The Ruins of the Colosseum, Rome
xvi Kal. Mai (April 16, 1526)

Rome, the Eternal City. Eternal as some of its inhabitants, the eldest of whom claimed to have seen the city founded on the Seven Hills, and to have enjoyed its nights of glory as the center of the greatest empire that mortal — and immortal — kind had ever known. Now it was the center of a different kind of empire, a spiritual one, that claimed the allegiance of countless thousands of mortal souls, and bartered its spiritual favors and worldly wealth with all the skill — and honesty — of a canalside fishwife.

It was a stinking cesspit of mortal and immortal politics, both secular and religious, and Giangaleazzo Torriani had learned a great deal here. One of those lessons had involved taking advantage of opportunities.

He held one such opportunity in his hand now. A creased piece of parchment, with neither signature nor a seal, but written in blood, in the ancient tongue of the Emperors.

He now stood in a Shadow of his own making, in a carefully chosen alcove between two cracked pillars. No casual searcher would see him, but he had no illusions over his ability to hide from those who had summoned him tonight. He was centuries too young for that, and this monstrous, broken edifice had been theirs for far too long.

Fortunately, he had long ago determined that his destiny lay elsewhere.

A cloaked and hooded figure appeared before him, its eyes and features totally obscured by the darkness under its hood, hands hidden in its sleeves. He could not tell if it had any corporeal substance at all, or was totally a creature of l'Ombra. But he knew it had come to guide him, so when it drifted silently off amid the pillars, he followed.

It led him down a curving passageway that led under the mass of the ruin's walls, and then down a narrow, crumbling stairway, into the labyrinth of underground corridors, rooms and cells where the gladiators once prepared for their moments of glory, or condemned prisoners awaited their appointment with the lions. There was no light. Giangaleazzo concentrated on what his other senses told him: the echoes from the whispery tread of his shoes on dusty stone floor, the musty air taking on a fresher scent when he walked through a draft from some old ventilation shaft, or the sense of the wall on either side subtly changing when he passed an opening into a cross corridor or chamber. Nor could he see his guide anymore, but he could sense it, tasted the hint of the Abyss in its wake, which told him when to turn, and when to walk straight on.

He took one final turn, and entered a room. His guide vanished as silently as it had appeared. But he knew he was not alone. They were here. The Amici Noctis, the judges of the Courts of Blood. He had no idea who comprised the Court tonight; it could be any of a dozen or more elders of his blood. Tradition put the number of judges in a Court of Blood at five, but that was only tradition. He had heard tales of Courts with as many as ten, or as few as three — but this was Rome, and there would scarcely be any lack of qualified judges.

The long moments passed, and there was no acknowledgment of his presence there, nor could he hear any movement. He shifted position sightly, and instantly regretted it. He could not afford to appear impatient, or even worse, disrespectful. He did not doubt the validity of his case, but he had been in Rome long enough to know the capriciousness of some of its oldest residents. Determined not to lose his focus, when his goal was so very nearly within his grasp, Giangaleazzo held himself as still as the stone itself, not breathing, not moving a single muscle.

Time passed. One hour, possibly two; it was hard to tell in the darkness. Still he waited.

"Giangaleazzo Torriani." The voice was soft and dry, and seemed to come from somewhere ahead of him, and slightly higher. "You have come to present a Petition before us, yes?"

Giangaleazzo bowed, a slow, graceful movement of respect to his elders. "I have, my lords," he said.

"Tell us. We will hear it."

Giangaleazzo bowed again. "I thank my lords for this opportunity," he began. "I wish to call to your attention the actions of a certain individual of our Blood...."

He had practiced this petition dozens of times, in preparation for this moment. His delivery was flawless. He listed every failure, every incident of faulty judgement, every act of thoughtless anger or cowardly retreat. He spoke calmly and without passion; to show even more clearly how different, how much more qualified and superior he was by comparison.

"I submit, my lords, that his Grace the Bishop Leone Colonna is no longer worthy of the gift of our Ancestor's blood, for the reasons I have set before you. And I ask that if you so rule in favor of my petition, that I be charged with the task of delivering your judgement upon him, and take his blood in the time-honored tradition of amaranth, and so end this disgrace to our Blood and our name."

Giangaleazzo bowed again, and then stood as silently as before. He could almost see them now, six faint silhouettes of black on black, shadow on shadow. So still they might have been carved from the same ancient stone as the Colosseum itself.

A few minutes passed. He could sense something going on between them, but there were no words spoken, and as far as he could tell, none of the judges had moved during the entire time he had been speaking. But there was nothing more he could do but wait, so that was what he did.

"Giangaleazzo Torriani." A different voice this time.

Giangaleazzo bowed again. "My lord," he said, politely.

"His Grace has also been before us this night, with his own petition. Were you aware of it?"

"Not of his petition this night, my lords. But I can make a good guess as to whose name he presented. There is an old feud between our houses, and he has some .. personal.. grudge in this matter as well. I think he is the only man that my Sire hates more than myself."

"We are unfamiliar with this man, this Marius Della Torre dell' Aquila. Enlighten us."

"I know him, my lords," Giangaleazzo was thinking very fast, trying to find a way to take this latest move and turn it to his own advantage. "He is of the lineage of Gaius Augustus dell' Aquila, and by that right he now claims the throne of Milan. I understand that he and his Tzimisce allies now challenge the power of the Camarilla itself."

He paused, and then added, "One who has recently fought his way to win a throne would scarcely seem to be incompetent, my lords. One might even question the validity of such an accusation, particularly given the source. On the other hand... keeping a throne always proves more difficult than anyone expects."

Silence again, but Giangaleazzo was getting used to this. He waited.

"Giangaleazzo Torriani."

Giangaleazzo bowed again. "My lords."

"We have heard your Petition. We will give it due consideration, and when our judgment has been reached, you will be informed."

"I trust my lords will rule wisely," he said, bowing for the final time. "I will await your judgement."

The way back up to the surface, to the moonlit expanse of the Colosseum, took far less time than the journey down. Giangaleazzo's brain was churning; he hardly noticed. Colonna was crazy, that was the only answer he could see. Marius dell' Aquila, indeed. Did the old fool think that his target would simply surrender upon hearing the Court's judgment? Don Alfonso had been an expert swordsman, and old in the Blood, but his vendetta against the far younger dell' Aquila had ended in ashes. And Colonna was not a warrior, and even younger yet.

Not that he'd mind seeing Marius dell' Aquila brought to ashes, of course. But he highly doubted his Sire was capable of the task, even if the Court granted his petition.

However, it would certainly be amusing to watch him try.