《The Reversed Hierophant》


 Chapter 1: Coronation

    Has any mortal ever tasted the agony of being consumed by fire?


    In the quietude of sleep, an excruciating pain welled up from the depths of his body, burning his flesh and blood like a flame. Invisible blades and hammers, sharp and relentless, invaded his most tender organs, stirring and pounding without mercy. The pain clung like a parasite, greedily devouring his lifeblood, twisting all the sweet flesh and blood into a putrid mass.


    It hurts....


    His drowsy brain was pulled out of sleep and listened to the body¡¯s instinctive cry.


    It hurts so much...


    The golden-haired youth snapped his eyes open. His violet irises, as clear as crystal, were clouded with a crimson hue of terror. The air was thick with the lingering scent of myrrh, a fragrant resin that had not yet fully burned away. The opulent chamber, dedicated solely to the sole monarch of the Kingdom of God on earth, was eerily silent. He was alone. The deacon, who used to wait at the door, ready to serve the Pope at any time, had vanished. Grasping the sheets tightly, he felt his veins bulge on the back of his hand.


    Where was his deacon? Where were the priests guarding his door? Where were the Papal Guards? They should have been waiting at the door for his orders!


    Blood gushed uncontrollably from his mouth, staining the pale gold silk sheets. The agony was so intense it rendered him speechless and paralysed. A chilling premonition washed over him.


    Consumed by agony, the young Pope struggled to reach the dagger on the bedside table. Its ivory and gold hilt brushed against his skin, cold and unyielding. His trembling fingers failed to grasp this life-saving straw, and in his desperation, he knocked it to the floor. The dagger, a gift from the Queen of Assyria at his coronation, vanished into the thick wool rug.


    Blood and air warred in his throat as he gasped for breath. As he suffocated, the scene in front of his eyes became blurred. The Virgin Mary and the Holy Child, cold and aloof, stood in the corner, her eyes fixed upon him with a chilling compassion.


    A pair of boots materialized in his line of sight. Cold hands roughly lifted his chin. The candle flickered and died, leaving him in the dim twilight. A familiar face seemed to emerge from the shadows.


    He desperately searched his memories for their identity, but before he could piece them together, a cold blade pierced his chest.


    A hand clamped over his mouth and nose, stifling his final cry.


    ¡°In the year of our Lord 1084, Pope Sistine1 I passed away due to illness. A staunch defender of outdated principles, Sistine I died before the dawn of a new era. This was the last grace that God had given him.¡±


    The quill danced across the parchment, leaving behind a fluid script that marked the final judgment of history upon the poor soul.


    No one could hear the cries of the departed soul. The tides of time swept forward, burying this unnoticed murder case in the dust of history.


    Yet, perhaps fate was prone to oversight. Beneath the hurried hem of the goddess¡¯s gown, the dead Rafael Garcia opened his eyes.


    His memory was still lingering on the icy chill of the blade piercing his heart, and the sensation of blood welling up in his throat. Yet, the sound of a grand organ filled his ears, and white doves, released by children, carried laurel leaves in their beaks. His eyes were met with a tapestry of crimson and gold, and beneath it, a snow-white papal robe.


    The people surrounded his carriage with enthusiastic cheers, with countless snow-white flowers held aloft their heads. As the golden carriage rolled by, the people knelt like fallen wheat, their hands raised in supplication, offering their faith to the new Pope.


    Rafael turned his head. The golden hair beneath his crown was damp with sweat, clinging to his scalp. His vision was still clouded by the suffocating darkness, but his instinct was faster than reason. Honed by his countless audiences as Pope, he offered them a flawless smile.


    The moment he smiled, the people cheered even more enthusiastically.


    ¡°¡ªSistine!¡±No?v(el)B\\jnn


    They were chanting his papal name. It was a familiar scene.


    In the blink of an eye, he had been transported from the horror of his murder back to the day of his coronation, years ago.


    The long, echoing children¡¯s voices intertwined with the rising notes of the organ. The Cathedral of the Holy Thorn had a unique structure, with sound-conducting pipes in its walls and floor. The song, reflected off the walls, seemed to descend from the heavens, floating and falling, its human qualities completely washed away. It was as if angels were truly singing a magnificent hymn above the clouds.


    The envoys who witnessed the grandeur of the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn for the first time involuntarily held their breath. Two heavy brass doors were forcefully pushed open by two knights, their bodies entirely encased in armor, like silent and majestic knight statues that had suddenly come to life.


    The ornate doors, adorned with reliefs of angels blowing trumpets and welcoming the Virgin Mary, creaked open. On the red carpet, a slender figure slowly approached, following the rhythm of the song. The light behind him enveloped him completely, as if he was about to be consumed by it.


    As the young Pope entered the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn, the organ and the children¡¯s singing reached their crescendo simultaneously.


