"I understand that, Saint Vespasian, but we have delayed this trip for too long. If we are to subdue the last of the Novissime, we truly have no more time for delays." Marcus Sculla barely got the words out before another coughing fit overtook him.

  Vespasian rode with him in the enclosed cart. The red cross of the Children of Aiden was emblazoned on the cloth curtains covering all four walls of the small cabin. The two men sat opposite one another in plain clothes on plush benches, their fine white robes folded neatly below their seats. A small wood table was folded down between them. Vespasian watched Sculla go back to scribbling away on a parchment by the light of a single open window. The curtain had been cut around it, glued to the frame of the opening, and was coming loose in places.

  Sculla had taken to coughing and it had gotten considerably worse on the journey, as Vespasian had feared it would. "Perhaps, well, maybe it would be better if you stayed. In Joan. Or if you went back."

  "No, no. This must be done. Some things simply cannot wait for a good day. Besides, we are over half way there. Turning back now will only prolong my journey."

  Vespasian cursed himself for such a stupid suggestion. "Right, well–"

  "Well nothing. I'll make it fine. However, in case my cursed old body fails me, heed this advice– in all things, immediate and otherwise." Sculla tapped his parchment with his bony knuckles three times as he spoke, then went back to writing.

  Vespasian crooned his neck to read what he could, but the old man's shaky hands blocked his view. He sat back in his seat and looked out the window. "Getting quite a bit warmer. The Bryer will be hot."

  "The weath–" Sculla clutched his chest and took a deep breath. His exhale was interrupted by pained coughs. "Never speak of the weather. It can't be changed and even the Druids cannot predict it with certainty. If nothing useful can be said, don't bother speak–" another fit of coughing.

  Sculla lifted the parchment between two fingers. He nodded to it, went to speak, but more coughs interrupted him. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth. The parchment flew from his fingers out the open window. He fell face first onto the small wooden table.

  Vespasian stared at Sculla for a long moment, expecting movement. None came.

  "Stop! Stop the caravan! All of you!" Vespasian cried as he swung the door of the moving cart open.

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  Augustine, atop a decorated white mount, rode to the cart and saw the body. "Hold!" His single bellowing word brought every man and beast to a stand still.

  More men came to the cart. Vespasian watched silently as they removed Sculla's body, checked for signs of life, then stood around him and bowed. Murmurs of prayer and blessings rippled through the hundred or so men of the caravan.

  Vespasian stood stoic beside Augustine as men cleared a large circle of land by the road and built a funeral pyre with trees from the surrounding forest. Little more than an hour had passed.

  Once lit, the fire burned small within the pyramid of wood for a time. Sculla's body, wrapped and covered with the Cross of Aiden, was placed in the flames. Vespasian winced at the danger of how close the men got to the fire.

  He did not cry for the old man, Vespasian had seen death before. Sculla had been good to him, perhaps the only man to do so, but Vespasian found himself mourning for the world more than for Sculla. They will never know the mountains you moved. Who will move them now? He glanced up at Augustine.

  The flames of the funeral Pyre roared, engulfing the pyramid and reaching high into the blue sky. Men closer to it had to step back. "Let's go! We've no time for delays. He is with Aiden now." Augustine bellowed again.

  The men obeyed and the caravan was moving again in short order. The flames, Vespasian knew, would burn for days. Fitting. He deserves such a show, even if nobody is around to see it.

  Back in the cart, Augustine took the place of Sculla across from Vespasian. They both stared out the window for a time.

  "It always rains this time of year, just before summer, then everything dies. It should start raining this evening and put the fire out. Up in Joan we get a lot of moisture from the sea, but not as much rain as down here. How is the weather in The Bryer?" Augustine looked from the window to Vespasian.

  Don't talk about the weather. Vespasian smiled to himself. "I was very young when I was there. I really can't say." Vespasian smiled again at how clear and simple the words came to him.

  "Yes, no matter. We are prepared for it all. You were a good steward to old Marcus. I expect the same from you. I know The Bryer is your birthplace, but a lot of time has passed. It's the same land but there aren't but a few straggling Flavians about, none of them prominent. I need to know you are loyal to our cause. No matter what, we must leave with assurances from these sand people. Whatever they've done to.your family is irrelevant. Do you understand?"

  The intensity with which Augustine spoke, or the words themselves, or the underlying mistrust and thinly veiled threat, startled Vespasian. He found himself grasping for words once again.

  "Do you understand?" Augustine added, sharply.

  Vespasian nodded and let out a shaky breath.

  Augustine reclined against the chair and went back to staring out the window. "Good. This new era belongs to The Legion of Aiden."