Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The first line of Romanus cohorts began to advance.

Shields overlapped, painted shields giving off the image of a great red snake slithering in the pale light, each step measured and methodical — boots crushing frost, not with haste, but inevitability.

Below them, chaos blossomed.

The Francian vanguard, caught in the narrow throat of the valley, reeled from the shock of the ambush.

The second battalion, bloodied and disoriented, scrambled backward, crashing into the unengaged third and fourth in a panicked wave.

Officers shouted to reestablish order, whips cracked, standards were raised high — but it was too late for cohesion.

They were inside the mouth now.

And the jaw was closing.

From above, the Romanus archers loosed again — a steady cadence of death.

Arrows fell like sleet, biting into chainmail, piercing through plate, skimming across helms, finding eyes, throats, armpits.

They pierced flesh and panic in equal measure.

Then came the signal.

A single, deep blast from a war-horn rolled down from the Roman ridge — not a call to battle, but to devastation.

Julius stepped to the very edge of the command platform, his breath fogging as he looked down on the chaos below.

His voice, cold and low, carried through the stillness before the roar.

"Unleash hell!"

<Support Ability Commanding Voice>

And then the sky caught fire.

~

Le Pont Noir Erupts

With a thunderous crack, the first jug of ignited pitch was hurled skyward by a torsion ballista retrofitted for incendiary payloads.

It spun through the air like a comet, trailing sparks before crashing into the earth near the Francian center.

Flames burst outward — not in a wave, but in fingers — splattering burning pitch across men, horses, and banners alike.

Screams tore the valley.

The sky itself was filled with dozens of arcing contrails as if hundreds of meteorites were called down by the Romanus Emperors command.

Julius had not created siege engines solely for walls.

He had brought them for annihilation.

The firestorm began in earnest.

Flaming oil, resin-soaked hay, and naptha-fused jars rained down from ridgelines and hidden artillery nests.

Targets were strategic, no misfire was tolerated, each volley launched hit with near perfect precision.

It was not a bombardment.

It was a message.

The Empire did not fight fair.

It fought to end.

From the east ridge, mangonels lobbed slow arcs of pitch-urns into the rear of the Francian line, where logistic and medical wagons sat in vulnerable clusters.

From the west, scorpion launchers hurled clay pots stuffed with glass shards and burning tar into tight infantry formations.

And still the legions advanced completely unfazed by the hailstorm of firey death happening in front of them.

The battlefield became a crucible — not a place of honor, but of attrition.

A valley of smoke and steel, of fire and screaming.

The Francian formations, finally realizing the nature of the trap, attempted to pivot into a defensive crescent — commanders barking orders in desperate tones, trying to reorganize their men under the storm.

Theoderic's banner rose above the battlefield like a desperate flame.

Knights rallied around it, pushing forward in staggered lines to try to punch through the Roman left.

But even as they moved, they were hindered by the carnage.

The pitch clung to armor.

It pooled in snowdrifts, and fire followed it like a living thing, that is until the snow itself melted from the heat, only to cause new explosions as the water and oil mixed while still alight once more launching the oil into the air like ongoing shrapnel bombs.

The air itself was suffocating.

And worse than the fire was the discipline of the machine descending upon them.

Romanus had not opened with cavalry.

It had opened with Hell.

~

North Ridge – Rucaran's Flank

"Firing arc clear!"

called the spotter behind the main mangonel.

Commander Rucaran stepped forward, surveyed the targeting flags down the slope, then raised his hand.

"Mark the crest. Send it."

The mangonel thunked.

Its payload — a reinforced barrel of quick-burning pitch and crushed lime — hurtled toward the Francian right, where noble knights still clung to order and charged.

The fire broke just behind their formation, painting the snow orange and shattering half a dozen footmen with the blast.

Panic rippled even among the armored elite.

Rucaran didn't pause.

"Next target! Banner-line four! Keep them penned in!"

Aide teams rushed to reload.

Arrows continued to pour from in front of the engines, covering the fire crews.

The teeth had closed.

Now came the grind as Romanus thoroughly chewed the meal Francia had delivered to them.

~

The Nymbrati Strike

The quiet from the south was deceptive.

No jugs.

No screams.

Just snow.

And shapes like illusions being seen here and there.

The nymbrati were dressed in different uniforms to the rest of the army.

While legionaires stood out in their crimson and brown leather armor in contrast to the pure white snow, they instead were dressed in as near a white as possible.

Hundreds of them, slowly advancing in full view of the enemy but due to the ongoing chaos they couldn't conclude it was a threat and merely just tricks of their eyes.

Even when support forces tried to run only to fall, those watching just assumed they had been picked off by archers not assassins.

The Nymbrati didn't strike yet.

They held the line, attacking when needed, but otherwise waiting.

Their orders had been clear: wait for the third phase of the battle.

Let the fire and the front lines draw the enemy in.

Then emerge from the smoke behind them.

No charge.

No roar.

Just death.

They crept forward, blades low, the insignia of dead Francian scouts sewn over their hearts.

Already, they could see gaps opening in the enemy's rear lines.

Retreat paths.

Paths that would never be taken, as Romanus would instead turn them into paths of the dead.

~

Romanus Center Line – The Advance Begins

The core cohorts of Julius's army now surged into motion.

Not in a sprint — but a forward march so deliberate it was terrifying.

Shield by shield.

Step by step.

A wall of men, moving as one body, eyes hard, jaws clenched.

Orders passed in hand signals.

Pilum spears were thrown in tight barrages — breaking shields, knocking knights from saddles.

Then came the clash.

The first contact — steel on steel, shield on shield, flesh and armor and frost crushed together in thunder.

And still, behind the melee, the sky continued to burn.

~

Command Platform – Julius Watches

Sabellus's jaw was tight as he surveyed the valley below.

"Some of their knights are reforming along the southern bluff,"

he muttered.

"They'll try to countercharge and flank our siege crews."

"Let them,"

Julius said.

"Their eyes are forward. Their minds are stuck on old wars."

He turned to his aides.

"Signal the Iron Cavalry. Third Division. Eastern draw. Move to intercept and then rotate back along the burning trench. Keep them in the kill zone."

An arrow flare shot into the air — green this time, hard to spot unless you were looking for it.

Below, the sound of hooves began.

Sabellus nodded slowly.

"They'll never break through."

"No,"

Julius said softly.

His hands tightened behind his back.

"They won't break through. They'll break apart."

~

Valley Center – Theoderic's Stand

Marshal Theoderic slashed his way through the burning snow, sword gleaming, visor cracked.

"Form ranks! Form ranks!" he bellowed.

His bodyguard obeyed, planting shields into the earth, rallying to form a spearpoint that might punch through the Roman wave.

"Forward!"

he shouted.

"On me! Break the line!"

The line surged.

Roman shields met them.

Steel clashed.

Then the oil came again.

A fresh volley from the rear of the Roman position — jugs arcing over the front line, behind the Francian shield wall, crashing down in their midst.

Theoderic screamed as burning pitch exploded just ahead of him — his vision seared, his footing lost.

The men behind him faltered.

Then the spears came again.

The line buckled.

And the Francian army began to drown.