1.118

The Son of Rome

“There are four stages to this synthesis. Four that I’ve observed, at any rate – four phases that the kyrios could compress into a single pour. We’ll have to use a furnace.”

Socrates hadn’t wasted a moment. As soon as I’d surrendered the golden cup of wine to him, he’d pulled a squat stone furnace from a fold within his rags and heaved it down over an open flame.

“Greater men than you and I have tried and failed to make reason of this drink. The kyrios shared it only sparingly, and those he shared it with could hardly be counted on to pull a list of ingredients from their experiences. If such a list did exist, he likely took it with him to the Underworld. We venture now into uncharted waters.”

The man they called the Scholar had spent years in the Half-Step City, serving as the Tyrant Riot’s personal advisor – for whatever that position was worth to a man like Bakkhos. From what I’d come to learn of the man, it seemed more likely that he enjoyed Socrates’ company and kept the philosopher around for his own amusement rather than any desire for advice. Regardless of the reason, Socrates had enjoyed a place of prominence in the mad king’s court for decades.

He’d seen Bakkhos brew his nectar countless times, and he’d heard him speak of it in those rare moments when the Tyrant Riot tended towards generosity. His insight was the next best thing to a recipe.

“Before the blackening, we must first rinse our cup.”

The Gadfly had first drawn a bronze jug from the pile of reagents on the cave’s floor. He’d dipped a white cloth into it that emerged silver-gray and wet, shimmering in the low fire light. Then he’d scrubbed the basin of the furnace until every portion was coated by the metallic substance.

“The kyrios’ thirst was an infamous thing – whether it was for gambling, games, or drink, there was little he wouldn’t do to have his cravings satiated. At the points where those individual desires converged, he became truly rabid. There was little he wouldn’t give to someone who could satisfy all of his desires at once, even if it was only for a moment.

“Each year when it came time to conduct the Raging Heaven’s rites, the kyrios would lay a wager at the feet of all his Elders. The terms were the same every time: A would-be initiate only had to venture a few steps alone into the storm crown to secure their admittance to the cult, that was the standard practice. However. If any of them could reach the peak of Kaukoso Mons, and if they could bring back proof that they’d done it, he would make a hero of them. He would reward both them and their faction’s Elder with a cup of purest nectar, to drink or give out as they wished.

“As long as I’ve been here, I’ve never seen anyone accomplish it. Each time when it became clear that their candidates had all failed yet again, the kyrios would offer his Elders the privilege of attempting the challenge for themselves. When they all refused, he’d venture up himself. Each time he’d drain his cup before vanishing into the storm.

“And each time he would return, his cup brimming to its edges with liquid lead.”

The first material needed to begin the synthesis –

“Prima materia.”

– was liquid lead.

The bronze jar of liquid metal had been a gift from the Gadfly, though he wouldn’t tell me what the gift had been given for nor when the kyrios had given it to him.

When the fire beneath the furnace had reached the lead, bubbling it and throwing off unpleasant vapors, the Gadfly had carefully poured a portion of the golden cup of wine into the stone basin. Then, before the lead and wine could fully mingle, he’d added a handful of coal black salt to the mixture.

“Now begins the first phase – the blackening.”

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He’d pulled a lead spoon and a glossy black feather from his rags and used the spoon to stir the foul mixture while the feather balanced on the furnace rim. And then he’d settled in to wait.

And wait.

[Raven.]

“… You said the kyrios could compress this into a single pour.”

“I did.”

“How?”

“If I knew, I’d have done it that way already.”

Finally, after an untold number of hours and days watching the dark mixture simmer, adding more salt and wine as it reduced down, the Gadfly had declared the color close enough and moved on to the next phase of the process.