Free The Iron Hand of Mars by Lindsey Davis Page B

men losing a struggle. The others made loud retorts from time to time, but tended to stand back contemptuously, as if they had less need to haggle because they were in control.
    Things grew distinctly ugly. A tall chap with a cleft chin and vivid sneer appeared to be the local leader. He made a sudden obscene gesture at the two men. The stouter party swung a fist, but was restrained by his comrade, a younger man with reddish hair and warts.
    I had been hoping the heat would simmer down so I could buy my pot. Now it looked as if any bargains today would be sealed with bloody noses. I handed Ma’s present to a local, grabbed Xanthus, and made a fast exit.
    â€œWhat was that about, Falco?”
    â€œNo idea. When you’re travelling, never get drawn into feuds. You don’t know the history, you’re bound to pick the wrong side, and all that can happen is both parties will turn on you.”
    â€œYou’ve left your dish!”
    â€œThat’s right.” It was lopsided anyway.

 
    XIII
    On the next leg of our journey things started to happen.
    I was fast losing heart. Visiting the ceramics factory had served as a diversion, though one which produced its own anxieties since I had bought nothing and would be due for a drubbing back at home. Still, I gave no more thought to potters and their problems; I had troubles of my own. My real mission loomed. By Lugdunum we had put a third of the distance across Europe behind us, with the tiring sea trip from Ostia before that. Now we were on the final push, and the nearer we drew to the great Rhenus river, and to the ludicrous tasks Vespasian had set me, the more depressed I felt.
    Not for the first time, I had become horrified by how far we had to journey in order to cross Europe, and by how long it was taking.
    â€œMore bad news, Xanthus! River travel’s too slow. At this rate I’ll hit winter before I finish my mission. I’m transferring to horseback, courtesy of my imperial travel pass, so you’ll have to hire yourself a mule if you want to keep up.”
    Don’t imagine that Vespasian had kitted me out with the wherewithal to commandeer a horse from the state despatch stations because he wanted me to travel in comfort; he probably thought it more convenient for the Iron Hand.
    The terrain looked decidedly foreign now. Instead of huge Italian villas with absentee landlords and hundreds of slaves, we were riding past modest tenant farms. Pigs instead of sheep. Fewer olive groves and thinner vineyards with every milestone. We were being held up at bridges by army supply convoys; it was definitely the approach to a military zone. Towns became a novelty. Everywhere was colder, wetter, and darker than when we had left home.
    As a traveller Xanthus was becoming more confident, which meant that as the idiot’s nursemaid I had to be even more on guard. Explaining trivial regional habits every time we stopped to change horses was maddening. In addition, it had started to rain.
    â€œI’ve been slipped some duff coins, Falco—cut in quarters and halves!”
    â€œSorry, I ought to have warned you: there’s a long-term small-coin shortage. No need to show your ignorance by causing a fuss. Cut halves are accepted locally, but don’t take any home. Assuming we ever go home.” I was so gloomy I doubted it. “You’ll adapt. Just try not to waste an as or a quadrans if you can pay with one of your larger coins, and pick up change for when we’re desperate. If they run out of coppers altogether the barmaids use kisses, and when they run out of those …” I shuddered pointedly.
    â€œSeems daft!” Xanthus moaned. A true barber. Jokes were lost on him.
    Sighing inwardly, I supplied the sensible explanation: “The army has always been paid in silver. Sesterces are easier to transport in bulk, so the Treasury never thinks of sending out a few chests of coppers for the lads to use as pocket money.