A few days after the outer wall fell completly to the hands of Romanus, the city no longer breathed as one.

Its rhythm, once steady, had splintered.

The noble quarter rang with the sound of hammers, priests' chants, and cries of fanatics clamouring for the blood of the invaders.

The ruins of the commoners' district—what the legionaries now called no-man's land—groaned with the noise of scavenging, slaughter, and fire.

The Romanus machine had broken through the skin of the city, and now it dug deeper, bleeding the flesh within.

The streets between the two walls became killing grounds.

Squads of legionaries advanced through the wreckage, their shields locked, pila leveled, every alley tested for ambush.

Francian holdouts sprang from cellars and lofts like rats cornered in their burrows.

Some were soldiers separated from their units during the retreat, others were merely desperate townsfolk clutching sharpened poles or butcher's knives following the supposed will of Joan.

Each was met with the same fate.

Steel in the gut.

A boot on the throat.

A knife across the windpipe.

Even as the paving stones of the broad avenues ran slick with blood and bile.

Julius still demanded the sweep continue.

He would not allow his men to be attacked from behind while focusing on the enemy ahead, the same reason being why a garrison force would always be left on the outer wall watching the horizons, for signs of a hidden force coming to attempt to break the siege of the capital.

So the order went down: burn them out, drag them out, or cut them down.

Anyone captured who claimed innocence and pleaded for mercy was not trusted, though not all were killed, mainly women and younger persons, they were clapped in irons and stored in jail cells for the meantime, and once per day Julius in disguise would tour these facilities and lay down his judgement.

Thanks to the system those within his territory could have their loyalty to him and his nation exposed, so seeing prisoners of war who had 0 loyalty were simply future sabateurs looking for their chance to strike.

These were put to the axe right away, while those with a loyalty factor of at least 20 were sent away from the battlefield to be given a second chance to live a normal life in the liberated villages away from the capital.

Looting followed close behind, though restrained and purposeful.

Cohorts carted away amphorae of oil, jars of honey, sides of smoked pork, anything that would feed or fuel the legions.

Blacksmiths in the marching forges clapped when iron fittings, nails, and chains were hauled in by the cartload.

Supply wagons rattled back to camp until their axles creaked under the weight.

But there was no wanton pillage.

No fires lit for amusement, no women dragged screaming into alleys.

Julius had forbidden it, and his men obeyed.

Not for mercy's sake, but because they knew his wrath was harsher than any enemy's spear.

The emperor did not see a city to be sacked—he saw a province waiting to be ruled.

To salt its streets or enslave its people would be to cripple what he intended to claim.

At the heart of the contested quarter, the volunteer corps began their work.

Auxiliaries, eager boys, men hungry for land and citizenship—all sent to reduce the commoner districts to rubble.

Timber beams groaned as axes hacked through their frames.

Roof tiles crashed down in waves, shattering on the stones below.

Whole lanes collapsed into choking clouds of dust.

"Clear the ground!" barked a centurion, his voice hoarse with dust. "Every house is a shield for them. Every wall hides a bowman. Make this place open as a parade ground!"

Arguments flared among the men, muttering about the emperor's own command to preserve the city.

But the orders were clarified soon enough: this was no indiscriminate destruction.

It was surgical butchery.

The streets directly abutting the inner wall had been too cramped, too crooked for siege engines to advance.

Rooflines gave defenders high vantage to rake attackers with arrows or hurl stones on ladders and rams.

If the wall was to be stormed, the space before it had to be laid bare.

So it was.

What had been a maze of shops, bakeries, taverns, and shrines became a flattened killing field.

From the rubble, new lanes were carved, wide enough for towers, rams, and whole cohorts to advance shoulder to shoulder.

By the fourth day, the ground itself seemed to groan beneath the weight of the legion's ambition.

Meanwhile, high on the captured outer wall, another labor neared completion.

The catapults, though tireless, had proven insufficient.

Their stones shattered towers, but their range fell short of the noble quarter.

To break the inner defenses, something more was required.

Thus the engineers raised their monsters: trebuchets.

It was an enterprise worthy of legend.

Beams thicker than columns were hauled up by oxen, sweat pouring off their hides.

Ropes thicker than a man's arm were twisted taut until they sang.

Counterweights of stone and shattered masonry swung from frames taller than watchtowers.

Defender arrows hissed from the inner walls, but shields lifted in a roof of iron, while germanic slingers drove the enemy's heads down.

Hammerstrokes rang day and night until the first trebuchet stood like a god of war upon the battered parapet.

The honor of the first throw went to the men who built it.

A boulder, dragged from the ruins of a toppled tower, was cradled in the sling.

The engineers cranked, sweating, until the beam strained against its pin. The signal was given.

The earth shook.

The stone flew.

It soared across the gutted streets, arcing high above the battlefield before it plunged into the noble quarter.

A plume of dust rose like smoke from the earth.

The legion roared.

From then on, the engines did not rest.

Stone followed stone, striking walls, towers, and mansions alike.

Then came worse.

Corpses.

The dead, gathered from alleys and rubble heaps, lashed together with rope.

Men and women, even some children, rotting and swollen, hurled in bundles across the sky.

They burst on courtyards, tangled in gardens, crashed through roofs.

The defenders' priests wailed at the blasphemy, incense rising to cover the stench.

But no prayer could smother the drumbeat of corpses falling from the heavens.

Julius walked the captured wall with Sabellus, watching the trebuchets' rhythm.

"The outer ring is secure," Sabellus said. "The quarter is being stripped bare. Resistance dwindles by the hour."

Julius said nothing at first, only studied the looming second wall.

Its towers glimmered with fresh pennons.

Its parapets bristled with soldiers.

Horns sounded from within, a steady defiance.

At last, he spoke. "Every stone we hurl, every street we raze, is a step closer. They cling to hope behind that wall. We will crush it beneath our feet."

Sabellus eyed him carefully. "And when the wall falls? When the noble quarter burns?"

The emperor's gaze hardened. "Then I will tear it apart until she is found."

Joan had yet to appear even a little during these weeks of siege and Julius's heart was being gripped tight by that fact, it could be that she was being held back as a means to keep their morale soaring even in the wake of inevitable defeat, or worse yet she could be held back as a hostage, a means to make the emperor submit to their demands even when the last vestiges of their kingdom have fallen.

The Kingdom of Francia would fall within a month, his legions had already started to assault the inner wall, and after that was only the royal castle itself.

Tens of thousands still resisted his attempted occupation of their capital but the King, Prince, and remaining nobility in charge still stubbornly resisted, not that Julius would accept it if they chose to surrender mind you.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.