Black Water

“And this concoction, what did you call it again?” Duke Galbaio twisted his over-worked mustache, the hairs curling much like the steam rising from the silver cup atop the table before him.

“It has many names, my lord. To the locals, it is known as kahveh. Our men have taken to calling it black water.”

The Duke picked up the cup and swirled, his bristly eyebrow arching with suspicion. “Is it supposed to be so hot?”

“As hot as one can stand it, my lord,” affirmed the young captain.

Duke Galbaio brought the cup under his nose and took a sniff, his thick nostrils widening like a pair of sails catching the wind.

The Captain smiled. “Good aroma, no?”

“The smell is…unique.” The Duke’s nose hovered over the cup and widened again. “Earthy.” Another sniff. “Floral, too. It salivates the tongue.”

“Try it, my lord. I can assure you, it is quite invigorating.”

The Duke tipped the cup up to his mouth, slurping the liquid between pursed lips. His face soured, and for a moment, the Captain thought he my spit it out. But after swallowing, the Duke’s chin scrunched with thought.

“What do you think, sire?”

“An acquired taste, certainly.” He stole another guarded sip. “But why drink such a thing when one could just as easily be warmed by mulled wine?”

“An excellent question,” said the Captain. “I would, however, recommend you finish the entire cup. Black water has an effect unlike wine in every way.”

The Duke huffed. “An assassin would have no easier time to poison his lord, huh, Alvise?”

“If Black water is poison, then I would have already met San Pietro at the golden gates.”

Duke Galbaio took a larger drink; this time his face lacked any sign of distaste. “You know this, kahveh did you say it was—” Captain Alvise nodded “—does grow on the palate. A perhaps pleasant, early-year beverage. Tell me, how does the drink taste cold.”

“Black water is best enjoyed hot, my lord.”

He allowed himself a couple mild gulps. “Hmm, that’s all well and good, but tis springtime; come summer, who could bear to scald their lips on such an oppressively hot drink?”

“Just wait for the effects, my lord. Then you may understand.”

“As you say. Tell me again how you came to acquire these fruits.”

“Beans, my lord, roasted beans. They have traveled far, all the way from Arabia Felix, in the heartland of the Muslims.”

The Captain rose from his chair and refilled the Duke’s cup with steaming liquid. “We intercepted a vessel of Barbary pirates in the Ionian Sea. They nearly gave us the slip, but with some deft seamanship, our boat was able to run them down southeast of Siracusa.”

“Blasted pirates,” blustered the Duke. “I hope you destroyed the lot of them.”

“Indeed. No quarter given. Greedy sods had a hold full of stolen goods. They may have gained speed, gotten away even if they’d had but the fortitude to throw any of it overboard.”

“Here’s to avarice.” The Duke brought up the cup and slurped.

“Among the hold we found Greek wine, Genovesi slaves—”

“Christian slaves?” blustered the Duke, kahveh spilling from his cup as he straightened with indignation in his seat. Luckily, his black silk toga seemed to swallow the stains.

“Yes, my lord. Tis the way of the savage. The slaves made port with us and were directed to the safe auspicious of the church. They are in God’s hands now.” For good measure, the Captain placed the mark of the cross over his chest. It was always wise to demonstrate piety, especially before such highborn company.

“Well done, Captain.”

“Many thanks, my lord. Now, as I was saying. Greek wine, Genovesi slaves, a sizable cask of cardamom, assorted sundries and loot, and a substantial amount of kahveh bundles.”

The Captain took a moment to straighten his fleece shirt. “Twas here that the Genovesi slaves proved most useful. They’d seen the crew brew the beans. It is only a matter of crushing them, adding boiling water, and filtering the residue from the liquid.

“With such a long journey ahead of us, and such copious amounts of kahveh beans available, it didn’t take long for the crew to partake. Needless to say, its virtues soon became apparent. Black water invigorates, washes away fatigue, fortifies one from the cold, and leaves no trace of hangover or sickness.”

The Duke’s leg bounced excitedly, his red face flushed with heat. “Yes, I’m beginning to feel it. Quite invigorating. Perhaps it has also opened my eyes. The reason for this meeting has suddenly become quite clear.”

“Sire?”

“Your wish is to garner rights over these kahveh beans. Or do I misspeak?”

The Captain’s yellow teeth shone through his parting lips. “Not wholly, my lord. It was first and foremost my wish to appraise you of the situation and to then, of course, allow you a percentage of the…” he paused, “justly liberated goods.”

“Be weary of avarice, my young Captain. It is perhaps the most intoxicating of the seven deadly sins.” Duke Galbaio leaned back in the chair, eyes downcast as he watched the drink swirl in his cup. He spoke without lifting his gaze. “All the same, I’m glad you came to me. I will take the cardamom off your hands. Tis sure coin in pocket.”

“And the beans, my lord?” The Captain felt his toes ache from leaning forward.

The Duke lifted his eyes. “Fifteen percent. A fair figure. I give you the rights to the rest of your ‘justly liberated’ cargo. In return, I expect a fifteen percent share on the sale of all goods therein.”

“Most fair, sire.”

The Captain tilted his head in thanks, his mind already buzzing with schemes. Sailing was his job, numbers his forte. Convoluted receipts, under reported earnings, spoiled cargo manifests, these were just a few tried and true ways of making profits disappear. With any luck, Captain Alvise could escape the majority of the Duke’s percentage. Twas the Veneziana way, after all.

The Duke’s sausage fingers tapped the table, thumping the wood like pile drivers. “I must say, my heart is racing like a stallion in heat. Perhaps this black water has some merit. Though, it must be said, Alvise, that kahveh is not but a novelty. Sell it, enjoy your profits. Let such things have their time in the sun.”

The varnished chair creaked under him as he repositioned with a wry smirk. “Yet heed my words, black water will never catch on. You’re not the first to try and turn lead into gold, though countless have tried. Have your beans and my blessing. Now, be gone. I have other matters.”

The Duke belched as Captain Alvise took his leave, forcing the sailor to bow to his patron, suffocating in a horrific miasma of bitter coffee and sour wine. Excitement quickened his pace, leading him at speed through the Duke’s villa, enraptured by a single thought: Lord Galbaio had given him the rights to kahveh.

The Duke’s lack of foresight was Alvise’s gift. Black water would change the world. He could see it now, the potential it held. Sleep-deprived priests fighting fatigue in a scriptorium, impotent playboys reinvigorated for another round of carnal pleasures, weary soldiers instantly reenergized for battle, what the world would be willing to pay for such power—or at least its purported promise.

His current supply would be the seed from which he grew his empire. Give them a taste, get them hooked, then purchase more ships and import further beans from abroad. First the peninsula, then the Franks, Germania, Polonia, even the Britons. All would want black water. Captain Alvise reached up to rub his cheeks, sore from smiling.

He made his way down the bustling streets of Venesia, blissfully immune to the putrid stank rising from the canals and the calls of beggars for coin and food. When he arrived home, Alvise would put in motion his plans, find distributors and clientele to begin his empire.

But as he opened the door, Alvise felt the weight of a long day tugging at his mind, clouding his thoughts, leeching his movements of haste. The empire could wait. First things first, a cup of kahveh to set him straight.