The air was hot as Giradin entered the Coliseum, and given that it was only morning, he knew it would grow hotter still. Typically, on a morning that hot, a brief, passing gust of cold air would be a comfort, but Giradin knew better. The ghosts of the dead walked this ancient monument to man's love for violence. Here, the Roman people worshiped the gods of carnage and bloodshed so long ago, and it was hard to imagine that those dark gods of old were truly gone.

Giradin knew he'd have to make it through the day, and then through the night, not only on his own but without food or water. Even the fast was part of his trial by ordeal. After all, if Christ could fast for 40 days, then surely a day long fast was the least Giradin could do, if he truly was a saint.

He couldn't be sure if it was his imagination or if it was the memories of those who died here, but the horrible stenches of rotting meat and copper filled his nostrils as he wandered the vast expanse of the arena floor, pillars many stories tall standing all around him.

His feet kicked a pile of sand, and the grains fell through a grate in the floor, through which he could see the underbelly of the Coliseum. For a moment, when he saw that it was dark down below, he considered retreating down there to escape the scorching light of the sun, but he soon remembered that he was not alone, and the fearsome apparitions were far more likely to appear in the darkness than in the light.

Who ever heard of dead who walk in daylight?

Giradin jumped at the sound of a snarling beast to his immediate left, but when he turned his head there was no beast. Upon peering down at the ground, he spied a long chain lying there in the sand, with the final link twisted and broken.

Off to his right, he saw a wooden staircase leading up from the sand of the arena to the stands, where the patrons would sit to watch the gladiatorial games. A slight roof above provided shade for those spots, though did not cast them in so much darkness that Giradin expected to see any ghosts there. Knowing that standing in the hot sun without any water to drink was sure to be dangerous, Giradin made his way up the stairs and into the stands. From there, he spotted the box where the emperors of Rome used to sit, and decided this would be the most comfortable place to stay.

Having climbed up into the emperor's box, he sat in the cushioned chair left behind there. At first, he was excited at the prospect of sitting in the same chair where the Caesars of old sat, but he soon realized this was likely a replacement planted here by that family the Pope mentioned who had made this place their castle some years ago. Dust rose as Giradin flopped into the chair, but it was not the dust of one-thousand years.

From where he sat now, the Coliseum seemed so quiet and peaceful. He still knew that this was a place steeped in blood and violence, but in the emperor's former box, all of that seemed a distant memory. There were no more crowds cheering for the slaughter of prisoners and Christians, no more beasts roaring before sinking their teeth and claws into the flesh of their prey. Now there was the slight whisper of wind, and the cooing of pigeons.

Why should I fear? For Thou art with me.

Giradin's fingers closed around the hilt of Sir Emeric's sword, and a soothing calm came over him. Feeling utterly at peace, Giradin drifted off to sleep.

He dreamt in the daylight. Most of his dreams were only brief flashes of suffering and violence. For a moment, he saw 12 men crucified upside-down. Then, in another flash, he saw a man in white robes and a long beard torn apart by 3 lions. For a brief second, the man became Father Hewlett, just before his limbs were torn from their sockets.

Next, he peered over the Coliseum walls, toward the city of Rome outside. On either side of him stood an army of men wearing armor, uniforms he did not recognize, and each man held a longbow in his hand. They all nocked arrows and peered down at the city below. Giradin heard countless hisses and snarls, and so he dared bring himself to peer down at the source of the noise.

The streets of Rome were littered with corpses whose skin had turned black, and legions of Vermin marched over the dead, with spiked clubs and rusty swords in hand. The Vermin raised their weapons high and hissed, before charging at the Coliseum. Beyond them, thousands of headless men followed, each wielding stone-carved clubs.

The archers atop the Coliseum walls drew back their bowstrings and took aim at the oncoming army of rat-men. Giradin heard a voice shout an order in a tongue he did not know, and the archers loosed a volley of arrows into the Vermin and headless men.

The instant the arrows struck their targets, the scene disappeared, and Giradin stood before the monastery which served as headquarters for the Crows. But now the roof had collapsed, every window was broken, the front doors had been splintered, and smoke rose from every gap in the monastery's design. Vermin scurried past Giradin and crawled into the monastery through every smoking gap. Giradin walked closer. He trembled with fear, but his curiosity outweighed his fear for the moment.

A Vermin emerged from within the monastery, carrying in its paws a human head. Other Vermin gathered around the first one as it used its fingers to move the jaw up and down while he muttered the strange noises these rat-men made. The other Vermin tittered with laughter and pointed their claws at the head.

Giradin cautiously walked around on one side, not certain why the Vermin could not see him, but not desiring to alert them to his presence either. Upon seeing the face upon the disembodied head the Vermin held, he recognized it as belonging to Melcher Fitz.

The shock awoke Giradin from his sleep, his brow covered in sweat and his pulse pounding in his ears like wardrums. In the skies above, he saw the multitude of stars stretched out. For only a moment, seeing a clear sky brought him comfort.

Until he remembered where he was, and what came out at night.

He peered down into the sand of the arena below, which, at first, appeared empty. But as he stared, several figures like men soaked in blood and viscera stood in the sand, all of them staring up at him with hate in their eyes.

Giradin jumped at the sound of footseps behind him, and when he turned his head the red curtain behind him parted aside, and in walked a shape which only vaguely resembled a man, but seemed to be entirely made out of blood and rotting meat. The stench was overwhelming, and Giradin choked and retched.

Weakened as he was by nausea, he drew Sir Emeric's sword and pointed the blade at the advancing spirit. "I am a saint of God Almighty. I carry the sword of the heroic Templar Sir Emeric. This night, I will send you all back to the Abyss, where you belong!"