It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and most of the crew were awake. Caesar got up, stretched, and began greeting his men. "Come on, let's head outside the camp and have a drink! I haven't had a wink of sleep in this heat!" Caesar complained.
"Hooray, Chief!" The crew erupted with cheers, excited about the free ale they were about to enjoy. On a scorching day like this, only a chilled mug of ale could soothe the parched throats of these weary soldiers.
"Jon, take the men to the Green Palm Tavern. One mug of ale each, book me a private room, and tell the proprietor's wife to put it on my tab. Tom, you and I will stop by Lieutenant York's tent first," Caesar commanded.
"Okay, boss," the two replied in unison.
Caesar and Tom made their way to Uncle York's tent. "Uncle York, get up! We're going drinking!" Caesar bellowed as they stepped inside, startling York, who seemed to have just woken up.
"Kid, keep your voice down. My head's pounding," Uncle York muttered with a smirk.
"Hurry up, Uncle! We're heading to the Green Palm Tavern in Giza. I've already reserved a private room," Caesar said with enthusiasm.
"Alright, alright, let's go," Uncle York sighed, pulling on civilian clothes. He glanced at Tom and said, "This lad's gotten sturdier, hasn't he?"
"Yeah, Uncle! I'm in great shape now. I could take on three Shiloh brutes without breaking a sweat," Tom boasted proudly.
"This guy eats like a horse, Uncle," Caesar teased. "He can devour two of my meals in one sitting."
"Soldiers are supposed to eat well! Look at me—I'm a prime example," Uncle York retorted, puffing out his chest.
Standing at five-foot-nine and nearly three hundred pounds, Uncle York was a towering presence. Caesar, on the other hand, stood at five-foot-nine, weighed a lean one hundred and fifty pounds, and was well-proportioned. Even Tom was over six feet tall and weighed more than two hundred pounds.
The trio set off, laughing and chatting as they exited the camp.
The town of Giza lay just outside the camp. Once a Shiloh stronghold, it had fallen two months ago after the Kingdom of Garrel's forces breached the Felmer Canyon.
Three legions had surged into Shiloh's heartland, advancing in three directions toward the capital, Odysseus City, crushing resistance as they went. The Eagle Legion had attacked from the south, encountering only scattered opposition. The Legion Commander had ordered the troops to split into smaller brigades, each occupying towns and villages along their path.
Giza, now a smoldering husk of its former self, was a testament to the war's devastation. Charred buildings lined the streets, and beggars with soot-streaked faces huddled in corners. Fearful eyes peered out from doorways as Caesar and his men walked past, their Garrel military attire making their identity unmistakable.
Two weeks prior, Caesar's battalion had captured Giza. The town's remaining inhabitants had learned, through blood and fire, not to resist their new rulers.
The Green Palm Tavern was one of the few establishments still operating. Its owner was rumored to have betrayed his homeland before Garrel's forces even arrived, turning over the town's mayor and militia in exchange for protection and favor from Baron Kyle, Caesar's superior officer.
The tavern had become a popular spot for soldiers. With few high-ranking officers around, the place allowed lower-ranked soldiers to drink freely, brag, and unwind. The prices were appealing too—a mug of ale cost only one copper puck, half the price charged in the camp.
Additionally, the tavern attracted women seeking income, some willingly, others out of desperation. It was a grim reality of war, and the military leadership largely turned a blind eye to it.
As Caesar and his entourage entered the tavern, a wave of noise and the sour tang of sweat hit them. The place was packed with soldiers laughing, drinking, and gambling. Familiar faces greeted them with nods and smiles.
Uncle York, being one of the battalion's senior squadron leaders, was especially well-known. Many soldiers approached him with respectful nods and greetings, which he acknowledged with a slight nod.
"Over here, Chief!" Jon's voice rang out from a corner. He and the rest of the squad had claimed a few tables, their mugs of ale still untouched.
Caesar led Tom over. "Drink up, lads. I have matters to discuss with Uncle York. Jon, get Tom a drink as well."
"Will do, Chief," Jon said, handing Caesar a key to the upstairs private room.
"Tom, enjoy yourself. I'll be back soon," Caesar said before heading upstairs with Uncle York.
The soldiers called after him, "We'll save you a mug, Chief!" "Take your time, boss!"
Caesar and Uncle York passed the front desk, where the tavern keeper's wife, Chassie, stood. With her fiery red curls and sharp eyes, she exuded confidence and charm. Caesar gave her a polite nod, and she responded with a sly wink.
Upstairs, Caesar unlocked their private room. It was modest but comfortable, with a window offering a view of distant green hills. A wooden table sat by the window, flanked by two sofas. A screen near the door provided some privacy, and a coat rack stood nearby. On the table were two glasses and two bottles of mulled wine, sealed with oak corks.
Caesar glanced around and nodded approvingly. "This is a woman who knows how to run a business," he muttered, impressed once again by Chassie's attention to detail.
The two men settled into their seats, ready to discuss matters away from prying eyes and ears.