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 gloriously rich purple in color, foamed slightly as he released the contents of the tube into the cup. With evident pride he held it up toward a wall sconce before presenting it to the merchant.
The established protocol of tasting a new wine was simple: swirl, sniff, sip, and spit.
It was somewhere between sniff and sip that Joseph’s face took on a transfixed appearance. He held the liquid in his mouth, closed his eyes, swallowed, then took another mouthful and yet another.
“Was it worth it?” I said, repeating his query back to him.
“I have never tasted such a perfect wine,” he exclaimed. “The elegant and inviting scent … lavender? And the balance between tart and sweet. The smoothness. Extraordinary! Not even from the great vineyards of Dalmatia or Gaul have I tasted such. I taste ripe blackberries and figs and maybe a hint of pepper?”
“And our market?”
“To where they will pay the most,” Joseph said conclusively. “You know how I warn you about the uncertainties of the market in Rome and the dangers of shipping, but this … this!” he said, swirling the wine yet again and swallowing another mouthful. “This is worth the risk. I want the lot, and I want to arrange it today.”
Joseph was a fair, righteous man, and we settled our contract in the same terms I had enjoyed with Judah. As was the custom, at the conclusion of our business we rode back to my home to share a meal together.
The merchant of Arimathea knew my concerns and my questions before I inquired. He waited until my household servant had served us and left the room before he murmured, “I have news about our friend Judah.”
I leaned closer. “Judah! Still alive?”
“A galley slave in a Roman warship. So, for the time being, alive.”
“I will pray for him.”
“Pray his suffering does not last too long.” Joseph spoke the blessing, tore his bread, then dipped it into the hummus. “A man does not escape from such a living hell.”
I pictured the torture my good friend endured: the whip, the hunger, chained night and day belowdecks without relief. “May God have mercy …”
Neither of us talked of the injustice of such a fate. Joseph answered, “Our ancestor Joseph was sold by his brothers as a slave in Egypt. Slandered by a woman, he was put in prison. How many years did Joseph suffer? I have pondered all these things, and the story of a good man’s life