suspicion or interference from the Roman government.
Today’s meeting was intended to ask Joseph’s advice on pricing and marketing. We met in the storage caverns hacked out by my grandfather beneath the limestone hills.
The air at the surface sweltered with the midday sun, and I felt sweat trickling between my shoulders. But once inside the first bend in the tunnel leading downward, the atmosphere was noticeably cooler.
“Instant relief,” Joseph remarked with admiration, “and the same all year round.” He had visited my underground warehousebefore and never failed to comment on how perfect it was for storing wine.
Samson stepped forward from the shadows to greet us. His wizened face and bent form suggested a barrel stave brought to life. “Always the same, if I may say so, your worship. It may boil or freeze out there,” he jerked his head upward, “but the life of the vine rests in comfort beneath.”
“Ah, Samson, still here I see, and as poetic as ever. Another year, another vintage, but like fine wine, you just get better with time.”
My vintner beamed his gap-toothed smile under Joseph’s praise. “Your pardon, sir,” he corrected, “but the best wines don’t really get better, they just get … different. A great vintage possesses fine qualities throughout its life but chooses to reveal them gradually as time passes.”
“Samson has no need to prove his value any more than he has already,” I said. “However, as I think you’ll see, he’s still revealing new abilities.”
“Just a suggestion I made,” the steward demurred. “Really the master’s doing. This way, gentlemen, if you please. This way.”
Leading us onward with a crablike, sideways shuffle, Samson directed our course past a series of side tunnels, each devoted to some aspect of my craft. In one rested the great fermenting casks.
In another branch, dimly seen by the light of a single flickering oil lamp, already filled shipping amphorae were being packed in straw-filled crates. Like shadowy wraiths, a pair of barely seen workers carried out their task. Their movements were hushed by the spilled stubble underfoot. Though never ordered to do so, even their conversation was carried on in hushed tones.
The entry to the third side passage was more brightly illuminated. Racks of wooden barrels higher than our heads formed a canyon stretching away in the darkness, like a corridor reaching through time toward an unseen future.
In the middle of the space rested a single barrel lying on its side in a cradle. The bung hole used for topping up the wine and for sampling the contents was already open. A glass chalice and a glass tube rested on a table.
Joseph sniffed the air. “Love the aroma in your storage caverns,” he said. “But something’s different … what?”
Samson was almost skipping from side to side in his eagerness, but like the good servant he was, he deferred to me until I gave him permission to explain. “It’s these barrels, if you please, sir,” he suggested, grasping an oil lamp and bringing it near the staves. “See how much tighter is the grain, sir? And more uniform in color, not so streaky? Shall I tell him, sir?”
I grinned and waved for him to proceed.
“It’s not acacia, sir,” Samson said. “It’s oak. The master paid for all new barrels two years ago.”
“And the reason for this extravagant innovation?” Joseph questioned.
I took up the reasoning. “For one, it lets us age the wine longer. You know that more than a few months in acacia gives the wine a yellow tinge and a sharp aroma.”
In his enthusiasm Samson shrugged off the leash of subservience. “Two years,” he noted with pride. “Two years in these barrels. Topped off every month by me personally to make up for the angels’ share.”
“And was it worth it?” Joseph inquired.
“That’s why you’re here,” I said, indicating that Samson should plunge the pipette into the barrel and withdraw a sample.
The wine, a
Today’s meeting was intended to ask Joseph’s advice on pricing and marketing. We met in the storage caverns hacked out by my grandfather beneath the limestone hills.
The air at the surface sweltered with the midday sun, and I felt sweat trickling between my shoulders. But once inside the first bend in the tunnel leading downward, the atmosphere was noticeably cooler.
“Instant relief,” Joseph remarked with admiration, “and the same all year round.” He had visited my underground warehousebefore and never failed to comment on how perfect it was for storing wine.
Samson stepped forward from the shadows to greet us. His wizened face and bent form suggested a barrel stave brought to life. “Always the same, if I may say so, your worship. It may boil or freeze out there,” he jerked his head upward, “but the life of the vine rests in comfort beneath.”
“Ah, Samson, still here I see, and as poetic as ever. Another year, another vintage, but like fine wine, you just get better with time.”
My vintner beamed his gap-toothed smile under Joseph’s praise. “Your pardon, sir,” he corrected, “but the best wines don’t really get better, they just get … different. A great vintage possesses fine qualities throughout its life but chooses to reveal them gradually as time passes.”
“Samson has no need to prove his value any more than he has already,” I said. “However, as I think you’ll see, he’s still revealing new abilities.”
“Just a suggestion I made,” the steward demurred. “Really the master’s doing. This way, gentlemen, if you please. This way.”
Leading us onward with a crablike, sideways shuffle, Samson directed our course past a series of side tunnels, each devoted to some aspect of my craft. In one rested the great fermenting casks.
In another branch, dimly seen by the light of a single flickering oil lamp, already filled shipping amphorae were being packed in straw-filled crates. Like shadowy wraiths, a pair of barely seen workers carried out their task. Their movements were hushed by the spilled stubble underfoot. Though never ordered to do so, even their conversation was carried on in hushed tones.
The entry to the third side passage was more brightly illuminated. Racks of wooden barrels higher than our heads formed a canyon stretching away in the darkness, like a corridor reaching through time toward an unseen future.
In the middle of the space rested a single barrel lying on its side in a cradle. The bung hole used for topping up the wine and for sampling the contents was already open. A glass chalice and a glass tube rested on a table.
Joseph sniffed the air. “Love the aroma in your storage caverns,” he said. “But something’s different … what?”
Samson was almost skipping from side to side in his eagerness, but like the good servant he was, he deferred to me until I gave him permission to explain. “It’s these barrels, if you please, sir,” he suggested, grasping an oil lamp and bringing it near the staves. “See how much tighter is the grain, sir? And more uniform in color, not so streaky? Shall I tell him, sir?”
I grinned and waved for him to proceed.
“It’s not acacia, sir,” Samson said. “It’s oak. The master paid for all new barrels two years ago.”
“And the reason for this extravagant innovation?” Joseph questioned.
I took up the reasoning. “For one, it lets us age the wine longer. You know that more than a few months in acacia gives the wine a yellow tinge and a sharp aroma.”
In his enthusiasm Samson shrugged off the leash of subservience. “Two years,” he noted with pride. “Two years in these barrels. Topped off every month by me personally to make up for the angels’ share.”
“And was it worth it?” Joseph inquired.
“That’s why you’re here,” I said, indicating that Samson should plunge the pipette into the barrel and withdraw a sample.
The wine, a
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