    ¡®Blessed are the eyes that have seen, gracious is the Lord, for I have heard the Gospel;


    Joy and praise before the Father¡¯s throne, grace abounds, and I am saved.¡¯


    A wave of majestic music washed over everyone, and as the Pope passed, all bowed their heads, their vision obscured by the crimson and gold vestments and the snow-white robes. The papal tiara, adorned with pearls and gems, cast a faint, colorful glow, momentarily dazzling the ambassadors.


    ¡®Indeed, this is the Holy See...¡¯ someone thought to themselves. ¡®The jewels on this papal tiara alone could be used to make a king¡¯s crown. If the King of Taklai had possessed such a crown back then, he might not have been beheaded by his mercenaries for failing to pay for their services.¡®


    It was apparent that the Church was incredibly wealthy. Those foolish people, pigs, lambs... whatever you wanted to call them, possessed a considerable amount of wealth. But all of them would be more willing to pay the Church exorbitant taxes rather than meet with the king¡¯s tax collectors. Can a false faith really transcend worldly authority?


    The envoys watched the approaching Pope with various thoughts. As he passed, they politely removed their hats. Rafael saw a sea of heads, each with a different color and texture. Without shifting his gaze, he watched as the ladies who had accompanied the ambassadors to the grand event lifted their overly ornate skirts and curtsied to the young and handsome Pope.


    ¡°Congratulations, Your Holiness,¡± a soft, gentle voice reached his ears as he passed the front row of chairs.


    Out of politeness, Rafael turned his head slightly and saw the face of a young girl. Compared to the aged or middle-aged men around her, she was as delicate as a budding flower. But this flower wore a deep blue sash and badge symbolizing her status on her shoulder, and a short sword at her waist. In just a glance, her valiant and capable aura was evident.


    Rafael couldn¡¯t stop, so he nodded and smiled politely to her, then stepped onto the red velvet-carpeted steps.


    The heavy golden high-backed throne was adorned with red velvet cushions, with the chairbacks intricately carved. Two little cherubs holding sceptres crossed with one another, were carved on each side. The angel holding the lily looked down, while the angel holding the sword looked straight ahead, symbolizing the intersection of power, the Lord¡¯s protection of the Pope and a warning to others.


    This thing, as exquisite as a work of art, was indeed beautiful. All the words and praises in the world could be bestowed upon it. Even a king¡¯s throne was probably not as magnificent. But its designer seems to have completely disregarded the comfort of the user. The embossed patterns were incredibly uncomfortable, and sitting on it required one to keep their back straight at all times, feeling like a form of torture.


    Rafael, who had owned it for five years, was certainly qualified to make such an assessment.


    The young Pope pulled the edge of his heavy crimson robe with one hand and sat down on the throne. He leaned the towering scepter against his leg and held the globe adorned with thorns in his other hand. The top of the scepter was a large gem, designed like a sword hilt. Seated on the high-backed chair, his posture and appearance was divine and majestic, just like the countless oil paintings hanging in the corridors of the Holy See.


    The sceptre symbolized the power bestowed upon him by the Lord to shepherd his people. The Pope had the authority to bring down fire and punishment on behalf of God, using absolute violence to punish heretics and protect the faithful. The thorned globe meant that he had become the bearer of the world¡¯s sins, the unique and supreme ruler who walks the earth on behalf of God.


    The new monarch of the spiritual world sat upon the golden throne, beneath him a sea of bowed heads. The immense arched stained-glass window poured sunlight upon him, enveloping him in a pure radiance. This scene would be forever captured by the Holy See¡¯s painters on canvas, becoming a timeless masterpiece hanging high in the sacred corridor. It symbolized the beginning of Pope Sistine I¡¯s glorious and tumultuous life, the first step of this monarch of the world as he ascended to the throne and stirred up a storm named Rafael across continents and oceans.


    Translator¡¯s Note:


    Hello welcome to my first attempt at novel translation! I decided to pick this novel for two reasons: 1. I¡¯ve always loved the historical genre particularly with the politics and world-building involved. This novel reads like a biography as we follow along Rafael from the start of his reign till his old age, with some romantic subtext sprinkled in between. 2. Despite the great story, this novel hasn¡¯t received a lot of attention in JJWXC and I hope that translating this would lead more people to support the novel and the author.


    Disclaimer: I¡¯m not a firm believer of any religion and my interest in the story is purely due to its Western Fantasy setting and its great worldbuilding. I apologise if there¡¯s any mistakes in my translation or interpretation to anyone with strong religious beliefs. While the religion and setting in this story is closely mirrored to the Roman Catholic Church, you can see as the story goes on that a lot of it is changed and would be entirely different. The author also tried their best to do their research and from what I read, I didn¡¯t find anything offensive or discriminatory. Please remember that this is just a work of fiction.


    1 Sistine ¨C A Latin alternative for Sixtus meaning ¡®sixth-born¡¯, which is a papal name often taken by the Pope. The most famous example is the Sistine Chapel ¨C Cappella Sistina in Italian which takes its name from the man who commissioned it, Pope Sixtus IV.

