The camp was quieting now.
The roar of battle gave way to scattered cries, the clatter of weapons abandoned in the mud, and the groans of the dying.
The once-mighty Francian host had been gutted.
What had marched proudly into the field under the banners of their saints was now nothing more than blood and ash, their hopes drowned in a single day.
The Romanus legions moved with machine-like precision, tightening their cordon around the smoldering ruins of the enemy encampment.
Centurions barked crisp orders.
Pila were gathered and stacked.
Wounded were carried back to the triarii tents already secured among the captured Francian pavilions.
Efficiency.
Discipline.
Victory.
And at the center of it all — their Emperor stood, bent but unbroken.
The Praetorians had halted their own advance, forming a protective ring.
Not out of fear that Julius could not handle another skirmish — no, they had seen with their own eyes the godlike ferocity with which he carved down the Francians.
