The Reversed Hierophant

When Rafael went to say goodbye to Sancha, the Princess happened to receive a military report and letters from Amandra. The expeditionary force was about to reach the Roman border, and the next step was to follow the Toran River eastward into the Black Sea, arriving at the Assyrian Plain.

The Toran River runs across Rome, Calais, and the Papal States. Amandra did not choose to go through Calais or the Papal States. Aside from the fact that traveling by water was faster, there were clearly other considerations. However, given the large scale of the expeditionary force, it was impossible for all of them to travel by water. The vanguard, led by Amandra, would take ships to Assyria first, while the subsequent forces would still need to travel through Calais, crossing the Tadine Mountains to reach Assyria.

Now that the Roman princess and the Calais emperor had just entered into a marriage alliance, obtaining the necessary travel documents from François IV was a simple matter. Amandra’s letter was about this, and it also briefly mentioned her own situation.

Led by the maid, Rafael walked into the reception hall. The circular reception hall was adorned with by Assyrian gold-woven tapestries and silk paintings. Roman gold and silver utensils were placed on the shelves in varying heights, shining brightly under the light.

Sancha, wearing a goose-yellow dress, walked in with the letter and saw Rafael sitting in front of the fireplace at a glance. She couldn’t help but smile, “Sometimes I think you are like a cat, always found in the warmest places.”

As she spoke, she walked over to an armchair farther from the fireplace and sat down, signaling the maids behind her to place the tea and snacks on the small table between them. She casually adjusted her skirt, letting the pale yellow silk spread out on the carpet like a small flower.

The maids did not leave completely but sat on the long sofa in the side hall, chatting softly. This distance ensured they wouldn’t overhear their mistress’s conversation but could still attend to her needs promptly.

Sancha handed the parchment in her hand to Rafael, her voice light and cheerful, “The vanguard led by my mother boarded the ships crossing the Black Sea yesterday, and the subsequent troops are about to cross the Toran River. Once we obtain the documents from Calais, we can enter Calais territory. Everything is going smoothly so far.”

Rafael unfolded the parchment and read the letter at a glance. The content was exactly the same as what Sancha said, except for some additional trivial matters written by the queen.

The girl’s voice was natural, as if she was just asking casually.

Rafael’s nerves tensed instantly.

There was no third person present during his conversation with Francois, and he hadn’t disclosed it to anyone afterward. How did Sancha know about it?

However, Sancha obviously did not know the specific content of their conversation; otherwise, she wouldn’t have brought it up so casually—whether it was a test or something else, she would have chosen a more cautious way.

“Yes, your fiancé seems quite dissatisfied with how close we are,” Rafael said without missing a beat, his expression flawless as he mixed truth with lies.

Hearing this, Sancha showed an expression as if she had bitten into something sour, and said bluntly in a rude tone completely contrary to court etiquette, “Let him die.”

Rafael laughed muffledly, and the little tension in his heart disappeared in an instant, “By the way, I came to tell you that I’m leaving tomorrow. There’s much to attend to back in the Papal States, and with the current situation in Rome and Assyria being less than ideal, all the burdens fall on you… I won’t trouble you further.”

Sancha seemed to have already prepared herself for his departure, showing no surprise. She merely sighed: “…I’ll send word to Perigo to prepare what you need.”

Rafael nodded, naturally accepting Sancha’s kindness. He slowly folded the letter in his hand according to the original pattern and pressed it on the table. Just as he was about to get up, a low and gentle singing voice drifted into his ears. Rafael froze, as if struck by lightning, his entire body stiffening in the chair.

The blurred and forgotten dream surged back to life from the ashes of decay. The female voice sang slowly and distantly. The woman’s voice sang slowly and distantly, like waves gently crashing against rocks, shattering the foam suspended on the surface. The ethereal and tender melody blurred the lines between reality and dreams, as if pulling him back to the most primitive beginning of life, into the warm amniotic fluid of his mother’s womb, enveloped in silence and an eternal sense of safety.

This song…

Rafael suddenly turned his head, his sharp gaze sweeping over the maids in the side hall who were chatting softly. They were huddled together, and one of them was singing softly. The others looked at her with smiles, humming the same melody. Every note matched the song that had echoed endlessly in Rafael’s dreams.

