The Reversed Hierophant
Chapter 17: Nightmare

Beyond the deacons and nuns who served the Pope and the secretaries handling administrative work, the largest personnel in the Papal Palace were the Papal Guards. These guards are stationed at every corner of the palace, dedicating their lives to protecting the supreme spiritual leader of the city and even, the entire world.

Most of them are proud of their work, considering it the pinnacle of their lives and those who were granted the honor of guarding the Pope’s bedroom were even more so.

The two men standing outside the door stood ramrod straight, their eyes and ears alert following the secretary-general’s parting instructions, wishing they could grow another pair of eyes to observe their surroundings.

So when a strange noise suddenly came from inside, they were the first to hear it.

The two men quickly turned their heads, staring at the double doors carved with angels holding cups, and exchanged hesitant glances.

What was that sound?

They communicated with each other through their eyes.

It sounded like something heavy hitting the floor… Did His Holiness fall off the bed?

One of them tilted his head in thought.

The bolder one gently knocked on the door, cleared his throat, and tentatively asked, “Holy Father, are you alright? We seemed to hear a noise. Is there anything we can do for you?”

There was a long silence from inside. Just as he was worried that this was a false alarm and that his bold behavior had disturbed the Holy Father’s rest, a low, hoarse voice came, “…No, it’s nothing. I’m fine.”

After a few seconds, he added softly, “Thank you.”

The Holy Father’s voice sounded very tired. The guard who had received the Holy Father’s gratitude was flattered and thought that, in fact, the Holy Father was about the same age as his younger brother. That brat still liked to linger in the rose garden, doing mischievous things with his peers, but the Pope was already a great figure who shouldered the world’s faith. Was this the difference between people?

The guard muttered to himself, but… how to say it, the Pope looked very busy every day. There was a constant flow of business in the Papal Palace, involving matters of faith from various countries and the entire continent, all converging at the heart of this holy city. As the Pope’s guard, he knew very well that the Holy Father’s rest time is so short that it can be ignored.

If this is the price to pay… forget it, let that brat go and waste his excess energy in the rose garden.

The soft, dim gas lamp cast a steady glow on the silk curtains, stretching long shadows across the carpet. The bed was empty, its linens in disarray. The young master of the Papal Palace lay on the floor, his chest heaving violently. His golden hair was damp and clung to his face, neck, and the collar of his shirt. His pale purple eyes were wide open, swirling with fear. He curled up with difficulty, rubbing his snow-white cheek forcefully against the woolen carpet until his skin stung.

This insignificant pain finally pulled him out of his nightmare. His screaming soul was stuffed back into its empty shell, filling the still-trembling body.

Rafael hugged his knees tightly again, like a baby in the womb embracing itself. From this unfamiliar posture, he drew a bit of faint familiarity. Relying on that slight glimmer of reason, he answered the guard’s words outside, forcefully suppressing his rapid breathing.

Be quiet, be still, Rafael, he told himself, there’s nothing to be afraid of, you’re still alive.

Trembling, he touched his heart, then his throat.

His skin was smooth and warm, and his fingers felt the wet sweat. The blood flowed vigorously beneath his skin, and his heart was still beating rapidly.

The violent breathing caused a moment of darkness before his eyes. Everything in his field of vision was stripped away. In his dream, he saw the assassin who silently came from outside again. The cold blade pressed against his neck, and he could only struggle helplessly in the excruciating pain. After waking up from the dream, the identical setting in reality gave him a sudden shock, and for a moment, he couldn’t tell the difference between reality and dream.

So he fell off the bed.

Rafael buried his face deep into the wool carpet, closing his eyes tightly, and tried hard to restrain his body from trembling. The feeling of approaching death was too terrifying. Even though he wasn’t that afraid of death, he couldn’t stop his panic.

The young Pope grabbed the long wool of the carpet, curling himself up into a tiny ball. His soft golden hair was in disarray, and faint red marks were rubbed onto his pale face by the wool fibers. He breathed in small, shallow breaths until his frightened soul was completely grasped by his brain, using reason to control his racing thoughts. Only then did he slowly stretched out his body.

His limbs were still stiff and numb from the excessive force he had exerted unconsciously, twitching from time to time. He lay on the ground, pulled the hanging bedsheet over his face, and then suddenly threw it off.

The feeling of insecurity from his vision being blocked became more intense.

His gaze wandered aimlessly around, finally settling on a wide, low cabinet by the wall used to hold decorations.

The early morning prayer bell rang from the bell tower of the Papal Palace, and the entire Florence began a new day with this signal. Julius got dressed and sat down by the French window near the garden. A simple tea and breakfast was already placed on the round table, and a bouquet of bright yellow lilies, still dripping with morning dew, was spreading its petals in a crystal vase.

The warm, fragrant steam of the Ceylon black tea wafted towards him, soothing Julius’s morning grumpiness. He picked up the gold-rimmed porcelain cup, blew away the hot steam, and took a sip of the black tea, which was known as “liquid gold.” The Queen’s Roses outside the window were in full bloom. The gardener had specially trimmed the flowers facing the Portia Patriarch to be exceptionally vibrant, and he regularly dug out the plants that were not growing well, hoping that Mr. Portia’s day would not be ruined by his work.

You know, serving a noble comes with such risks. Doing a good job doesn’t necessarily guarantee a reward, but if the noble is unhappy, it’s always the people at the bottom like them who suffer the consequences.

And the young head of Portia… he isn’t exactly a good person.

Julius turned his head to look at the garden. The steam from the tea blurred his glasses. He took off his glasses, took the velvet cloth handed to him by the servant, and slowly wiped the lenses, casually ordering, “The roses in the garden are quite nice. Give the gardener a gold florin.”