 Chapter 2: The Archduchess of Assyria

    A strange, shuddering emotion swept through everyone¡¯s hearts like a storm, regardless of their faith in the Holy Church. When the Pope¡¯s gaze fell upon them, those who were looked at felt a lump in their throat. The emotions of countless people converged, and the angels and saints on the surrounding murals, stained-glass windows, and sculptures stood silent. The organ roared and sang, and the majestic notes lifted people¡¯s souls out of their bodies, allowing them to float upwards and be immersed in a pure spiritual cleansing, becoming part of the eternal historical silhouette.


    ¡°Oh Lord...¡± Someone murmured, their voice choked with tears as they gazed at the saintly-looking Pope. For a moment, they felt as if they had witnessed a miracle.


    Rafael, overlooking everything, took in the expressions of everyone present, while his heart remained calm. As an institution that influenced people through spiritual means, the Holy See was already extremely proficient in such rituals. How to create an atmosphere, how to stir people¡¯s emotions, every detail, from the moment they stepped into the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn, had been serving for this moment.


    The cardinal standing aside announced the beginning of the audience ceremony. With a long and loud call, the guests, starting from the front row, one by one approached the new Pope.


    ¡°His Grace, Franc?ois-Alexandre de Calais, Duke of Calais and Montpensier, Count of the House of Rockefeller¡ª¡±


    With the cardinal¡¯s loud voice, the first man in the front row, of medium build and long, lithe limbs, stood up. He sported the fashionable curled mustache popular among noblemen of the time, and his brown curly hair was slicked back, each curl perfectly uniform. His snow-white ruff collar was adorned with transparent diamonds, and snow-white stockings alongside a stiff silk long coat wrapped his muscular body. His gaze was sharp and arrogant, and his left hand was always resting on the hilt of his sword.


    Rafael remembered him. As the Duke of Calais Empire, one of the most powerful empires of the time, this uncle of the emperor was only thirty years old this year, in the prime of his life. As an ¡°advisor¡± to the young emperor, he was in fact the true ruler of that vast empire. He was arrogant, overbearing, greedy, and ambitious...


    The Duke of Calais took a few steps forward and, at the reminder of the Pope¡¯s deacon, removed his sword¡ªRafael noticed a fleeting look of displeasure on his face¡ªand stopped before the Pope¡¯s seat, looking up at the young Pope from several steps below.


    Although he was looking up, the Duke¡¯s expression was full of undisguised scrutiny. After a brief exchange of glances, Francois knelt on one knee and kissed the thorned pattern on the Pope¡¯s gold-threaded robe: ¡°I pledge on behalf of Calais my faith in you and the Holy See you lead. At the same time, I pay my tribute to you, Your Holiness. May your blessings and your fame spread far and wide.¡±


    ¡°His Majesty, the Emperor of Calais, has asked me to convey his sincere greetings to you. He was unable to come to Florence in person, but he had sent me along with a gift for your coronation¡ªthe lost crown and vestments of Saint Leah left behind by Paul VI, as well as Calais¡¯ annual tribute.¡±


    Rafael, wearing the heavy and ornate crown of thorns, looked like a beautiful and holy doll. Only when he spoke did the inhuman strangeness diminish somewhat: ¡°Thank you for the greetings of His Majesty, Francois. I also wish his reign a long and prosperous one. I hope you have a memorable time in Florence. If possible, the papal palace welcomes your visit at any time.¡±


    The young Pope¡¯s voice was slightly low, with a hint of raspy softness at the end that was almost suggestive, like running one¡¯s fingers over velvet, overly soft and lingering, making one wish to hear more.


    The two of them met each other¡¯s gaze again, and both saw a superficial politeness and courtesy in the other¡¯s eyes. Franc?ois was not a devout believer. Privately, influenced by his mother, he had little affection for the Church. Publicly, as one of the main dioceses from which the Church received taxes, a large amount of wealth from the people and the court flowed into the Church¡¯s private coffers. It was no wonder that Franc?ois had little to no affection for one of the main culprits who had seized his vast wealth.


    The overly false and polite exchange of greetings ended quickly. The Duke of Calais sat back in his seat without looking back, waiting boredly for the ceremony to proceed, while secretly observing the beautiful women around him, occasionally glancing at the choir.


    ¡°Her Royal Highness, Princess of the Roman Empire, Archduchess of Assyria and Countess of Hesandora, Sancha Isabella Gondola Romanina!¡±


    The person with such a long and noble title was merely a nineteen-year-old girl.


    Unlike Franc?ois, she unbuckled the sword at her waist with evident cheerfulness and swiftness, handing it to the papal attendant beside her. She lifted her voluminous skirt and took two steps forward.


    The sapphire blue skirt closed like flower petals, brushing against the smooth, white marble floor, before blossoming again beneath the papal throne. The girl who had just softly congratulated Rafael knelt before him, performing a deep bow, before raising her round face. Her blue eyes were sparkling, and two small dimples appeared at the corners of her lips.


