A couple of men talking in the street moved on when they saw the magistrianos approaching. They might not know him for an agent, but even without his speaking, his outfit and his face—tanned but not very swarthy—branded him as one loyal to Constantinople and not to be trusted. He scowled. Such recognition was only going to make his job harder.
The shop across the street had to be the one Leontios had mentioned. There were dishes and jugs and cups in the window, and the Greek line of the signboard above them read FINE POTTERY BY ABRAAM: Greek, of course, could not show the sound of rough breathing in the middle of a word. Abraam or Abraham stood in the doorway, crying his wares in guttural Syriac. Argyros watched as a smith came over from the foundry next door to bring him a flat, square iron plate. The two men eyed the magistrianos with the same distrust the street idlers had shown. He was getting used to that suspicious stare in Daras. He returned it imperturbably.
The smith, an enormous fellow baked brown as his leather apron by the sun, spat in the dirt roadway and ambled toward his own place of business, still glowering Argyros’s way. Abraham the potter turned his back on the magistrianos with deliberate rudeness and went back into the darkness of his shop. Argyros saw him put the iron plate under a counter and talk briefly with a woman back there; whether wife, customer, or what he did not know.
Operating out of Leontios’s barracks would have made him altogether too conspicuous, so he went looking for an inn. He did not notice when the woman emerged from the pottery and hurried after him. The first taverner he tried spoke only Arabic and catered to nomads out of the desert. As Argyros had but a few phrases of Arabic himself, he decided to try somewhere else. Two men were waiting for him when he came outside to retrieve his horse. Something in their stance told him their breed at once: street toughs. He walked past them without a sideways glance, hoping his size would make them choose another victim.
But one grabbed at his arm. “Where you go to, you damned swaggering Melkite?” he grinned, showing bad teeth. He used the eastern heretics’ insulting name for one loyal to the dogmas of Constantinople: it meant “king’s man.”
“None of your concern,” Argyros snapped, shaking off the man’s hand and springing back. With a curse, the ruffian leaped at him, followed by his companion. The magistrianos kicked the first one where it did the most good. Two against one left no time for chivalry. The fellow went down with a wail, clutching at himself and spewing his guts out in the dust.
The other tough had a short bludgeon. Argyros threw up his left arm just in time to keep his head from being broken. He bared his teeth as pain shot through him from elbow to fingertips. His right hand darted to the knife at his belt. “Come on,” he panted. “Even odds now.”
The local was no coward. He waded in, swung again. Argyros ducked and slashed, coming up from below. The point of his dagger ripped through his enemy’s sleeve. He felt the blade slice into flesh. The tough hissed. He was not through, though; he was ready for more fight. Then a woman behind Argyros screamed something in Arabic. The magistrianos did not understand, but his opponent did. He whirled and fled. Argyros chased him, but he knew Daras’s twisting alleyways as an outsider could not, and escaped.
Breathing hard and rubbing his arm, the magistrianos walked back to his horse. He saw what the woman’s shout must have meant, for a squad of Leontios’s soldiers had gathered round the good-for-naught he had leveled. They were prodding the wretch up, none too gently, with the butts of their spears.
Someone who had watched the brawl pointed at Argyros, which drew the squad-leader’s attention.
“You ruin this fellow here?” he demanded.
“Frankly, yes. I was set on for no reason and without warning. He had it coming.” Anger made him careless with his words.
The squad-leader set his hands on his hips. “Talk like you’re the Emperor, don’t you? Anyone else see this little scramble?” He glanced at the swelling crowd.
Argyros’s heart sank. He did not want to go back to Leontios and waste time on explanations, but he was sure the witnesses would side with a man of Daras rather than an obvious stranger. Unexpectedly, though, a woman spoke up for him: “It’s as the tall man says. They attacked him first.”
The squad-leader was as taken aback as the magistrianos. Seizing the initiative, Argyros took him aside and pressed a gold nomisma into his palm, along with some silver to keep his men happy. The trooper pocketed the bribe in a businesslike fashion. “Haul that scum out of here,” he commanded, and his squad dragged the captive off; two men still had to support him. Onlookers began to drift away. Argyros looked around to see if he could spot the woman who had come to his aid. She had been well back in the crowd, and he had not got a glimpse of her face. But he had no doubts, for she waited in the shadow of a building across the street instead of leaving with the rest of the spectators. Above a short veil filmy enough to be no more than token concealment, she looked saucily toward him.
“My thanks,” the magistrianos said, walking over to her. Something beside mere gratitude put warmth in his voice. From tightly curled black hair to gilded sandals beneath henna-soled feet, she was a strikingly attractive woman. Her dark eyes were bright and lively, her mouth, half seen, full-lipped and inviting. The fitted ankle-length robe she wore displayed her figure to the best advantage; even in the shadow in which she stood, the red, gold, and green sequins at her bodice sparkled with each breath she took. She said, “It would be wrong for so brave—and so mighty—a man to find himself in trouble he does not deserve.” Her Greek had a slight throaty accent. That and her costume told Argyros she was of Persian origin. The border between the two empires went back and forth so often that such things were common on both sides.
“Thanks again,” Argyros said; and then, not wanting the conversation to end as abruptly as that, he asked, “Would you happen to know of a decent inn?”
She burst out laughing. “It just so happens that I dance at the hostel of Shahin Bahram’s son. It’s clean enough, and the food is good, if you don’t mind eating Persian fare.” When Argyros shook his head, she said, “Come on, then; I’ll take you there. Bringing you in will make me money, too. I’m Mirrane, by the way.”
The magistrianos gave his own name, but said that he had come from Constantinople as inspector of Daras’s waterworks. The famous system of cisterns and drains and the dam across the nearby Cordes River added greatly to the strength of the town’s fortifications.
“An important man,” she murmured, moving closer to him. “Do you think your horse can carry two?”
“For a little way, certainly.” He helped her mount in front of him; her waist was supple under his hands. When the horse started forward, she leaned back against him and did not try to pull away. It made for an enjoyable ride.
Shahin’s tavern was in the western part of Daras, not far from the church of the Apostle Bartholomew that Justinian had built when he renovated the town’s works. Shahin folded Argyros into a bearhug and called him his lord, his master, his owner—none of which prevented a sharp haggle when it came to the price of a room.