“For a follis, two at the outside,” Rufus growled, “I’d go and tell Bishop Eusebius to lower your worthless carcass down in front of the wall and use it to pad the stonework against the boulders the barbarians are going to fling at us. Any boulder that bounced off your hard head would be gravel the next instant, that’s certain sure.”

“You’ve got your nerve, running down miracles,” George said to John. “What do you think God would do to you for that?”

John flashed his impudent grin. “God is a god of mercy, right? That means He’ll forgive me, I hope.”

“Now there’s a doctrine that would get Bishop Eusebius hopping mad,” George said. John did have his nerve; George, as often with his friend, didn’t know whether to be admiring or horrified.

“Who’s running down miracles?” a deep voice behind them demanded. George turned. There stood Menas, solid and blocky and altogether cured of his paralysis. The noble had a helmet on his head and a stout hammer in his hand. He looked like a man with whom no one sensible would want to trifle. “Where would I be today without God’s kindness?”

John started to answer him. Afraid of what the answer would be, George stepped on his fellow militiaman’s foot. John hissed like a viper. George didn’t care about that. To Menas, he said, “I’m sure you must fit into God’s plan for saving Thessalonica.”

“What?” Menas snapped. That thought plainly hadn’t occurred to him; all he’d worried about was God’s plan for saving Menas. He had a fine glower, one that no doubt struck terror into the souls of everybody who owed him money. “You’re the shoemaker, aren’t you?”

“That’s me,” George answered evenly.

“I’ll remember you,” Menas rumbled. He strutted off, chest out, thick legs striding along as if they hadn’t been useless sticks for years. Maybe that strut was what made a couple of Slavs shoot arrows his way. The shafts missed, but Menas moved a lot faster and with a lot less self-conscious magniloquence after they zipped past his head.

John whispered. “You don’t want to get important people angry at you, George.” He spoke with unwonted sincerity. “I know about that. Why do you think I’m not living in Constantinople anymore?”

“I don’t know,” George answered. “They’re supposed to have good taste back there; that probably has something to do with it.”

Rufus gave him an admiring look. “The Slavs shoot poisoned arrows every now and then. I wonder what they did for poison before your tongue came along.”

“You people don’t need me,” John said. “I think I’ll go off into the garden and eat worms.”

“Thessalonica’s not that hungry yet,” Rufus told him, “and besides, your stretch on the wall here isn’t up yet, either. We’re stuck with you a while longer.”

But out beyond the walls, the sounds of logging and carpentry went on and on.

People filed into the church of St. Demetrius to pray for the salvation of the city and to listen to what Bishop Eusebius had to say both about divine aid and about what mere men needed to do to save Thessalonica.

“We’ll meet you across the square from the church after the service is over,” Irene said. George nodded. His wife and Sophia took the stairs up to the women’s gallery. He and Theodore walked on down the central aisle of the basilica, to get as close to the altar as they could. Not only did that give them a more concentrated feeling of the saint’s warlike power, it also let them have a better chance of actually hearing Eusebius.

George looked up toward the filigreed screen intended to keep men at prayer from being distracted by looking at and thinking about women. In a way, it did exactly what it was supposed to do. In another way, it faded, for he kept trying to spot Irene and Sophia through the screen’s ornately patterned holes.

Chanting priests swinging thuribles advanced toward the altar from either side. Clouds of incense drifted up from the censers: fragrant frankincense and bitter myrrh. Like any church, St. Demetrius’ was steeped in those fragrances even without their reinforcement. When George smelled them, his thoughts automatically went to holy things.

And here came Bishop Eusebius, gorgeous in silks encrusted with pearls and precious stones. He made his way to the altar and celebrated the divine liturgy with a zeal that matched the meaning of his name in Greek: “pious.” As he usually did, he conducted the services in Greek. George did not mind that, even if Latin was his preferred tongue. Maybe the powers that had lived in this land before Christianity might also hear petitions in Greek.

Had he spoken that thought to Eusebius, the bishop would no doubt have berated him. But then, being a bishop, Eusebius was no doubt on intimate terms with God. George was just a shoemaker, and not inclined to be picky about which powers helped Thessalonica against those of the Slavs and Avars.

When the service was completed, Eusebius addressed the congregation: “Brothers and sisters under God, we must remember always that we are in His hands. And we must remember always that our fate is in our hands as well as His. If we do not prove ourselves worthy of His aid, we shall not receive it. Instead, we shall be chastised for the multitude of our sins. The instruments of His chastisement lurk beyond our walls.

“I have heard it said the pagans number a double handful of myriads, a hundred thousand men. I do not know if this be true, but it would not surprise me. Our own numbers are not so large, but numbers alone I do not fear, for is it not written, and written truly, “How should one chase a thousand, And two put ten thousand to flight, Except their Rock had given them over, and the Lord had delivered them up. For their rock is not as our Rock’?”

The rhetoric was strong and heartening, and lifted George’s spirits. But then he wondered, as he had once or twice before, what the men who talked with the powers and gods of the Slavs and Avars were saying to their followers. They had no Holy Scriptures, of course, but he would have been surprised if they told their fellow barbarians anything much different from Eusebius’ words. All men believed their gods the mightiest, till the test came.

Then George had a truly appalling thought, one that had not crossed his mind till now: what if the men who talked with the powers and gods of the Slavs and Avars were right, and Bishop Eusebius mistaken?

He shivered like a man out at night in a cold rain. The Avars and the Slavs who did so much of their fighting for them had beaten the Romans at least as often as they had tasted defeat. What did that say about the relative strength of the powers involved?

He did not care for what he thought it might say. Brooding thus, he missed some of what Eusebius was saying; his attention returned to the bishop in midsentence: “--is because God demands much of us Romans. If we sin, He punishes us, as we deserve. If we want Him to stay His hand and not bring His flail down upon our backs, we must live our lives in holiness, showing Him we deserve to be saved.”

A hum of approval ran through the basilica. How many people would give up gambling and blaspheming and fornicating because of the bishop’s words, though? Bishops had been inveighing against sin since the beginning of Christianity, yet sin remained loose in the world and loose in Thessalonica.

Eusebius said, “We are men. We are sinners. We are imperfect. God does not expect all of us can be saints; He knows our hearts too well. But He does expect each of us to do all he can. If all of us, together, do enough, our foes shall not prevail against us.”

George always felt clever when he thought along with someone, especially with someone who was clever himself, as Eusebius undoubtedly was. As alarm had a little while earlier, pride made him miss a few of the bishop’s words: “--pray that we shall be brave enough to withstand the barbarians’ onslaught, which cannot now long be delayed. And we shall also pray that the measures we take against the foe, both on the walls and in the spiritual realm, shall be crowned with success.”