    She had evidently grown up enveloped in abundant love, and was bright, lively, bold, and intelligent.


    She was a girl who makes people happy at first sight.


    Rafael had a deep impression of her, although they had only met once at his coronation ceremony, but...


    ¡°Congratulations once more, Your Holiness,¡± said the young woman with soft, golden-brown curls, her voice gentle.


    Her appearance seemed to be inherited from her mother, the so-called ¡°Warrior Queen,¡± with exotic features, a healthy wheat-colored complexion far from the sickly pallor favored by noblewomen, and a beauty akin to a pearl of pale gold. Like Franc?ois, she kissed the thorns on the Pope¡¯s sacred vestments.


    ¡°On behalf of Rome and Assyria, I pledge our faith in you and the Church you lead. May the flag of Florence continue to soar under your guidance. Your coronation fills both my mother and me with immense joy.¡±


    ¡°My mother, Her Majesty, Empress of the Roman empire and Queen of Assyria, has asked me to give you a personal gift.¡±


    The girl, who bore the dual titles of Roman Princess and Archduchess of Assyria, pulled out a dagger from beneath her layers of lace sleeves.


    The deacons and the papal guards on either side instantly turned pale, their instincts urging them to turn and approach her. However, the young Pope swiftly raised two fingers, halting them in their tracks.


    Rafael: ¡°...¡±


    He was really at a loss for words this time.


    This princess was really... unconventional.


    I wonder how the Roman Emperor and Empress raised her like that.


    Calais, Assyria and Rome were the three most powerful countries in the world today. After Francois and Sancha stepped back, the other smaller nations proceeded more slowly. They seemed to be trying their best to make a good impression on the Pope¡ªor perhaps they wanted to spend more time with Francois and Sancha.


    Some of the more exaggerated kings even prostrated themselves at Rafael¡¯s feet and wept, claiming to have felt a divine revelation, to have witnessed miracles, and to have dreamed of God¡¯s grace... Ultimately, they attributed Rafael¡¯s ascension to the throne as truly God¡¯s will, and they declared their willingness to continue to follow the flag of Florence as their most loyal servants.


    There were indeed some devout believers among them who devoted their lives to God, and some who did not, but Rafael didn¡¯t care about that. He comforted them with a friendly face and asked the deacon to take them back to their seats.


    While he was speaking with the deacon, he noticed a black-robed priest discreetly hurrying through the side corridor to a cardinal, whispering something in his ear. Almost simultaneously, two more priests approached and spoke to two archbishops, respectively.


    No one came to see him.


    The young pope¡¯s expression remained unchanged, his smile unwavering, but his eyes had turned cold.


    The same thing had happened in his previous life, but at that time he was still immersed in the anxiety of being crowned Pope and the fear of doing something wrong. His mind was full of how to fulfill his responsibilities as the Pope. He was determined to follow the doctrine and be pious, kind, respectful and tolerant.


    Although he saw the priests bypassing him to convey messages to the bishops, he thought that it was only natural¡ªevery bishop had their own small circle in Florence, from bishops to priests to miscellaneous people in the church. It was normal, and he didn¡¯t need to delve into it and uncover every secret.


    That would be embarrassing for both sides.


    So he tolerated their concealment and turned a blind eye to these secret currents afterwards.


    But now he suddenly felt that everything was boring.


    He had retreated so much, being tolerant, merciful, benevolent, and respectful, yet all he got in return were empty guards outside his door at night and cold blades. History would not record his benevolence. So why should he force himself to be a perfect Pope?


    ¡°Father Alfonso, where are you from?¡±


    In the spotlight of everyone¡¯s attention, the young Pope suddenly turned his head and called out the name of a black-robed priest.


    The priest, who was reporting to an archbishop, shuddered and was momentarily stunned. He could only instinctively call out, ¡°Holy Father...¡±


    The bishop, whose words had been interrupted by the Pope, lifted his head in slight surprise. He was remarkably young, with handsome features and long, flowing hair that cascaded over his shoulders. Clad in the purple vestments of a bishop, his appearance was so striking that he seemed like an angel straight out of a painting.


    His iconic purple eyes also made it easy for those present to recognize his identity.


    One couldn¡¯t be sure of anything else, but it was certain that this young bishop must have a surname related to ¡®Portia¡¯.


    ¡°Holy Father, I...¡± Alfonso approached the papal throne, hesitating and unsure whether to speak. Rafael gazed at him and graciously changed the subject. ¡°The blessing ceremony is about to begin. Would you like to accompany me?¡±


    To be at the Pope¡¯s side during a blessing was an immense honor. The low ranked priest, having never expected such an honor, immediately forgot everything else and his cheeks turned red with excitement. ¡°Yes, Holy Father, I would!¡±


    Rafael smiled at him, stood up as the music swelled, and stepped over the many bowed heads towards the balcony terrace of the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn.


