Chapter 5: Little Olive and Crassus
"What are you looking at?" Petros's voice was already laced with anger.
Skaman, scrambling to his daughter's side, rushed to explain. "My Lord Steel Angel! She is my daughter, Sappho. She... she is deaf!" He was terrified that if he spoke a moment too late, the Angel would eat his daughter's brain just as he had his steward's.
"Deaf?" Petros understood. The girl was petrified, but she didn't dare break her gaze.
Petros advanced, striding up the steps toward the girl. With every heavy step, his iron boots shattered the masterfully-crafted marble tiles. The other mortals scrambled back, leaving only Skaman holding his ground beside his daughter.
Petros stopped directly in front of the girl. He pinched her chin, forcing her head to the left, observing her ear, which looked no different from anyone else's.
"You are reading my lips."
The girl was forced to look up at him, but her eyes remained locked on the Astartes's mouth. A pungent, acrid smell filled her nose—she didn't know it was the promethium-residue of bolter fire, only that it made her eyes and nose burn. She fought the discomfort and nodded slightly. The Angel's fingers felt like a predator's fangs at her throat; the slightest pressure would end her life.
"I recall my order," Petros said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Those who do not speak High Gothic, to the right." He slowly increased the pressure on her jaw, preparing to crush the life from this mortal who had defied him.
Feeling the pressure build, the girl trembled and forced the words out in a strange, thick-accented High Gothic: "I... I can, my Lord."
Hearing the reply, Petros paused. He released her. "Interesting. A deaf woman who can not only read and write High Gothic, but speak it by reading lips. This is not your common tongue."
The girl trembled, rubbing her jaw, which ached fiercely. She felt that a second later, the bone would have snapped. "My mother taught me. Fluency in High Gothic is... is required for the elite of the city-state."
Petros gave a mocking chuckle, glancing at the mangled pile of body parts on the right. "They didn't seem to think so."
He turned his gaze back to the girl. "Sappho. I will cure your hearing. You will become my Chronicler. You will address me as the Lord of the Forged. Your father will be this planet's Governor. Now, tell your father to assemble his citizen-militia."
Even though her father stood less than a meter away, Petros gave the order directly to her, staring into her eyes. She would get used to this.
And so they stood, the towering Steel Angel and the small mortal girl. A pair of gene-enhanced brown eyes met a pair of purely human green eyes. Finally, Sappho processed the command and nodded slowly.
The instant he had his answer, the Steel Angel turned and strode toward the main gate. The other Angels moved with him, their iron boots shattering the marble floor with every heavy, rhythmic tread.
"Little Olive, are you alright?" Skaman rushed to his daughter's side, using her childhood nickname.
But Sappho did not answer. She only stared at the Angels' departing backs as the crowd of mortals parted before them like water around a boulder in a raging river.
The Grand Sanctum of Nopae.
Normally bustling with worshippers, not a single soul now dared approach. The venerable Steel Angels had come to "pray." Marble columns held up the high, domed ceiling. The floors were intricate marble and mosaic. This was a church of the God-Emperor, or a "Sanctum" in the local dialect. The building was not large, but it was clearly ancient. It was well-maintained, with thriving gardens and flowing fountains, showing the diligence of its priests.
At the entrance, the chief priest, Eustace, white-haired and balding, waited with a dozen acolytes and sanctum handmaidens. When the Steel Angels truly arrived, he immediately led the others in deep prostration.
"Your humble and pious servant, Eustace, welcomes the Steel Angels, returned from the stars to the earth, to guide and protect us."
But Petros simply pointed a gauntleted finger at him. "You. Come with us."
The chief priest did not dare defy the Angel's will. He scrambled to his feet and followed them into the sanctum. As they passed the line of handmaidens, Antonius's face—the half that was a ruin of melted flesh—so startled one of them that she dropped her ceramic ritual vessel, shattering it on the floor.
The group walked into the sanctum's main hall.
Despite it being day, with ample light from the high dome, the chandeliers hanging in the corridors were all lit. They burned with a pointless, faint blue smoke. Petros took a deep breath. He could smell the olive oil they were burning, mixed with some other, unidentifiable spice.
"This Sanctum was built under the guidance of the Emperor's original servants, my Lord. Its history is as long as our city-state's..."
The chief priest, falling back on familiar ritual and scripture, finally regained his composure. "The Emperor said, 'There are no gods.' His Angels will bring chastisement to the defiant, and his servants will bring rewards to the obedient. He will unite all mankind. And his sons..."
The three Astartes ignored the priest's sermon. They were looking at the statues and murals. Statues of the God-Emperor, yes, but also... statues of Iron Warriors. Murals on the wall depicted the Angels' arrival, and the "Emperor's servants" staying to help the people build their homes.
Antonius looked around, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Captain, are we to destroy this shrine?"
Hearing this, the chief priest froze, his words cut short. He felt as if his very manhood had been seized in a mailed fist.
Petros continued to admire the artwork, unhurried. "No. Let it stand."
Sergeant Vornab spoke, explaining to his brother. "Antonius, the Lord has his reasons. The mortal mind is a vacuum; faith fills it. Even on The Ironclad, we never forbade the worship of the False Emperor. Go to the lower decks, you'll find his shrines everywhere. Better they worship him than... Chaos."
The Forged Steel Brotherhood did not worship the Four Gods; that was a consensus among all the brothers. But what Vornab couldn't understand was why Lord Petros forbade mortals from worshipping the Ruinous Powers as well. He had personally seen Petros slaughter an entire family on the lower decks for worshipping Slaanesh, hanging their corpses in the corridor as a warning. Petros's hatred for Chaos worship was... unusual. He seemed to prefer to let the cult of the False Emperor fester in its place.
To Vornab, it was right that the brothers remain uncorrupted, but mortals were just expendable assets. What they believed was irrelevant. Sometimes, mortal cultists could even be useful—Khorne-worshippers in a firefight, for example.
Petros continued walking, observing the art. Suddenly, he stopped. He stood before a statue of a single Iron Warrior, set apart from the others.
"Who is this?"
His Astartes intuition, his sixth sense, told him this was it.
"That is Crassus, my Lord!" the chief priest answered quickly, terrified the Angel would change his mind about destroying the temple. "He was one of the Steel Angels. He and the Great Archangel who led them tore open the heavens and descended from the stars, bringing us the Emperor's holy word."
At the mention of that name, even Antonius became stone-faced. He stared silently at the painted marble statue of the Iron Warrior. Petros reached out, as if to touch the statue, but pulled his hand back just before making contact, as if afraid to damage it. Antonius just stared, his expression unreadable, saying nothing.
Vornab felt like an outsider, watching them. He looked at Petros and Antonius, these two old warriors, and suddenly realized. They had been at the Siege of Terra. They were veterans of the Legion, from the old days.
It was entirely possible... they knew him.
This common Legionary from the Great Crusade.