“That’s—quite something,” he said at last; anyone who knew him well would have guessed from his restrained reaction how impressed he was. He took another drink. This time he was better prepared. His eyes watered again, but he swallowed without choking. He asked the innkeeper, “What do you call this drink? And where do you get it? I’ve never had anything like it.”
“Just what I said,” the fellow next to him declared. “Why, I—” He was off on a story Argyros did not want to listen to. Anything new and interesting Argyros wanted to hear about; his fellow drinker’s tale was neither.
Luckily, Priskos was proud of his new stock in trade, and eager to talk about it. “I call it yperoinos, sir.” Superwine was a good name for the stuff, Argyros thought. At his nod, the innkeeper went on, “We make it in the back room of the tavern here. You see I’m an honest man—I don’t tell you it comes from India or Britain.”
A good thing too, Argyros said, but only to himself: I’d know you were lying. No customs men were better at their job or kept more meticulous records than the ones at the imperial capital. If anything as remarkable as this dragon’s brew had entered Constantinople, word would have spread fast. The magistrianos drank some more. Warmth spread from his middle.
He finished the cup and held it out for a refill. “And one for my friend here,” he added a moment later, pointing to the man who had inadvertently introduced him to the potent new drink. He fumbled in his beltpouch for the right coins. They seemed to keep dodging his fingers. By trial and error, he found out how big a draught of superwine he could swallow without choking. The tip of his nose began to turn numb. Usually that was a sign he was getting drunk, but that could hardly be possible, not when he was just finishing his second cup. He could drink all night in a tavern and still handle himself well. Indignant at himself and at his nose, he waved to the innkeeper again. He had not gone far into the third cup when he realized how tight he was. By then it was too late. He prided himself on being a moderate man, but the superwine had snuck up on him. The more he drank, too, the easier the stuff was to drink. Feeling most expansive, he ordered a fresh round for everyone in the place, the taverner included. Cheers rang out. He had never, he thought, drunk with such a splendid lot of fellows.
He fell asleep with a finger’s width of drink still in the bottom of his cup. Anthimos stuck his head into Argyros’s office. “His illustriousness is here to see you,” the secretary declared, and seemed to take mordant pleasure at his boss’s groan. Mordant pleasure, Argyros sometimes thought, was the only kind Anthimos really enjoyed.
George Lakhanodrakon came in while the magistrianos was still pulling himself together. “A fine morning to you, Basil,” the Master of Offices said cheerfully; only the slightest eastern accent flavored his Greek. Then he got a good look at Argyros and at once went from superior to concerned friend. “Good heavens, man! Are you well?”
“I feel exactly like death,” Argyros replied. He spoke quietly, but his voice hurt his ears; his eyes were vein-tracked and found the sun oppressively bright. His mouth tasted as if the sewers had drained through it and, judging by the state of his digestion, maybe they had. He said, “I slept in a tavern last night.”
Lakanodrakon’s jaw fell. “You did what?”
“I know what you’re thinking.” Argyros shook his head and wished he hadn’t. “Aii! I haven’t had a hangover like this since—” He paused, trying to recall the last time he’d hurt himself so badly. The memory brought sudden sharp pain, though it was a dozen years old now: not since he drank with Riario the Italian doctor after his wife and infant son died of smallpox. He forced his mind away from that. “Do you want to hear something truly absurd? I had only four cups.”
Concern returned to the Master of Offices’s face. “And you’re in this state? You ought to see a physician.”
“No, no,” Argyros said impatiently. “The innkeeper told me it was something new and strong.” His eyes went to the icon on the wall, an image of the patron saint of changes. “By St. Mouamet, he wasn’t wrong, either.” He dipped his head and crossed himself, showing respect for the image of the saint. Lakhanodrakon was eyeing the image, too. He was a pious man, but one who also turned his piety to practical ends. “Just as they were in Mouamet’s time, the Persians are stirring again.”
That was plenty to alarm Argyros, decrepit though he felt. “Troops on the move?” he demanded. The Roman Empire and Persia, Christ and Ormazd, were ancient rivals, dueling every generation, it seemed, for mastery in the near east. Few wars were waged on the scale of the one that had forced Mouamet to Constantinople, but any attack would lay provinces waste.
“Nothing quite so bad, praise God,” Lakhanodrakon answered, following Argyros’s thought perfectly.
“There’s trouble in the Caucasus, though.”
“When isn’t there?” Argyros replied and drew a cynical chuckle from the Master of Offices. Precisely because all-out war between them could be so ruinous, Rome and Persia often dueled for advantage on the fringes of their empires, intriguing among the client kings of the mountains between the Black and Caspian seas and the tribal chieftains of the Arabian peninsula. “What have you heard now?” the magistrianos asked.
“It’s Alania,” Lakhanodrakon said; Argyros abruptly realized this was what the Master of Offices had come to see him about. He wished Lakhanodrakon had named a different principality. Alania really mattered to both Rome and Persia, because the most important passes from the Caucasus up into the steppe were there. A prince of Alania who went bad could let the nomads in and channel them toward one empire or the other.
The magistrianos asked, “Is Prince Goarios thinking of going over to sun-worship, then?”
“God may know what Goar is thinking, but I doubt if anyone else does, Goar himself included.”
Lakhanodrakon betrayed his eastern origin by leaving the Greek suffix off the prince’s name. After a moment, the Master of Offices went on, “Truth to tell, I have very little information of any sort coming out of Alania, less than I should. I thought I would send you to find out how things are there.”
“Alania, eh? I’ve never been in the Caucasus,” Argyros murmured. He glanced again at the image of St. Mouamet. His life, it seemed, was about to see one more change.
That thought led to another, as yet only half-formed. “I suppose I’ll go in as a merchant.”
“Whatever you like, of course, Basil.” George Lakhanodrakon valued results more than methods, which made him a good man to work for.
Still thinking out loud, Argyros mused, “I ought to have something new and interesting to sell too, to get me noticed at Goarios’s court.” The magistrianos rubbed his temples; it was hard to make his wits work, with his head pounding the way it was. He snapped his fingers. “I have it! What better than this popskull drink that has me cringing at my own shadow?”
“Is it really as vicious as that?” Lakhanodrakon waved the question aside. “Never mind. I think you have a good idea there, Basil. Nothing would make Goar happier than a new-way to get drunk, unless you could figure out how to bottle a woman’s cleft.”
“If I knew that one, I’d be too rich to work here.” But Argyros, headache or no, focused too quickly and thoroughly on the problem he had been set to leave much room for jokes. “Superwine ought to be a good way to pry answers out of people too; they’re drunk before they know it—I certainly was, anyhow. The more anyone wants to talk or sing or carry on, the more I’ll learn.”