“None whatsoever,” Argyros said firmly.
“Astonishing to think of such destruction springing from such ordinary stuffs as charcoal, sulfur, and—” Lakhanodrakon snapped his fingers in annoyance. “I always forget the third.”
“Saltpeter,” Argyros supplied, adding, “The monks of St. Gall remember them by associating each with a Person of the Triune Godhead.”
The Master of Offices frowned. “Barbarous heretics. Why would they do that?”
“It does make a certain amount of sense, sir,” Argyros said. “From what the men at the arsenals have told me, the saltpeter gives the explosion its blasting force: thus the monks term it the Holy Spirit’s breath. The charcoal touches off the blast, and so they link it with the Father, the source of all things, while the sulfur catches fire from the kindling of the charcoal and ignites the saltpeter, just as the Son is the Father’s Word through Whom He works.”
“A blasphemous, unholy trinity if ever I heard one,” Lakhanodrakon exclaimed.
“I agree.”
After a few seconds, the Master of Offices said worriedly, “Even knowing how the hellpowder is made may serve us less well than I hoped when I sent you out, for how are we to defend against it? Why, even the walls of the city here, which have never been breached, might fall if enough of this villainous compound were set off beside them.”
“I suppose so,” Argyros said, but he did not believe it. Theodosios Il’s magnificent works had survived nearly nine hundred years and looked good for as many more. The magistrianos pointed out, “Now that we have the secret, with catapults on the walls we can give as good as we get, and the ditch in front of the city will keep enemies from coming up to the wall, and thwart undermining as well.”
“That’s so,” the Master of Offices said, somewhat reassured. He fixed his sharp dark glance on Argyros. “Undermining, you say? I like that. One fine day we may give the Persians a surprise at Nisibis.” The border between the Roman Empire and the successive dynasties ruling Persia had swung through Syria and Mesopotamia since the days of Pompey. Neither side could win the lasting victory both dreamed of.
Argyros said, “The arsenal artificers say that placing the explosive below the works to be attacked may prove even more effective than putting it alongside. They’re thinking of mounting catapults aboard ship, too, as the Franco-Saxons are doing against the Anglelanders, to attack enemies at longer range than we can with fire and siphon.”
“Ah, yes, the Anglelanders,” Lakhanodrakon said. “True, they don’t impinge on us directly, but I confess to misgivings over your cooperation with them. Do you honestly feel such a, er, young folk should be trusted with this potent secret you learned?”
“My lord, I puzzled over that from the lspanic border all the way to St. Gall. One minute I would reckon them only ignorant barbarians; the next they would startle me with their courage or their native lore or even their wits, untrained but keen. I tell you frankly, I was of two minds.”
“How did you decide, then?” the Master of Offices asked.
“When Wighard put a knife to my neck without warning and started growling of demons and spells, I knew they were savages after all. And since he wanted a spell, why, I gave him one. My barber swears it will grow hair; if the Anglelanders can make any military use of that, they’re welcome to it. Wighard believed me; he judged me too frightened to lie. And in any case, how could he know the difference?”
Lakhanodrakon stared, then pounded the magistrianos on the back. “Well done, Basil, and quick thinking, too! That’s one less worry for me.”
He paused, running a hand across his own bald pate. “You must give me your barber’s name.”
“Why, of course, sir,” Argyros said, carefully not smiling. “It would be a pleasure.”
V: Etos Kosmou 6825
The knock on the door was tentative, the sort any secretary learns to make when he is not sure his superior wishes to be disturbed. But to Basil Argyros the interruption came as a relief. “Come in,” he called, shoving papyrus scrolls and sheets of parchment to one side of his desk. The magistrianos had been daydreaming anyhow, looking out from his office in the Praitorion toward the great brown stucco mass of the church of Hagia Sophia and, beyond it, softened by haze, the Asian coast across the Propontis from Constantinople.
The case he had been trying to ignore was an Egyptian land dispute, which meant it would not be settled in his lifetime no matter what he did, or probably for fifty years after that, either. The insane litigiousness of the Egyptians had angered the Emperor Julian almost a thousand years before. They had only grown worse since, Argyros thought. As a good Christian, he condemned Julian the Apostate to hell; as an official of the Roman Empire, he was convinced that dealing with Egyptians gave a foretaste of it. And so he greeted his secretary with an effusiveness alien to his usually self-contained nature: “Good day, Anthimos! What can I do for you on this fine spring morning?”
Anthimos, a lean, stooped man whose fingers were always black with ink, eyed the magistrianos suspiciously; he wanted people to be as orderly and predictable as the numbers in his ledgers. At last he shrugged and said, “The Master of Offices is here to see you, sir.”
“What?” Argyros’s thick black eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Show him in, of course.”
The solid portliness of George Lakhanodrakon seemed all the more imposing next to Anthimos, who fluttered about nervously until Argyros dismissed him. The magistrianos bowed low to Lakhanodrakon, waved him to a chair, offered wine. “Always a pleasure to see you, your illustriousness. What brings you here today? Not this wretched mess, I hope.”
Lakhanodrakon rose, walked over to pick up one of the documents Argyros so described. He held it at arm’s length; he was about fifty, a dozen or so years older than the magistrianos, and his sight was beginning to lengthen. He read for a moment. His strong, rather heavy features showed his distaste.
“Pcheris vs. Sarapion, is it? I didn’t know you were stuck with such drivel. No, it’s nothing to do with that, I promise.”
“Then you’re doubly welcome, sir,” Argyros said sincerely. “I’ve been praying to St. Mouamet for a new assignment.”
“The patron of changes, eh?” Lakhanodrakon chuckled. The amusement fell from the Master of Offices’ face. “Your prayers are about to be granted. Tell me what you make of this.” He fumbled in the silk pouch that hung from his gold belt of rank, produced a rolled-up parchment, and handed it to Argyros. The magistrianos slid off the ribbon that bound the parchment, skimmed through it. “It’s bad Greek,” he remarked.
“Keep going.”
“Of course, sir.” W7hen he was done, Argyros said, “I take it this came from one of the cities in the east, from Mesopotamia or perhaps Syria?”
“Mesopotamia—from Daras, to be exact.”
The magistrianos nodded. “Yes, it has all the marks of a Persian piece: a polemic against the orthodox faith and an invitation to the Nestorians and hard-core Monophysites and other heretics to abandon their allegiance to the Empire and go over to the King of Kings. Preferably, I suppose, bringing the fortress of Daras with them.”
“No doubt,” Lakhanodrakon agreed dryly.
“Forgive me, sir,” Argyros said, “but I’ve seen a great many sheets of this sort. Why bring this particular one to my attention?”
Instead of answering directly, the Master of Offices took another parchment from his beltpouch. “When you have examined this sheet, I trust you will understand—as well as I do, at any rate, which is not a great deal.”