The Reversed Hierophant

Tonight, the lights in the Pope’s bedroom went out particularly early. Ferrante personally drew the light-blocking curtains around the four-poster bed for His Holiness, dimmed the lights in the room to their lowest setting, and the hissing of the gas in the pipes soon became almost inaudible. A suitable amount of sleep-inducing incense was placed in the censer, and the fragrant smoke slowly rose, swirling into milky white wisps around the golden globe-shaped burner.

“Good night, Your Holiness.”

The black-haired wolfhound, having shed the cold and gloomy demeanor he displayed before outsiders, knelt on one knee beside the bed, earnestly bidding Rafael good night.

Rafael, lost in his own thoughts, startled awake as if only just realizing someone was there. He raised his right hand from the covers, and Ferrante, understanding, lowered his head, offering his head at the perfect angle for a caress with an almost docile obedience.

Rafael gently touched Ferrante’s forehead. “May the Lord grant you sweet dreams tonight, my child.”

The corners of the cold and ruthless captain of the guard twitched upwards, his blue eyes relaxed and peaceful in the overly quiet and soothing atmosphere.

He stood up, carefully smoothing the edges of the curtains, ensuring no stray light would enter, picked up the handheld glass gas lamp from the table, and left the bedroom.

Of course, he wouldn’t actually go to sleep just like that. For Ferrante, his work for the day had only just begun.

Night was always the time for creatures like them to emerge. Whether they were conspirators seeking to take another’s life or the wolfhounds hunting those conspirators, they were better suited to lurking in the darkness.

Even nobles would pour out their secrets to the priests, hoping to gain the Holy Lord’s forgiveness after committing evil deeds.

The Arbitration Bureau’s intelligence officers compiled these confessions, and through meticulous analysis and bold conjecture, uncovered many hidden secrets.

Perhaps even Julius hadn’t imagined that the power in Rafael’s hands had reached this point.

Today was the intelligence delivery day, once every seven days. Calais and Rome’s manpower was still insufficient, and most of the intelligence they sent back was useless. Ferrante’s first priority was to ensure that every person and every event in Florence and the Papal States was under the Arbitration Bureau’s observation.

According to the schedule, Florence’s intelligence officers would arrive today, perhaps bringing him something new.

Not long after Ferrante left, Rafael, who had been unable to sleep, opened his eyes. He didn’t move or speak, lying still on the bed like a petrified doll. He could barely hear the raging storm outside anymore, but he knew the downpour that seemed intent on submerging the earth was still continuing. He wondered how many people would weep for their lost homes tomorrow.

Thinking of this, his right leg began to twitch and ache involuntarily again.

Rainy days, torrential rain—Rafael hated the rain. It was a scar left by his miserable childhood. Rainy days were often days of hunger. No one would go out in the rain, so no matter how good his skills were, he couldn’t make a living on rainy days.

When old Aaron was still alive, he had taught little Rafael all his thieving skills. Rafael was naturally clever, and his hands were particularly nimble. He could silently cut the strings of purses with a treated strand of hair or use his exceptionally adorable face to win the sympathy of ladies, slipping away their necklaces and brooches.

“If given the chance, you could steal the Holy Father’s underwear!” Old Aaron had exclaimed more than once, marveling at his lucky find.

But even the most skilled thief couldn’t create something from nothing.

On rainy days, the rich would stay at home, comfortably enjoying steaming hot tea and warm fireplaces. No one would be foolish enough to come to the lower city to do charity. That storm had been heavy, unrelenting for three days. Rafael, starving and freezing, knew no one here would take pity on him. Lia, who used to do so, had been sold off, and he didn’t know where she had gone.

Perhaps she was already dead.

Anyway, he was about to die too.

Rafael huddled under the dilapidated wooden shed, raindrops pattering down on him. The shelter above offered little more than a token covering.

People would take risks in extreme desperation.

Rafael vaguely sensed that his life might end here, but extreme unwillingness filled him with anger. He didn’t understand why his life had been so muddled, why even his death would be so meaningless. This extreme rage and despair drove him to defy old Aaron’s dying warning—he slipped out of the slums and headed for the nobles’ district to steal.

Years of malnutrition had made him exceptionally small, allowing him to effortlessly climb through sewage pipes into the heavily guarded mansion. A ball was being held in the mansion, but Rafael didn’t care. He quietly slipped into the kitchen under the cover of the heavy rain. The kitchen was in chaos, everyone working frantically. No one noticed the little mouse-like child.

Rafael wasn’t greedy. He grabbed a few pieces of bread placed in the most secluded corner. The soft white bread was topped with honey, and the sweet, mellow aroma instantly overwhelmed his senses. Rafael hid under a table, stuffing the bread into his throat in large mouthfuls.

“…I heard His Holiness doesn’t like his wine too hot. Let it sit for a while before serving… Should we add a bit of nutmeg?”

“Heavens, why hasn’t the roast meat been sent up yet? The guests have already started on the third course… And the honey bread—ah! Where did this child come from?!”