Rafael stood up abruptly. He opened his mouth, his heart racing so fast it felt like it might burst, his blood rushing to his head in a frenzy. The sudden dizziness made him close his eyes.

He didn’t know why this song affected him so deeply. Who was the woman singing in his dreams? Was it a long-forgotten memory from his early childhood? Was it his mother, who had once held him in her arms and sang to him? Before he was reduced to begging in the slums of Florence, did his mother hold him in her arms and gently rock him on her lap, singing a lullaby for him?

Vitalian III never spoke of his mother. The people around him told him that his mother was nothing but a low-class prostitute, that he was a mistake made by Vitalian III during a moment of madness, that his origin was a shame, that he was the hated illegitimate half-brother of Redrick, the eldest son who tarnished Vitalian III’s glorious life.

Rafael didn’t care what they said because he didn’t have any memory of that woman. Who can clearly remember things before the age of three or four? In Rafael’s mind, the earliest memories of his life were of rain pounding against a glass window and a woman’s indistinct singing, followed by the skinny fingers of old Aaron in the slum, who taught him to steal and gave him a bite of stale bread to keep him from starving to death.

And yet… here he was, in this unexpected place, hearing the exact same song.

His sudden movement startled Sancha. The princess looked at him in confusion, following his gaze to her maids before turning back to Rafael, noticing his unusually pale complexion. She asked, puzzled: “What’s wrong?”

Rafael’s pale purple eyes shifted slightly, his pupils trembling imperceptibly: “This… this song… what is it?”

“Hmm?” Sancha listened intently for a few seconds, then smiled. “Ah, this is ‘The Voice of Assyria.’ It’s the first song every Assyrian child hears after birth. It’s a simple tune, a lullaby Assyrian mothers sing to their children. Have you heard it before?”

“An Assyrian lullaby…” Rafael stood there blankly, not knowing what he was thinking. After a long while, he murmured, “I… I’ve heard this song before.”

Sancha said nonchalantly, “That’s not surprising. Everyone in Assyria knows this song. There must be Assyrians in the Papal Palace, right?”

Yes, it was normal. The Papal States were a melting pot of people from various nations. His mother might have been from Assyria, though he had never known it before. It turned out that half of his bloodline came from that distant country.

Rafael didn’t say anything more. He silently listened as the maids finish singing the song and silently nodded goodbye to Sancha.

After the Pope left the reception hall, Sancha put away the smile on her face and sat there thoughtfully. It was just a lullaby—why had Rafael reacted so strongly?

The Pope’s departure was very low-key. It seemed he deliberately didn’t want anyone to know his whereabouts. By the time François IV heard about it, the Pope’s carriage had already left Hawthorne Castle. The young emperor stood by the window, watching the tail end of the Pope’s entourage disappear into the distance. His face wore a mask-like smile, but his light brown eyes held no warmth. The servant who came to report the matter wished he could bury his head in his neck or disappear on the spot.

The servant couldn’t understand why the emperor would suddenly be so angry just because he said the Pope had left.

The young emperor tilted his face up, letting the thin sunlight fall on his features. His light brown eyes, like the golden pupils of a snake, were utterly cold and twisted, almost inhuman.

“……Contact the people in the Papal Palace. I want to know everything about him… everything.”

The voice of the Calais emperor was like a whisper, but it made the attendant lower his head even further, “Yes, as you command, Your Majesty.”

After the incident involving the Pope at the duke’s residence, the duke, in order to appease the Pope’s anger, handed over all the Calais spies in the Papal Palace. However, there were always a few who slipped through the net, unknown even to the duke himself. These spies had been planted during the reign of François III, focused on gaining greater power and answering only to the emperor. They were personally handed over to his son by François III, and thus managed to escape unscathed during the duke’s dealings with the Pope.

The emperor’s order was delivered to Florence through secret channels, and Rafael was still unaware of it. The convoy returned to Perigo by the same route, and after some rest, they set out once again on the road back to Florence.

Julius received the news that the Pope was about to return two days later. The Secretary-General held the short letter in his hand, somewhat puzzled. According to his calculations, Rafael should have had more time to conclude his diplomatic activities. Did something unexpected happen?

But the letter from Rafael clearly stated that everything was normal.

Julius brushed his iron-gray hair behind his ears, and his deep purple pupils flashed with thoughtful brilliance. The grown man exuded a unique personal charm. Without his glasses, the aggressiveness in his eyes was more pronounced than ever.

