Theodosius II Small Bronze Coins: History, Cross Types and Story

Anysia asked whether Demetrios had ever landed at the stone steps opposite. He said yes before remembering that his father had always been holding the steering oar.

“The lower steps,” she said. “My sister will be waiting.”

“I know them.”

She put a covered basket in the boat. It was heavy enough to make him wonder what she had left unsaid. Then she stepped down, holding the gunwale as though she knew exactly how little help he had given her.

His father was away fetching timber. This was Demetrios’s first afternoon taking passengers alone on the water outside Constantinople. He had spent most of it watching people choose another boat. Anysia had chosen his because the other boatman was eating and had declined to be hurried.

“Will it stay dry?” she asked, pointing at the basket.

“Unless it rains.”

She looked at the pale sky, then at him. “It is meant for a feast.”

He promised it would stay dry. He had now made two promises before casting off.

At first the crossing was easy. Anysia sat with her basket between her feet. Demetrios watched the opposite shore approach and felt his shoulders loosen. He could make out a man standing above the steps. He hoped it was the sister’s husband, somebody who would carry the basket and pay without asking who owned the boat.

Then the wind began pressing them sideways.

Demetrios corrected with the steering oar. The man above the steps lifted an arm. Demetrios lifted his in answer and immediately wished he had kept both hands where they were.

The landing lay between stone edges. From the bank it looked generous. From the boat, moving across it faster than he wanted, it looked like a gap in somebody’s teeth.

Anysia turned. “You’re taking us past.”

“I’m coming round.”

He pulled hard. The boat answered late. Water struck the side and came in over the lower board, wetting his sandal and the bottom of the basket.

Anysia lifted the basket onto her knees. “Don’t go straight at the stones.”

“I’m not.”

He was. He could see the steps and the waiting man, and he could see his father standing there tomorrow, listening to how the boy had been frightened by a little wind. He turned again, too sharply. The basket slid against Anysia’s shoulder. She caught it, but one corner of the covering folded back. Inside were small loaves, neatly shaped and already beginning to darken where water had reached them.

The man on the bank shouted something. The wind took the words.

“Was he telling you to stop?” Anysia asked.

“I couldn’t hear.”

“Then don’t pretend he told you to come closer.”

Demetrios let the boat move beyond the landing. The steps slipped behind them. He felt as though he had just abandoned a passenger who was still sitting in front of him.

Farther along the shore there was a lower place where boats were sometimes drawn up. His father had shown it to him while arguing about a broken pot that somebody had left in the mud. There was no proper step, no waiting husband. There was room.

“We’ll land there,” he said.

“My sister is back there.”

“I know.”

“She can’t walk easily.”

He looked at her. She had not mentioned that when asking for the crossing. She had expected him to deliver her to the place she named.

“Can you row?” he asked.

“A little.”

He passed her an oar. The basket had to go between her feet again. She watched him move his own oar, then tried to follow. Her first stroke splashed him. Her second stayed in the water too long.

“Shorter,” he said. “Like this.”

They worked badly together until he began calling when to pull. Even then the boat wandered. Anysia was breathing hard. He wanted to tell her they were nearly there, but the place was plainly visible and not nearly close enough.

When they reached the shallows, Demetrios stepped out. The mud took his feet. He held the boat while Anysia passed him the basket, then offered his arm. She used it without forgiving him.

Demetrios dragged the bow clear of the water before he let go. His father could complain about mud on the boards. He could not complain about a boat left to float away.

They stood on the bank beside their dripping boat. Above the stone steps, the waiting man had begun walking toward them.

“I’ll carry this,” Demetrios said.

“You should.”

Anysia wrung the edge of her dress. The loaves at the top were dry. Those beneath would not be placed on a feast table without explanation. Demetrios thought of the coins she had agreed to pay. He thought of giving them back, then remembered she had not paid him yet.

The man reached them. He was Anysia’s sister’s neighbor, sent because she could not manage the steps herself. He looked into the basket and pressed one of the damp loaves with his thumb.

“She’s been watching from the window,” he said.

Anysia turned sharply toward the houses.

“Go,” Demetrios told her. “I’ll bring it.”

He carried the basket along the shore while the neighbor walked behind him, pointing out holes in the path. By the time they reached the house his arms were trembling. A woman sat beside the open window. She had a cloth over her knees and was holding it as tightly as Demetrios had held the steering oar.

“You came,” she said to Anysia.

Anysia went straight to her. The neighbor took the basket from Demetrios. For a moment nobody wanted an explanation of the bread.

Later, Anysia found him outside. She put several small bronzes in his wet palm. On one he could still make out Theodosius’s portrait.

“We agreed more,” he said.

“You delivered less.”

He closed his hand. That was fair, but he had hoped she would say he had done well in the end.

“My father usually brings the boat in.”

“Then say that next time.”

He looked toward the water. The boat was where he had left it, with a long walk still between them.

“Will your sister be all right?”

“She will be annoyed about the bread. Then she will eat it.”

Anysia went inside. Demetrios walked back with the neighbor, who wanted to show him the hole that had broken his own basket. This time Demetrios listened before putting his foot down.