Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

A few days later the morning broke crisp and cold.

The golden sun rose sluggishly behind a veil of thin clouds, casting long, sharp shadows across the stone plazas of the Eternal City.

Bells rang low and deep across the whole of the imperial capital, not in warning, but in solemn announcement.

Today, the Emperor rode to war leaving his city, and citizens behind to join their sons in battle.

~

Julius stood at the northern gates of the city, clad in full imperial battle regalia for the first time since his coronation as King.

His armor was a masterwork of the empire's finest smiths — gleaming steel chased with blackened gold, the eagle of Romanus spread wide across his breastplate. A purple cloak billowed from his shoulders, fastened by a brooch bearing the twin laurel and sunburst of his reign.

At his side, sheathed in a simple leather scabbard, was his gladius.

The weapon felt lighter than it should have.

As if it knew that soon, it would be heavy with history.

Behind him, the Praetorian Guard sat astride their warhorses, a solid wall of black and purple-crimson, silent and terrible.

Each man hand-picked from the regiment of existing Praetorians, veteran of dozens of campaigns by Julius's side, sworn by blood and blade to defend their Emperor at any cost.

The citizens of Romanus lined the broad marble avenue, silent in awe.

They knew — all of them — what this moment meant.

Not since the early days of the ancient empire had an Emperor led his army personally into a foreign land.

Not since Romulus himself had the fate of the world balanced so finely on the tip of a single man's will.

~

Julius glanced once over his shoulder, seeing the towering spires of the Eternal City one last time.

Then he kicked his horse forward into a trot.

The Praetorians followed instantly, their formation snapping into perfect columns behind him.

No fanfare.

No songs.

Only the steady beat of iron-shod hooves striking the sacred stones of Romanus.

They crossed through the great gate — the Porta Triumphalis — and out into the wide world beyond.

Quickly passing through Romanus Provinces of Latiunium, Rosaria, and Lunalia.

Towards Germania.

Towards destiny.

~

The first days passed swiftly.

Julius rode hard, pressing his Praetorians at a brutal pace, but they did not falter.

They knew the stakes.

They knew the urgency.

They crossed fields of green, threading between the gentle rolling hills that marked the western approaches to Germania.

Small towns and villages scattered across the land welcomed them — their presence not shocking the germanians as they had already bore witness to numerous Romanus forces bypassing their lands, and thanks to new spreading like wildfire, they had even heard that the Romans were here not as conquerors but as support to their own army fighting endlessly in the east.

The new territories they passed through were a strange blend of Roman and Germanian architecture: longhouses built alongside basic aqueducts, wooden fortresses shadowed by marble shrines.

Julius watched it all with an appraising eye as they zipped past.

This land would be a jewel in his crown once it was fully tamed and had fully submitted to his rule.

Already, he could see where new cities would rise, where roads would need to be paved, where fortresses would anchor the new frontiers.

But that would come later.

First, there was a war to win against a different opponent.

And a woman to save.

~

By the fifth day, they began passing the signs of true war.

Burnt fields.

Shattered villages.

Broken carts were abandoned along muddy roads.

Skirmish reports from the Iron Cavalry flared across his System Interface like sparks — small battles fought and won, patrols harassed and scattered, the north-eastern reaches of Germania had become embroiled I a war they were not prepared for.

The Francians were moving, sluggishly, disorganized — but moving, being stopped by the presence of the romanus forces, but still breaking through in area's where they were not present.

Good.

Let them.

Every step deeper into Germania was a step closer to their grave.

~

On the sixth day, as twilight descended over the dense forests of northern Germania, Julius and his vanguard crested a low ridge.

There, sprawled out across the valleys below, lay the massed forces of Romanus.

Seventy thousand strong.

An ocean of crimson and iron.

Banners snapped in the wind: the eagle of Romanus, the laurel of Latinium, the rising sun of Carthage.

Cohort after cohort of heavy infantry drilling by torchlight, their formations disciplined and unyielding even in the fading light.

Siege trains assembling in the rear.

Cavalry units sharpening lances and checking saddles.

The Legions had come.

And they waited for their Emperor.

~

A cheer erupted as Julius and his Praetorians rode into view, cascading across the camp like wildfire.

Legionnaires pounded the hilts of their gladii against their shields in a thunderous salute.

Julius raised a gauntleted fist in return, feeling the swell of pride and purpose rise in his chest.

He had built this.

Forged it in blood and iron.

And now, he would wield it.

~

As he dismounted, commanders came rushing forward: Haddin, Gallius, Sabellus — their faces grim and eager.

"Your Majesty,"

Haddin said, bowing deeply.

"All legions are in position. We await only your command."

Julius nodded slowly, sweeping his gaze across the sprawling camp.

The stars overhead were bright, cold witnesses to what was about to unfold.

His heart pounded, but not with fear.

With anticipation.

With certainty.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, in the darkness of foreign lands, Yuri waited.

And Julius would tear apart a continent to bring her home.

He turned back to his gathered commanders, voice low and deadly calm.

"Tomorrow, we march."

The Legions roared their assent, a sound so vast it seemed to shake the very earth itself.

Tomorrow.

War.

Victory.

Destiny.

And for Julius...Tomorrow was the first step toward eternity.

With the dawn to ring out the first of many death knells to be delivered out to the dysfunctional francian nobility and their feudalist style of governing.