Maximian Quarter Nummus: Tetrarchy, Abdication and Coin History

Daria had brought her own bed. Faustinus had imagined a chest, some clothes, perhaps the cracked jug she refused to throw away. Now two men stood in his courtyard holding a bedstead between them, and Daria was telling them to turn it sideways.

“It went through my door,” she said.

“Your door is wider,” Faustinus said.

“Then we have learned something already.”

One of the men laughed. Faustinus did not. He had swept the house, repaired the roof above the sleeping room and bought a new lamp. For three weeks he had been trying to remember whether there was anything else a woman needed. He had not thought of a second bed.

The house stood outside Mediolanum, far enough from the road that Daria had called it quiet. She had liked the fig tree best. He had taken her liking for the tree, the quiet and himself together, without examining their proportions.

“Put it down,” she told the men. “We can carry the pieces.”

Her daughter Leontia came through the gate with a basket. She looked at the bed, then at Faustinus.

“I told her to ask you first.”

Daria took the basket. “And I told you I was bringing my bed.”

Faustinus found the small bronze coins he had set aside for the carriers. One showed an emperor’s head beneath a wreath. He gave it over without looking further. The men waited while Daria checked that all the wooden pieces had arrived; then they left, delighted to have finished before another piece of furniture appeared.

Leontia had brought food for the evening. Faustinus had also bought food. They discovered this while unpacking, with the bed blocking half the courtyard.

“Then tomorrow is provided for,” he said.

“Will you stay?” Daria asked her daughter.

“I have three children waiting.”

“Bring them another day.”

Leontia tightened the empty basket’s handle in her hands. “You used to say that every day.”

Daria’s face changed. Faustinus looked toward the house. A conversation he had no part in could still make him feel responsible.

“I shall still come,” Daria said.

“It’s a walk.”

“Yes.”

Leontia kissed her mother. She asked Faustinus whether the roof leaked. He told her where it had leaked and what he had done. She seemed to prefer this answer to an assurance. At the gate she turned back.

“Don’t let her carry all of that herself.”

“She hasn’t let me carry any of it yet,” he said.

When they were alone, Daria began untying a bundle. Faustinus stopped her.

“Where do you want the bed?”

“The small room.”

“That is where I keep my tools.”

“I saw it when you showed me the house.”

“You saw the tools too.”

“I thought they could move.”

He had shown her the sleeping room as well. She had stood in its doorway, said that it caught the morning light, and gone on to look at the tree. He remembered the visit with an accuracy that did him no good.

“I have made room beside me,” he said.

“I know.”

He waited. She laid the untied cloth flat so the contents would not spill.

“I have slept alone for eleven years,” she said. “I wanted to come here. I still want somewhere I can shut a door.”

“Against me?”

“Sometimes. Against everyone, sometimes.”

He went into the small room. It smelled of wood and oil. His tools hung on the wall; unfinished work occupied the table. He could move the tools, but the table was too large for the passage, and he would have to take it apart. That had not seemed an inconvenience when the table belonged there.

Daria followed him as far as the doorway.

“You can tell me I misunderstood.”

“You did.”

“Then I can take the bed home.”

He wanted her to argue. If she argued, he could argue back until one of them discovered the right answer. Instead she waited. Beyond her shoulder he could see the courtyard, with her belongings arranged so carefully that each bundle left room for a person to pass.

“You have a house,” she said. “I gave mine up. I should have asked about the room. But I cannot begin by having nowhere that is mine.”

He sat on the edge of the table. A splinter caught his palm. He pulled it out, annoyed at himself for sitting where he would never permit anyone else to sit.

“The table must be dismantled,” he said.

“Yes.”

“The tools cannot lie in the courtyard.”

“No.”

“You could help find a place for them.”

“I could.”

She sounded relieved, but did not smile. He was grateful for that.

They put the tools in a chest beneath the covered part of the courtyard. Daria wanted to hang several from nails; he refused to leave them there overnight. She accepted the chest and made him carry its heavier end. Then he loosened the table’s joints while she held the top steady.

By evening her bed was assembled. His table leaned in pieces against a wall. He would need to make a shelter for it, and work outside until he did. He had expected the house to be improved by her arrival. He had not expected to lose a room.

They ate beneath the fig tree. Daria had unpacked her cracked jug and placed it on the ground between them. He poured too quickly and wet his sandal.

“You must tilt it the other way,” she said.

“It leaks.”

“Only when you pour badly.”

He looked at her. She smiled then, and he laughed despite the wet leather.

Later she stood outside his door with the new lamp. “Where do you want this?”

“Here.”

She put it down and remained beside him for a while. When she went to her own room, he heard the door close. He lay awake, listening to her move things on the other side of the wall, and tried to guess which thing she would want him to move tomorrow.