Rufus picked up another stone, braved looking out over the wall in that storm of arrows to see where it would do the most good, and threw it down. The crash that came back was particularly loud and satisfying. “That one went where it was supposed to,” John said.
“You’d best believe it did,” Rufus said, flexing his elderly biceps and twisting into a pose that put George in mind of the statue of an athlete from pagan times: or rather, of something the pagan sculptors had never made, the statue of a former athlete as a grandfather.
It put John in mind of something else, “You go prancing around like that anywhere near the baths, they’ll drag you off to gaol for unnatural vice,” he said.
“The most unnatural vice I’ve ever tried is putting up with you,” Rufus said. That prompted John to pull out an arrow and shoot it at the Slavs. Rufus smiled, probably because he’d hoped to accomplish something on that order.
George threw another rock down on the Slavs himself. The pile of stones on the walkway was much smaller than it had been. Men were still bringing more up to the top of the wall, but not nearly so fast as they were being used. That pile and the others like it had been accumulated over days; they couldn’t be maintained when they were used up in hours. If the defenders ran out before the Slavs had had all they could stand .. .
“If we can’t drive them off like this, will we have to sortie?” he asked Rufus.
“Maybe so,” the veteran said unhappily. “I don’t want to do it, you understand, but I don’t want the wall crumbling under me, either.”
Methodically, almost mechanically, the defenders kept dropping stones and boding water onto the Slavs. They knew they were hurting the foe; the screams and shrieks from the ground said as much. But war, as George had discovered, was not merely a business of hurting the enemy. It meant hurting him more than he could endure. Were the Romans doing that? The Slavs had already shown they could endure a good deal.
Grunting, George lifted and flung another stone. The pile was small indeed now, hardly higher than his knees. Once it was gone, what then? Rushing out and fighting the Slavs seemed a better choice than helplessly staying up here and waiting for the wall to fall down, but neither alternative struck the shoemaker as highly desirable.
“Shall we sortie?” he asked, as he’d done before.
“If we have to, we have to.” Rufus’ face twisted. “Damn me to hell if I like the idea, but damn me to hell if I like the idea of letting the cursed Slavs do whatever they please, either.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” George said. “When the other choice is worse, a bad choice can turn good.”
The militia captain made no reply for a moment. His lips moved as he worked that through. “You’re right,” he said at last. He cocked his head to one side. “You managed to put enough twist on that to make a priest happy.” Not sure whether he was being complimented or mocked, George maintained a discreet silence.
And then John, who left no doubt when he was insulting someone--as he often was--let out a howl of pure joy. “They’re running away!” he shouted a moment later.
George and Rufus shouted, too. George slapped the veteran on the back. Rufus not only endured the familiarity, he grinned wide enough to show off the worn and snaggled teeth still in his mouth. The world soon interfered with that little stretch of unexpected delight, as the world has a way of doing. Rufus, remembering he was a captain, shouted, “Let’s give the bastards a going-away present. Grab your bows, lads!”
Along with the rest of the men on the walls, George shot at the Slavs till they fled out of range. As the warriors from the tortoises withdrew, the archers who had supported them also moved away from the wall. That let the Romans peer down at the ground without the risk of taking an arrow in the face.
“We dented them,” George said, which would do for an understatement till a bigger one appeared. It was, in some instances, only literal truth; many of the big, reinforced shields the Slavs had brought up against the walls of Thessalonica were broken, while others had their iron facings badly battered.
A good many dented men lay under the wall, too, men whose shields had proved unable to protect them from the stones and arrows the Romans had showered down on them. A couple of them were almost as badly smashed as poor Father Gregory had been after the Slavic water-demigod hurled him to the cobblestones by the cistern. This too was war. George wished Theodore had come up on the wall beside him, to see the reality of what he thought so great and glorious.
Not all the Slavs who lay below the wall were dead. Groans and shrieks still rose from those whose crushed limbs or bums kept them from retreating with their comrades, and from a couple who dragged themselves along with their hands because they were dead from the waist down.
“Let’s finish them,” Rufus said. Some militiamen had already begun shooting at the helpless Slavs, and precisely aiming stones at those right under the wall. That was a hard, unpleasant business. One by one, the screams and their makers died till none was left.
Into the grim silence following that last death, Rufus said, “I think most of us can come down off the wall now. They aren’t going to be able to nerve themselves for another attack any time real soon.”
“What do we do if you’re wrong?” John asked.
Rufus shrugged. “If you’re still up on the wall, you fight ‘em. If you’re down in the city, you come running back and you fight ‘em. If they’re already down into the city before you get back here, it’s the end, but you fight ‘em anyway, and you keep fighting ‘em till they kill you. Any other questions?”
“What good would other questions do me?” John returned. “You’ve only got one answer.”
Only when he turned to head down the stairs into Thessalonica did the comic’s shoulders sag and his stride lose its jaunty spring. “Mother of God, I’m so tired,” he said over his shoulder to George, who was a couple of steps above him. “If those bastards keep coming after us like this, sooner or later they’re going to break in.”
“If they can keep coming at us, I think you’re right,” George answered. “But we’ve given them a fine set of lumps every time they’ve tried. How many men did they lose today? It had to be hundreds. Rufus is right--they’ll take a while getting over that.”
“Maybe you’re right,” John said. “Maybe Master One Blue and One Brown is right, too. But maybe not. You think the Avars care how many Slavs the ravens peck the eyes out of? It’s like spending other people’s money. If Paul tells me I can drink all I want at his place and he’s paying for it, why should I stay sober?”
“People aren’t miliaresia,” George said. “After a while, the Slavs will start saying no when the Avars send ‘em out against the wall to be slaughtered.”
“And a fat lot of good that will do them.” John jumped off the last step. “If they don’t come out here against the walls, the Avars will do the job on them for us, sure as God made the world in seven days.”
George thought that over. He decided the tavern comic was probably right. “I don’t think I’d care to be a Slav right now,” he observed.
“Leave the ‘right now’ out of it, if you please,” John said. “I can’t think of any time I’d want to be a Slav.” He turned off at the side street that led to the furnished room where he lived.
On reflection, George couldn’t think of any time when he would have wanted to be a Slav, either. He waved to John, who, filled with himself as he often was, didn’t see or didn’t notice--in any case, John didn’t wave back. Sighing, George headed on home himself.
Several people on the street had blankets over their tunics like sad excuses for cloaks. George didn’t blame them. Now that he wasn’t up on the wall fighting for his life, he realized how raw the day was and wished he had a cloak himself. As was the way with such things, wishing did him little good. Along with wishing, he hurried. That not only made him a little warmer than he would have been otherwise, it also got him home sooner.