    Previous

 Chapter 3: The Ill Cardinal

    The Cathedral of the Holy Thorn faces directly onto Miracle Square, a vast public square dating back to the Roman era. At its peak, it could accommodate up to 10,000 people for gatherings. After inheriting this legacy, the Church spent considerable effort renovating the square, erecting the Thorned Wings and the Fountain of Grace, symbols of divinity, at its centre. These were meant to be admired and visited by devout pilgrims. Surrounding the square are the palaces of the Church¡¯s bishops and several inns. Directly opposite is the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn, specifically used for papal coronations and high masses, as well as the Papal Palace.


    On the second floor of the cathedral, facing Miracle Square, a large terrace was specifically built for the Pope to address the public and deliver sermons. The Church¡¯s architects, demonstrating exceptional talent, crafted a terrace of exquisite design. Not only could it ensure that the Pope could be seen by as many people as possible, but with the help of ubiquitous brass sound amplification devices, even those at the far end of the square could hear his holy words.


    Cascading bouquets adorned the snow-white, ornate balustrade of the terrace, predominantly featuring the white lily symbolizing the Church and the iris representing the Pope himself. These were complemented by bishop¡¯s tassels, Madonna lilies, champagne roses, and laurel leaves. Surrounding the central papal coat of arms were the coats of arms of the eighteen cardinals of Florence, symbolizing their allegiance and obedience to the Pope.


    The vast square was packed with people, from the ragged paupers to the bejeweled nobility, all eagerly awaiting. Windows overlooking the square were wide open, and colorful heads leaned out as people excitedly greeted each other, waving flowers and papal flags.


    When the young Pope, clad in a scarlet cape and a white robe, appeared on the flower-adorned terrace, a thunderous roar of applause erupted. The crowd surged like waves, and people involuntarily waved their flowers, hats, or whatever they had in their hands, paying their respects to the new Pope of Florence.


    The gentlemen dismounted, took off their hats and bowed. The ladies sitting in their carriages also came out, lifted their skirts and performed a deep curtsey to the newly enthroned Holy Father on the terrace.


    Colorful silks, flowers, and cheers merged into a vast ocean, and everyone looked at the monarch on the terrace with excitement and anticipation.


    ¡°Oh my, he¡¯s as beautiful as the Holy Son in a painting!¡±


    The woman who got up early and fought for a good seat was dressed in tattered clothes. She clapped her palms red and spoke to her husband in a hoarse voice amid the cheers.


    ¡°He is the Holy Father!¡± Her husband joked, not very humorously, but clearly agreeing with his wife.


    ¡°He¡¯s more handsome than all the previous Holy Fathers¡ªwhy, he looks a bit like Pope Vitalian III,¡¯¡± a woman standing nearby overheard their conversation and eagerly joined in.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes, but if he¡¯s willing to add a major holy day every month and send us wine, I¡¯ll fight you to the death over who¡¯s better looking, him or Pope Vitalian III,¡± the man joked again.


    This time his wife rolled her eyes and gave a noncommittal humph.


    The noble women in their carriages were much more reserved. They exchanged glances with their companions calmly, conveying their emotions through flushed cheeks and tacit glances to each other ¨C these social butterflies were masters of controlling their emotions. They were skilled at using veiled language to mock or praise, seeking prey for love and pleasure¡ªand the primary criterion, of course, was a beautiful appearance.


    Clearly, the new Pope possessed a perfect appearance that even the most critical of ladies couldn¡¯t fault.


    People of this era were not yet bound by strict religious doctrines. They pursued carnal desires and pleasures with raw, unbridled freedom. While the Church preached marital fidelity, even bishops had a dozen illegitimate children ¨C this was not something to be ashamed of. The high infant mortality rate made every child extremely precious. They could obtain titles and inherit estates, seemingly no different from legitimate offspring.


    Previously, Pope Leo VI had even issued a papal bull1 officially acknowledging an illegitimate child.


    With such a rebellious Pope setting the precedent, the noble ladies did not mind having an affair with the clergy and giving birth to one or two children for them, especially when the new Pope had such a brilliant appearance.


    Setting aside their thoughts for the moment, Rafael, accustomed to such admiring gazes, adjusted the parchment scroll tucked into his bouquet, raised his hands slightly ¨C and lowered them, an elegant and powerful gesture. R


    The tsunami of cheers slowly died down, and the people held their breath, listening attentively to the young Pope¡¯s speech.


    ¡°Brothers and sisters, by the grace of God, we are gathered here...¡±


    The Pope¡¯s voice, unhurried and resonant, was carried far and wide by the bronze pipes buried around the terrace and beneath the square.


    ¡°...When the Lord bore the thorns, tore his wings, and sat upon the rock, revealing to the world the miracle of resurrection, the foundations of this great city of Florence were laid. The land beneath our feet is stained with the blood of saints and watched over by God. The steps to Heaven were forged here, and the worldly monarchs placed their crowns at the feet of Florence, proving the unparalleled status of the holy city in the world...¡±


    Rafael Garcia, a mere mortal who died due to ignorance, had actually received a divine grace equivalent to that bestowed upon the Lord.


