Thessalonica

The fellow loomed up before him, outline distorted by the fringes and furs of his costume. George froze: metaphorically, to go with the literal cold that had afflicted him. From everything Gorgonius had said, from everything George himself had seen, the Avar should have had no idea he was there.

But the wizard was as wary as the wolves and as Vucji Pastir. He murmured something in his incomprehensible language and stared right at--right through--George. He took a step forward, one hand outstretched, as if to seize the shoemaker.

Heart pounding, George jumped to one side. If the Avar priest had pursued him, he would have run for the gate with every bit of strength he had left. But the Avar kept on walking toward his own tent, which, George saw, lay not far away. Maybe he hadn’t sensed George at all. The shoemaker could not make himself believe it.

He looked up to the wall, wondering which of his friends were on it now. When Menas locked him out of Thessalonica and the Slavs bore down on him, he hadn’t thought such things would matter again. How glad he was to discover they did.

He was within bowshot of the wall now, in the empty area the Slavs and Avars entered only when they were attacking. There was the iron-plated bulk of the Litaean Gate ahead, and there, inset into the wall, the postern gate beside it. That postern gate drew him like a lodestone.

Once there, he found a new question: how hard to rap on it. Too softly, and the guards wouldn’t notice. Too hard, and the Slavs would. His first tap was too tentative. His second was so loud, it frightened him. He looked anxiously back toward the barbarians’ encampment. No shouts rose there. He knocked again.

A tiny grill in the center of the gate opened. “Who’s there?” a guard demanded. “Stand and be recognized.”

“It’s me--George,” George said. “For the love of--” He cut that off, not knowing what God’s name would do to the cap. “I managed to get away from the Slavs and Avars and make it back here. Let me in.”

Through the iron grill, he saw one of the guard’s eyes and part of his cheek. “Stand and be recognized,” the fellow repeated. “If you’re really a Slav who speaks Latin, you’re going to be a dead Slav who used to speak Latin.”

“But I’m in front of-- Oh.” Again, George broke off. He was glad the guard couldn’t see him blush. The guard couldn’t see him at all, because he was still wearing the cap he hadn’t wanted to test with God’s name. He’d remembered it in that context, but not in the context of making him invisible. Feeling a fool once more, he took it from his head.

The guard recoded. “Kyrie eleison!” he exclaimed. “It is you, George. How in Christ’s holy name did you just spring out of thin air like that? I’d have sworn nobody was there.”

“Let me in,” George said. If the cap couldn’t bear holy names, it wouldn’t be much good in Thessalonica, or maybe ever after. George hoped that wasn’t so; otherwise, he’d have a much harder time getting Father Luke out to Lete. “Open the gate, curse it, before the Slavs figure out I’m here.”

Wood scraped on wood as the guard unbarred the postern gate. It swung open. George darted back into the city. The guard closed the gate after him and set the bars back in place. George allowed himself the luxury of a long, heartfelt sigh of relief.

“Don’t know how you managed to stay in one piece out there, but I’m glad you did,” the guard said. He turned away, continuing over his shoulder. “Come along with me. Tell the rest of the crew how you did it.”

George didn’t want to tell anybody how he’d done it. He also didn’t want to return to his normal routine, which would make slipping out of Thessalonica again all the harder. And so, wondering what would happen, he set the leather cap back on his head.

“I want to tell you, George, you frightened me out of--” The guard noticed George hadn’t answered. He turned around to look for the man he’d admitted. “George?” His eyes got big. He crossed himself. “George? Where in the devil’s name did you go?” He scratched his head. “Were you ever here at all, or am I daydreaming--nightdreaming? I’ve got to get more sleep, that’s all there is to it.” He yawned.

“What’s going on there?” one of the other guards called from the main gate. Since the fellow who had admitted George didn’t know what was going on, his explanation was fumbling at best. While he stuttered and mumbled, George slipped past him, heading home.

He was glad he could do so still cloaked in invisibility. When the guard signed himself, he’d again feared the magic in Perseus’ cap would dissolve. He wondered why it hadn’t: perhaps because the guard had made the sign of the cross to protect himself, not to lash out at that which had startled him.

Thessalonica’s streets were dark and quiet and cold. George wished for a torch to light his way--and then, after a moment, he didn’t. No one could see him, but everyone would be able to see the torch. That just might cause talk in the city.