“Wait,” George told the satyr. Pouting, it obeyed. George spoke to satyrs and centaurs both: “Who here is best able to tell us how we can use whatever is in this village against the Slavs and Avars?”
“The taverner,” Ampelus exclaimed.
Crotus and Nephele both loomed over the satyr. “Enough of this japery and nonsense,” the male centaur rambled,
“It is Gorgonius the carpenter,” Ithys said. “He has this--thing.”
“I pray he hath a tongue that scoffeth not,” Nephele said. “Lead on.”
Ithys led. George followed, not without a regretful glance at the wineshop as they passed it. He also came with a certain amount of relief that Menas had locked him and not Sabbatius out of Thessalonica. Sabbatius would have headed for the wineshop regardless of what that might do to the centaurs.
Along with the pleasant smells of new-cut wood and sawdust, Gorgonius’ establishment smelled of leather, an odor with which George was intimately familiar-- and which made him wish he were back in his own city. The carpenter was repairing the webbing of a bedframe when George and his companions came in. “Good day, friend,” Ithys said.
“Good day, good day,” Gorgonius answered, with a broad smile that grew broader when he saw the centaurs. “A good day indeed!” he exclaimed. “Welcome, welcome, thrice welcome. Your kind but seldom honors us.”
“Wine,” Crotus said. “We fear it.”
“Aye, aye.” Gorgonius nodded. He was near or past his threescore and ten; his hair and beard were the silvery white that seems to shine even indoors, and his voice sounded a little mushy because he had only a few teeth left in his head. But his eyes were still sharp, and nothing was wrong with his wits. “Satyrs and centaurs together, eh? Centaurs here in Lete at all, eh? Something is curious, sure as sure. And who’s this fellow you have with you?”
“George cometh out of Thessalonica,” Nephele said, sounding portentous in lieu of identifying him as a Christian, which the centaur could not do.
“Is that so?” Gorgonius said. “Is that so? Isn’t that interesting? What are you doing here, George out of Thessalonica?”
“Trying to stay alive.” George did his best to put things in order, from most immediately urgent to long-term goals. “Trying to keep the Slavs and Avars from sacking my city and murdering my family. Trying to drive them away from here for good.”
“That won’t be bad if you can do it,” the old carpenter said, nodding. “These new people and their new powers, I don’t fancy ‘em a bit. Not a bit. They change things around till they aren’t the way they used to be. So how do you propose to go about it?”
“I know a priest, a man who believes as I do.” George picked his words with care, trying to convey to Gorgonius what he meant without naming names that would drive off Ampelus and Ithys and Stusippus, Crotus and Nephele. “Put his power together with the powers that still live in these hills” --he pointed to centaurs and satyrs-- “and we ought to be able to beat the barbarians.”
“A priest, eh? One of your land of priests?” Gorgonius might not have been a Christian, might hardly have seen any Christians, but he had a good notion of how Christian priests, most Christian priests, thought. “Wouldn’t he sooner exorcise our friends here--isn’t that what they call it?--than work alongside ‘em?”
“I don’t think so,” George answered. “He’s--different from most priests.” And he’s doing penance because of it, the shoemaker thought. He didn’t mention that to Gorgonius.
“Well, maybe so, maybe so. It would surprise me, but maybe so.” Gorgonius pointed down toward Thessalonica. “What are you doing here in Lete instead of there?”
“I can’t get back to the city,” George said. “The Slavs and Avars and their powers are between here and there. The band of centaurs and satyrs tried to get me through yesterday during the day, and Ampelus and I tried to sneak through last night. Didn’t work, either way.”
“Wolves,” Ampelus added.
“Ah, those. Yes, I’ve seen those. Nasty things, aren’t they?” Absentmindedly, Gorgonius began stropping a knife on one of the leather straps that would support the mattress. “Well, well. What am I supposed to be able to do to help you?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” George answered. “Ithys thought coming to you was a good idea. All I can do is hope it was right.”
The carpenter didn’t say anything to that. He silently studied George for a while, then turned his gaze on Ithys. The satyr said, “You are Gorgonius. You know of what clan you spring, and why you have that name. I knew the man who founded your clan. You in the later days of your life look like him in the later days of his. I say this to you before.”
“Yes, and every time you’ve said it, I’ve told you what daft nonsense it is,” Gorgonius said. “He was a hero. I make tables. He killed monsters and rescued maidens. I got a cat out of a tree once, if that counts for anything, and I stepped on a cockroach the other day.”
“The satyr hath reason,” Nephele said. “Your foresire had wit and wisdom and knew both how to give and how to receive good counsel, than which few things are rarer among mankind.”
“Wait a minute,” George said. Everyone, aging carpenter and ageless immortal creatures alike, looked at him. “Wait just a minute.” Everyone did indeed seem willing enough to wait. Hesitantly, wondering whether he’d heard what he thought he’d heard and whether he ought to believe it if he had, he pointed to Gorgonius. He didn’t speak to the carpenter, though, but to Ithys and to Nephele. “You’re saying he’s from Perseus’ family.”
“Aye, in good sooth, we are,” Nephele said. “We knew Perseus. Perseus was our friend. Doth surprise you this, mayfly man?”
“A bit,” George said, trying not to show how much more than a bit it surprised him. He remembered thinking, when he’d first met Ampelus, how the satyr had been up in these hills when Paul was writing to the Thessalonicans, and for hundreds of years before that. He hadn’t realized how many hundreds of years, though. He didn’t know how long ago Perseus had lived, but it was back before the Trojan War, which was, by definition, antiquity immeasurable--except that Ithys and Nephele measured it.
“We have reckoned his descendants, even unto the hundred and fifteenth generation,” Nephele said, measuring antiquity most precisely indeed.
“That and a few folleis will get you some wine--well, not you, but the man here,” said Gorgonius, who seemed unimpressed with his illustrious ancestor. “But now I understand why Ithys brought you to me, George.”
George made the sort of intuitive leap that had given him a reputation for cleverness in Thessalonica--among those who cared whether a shoemaker was clever, at any rate. He stabbed out a finger at Gorgonius. “You’ve got Medusa’s head stowed away here somewhere, don’t you, so we can turn the Slavs and Avars to stone with it.”
“Are you out of your bloody mind?” Gorgonius exclaimed. “If the family had kept that horrible thing, they’d have been turned to stone themselves, some of ‘em, anyhow, and I wouldn’t be standing here talking with you. The whole village would be stone, too, and we could fortify it with our cousins and uncles. Daft!” He shook his head.
“Oh,” George said in a very small voice. When a clever man was stupid, he was stupid in a way a man who was stupid all the time could never hope to match, for the clever man’s stupidity, drawing as it did on so much more knowledge, had a breadth and depth to it the run-of-the-mill fool found impossible to duplicate.
Gorgonius took pity on him. ““What I do have, pal,” he said, “is the cap Perseus wore when he got up close to Medusa and her sisters.”
For a moment, that cap meant nothing more to George than that it was the pagan equivalent of, say, a saint’s shinbone in a reliquary in a church. But a saint’s shinbone might work miracles, and so might this cap. “The Gorgons couldn’t see Perseus when he came up to them,” George said.