The tavern doors slammed open, and a wave of laughter, shouting, and music spilled out onto the street.
The Broken Helm was one of the rougher drinking holes in Rome—a place where mercenaries and off-duty legionaires mixed with workers and petty criminals.
He stepped inside and was immediately met with the scent of sweat, spilled ale, and cheap tobacco.
A group of young men were arm wrestling at a corner table, while a bard in the back played a lively tune on his lute.
Julius made his way to the bar and leaned against the worn wooden counter.
The bartender, a thick-armed man with a scar across his chin, gave him a once-over.
"What'll it be?"
His gruff voice simply requesting the customers desire.
"Ale. Something strong."
Julius's reply came without hesitation, showing he was like everyone else, here with a purpose, a purpose to drink.