“Yes, of course. I knew in my heart you were the proper man to whom to give this task, Basil. Now my head also sees why that’s so.” It was Lakhanodrakon’s turn to glance again at the icon of St. Mouamet.
“When something new comes up, you know what it’s good for.”
“Thank you, sir.” Argyros knew the Master of Offices was thinking of such things as hellpowder and the archetypes. He did not believe Lakhanodrakon knew of his role in showing that a dose of cow pox could prevent smallpox. He claimed no credit there; losing his family was too high a price for glory. As he had so often before, he shoved that thought down and returned to the business at hand. “I’m off to Priskos’s wineshop, then.”
“Excellent, excellent.” Lakhanodrakon hesitated, added, “Bring back a bottle for me, will you?”
Argyros rode east down the Mese from the Praitorion to the imperial palaces. There he picked up a squad of excubitores, reasoning that Priskos might need persuading to part with the secret of his new drink. Having a few large, muscular persuaders along seemed a good idea. For their part, the imperial bodyguards had trouble believing the assignment that had fallen into their laps.
“You’re taking us to a tavern, sir? On duty?” one trooper said, scrambling to his feet as if afraid Argyros might change his mind. “I thought I’d get orders like that in heaven, but no place else.”
The magistrianos led his little band north through the Augusteion. The morning sun turned the light-brown sandstone exterior of Hagia Sophia to gold. Still, that exterior was plain when compared to the glories within.
The church of St. Mary Hodegetria lay a few furlongs east and north of Hagia Sophia. It was close by the seawall; as he approached, Argyros heard the waves of the Sea of Marmara slap against stone. None of Constantinople was more than a couple of miles from the sea, so that sound pervaded the city, but here it was foreground rather than background.
Argyros had to use the church as a base from which to cast about a bit to find Priskos’s tavern. It was not one of his usual pothouses; he’d stopped in more or less by accident while on his way back to the Praitorion from the seawall gate of St. Barbara. He got no help finding the place from the locals, who had a tendency to disappear as soon as they spotted the gilded shields and long spears the excubitores carried.
The magistrianos spotted an apothecary’s shop and grunted in satisfaction—Priskos’s was only a couple of doors down. Argyros turned to the excubitores. “Follow me in. I’ll stand you all to a couple of drinks. Back me if you need to, but St. Andreas help you if you break the place apart for the sport of it.”
The soldiers loudly promised good behavior. Knowing the breed, Argyros also knew how little promises meant. He hoped for the best and hoped Priskos would cooperate.
The taverner was sweeping the floor when Argyros came in. So early in the day, only a couple of customers were in the place, nodding over winecups. Looking up from his work, Priskos recognized the magistrianos. “Good morning to you, sir,” he said, smiling. “How are you tod—” He stopped abruptly, the smile freezing on his face, as the excubitores tramped in and plunked themselves down at a pair of tables.
“Fetch my friends a jar of good Cypriot, if you’d be so kind,” Argyros said. To remove any possible misunderstanding, he handed Priskos a tremissis, a thin gold coin worth a third of a nomisma. “I expect this will even pay for two jars, since they’ll likely empty the first.”
“I think it should,” Priskos said dryly; for a man still in his twenties, he did not show much of what he was thinking. He brought the jar and eight cups on a large tray; while he was serving the excubitores, one of his other customers took the opportunity to sidle out the door.
Once the soldiers were attended to, Priskos turned back to Argyros. “And now, sir, what can I do for your” His tone was wary, no longer professionally jolly.
Argyros gave his name and title. Priskos looked warier yet; no one, no matter how innocent, wanted a magistrianos prying into his affairs. Argyros said, “I’d be grateful if you showed me how you make your yperoinos.”
“I knew it! I knew it!” Try as he would, the innkeeper could no longer keep frustrated rage from his voice. “Just when I begin to work my trade up to where I can feed my family and me with it, somebody with a fancy rank comes to steal it from me.”
The excubitores started to get up from their seats. Argyros waved them down. “You misunderstand. What stock of yours I buy, I will pay for,” he told Priskos. “If you use some process only you know (as I daresay you do, for I’ve had nothing like your superwine, and I’ve traveled from Ispania to Mesopotamia), the fisc will pay, and pay well, I promise. Can’t you see, man, what a boon such a strong drink could be to those in my service?”
“Pay, you say? How much?” Priskos still sounded scornful, but calculation had returned to this eyes. “By St. Andreas, sir, I’d not sell my secret to another taverner for a copper follis less than two pounds of gold.”
“A hundred forty-four nomismata, eh? You’d only get so much once or twice, I think; after that, people who wanted to learn would be able to pit those who knew against one another and lower the price. Still—” Argyros paused and asked, “Do you read and write?”
Priskos nodded.
“Good. Fetch me a pen and a scrap of parchment, aye, and a candle too, for wax.” When Argyros had the implements, he scrawled a few lines, then held the candle over the bottom of the parchment until several drops of wax fell. He thrust the signet ring he wore on his right index finger into the little puddle.
“Here. It’s no imperial chrysobull with a golden seal, but the staff at the offices of the Count of the Sacred Largesses, in whose charge the mint is, should accept it. Ask especially for Philip Kantakouzenos; he will recognize my hand.”
The taverner’s lips moved as he worked his way through the document. Argyros knew when he got to the key phrase, for he stopped reading. “Four pounds of gold!” he exclaimed. He studied the magistrianos with narrowed eyes. “You swear this is no fraud to deceive me?”
“By the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, by the Virgin, by St. Andreas who watches over the city, by St. Mouamet whom I have come to recognize as my own patron, I swear it. May they damn me to hell if I lie,” Argyros said solemnly. He crossed himself. So did Priskos and a couple of the excubitores. The innkeeper tugged at his beard for a moment, then tucked the document inside his tunic. “I’m your man. You deal fairly with me, and I will with you.” He held out his hand. Argyros shook it. “Good enough. Maybe you’ll fetch these good fellows that second jar of Cypriot, then, and show me what there is to see.”
Priskos set the wine before the soldiers, then went to a door at the back of the taproom. It had, Argyros saw, a stouter lock than the one that let out to the street. Priskos took a key from his belt. The lock clicked open. “Right this way, sir.”
Argyros felt his head start to swim as he stepped in. A small fire burned in a stone hearth sunk in the center of the floor. Above it hung a cauldron that, by the smell, was full of hot wine. The combination of heat and wine fumes was overpowering.
Over and around the cauldron was a copper contraption, a large cone of thin metal. The hearth’s high walls shielded most of it from direct exposure to the fire. The bottom of the cone had a lip that curved inward and lay in a basin of water shaped to match it.