Thessalonica

Compared to that, George supposed going hungry for a while wasn’t the end of the world. He’d come too close to seeing the end of the world himself, or of that part of the world that mattered most to him. “I think the worst of it for me--just for myself, mind you, not for Thessalonica--was when Menas slammed the postern gate in my face.”

“Even Menas has a place in God’s plan,” Father Luke said serenely.

George’s hackles rose. “I’ll tell you where I’d like to place Menas,” he growled. “If you dropped him off the highest part of the wall into a really ripe midden heap, he might go deep enough to suit me. Yes, sir, he just might.”

Father Luke held up a hand. “The two of you are quits. I have seen it is so, and I am glad it is so. Very well, then: let it be so. And let us speak of happier matters: do I hear rightly that your lovely daughter is to marry the son of Leo the potter? I know you were asking me about Constantine not so long ago, and I regret having been unable to tell you more. I gather you and your clever wife finally judged the young man adequate?”

“Adequate. Yes.” George knew he should have spoken with more warmth, more enthusiasm. He couldn’t do it. What father ever truly believes any young man this side of a prince--and sometimes that side of a prince, too--adequate to marry his precious daughter?

Maybe, somewhere not far away, Dalmatius the oil-seller was at that moment wondering if Theodore could possibly be adequate for Lucretia. If so, he was a fool, and shamefully ignorant of Theodore’s myriad sterling qualities. Anyone who knew Theodore would think the same. Theodore, after all, was George’s son.

“I pray they will be happy together, and enjoy many prosperous and fruitful years,” Father Luke said.

“Well, Your Reverence, if anything can make that likelier, I expect your prayers will do the job,” George answered. Father Luke dipped his head, acknowledging the compliment.

“More bread? More olives? More cheese?” the barmaid asked. “Some wine? Neither one of you is drinking any wine.” What are you doing here if you’re not drinking wine? she seemed to be saying.

George shook his head. Father Luke set a hand on the shoemaker’s arm. “Because I may not,” he said, “does not mean you should not.”

“One cup,” George said, and the barmaid went off to pour it. Father Luke beamed, pleased to have been taken at his word. George had long since found that taking the priest at anything less than his word was a mistake.

When the woman brought back the wine, Father Luke asked, “May I propose a toast? If you consider that rude because I am not drinking, by all means say so. George made haste to wave for him to go on. Smiling, the priest said, “Drink to Nephele and Crotus and the rest of the centaurs for me, then. They went without wine rather longer than Bishop Eusebius has enjoined such abstinence for me.” Half to himself, he murmured, “Abstinence,” again, and then, very quietly, “Nephele.” If the thoughts going through his mind at that moment were ecclesiastical, George would have been amazed.

“I’m glad to drink to that one,” the shoemaker said, and did. “If it hadn’t been for the centaurs--and for you to persuade them to get roaring drunk--we’d all be worse off than we are now.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Didn’t the bishop tell you not to have anything more to do with them, though?”

“That he did.” Father Luke grinned. “He did not, however, forbid me to drink their health, at least vicariously.” The grin got wider. George recognized it: it was the one Theodore had given him when, as a small boy, he’d found a way around some instruction of George’s. Laughing, George finished the wine.

But he didn’t laugh long. After a little while, he said, “I’m afraid we’re not rid of the Slavs and Avars for good.”

That sobered Father Luke, too. “If the Emperor Maurice can drive the barbarians back beyond the Danube--which I pray he succeeds in doing--then we may be free of them for a long time to come,” he said. “If he is less fortunate on the battlefield--”

“Heaven forbid!” George exclaimed. “What I wouldn’t have given to see our garrison of regulars come galloping to the rescue, there at the end of the siege.”

“And I,” the priest agreed. “But they served the Roman Empire elsewhere, as was God’s will. And so we, and Thessalonica, made do with centaurs. Centaurs fit into the divine plan, too.”

“They would tell you otherwise, if they could speak the name of God,” George said.

“I know they would.” Father Luke was unruffled. “They are undying, and wise, and lovely.” Was he thinking of Nephele again? Before George could nerve himself to ask, the priest went on, “But they are also faded, defeated by the new dispensation, and in any case only creatures of local power seeking to judge the one universal and almighty God. They may no more comprehend Him in fullness than may you or I.”

“They would tell you otherwise there, too,” George said.