The kitchen instantly descended into chaos. This dirty child had upsetted everyone’s nerves. The cooks screamed loudly, reaching out with ferocious expressions to grab him. Rafael, like a bony, frightened stray cat, bared his teeth at them and then, clutching the few loaves of bread in his arms, rushed out.

His escape naturally failed.

Allowing a lower-city beggar to sneak into the kitchen during a banquet held to welcome the Pope was clearly a slap in the face to the manor’s owner.

“The master is merciful. Just take one of his legs,” the impeccably dressed steward instructed the stablehand indifferently. The heavy rain obscured Rafael’s view of the other’s expression, but the next moment, an excruciating pain tore through his right leg.

His broken right leg dangled limply, the bone beneath the skin of his calf twisted and bent grotesquely. Rafael screamed and cried pitifully, the white bone fragments exposed to the air, blood and rain mixing and flowing across the ground in a pink river, winding behind him.

That year, he was eleven years old.

Rafael, unable to move, lay in the dilapidated wooden shed for three days. Even able-bodied people struggled to survive in the slums, let alone a cripple.

After he could barely move, he wiped his face clean with rainwater dripping from the eaves, combed his messy short hair back, washed his hands clean, and then, dragging his injured leg, knocked on the door of a glass workshop. He revealed his unblemished features to the impatient boss, awkwardly offering a flattering, timid smile.

Only then did someone belatedly realize that the dirty little urchin adopted by old Aaron actually had such a beautiful face, something no one had noticed before!

Rafael sold himself to this glass workshop.

The boss was overjoyed and didn’t even care that Rafael was seriously injured. He was even willing to pay for his treatment first – of course, the treatment in the slums offered little hope, and it could only be said that Rafael’s life was saved.

In this plot worthy of a tragic novel, the only stroke of luck seemed to be that before everything reached its absolute worst, Rafael, having gained a little weight and with slightly fuller cheeks, was found by his father, the Pope.

But no matter how long ago these things had happened, Rafael still loathed rainy days from the bottom of his heart. They symbolized pain, deformity, and torment, giving him an unprecedentedly clear understanding of the vast difference between people. They destroyed his childhood and adolescence, leaving only oppressive and damp coldness.

Rafael forcibly pulled himself out of the memories of the past. His aching knee still screamed its presence. Rafael lay still for another ten minutes, listening to the tick-tock of the grandfather clock outside, feeling not only devoid of sleep but increasingly awake. The experience in the theater assaulted him again, making Rafael sit up abruptly, unable to bear it.

He didn’t know what Julius was going crazy about. He was certain that Julius had never had any extra feelings for him before, not until the day he died in bed. Julius was always so busy that he was never seen, and the entire Florence and the Papal States were in the hands of Lord Portia, with the Pope more like a puppet of Lord Portia.

At that time, Rafael didn’t mind being Julius’s puppet.

He simply earnestly practiced the doctrines’ requirements for the Pope. He was devout, upright, pure, and benevolent. He tried to protect the weak Papal States from the threats of Calais and Rome and maintain the Papal States’ independence—which aligned with Julius’s goals. Rafael felt that vying for control was a waste of time and meaningless, so no matter how others privately mocked this “Puppet His Holiness,” he pretended not to notice.

After such a long time together, how could he not know whether Julius had any love for him?

So where had things gone wrong this time?

Was it true or false, a pretense or a genuine display of affection?

Rafael’s head ached from trying to decipher Julius’ sudden madness, so he simply decided to pretend it had never happened.

After all, he had been feigning sleep at the time. Whether Julius had seen through it or not—even if this was now an unspoken secret between them—that kiss was destined never to see the light of day.

Rafael decisively and cleanly shoved the matter into the depths of his heart and ignored it, turning his attention instead to a box placed in the corner.

Something Count Tondolo had given him in exchange for the opportunity to re-enter high society, the inheritance of the old Cardinal Tondolo, bearing even the signature of Pope Vitalian III, Delacroix, on it.

Rafael threw off the covers and got out of bed, placing the box on the table. He observed the lock. The keyhole was filled with lead, indicating that old Tondolo hadn’t wanted it to be opened.

Rafael pulled out the dagger from under his pillow—the one Sancha had gifted him at his coronation. With a few quick movements, he pierced the lock and violently opened the box.

If he hadn’t wanted it to be opened, he should have destroyed the box before his death, rather than futilely attaching a lock with little protective value.

Rafael saw the old Tondolo’s inner conflict and struggle in this tangled lock. However, he didn’t care about a dead man’s thoughts. For him, this box was just something to pass the time before sleep. As for what secrets it held… Rafael didn’t really care that much.

At this moment, Rafael didn’t realize the magnitude of the shock he was about to face – that the contents of the box would nearly overturn his past life.

The small chest didn’t hold much: a thin, palm-sized leather-bound notebook, a yellowed scroll of parchment tied with twine, and two opened letters.

