Thessalonica

That was the last swing the Slav ever took; George’s sword slammed into the side of his neck a moment later. The barbarian let out a hoarse, gobbling cough; blood poured from the wound and from his mouth. Even as he began to topple, George ran past him. The shoemaker had been one of the first men out of the postern gate on the sally, and he’d come as far from it as any of his comrades. The farther he went, the more Slavs he could drive from the wall.

Not all the barbarians stood up against the unexpected Roman attack. More than a few ran away from the militiamen, some dropping their shields to flee the faster. Bowmen who’d stayed up on the wall shot several of them.

George let out a hoarse cheer every time he saw one fall.

The Slavic archers who’d been shooting at the defenders on the wall and at the sally parties kept their distance-- till mounted Avars showed up behind them and started shouting what had to be threats. More afraid of their overlords than they were of the Romans (a regrettably sensible attitude, as far as George was concerned), the Slavs ran toward the militiamen, whom they badly outnumbered.

“Back!” Rufus shouted. “They aren’t banging away at the wall anymore, and that’s what we wanted. Come back!”

George would have been delighted to do just that, but he and a Slav were busy trying to kill each other. Finally, as if by common consent, they turned and ran away from each other. George was appalled to discover how close other Slavs were, and how far away all his comrades had got.

There went Paul, back through the postern gate. There went Sabbatius. George hadn’t noticed him coming out. There went John, loping along with a bloody sword. There went Rufus. George ran harder. Not many Romans-- hardly any Romans--remained outside the wall.

There went Menas. The noble turned around and looked out at George. He smiled. Tm the last of us!” he shouted. “The very last!” He slammed the postern gate shut. The bar thudded down.

IX

From up on top of the wall, people shouted down to the men by the postern gate that somebody hadn’t managed to get in. Those shouts did George no good whatever. The gate didn’t open again right away, and what looked like all the Slavs in the world were bearing down on him.

George turned his face from the wall and ran for his life. Not quite so many Slavs were coming from the southwest, and the woods in that direction were fairly close. He slashed at a Slavic archer as he sprinted. The barbarian fell back with a howl of pain.

George was in among the Slavs now. No more arrows hissed past him. The archers most likely feared hitting their own comrades. If they closed with him, he was dead, and he knew it. But he was still swinging that sword, and they were armed with nothing better than bows and belt knives. That left them unenthusiastic about closing.

Breath sobbing in his throat, heart thudding as if it would burst at any moment, he got closer and closer to the woods. Now most of the Slavs were behind him, which meant they started sending arrows after him once more. He remembered they were in the habit of poisoning those arrows, and wished he could have kept on forgetting it.

Here was the brush. His boots scrunched on dry, fallen leaves. He groaned--how could he hope to go anywhere without giving himself away with every step he took? He wondered if the barbarians had let him get into the woods just to give themselves the pleasure of hunting him down. He’d watched cats playing with mice. Let the little creature think it can break free? Why not, especially when it’s blocked off from its hole?

“Sometimes the mouse does get away,” he panted, dodging between tree trunks. “Sometimes the cat ends up with a stupid look on its face.” Most of the time, the mouse got eaten. He knew it. Again, he did his best not to think about it.

From right beside him, a voice spoke in Greek: “Sometimes mouse gets help.” He had all he could do not to scream. He hadn’t thought anyone was right beside him. Some Slavs were coming through the woods after him--much more quietly than he could--but . . .

He turned his head. A satyr looked back at him, its amber eyes wide and amused, its phallus jutting out almost as far as his sword. Was it the one he’d met when he was out hunting, that day not long before the Slavs and Avars came? He thought so, but couldn’t be sure.

“Come,” the satyr said. “Not stay here long.” He didn’t know whether that meant the creature couldn’t stay so close to Christian Thessalonica for long, or whether it deemed staying so close to so many Slavs unsafe. Either way, George couldn’t argue with it.

The satyr hurried away. Leaves flew up from under its hooves, but it made no noise as it moved. None--as far as George’s ears could tell, it might as well not have been there. He blundered along as he always had, sounding like a herd of cattle being driven to market over a field of kettledrums, or so his racket sounded to himself.