Beside George, Sabbatius whistled while he walked. The shoemaker glanced over at his companion in some annoyance, though Sabbatius was only another dim shape in the darkness. “Can’t you put a stopper in that?” George said. “If there are barbarians lurking in the bushes, they’ll know just where we are.”
“So what?” Sabbatius answered cheerfully. “You can’t shoot a bow for anything during the night, and I like to whistle.”
“I’d like it more if you did it less often, or if you did it better,” George told him, that seeming likelier to have good results than something like, If you don’t quit making noises like a starling with its tail caught in a door, I’m going to sew your lips shut.
He might as well have said exactly what he meant, for Sabbatius grumbled, “You’re as bad as John,” and subsided into hurt silence. Since it was silence, George had no trouble putting up with the hurt that informed it. When he didn’t apologize, that only hurt Sabbatius more.
Somewhere out in the woods, a wolf howled. Sabbatius gasped and tried to yank out his sword and nock an arrow at the same time, thereby succeeding none too well at either task.
“I think that’s only a wolf, not one of the Slavs’ demons,” George said. “Hearing it doesn’t make your blood turn to water.”
“No, eh?” Sabbatius was breathing hard; the howl had given him a good fright. “Well, I think it was one.”
“All right,” George said. “I might be wrong.” He didn’t feel like arguing about it. For one thing, he had no way to prove he was right. For another, arguing with Sabbatius wasn’t usually interesting enough to be entertaining. He yawned. The two of them had the middle watch this time. Eventually, he would be able to go home and go back to bed. At the moment, eventually felt a long way away
Sabbatius, in a touchy mood, decided to be offended because George wouldn’t passionately insist he was correct. “You must not think you know much,” he said loftily.
Next time, by the Virgin, I’ll bring needle and thread and I will sew his lips shut. One thing he did know, though, was not to quarrel with a fool. “We are supposed to be on the same side,” he reminded Sabbatius.
“Well, yes,” his comrade said, with the air of a man making a great concession, “but--” He stopped suddenly with a wordless exclamation of dismay, flailing his hands around his head. “Gah! A bat! It almost flew into my face.”
“They eat bugs, I think.” George scratched a mosquito bite. “I’m in favor of anything that eats bugs.”
“This one looked like it wanted to eat me,” Sabbatius returned. “Didn’t you see its glittering eyes?”
“I didn’t see it at all.” That was true, but it had the effect of offending Sabbatius all over again, as if George had called him a liar. George had done nothing of the sort, but trying to convince Sabbatius of that would have been more trouble than it was worth. He sighed and kept quiet.
And then, suddenly, the bat was fluttering in front of him. He’d never paid bats much attention; they skimmed through the night, when he mostly stayed indoors. He was sure, though, he’d never seen one like this. Sabbatius might not have been bright, but he knew what he’d seen: the bat’s eyes did glitter, red as blood.
Its teeth glittered, too, as if it wanted to sink them into something larger and more flavorful than a moth or a mosquito. Of itself, George’s hand shaped the sign of the cross. The bat’s eyes no longer glittered; just for a moment, they glowed, as if torches had been kindled behind them. Then the creature flew away: or, for all George knew, it simply disappeared. At any rate, it no longer flapped its wings in front of his face.
He turned to Sabbatius. “You were right. That was a large bat.”
“What? You mean you did see it, too?” Now Sabbatius sounded amazed.
“I don’t know whether it was the same one you saw, but I saw a bat, yes.” When George changed his mind or found he’d made a mistake, he said so, straight out. He never had quite figured out why that caused so much surprise and even consternation among his fellow human beings, but it did, more often than not.
“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.