Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The charge of the Francian levies was chaos given form.

Their bodies surged like a wave — not evenly, not uniformly, but wildly, as men sprinted, stumbled, and roared across the frostbitten earth.

Footfalls struck the soil in staccato rhythm, and their chants and roars grew louder the closer they got, until it wasn't song anymore — just screaming.

The second banner.

That was the mark.

Julius watched without blinking.

When the bulk of Guilliame's army crossed the painted red marker in the field, the Romanus archers let loose.

A hundred bowstrings sang in eerie harmony.

Then came the shrieking death of iron-tipped arrows.

They fell like a curtain — not scattered, not haphazard — but layered and deliberate.

The first volley slammed into the front ranks of the Francians, who had no shields, only pitchforks and tools turned into weapons.

Men fell in droves.

Skulls cracked.

Throats burst.

The lines buckled.

But still they came.

"Second volley!"

bellowed the command officer from the left flank.

Another chorus of strings.

Another black hail of arrows.

This time, they found the gaps left by the fallen, tore through flesh and bone.

Bodies dropped and were trampled.

Spears shattered as they were raised too late.

Shields cracked where they existed at all.

The Francians screamed in rage and fear, but they kept moving unable to halt for fear of being trampled by those following behind them.

They had nowhere to go but forward.

And then they hit the line.

Like a tide smashing against a stone wall, the untrained mass collided with the disciplined core of Romanus's first line.

The spears held firm — stabbing forward in unison, not slashing but thrusting with short, deadly jabs aimed for the belly, the thigh, the neck.

It was not a glorious melee.

It was slaughter.

Peasants died on contact, most without ever touching a Romanus shield.

The disciplined cohorts pivoted and rotated, allowing the second and third lines to replace the first without ever breaking formation.

Behind the shield wall, commanders called positions with horn and flag.

Every signal echoed with clarity, every adjustment instant.

Julius's machine was working.

~

On the Francian side, Guilliame de Tournelle's face was locked in a snarl.

From atop the ridge, he could see his men faltering.

Already more than a thousand lay dead or broken in the mud.

Still more were retreating — no, collapsing, pulled under the weight of their dead comrades, their momentum blunted.

He snarled and turned to his banner-knight.

"Sound the advance. All of it. We're going in."

The knight hesitated.

"My Lord, the center—"

"Will hold,"

Guilliame said, though even he wasn't certain of it.

"The Iron Company will flank. We strike their command structure."

The knight hesitated another beat, then nodded.

The blue-feathered banner of Tournelle snapped in the wind.

And from the wooded rise to the rear of the Francian line, the remaining knights — two hundred strong — began their ride.

From Julius's platform, the movement was unmistakable.

Sabellus raised his spyglass.

"Cavalry. Real cavalry. Coming from the southeast ridge. Flanking formation."

Caetrax hissed through his teeth.

"That's no peasant rabble. Heavy mounts. Mail. Discipline."

Julius didn't look surprised.

"He saved his best. Waiting for our focus to settle on the levies, before the nobles made their move."

He turned to his signaler.

"Flag the 12th and 14th cohorts. Rear rotation. Prepare for cavalry engagement. Iron Cavalry to reposition and engage when they commit."

The signaler didn't hesitate.

Red and black flags rose and snapped.

Far below, the legions responded instantly.

Rear lines split and reformed.

Shields turned.

Spears shifted.

It was like watching a fortress twist into new shape.

The Iron Cavalry, until now, statues on the ridge, finally moved.

Two hundred riders began to descend the hill in a controlled sweep, taking the southern path to intercept.

On the battlefield, the center continued to churn.

The Francian levies screamed and hacked, their passion untempered by skill.

Occasionally, one would slip through a gap — landing a lucky blow, toppling a Roman soldier.

But those gaps closed immediately.

Romanus cohorts did not leave holes.

And their losses remained minimal, suffering only wounds but no casualties.

The field was turning into a funnel.

The Francians charged blindly, not realizing they were being channeled — pushed inward — narrowed into a kill zone where flanks could collapse on them at a moment's notice.

Guilliame saw it.

He grit his teeth and raised his sword.

"To me!"

he bellowed, and his personal guard of knights — fifty strong — surged with him down the hill.

They weren't the polished lancers of yore, but they were veterans.

Each had fought border wars against the Visigoths fleeing bandit lords or defended mountain passes in earlier raids from operatives trying to subvert their soverignty.

And they knew what it meant to ride to die.

The horses thundered across the frostbitten turf.

They passed their own lines.

Passed the dead.

Straight toward the Roman flank.

"Hold formation!"

one of the Roman centurions shouted.

But the knights didn't charge the spears.

They veered.

Around the edge of the flank.

Straight toward the Romanus command platform.

Sabellus drew his sword.

"Emperor!"

"I see them,"

Julius said, calm even as the pounding hooves grew louder.

Guilliame had found the one angle yet unguarded.

A narrow path between cavalry engagement and infantry center — a needle's eye — and he was threading it with terrifying speed.

Sabellus moved to intercept with his praetorians, but Julius held up a hand.

"Let them come."

"My Lord—"

Julius turned toward the rear of the command post.

"I gave strict orders. If they reach me, I die. So they won't."

At that moment, a figure stepped forward from behind the tent.

A woman in black armor — the commander of the Umbra, the Emperor's shadow guard, trained personally by the praetorians but serving in the dark rather than in the light.

Ten others stepped from the trees nearby.

Unseen until now.

Sabellus exhaled.

"They're active."

Julius said nothing.

The Francian knights closed the last fifty meters.

Their horses screeched, swords raised.

The Umbra moved.

Like ghosts.

The first knight never saw the blade that severed his reins and sent him hurtling from his saddle.

The second raised a shield — only to have his mount's legs sliced from beneath him.

In seconds, the ambush collapsed into a melee of shrieks and iron.

Not one knight reached the platform.

Guilliame turned his horse sharply, trying desperately to withdraw.

But a curved sword arced from the shadows and slashed across his mount's face.

The beast screamed and bucked.

Guilliame was thrown hard to the ground.

The wind knocked from his lungs.

He looked up, dazed, seeing only silhouettes.

His vision blurred as blood dripped from his temple.

Still, he tried to rise.

Tried to stand.