“We need a real general,” Paul observed. “You’ve worked wonders, Rufus, don’t take me wrong, but you never tried keeping track of a whole city before. Eusebius is used to doing that, but he doesn’t know what all soldiers need to keep track of.”
“You’re not as foolish as you look,” Rufus said, to which Paul, one of the least foolish looking men in Thessalonica, responded with a dry chuckle. Rufus continued, “A lot of what we talked about was just that: what all needed doing and who would take charge of doing it.”
“What was the rest?” George asked. Again, Rufus did not appear forthcoming. George said, “Come on, you just told us not to gossip. Now out with it.”
Rufus let out a long sigh. Then he said, “Well, it’s not anything you haven’t seen for yourselves, and it’s not anything you couldn’t figure out for yourselves, either. The bishop’s not happy about how strong the powers of the Slavs and Avars have turned out to be.”
“He’s not happy?” Paul exclaimed. “I’m not happy, either. If they were mild little powers, the way everybody hoped, the Slavs and Avars would have given up on the siege a long time ago.”
“I tried to tell him,” George said. “Before we saw even a single Slav around the city, I tried to tell him. He was polite to me, and made as if he believed what I was saying, but it must not have sunk in till he saw it for himself.”
“Life is like that,” Rufus said. “If we really learned things from what other people told us, we’d all be smarter and richer than we are right now, and fathers wouldn’t want to clout their sons over the head with rocks about the time the brats started shaving.”
“Amen to that,” George said with a laugh. “And speaking of brats who haven’t been shaving long, I think I’m going to bring Theodore up onto the wall with me next time it’s my shift. He knows how to shoot a bow, so he won’t be altogether useless up here, and it’s about time he has a look at the way this particular part of the world works.”
“Aye, go ahead and do that,” Rufus told him. “First battle, first brothel--those are the memories that’ll stick with you, even when you get old. I ought to know about that, eh?”
“If I’m as hale as you are when I have your years, I won’t be doing too bad,” George said. He hoped he managed to pile on as many years as Rufus had, in whatever shape he might be at that time. The veteran had to be getting close to his threescore and ten, but George had seen again and again how much vitality he still had in him. George caught himself in a yawn. He didn’t have all that much vitality himself these days.
Theodore flew up the stairs to the top of the wall. George plodded after him. The shoemaker was still feeling anything but vital. Maybe Rufus should have taken Theodore up on the wall, not the youth’s tired old father.
When George got to the top and looked out toward the encampment of the Slavs and Avars, Theodore was already taking aim at the first Slav he saw who wasn’t impossibly far out of arrow range. George made him rum the bow aside before any of the other militiamen had to come rushing over and do it for him.
“But, Father!” Theodore exclaimed, aghast. “That’s the enemy!” By the way he spoke, the skinny, draggled-looking Slav at whom he wanted to shoot might have been the general commanding the barbarians, not a tired soldier who looked to want nothing so much as a mug of wine and a place close by the fire to sleep.
“When the Slavs shoot at us, we shoot at them,” George said patiently. “When they don’t shoot, we don’t do much shooting, either. For one thing, it wastes arrows. For another, if we start shooting at them, they’ll start shooting at us, and more of us are liable to get hurt. If they’re quiet, we’re happy enough to let ‘em stay that way.”
Everyone within earshot nodded. Theodore proved the point Rufus had made a couple of days before, saying, “But if they’re the enemy, we need to kill them. How can we kill them if we don’t shoot at them?”
“All we need to do is keep them out of Thessalonica,” George said. “We don’t have to kill them. If they can’t get in, sooner or later they’ll go away.”
Dactylius came up onto the wall then. He beamed at Theodore, and failed to notice Theodore wasn’t beaming back. “Young blood,” the little jeweler said. “Young blood. Makes me feel old and useless.”
“You know what young blood was going to do?” one of the nearby militiamen said. “He was going to start shooting at the first Slav he saw, and probably go right on shooting after that. Christe eleison, we’d have been ducking for days if George here hadn’t stopped him.”
Theodore looked and sounded ready to burst. “This isn’t fighting!” he said. “This is all make-believe and cowardice!”
A couple of militiamen laughed, which only made matters worse. But before Theodore could do or say anything irrevocable, George looked out from the wall. “Hello,” he said, and then, to Theodore, “Son, if you want fighting, I’m afraid you may get it.” He pointed toward the troop of Avars riding out of their encampment toward Thessalonica.
As they did whenever he saw them, the Avars alarmed him. Part of that was their gear: not only did they armor themselves in scalemail from head to foot, they armored their horses the same way. Part of it was their horsemanship: they might almost have been centaurs, attached to their mounts from birth. And part of it was the arrogance that flowed off them in waves, the feeling that they were convinced they were the toughest people in the world.
Their powers were convinced they were the toughest powers in the world, too. George also got that feeling from the Avars, and very strongly, as strongly as the churches of Christian saints reflected their special traits.
He wasn’t the only one who got that feeling, either. Dactylius said, “They give you the chills just looking at them, don’t they? I’m glad they let the Slavs do so much of the dirty work for them.”
“Yes,” George said, warily watching the Avars shake themselves out from a column to a line paralleling the wall. They were, he thought, still out of arrow range of the militiamen on the wall. They did not share his opinion. Instead of quivers, they carried cases holding both bow and arrows. As if inspired by a single will, they took out the bows and started shooting.
Those bows must have been better than the ones the Slavs used--better than the ones the militiamen on the walls of Thessalonica used, too. The fellow who’d been mocking Theodore’s aggressive inexperience made a hideous gobbling noise and toppled over onto his side. His hands clutched at the arrow that had suddenly sprouted from his neck. Bright red blood streamed out between his fingers and puddled on the walkway. It steamed in the chill air of early morning. The militiaman’s feet drummed and were still.
Theodore stared, eyes wide. George set a hand on his shoulder. “We’re going to get some fighting whether we want it or not,” he said. “The Avars aren’t going to care whether we and the Slavs spend the next week shooting at each other. You’ve got that bow. You’d better use it now.”
Before Theodore could, an arrow hissed between him and his father. He jumped, coming to the same horrible realization George had at the start of the siege: people out there were trying to kill him. Then he shouted several words George had never heard him use at home, yanked an arrow from his quiver, and let fly at the Avars.
George thought that a healthy reaction. But after Theodore had sent a couple of more arrows after the first, the shoemaker said, “Take it easy, son. They have better bows than we do, so they can reach the wall and we probably can’t hit them.”
Theodore stared at him as if he’d started speaking Slavic. George realized the youth hadn’t had the slightest idea where his arrows were going, except that he was shooting at the foe. He said, “You’re right, Father. I see that. But what keeps them from--?”