Caesar followed Uncle York down the stairs, and as they turned the corner, his eyes landed on the elegant boss lady at the front desk once again.
The boss lady was bent over the counter, focused on counting coins. From Caesar's angle, he caught an unintended glimpse of her chest, the pale curve of her skin briefly visible. Yet, it wasn't just her appearance that captivated him—it was the composed, intellectual aura she exuded while working. Caesar was so distracted by the sight that he nearly missed a step and tumbled down the stairs.
The golden hues of the setting sun filtered through the bar's curtains, painting everything in a warm, amber glow. Most of the soldiers had already left, leaving only a few scattered groups in quiet conversation. Caesar's squad, however, remained—still waiting for him and York.
Uncle York greeted the remaining soldiers with a stern but warm voice. "Boys, it's almost supper time. I'm heading back to camp—don't overdo it."
The soldiers straightened up and replied respectfully before York gave Caesar a nod and departed.
After escorting Uncle York out, Caesar returned to his squad. Most of them were about his age, some even younger, and they were visibly less intoxicated than their captain. Tom and Jon were still lively, while Yoder, Phil, and the others were slumped over the table, their faces flushed and their words slurred.
Empty mugs littered the table—each man had barely drunk more than two cups of ale. Caesar and York, in contrast, had emptied two whole bottles of stronger liquor upstairs.
"You lot," Caesar said with a mix of amusement and irritation, "if you can't hold your liquor, why drink so much? Are you trying to give me trouble?"
The men groaned but grinned sheepishly. Jon and Tom, still standing, attempted to pull Caesar into another round.
"Captain, you can't leave us hanging like this! Sit down and drink with us!" Jon urged.
Caesar shook his head firmly. "Look at those guys—if they drink any more, we'll have to carry them back to camp on our backs. Sober them up. No more drinks today."
Understanding his tone, Jon and Tom set about rousing their drunken comrades. Slowly, the men stumbled to their feet, leaning on each other for support.
As darkness crept into the tavern, the place had mostly emptied. Just as Caesar and his men were about to leave, a group of about fifteen rough-looking townsfolk entered. They were ragged, young, and sturdy-looking, their expressions hard and their steps heavy. The leader, a middle-aged man with hollow cheeks and sharp eyes, froze when he noticed Caesar and his squad. The soldiers' uniforms made their identity clear.
The middle-aged man hesitated, exchanging glances with his companions. The group's chatter fell silent, and an uneasy tension filled the room.
Caesar, uninterested in their presence, motioned for his men to move out. But first, he approached the counter to settle their bill. Ten mugs of regular ale cost ten copper coins, and two bottles of premium ale added another ten. A total of twenty copper coins.
With a casual flick, Caesar pulled out his pouch, counted twenty coins, and slapped them onto the counter.
The sound of coins hitting wood seemed deafening. The ragged townsfolk flinched, their eyes flickering toward the money, hunger and desperation evident in their gazes.
Twenty copper coins were a significant sum here. The bar's daily earnings rarely exceeded thirty coins, even on good days. For the destitute crowd, it was a small fortune.
The boss lady glanced nervously at the group before offering Caesar a charming but slightly forced smile. "Thank you, sir. Please come again."
Caesar nodded, cast one last look at the uneasy group, and turned to leave.
But just as he stepped outside, faint sounds reached his ears—a muffled cry, a sharp whisper in a heavy Shiloh accent, and the pleading voice of a woman.
Turning back, Caesar narrowed his eyes and caught sight of a few townsfolk blocking the tavern entrance, shielding whatever was happening inside.
"Move aside," Caesar said coldly.
The men hesitated, but under Caesar's sharp glare, they reluctantly shuffled out of the way.
Through the narrow gap, Caesar saw the boss lady being accosted by one of the ragged men. He was clutching a package, coins spilling from its torn seams, alongside delicate women's garments.
Caesar's expression darkened.
"What are you doing?" he said sharply.
The tavern fell silent. His men, sensing trouble, turned back and joined him. Despite their earlier intoxication, their hands flexed, ready for a fight.
The middle-aged leader raised his hands in an attempt to speak. "My lord, this is a private matter—"
He didn't finish. Caesar stepped forward and delivered a clean, resounding slap that sent the man staggering backward.
That slap was the signal.
Jon and Tom lunged forward, fists flying. Yoder and Phil joined in, pulling and striking the ragged men who had dared to create chaos in the tavern. The boss lady, tears streaming down her face, clutched her torn package to her chest.
When the dust settled, the ragged men were sprawled across the floor, groaning and defeated. Caesar surveyed the scene with cold disdain.
"Get out," he growled.
One by one, the townsfolk scrambled out of the tavern, dragging their battered companions with them.
The boss lady looked at Caesar with gratitude and relief glistening in her eyes. For a brief moment, their gazes met, and she managed a shaky smile.
Caesar gave her a nod before turning to his men. "Let's go."
The squad filed out of the tavern, leaving behind a quiet, still room and a grateful woman clutching her modest treasure.