"Black wine?" asked Publius, with respect.
"Black as tar, and sweet smelling as nectar. Ho! Fortunata! for this wine bring summer glasses, cups of crystal, and bring too the whitest snow from the ice-tub."
Fortunata brought in two glasses. Her healthy face was of a dull pallor like thick cream, and with her came in the smell of country freshness, milk, and manure.
The landlord gazed at the bottle amorously, and kissed its neck; then with caution he raised the waxen seal. The wine flowed black and odorous in a thick jet, dissolving the snow, while the crystal of the cups became dull and cloudy under the action of cold.
Thereupon Scuda, who had pretensions to learning (he was capable of confusing Hecuba with Hecate), declaimed proudly the only line of Martial he could remember—
Candida nigrescant vetulo crystalla Falerno!
"Wait a moment. Here is something still better," and Syrax plunged his hand into his pocket, drew thence a minute flask carved out of onyx, and with a sensual smile poured into the wine a drop of precious Arabian cinnamon. The drop fell, and, like a creaming pearl, melted into the black liquor. A strangely heavy perfume filled the room.
While the tribune was slowly drinking, Syrax made a clacking noise with his tongue, murmuring, "The wines of Biblos, of Lesbos, of Lathea in Chios, of Icaria ... are less than nothing to this wine!"
Night was falling. Scuda gave the order to get ready to march. The legionaries began putting on their armour, fastened the greave protecting the right leg, and took up bucklers and lances. When they entered the outer hall, the Icarian shepherds, who were brigands rather than shepherds, seated near the fire, rose respectfully before the Roman tribune. Scuda, full of a sense of his own rank and valour, felt the blood burning in his veins and his head buzzing with the effect of the marvellous liquor.
On the threshold a man approached him. He wore a strange oriental costume—a white tunic, striped with broad red bands, and on his head a high head-dress of woven camel's hair, and a towering Persian tiara. Scuda halted. The visage of the Mede was finely cut, lengthy and meagre, and yellow of hue rather than olive. The narrow and piercing eyes sparkled maliciously, but all his movements were calm and majestic. He was one of those wandering magicians who haughtily declared themselves Chaldeans, seers, and mathematicians. He announced to the tribune that his name was Nogodarès. Sojourning by chance with Syrax, he was travelling from the distant Hyrcania towards the coasts of the Ionian sea, to meet the celebrated warlock philosopher, Maximus of Ephesus. The magician begged for authority to prove his art and to divine the happy fortune of the tribune.