“What are they doing?” the shoemaker asked, leaning out over the wall to get the best view he could. The Slavs were still shooting arrows, but only every now and then; he ignored them.

Although the Slavs’ overlord, the Avar wasn’t doing anything to speak of. He stood there while his minions labored; if they succeeded, he would reap the benefit. One corner of George’s mouth twisted in a rueful smile. Barbarian in funny clothes though he was, the Avar had a lot in common--more than he knew, no doubt--with a good many Roman nobles.

The Slavs’ magic, like their costumes, was less showy than what the Avars practiced They simply went to work, as if… As if they’re making shoes, George thought, pleased with the comparison.

“What are they doing?” This time, Paul said it, not George. Had George heard it back in the taverner’s place of business, it would have meant something like, Are they making so much trouble, I’ll have to throw them out?

Snap! George didn’t hear that. He felt it through the soles of his shoes. “What the--?” he said, and peered all around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His comrades must have felt the same strange sensation, for they were looking around, too.

Seeing nothing amiss on top of the wall, he looked out over it. The Slavic wizards seemed delighted with themselves. One of them was holding what looked like a two-foot length of darkness. George tried to convince himself he was seeing a snake or a length of lead pipe or something of the sort, but he couldn’t. It looked like a length of darkness.

Where had it come from? Somewhere close to him, he judged, or he wouldn’t have felt that curious snap. He looked down. Had the Slavs sorcerously severed the chain that held the grappling hook? He thought he should have noticed the clank as the hook fell to the ground, to say nothing of the lessened weight he and the others were holding.

But no--there was the hook, with chain intact. Most men, having seen that, would have looked no further. But George’s nature and his trade both impelled him to examine things carefully. The chain was intact, but about two feet of its shadow were missing. The sun shone on that piece of the wall of Thessalonica as if no stout iron links impeded its passage.

“See what they’ve done!” he exclaimed, and pointed out the stolen shadow to his fellow militiamen.

“I see what,” Rufus said, scratching his head. “I don’t see why.”

“I don’t, either,” George said. “But they wouldn’t have done it for no reason.” He was as certain of that as he was of sunrise tomorrow morning.

One of the Slavic wizards kept hold of the piece of shadow they had seized. The other heated a sword in a fire. Before long, the blade glowed red. The Slav had no trouble keeping a hand on the hilt, though. More magic, George thought. His suspicions, already wild, grew wilder.

The Slav with the sword drew the blade from the blaze. The other one, the one with the shadow, held it out in front of him, a hand at either end. The Slav with the sword brought it up, then, slashing down with one swift stroke, sliced the shadow in two.

Once cut, it vanished. George looked to see whether it reappeared on the wall at the same time. It didn’t. That gap remained. He pursed his lips. Something had changed. After a moment, he realized what it was. He still had a hand on a length of the grappling-hook chain. All he felt beneath his fingers now was sun-warmed iron. The protective power St. Demetrius had given the grappling hook when so beseeched in the basilica dedicated to him was gone, cut off as abruptly as the shadow had been.

Before George could do anything more than note that, Sabbatius said, “Something’s wrong here,” and then, “The hook! It’s just--a hook.”

That was inelegant, but it had more accuracy than Sabbatius usually managed. Nor were the Romans the only ones to note the change. The Slavic wizards leaped in the air in delight at what they’d accomplished. The Avar who had used their service patted them on the shoulder, as if they were a couple of horses that had hauled his cart faster than he’d expected.

He shouted back toward a couple of mounted Avars, his voice as harsh as a raven’s caw. The men in scalemail shouted, too. George could not understand what they said, but their tone spoke for them. Now we can get on with it was what they meant.

Moments later, their signal drums started booming.

That meant, Now we can get on with it, too. Up on the walls of Thessalonica, horns called the militiamen to alertness. Did their brassy music sound faintly alarmed? George hoped that was his imagination, but he didn’t think so. He said, “I’d bet the Slavs took our protective magic off all the grappling hooks on the whole circuit.”

“I never thought of that,” Sabbatius exclaimed. The only thing past the end of his nose he was in the habit of thinking of was his next cup of wine.

Rufus nodded soberly. “I’m afraid you’re right,” he said to George, and then coughed a couple of times. “Well, we’ll just have to beat them” --he pointed down over the wall-- “on our own hook.”

George stared at him. “You’ve been spending too much time listening to John,” he said, as if passing sentence after a crime.

“Maybe I have,” the veteran said. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong, though. Look!” He pointed out beyond the wall. “The Slavs have decided it’s time to go back to work.”

“The Slavs have decided the Avars will slaughter them if they don’t get back to work,” George said. It amounted to the same thing.

“Arrows! Get back!” Shouts rang out up and down the wall, warning any of the defenders who weren’t so alert as they might have been. Cries of pain rose, too, as some of the arrows found their mark.

The militiamen shot back. Here and there, a Slav crumpled. But more warriors took the place of those who fell. The besiegers seemed to have an unlimited store of missiles. They made the defenders keep their heads down most of the time.

Rufus did not enjoy the luxury of being able to take cover. “Here comes the cursed ram,” he announced, and shouted for more men on the chain. “Come on, friends, this is how we earn our pay.”

“What pay?” someone said. “Nobody’s paying us a half-follis, and we’re all losing money because we can’t work at our proper trades.”

“You’re getting paid,” Rufus answered. “You do a good job here, and the bastards down there won’t cut your throat like a sheep’s, rape your wife, bugger your little boy, and burn down your house with your old toothless father in it. You don’t think that’s pay enough?” The fellow who had complained kept very quiet after that.

Here came the shed sheltering the battering ram. It was heavy, and could not move very fast. George would have been glad had it moved even slower. Every foot the Slavs inside made it lurch forward brought it so much closer to the gate above whose housing he stood. If the Slavs and Avars got into Thessalonica, that complainer and his family wouldn’t be the only ones who suffered.

Rufus jerked the chain back and forth. The grappling hook clanked against the stonework over the gate. “When they get close enough, I’m going to try and snag ‘em,” he said. “Then everybody on the chain pulls like a madman, we throw rocks down on the Slavs’ heads, and our bowmen fill them full of arrows.” He grinned, showing off the few worn teeth left in his mouth. “Sounds easy, doesn’t it?”

“Everything sounds easy,” George said. “It’s only when you try doing it that it gets harder.”

“You’re learning,” Rufus said.

George risked another glance out over the wall. As the shed with the ram advanced, it left behind the corpse of a Slav who’d taken a shaft in the neck. Most Roman arrows, though, either glanced off the hides of the roof or were turned by the big shields the barbarians at the front of the shed carried.