The Reversed Hierophant
Chapter 37: Aftermath

Upon returning to the Papal Palace after nearly two months’ absence, Rafael fell ill.

This was hardly surprising. In fact, Polly found it quite remarkable. Considering the immense pressure and workload Rafael had endured over the past two months, it was almost admirable that he had managed to hold out until everything was over before falling sick.

But this did little to comfort those around the Pope.

Rafael was very ill.

On the wide four-poster bed, the heavy, dark green silk curtains were partially drawn, revealing golden threads woven into the fabric that created luxurious golden ripples against the deep green. The young man lying on the bed had his eyes closed, his breath weak. His cheeks were flushed with fever, his lips cracked and pale. His light golden hair was scattered messily on the pillow, and the velvet quilt was pulled up to his chin, making the figure in the bed appear even thinner. Even the rise and fall of his chest was barely noticeable.

To care for the patient, the gas lamp in the room was deliberately dimmed. Polly said that this was a high fever caused by excessive fatigue, and that he would be fine once he got enough sleep. However, no one could easily feel relieved when seeing Rafael’s pitiful and miserable appearance.

Julius walked in carrying several bottles of wine. He pulled over a golden basin on a nearby shelf, casually poured the wine into the basin, and then leaned into the bed curtain, carefully observing Rafael’s face.

With his eyes closed, the Pope looked especially harmless. The frail, delicate, and fragile aura about him was infinitely magnified, almost making it impossible to associate him with the man who had decisively and cruelly issued the order to burn 7,000 people to ashes. Stripped of his conscious rationality, the sleeping Pope had a fragile beauty like a flower.

Gentle, pure, and transparent, it seemed as if one could hold him in the palm of one hand, gently knead his petals, and wait for him to shed tears.

Julius gazed at him for a long time, as if trying to make up for the two months of absence. He reached out his hand and gently pressed Rafael’s forehead, testing his temperature, as attentive as a caring elder.

Amidst the slight hiss of the steadily burning gas lamp, the hand still wearing the white glove began to move downward, touching Rafael’s soft cheek, wiping away the fine, diamond-like sweat beside his temples, and wandering along the contour of his cheek. The silk fabric left a faint red mark on his skin, like the pattern left by a snake sliding along a leaf, entwined around the snow-white skin in an ambiguous and sticky manner.

The gas lamp cast the figure of the person by the bed into a long shadow, which fell from the thick Assyrian carpet onto the wall. His movements were so subtle as to be indistinguishable, but his shadow, which was magnified countless times, candidly revealed all his hesitation.

The tall shadow slowly bent down, like a mountain quietly bowing its head under the moonlight, searching for the flower that had fallen from its mountain peak, wanting to pick it up again, but in the end, it finally stopped.

The Patriarch of Portia, with his iron-gray long hair, looked at the person so close at hand and silently closed his eyes. His deep purple eyes were filled with indescribable and complex emotions. His lips moved slightly, muttering a brief sentence that quickly dissipated into the air, unheard by anyone, as if it had never existed in this world.

The sleeping young man was oblivious, unaware of what had just happened.

Julius straightened up, took off his gloves, and stirred the wine in the basin with his hand, stirring up the clear water. He lifted Rafael’s quilt and slowly and carefully wiped his palms, elbows, and chest with a cotton cloth soaked in wine. Patients with high fever needed to be cooled down regularly, and alcohol evaporated quickly, making it the best choice for cooling.

This task was originally assigned to the Pope’s attendants, who naturally dared not be negligent, but sometimes Julius would come over himself.

The Secretary General of the Papal Palace was not an easy position. While Rafael was under tremendous pressure in the Lower City, Julius, as the only target left by the Pope, faced pressure in the Papal Palace that was no less than his. Only, most of this pressure came from the nobles of the Upper City.

This pressure was greatly reduced after Rafael returned. The young Pope sent Ferrante away and entrusted him with the investigation of the epidemic. It must be said that, judging from the situation in the past few days, even Julius was secretly shocked by the ability of this young man.

He was like a poisonous snake born in the darkness, able to silently crawl into any crevice, waiting, enduring and hibernating, before revealing his fangs to bite the prey’s lifeblood at the most opportune moment.

He was a natural-born assassin and an excellent hunter. He was not suitable for the bright sunlight, and the dark shadow was his invincible battlefield.

