The Reversed Hierophant
Chapter 24: I Heard You

Ferrante sat beneath the grape trellis on the colonnade. Lush green leaves, as large as an adult’s palm, hung down, and curling vines wrapped around the slender, plaster columns. Sunlight, dappled like shattered gold, filtered through the gaps and fell on Ferrante’s legs. The dark-haired youth tilted his head back slightly with the curve of his profile smooth and flowing, his high nose bridge and a delicate jaw. He looked like Narcissus, sitting by the lake in deep thought.

He felt a little cold.

It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in a long time, but thinking back, it was only a few months ago that he was wearing the thin robes of the church, gritting his teeth and enduring illness brought on by the cold wind, feeling the sensation of an ever-present chill eroding his skin.

And now, the Papal Palace had provided him with warm clothes and delicious food, making him quickly forget those days of hunger and cold. He had mistakenly thought he had always lived in such a magnificent palace. What was this, a rubbish instinct for warmth?

But reality would eventually wake him from his dream.

He stripped off the uniform of the Papal Guard – a rather formal outfit, consisting of a white silk shirt, a double-breasted coat and trousers, a short white cape slung across his chest, and calf-length leather boots, all topped with a triangular hat adorned with white thorn and lily patterns, symbolizing the Holy See and the Pope. In the uniform of the Papal Guard, everyone could look tall and handsome; the uniform erased the barriers of wealth and origin. For a long time, Ferrante even forgot where he had grown up.

He unconsciously touched the cold, smooth fabric of his sleeve. This expensive silk came from the distant East, a vast empire that produced spices and silk. Countless covetous eyes were fixed upon it, but due to the empire’s formidable military strength, no nation could cross the strait and set foot on that land flowing with gold and fragrance.

In the past, Ferrante didn’t even know that such precious fabric existed. It was as soft as water and as light as moonlight, shimmering with a gem-like lustre under the sun.

These were gifts that François gave to the most beautiful boys and girls in the garden, and just like the diamond brooches, tiaras, and ivory that were given away in piles – they were trivial things in his eyes.

Ferrante had become the most eye-catching boy in the garden at an astonishing speed. He was shy yet affectionate, never refusing anyone’s kiss, but he would also withdraw at the last moment. They laughed at him, calling him a ‘milk-fed baby who hadn’t grown up yet.’ Ferrante just smiled, and as they looked at his smile, they would, as they had countless times before, forgive his departure.

Sometimes, even he himself would be amazed at how smoothly things went. He seemed to instinctively grasp the meaning behind everyone’s words and expressions, and he skillfully responded in different ways. A smile, or a timely hug, a proper refusal could make people even more infatuated with him. Distance and enthusiasm have never been opposites… These were things that even the top spies and lovers had to learn for several years, but he has been exposed to them since birth and had integrated them into his bones during the long period of his lonely life.

He was a natural socialite and spy. Few people could keep their secrets from him, and when he put on different masks, his skilled and seamless performance was as if he had never had a personality of his own.

So far, no one had discovered this terrifying talent of his. He himself had only vaguely used this ability to benefit himself. Even with Rafael… he had to admit that, when he was by the Pope’s side, for certain reasons, he had always presented himself as a positive, optimistic, innocently devout poor boy. The Pope favored him as he wished, and he got what he wanted, and he was willing to continue pretending to be a foolish and naive boy to gain such favor.

Until he came here.

In the warm garden wrapped in silk and spices, he keenly sensed the underlying reality. Everyone was doing their utmost to gain the affection of the masters, headed by François. Ferrante’s instinct, like seedlings seeing rain and dew, madly broke through its shackles, like a wild beast reclaiming its territory. In just a few days, he had gained the right to wear silk clothes.

A maggot is a maggot, something that crawled out of a filthy mud pit. No matter how much softness and tenderness it is wrapped in, it cannot change its deceptive nature.

Ferrante thought about this absentmindedly, and for the first time he felt that he was truly hopeless.

But he was clearly aware his own nature, yet he could never understand that person… His hand, hidden in his sleeve, clenched a piece of paper, soaked and blurred with sweat. There was only a short line on it, the handwriting sharp and elegant, like the tendrils of a flower winding gracefully. He had read that sentence countless times, until he could recite it backwards, but he just couldn’t understand.

—Why did he ask him to leave? Did the Pope really intend to abandon these poor people to despair?

—He couldn’t accept it.

His mother, a piece of porcelain that was thrown to the ground and shattered by fate, a woman who was worn down by life, was a devout believer. Even at the end of her life, she would not forget to pray to the Lord, begging for forgiveness from her sins, praising with full hope the saint who bore the sins of the world for mankind.

Saint Leah was born from God’s palm, coming into the world to redeem the sinful mankind. He bore the heavy burden of sin and walked the earth to free people from sin and enable them to be qualified to enter the Lord’s embrace.

She had such an unwavering belief that the saint would come to save her, that the saint would wash away her sins and allow her to obtain eternal peace after death.

She prayed to the saint, and he prayed to the saint too.

There must be such a pure, kind, compassionate, and loving saint in this world. He loves all people equally, whether they are poor or rich, lowly or noble. He bears their sins, just as a father loves all his children equally. Only in this way could he be sure that his poor mother was now enjoying the happiness she had longed for. ȓ

And as the Holy See claimed, the incarnation of Saint Leah on earth is the Monarch of Florence.

Was his saint going to abandon these…filthy, vile prostitutes? Why? Because they had brought it upon themselves?

Ferrante was unwilling to think about another possibility, unwilling to think that perhaps such a saint did not exist in this world at all. He didn’t even dare to touch such a thought.

