Solomon pushed himself upright once more and swung his legs from the bed. His vision swam and he held tight to the bed frame as the gleaming walls suddenly grew sickeningly bright. 'I should be there,' he said groggily.

'You are in no state to be anywhere except here, my friend,' said Julius. 'Caphen will represent the Second. He was lucky, he made it out of the crash with nothing but a few scrapes and bruises.'

'Caphen,' said Solomon, sinking back down into the bed. He was an Astartes, invincible and immortal, and this helplessness was utterly alien to him. 'Keep an eye on him. He's a good lad, but a bit wild sometimes.'

Julius laughed and said, 'Get some sleep, Solomon, you understand? Or did that crash scramble your brains too?'

'Sleep?' said Solomon, slumping back onto the bed. 'I'll sleep when I'm dead.'

The upper embarkation deck had been chosen as the location where the delegation from the Iron Hands would be met, and Julius felt a great excitement seize him at the thought of once again laying eyes upon Ferrus Manus. Not since the bloody fields of Tygriss had the Emperor's Children fought alongside the X Legion, and Julius remembered the cries of triumph and the victory pyres with great pride.

He wore an ivory cloak, its edges picked out with scarlet leaves and eagles, and a laurel wreath of gold upon his brow. He carried his helmet under the crook of his arm, as did his brothers who gathered with him to greet Ferrus Manus. Marius stood to his left, his austere features drawn in a sombre expression that stood out amongst the excited faces that awaited this reunion of the Emperor's sons. Solomon was right, he decided, he would need to keep an eye on his brother and attempt to lift him from the pit of self-loathing he had dug for himself.

In contrast, Gaius Caphen could barely contain his excitement. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to believe his luck at having come through the crash that had so grievously wounded his captain, and then being selected to join this august assembly. Another four captains made up the rest of the gathering: Xiandor, Tyrion, Anteus and Hellespon. Julius knew Xiandor reasonably well, but knew the others only by reputation.

Lord Commander Vespasian talked quietly to the primarch, who stood resplendent in his full battle plate, the golden winged gorget sweeping up over his shoulder to the level of his high, shishak helmet, the lamellar aventail sweeping down across the shoulders of his armour in a glittering cascade.

The golden sword Fireblade was belted at the primarch's waist, and Julius was unaccountably glad to see it at Fulgrim's hip instead of the silver-handled blade he had taken from the Laer temple.

Behind them, the vicious, beaked prow of the Firebird watched over proceedings, the primarch's assault vessel sporting a fresh coat of paint after her fiery entry into the atmosphere of Laeran.

Vespasian nodded at whatever Fulgrim said and turned to march back towards the company captains, his face set in an expression of quiet amusement. Vespasian was everything Julius could ever desire to be as a warrior, controlled, graceful and utterly deadly. His golden hair was short and tightly curled, and his features were the very image of everything an Astartes ought to be, regal, angelic and stern. Julius had fought alongside Vespasian on countless battlefields, and the warriors he commanded would boast that his prowess was the equal of the primarch's. Though all knew that such a boast was made in jest, it served to push his warriors to greater heights of valour and strength to emulate the lord commander.

Vespasian was also immensely likeable, for his incredible abilities as a warrior and commander were tempered by a rare humility that made others warm to him immediately. In the manner of the Emperor's Children, warriors who followed Vespasian would take their lead from him in all things, his example serving as a model of how they might best achieve perfection through purity of purpose.

Vespasian moved down the line of captains, ensuring that everything was in order and that his captains would do the Legion honour. He stopped before Gaius Caphen and smiled.

'I bet you can't believe your luck, Gaius,' said Vespasian.

'No, sir,' replied Caphen.

'You won't let me down will you?'

'No, sir!' repeated Caphen, and Vespasian slapped a gauntlet on his shoulder guard. 'Good man. I've got my eye on you, Gaius. I expect you to achieve great things in the coming campaign.'

Caphen beamed with pride as the lord commander moved to stand between Julius and Marius. He nodded curtly to the captain of the Third, and leaned over to whisper to Julius as the red lights of the integrity field began to flash.

'Are you ready for this?' asked the lord commander.

'I am,' replied Julius.

Vespasian nodded and said, 'Good man. At least one of us is.'

'Are you trying to tell me you are not?' asked Julius with a smile.

'No,' grinned Vespasian, 'but it's not every day we get to stand in the presence of two such beings. I have a hard enough time being around Lord Fulgrim without looking like a slack jawed mortal, but put two of them in a room…'

Julius nodded in understanding. The sheer magnetism of the primarchs was something that took a great deal of getting used to, the force of their personalities and sheer physical charisma leaving men who had fought the darkest horrors of the galaxy trembling with paralysing fear. Julius well remembered his first meeting with Fulgrim, an embarrassing encounter where he found he couldn't even remember his own name when it was asked of him.

Fulgrim's presence humbled a man with its lawlessness and exposed his every imperfection, but as Fulgrim had said to him after that first meeting, 'This is the very perfection of man, to find out his own imperfections and eliminate them.'

'You have met the Primarch of the Iron Hands?' asked Julius.

'I have, yes,' said Vespasian. 'He reminds me of the Warmaster in many ways.'

'How so?'

'You have not met the Warmaster have you?'

'No,' said Julius, 'though I saw him when the Legion marched at Ullanor.'

'Then you'll understand when you do, lad,' said Vespasian. 'Both of them come from worlds that hammer the soul with fire. Their hearts are forged of flint and steel, and the blood of Medusa surges in the Gorgon's veins, molten, unpredictable and violent.'

'Why do you call Ferrus Manus the Gorgon?'

Vespasian chuckled as the immense form of a heavily modified Stormbird eased through the integrity field, its midnight-black hull glimmering with wisps of condensation. The engines growled as the craft turned, its increased bulk formed by racks of missiles and extra stowage compartments fitted at its rear.

'Some say it's a reference to an ancient legend of the Olympian Hegemony,' said Vespasian. 'The Gorgon was a beast of such incredible ugliness that its very gaze could turn a man to stone.'

Julius was outraged at the disrespect in such a term and said, 'And people are allowed to insult the primarch in this way?'

'Don't fret, lad,' said Vespasian. 'I believe Ferrus Manus quite enjoys the name, but in any case, that's not where the name comes from.'

'So where does it come from?'

'It's an old nickname our primarch gave him many years ago,' said Vespasian. 'Unlike Fulgrim, Ferrus Manus has little time for art, music or any of the cultural pastimes our primarch enjoys. It's said that after the two of them met at Mount Narodnya, they returned to the Imperial Palace where Sanguinius had arrived bearing gifts for the Emperor, exquisite statues from the glowing rock of Baal, priceless gem-stones and wondrous artefacts of aragonite, opal and tourmaline. The lord of the Blood Angels had brought enough to fill a dozen wings of the palace with the greatest wonders imaginable.'