He had even learned to obtain the information he wanted from various channels without any guidance, a skill that many people didn’t possess even after systematic training.

Julius was surprised by his overly mature methods, but at the same time he was shocked by the viciousness of his actions – yes, he used this word. Even Rafael, whom he had taught, might not be able to torture servants who might know the inside story so skillfully, but this young man could grab the other person’s hair without changing his expression and force them to confess.

Julius had seen cruel and heartless people of all kinds—such people were especially common among the corrupt and heartless nobility. But Ferrante was different from them all. He could perceive the most subtle changes in others’ emotions, a talent that made him exceptionally skilled at detecting lies and truths.

Julius thought back to the papal decree that Rafael had signed before falling ill, and a growing sense of heaviness settled in his heart.

He had appointed Ferrante as the Captain of the Papal Guard, and at the same time entrusted him with the task ‘to assist the Papal Palace in discerning and verifying the purity of the people’s faith, to persuade those who have lost their way to return to the right path, to uncover conspiracies against the Pope and the people he protects, to defend the Pope, and to maintain the peace and tranquility of the Papal Palace and Florence.’

These words sounded bland and quite official, like mere platitudes meant to encourage Ferrante, but Julius, who was well-versed in the art of language, didn’t believe that Rafael, who was always concise and accurate in his choice of words, would go to such unnecessary lengths. His student hated empty rhetoric the most.

Witnessing what Ferrante had done in the past few days, Julius was suddenly shaken to his core.

He realized what this familiar sense of déjà vu was.

Wasn’t this the exact authority exercised by the Inquisition many years ago?

Protecting the Pope’s safety, discerning and verifying the purity of the people’s faith, guiding the lost back to the right path…

The Portia Patriarch’s pupils constricted. He gripped the cotton cloth in his hand tightly, squeezing the light red wine out of the fibers. It slid down his fingers onto the Pope’s naked skin, leaving a pink watermark on the overly white flesh before slipping into his clothes and dyeing a faint red spot on the fabric.

Julius stood there in a daze, looking at the sleeping Rafael, his thoughts a jumbled mess.

What are you trying to do?

The Patriarch of Portia looked at him intently, as if seeing him for the first time, his gaze moving from his tightly closed eyes to his parched lips. With a touch of sadness, he thought.

Rafa, Rafael, what are you trying to do?

You’ve re-empowered the Knights Templar, bringing them back to the world’s attention through Leshert, and now you wanted to rebuild an institution so similar to the Inquisition. You’ve even found a leader for it… What are you trying to do?

The last pope who held the powerful Knights Templar and the Inquisition under his control had a united and vast papal state. His flag flew all over the continent, but he ultimately died in a conspiracy by the kings, his glory was shattered, and his kingdom was divided.

What are you trying to do?

Are you trying to defy the tide of time and bring back a glory that can never be reproduced?

The kings wouldn’t want to see a powerful papal state emerge, nor will they want to see a strong pope ruling over them. Even the nobles wouldn’t want a pope who could oversee their lives and govern them.

Florence doesn’t belong to the Pope, but to the nobility or even to Portia, Rafa, have you forgotten?

The Portia Patriarch threw the cotton cloth back into the basin. He stood by the bed for a moment, then belatedly noticed the wine he had inadvertently spilled. He reached out and gently wiped away the still-damp stain. Beneath his hand, the warm and soft body continued to rise and fall slightly with his breathing. Suddenly, an overwhelming sadness hit him, for no apparent reason, but it was more suffocating and desperate than the ocean overturning.

Julius lowered his eyes and covered Rafael tightly with the blanket, carefully checking every seam. Finally, he untied the dark green bed curtains and lowered them.

The pale and beautiful face in his sight was soon obscured behind a thin golden veil.

Rafael recovered from his illness after about half a month. It was said that he had recovered, but he still looked lethargic, wrapped in a thicker robe than others, sitting in the warm study, looking at the secret reports handed over by Ferrante’s men.

Yes, Ferrante had already preliminarily formed a team of his own, using the Papal Guard as a prototype. Under Ferrante, they were changing day by day, becoming more mysterious and silent, like black blades, lurking beside the Pope or appearing wherever they were needed.

Rafael hadn’t taught him anything. In fact, he hadn’t had time to teach him. He hadn’t been able to say more to Ferrante before he fell ill. Before he fell ill, he had only left Ferrante a letter of appointment, an unlimited check signed by him, and an order to ‘investigate the Twelve Lords’.

