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Message:: [QUOTE="GeorgeM, post: 2318144, member: 28550"]I recently picked up a handful of hammered silver coins in the 10mm-30mm size range. I suspect that these were a dealer's culls or perhaps just coins that he didn't have the time / energy to identify. But, I like to think that they were a hoard that passed the centuries together before being handed down to me. The story I imagine goes something like this: Near the border of Medieval Poland and Hungary was a crossing of moderately traveled routes. At this crossroads stood a pub, much like the pubs that had stood in the same spot for centuries. Through its doors passed hungry merchants looking for a bite to eat as their caravans carried lumber, stone, and ceramic goods between towns. Local serfs came by to wet their whistle after a hard day threshing grain or dragging a plow through the earth with a yoke around their own necks. The occasional Pilgrim even stopped by, looking for a room for the night on their way to seek the blessing of relics in the Holy Roman Empire. All of these guests sat at low wooden benches, in a great hall. In the summer, the doors were thrown open to let the breeze mix up the scents of simmering stewpots, spilled beer, and unwashed humanity. In the winter, a roaring fire added woodsmoke to the mix. The innkeeper's family carried pitchers of barley beer from table to table, filling up tankards or fetching porridge and stew for a few copper or small silver coins that had traded hands all across Europe. Occasionally, a well-to-do cleric or noble would stop by, taking any port in a storm to escape a thunderstorm. They might lay down a handful of denar or kreuzers to buy a meal for their retainers, guardsmen, and other traveling companions. Or, they might just flash some silver (or even gold!) to put a little more swing in the serving wenches hips. As the innkeeper's daughters lingered at the tables, a travelers eye could be forgiven for following them. After a few tankards, or when laughing at a ribald joke, it would be easy to drop a coin or have it slip out of a pouch while putting away change. Most of those coins would be picked up again right away. But a few would slide between the floorboards and collect in the cracks between the planks. No amount of searching or cursing would turn them up again. The years turned to decades, and those travelers moved on, those serving wenches turned to crones, the walls were torn down and rebuilt, and the Kings on the coins changed. The borders moved, even the languages spoken changed, but that pub (or a replacement much like it) continued to sit at the same spot as time marched on. Eventually, the flow of travelers thinned and started to dry up as trade routes shifted. Officials from the army stopped by for a drink, and conscripted the innkeeper's only son. His daughters grew tired of doing all the work and married prosperous merchants who lived far away. The (10th generation) innkeeper woke up one day and decided now was the time to spend his accumulated wealth and set off on the roads that had brought the lucre into his hands. The doors to crossroads pub closed behind its last patron, and the empty building sat vacant. Mice and ghosts alone used the collapsing tables, until the stream nearby flooded and washed even them away. A wandering army passed by, and foragers angry at finding nothing in the rubble put it to the torch. A little pile of coins rode out these years with a layer of dust on top turning to a layer of soot and then to dirt. The hollow they occupied in the floor turned into a hollow in the earth. They slept the centuries away. One day a hobbyist with a metal detector stood in a field miles from anywhere and swayed his tool side to side. It beeped shrilly, letting him know that there was a contact 6-8 inches down... "Probably just another tin can or rusted out horseshoe," he thought, but he pulled out his trowel anyway. You never know what's buried just underfoot.[/QUOTE]

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