The Emperor's Hoard

by Elizabeth Zelvin

The sun fell hot on the field, and the treasure hunter's wrist was getting tired, passing his metal detector back and forth, back and forth, over the stubbly earth. Another fifteen minutes, then he'd knock off for the day and settle in with a pint at the pub in the nearby village.

The metal detector beeped. Probably a rusty nail or even a big old penny from the days of shillings and pence. The treasure hunter stooped, groaning a little at a twinge in his lower back, and picked up a tiny circle of blackened metal, bumpy with age. He scratched at it and rubbed it between his fingers. He knew enough to guess that it was ancient, like the occasional Roman coin he'd found in his endless quest. He pulled from his pocket a handkerchief and a tiny bottle of fluid, rubbing gently to remove some of the grime and tarnish. The unmistakeable profile of a Roman emperor emerged. Dropping to his knees, he began to dig, scrabbling like a dog in his eagerness. A few scattered coins lay near the surface, but the real prize was a pot, so heavy with coin that he couldn't lift it.

It took the British Museum three months to clean the 52,000 coins from the dubious reign of Carausius, pirate emperor of Britain from 286 to 293, when he was killed by his finance minister.

#

Carausius lounged in his atrium, admiring the carp in his pool and the mosaic of Neptune frolicking with sea nymphs that lay beneath the water. The finance minister droned on. Carausius had never had a head for figures. His difficulty with mathematics had proved a disadvantage in his dealings with the pirates even before his alliance with them had gotten him banished from Rome . Now that he was emperor, he had a minister to do the thinking about all that. So why was the pesky fellow bothering him?

“Imperator,” the minister said, “your treasurers and centurions cannot account for the monies that we sent to Londinium to pay the troops. They all said to ask you.”

“Oh, that money,” Carausius said. “We were on maneuvers, and a scout reported that a band of Saxon rebels were approaching. So I told the men to bury it.”

He stood and drifted over to the window, looking out at the inevitable British rain as he adjusted the folds of his toga.

“Sir, where did they bury it? The soldiers must be paid. We need that money.”

Carausius flapped a hand at him without turning around.

“Oh, one of the fellows will know. Go and ask them. It's almost meridies , and I want my lunch.”