Caesar was a private in the Kingdom of Garrel's army. He had joined the military at the age of fourteen and, with four years of service under his belt, was already considered a veteran.
Today, Caesar was in high spirits. It was payday. As a private, his base salary was three silver bucs per month. However, Baron Kyle, out of his own pocket, added an extra two silver bucs for his soldiers. Unfortunately, due to the common practice of military officials skimming off the top, Caesar would only receive four silver bucs instead of five.
Caesar eagerly anticipated collecting his pay and sending three of those silver bucs back home via the Baron's caravan. He hoped his older sister could buy a ribbon to replace the rough linen she used to tie her hair, and that his parents could afford a meal or two of white bread in the coming month. Their health was already frail.
The remaining silver buc would be used to buy drinks for his squad. Caesar, though a mere private, was also the captain of a ten-man unit. He understood how hard life was for his men. Third-class soldiers received only two silver bucs a month, while servants received just one. They often had to break their coins down into copper bucs to make ends meet, balancing family needs and personal expenses.
Caesar believed that camaraderie was essential for survival on the battlefield. Treating his men to drinks was not merely an act of generosity; it was an investment in loyalty. His squad consisted of five third-class soldiers and five servants. Seven of them had been fighting together for over six months, while three were recent additions. Though most of them were Caesar's age, they had less battlefield experience and regarded him with respect.
The squad admired Caesar for his bravery, generosity, and fairness. He was always the first to share spoils after a victorious battle and the last to leave a brother behind in danger. Over time, this bond made Caesar's squad one of the most cohesive and effective units in the barracks.
Caesar had also earned a reputation beyond his squad. In a skirmish against the Shiloh barbarians two months ago, he had reportedly killed several enemies, earning merits that put him on the verge of promotion to first-class soldier—a rank that marked the gateway to knighthood.
Arriving at the Quartermaster Camp, Caesar was greeted by the lively market-like atmosphere. Soldiers could buy anything here: fragrant ale, sharp swords, powerful warhorses, or even a night with a beautiful woman. But luxuries like these were far beyond Caesar's means.
"Hey, Caesar! Your pay!" a burly, bearded man bellowed, tossing him a small leather pouch.
Caesar caught the bag and peeked inside. Three shiny silver bucs and a hundred copper bucs.
"Uncle York, coming for a drink this afternoon?" Caesar asked with a grin.
"How many times have I told you to call me 'Lieutenant' in the barracks? You brat! And one drink? At least two!" Uncle York barked with mock anger, a broad smile on his face.
Caesar had ulterior motives for inviting York. As a seasoned first-class soldier and a lieutenant, York was someone who could offer valuable advice on the path to promotion.
York, in turn, had a soft spot for Caesar. They hailed from the same town—Iron Mine Town—and York had watched Caesar grow from a green recruit into the dependable squad leader he was now.
"No problem, I'll call you later!" Caesar said, tucking the pouch into his belt.
On his way back, Caesar passed displays of polished armor, gleaming swords, and alluring women. The sight made his heart ache. A decent set of armor cost at least 100 silver bucs, a fine sword no less than ten, and a night with one of the women? At least a silver buc.
Back at the squad tent, Caesar found his men lounging around, playing cards, and bantering. He gave Jon, the squad's scout, a playful kick.
"Get your midday meals, all of you! And Jon, stop shouting over your cards. You're giving me a headache," Caesar said.
"Hey, Chief! Can you stop kicking me? What if my backside swells up and affects my scouting?" Jon grumbled, earning a round of laughter from the squad.
"Don't worry, Jon. We'll borrow some mint balm from the Becky Brothers to soothe it," Yoder, the lancer, chimed in.
The Becky Brothers were notorious in the barracks for their questionable preferences and interrogation techniques. The mint balm was an inside joke, and the squad roared with laughter.
"Enough joking around," Caesar said, smirking. "Grab your food and bring mine back too. And Jon, if you steal my meat, no drinks for you this afternoon!"
"Don't worry, Chief! I'll guard your meat with my life! Come on, Tom, let's go!" Jon said, dragging Tom along.
In the barracks, food was a reflection of hierarchy. Servants received crumbly chestnut cakes and thin potato soup. Third-class soldiers got black bread and potato soup. Second-class soldiers were treated to wheaten cakes, a slice of meat, and potato soup. First-class soldiers, however, dined with Baron Kyle himself, enjoying white bread and hearty broth.
Caesar dreamed of eating white bread one day.
When Jon returned with Caesar's lunch, he held up a fatty slice of meat with a grin. "Chief, look at this beauty! Want me to taste-test it for you?"
"Get lost," Caesar said with a laugh, taking his food. "Alright, anyone who wants to send money home, hand it to me and Tom. We'll get it sorted later."
The word 'home' hung heavy in the air. The men fell silent for a moment before nodding solemnly.
Unlike other squads where a captain collecting pay might cause suspicion or mutiny, Caesar's men trusted him implicitly. After all, Caesar had always been generous when they needed help, and they knew he would never betray them.
The midday sun hung high in the sky as the squad prepared for an afternoon of drinks and laughter—a fleeting respite before the next battle.