    ...How could I be worthy of such grace?


    Rafael mocked himself inwardly, so even if something was different from the past, it seemed understandable.


    The new life he had gained was a gift from God, and the accompanying changes were perhaps merely God¡¯s playful embellishments.


    Alfonso quietly withdrew. Rafael stood on the terrace for a long time until the deacon came up again to urge him. He then slowly walked down the steps and casually removed the overly heavy crimson velvet chasuble. The deacon beside him quickly reached out to take it. When he was about to step back, he heard the young pope¡¯s calm words: ¡± Prepare the carriage. After the Eucharist, go to Palazzo Riccardi to visit Cardinal Tondolo.¡±


    The deacon didn¡¯t expect such a strange order from the Pope. However, he didn¡¯t ask any more questions and bowed his head respectfully to show that he understood.


    The Eucharist lasted for three hours. Princess Sancha and Duke Francois, as the most distinguished guests present after the Pope, were seated on either side of Rafael. Francois behaved very gentlemanly throughout the entire event, showing no trace of the arrogance he had displayed during his previous audience with Rafael.


    As the host, Rafael needed to initiate conversations in appropriate ways and distribute his time evenly between the two guests, to avoid favouring one over the other. It was a skill, but fortunately, he was well-versed in it and handled the entire banquet with ease.


    As night fell, huge steam lamps illuminated Miracle Square. The humming of air in the copper pipes cast a warm glow over the square. The performance organized by the Church continued, and more and more people gathered, enjoying this rare moment of joy. Guests were taken to the Papal Palace in carriages, and the evening ball began.


    The host of the ball quietly slipped away. Without anyone noticing, he left the Papal Palace and took a carriage to Palazzo Riccardi.


    Several carriages were already parked in the spacious square of the Palazzo Riccardi. Rafael was helped down from his carriage by the deacon, and he suppressed the urge to pay attention to the dull ache in his right leg from walking and standing for so long. He looked around at the other carriages carefully.


    The family emblems on the carriages are mostly engraved from precious metals, and they still shine even in the night.


    Among them, he saw a crest with a wave as its base, crossed swords and scepter, a small crown at the top, and surrounded by a ribbon, lilies, and stars.


    This meant that the holder of this crest came from a noble family. This family originated from an island, with a longstanding history, and a close blood relationship with the royal family. They had produced members of the royal family, queens, clergy, and even a pope, and possessed military power.


    There were many families with such deep roots in Florence, but this particular crest was the most well-known.


    Julius Portia.


    Rafael murmured the name, rolling it around his tongue.


    His most trusted Secretary General in the Papal Court, the patriarch of the Portia family, and the ¡®benefactor¡¯ who single-handedly supported him to ascend to the Papal throne... Portia was here, but he hadn¡¯t been informed.


    Translator¡¯s Note:


    1 Papal Bull ¨C A papal bull is a type of public decree, letters patent, or charter issued by a pope of the Catholic Church. It is named after the leaden seal (bulla) traditionally appended to authenticate it.


    2 Cardinal ¨C A cardinal is a senior member of the clergy of the Catholic Church. Cardinals are created by the pope and typically hold the title for life. The most solemn responsibility of the cardinals is to elect a new pope in a conclave, almost always from among themselves when the Holy See is vacant. During the period between a pope¡¯s death or resignation and the election of his successor, the day-to-day governance of the Holy See is in the hands of the College of Cardinals.


    Previous

 Chapter 4: Julius Portia

    Having received a report from the gatekeeper, the eldest son of Cardinal Tondolo hurried out from the hall to greet the Pope. He was a young man a few years older than Rafael, the next Count of Clement after Tondolo. He had the same long brown curly hair as his father and a longer neck than most people, so he was nicknamed ¡°Sir Goose¡± by the gossipers.


    ¡°Your Holiness...¡±


    Sir Goose... No, Little Tondolo lowered his head and saluted Rafael, taking this opportunity to hide the surprise and panic on his face.


    Why did Sistine suddenly come here? On the day of his coronation... He should have been at the banquet enjoying the admiration of the crowd, instead of coming to the Palazzo Riccardi quietly to visit a dying old man, especially tonight...


    Little Tondolo¡¯s meager brain, perched atop his spindly neck, strained to dredge up any useful thoughts. Thinking of the group of people who were now in the reception room and a certain rumor that had been making the rounds among the nobles of Florence, he felt a buzzing pain in his head.


    ¡°Holy Father, it is an honor to have you here...¡± His social grace faltered before it was fully formed. The Pope¡¯s piercing violet eyes turned around and his emotionless gaze fell on him. For a moment, Little Tondolo felt as though he was being watched by a serpent.


    Fortunately, this sight only lasted for a moment. By the time Little Tondolo dared to look again, the young Pope¡¯s expression was still calm and gentle.


