“That’s true,” Irene said with a smile.
Sophia giggled. “I’d like to see Dactylius eat his stock in trade.”
“He couldn’t do it,” George agreed solemnly. “But do you know what? I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Claudia could.”
Dactylius pointed out from the wall. “What are they doing out there?” he said. “They ought to be trying to get inside the city every moment of the day and night.” He sounded indignant, as if the Slavs and Avars were falling down on the job.
“You work all the time yourself,” George said, and Dactylius nodded vigorously. “I work all the time myself-- or I did, before this siege turned everything topsy-turvy.” Even if he was almost out of buckles again, with no great prospect of getting more, he still wished he were back in the shop. “But the Slavs and Avars don’t seem to do things the same way we do. They make a push and put everything they have into it. If it doesn’t work, they loll around for a while till they’re ready to try something else.”
Lolling around they certainly were, for the time being, anyhow. They sat around campfires (days were chilly now, nights frankly cold), passing wineskins back and forth. Some of them shot dice. Some sang songs whose music echoed in George’s head even if the words were unintelligible.
“If Rufus saw them like this, he’d scream for a sally right now,” Dactylius said. The thin little jeweler seemed to puff himself out into the shape and choleric aspect of the veteran. George clapped his hands; it was a fine bit of mimicry.
But applause or not, he shook his head. “He’s seen them this way, and he’s all for sitting quiet. They may be idle, but they haven’t forgotten what they’re supposed to be doing. See how they have sentries round all the engines, ready to protect them if we do stick our noses outside the gates? I wouldn’t be surprised if they were trying to lure us out.”
“Maybe so,” Dactylius said, not sounding as if he believed it. He hesitated, then went on, quite as if he wasn’t changing the subject, “I am still making arrowheads, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” George said, “but I thought you would, because you have too much sense to do anything else.” Then it was his turn to hesitate. “I hope your wife’s not too upset over what you’re doing.”
“I managed to persuade her it was necessary.” The jeweler’s smile was wry. “Every now and then, I do win an argument.”
“Good for you,” George said, wondering whether to believe it, wondering whether his friend fully believed it. “Nobody should win all the time, unless it’s us Romans over the barbarians, and that’s not the same thing.” Claudia, now, Claudia was as fierce as any Avar ever hatched, but Dactylius undoubtedly knew more on that score than he did.
A troop of Avars came by, armored men on surprisingly big armored horses. Just by the way they rode, they gave the impression of owning everything they surveyed, and owning it beyond hope of challenge. George hadn’t seen many of the nomads since the siege began. Compared to the numbers of their Slavic subjects, he didn’t think there were many Avars. But every time he did see a few, he understood why the Slavs obeyed them.
“I wouldn’t want to go up against those fellows in the open field,” he said, “not even if I were betting a copper follis to -win a gold solidus.”
“Not even a half-follis,” Dactylius agreed. “But we’re not in the open field, and so--” He plucked an arrow from his quiver, set it to his bow, drew it back with a sweet, swift motion, and let fly.
George started to chide him, because he thought the Avars were far out of range, especially for a small man like Dactylius, who couldn’t pull a strong bow. But the arrow kept going and going and going. . . . “Good shot!” George exclaimed. “Oh, good shot!”
Dactylius cried out in exultation when the shaft he’d launched struck one of the Avars in the side. He cried out again a moment later, this time in anguish, when it rebounded from the fellow’s scalemail shirt. The Avar looked down at the arrow, then up at the wall. He shook his fist and kept on riding.
“I had him,” Dactylius moaned. “By St. Demetrius, I had him--and he got away.” He sent another arrow at the troop of nomads. This one fell twenty cubits short, as George had expected the other to do. It was as if Thessalonica’s patron saint had helped that first arrow along--only to see it fail in the end. If that was an omen, it was one for which George did not care.
He set a hand on Dactylius’ shoulder. “You couldn’t have done any better,” he said. “You did better than I thought you could. If you shoot like that against the Slavs when they come to shoot at us, a lot of them won’t go back to their encampments.”
“I know,” the jeweler said. “I hope I can. But for a few seconds there, killing that Avar seemed like the most important thing in the world. I thought I’d done it, and then--” He shook his head. “It’s not fair.”
“No,” George agreed. “It’s not.” But for their part, the Avars would no doubt say it wasn’t fair that God and St. Demetrius had watched over Thessalonica and kept them from sacking the city. Fairness, like beauty, was in the eye of the beholder. When no two people could agree on what it meant, did it matter? George had trouble seeing how.
The Avar Dactylius had shot but not wounded made his horse pull up and looked over toward Thessalonica again, as if deciding he wouldn’t brook the insult after all. He shouted something. George wouldn’t have understood it had he heard it clearly, which he didn’t.
“Hello,” the shoemaker muttered under his breath. He might not have understood the shout, but he understood what sprang from it: out of one of the Avars’ tents near the woods came the priest or wizard who had tried to ruin the holy power in the grappling hooks on the walls of Thessalonica but had succeeded only in causing a minor earthquake.
“What’s he carrying with him?” Dactylius asked.
“Looks like a mirror,” George answered. “He’s in an even uglier getup than he was the last time we saw him, isn’t her” Instead of looking like some weird animal, half furry, half feathered, the Avar now resembled nothing so much as a tree all shaggy with moss. He even wore a great, untidy wreath of leaves on his head.
He came trotting up to the horseman who had called for him. They talked together for some little while. The mounted Avar kept pointing back toward the wall, and toward that portion of it where George and Dactylius stood. Dactylius let out what could only be described as a giggle. “I don’t think he’s happy I almost let the air out of him,” the jeweler said.
“I’d say you’re right,” George answered. “The next interesting question is, what can he do about it?” To turn any harm aside, George made the sign of the cross. The Avar wizard had shaken Thessalonica’s wall, even if he hadn’t toppled it. George didn’t want that kind of power aimed at him alone--or, come to that, at him and Dactylius together.
The mounted Avar, having said his piece, rode on to rejoin his comrades. The priest stood staring at the wall. Even across a couple of furlongs, he seemed to be staring straight into George’s face. George stared back, unable to take his eyes away. He felt the weight of the Avar’s persona pressing on him, and pressed back as strongly as he could.
That seemed to take the Avar by surprise. Abruptly, he turned away and went back into the tent from which the horseman had summoned him. Dactylius tapped George on the forearm. “Did you feel that?” The jeweler spoke in a whisper, though the wizard was far away.
“Yes, I did,” George said. “I didn’t know you did, too.” Some of his pride in resistance faded. If the Avar had set that mental grip on more than one Roman at once, he was stronger than any single foe of his.
“What do you suppose he’s doing in there?” Dactylius pointed to the tent into which the Avar had returned.
“I don’t know,” George answered, “but I think we’ll find out.”
He hardly thought himself worthy of being compared to Elijah or Jeremiah as a prophet, but that prediction was soon borne out. The Avar emerged from the tent carrying not only the mirror but what looked like a wooden pad of water. He set the mirror on the ground; as he did so, the sun angled off it for a moment, the flash proving to George what it was. He began to dance around it. Every so often, water splashed out of the pail onto the ground and onto the mirror.