The first volley of Romanus arrows fell like a steel rain, hissing into the Francian picket lines with sickening thuds.
The defenders—half dressed, half armed—stumbled from their tents clutching wooden shields, pikes, and spears, the shouts of their officers barely audible over the pounding of the Romanus drums in the distance.
Julius didn't wait for the legion to close entirely.
He spurred his horse forward, breaking from the protective shield wall of his praetorians, sword raised high.
The men who saw him go let out a cheer, but none dared follow yet—discipline held them until the command was given.
The picket fence loomed ahead, a crude palisade of sharpened stakes, wet wood, and rope lashings.
Behind it, Francian militiamen braced themselves, spears jabbing over the top.
A few crossbow bolts zipped past Julius—one striking his pauldron with a solid whunk and ricocheting harmlessly into the mud.
He didn't slow.
