I apologize sheepishly at the bar as Amalasuntha brings me a hefty tankard of ale.

"I know you tolerate fighting, but I'd feel bad spilling blood in your tavern," I say through large gulps. "I just can't stand these ruddy foreigners who don't know how to mind their manners. I don't know how they treat women in Rome, but here we demand respect."

Hockimus hears me from the other side of the room and cringes. Amala just smiles and wipes down the bar. She, among others, is very used to seeing my temper rise and fall quicker than an arrow shot from a bow.

I turn back to my ale, hoping there will be better company in the tavern than what has popped up so far . . .