Thessalonica

George was coming back from Benjamin the Jew’s with a sack full of jingling bronze buckles--Benjamin had gone back to his regular line of work once the siege ended-- when he ran into Father Luke. That was literally true; each was hurrying around a corner. They both said, “Oof!” Father Luke, who was the lighter of the two, staggered back a couple of paces.

“I crave your pardon, Your Reverence,” George said, steadying him.

“No harm done,” the priest said with a smile. Most people in Thessalonica, by then, had lost some of their siege-induced gauntness. Grain and livestock had come in from several towns to the east, easing hunger. Father Luke’s skin, though, seemed more tightly drawn over his cheekbones than ever. He looked as if a strong wind would blow him away.

“Are you all right?” George asked. He’d gone to St. Elias’ for the divine liturgy each Sabbath after the deliverance of the city, but hadn’t had a chance to talk with the priest since then.

Father Luke nodded. “Yes, I’m very well, thank you.™

“You don’t mind my saying so, Your Reverence, you don’t look very well,” George said bluntly.

“The well-being of the flesh and that of the spirit are not always one and the same,” the priest replied. If he wasn’t contented, his voice didn’t know it.

“If you haven’t got any flesh left--” George began.

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.”