On the Secretary-General’s desk were documents from all over the Papal States. Requests for funding piled up like mountains. Leshert’s conquest had brought unprecedented unity to the Papal States, but this did not mean absolute stability. War was always just a means, not an end. The subsequent pacification work was the most exhausting.

Julius, in order to win over the hearts of the people for Rafael, even used the reserve funds of the Portia Bank. This was also the reason why the elders of the Portia family had grown dissatisfied with him. They believed Julius had placed Rafael and the Papal States above the family. After the last grand meeting, they had subtly reprimanded him twice, but Julius had brushed them off.

He signed his name on an application, took off the signet ring on his thumb, stamped the signature, and then opened the next roll of parchment.

Just after reading the beginning, the gloomy look on Julius’s face faded, replaced by a strange look of confusion.

This letter was from Count Tondolo.

It was the famous waste who was known as “Sir Goose”. Oh, of course, he should now be called “Count Goose”. This count’s title was also obtained by Rafael through deception. If it weren’t for his earlier gesture of goodwill by offering the Port of Celia to the Pope, he might not have been able to defeat his brother in his lifetime.

Julius had no interest in the daily affairs of Florence’s most notorious fool. He skimmed through the letter, filled with empty, boastful nonsense, and finally summed up Count Tondolo’s purpose.

He wanted to meet Julius for the “glory of the Tondolo family.”

The words were very implicit and obscure, but Julius, who had been immersed in this kind of diplomatic language for a long time, instantly understood his thoughts. Tondolo wanted to pledge his loyalty to him, to give something in exchange for more power and positions. For example, the Tondolo family had once held a cardinal’s position, but after the elder Tondolo’s death, the title had slipped away. Currently, this Count Goose who had only held a count’s empty title and no real power, obviously couldn’t bear such a life and wanted to try to get through Julius’s door.

Julius was speechless for a moment, then casually tossed the parchment into the fireplace.

Even if he was really short of manpower now, he wasn’t about to accept the allegiance of a notorious fool.

The Secretary General of the Papal Palace was very busy. He had no time to waste on Tondolo.

—Trash belongs in the garbage dump.

After several days of travel, the Pope’s convoy finally arrived in Florence. Unlike when they had left, the massive holy city had largely returned to its pre-plague order. The name of Pope Sistine I was praised day and night, and the Pope’s banners fluttered in every corner, symbolizing his absolute rule over the city.

As Rafael’s carriage drove down the central avenue, everyone devoutly bowed their bodies, offering their most sincere blessings.

This was Rafael’s city, without a doubt. Every single person loved him with absolute sincerity.

The carriage drove towards the Papal Palace. As the distance to the Papal Palace got closer, there were fewer and fewer irrelevant pedestrians. So when a person suddenly jumped out in front of the carriage, Leshert, who was guarding the carriage, immediately drew his sword. The sword stopped a few inches in front of the person’s neck. The Knight Commander looked at the person in surprise, “Count Tondolo?”

The carriage curtain was drawn back, and the Pope took a closer look. Blocking his path was none other than Count Tondolo, whom he hadn’t seen in a long time.

He still had such a big head and a thin and long neck that no one could impersonate him.

The Count was two sizes fatter than before, so it seemed that he was living a good life. When he met the Pope’s gaze, he immediately showed a flattering smile, took off his hat and pressed it to his chest, and bowed deeply, “Holy Father—”

His voice was tearful, as if he had seen his life-saving straw, “Holy Father! My great father of Florence, your majesty is as towering as the Olympus Mountains, my longing for you as endless as the waters of the Toran River. Wherever your glory shines…”

“Enough, enough,” Rafael felt a headache coming on as soon as he heard his flattery, and he hurriedly interrupted him, “What do you want?”

Count Tondolo looked around, took a step forward, and whispered, ” My father left behind something that seems to be related to you. I wish to hand it over to you.”

Rafael raised an eyebrow, staring at him: “Related to me?”

Count Tondolo nodded: “Yes. You may recall that my father once served as Secretary-General under Pope Vitalian III.”

Indeed, the old Tondolo was the closest friend of Vitalian III before his death. It was normal if he left something related to Rafael.

“To Tondolo Palace.” Under the Count’s expectant eyes, Rafael ordered.