Julius had never spoken to the man, but knew him by reputation; a skilled general, a blunt speaker and a ruthless, unforgiving soldier.
Behind the officers of the army, occupying the mid-level of seating, were the adepts of the Mechanicum, looking uncomfortable in the bright light of the Heliopolis. Their hooded robes hid much of their features, and Julius could not remember if he had ever seen one with his hood down. He shook his head at the foolish veils of secrecy and ritual they surrounded themselves with.
Alongside the Mechanicum were the remembrancers, earnest men and women in beige robes that scrawled in battered notepads and data-slates or sketched on cartridge paper with charcoals. The greatest artists, writers and poets of the Imperium had spread through the expedition fleets in their thousands to document the monumental achievements of the Great Crusade, meeting varying degrees of welcome. Precious few of the Legions appreciated their efforts, but Fulgrim had declared their presence to be a great boon and had granted them unprecedented access to his most intimate and guarded ceremonies.
Following his gaze, Lycaon spat, ‘Remembrancers. What purpose do scriveners and their ilk serve at a council of war? Look, one of them has even brought an easel!’
Julius smiled and said, ‘Perhaps he is attempting to capture the glory of the Heliopolis for future generations, my friend.’
‘Russ has the truth of it,’ said Lycaon. ‘We are warriors, not subjects for poetry or portraits.’
‘The pursuit of perfection extends beyond the martial disciplines, Lycaon. It encompasses fine arts, literary works and music. Only recently, I was privileged to hear Bequa Kynska’s recital and my heart soared to hear such sweet music.’
‘You’ve been reading poetry again, haven’t you?’ asked Lycaon, shaking his head.
‘When I have the chance, I delve into one of Ignace Karkasy’s Imperial Cantos ,’ admitted Julius. ‘You should try it sometime. A little culture would be no bad thing for you. Fulgrim himself has a sculpture in his chambers that he commissioned from Ostian Delafour, and it’s said that Eidolon has a landscape of Chemos painted by Kelan Roget hanging above his bed.’
‘Never! Eidolon?’
‘So they say,’ nodded Julius
‘Who’d have thought it?’ mused Lycaon. ‘Anyway, I’ll stick to achieving perfection in war if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Your loss,’ said Julius, as the benches in the upper reaches of the Heliopolis filled with people; the scribes, notaries and functionaries who served those nearer the centre of power.
‘Big turnout,’ noted Lycaon.
‘The primarch is going to speak,’ said Julius. ‘That always brings the adorers out.’
As though speaking his name was the key to summoning him, the Phoenix Gate opened and the Primarch of the III Legion entered the Heliopolis.
Fulgrim was flanked by his senior lord commanders, and the assembled warriors, adepts and scribes immediately rose to their feet and bowed their heads in wonder at the magnificent, perfect warrior before them.
Julius rose with them, his earlier discomfort washed away in the rush of excitement at seeing his beloved primarch once again. A swell of rippling applause and cries of ‘Phoenician!’ filled the Heliopolis, a roaring gesture of affirmation that only halted when Fulgrim raised his palms to quiet his reverent followers.
The primarch wore a long flowing toga of pale cream, and the dark iron hilt of his sword, Fireblade, was visible at his hip, the blade itself sheathed in a scabbard of gleaming purple leather. The flaring wings of an eagle were embroidered in gold thread across his chest and a slender band of lapis lazuli kept his silver hair from his face. Two of the Legion’s greatest warriors, Lord Commander Vespasian and Lord Commander Eidolon came in behind the primarch. Both warriors were dressed in plain, white togas, unadorned save for a small eagle motif over the right breast.
Behind the officers of the army, occupying the mid-level of seating, were the adepts of the Mechanicum, looking uncomfortable in the bright light of the Heliopolis. Their hooded robes hid much of their features, and Julius could not remember if he had ever seen one with his hood down. He shook his head at the foolish veils of secrecy and ritual they surrounded themselves with.
Alongside the Mechanicum were the remembrancers, earnest men and women in beige robes that scrawled in battered notepads and data-slates or sketched on cartridge paper with charcoals. The greatest artists, writers and poets of the Imperium had spread through the expedition fleets in their thousands to document the monumental achievements of the Great Crusade, meeting varying degrees of welcome. Precious few of the Legions appreciated their efforts, but Fulgrim had declared their presence to be a great boon and had granted them unprecedented access to his most intimate and guarded ceremonies.
Following his gaze, Lycaon spat, ‘Remembrancers. What purpose do scriveners and their ilk serve at a council of war? Look, one of them has even brought an easel!’
Julius smiled and said, ‘Perhaps he is attempting to capture the glory of the Heliopolis for future generations, my friend.’
‘Russ has the truth of it,’ said Lycaon. ‘We are warriors, not subjects for poetry or portraits.’
‘The pursuit of perfection extends beyond the martial disciplines, Lycaon. It encompasses fine arts, literary works and music. Only recently, I was privileged to hear Bequa Kynska’s recital and my heart soared to hear such sweet music.’
‘You’ve been reading poetry again, haven’t you?’ asked Lycaon, shaking his head.
‘When I have the chance, I delve into one of Ignace Karkasy’s Imperial Cantos ,’ admitted Julius. ‘You should try it sometime. A little culture would be no bad thing for you. Fulgrim himself has a sculpture in his chambers that he commissioned from Ostian Delafour, and it’s said that Eidolon has a landscape of Chemos painted by Kelan Roget hanging above his bed.’
‘Never! Eidolon?’
‘So they say,’ nodded Julius
‘Who’d have thought it?’ mused Lycaon. ‘Anyway, I’ll stick to achieving perfection in war if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Your loss,’ said Julius, as the benches in the upper reaches of the Heliopolis filled with people; the scribes, notaries and functionaries who served those nearer the centre of power.
‘Big turnout,’ noted Lycaon.
‘The primarch is going to speak,’ said Julius. ‘That always brings the adorers out.’
As though speaking his name was the key to summoning him, the Phoenix Gate opened and the Primarch of the III Legion entered the Heliopolis.
Fulgrim was flanked by his senior lord commanders, and the assembled warriors, adepts and scribes immediately rose to their feet and bowed their heads in wonder at the magnificent, perfect warrior before them.
Julius rose with them, his earlier discomfort washed away in the rush of excitement at seeing his beloved primarch once again. A swell of rippling applause and cries of ‘Phoenician!’ filled the Heliopolis, a roaring gesture of affirmation that only halted when Fulgrim raised his palms to quiet his reverent followers.
The primarch wore a long flowing toga of pale cream, and the dark iron hilt of his sword, Fireblade, was visible at his hip, the blade itself sheathed in a scabbard of gleaming purple leather. The flaring wings of an eagle were embroidered in gold thread across his chest and a slender band of lapis lazuli kept his silver hair from his face. Two of the Legion’s greatest warriors, Lord Commander Vespasian and Lord Commander Eidolon came in behind the primarch. Both warriors were dressed in plain, white togas, unadorned save for a small eagle motif over the right breast.
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