Everything bore the marks of time’s erosion. They looked at least a decade old. Rafael recognized the notebook’s style as one popular in Florence ten years ago—no one used pure silver to edge the corners of books anymore. The nobility now considered such designs too cumbersome.

Rafael picked up the notebook and saw the late Cardinal Tondolo’s smooth signature on the title page. It seemed to be his diary.

The young Pope frowned in confusion. He had no intention of prying into the privacy of the deceased, but why would this be in this box?

Rafael shook the notebook. It was very thin. After a moment’s thought, he opened it without much hesitation.

Outside the window, thunder rumbled across the sky, followed by a deafening roar that shook the heavens and the earth. The torrential rain poured down, as if intent on completely destroying the world.

“I have committed an unforgivable sin—perhaps the gravest evil in human history. No man, even one driven by the devil himself, could perpetrate such wickedness.”

“I am acutely aware of my guilt. For years, I have been unable to sleep, night after night. I long to confess, but no church could bear to hear such filthy words. Holy Lord, I can only confess to You here. Please judge my soul after death.”

“Most Holy Lord, I confess to You—I betrayed my dearest friend. I once swore to offer him my eternal loyalty. For years, we were as close as brothers. I would have given my life for him, and I believe he felt the same. But I must admit to You that, driven by personal desire, I gave him the most complete betrayal—an unforgivable crime, both to my past oaths and to You. For he was Your representative on earth, and I have forsaken Your teachings.”

“I murdered Delacroix.”

Rafael’s pupils constricted violently.

————————–

The vanguard ships of the Roman Empire had crossed most of the Black Sea and could already faintly see the Assyrian coastline. The Queen ordered all ships to hoist the royal banner high to announce their arrival. The golden eagle flag, symbolizing the Assyrian royal family, soon fluttered in the sea breeze.

In the lower decks, slaves rapidly rowed their oars under the lash of the sailors’ whips. A large amount of coal was shoveled into the boilers, and the surging heat, combined with manpower, propelled the ships swiftly towards the shore.

The Queen, dressed in riding attire and carrying a riding crop, stood on the deck, gazing at the increasingly clear land boundary, and said softly, “I remember, it was like this when I left Assyria back then. The further the ship sailed, the less of Assyria could be seen.”

Ashur’s attire was very similar to the Queen’s. They had both returned to the attire of Assyrian noblewomen. The Assyrians, who had grown up in the wilderness and on horseback, disliked cumbersome long skirts and elaborate decorations. They instead worshipped freedom with near fanaticism.

“But we have returned,” Ashur said.

“Yes, we have finally returned after all,” Amandra said, her expression unreadable. “Will the Eternal Heaven remember His daughter, lost in foreign lands?”

“No parent forgets their child, no matter how long the child has been gone, Your Majesty,” Ashur answered softly but firmly.

Amandra did not speak. No emotion could be discerned on the Queen’s stern and beautiful face, like a meticulously carved stone statue, facing the direction of Assyria since time immemorial.

The ships gently touched the shore. Everyone moved. The soldiers on board had long been prepared. A steady stream of people moved from the ships to the shore along the laid wooden planks. Among them were many horses. The horses, riding ships for the first time, showed varying degrees of anxiety. The neighing of horses and the shouts of people soon turned the temporary pier into a chaotic mess.

Amandra ignored these matters. She had already met with the officials who had come to greet her.

The number of officials who came to greet the Queen was small, most of them looking disheveled, their expressions tired and uneasy, like a herd of deer that had been stampeded by a wild beast.

“By the grace of the Eternal Heaven, may the Queen’s arrival be safe and peaceful.”

The ministers, wearing leather robes, crossed their hands over their chests and bowed deeply to the Queen.

“We have prepared enough sheep to reward your army, and many people hope to hold a banquet for you—”

Amandra frowned imperceptibly. “Let’s not talk about that for now. How is the royal city?”

The officials fell silent instantly.

Amidst their exchanged glances and the Queen’s increasingly cold expression, the person standing at the very back said in an almost inaudible voice, “…Two days before your arrival, the High Priest opened the city gates and welcomed the rebel army into the royal city of Gonda.”

Amandra’s expression became terrifying. “The High Priest?”

The power structure of Assyria was very peculiar. It was a country where theocratic power surpassed royal power. In this overly primitive and natural land, the High Priest held the people’s faith. People devoutly and fanatically believed in the Eternal Heaven—the nature and cosmos that granted them all things. While the monarch could command the people, in theory, the priesthood held the power to depose rulers.

However, the priests of Assyria were all devout believers in the Eternal Heaven. They refused to engage in anything other than serving the gods, had no desire for power, and avoided provoking the monarch’s sensitive nerves. The fact that the High Priest had not stood up and rallied the people during Assyria’s many years of internal strife was evident of this.

But it was precisely at this moment, two days before Amandra was about to arrive in Assyria, that the High Priest opened the gates of Gonda and welcomed the rebel army into the royal city. What did this mean?

The Queen’s expression was colder than ever before.

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