Thessalonica

The Jew looked up from the arrowhead he was sharpening; by his posture, he might not have moved since George last saw him. “I rejoice to see you, George,” he said in polite Greek. “And who is your friend?” When George had introduced Dactylius, Benjamin nodded to the little jeweler. “Yes, I know of you. Your work has a good name. From the couple of pieces of it I have seen, it deserves such a name.”

“For this I thank you.” Dactylius sounded more constrained than he usually did. He was probably hoping-- and likely to be hoping in vain--Claudia’s loud opinions about Jews had never reached the bronzeworker’s ears.

If they had, Benjamin made no mention of them. He said, “How can my poor shop help the two of you?”

George looked around. He saw no lamps burning. He saw no lamps that looked as if they’d recently gone out, either. “Have you fire?” he asked.

Benjamin’s eyebrows rose. “Have I fire?” he said, as if ensuring he’d heard correctly. “Not on my person.”

He ran his hands up and down his wool tunic in what was as near an approach to a joke as George had ever heard from him. When his visitors neither laughed nor even smiled, he grew serious himself. “You ask as if this is a matter of no small importance. I shall see for myself.” Without another word, he ducked into the back room.

When he returned a moment later, he was carrying a lamp whose smoky wick showed he had just lighted it. “Thank God!” Dactylius exclaimed, and then, turning to George, “You were right all along.”

“It is a lamp,” Benjamin said, setting it down on his worktable. “Having a lamp is good, yes, but so good?”

“Right now, yes,” George told him, and explained the magic the Slavs and Avars had worked against fire in Thessalonica.

Benjamin listened till he was through, then said, “If you need this fire, take it. I give it to you. God protects our fires. Hundreds of years ago, He made a flask of pure oil, enough for only one day, burn for eight until more could be brought. This was after we Jews had driven the Macedonians out of Jerusalem, you understand.”

George had never heard of the event that seemed near as yesterday to the Jew. That didn’t matter. What mattered was the fire. He’d always taken fire for granted, except when he worried about its getting out of control. Now he realized--he had been forcibly made to realize--how precious it was.

Bowing a little, Benjamin handed him the lamp. “Carry it back to your own home. Use it as you need it.” When he saw George’s hand going to his beltpouch, the Jew shook his head. “No need for that. If I give a starving man food, do I ask him for payment? Take it, I say.”

“God bless you,” George answered, to which the Jew bowed again.

Carrying the lamp as carefully as he had held Theodore when his firstborn was laid in his arms, George left the bronzeworker’s shop. The little flame burning at the end of the wick flickered in the breeze outside, but did not go out. Dactylius said, “I think that will keep burning till you get back to your home.”

“I think you’re right,” George said. “God wouldn’t have given it to us only to snatch it away again.” Dactylius nodded. George listened to himself in some surprise. Who was he, to expound on what God would or wouldn’t do? He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Whoever he was, he had fire when the rest of Thessalonica--save its Jews-- did without.

People saw he had fire, too, and came running up with candles and lamps and sometimes just twigs, to get some of their own from him. Remembering what Benjamin had said, he gave it to them and took nothing in return, even when they tried to pay him.

“You could be rich by the time you get back,” Dactylius said.

“Wouldn’t be worth it,” George answered. “And do you know what? If I took money, what do you bet the next little breeze would blow out the flame here? Maybe it would blow out all the flames.”

“Maybe it would.” Dactylius’ voice went soft with wonder.

From around a comer, someone with a big, deep voice shouted, “Fire! I need fire. I’ll pay five solidi to anybody with fire!”

“I have fire,” George called. “I’ll give it to you for nothing.”

“What?” The owner of the voice came trotting into sight. George stared with no small dismay at Menas. The noble looked ready to take fire by force if he could get it no other way: he had a candle in his left hand and a long-handled war hammer, its iron head chased with shining silver, a weapon intended more for show than for use, in his right. Seeing George, Menas looked as unhappy as the shoemaker. “You? You have fire? What are you doing with fire?” By the way he spoke, he didn’t think the shoemaker deserved to have fire even on an ordinary day.

“I have it, that’s all.” George thrust the lamp at the noble. “Take what you need. I don’t want your money.”