Thessalonica

“All I know about them is that they didn’t happen in Thessalonica,” George returned. “And this wasn’t our miracle: it was Menas’. The only way it can do us any good is for him to want to buy shoes from our shop.”

Irene sighed. “That would take another miracle, I fear.”

Songs rang out in the city when word of the miracle came. Paul did a brisk business selling wine to the people returning from the monastery of St. Demetrius. Several other taverners came out to try to do the same. George hoped Paul, who had been thoughtful enough to get there ahead of everyone else, reaped the reward for his cleverness.

After the cool freshness of the glade around the sacred spring, after the power that had manifested itself there at the spring, going back into the cramped, dark shoemaker’s shop, stinking of leather, made George sigh. Then he shook his head. “If I wanted to work outdoors all the time, I would have to be a farmer or a woodsman.” He enjoyed the woods and the fields--but not that much. “Talking with sheep or partridges is not my idea of spending time in good company.”

“And what is your idea of good company?” Theodore asked with a glint of mischief in his eye. “Half-drunk militiamen?”’

“Better than sons who don’t show their fathers proper respect,” George shot back, which won him a giggle from Irene and, better yet, sudden silence from Theodore. That was rare enough to come close to being a miracle in and of itself.

But George did not bask in the warm glow of victory for long. Picking up his tools was anything but delightful. All at once, no matter how skillfully he punched a pattern into leather, he had trouble believing any of it mattered. What was the point? Why did he bother?

And then, when he was feeling at his lowest, the rich man who had ordered the boots came into the shop. “Those are splendid,” Germanus exclaimed. “Much better than I thought they’d be.” Not only did he put them on and wear them out of the shop, he paid George a couple of miliaresia more than the price on which they had agreed.

George stared after him, the weight of the money sweet in his palm. “Do you know,” he said slowly, looking down at the coins, “in its own little way, that may be a miracle as wondrous as the one God worked for Menas through St. Demetrius.” Neither his wife nor his children argued with him.

On the practice field near the hippodrome, John put down his spear and pointed up the street. “May I be sent to eternal damnation if that isn’t Paul!” he exclaimed in delight.

George’s opinion was that the profane tavern performer risked eternal damnation whenever he opened his mouth. That, however, did not seem a helpful comment, the more so as John was all too likely to agree with it. The shoemaker contented himself by saying, “It does look like him, doesn’t it?”

Dactylius, whose trade had left him a trifle shortsighted, peered in the general direction from which the taverner was coming. “Yes, that is Paul, isn’t it?” he said, a good deal later than he should have.

Rufus set hands on hips and awaited the new arrival. “So you think you can be a soldier, do you?” he growled.

“I don’t see why not,” the taverner answered. “If you can do the job, it can’t be too hard.”

The veteran’s smile was fierce and predatory. “God will punish you for that--and if He doesn’t, I will.” His sword slid out of its scabbard with a sound like a snake’s hiss. “Let’s see what you can do.”

In the practice that followed, Rufus could have killed Paul a dozen times over. Everyone saw as much. But Paul refused to let it worry him, and, after Rufus finally resheathed his sword, the taverner did well not only with the bow but also with the spear.

Rufus rubbed his chin, considering. At last, he said, “As long as you keep them away from you, you may live. If they get close, run for your life like you’ve got Satan on your tail. How does that sound?”

“See what kind of wine you get served the next time you stick your nose into my tavern,” Paul said, which made Rufus let out a carefully rationed grunt of laughter.

John greeted the new volunteer with a sour expression. “You were supposed to be funnier than that,” he said.

Paul’s face glistened with sweat. He looked down his nose at the other militiaman. “People were saying the same thing about you the last time you came and did your routine in my place.”

“Shall we get back to drill?” Dactylius asked, eager as usual to spread oil on troubled waters. “We all need to get better. Has anyone heard anything about what the city garrison is doing?”

“Not a word,” George said, and everyone around him nodded. He didn’t let it worry him; he hadn’t expected news so soon. He wondered whether any word would get back to Thessalonica before the soldiers came home to tell the tale themselves. With so much disorder south of the Danube, maybe not.