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The Roman soldiers strode through the abandoned camp like they owned the place, and - to them - they did. Gallia Narbonensis had been easily conquered by their great empire a mere six decades before, and soon all of Gaul would follow. That was why they strutted through the rows of empty tents without fear of being attacked, knowing that if such a thing occurred they would be easily avenged by the legion of Romans just outside.
Yet there was something entirely different about this siege, and about this camp in particular.
Because leading the legion was Imperial Legate Octavia Vargas. Advisor to Julius Caesar. Conqueror of the Mediterranean. The Roman Empire in the flesh.
She stood strong amongst their ranks, guiding them like a shining beacon of hope, and rallied soldiers and citizens and politicians alike to her aid. Armies had fallen to their knees before her, great empires had yielded their lands in her wake, and the entire Mediterranean had bent to her will.
Now, she was here, leading a small contubernium of Roman soldiers into the disarrayed maze of empty tents and smoldering firepits, working towards the camp’s heart. All of the occupants had either fled before the legion had arrived, been killed in the subsequently brief battle, or been captured in the aftermath. There was only one occupant that Octavia was interested in, however. As the Gallic campaign continued raging, rumors about a young, seemingly orphaned, girl that roamed between the different tribes had spread like wildfire amongst certain cohorts of people. The empire doubted that they understood the significance of such sightings, but she did.
Rome had ridden out as soon as the whispers had reached her and now, after months of searching, the chase was at its end. They’d conquered the camp that had been hosting the child and she was standing in front of the tent she was being kept in.
As soon as she pulled back the flap to the tent, she was greeted with loud shouting and a dangerous-sounding clang. Instinctively, Rome ducked, just in time to see a large ceramic pot fly over her head.
It was only when she straightened that the nation was finally able to get a good look though.
The entire tent was in shambles - boxes and pots were overturned, papers were scattered everywhere, and the two soldiers who’d been ordered to watch the girl, who had been backed into a corner ready to launch another ceramic pot, were currently attempting to catch her without earning themselves a concussion. Rome scowled at the scene. This was a child . A nation, most definitely, but a child nonetheless.
“Enough!” she snapped, pinning the young girl with a scowl. The other nation was surprisingly well kept for her apparently nomadic lifestyle. Her dress, though torn and well-worn in places, had seemingly been laundered and repaired; her dark blonde hair was brushed and braided away from her face; and her face and hands had been wiped free of dirt and grime. Perhaps what took her by surprise the most, however, was the look of absolute, stubborn defiance burning in her deep blue eyes. Most nations she knew either met her gaze as a sign of respect or cowed before her, but none had ever dared to stare at her with such open resentment. That would change soon enough.
The two soldiers snapped to attention at her command, which left the girl a free line of fire to chunk the pot in her hands towards Rome’s head. The empire dodged it easily, then lunged forward to wrap her hand around the girl's wrist to prevent her from reloading.
“Try it again and I will have your hands removed from your body,” she snarled as the girl twisted her wrist in her grip in an effort to free herself. Rome wasn’t sure that the girl understood the full weight of the threat, but there was a brief flash of fear in her defiant eyes that told her that she’d understood enough. “I am the Imperium Romanum, and you, whether you like it or not, are under my command.”
The girl spewed a string of foreign words that Rome didn’t understand, then spat at her feet when she was done.
Instantly, the empire saw red and backhanded the girl with barely restrained strength. She fell to the ground and clutched at her already reddened check. Yet, the tears welling in her eyes didn’t fall. Instead, defiance turned to hatred.
When the girl remained silent, Rome gripped her upper arm, hauled her up, and pulled her out of the tent. Soon, all of the Gallic regions would bow to her and until that day came, their nation would remain by her side to ensure that victory. Now what to call her? Gaul seemed to be the obvious choice, but there was another name Rome had heard her people call her - Francia. The name made little sense to her, but their true titles were fickle things. Gaul. Francia. In the end, it didn’t matter what she chose to call herself. Rome would drive the barbaric tribes from her lands and she would always be Roman . Always.