The task was vague, but Ferrante had obviously understood his meaning.

The ugly deeds of the Twelve Lords were being continuously delivered to Rafael’s desk through Ferrante’s hands. In the latest report, Ferrante had already found their gathering on that mysterious night and discovered how they had smuggled diseased poultry and livestock into the docks of the Lower City through layers of checkpoints.

It was as if an invisible net was being woven over Florence through Ferrante’s hands. The peddlers and servants of nobility were all the fine threads of this spider web. An unintentional remark they made would be transmitted, integrated, and eventually converge at the center of the web.

Even Rafael, who was always picky, couldn’t help but be surprised by such high efficiency.

He flipped open the report that had been newly delivered that morning. Ferrante’s report went directly to the Pope and bypassed anyone else, making him completely independent of the other entities in the Papal Palace. In fact, he had already formed a new institution, although not many people were aware of this yet.

Rafael’s gaze had just fallen on the paper, and he hadn’t read more than a few lines before a warm cloak with the scent of frankincense was draped over his shoulders.

Ferrante, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, was standing beside him, putting the garment on him. The boy’s jet-black curly hair had grown much longer, and his once youthful and delicate face had lost all of its naivety. His eyes were long and narrow, his lips upturned, naturally carrying a feminine charm and masculine sharpness. These two qualities were perfectly blended in his features, giving him an intoxicating and bewitching charm.

Paired with his naturally deep black hair, he looked almost like an Eastern ghost walking out from a mural.

Not knowing where he had just gone, Rafael smelled a gloomy and cold aura from him, mixed with a faint smell of rust.

“Your Holiness, your body has not fully recovered. Please don’t overwork yourself,” Ferrante said to Rafael in a coaxing tone, with a slight smile on his lips, looking very obedient. Of course, those who were interrogated in his torture chamber would never think so. The thing they feared most was seeing this black-haired devil smile slightly – but that didn’t prevent this ‘black-haired devil’ from showing his completely harmless side in front of his Holy Father.

“There’s nothing interesting to look at in these. If you want to know, you can just ask me, and I’ll tell you everything completely – without any concealment.”

The sixteen-year-old boy’s tone was serious and solemn. He was wearing black clothes, with tight sleeves. A monk’s robe covered most of his body, and his trousers were tucked into his boots. He was no different from any other devout monk walking in the papal palace. But as soon as anyone who threatened the pope appeared, one could see how this harmless ‘monk’ would take out a variety of weapons from under his robe and cut the person’s throat.

Rafael didn’t know about these things yet. He obediently closed the report and listened to Ferrante’s low and soothing voice telling him about the things he had investigated these days.

As he expected, the lords were conspiring to use the plague to lure him and the main power holders, headed by Julius, out of Florence. They wanted to take this opportunity to gain freedom, divide the power of Florence, and replace him with a pope they could control.

“Who did they choose? Or rather, which fool joined their conspiracy?” Rafael asked softly.

“Didn’t Your Holiness guess?” Ferrante smiled and whispered a name into Rafael’s ear. He then asked, “Do we need to inform Lord Portia? Let him handle it himself?”

He stared intently at the Pope, waiting for his reaction.

Rafael didn’t hesitate at all, “No need.”

Ferrante didn’t notice that when Rafael said this word, his heart felt at peace for a moment.

“I need enough evidence,” Rafael continued, “replace enough witnesses, get enough confessions, and then I will hold a grand trial in front of all of Florence.”

The young pope opened his eyes, and his lavender eyes were filled with cold murderous intent: “Anyone who is guilty must pay for this a hundredfold.”

Ferrante smiled silently: “As you command, Your Holiness. Oh, and while you were ill, His Grace the Duke of Lusanne submitted several requests for an audience, wanting to visit, but they were all rejected by Lord Portia.”

Rafael was silent for a moment. Redrick? What did he want? But it didn’t matter. Rafael quickly put this matter out of his mind because he remembered something urgent that he was about to forget.

He has not yet replied to the letter that Sancha had sent more than a month ago.

The Pope rubbed his temples and thought about what was said in the letter, suddenly feeling that the situation was a little tricky.

Author’s Note

Sistine I’s Diary: Being sick is really uncomfortable. I feel hot and cold, and it seems like there are always people coming and going around me…