Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The banners of Romanus fluttered blood-red in the chill wind as the first of the legions crested the pass leading into the valley below Bellenne.

By the hour's count, they had already marched nearly twenty kilometers since the last rest—pausing only to secure waypoints and issue new orders to the signal companies galloping between divisions.

Each legion moved with mechanical precision, carving through the countryside like a glacier of iron and will.

And no one had yet stood to stop them.

They had expected resistance.

An ambush in the passes.

A cavalry strike along the forest line.

Even some desperate local militia trying to bar the road.

But there was none.

Only abandoned watchposts and frightened, retreating villagers—those not fleeing east to the Visigoth borderlands were either hiding or huddled in crumbling barns, watching the banners of Romanus with wary, exhausted eyes.

"Where is Amaury's army?"

Sabellus asked quietly from atop his mount beside Julius.

Julius didn't respond immediately.

He stared instead at the narrow road ahead, where engineers had just finished constructing a hastily braced pontoon bridge across the second of the river tributaries.

"The question is not where his army is,"

Julius said after a long moment.

"The question is: does he still have one?"

Sabellus blinked.

"You believe it's disbanded?"

"Scattered,"

Julius said.

"Bleeding men with every mile. Rumours of mutiny in the western regiments. Nobles refusing crown orders. And now Joan… appearing where no order sends her, answering to no command."

He gestured across the valley.

"This isn't a retreat. It's a collapse."

Sabellus let out a low breath.

They continued down the road.

As they entered the valley, the sheer magnitude of Romanus's advance became apparent.

To the west, forces under Gallius moved along the ridgelines, seizing high ground and securing fallback points.

To the east, scouts marked out new supply caches while saboteurs cut key trade roads between La Morienne and the eastern hill provinces.

And in the center—beneath the black and crimson banner of the Legion—Julius's core army moved like a steel river.

Already, reports were flooding in.

Local constables surrendering without a fight.

Minor lords abandoning their keeps fleeing with their possessions.

Even a Francian baron near Thalvec had sent a rider under white flag, petitioning terms for his people in exchange for a bloodless transition of rule.

"They didn't expect us to move,"

Caetrax said as he caught up on horseback.

"They thought this was posturing. A simple show of force."

Julius allowed himself a faint smile.

"No. They thought war still required permission."

~

Bellenne – Dawn

The town of Bellenne rose out of the valley like a smudge of stone and timber nestled against a line of thick pine.

Its walls were modest—older wood with patches of new construction—and its gates unbarred when the legion approached.

They had already received the envoy.

And they had chosen… peace.

As Julius rode through the open gates at the head of his Praetorian Guard, the streets stood empty save for a line of villagers and a few trembling local officials.

At the center of them stood the local magistrate, a man named Ricard de Vauvenay.

He bowed deeply.

"Your Grace,"

he said, voice low,

"we welcome you in peace."

Julius nodded.

"You made a wise choice."

"I beg only that you do not conscript our able-bodied. The harvest has failed twice, and without strong backs—"

"You will retain your men, your food, and your lives,"

Julius interrupted.

"In return, this settlement will feed and quarter two cohorts, maintain the road eastward, and issue no communication to La Morienne unless through us."

Ricard nodded quickly.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"Then you are no longer subjects of the Francian crown,"

Julius declared.

"You are wards of Romanus. And your service begins today."

~

Three Days Later – Ten Kilometers North of Bellenne

The corridor had begun to form.

With Bellenne secured and several more hamlets falling into compliance or silence, the wedge strategy was taking root.

Julius stood again above his map, this time inside a repurposed barn now serving as a forward command post.

"The corridor is nearly complete,"

Gallius reported. "We've blocked the river routes. Visigoth territory now sits only two or three days ride beside us—but they've shown no signs of movement."

"They'll wait,"

Julius said.

"They're watching."

"Should we fortify?"

"Not yet. Focus on pressing north first we've no real claim to these lands yet, and no path to maintain control except through our allies lands. Once we reach the coast, we'll have the leverage to dictate what happens next, when we establish military and commercial ports to ensure a influx of goods and supplies to keep the region alive even if they were cutoff on the mainloand."

Sabellus pointed to a region further east—just shy of the Francian border citadel of Arvest.

"We've had word. Local Francian forces are retreating into Arvest and abandoning their satellite towns. They've chosen to harden their position rather than risk open battle."

"Good,"

Julius said.

"Let them dig deep."

He tapped the region just west of Arvest.

"We'll take the surrounding settlements. Cut the roads. Then bleed them slowly."

"And Joan?"

Caetrax asked.

"She's still moving—heading west now, into the heartlands."

"Let her preach,"

Julius said calmly.

"The deeper she goes, the more distance between her and the army. When the time comes, she'll be alone."

~

That Night – Encampment Outside Baronne

The fire crackled softly.

Outside his tent, Julius could hear the quiet hum of soldiers eating, laughing low, sharpening blades and tending to horses.

The scent of smoked meat and winter pine filled the air.

The soldiers were weary, but they were winning—and they knew it.

More than a dozen villages now bore the black and crimson.

The eastern corridor was severed.

And the heartland was vulnerable.

Still, Julius did not rest.

He poured over the map by candlelight, marking the next objectives.

Two days more to the outer coast.

Then…

Then they would turn the wedge into a blade, offers of surrender being presented to the east, and should they refuse a new great wall would appear to protect their rear, while the primary legions would be waging a full campaign.

And Francia would break, not in blood alone—but in will.

They wouldn't need to be conquered.

They would become Romanus by necessity.

By logic.

By law.

He dipped his quill into ink and scrawled a new name on the map.

Via Ferrum.

The Iron Road.

The path they now carved through enemy land.

And one day… the eastern spine of their new empire.