Gratian AE2 Bronze Coins: Imperial History, Reverse and Story

The man wanted a different coin from the one Neratia had given him that morning. He put it beside the bread and kept his finger on Gratian’s face.

“I can’t spend this now.”

“Who told you?”

“The potter.”

“Ask him to come here.”

“He says the emperor is dead.”

Neratia looked beyond the man toward the other stalls. Two people were standing close to the potter, speaking with their heads bent. It had been that sort of morning in Lugdunum: someone arrived running, someone went away slowly, everyone knew more than they had heard.

The man lifted his finger. “I paid you with coins you accepted. Give me change somebody else will take.”

She could see his point. She could also see three people behind him beginning to examine their own money.

Her son, Severus, reached for the coin. “We can exchange this one.”

“Then exchange mine,” said a woman behind the man.

Neratia caught her son’s hand before it reached the till. He pulled away, angry that she had stopped him like a child.

“Let me hear what happened,” she said.

“The emperor was killed.”

“Did the potter see it?”

The man stared at her. “People have seen it.”

“Which people?”

He swept the coin off the counter. “Keep your bread.”

He had already eaten what he bought earlier. Neratia had not meant to accuse him of lying. She had wanted a name, a statement she could turn over as she turned over a coin. But the difference mattered very little once he was walking away.

Severus began sorting the till. He put the portraits he recognized in separate piles. There were faces worn almost smooth and names cut off at the edges. Gratian’s pile grew steadily.

“This is most of it,” he said.

“I can see.”

“We should close.”

“And do what with the bread?”

“Eat it.”

“For how many days?”

He pushed a loaf toward the back of the stall. “Better than exchanging everything and having nothing left.”

That was what she had been afraid of. She had hoped he would say something foolish, so she could be the experienced one.

Neratia went to the potter. He was wrapping bowls, not selling them. When he saw her he put his cloth down.

“I have heard nothing official,” he said before she asked.

“Then why refuse the money?”

“Because I need clay, wood, food. Will you promise that everyone will accept it tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Neither can I.”

On his board stood a jug Neratia had wanted for months. Its lip was shaped so cleanly she had imagined pouring from it without spilling. He was wrapping that too. His hands were gray with dried clay. He had made things that people needed, and still needed other people to take his money.

“I sent you a customer,” he said.

“You sent him back.”

“Yes.”

They stood in silence. Neratia could have bought the jug with bread. She thought of asking, then of Severus sorting the till. She went back without it.

A girl was waiting at the stall, holding a coin in both hands. Severus had told her they were not selling just then. She had taken that to mean waiting might help.

“Which one have you?” Neratia asked.

The girl showed her. Gratian again. Neratia remembered giving it to the girl’s father in change two days before.

Severus watched her.

Neratia took the coin and passed the girl a loaf. The child put the loaf beneath her arm and went away, pleased to have done what she had been sent to do.

“You’ve made the pile bigger,” Severus said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I gave her father that money myself.”

“That doesn’t make it safe.”

“No.”

He looked at her as if she had left a sentence unfinished. She had. There were things she could promise about her bread. She had flour enough for another baking, but not enough for several days if the money stopped moving. She could take a coin back without knowing what would happen to it afterward.

“Sell what’s baked,” she said. “Don’t promise tomorrow’s price.”

By afternoon some customers had come and others had turned away. One man wanted to pay less because of the portrait. Another asked whether she knew something the potter did not. She told him she knew how much flour she had left. He laughed, then bought nothing.

Severus sold beside her. He no longer separated the coins as each one arrived. That did not mean he had ceased worrying. Twice she saw him count the loaves behind them.

Near closing, the flour seller came past carrying an empty sack. Neratia stopped him.

“I’ll need flour tomorrow.”

He looked at the coins on her board. “So will everyone.”

“Will you take those?”

“I don’t know yet.”

She nodded toward the remaining bread. “Your sister buys from me.”

“She has a houseful.”

“Take these to her. Bring me what flour you’ll exchange for them in the morning. Agree with me now.”

He counted the loaves. He wanted more than Neratia thought fair. They argued until Severus began covering the stall and told them the light would be gone before either of them became generous.

The flour seller laughed first. They settled the exchange. Neratia helped him fit the bread into the sack, keeping the softest loaf away from the knot.

When he left, the coins were still there. So was most of her uncertainty.

Severus gathered the till. “You might have traded for that jug.”

“I know.”

“It would have been easier to carry.”

“Tomorrow you can carry the flour.”

He picked up the empty bread basket and put it over his head. Through its weave she could just see his expression. “Will anyone recognize me?”

“Not if you stop talking,” Neratia said, and took the basket from him before he walked into the potter’s board.