“Not for me,” Ampelus said grumpily. Sure enough, the satyr’s body showed how ready it was for another go.

Xanthippe laughed. “Then thou mayest sate thyself.” Centaurs habitually used the familiar second-person pronoun when speaking to satyrs. Was it, here, the familiarity of insult or intimacy? A bit of each, George thought.

Laughing still, Xanthippe cantered away. Ampelus took a few trotting steps after the female centaur, then seemed to realize the game truly was over. The satyr stroked its own flesh. If what had gone before failed to satisfy it. . . it was, George supposed, true to its own nature.

With Xanthippe gone, the shoemaker thought he could reveal his own presence without embarrassing anyone-- not that Ampelus was liable to embarrassment under any circumstances. As soon as George took off Perseus’ cap, Ampelus stiffened, now with wariness rather than lust. Before the satyr could flee, George stepped out into the clearing.

“Oh. Is you.” Ampelus relaxed. An enormous grin stretched over the satyr’s not-quite-human features. “You know what I do?”

George knew exactly what the satyr had done. He shook his head anyhow. “Could you tell me on the way to Lete?” he asked.

“All right, I do,” Ampelus said. “Sooner tell you than other satyrs. They talk too much in front of centaurs, and I get a kicking like you don’t believe.” The bruise Nephele’s hoof had given the satyr was gone from its flesh by now, but evidently not from its memory.

Ampelus bragged all the way up to the pagan village hidden in the lulls. George had heard much the same from men. The satyr, by what he’d seen, boasted only of what it had truly done. As much as its incredible performance, that served to set it apart from mankind.

As they approached Lete, a woman who had been spreading tunics and cloaks on the branches of a tree to dry paused in her work and stared at Ampelus. The satyr leaped in the air with glee. “Maybe this the one Ithys get,” it said. “You go to village yourself now, George. I have to find this out.” It trotted toward the woman. She didn’t run for her life, so maybe she was the one with whom Ithys had frolicked--which meant Ithys’ bragging hadn’t been a pack of lies, either.

When George got to Gorgonius’ shop, the carpenter nodded as if he’d been expecting him just then. “See, I knew you’d be back,” Gorgonius said. “Is everything well down in the city?”

“Yes, the siege is broken,” George answered. A moment later, he realized Gorgonius might have meant something else. “And everything’s well with me, too--I think.” He set Perseus’ cap on a table. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the carpenter said. “You’re a good fellow, even if you are a Christian.” George jumped to hear the name. Gorgonius laughed. “I can say it. No centaurs or satyrs to frighten now, so why not? I’m willing enough to let you go your way. Your bishops down in the city, though, they wouldn’t be willing to let me go mine.”

“When there were only a few Christians, pagans persecuted them,” George said with a shrug. “Now it’s the other way around, that’s all.”

It was Gorgonius’ turn to look surprised. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” he admitted. “Shall we drink some wine on it?” When George nodded, he went on, “I’ve got some chicken left over from yesterday, too, if you’d like that.”

George nodded again. He reached into the wallet, took out a rabbit, and laid it by the ancient leather cap. “Why don’t you take this, then? You can use it tomorrow, or it’ll keep a couple of days more if you leave it out in the cold.”

“You’re a gentleman,” Gorgonius said. “Don’t go away. I’ll be back with the wine and the food.”

He brought everything in on a fancy wooden tray he must have made himself. Along with the chicken, he had bread and sun-dried apples. One cup of wine became several. George taught him a couple of tavern songs from Thessalonica that hadn’t made their way up into the hills before. In turn, Gorgonius sang a couple so old they’d been forgotten down in the city. They might have been old, but they weren’t bad. George hoped he’d remember them.

After a while, Gorgonius said, “You’ll spend the night in my barn again. Better that than finding some place to he up in the woods, I expect.”

“I should be all right, as long as I have--” George stopped and stared suspiciously at his winecup. Once he left Lete, he wouldn’t have Perseus’ cap anymore. He covered his mistake as best he could, saying, Thanks again.”

“Any time, any time.” Maybe Gorgonius hadn’t noticed the error anyhow; he sounded pretty vague himself. He held out the dipper. “More wine?”

“Why not?” George said.

As he had the last time he slept in Lete, George spent a little while brushing wisps of hay out of his hair and off his tunic when he woke up in the morning. Gorgonius gave him a flat loaf of barley bread and a small flask of wine. “You want to have a care going home, you know,” he said seriously. “You won’t be wearing the cap, mind you.”

“Yes, I understand that,” George answered. No, the carpenter hadn’t noticed his flub the night before. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“Come up here again,” Gorgonius said as the shoemaker stepped out into the street. You’ll be welcome.”

“Why don’t you come down to Thessalonica?” George said. “I won’t tell Bishop Eusebius you’re there.” He realized Irene would have some detailed opinions to express about the prospect of a visit from a pagan. But, since Perseus’ cap had saved not only George but also, very possibly, Thessalonica itself, the shoemaker had some opinions of his own, too.

“Who knows?” Gorgonius said. “Maybe I’ll even do that. You never can tell.” He sounded as if he might have meant it, and was surprised to discover as much.

As George headed out of Lete and down toward Thessalonica, he looked around for Ampelus and for the woman who’d been hanging out her wash. He didn’t see either one of them. The laundry she’d hung out was still draped in the tree. George wondered what that meant. She and Ampelus couldn’t still be at it… could they? He supposed satyrs wouldn’t be satyrs if anything along those lines were impossible for them.

When he got into the woods, he moved as quietly and cautiously as he could. He’d come to take for granted the protection Perseus’ cap gave him. Now that he was without it once more, he knew how vulnerable to his foes he was. If a band of roving Slavs found him, he was in trouble. If a Slavic wolf-demon found him, he was in bigger trouble.

Perhaps because he was so cautious, he had another good day hunting. He got a couple of rabbits, and also got a squirrel he caught on the ground before it could scramble up into a tree. If he found a place where he thought it safe to build a fire, he’d eat well. If he didn’t, he’d bring the meat home to Irene, who could do tasty things with it beyond toasting chunks of it on a stick over the fire or baking it in clay.

He was, he supposed, somewhere a little more than halfway to Thessalonica when he came across the Slav. Each of them stepped into the same small clearing at the same time. George’s sword was in his hand. The Slav carried a heavy javelin or light spear. If he threw it and hit George, he’d win the fight straightaway. If he threw it and missed, all he had left with which to defend himself was a short dagger.

He didn’t throw the spear. Instead, he darted back in among the trees. So did George. The shoemaker began a cautious sidle to his right, hoping--praying--the Slav was alone. He’d gone more than halfway round to the other side of the clearing before he called to mind the expression on the barbarian’s face at seeing him. The Slav had been at least as horrified as he was. That argued the fellow was alone, too, and hoping George wasn’t part of a band of Romans.

When George got to the point from which the Slav had emerged, he stepped into the clearing and looked around. At almost the same moment, the barbarian poked his head out from the spot George had occupied. They stared at each other again, then both went back into the forest once more.