Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The night smelled of blood and smoke.

All across the Romanus lines, the legions had pulled back to camp.

The exhausted wounded were dragged to makeshift infirmaries, priests murmured blessings over the dying, and the majority of men collapsed into sleep on bloodstained cloaks.

Only a handful remained behind—the garrisons left to hold the captured stretches of the inner wall.

They were not many.

A few centuries here, a cohort there, scattered in lonely pockets atop the parapets, surrounded on either side by Francian-held towers.

Their orders were simple: hold until dawn.

The soldiers obeyed, but the darkness gnawed at them.

Every creak of the timber bridges, every rattle of loose stone, every owl's cry in the ruined quarter below set nerves on edge.

Men gripped their shields tighter.

They peered over the battlements, straining their eyes against the void.

The Francians had shown themselves capable of anything—suicidal charges, fanatics wielding farm tools, even women and children flinging torches at ladders.

A night raid was not a possibility.

It was a certainty.

The question was only when.

The first scream answered it.

It tore through the stillness like a blade.

Then another, then a dozen.

From the blackness of the noble quarter, shadows surged forward—men with torches, axes, spears, their war cries howling against the night.

The Francians came on in a tide, pouring out from towers, and running along the walls length, hurling themselves upon the Romanus footholds with desperate fury.

"To arms!" a centurion bellowed, his voice cracking as he drew his sword.

Trumpets blared in answer, though thin and panicked, not the steady blasts of daylight.

The wall erupted into chaos.

Roman shields rose just in time to catch the first volley of javelins and stones.

Men staggered beneath the impact, some toppling backward into their comrades.

Then the Francians were among them.

Steel rang against steel, torches guttered in the wind, and men screamed as they locked in combat too close for order.

Legionaries fought as best they could, but their numbers were thin, their ranks stretched and frayed.

A soldier named Marcus, barely past his twentieth year, thrust his gladius into the gut of a charging axeman, only to be dragged down by two more who clawed at his face and tore away his helmet.

His scream was cut short as a blade kissed his throat.

Nearby, another legionaire was hurled shrieking from the battlements, his body smashing into the stones below with a sickening crack.

The Francians pressed harder.

For every one that fell, two more seemed to climb the ladders.

Their chants filled the night—"For Joan! For the King!"—a chorus of madness and faith.

By the northern tower, the Romans faltered.

Their line buckled as the defenders poured over the wall, hacking and stabbing with reckless abandon.

A cohort standard tilted, then toppled, its bearer cut down beneath a swarm of enemies.

"Hold the line! Hold!" the centurion screamed, but his men were already breaking.

They had fought all day in the heat and smoke, and now, in the dark, exhaustion and terror sank claws into their hearts.

If the position fell, if the Francians reclaimed even one stretch of wall, tomorrow's assault would need to begin anew.

All the blood spilled today would be wasted.

The Romans knew it.

Yet their arms felt like lead, their shields too heavy, their courage draining like water from a broken jar.

Just when despair seemed certain, the night itself split apart.

A flash of light erupted along the battlements, so sudden and fierce it blinded both Romanus and Francian's alike.

A deafening boom shook the stones, followed by another, and another.

Screams turned from rage to terror as shadows twisted in the blaze.

And then—he appeared.

The emperor.

Julius descended upon the wall like a figure out of myth, his sword a streak of crimson light.

He moved with inhuman speed, every strike cleaving flesh, every thrust punching through armor and bone.

Dozens fell before him in moments, their blood splattering across the stones, painting the night red.

A Francian noble, his face painted in holy ash, lunged with a spear.

Julius caught it on his shield, snapped the shaft in half, and with a single stroke parted the man's head from his shoulders.

Another rushed from behind, dagger raised, but Julius spun, driving his blade through the raider's chest, ripping it free in a shower of gore.

The wall became a slaughterhouse.

Wherever the emperor moved, men died.

The Francians broke.

Their cries of zeal turned to shrieks of fear.

The boogeyman had been enlisted by the Romanus dogs, and their night raid initially succesful began to falter and fail as swathes of men fell like wheat reaped by a scythe, they wailed, stumbling over one another to flee.

men leapt screaming into the streets below rather than face the crimson figure, choosing to end their own lives than have their souls claimed by this reaper.

The Romans, stunned at first, found their voices.

A roar rose from their throats, a thunderous chant that shook the night.

"Roma! Roma! Roma! Roma Victor!"

Their living god had come.

By torchlight, Julius strode among them, his armor gleaming with blood, his eyes burning with fire.

He looked not weary, nor wounded, but terrible in his radiance.

To the legionaries who had been on the brink of collapse, it was as though Mars himself had descended to fight beside them.

The emperor did not speak at first.

He only gazed upon his men, the weight of his presence steadying their hearts more than any command could.

He had held back for weeks, a siege was not like a field battle, even with his sytem advantages he could not fight on the frontline and was forced to watch, forced to expend his military might, but tonight, it was different.

He could now act, and as limited as his swords activation time was, 30 minutes was still more than enough to have him race atop the innner wall to stop the attacks on a number of his positions while also flashing through and clearing out francian held spots in the process.

The legionaries roared, slamming shields against stone, stamping their feet until the parapets trembled.

For the rest of the night, no man wavered.

They stood watch with eyes wide open, their fear burned away by awe.

They had seen the emperor's power with their own eyes.

They had seen him descend into their darkest hour and drag them back into the light.

And while some positions were indeed lost, many more were taken making the initial gains seem paltry in comparison.

Dawn, when it came, found the Romans still standing.

The francian dead lay in heaps at the base of the wall, food for crows and a warning to all who would challenge Romanus and her Emperor.

And among the ranks of the legion, the whispers spread like wildfire:

The emperor is no mere man.

He is a god.

And with him, none can stand against us.