Theodosius I Roman Bronze Coins: History and Story

Damaris had already lifted the lamp from the passage when someone knocked. She held it above her head and considered how long a traveler could knock before discovering that an inn had other doors.

The answer was longer than she could tolerate.

A man stood outside with a wet cloak folded over one arm. He was smiling with the effort of someone determined to make a reasonable request.

“A bed,” he said.

“Tomorrow.”

“For tonight.”

“They are occupied tonight.”

He glanced beyond her at the passage, where six closed doors appeared to contradict her. Damaris could have explained the doors. One room contained jars, one belonged to her, and one held a merchant who had paid extra not to hear explanations through the wall. She was tired of making the building intelligible to strangers.

The man opened his hand. Several small bronze coins lay across his palm. On the uppermost, an emperor’s profile caught the lamp’s light.

“I can pay.”

“That is useful when there is a bed.”

From the quiet room came a cough, followed by the soft scrape of a stool. The merchant was awake. Damaris lowered her voice.

“The stable is dry in one corner. No lamp. Nothing near the animals.”

The traveler looked at his cloak. “I have a letter to copy before morning.”

“Then you should have arrived before evening.”

She regretted it before he answered. His face did not change, but he closed his hand around the coins. He had probably been told several things he should have done already.

Damaris opened the door wider.

“You may sit beside the kitchen lamp. Until I put it out.”

He thanked her too quickly and stepped inside. He called himself Marcellus. His bundle contained a writing case, a spare tunic, and almost nothing that would account for the weight of the cloak. He draped the cloak where she told him and sat carefully, keeping his elbows clear of the table’s damp patches.

She chose one of his bronze coins for the lamp oil. The little portrait had a blunt nose, or a bad strike that made it seem blunt. Turning it did not improve the face. She set it beside the lamp and went to bolt the courtyard gate.

When she returned, the merchant stood at the kitchen door.

“This was to be a quiet house.”

“It is quiet.”

“There is a stranger writing.”

“He is writing quietly.”

The merchant wore his sleeping tunic with the formal gravity of a man presenting a document. “You agreed there would be no disturbance.”

Damaris looked at Marcellus. He had stopped writing. His hand remained on the case, ready to put everything away.

For the price the merchant had paid, she could buy several mornings free of worry. For the price Marcellus had paid, she could buy some oil. Neither sum persuaded the lamp to burn without making a little sound.

“I agreed that you would have the room,” she said. “And that I would keep the passage quiet.”

The merchant stood back. “You are making distinctions.”

“Yes.”

He had no immediate answer to that. Damaris took the stool from the kitchen doorway and placed it against the inside wall. “Sit down if you wish. You may see how much noise he makes.”

To her surprise, he sat.

For a while there were only the small movements of Marcellus’s hand. Damaris trimmed the wick. The merchant watched the writing case as though its silence had been arranged to insult him.

Then he said, “That name has two letters reversed.”

Marcellus looked down.

“It is the name I was given.”

“It is still wrong.”

“I cannot change the person who receives the letter.”

The merchant leaned closer. “What town?”

Marcellus told him. The merchant repeated the name with the letters in their other order, explaining that one family used an old spelling. He knew because he had once delivered a parcel to the wrong house and spent half a day retrieving it.

“Then I should leave it?” Marcellus asked.

“You should put the street underneath.”

Damaris turned away so they would not see her expression. The merchant began describing the street. Marcellus asked him to slow down.

By the time the copy was finished, the kitchen lamp had burned lower than Damaris intended. Marcellus packed his case and rose. The merchant got up too.

“The room next to mine,” he said. “You said it was empty.”

“I said it had jars in it.”

“A man can sleep beside jars.”

“A man can also sleep beside animals.”

The merchant looked at her, recognizing his own stubbornness in a less expensive form.

“I will help move them,” he said.

They carried the jars into the passage without striking one against another. Marcellus spread his spare tunic beneath his head. The merchant returned to his room, pausing to warn him against using the street’s newer name on the outside of the letter.

Damaris brought the lamp back into the kitchen. Beside it, the bronze emperor still had his blunt nose. She swept the coin into her purse, bolted the door, and left the writing stool where it was.