'How could he do that?' asked Pasanius, rubbing at his stump, which Uriel saw was an angry red, with patches of raw scabbing where the skin had been worn down.

'Locard didn't know,' said Uriel, rising from the bed and beginning a series of stretches to loosen the muscles in his arms. 'He said that Semyon was part of something called the Dragon Cult and that no one really knew if he existed at all. His work is like some sort of myth on Mars. The story goes that he died during the Martian schism back at the end of Old Night.'

'Emperor's teeth, that's so long ago, who knows what's true and what's not?' said Pasanius, joining Uriel in stretching.

'That's kind of what Locard said,' replied Uriel. 'He said that so much of Mars was laid waste that any kind of history was as good as legend.'

'Legend is time and rumour,' nodded Pasanius. 'Isn't that what they say?'

'With enough time, everything becomes legend,' agreed Uriel. 'One day you and I might be legends. Perhaps there will be murals in the Temple of Correction.'

'Or statues on the Avenue of Heroes,' smiled Pasanius.

The two friends passed the early hours of the morning, reminiscing over Macragge and the beauty of the world they hoped to see again soon. Within a few hours, both had come to the realisation that it had been a long time since either of them had endured a proper Astartes strength and endurance test. Without their fellow battle-brothers to measure themselves against and to drive them onwards, their powers had waned. It was an unwelcome truth to learn.

As they finished their exercises, there was a polite knock on the door and Eversham entered, looking as dangerous and catlike as ever. The man's face was unreadable, though Uriel had never found it easy to read the emotions of mortals.

'Good morning,' said Uriel.

'Indeed,' said Eversham. 'I trust you rested well?'

'Well enough,' said Pasanius.

'What can we do for you, Mister Eversham?' asked Uriel.

'Governor Barbaden sends you his greetings,' began Eversham, 'and bids me inform you that he has arranged for you to consult with the Janiceps.'

The sunlight on Serj Casuaban's skin was welcome after the cramped, claustrophobic interior of the House of Providence. Though the air in Junktown wasn't exactly fresh, it was certainly better than the stale aroma of death and desperation that saturated every breath he took within its metal corridors and wards.

Junktown was a somewhat obvious name for the largest district of Barbadus, but it was, Casuaban reflected, an apt one. Many of the original dwellings that had stood here were rubble, demolished in the original war of pacification and never rebuilt. Those that remained stood cheek by jowl with the detritus of that war.

A regimental graveyard of fighting vehicles had been abandoned here, the remains of a dozen armoured companies whose crews had mustered out of the Falcatas or which had broken down and could not be repaired. The ingenuity of the locals in rendering vehicles that had once borne their enemies into battle was little short of ingenious, and abandoned squadrons housed entire families, with engines serving as reconditioned heating units and ammo stowage as makeshift sleeping compartments.

Thousands of people lived here in cramped conditions until the work klaxons blared to summon them to work in the munitions forges or promethium refineries. A pall of ash and sullen melancholy hung over Junktown and Casuaban knew that his presence was only tolerated due to the medicines he was distributing and the treatment he was providing.

Casuaban sat behind a metal trestle table, applying a soothing bacitracin poultice to the arm of a male worker who had been burned while processing gel fuels for shipping off-world. The man had been lucky; a trained corpsman had been on hand to treat the wound at the site of the accident, yet the scarring was likely to be severe.

With the poultice applied, Casuaban sent the man on his way with a stern warning to keep his wound clean, even though he knew that such advice would be hard to follow in a place like Junktown. Behind him, an idling truck with a bored-looking orderly lounging in the driver's cab was filled with immunisation ampoules, sterilised needles, gauze, synth-bandages, vitamin supplements, water purification tablets and a host of other vital medical supplies.

Casuaban rubbed his hands over his face and took a deep breath. He stood from his trestle table and waved a hand at the people queuing to see him.

'I will be back in a few minutes,' he said, moving over to the truck and accepting a mug of lukewarm caffeine from the orderly. The drink was brackish and tepid, but welcome nonetheless.

Casuaban closed his eyes and sat back on the running board that ran the length of the engine housing of the truck. He let his tired eyes drift closed, his body exhausted despite the few hours of disturbed sleep that he had snatched on the cot bed in his office.

He had been working in Junktown since the sun had risen and it would soon be time to move on to the next temporary medicae station. His eyes flickered to the truck, knowing he would have to find some way of distracting the orderly when he saw the Leman Russ that Pascal Blaise was going to mark for the drop of supplies.

'It doesn't get any easier does it?' said a nearby voice.

Casuaban jumped, a guilty jolt of adrenaline sending a shock through his system. Caffeine spilled onto his tunic.

Angry, he looked up to see Shavo Togandis, struggling to emerge from the comfort of an Ecdesiarchal palanquin like some overlarge butterfly from a stubborn chrysalis.

'What?' he snapped, grateful the caffeine was only lukewarm. 'What's not easy?'

'Ministering to the needy,' said Shavo Togandis. 'One feels one has accepted a never-ending task does one not?'

'Correct, Shavo,' agreed Casuaban, leaning back. 'It doesn't get any easier. Nor should it.'

'Quite,' said the cardinal. Togandis was sweating profusely, which wasn't unusual given his bulk, and Casuaban was forced to smile as he saw him use his staff to help propel him from the palanquin.

Free at last, Togandis made his way to the truck and shook hands with Casuaban, who fought the urge to wipe his sweat-slick hand on his trousers.

'Good morning to you, my friend,' said Togandis. 'Another day of serving the Emperor and his people.'

'Another day of putting right the wrongs of the past, eh?' said Casuaban.

Togandis shot him a strange look and nodded, indicating to the priests and servitors that made up his retinue that they should set up his mobile shrine against the hull of a burnt out Griffon mobile artillery piece that was missing its launcher.

Serj Casuaban and Shavo Togandis were an unlikely duo, but the years following Restoration Day had seen them become, if not friends, then at least comrades in shared atonement. They had never openly spoken of what they had witnessed at the Killing Ground, but both had recognised a shared need in the other and, almost without speaking of it, they had set out to repay their debt to Salinas, one person at a time.

Every week, they would tour the worst affected slums of Barbadus, Casuaban offering medical attention and advice to those that needed it, and Togandis preaching the word of the Emperor to those who would hear it. Initially, Casuaban had the busier time on these expeditions, but as time passed and their hardships increased, more and more people turned to the word of the Emperor to see them through the years following Restoration Day.

No soldiers travelled with Casuaban, only a driver and a handful of servitors for lifting and basic security, a situation for which he had Pascal Blaise to thank. Togandis travelled with a little less austerity, riding in a palanquin of engraved wood and silver, followed by a chanting coterie of priests and lobotomised censer bearers.