    ¡°I heard that Cardinal Tondolo was gravely ill, so I came to visit him. He once taught me at the Florentine Seminary. I regret that I cannot share today¡¯s glory with him.¡± Rafael¡¯s tone was calm, but his steps were firm as he strode past Little Tondolo, giving him no chance to obstruct his path.


    ¡°Wait a moment¡ªHoly Father!¡± Seeing the Pope sweep past him like a gust of wind, little Tondolo was startled. ¡°Please allow me to lead the way. Father¡¯s bedroom is in -¡°


    Once again, the unfortunate Sir Tondolo was unable to finish his speech.


    This time he was interrupted by a deliberately raised laugh: ¡°Oh, look who we have here! Our great Holy Father His Holiness Sistine I!¡±


    Rafael suddenly stopped.


    To be fair, the voice wasn¡¯t unpleasant, even rather melodious, but it had haunted Rafael¡¯s dreams countless times when he was young, like a shadowy evil spirit, whispering malicious words filled with hatred.


    The Pope raised his face, expressionless. At the top of the grand, spiraling staircase stood a strikingly handsome young man. Tall and slender, with flowing golden hair, he was adorned in a magnificent ensemble of a taffeta shirt, a deep blue coat that reached his calves, and the lace cuffs were embellished with pearls. He was meticulous in every detail and stood there with an air of dignity, looking like a portrait of an aristocrat that would soon be hung in the family gallery.


    ¡°Redrick Claudius Portia...¡± Rafael pronounced the other party¡¯s full name word by word, before adding with an uncertain tone, ¡°¡ª¡ª the Duke of Lusanne.¡±


    Redrick leaned against the red pine handrail and walked down the stairs slowly, his heels tapping out a steady rhythm on the floor. ¡°Yes, it¡¯s me, Your Holiness Sistine I.¡±


    He stopped and performed a half-hearted bow to Rafael, with undisguised contempt in his tone.


    Rafael watched him impassively, his hands clasped together beneath the wide vestments, rubbing them gently against each other.


    He was not angry and remained as calm as a deep lake.


    ¡°I think the Palazzo Riccardi should be more rigorous in choosing who to entertain. Bad guests will ruin the reputation of Cardinal Tondolo and drag all of Tondolo into hell. If I were you, my dear brother Tondolo, I would cut my losses...¡± Seeing that Rafael didn¡¯t react, Redrick turned his attention to Little Tondolo, and spoke incessantly about his own opinions.


    Of course, he knew that Little Tondolo couldn¡¯t possibly drive the Pope out of the Palazzo Riccardi, and he also knew that his current words were tantamount to dragging the innocent Little Tondolo into the conflict between him and Rafael... But so what? He didn¡¯t care.


    Children who grow up spoiled, straightforward, and surrounded by adulation seem to have this kind of self-centered nature, and Redrick was the worst among them.


    And he did have the capital to do so.


    As the direct heir of the Portia family, the legitimate firstborn son of the former Pope, with maternal lineage tracing back to one of the few verifiable Roman imperial bloodlines, and with connections to two royal families, he had been the uncrowned prince of Florence since childhood. It was no wonder that he had cultivated such arrogance and ruthlessness.


    ¡°Redrick!¡± Just as Little Tondolo was pondering whether to feign unconsciousness in this chaotic situation, someone came to his rescue with a series of footsteps.


    Thank goodness, I swear I will never say anything bad about Julius again, he is an angel!


    Little Tondolo secretly breathed a sigh of relief.


    Reluctantly, Redrick stopped talking. Rafael¡¯s hand, hidden in his sleeve, suddenly clenched.


    Rafael¡¯s counter-question was too calm.


    Julius shouldn¡¯t have been here in the first place. Although he held no clerical office, as one of the pillar families of Florence, he should have been one of the stars of the ball.


    ¡°Like you, I came to visit Cardinal Tondolo. As you know, he was a dear friend of my cousin, Pope Vitalian III during their lifetime. It¡¯s only natural for me to come and see if he has any unfinished business.¡±


    He seemed to emphasise one of the names, but also seemed not to. Rafael looked into his eyes, the deep purple irises behind the lenses were unfathomable.


    ¡°Unfinished business...¡± Rafael repeated the words, glancing at Little Tondolo behind him, his tone laced with a strange irony. ¡°Taking care of his widow and children?¡±


    Julius spun the ebony cane in his hand half a turn and replied calmly, ¡°If necessary.¡±


    Rafael chuckled softly, glancing meaningfully at Redrick who stood frozen on the steps. The Duke of Lusanne, who had been so lively and full of himself just a moment ago, now looked like a wet chicken.


    ¡°You¡¯re as fond of doing good deeds as ever,¡± Rafael said coldly.


    Julius followed his gaze and replied good-naturedly, ¡°And I¡¯ve always been quite good at it, haven¡¯t I, Holy Father?¡±


    This man, who was dressed so austerely that he looked ascetic, uttered the sacred word ¡°Holy Father¡± without any piety, making the title sound oddly out of place.


