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The small group of writers passed through the sleeping town at dawn.

The hooves of horses and mules clopped on stone cobbles just as the sun started to peak

over the hills behind them.

An east wind blowing in from the Mediterranean carried with it a faint hint of salt in the

air.

It blended with the heady aroma of manure and sweat.

At the front of the party were two men riding on mules.

The men were cloaked in black.

The early morning lights shone down through the cramped streets and glinted off the bald spots

left on the men's heads by their taunchers.

They were Dominican friars.

They had come to town to do a job.

They had no intention of leaving without completing it.

The town awoke to the sounds of the friars and their companions, a few bodyguards carrying

swords, a few more clerics and a pair of servants clattering through the streets.

Dogs barked, roosters crowed.

They finally stopped in the square at the center of town.

A small wooden stage had been set up there for them.

The church's spire loomed overhead.

The Dominican's dismount and prepared themselves inside the church.

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