The servant made no reply, but it was evident that his order would not be ignored.

Julius thought for a moment. “Send a bouquet of irises to His Holiness. Cut them from the Portia Palace Garden and choose the best ones.”

He lifted his eyelids, glanced at the sky outside that was not yet fully bright, and added lightly, “Now.”

The servant immediately understood his meaning, bowed quickly, and silently retreated.

The gentleman’s meaning was very clear. They needed to deliver this carefully selected bouquet from the Portia Garden to the Pope’s table before his breakfast. If they failed to do so…

Julius was not a person who easily lost his temper. His upbringing did not allow him to shout and yell, but the Portia family would rather face ten roaring Redricks than meet Julius, who you never knew whether he was angry or not.

The rays of light in the sky bursted out with brilliant colors, and the sun finally climbed above the Florence bell tower. As Pope, Rafael was required to strictly adhere to the doctrine, waking up when the early morning prayer bell rang, completing his morning prayers, and then going to the dining room for breakfast.

When he arrived at the dining room, Julius was already there. He was standing beside the dining table, adjusting a bouquet of soothing irises in a vase, placing each flower at the perfect angle. The pale blue flowers gracefully extended their branches and petals, and the slender petals, like delicate fingertips, gently fell and were deftly turned by Julius.

The dining room was composed of several rooms of different sizes. Different-sized banquets required different rooms. The largest room could accommodate hundreds of people for dinner, while the smallest one was just enough for two people to sit face-to-face. The landscape of each room has been carefully designed.

There were usually no guests for breakfast, so only the secretary-general and the Pope would share it. There was only one round table in the breakfast room, and the round room cleverly had ten windows. Slender plaster columns supported a semi-circular dome, and the walls were painted with murals praising spring. The corner stone flowerpots were filled with drooping bouquets, and the natural, light fragrance mixed with the heat of the food, making people naturally relaxed.

Julius placed the carefully arranged bouquet of irises in the center of the dining table. The snow-white tablecloth was already set with silver cutlery. After the two took their seats, the servants began to serve the dishes in an orderly manner. The steaming omelets, roasted lamb chops, and vegetable soup gradually filled the table. No one spoke, and only the gentle sound of the orchestra playing in the garden could be heard.

When the last dish was cleared away, a black-clothed deacon came in from the door and bowed respectfully to Rafael: “Holy Father.”

The Pope looked at him.

The deacon said, “Redrick Portia, His Grace the Duke of Lusanne is waiting for an audience outside the Papal Palace.”

Julius raised his eyes and heard Rafael refuse without hesitation: “No, tell him my schedule is full for today.”

The deacon withdrew after receiving the order. Rafael turned back to look at the head of Portia and raised an eyebrow: “Why, do you want to speak up for your nephew?”

Julius smiled and sold his good nephew without hesitation: “How could that be? He does need a little exercise – the irises in the Portia Palace, these are their first batch of flowers this year. You used to like reading in the garden, and the gardener would complain to me several times that you were disturbing his work.”

Rafael glanced at the bouquet of delicate blue flowers and nodded indifferently: “Very beautiful – has Francois agreed to attend the Feast of Divine Grace?”

Princess Sancha, who represented Assyria and Rome, had already left Florence. The only person in the Holy City with an important and undeniable status was Duke François of Calais. As a matter of courtesy, Florence’s major events naturally required sending invitations to this important guest, and ideally, Rafael should personally extend the invitation to him.

However, this matter was taken over by Julius. As the Secretary General of the Papal Palace, the Head of the Portia family, and the Chairman of the Council of Thirteen of the Free Cities Alliance, this was not considered impolite.

“He accepted the invitation, but did not make it clear whether he would attend.” Julius replied, pausing for two seconds. Seeing that Rafael had already stood up, he also took the cane handed by the servant and followed Rafael slowly, maintaining a distance of half a step behind.

“Is that so?” Rafael sneered, “What new idea does he have?”

It wasn’t that he didn’t respect the foreign duke, but François was simply a terrible person. In the short month he’s been in Florence, he’s already hooked up with several prominent women, one of whom is even the wife of the former Pope’s illegitimate son.

An arrogant man who is lustful, ambitious and unrestrained.

Rafael hated people who couldn’t control their primitive desires the most.

It just so happened that because of François’s status and power, countless women were willing to be his mistresses – of course, there were also some smart men among them. In addition, François himself was considered handsome, tall and strong, a very popular type at the moment, so sleeping with him wasn’t exactly a loss.

And François… he was proud of his charm and never refused anyone who came to him.

Rafael had already sensed the subtle anger among the Florentine nobility towards François.

Of course he was having a good time, but are these women’s husbands, fathers, and brothers all dead?

Although lovers were a common thing in this era, it didn’t mean that his simple pursuit of pleasure would be accepted.

Rafael was afraid that if something really happened, it would eventually be brought to him and he would have to solve it – and as the ruler of Florence, this outcome was very likely.

Rafael now really wanted to drive François, this scourge, back to Calais as soon as possible and let him trouble his unfortunate nephew, the little emperor of Calais instead.

“He doesn’t seem like he’s willing to leave Florence any time soon.” Julius worthy of being the mentor who taught Rafael, said, his thoughts almost in sync with his.

“If he doesn’t want to go back, then replace him something to do and send him back.” The young Pope said impatiently and coldly, “Throw this scourge back to Calais. Florence doesn’t need this kind of scum.”

He rarely said such explicit dirty words. Julius slightly widened his eyes in surprise, but soon he began to laugh. A strand of his iron-gray hair fell on his dark red lips as he nodded. “I understand, Holy Father.”