Oh God, please be merciful, please be tolerant, he closed his eyes and prayed frantically in his heart, I will be infinitely devout, I will follow all his commands, but please give him Your will, please…

His thoughts were interrupted here as a faint calling voice came from outside the wall where the grape trellis leaned. Ferrante opened his eyes, deftly removed his silk robe, revealing the simple linen shirt and close-fitting trousers he had prepared underneath. He casually rolled up the expensive and luxurious garment and held it in his hand, stepped on the grape trellis and nimbly climbed over the wall.

François’ mansion was constantly patrolled, with no gaps for prying eyes, but now there was no guard outside. Only a dirty-faced little beggar stood there, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Ferrante climb over.

“Hurry up, they’ll be here soon. My brothers can only hold them off for a while.”

As he said this, his eyes were like a vulture’s searching for prey, quickly and accurately fixing on the silk robe in Ferrante’s hand.

Ferrante carelessly threw the expensive garment to him, watching him stuff it happily into his chest, not caring how strange the bulging lump looked.

After taking the silk robe, the little beggar’s attitude towards Ferrante became noticeably more affectionate. He pulled the tall boy left and right into a small alley, speaking rapidly: “There’s nothing much going on at the Papal Palace these days. The Pope hasn’t come out at all—it’s strange, the previous Popes used to go out often, and every time they came out, people would distribute food. Is Sistine I some kind of well-behaved little girl? Why are you looking at me like that? Okay, those few carriages you asked me to check, a few of them belong to cardinals, and a few to ambassadors of principalities…”

The little beggar rattled off a few names and then stood there, staring at Ferrante, motionless.

Ferrante instantly understood his meaning and looked at him expressionlessly: “I’ve given you enough, that robe can be sold for over a dozen gold florins.”

When the little beggar heard this number, he was surprised at first, then hesitated for a moment, and finally, with a fierce look in his eyes, he still chose to stand there motionless.

Someone who could take out such an expensive piece of clothing might have even more valuable things on him. Moreover… he had come out of the Duke of François’ mansion. They, as beggars, had some guesses about what was going on inside. This beautiful boy was probably a runaway. If he couldn’t come up with the money, they would just tie him up and take him back! Perhaps the Duke would give them more money out of gratitude?

Ferrante glanced at him and understood his thoughts. A cold smile flashed in his deep blue eyes. The next second, screams and the sound of violent blows rang out in the narrow alley.

When Ferrante quietly returned to the Papal Palace, it was almost dusk. Rafael listened to his detailed report and did not comment on its content. Instead, he looked at him quietly, from the boy’s disheveled black curls to his dirty linen shirt and the bruised purple patch on his cheekbone.

“Did you get into a fight with François’ lovers?” the Pope asked slowly.

A blush of embarrassment suddenly crept onto the dark-haired boy’s face. He touched the wound on his face and vaguely denied, “No, it was on the way back, I ran into a group of beggars…”

Rafael raised an eyebrow slightly. He wanted to say that the law and order in Florence shouldn’t be that bad, but seeing Ferrante’s pleading eyes, he didn’t say it.

Actually, he didn’t know. His Papal Guard was already quite remarkable, after all, not everyone could fight eight people at once and still stand before him alive and kicking.

“Alright, I understand. Go and rest,” Rafael said in a gentle tone, dismissing him. Ferrante didn’t move. His eyes, as deep and beautiful as the ocean, looked at the ruler of Florence. In the brief silence, the boy asked hoarsely, “Your Holiness, are you really not going to save them?”

Rafael realized something from this sentence. He remembered that after seeing Jenny that day, Ferrante had asked him the same question repeatedly in a similar tone.

“You hope I’ll save them,” Rafael said affirmatively.

Ferrante remained silent before this statement.

“Then what do you want me to do?” the young Pope asked. Their pale purple and deep blue eyes met, and Ferrante was startled to replace that he couldn’t replace any trace of tenderness or compassion in them—or perhaps there was, but those eyes were so clear and cold, he didn’t even dare to look at that vast, cold purple plain for too long.

“I… I don’t know,” Ferrante felt like he had to say something, but what could he say? Could he use those sweet nothings he used to deal with François’ lovers here?

He then frantically tried to dissect his worthless self: “I don’t know…”

Rafael looked at him indifferently. For the first time, the tall and straight young man bent his back slightly, as if a heavier burden than life was pressing on his shoulders, was pressing on his shoulders, forcing him to try to take this step.

“I… I beg you…” The boy, who was good at sweet talk, seemed to have returned to his childhood, imitating his mother’s way of begging for the saint’s mercy, “I beg you to save us….”

It was a devout plea that seemed to come from the very depths of his heart.

Ferrante thought blankly, this matter actually had nothing to do with him, but he didn’t know why he cared so much, as if he had to prove something by doing this.

The Pope, sitting in the shadows, sighed silently. He stood up, walked around the large desk, and placed his cold hand on top of Ferrante’s head. The chill passed through his hair and touched the boy’s hot skin, causing him to involuntarily shiver.

Past pleas had always gone unanswered, and the lofty saint above had simply smiled in silence.

“I heard you,” the Pope replied softly.

Rafael found that no matter how determined he was, he couldn’t refuse this sincere plea.

How could he ignore the cry of Florence? As he had said, he loved Florence deeply, including all of its ugliness and beauty, equally.

Ferrante’s gaze rested on the hem of the Pope’s robe. A corner of the snow-white robe trailed on the luxurious long-pile carpet, like a pure white flower blooming on the ground.

The devout believer had finally heard the saint’s answer.

Author’s Note

Rafael: Sometimes I feel a little soft-hearted.