There were elements that had survived. The Library of Ptolemy was one, and the Temple of Correction another. Other landmarks had been rebuilt several times. One remaining feature was the Plaza of Attendance, a vast space like an inverted ziggurat stamped into the Fortress of Hera’s rampart plateau. The walls had advanced from the plaza, leaving it some way from the edge where before it had stood at the brink of man-made cliffs. The side nearest the city, once open, was now walled with a faceless armoury. The halls at the eastern end, where for a brief period the primarch Sanguinius had sat as Emperor, were long ago demolished.

But the plaza remained, and it was upon this familiar ground that Roboute Guilliman elected to land.

It was a windy night, and wet. Every Ultramarine on Macragge was upon the terraces of the plaza, as were hundreds of dignitaries from many of the segmentum’s worlds. The humans shivered in vicious squalling gusts that lifted ceremonial robes and exposed bodies to the cold. The Space Marines were still as statues, their armour running with rain. Banners waved damply. Emblems were secrets in the dark. From the city, celebratory fireworks struggled up into the downpour and search beams shone, lighting up the night in a glorious display of colours and turning the beating rain into falling jewels. Snatches of martial music came wavering through the storm.

All eyes were on the sky.

Lightning flashed, lighting the clouds from within. Thunder rumbled. More lightning burst, striking the tallest spires of the fortress. Underground engines whined as they absorbed the unlooked-for power, the humans glancing nervously upwards at gathering rods glowing with heat.

Through the wind, the roar of a landing cycle made itself known, fading in and out of Macragge’s thunder.

Suddenly, the primarch’s craft was there, emerging from the driving rain, a Thunderhawk gunship chased with gold and heavily decorated with painted battle scenes. Floodlights snapped on beneath it, and the ship came down in a pool of its own radiance at the centre of the Plaza of Attendance.

A clarion blew sonorously. Cyber cherubs bearing silver instruments and banners flew out of access tunnels, were buffeted by the wind, then recovered and flew over the Thunderhawk, where they struggled to stay in place as they proclaimed the arrival of the primarch.

‘Lord Guilliman, Lord Guilliman, Master of Ultramar, Lord High Commander of the Imperium, son of the Emperor, Imperial Regent, Lord Guilliman.’

The door slammed down, and out strode Roboute Guilliman. With him were five Adeptus Custodes, two high-ranking Sisters of Silence, ten of the Victrix Guard, Captain Sicarus, Captain Ventris and, lost in the shadow of so many mighty warriors, six of his most important civilian aides, a tall Primaris Space Marine following behind them. A human priest in simple robes came out last. He was a man so slight, he might have slipped between the cracks of the plaza’s worn pavement.