[Hispania Ulterior, Corduba, 16th of November 64 BCE]
The sun, a fading ember on the horizon, painted the sky over Hispania Ulterior in bruised purples and vivid oranges. The three men made their way past the main gates of the fort, where sentries stood rigid, their gaze fixed on the quiet, dusty road leading toward Corduba.
"Right," Valerian said, adjusting his cloak against the sudden evening chill. "The canabae first, then maybe into the city proper if we have to."
The canabae, the civilian settlement that always sprouted around a permanent legionary camp, was a haphazard collection of shops, taverns, and ramshackle housing made of rough timber and mud-brick. The smell of cooking food, garlic, roasted meat, and cheap wine mingled with the pervasive dust.
A few stray dogs scavenged among settlers' heaps. The place was teeming with camp followers, local vendors, and off-duty soldiers looking for stress relief.
They steered Bernardus past a tavern where drunken legionaries argued loudly. Atticus kept a hand on Bernardus's arm, his eyes scanning the crowd, wary of trouble.
"There," Bernardus said, pointing a finger toward a dark, narrow shop tucked between a baker's stall and a laundry service. A simple sign, a hand holding a coin, hung above the low doorway. "Fenerator."
Inside, the air was close and smelled of old paper and stale wine. A small, balding man with shrewd eyes sat behind a solid wooden counter, his fingers counting silver coins with practiced speed.
Lamps cast flickering shadows across shelves lined with pignera, swords, rings, a silver clasp, and all the small, desperate sureties of a soldier's or civilian's life.
The fenerator looked up as they entered, his expression noncommittal. His gaze settled on the three soldiers, lingering on Bernardus's injuries. "Business?" the man asked, his voice a dry rasp.
Bernardus approached the counter and laid the two silver earrings and the intricately carved bone comb onto the wood. The fenerator picked up the silver hoops, testing their weight and purity with a squinting eye. "Simple stuff," he muttered. "Maybe two denarii for both. The bone..." He looked at the comb with disdain. "A single sestertius, maybe two. A collector might pay more in Corduba, but not here."
"Three denarii, total," Atticus said, his voice firm. "They are good silver, and the carving is fine work."
Valerian slammed his hand onto his gladius hilt, his voice loud. "You'd offer more for horseshit! Are you trying to rob a legionary?" questioned Valerian loudly, placing his hand on his gladius, hoping to intimidate the fenerator.
The fenerator, a man who had seen a thousand soldiers come and go, paused his coin counting. He met Valerian's glare with a sneer of his own. He slowly placed the silver hoops and the bone comb back on the counter.
"Rob, you?" The fenerator scoffed, a dry, grating sound. "I provide a service, soldier. You need coin; I have coin. It's a simple transaction."
He gestured dismissively toward Valerian's hand on his sword hilt. "You can wave that little sword all you want, but it doesn't change the value of this trinket." He picked up the silver hoops again, weighing them in his palm. "Two and a half denarii. Take it or leave it."
He looked them over with open disdain, his gaze sharp and unafraid. "This is a rough place. I take the risk holding these, and I pay for that privilege." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to be heard over the noise of the canabae.
"I don't just pay the usual bribes. I pay a few "friends" from the second cohort to keep my shop secure from 'incidents.' You want to cause an incident here? Be my guest."
He pointed a gnarled finger at the items on the counter. "Two and a half. I won't be bullied by a couple of green legionnaires. Now, are we doing business, or do you want to take your scrap metal to the next street?"
For a moment, no one moved. The air in the shop thickened. Then Valerian gave a thin, humorless smile and turned toward the door.
"Keep your coin," he said. "You'll need it when your friends start charging more for protection. When that day comes, find us; we will charge much less."
They turned their backs on the shop and stepped out into the chaotic dusk of the canabae. The smell of cheap wine and sweat was heavy in the air.
As they walked toward the main road, Valerian scanned the faces of the men milling around the taverns.
They increased their pace, guiding Bernardus, who was limping badly now, toward the wide, paved road leading to the city gates of Corduba proper.
The transition from the ramshackle camp settlement to the city was abrupt. The mud-brick huts gave way to sturdy stone walls, punctuated by the impressive archway of the city gate.
The guards at the gate were different here, urban vigiles with a more formal, less weathered look than the men of the legion. They barely gave the three soldiers a second glance, too busy chatting among themselves.
The streets were wide and paved with heavy flagstones, marked by the deep ruts of countless wagons that had traveled this route from Rome all the way to Gades.
"This way," Atticus said, his voice calmer now. "There's an argentarius who buys and sells at better rates. He's near the forum." The main thoroughfare was still active, even as night fell. Shops were shuttered or just closing, but the oil lamps in the taverns and eating houses cast warm, inviting light onto the street.
The sounds of Latin were clearer here, the dialects more refined than the rough slang of the canabae. The scent of fresh bread and simmering stews replaced the familiar smells of the camp.
They reached a narrow side street near the forum area and found a small, discreet office. The sign displayed a pair of crossed hammers. The man behind the counter was older, his face etched with a lifetime of assessing worth. He wore a simple, clean tunic and looked them over with shrewd, but not unkind, eyes.
Valerian laid the items on the counter. The two silver hoops and the intricately carved bone comb. The argentarius picked up the silver earrings, examining them under the soft light of an oil lamp.
A gift?" he asked, looking at Valerian's earlobe, the spot where the earrings had been still slightly red. "Yes," Valerian replied, his voice still a little gruff from the previous encounter. "From a friend."
The man nodded, his eyes lingering on the bone comb. He picked it up and examined the intricate carvings with a discerning eye. "This is worth more than the silver," he said, turning the comb over in his hands. "It's an Iberian work. From the hills." He placed it back on the counter, his gaze meeting Atticus's. "What happened?"
"It's for a fine," Atticus said simply. The man's gaze returned to the items. He considered them for a long moment, then nodded. "Twelve denarii," he said, a fair offer for the silver and a reasonable price for the carved comb. "For all of it."
Fifteen," Valerian said, his voice firm. "We need fifteen." The argentarius looked from Valerian to Atticus, then to Bernardus.
"Fifteen denarii is a lot for a fine. Are you sure you can pay it back when your next stipendium comes?"
"We will," Valerian responded
The argentarius finally nodded, a thin, deliberate movement. "Very well," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "Fifteen denarii it is. But when you have the coin, come back to me. It's good to know people. Perhaps we can do more business together in the future. I'll hold your comb and earrings, and I'll make sure they don't get lost."
He counted out fifteen denarii and pushed them towards them. Valerian and Atticus gave a grateful nod, taking the coins and leaving their possessions in the hands of the argentarius.
Valerian pressed the coins into Bernardus's hand. "Fifteen denarii. With the forty from your next stipendium, you should be able to pay the fine and get a new gladius and still have five. It's not much, but you won't be going anywhere until the next stipendium."
Bernardus managed a faint smile, the silver gleaming weakly in the lamplight.
"Thank you, Valerian. Atticus. I'll repay you when the next stipendium comes."
Valerian waved him off. "Don't worry about it. You medicus always end up spoiled anyway."
Atticus smirked, adjusting the strap of his satchel. "And since we're already out, and the night's still young, how about we find a tavern before duty remembers us?"
Valerian gave a low chuckle. "Now that," he said, turning toward the streets of Corduba, "is the first sensible thing you've said all day."