’d win the fight straightaway. If he threw it and missed, all he had left with which to defend himself was a short dagger.

  He didn’t throw the spear. Instead, he darted back in among the trees. So did George. The shoemaker began a cautious sidle to his right, hoping--praying--the Slav was alone. He’d gone more than halfway round to the other side of the clearing before he called to mind the expression on the barbarian’s face at seeing him. The Slav had been at least as horrified as he was. That argued the fellow was alone, too, and hoping George wasn’t part of a band of Romans.

  When George got to the point from which the Slav had emerged, he stepped into the clearing and looked around. At almost the same moment, the barbarian poked his head out from the spot George had occupied. They stared at each other again, then both went back into the forest once more.

  This time, George kept on heading south. He paused every little while, listening to make sure the Slav wasn’t stalking him. He never heard anything, and the barbarian didn’t leap out at him from behind with a savage shout. After he’d gone a few furlongs, he had a sudden mental picture of the Slav nervously traveling north, pausing every little while to make sure the fearsome Roman wasn’t on his trail.

  George laughed. He knew he wasn’t particularly fearsome. If the Slav didn’t know that, he wasn’t about to tell him. Even so, George walked a bit more confidently after that.

  He got back to Thessalonica a few minutes after sunset, with the last of the evening twilight still staining the sky. “You have a good day out there?” a militiaman at the Litaean Gate asked.

  “Pretty good.” George patted the wallet so the guard could see how nicely fat it was. Nodding, the fellow waved him into the city.

  A few minutes later, he was back on his own street. People waved to him there, too. He was something of a hero to his neighbors, not for anything he’d actually done while he was trapped outside the city--he had said very little about that, thinking the fewer who knew, the better-- but simply because he’d come back after being given up for lost. Even Claudia called, “God loves you, George,” as he walked by. George wondered how much God had had to do with it, and how much the pagan powers had accomplished. He didn’t argue with Claudia, though. Arguing with Claudia was a losing proposition.

  Constantine, Leo’s son, nodded warily to George as they passed on the street. George nodded back. He remembered giving that same sort of wary nod to Irene’s father, back in the days when they were courting and their families were dickering. He supposed that meant Constantine was likely to end up his son-in-law. He sighed. He still t
hought Sophia might have done better. But then, Irene’s father had thought the same thing about him.

  He walked into his shop. Sophia and Theodore let out squeals inconsistent with the adult dignity they usually affected. He hugged them both. Irene came downstairs.

  He hugged her, too, and showed her the carcasses of the animals he’d caught on the way to and from Lete.

  She ignored them. “That thing you had” --she would not dignify Perseus’ cap by its proper name-- “it’s gone?”

  “Yes, it’s gone,” George said.

  “You went to and from that place” --Irene would not dignify Lete by its proper name, either--“safely?”

  George decided on the instant that she did not need to know about the Slav he’d met in the woods. “Yes,” he answered.

  He thought he’d spoken without hesitation. Irene’s face told him he was wrong. But she didn’t press the point, saying instead, “And now that you’re back, you’ll stay here with your own family for a while?”

  By a while, he knew she meant something like, the next thirty or forty years. Nevertheless, he said “Yes” again.

  This time, he really must have spoken without hesitation. His wife smiled and said “Good” and kissed him. Right then, staying in Thessalonica struck him as a pretty good idea after all.

  As if Rufus were making a command decision in the middle of a battle, he grabbed three of the rickety little tables in Paul’s tavern and pulled them into a line. “There,” he declared. “Now we can all sit together.”

  Along with Dactylius, Sabbatius, and John, George slid stools over behind the tables. John kept his at one end of the new formation. “I’ll be going on in a while,” he said. “This way, none of you can trip me as I head up to the stage.”

  “That’s true,” Rufus said. “We’ll just beat on you when you come back.” He spoke as if he might have been joking--but he might not have been, too.

  Paul stepped out from behind the bar and walked over to his fellow militiamen. “First cup’s free tonight, boys,” he said, as he’d been doing since the Slavs and Avars abandoned the siege. George wondered how long such generosity would last. Not much longer, if he knew Paul.