Father Luke cut him off. “If I haven’t got any flesh left,” he said, “my spirit will have been translated into a world better than this one, as I pray it shall be one day in any case.” He set a hand on George’s shoulder. “You needn’t worry about me. Bishop Eusebius is not so angry as to require me to give up the ghost, I assure you.”
“You couldn’t prove it by looking at you,” George said. “In a high wind, you’d be gone, near as I can tell. Look-- there’s a place.” He pointed to Paul’s tavern. “Why don’t you let me buy you some bread and sausage and a mug of wine? You’ll be better off for it--and happier, by the look of you.”
“I’ll break bread with you, if you like,” the priest answered, “but I am forbidden flesh, and likewise I am forbidden strong drink.”
“Drinking water all the time’s not healthy!” George exclaimed. Father Luke shrugged. “You are the most exasperating man!” the shoemaker burst out, and Father Luke shrugged again. George rubbed his chin. “Suppose I get you some bread, and some cheese to go with it?”
Now Father Luke looked thoughtful. “I was forbidden meat and wine, but I was not ordered to subsist on bread and water alone. Now, this may well have been an oversight on the bishop’s part, but he cannot in justice claim I have violated the terms of his penance if I start eating cheese before Lent.” With that, he started toward the tavern, leaving George to hurry to catch up.
George almost ran into someone else who was hurrying around a comer: a big, burly fellow with an expression that warned anyone in his way to get out of it. He recoiled from George, however, as much as George recoded from him. They gave each other a wide, silent berth as they went their separate ways.
“That was Menas, wasn’t it?” Father Luke asked when George came up to him. “He left you alone.”
“Yes, he did,” the shoemaker agreed. “I hope he goes right on doing it, too.”
“I’ve prayed he would.” Father Luke’s eyes twinkled. “Whatever the agency of his change, I am glad to see he has made it.” The priest did not ask what George had done with Perseus’ cap before going back up to Lete with it. What he did not know, he did not have to notice in his official capacity.
George got him bread and honey and cheese and onions and olives and mushrooms fried in olive oil. “There you go, Your Reverence,” he said. “No flesh, no wine, but food that’ll put some meat on your ribs.”
Looking at what was set before him, Father Luke murmured, The most holy bishop would not approve.” Then, louder, he went on, “But you won’t see me turn it down, either.” He ate every little thing on the platter, down to the last fried mushroom. When he was done, he still looked hungry. But, when George waved for the barmaid to bring him more food, he shook his head. “I’ve already committed gluttony. Don’t make me compound the sin.”
“Eating a meal that keeps you from starving a digit at a time is not gluttony,” George declared, as if daring the priest to argue with him.
All Father Luke said, though, was, “Eating two such meals in the space of half an hour surely is.”
When the priest seemed mildest and most gentle, he was hardest to move. George had seen that a good many times already. If Father Luke didn’t yield, the shoemaker would have to, and he did: “All right, Your Reverence. I was only trying to help you through the worst of it.”
“I understand that, and I’m grateful,” Father Luke answered. “But this is not the worst of it. This is only the aftermath. The worst of it was galloping down through the hills on centaurback, fearing at every bound we would be too late.”
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.”