“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.”
“It’ll be where anyone can grab it, you mean,” Rufus said, and Dactylius nodded. Rufus transformed himself from a tired old man walking home with his companions back into a militia officer. “We’ll have to form a perimeter around it, then, and keep people who don’t have any business inside the church from getting too close till the priests can gather up the metal.”
He drew his sword and advanced on the ciborium. George, Dactylius, and the rest of the militiamen in the group followed him. Dactylius had known what he was talking about: already melted silver was dripping down from the dome of the ciborium; smoke rose from the marble on which it landed. How much silver had been in the dome? It had to be hundreds of pounds.
“God bless you!” the priests called as the militiamen took up their stations around the monument to St. Demetrius.
“I want to tell you, He’d better,” Rufus said grimly.
George would gladly have echoed the officer. The church was filling rapidly, and not all the people were those the shoemaker was delighted to see. The smoke and the outcry the fire had created combined to bring out gawkers of every sort, from the merely curious to those who appeared at disasters to see what profit they could make from them.
When this latter sort saw the silver melting and dripping down to where they might get their hands on the lumps and globules, their expression reminded George of the look dogs wore in front of a butcher’s shop. He’d never seen so many hungry, avid, hopeful faces all together.
“Why don’t you go home?” he suggested to some of them. “Nothing here belongs to any of you.”
“Not yet,” a skinny man said. His friends laughed.
Priests and militiamen together lacked the numbers to keep the swelling crowd from doing as it would. The priests were not even armed--no, some of them had makeshift bludgeons, not that those would amount to much. George did not want to draw his sword, for fear of turning crowd into mob. Many of the Thessalonicans staring at the silver had weapons no worse than his.
“When it gets a little darker, they’ll likely rush us,” Rufus said. “That way, nobody will be able to tell for certain who does what.”
“I think you’re right,” George said, “and it gets dark a lot faster this time of year than it did a couple of months ago, say.” When I get home, Irene will yell at me for being seven different kinds of fool for letting myself get caught in what’s likely to be a riot. That was his first thought. Only after it had gone through his mind did he think to wonder how and if he would get home once the riot got rolling.
Through smoke still thick enough to make him cough and force tears down cheeks no doubt sooty, the stretch of sky he could see got darker and darker. Color seemed to leach from the bricks of the basilica of St. Demetrius and the other nearby buildings.
In the gathering gloom, someone hissed, “Come on. Let’s get it. They can’t hardly spy us now.” The serpent’s voice must have sounded like that when it was tempting Eve in the Garden of Eden.
Only a few feet away from George, Rufus suddenly jerked, as if he’d been hit by an arrow. For a moment, the shoemaker thought that was what had happened. Then he felt the power in the air, strong enough to make the hair stand straight up on his head. He looked around wildly, wondering if lightning was about to strike.
But it was not lightning, or not mere lightning. Rufus’ eyes were wide and staring. Whatever he saw had nothing to do with the burning ciborium or the thieves gathering around it. His mouth started to move. At first, no words came from it, as if the power about to speak through him had trouble matching its needs to those of his flesh and blood.
Then it did speak, in a voice that would have made George’s hair stand on end if it hadn’t been doing that already: “Men, citizens--barbarians around the wall!” After a moment, Rufus, or Whoever was using him as a channel, cried out again: “They’ve appeared unexpectedly, but all of you, all of us, we’ll hasten with arms for our homeland!”
Rufus repeated himself twice more, using, so far as George could tell, the identical words each time. By the time he fell silent, staggered, and almost fell as he came back to himself, the basilica was nearly empty. Almost everyone who had heard him had rushed to obey.
He turned toward George, who was having all he could do to keep from rushing to the walls at that very instant himself. “The saint…” Rufus began, and then tried again: “The martyr . . .” He shook his head. “Something happened,” he muttered, “but what?” He might have been the only person in the basilica of St. Demetrius who did not know what he’d said.