They marched through the streets, military boots stirring the dry dust of the cobblestone road into a long cloud trailing behind them. Ten men in a column, Consul Kronne at the head. Ptolemy ignored the people staring at him – women, children, young and old, stall merchants, fishmongers, tanners. None had ever seen a soldier quite so grey in the hair.

At times it seemed the whole world was reminding him of his age. That very morning the wife had pleaded with him to consider taking an honourable discharge.

“I’ll never leave the Consul’s side, until battle takes me.” He had said.

Really, it wasn’t about honouring an oath or any such chivalrous motivation. Ptolemy didn’t know what he would do with himself if he wasn’t marching through the streets or standing sentry. What would he do, tell stories to the grandchildren? Small chance, considering he never had children himself.

The Consul halted the line when they were outside a manor that sat at the top of the Palatinate Hill. Inside it seemed at first that no one was there. Searching, they found a room adorned with the ancient and evil symbols of the Iconographers. She made no effort to hide her embarrassing ways.

The Consul gestured to Ptolemy.

“I shall send for the headsman. She will be executed on the morrow,” said Ptolemy.

“You misunderstand me. She is a heretic. She must burn.”

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Burn she did. At the stake, at dawn the very next day. Wonderful way to wake the city, to the screams of a burning woman, thought Ptolemy, as he groggily awoke, headache and all, at the tavern. He thought he remembered walking home the night before. Perhaps he had been walking and forgot where home was.

When he opened the creaky door and saw that dawn was only just breaking, so he went back into the tavern and shouted for a tabard. The owner stumbled in, apparently only just having awoken himself.

“What the hell was that?” the owner said.

“I said, another fucking tabard! Your strongest stuff.”

“No, that sound. Outside.”

“It’s that woman we found. Who was praying to those idols- You gonna get me a drink or what?”

“Praying to idols? Is that a crime now?”

“Sinful.” Ptolemy glared at the owner.

“By God that Consul is a hard man.” The owner disappeared down the stepladder to the cellar and came back up with a bottle.

“He keeps the peace. You should be grateful for that.”

“Oh I am.” The owner slapped it down on table with two dented old iron cups, took off the cork and poured. “Three coppers that’ll be.”

Ptolemy fiddled with his belt, his purse jingling with each movement. When he had untied it, he threw it down on the table. The owner ploughed through all the gold and silver with his fingers, searching for the coppers. Ptolemy took his cup and gulped the whole thing down. The owner’s breath became shallow.

Ptolemy put his cup back on the table. He grabbed the owner’s wrist and squeezed until he opened his hand – a silver.

“T-thought it looked like a copper… i-in this light.” He dropped the coin.

Ptolemy shoved his empty cup toward the owner. “More.”

The owner poured. Then he poured in the second cup for himself.

“Cheers.” They said to each other.

“To another honest day’s work.” Sighed the owner.

Ptolemy collapsed onto the table.