Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The first volley of Romanus arrows fell like a steel rain, hissing into the Francian picket lines with sickening thuds.

The defenders—half dressed, half armed—stumbled from their tents clutching wooden shields, pikes, and spears, the shouts of their officers barely audible over the pounding of the Romanus drums in the distance.

Julius didn't wait for the legion to close entirely.

He spurred his horse forward, breaking from the protective shield wall of his praetorians, sword raised high.

The men who saw him go let out a cheer, but none dared follow yet—discipline held them until the command was given.

The picket fence loomed ahead, a crude palisade of sharpened stakes, wet wood, and rope lashings.

Behind it, Francian militiamen braced themselves, spears jabbing over the top.

A few crossbow bolts zipped past Julius—one striking his pauldron with a solid whunk and ricocheting harmlessly into the mud.

He didn't slow.

The horse thundered through the sodden earth, throwing clods of mud behind it.

At ten paces from the fence, Julius leapt from the saddle, hitting the ground hard enough to jar his knees, and rolled under the first spear thrust.

His blade came up in the same motion, carving into the haft of a defender's pike, splitting it clean in two.

A shout went up from the Romanus line—the advance was on, the thousands of legionaires were charging to support and join their emperor who was already felling the Francians wetting the earth with their blood.

The praetorians crashed into the fence seconds later, shields battering the wooden stakes, short swords stabbing between gaps.

The Francians fought back desperately, stabbing down from the slight rise inside the camp, their mud-spattered boots slipping on the wet boards beneath them.

Julius seized the top of the fence with one hand, vaulted over, and landed in the midst of three enemy militiamen.

The first was too slow to raise his shield; Julius's blade punched through his chest, twisting free in a spray of blood.

The second swung wildly with a woodcutter's axe—Julius caught the handle mid-swing and yanked, pulling the man forward into the path of his knee.

Bone cracked, and the man dropped with a strangled cry.

The third tried to backpedal, calling for help, but Julius's off-hand sword found his gut, the point sliding deep before being ripped free.

"Forward!"

Julius bellowed, voice cutting through the chaos.

"Push them into the mud!"

The legion answered with a roar, shields slamming forward in a rhythmic bang-bang-bang, the sound drowning out the Francian war cries, even before the two forces had truly met one another.

The fence splintered under repeated impacts minutes later as the weight of the legion pressed upon them, gaps opening for the first rank to pour through.

The Francians fell back a step at a time, desperate to hold the narrow killing ground between the fence and the first line of tents, as more rushed out to join the fight even as those at the front fell in combat.

Here the mud was churned into a treacherous mess by panicked feet and falling bodies.

Julius fought like a man possessed—ducking under a spear thrust, spinning to hamstring the wielder, stepping into another's guard to ram the edge of his shield into their throat.

Every kill was quick, economical, and merciless.

Sabellus and the praetorians forced their way to his side, shields locking, short swords stabbing through the press.

To their left, a cohort from the XIII Legion began prying open the largest gap in the fence, hacking the timbers apart with axes.

The air was thick with the wet stink of men and blood.

Arrows from the Romanus rear ranks arced overhead, finding targets even in the melee, though a few friendly shields rang with the impacts of friendly fire in the confusion.

"Archers, target their flanks!"

Sabellus shouted, his voice half a snarl.

"Don't waste shafts on those already in the press!"

Julius saw the shift immediately—arrows now fell on the Francians further inside the camp, cutting down those scrambling to bring up reinforcements.

Men carrying barrels of water or sacks of grain dropped their burdens and fled toward the inner barricade.

One militia captain, a thickset man in rusted mail, tried to rally a counterattack.

Julius met him head-on, their blades clashing in the wet.

The man was strong, but slow—two feints drew his guard wide, and Julius stepped in, driving both swords into his chest in a brutal scissor motion.

The captain fell backward, his body sliding into the mud.

The Francians nearest him faltered.

Some dropped their weapons outright, stumbling backward toward the inner line.

Others screamed oaths and fought harder, desperate to buy time for their comrades.

A horn blast cut through the din—the Romanus signal to widen the breach.

Cohorts on both flanks surged forward, their shields pressing the defenders inward toward Julius's position.

The fence buckled in multiple places, opening gaps wide enough for entire maniples to flood through.

Still, the Francians would not break.

Their nationalistic pride preventing them from doing so.

The picket fence was gone in places, as Romanus Legionaires spilled through the breaches entering the Francian camp, but the narrow ground and sheer weight of men kept the fighting tight, brutal, and slow.

For every step Julius's legions took forward, the Francians fought to shove them back, using the churned mud as much as their steel.

At one point, Julius found himself knee-deep in the muck, a fallen soldier's hand clutching at his greave even in death.

A spear jabbed toward his face, and he caught the shaft between his swords, snapping it with a twist before driving a boot into the wielder's chest.

Sabellus was at his side again, blood streaking down his cheek.

"They're trying to pin us here!"

Sabellus grunted, parrying a blow and countering with a slash that bit deep into a Francian's shoulder.

"If they hold this line until nightfall—"

"They won't,"

Julius said flatly, driving his sword through another defender's gut.

"Not while I still stand."

The rain began again, heavier now, turning the ground into soup.

Men slipped and fell, vanishing under the crush of bodies, only to be trampled by friend and foe alike.

The cries of the dying were nearly drowned by the steady drumbeat of shields and the wet smack of steel on flesh.

A fresh wave of Francian reinforcements poured from the inner camp—better armed, better armored.

These were no levy peasants; these were Francian men-at-arms, not knights but a grade up compared to the barely trained peasantry.

They slammed into the Romanus breach with a force that nearly pushed the praetorians back through the shattered fence.

Julius gritted his teeth, bracing as a sword rang off his vambrace.

He twisted low, cutting the attacker's legs out from under him, then rose with both swords dripping.

The line held—but only barely.

"Cavalry to the left breach!"

Julius roared toward the rear.

Horns answered, and moments later the pounding of hooves was felt as much as heard.

The Romanus cavalry smashed into the Francian flank, throwing men off balance and carving a bloody wedge into their formation.

Still, the picket-fence killing ground was a meat grinder.

Every yard was paid for in lives, thankfully with a ratio in favor of Romanus.

Julius planted one sword in the mud for a moment, grabbed a fallen spear, and hurled it into the chest of a Francian officer shouting orders behind the line.

The man went down in a heap, and for a heartbeat the defenders faltered again.

That was all the opening they got.

"Forward!"

Julius bellowed again, his voice ragged but fierce.

"Deprive them of their wretched lives!"