    This time the young Pope did not give him any response. He walked past him and went straight to the second floor, not forgetting to remind the living map Little Tondolo to follow him.


    After their figures disappeared around the corner of the corridor, Redrick finally came down the stairs and walked to Julius. According to blood relationship, Julius was his father¡¯s cousin, or in other words, his uncle, but Redrick would never dare to use that intimate term.


    ¡°Why is he here?!¡±


    This question seems to have come up many times tonight.


    Julius stared at him coldly until Redrick¡¯s guilty gaze darted around, then he let him go temporarily: ¡°Rafael is your older brother, I don¡¯t want to see you offend him again in the future. Otherwise I¡¯ll consider giving the title of Duke of Lusanne to someone else. You have more than one younger brother.¡±


    Redrick¡¯s handsome face twisted instantly, and he growled, ¡°Julius ¨C you can¡¯t do this! He¡¯s nothing but a bastard! My father never even acknowledged his existence!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s irrelevant,¡± Julius said calmly, ¡°You¡ª¡±


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s irrelevant, what matters is that he¡¯s the Pope now, isn¡¯t it? The noble Sistine I! Ha! He¡¯s not even a ¡®Portia¡¯! Julius, do you think I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re thinking? There are several bishops in the Portia family, but you went to great lengths to bring this bastard back from the countryside and place him on the holy seat of Saint Leah. Your dirty intentions, do you think I can¡¯t see it?¡±


    As soon as he finished speaking, the world spun in front of his eyes and a searing pain exploded from his jaw. Redrick took three or four steps back before he managed to stand unsteadily. A salty, metallic taste filled his mouth.


    The duke, who had never been struck like this before, was stunned. He stood there, dazed, clutching his jaw.


    A flicker of annoyance crossed Julius¡¯s eyes. He shook his right hand, which was numb from overexertion, and his voice remained as calm and low as ever: ¡°Put away your filthy thoughts. I expect you to think twice about where you are before you speak next time. If I hear this rumor again, I¡¯ll cut off your tongue and send it to your mother.¡±


    Redrick shuddered.


    He realized that Julius was really capable of such a thing.


    Not daring to say another word, Redrick glared at the floor resentfully, covered his wound, and hurried out of the Palazzo Riccardi. Julius stood in the hall for a moment in thought, then turned and left.


    Rafael¡¯s arrival tonight was completely unexpected to him. It seemed that something had happened that he didn¡¯t understand, which made him feel unusually uneasy.


    ¡°To the Papal Palace.¡± he ordered the coachman as a guard helped him into a thin cloak. Julius climbed into the carriage.


    Previous

 Chapter 5: Tondolo

    Young Tondolo led the new Pope through the long corridor covered with thick carpet and stopped outside a room. The smell of frankincense1 wafted through the crack of the tightly closed door. Legend has it that when Saint Leah was born, fragrant resin dripped from the trees nearby, which emitted a pungent and exotic fragrance after being burned by fire. This expensive incense from the East became a hallmark of the Holy See. During every major celebration, huge copper basins would be erected in the square, and barrels of incense would be poured into them. Thousands of florins worth of incense would be burned in a single day.


    For example, in today¡¯s Miracle Square, several large copper basins were continuously burning frankincense and myrrh. The entire city of Florence was filled with this heavy, solemn fragrance, and Rafael¡¯s money was also being burned away like water.


    Rafael sniffed and discerned a pungent mixture of pepper and laurel leaves in addition to the frankincense and myrrh. This was used to stimulate the patient¡¯s mind. Usually, only patients who were completely unable to wake up before dying would be forced to use this method of stimulating the nerves ¨C to allow him enough time to leave a last testament.


    He glanced at Young Tondolo and pushed opened the door.


    Palazzo Riccardi was originally the residence of Pope Riccardi III. In order to be elected Pope, he had donated all his wealth to the cardinals, including this palace, which had only recently been completed. After Cardinal Tondolo obtained Palazzo Riccardi, he did not make many renovations, so the palace still retained the square and regular style of the period of Pope Riccardi III.


    The bedroom was not large, with purple velvet curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows tightly. Slender, classical columns supported a high ceiling. The rise and fall of the figure on the four-poster bed with curtains drawn was barely visible. Incense burned in the stove in front of the bed, but its peak had passed, and the smoke now drifted lazily outward.


    Rafael¡¯s brow furrowed briefly, then smoothed out.


    Julius also carried the scent of myrrh and laurel leaves, indicating that he had spent a considerable amount of time in this room. What did he want to hear from Cardinal Tondolo? Was it really, as he had said, merely to learn what unfulfilled wishes Tondolo had?


    Rafael was reluctant to maliciously speculate about his mentor, his guide, and the man who had sheltered him for so long in his youth, but...


    He had long entrusted the patrol shifts of the guards outside the Pope¡¯s chambers to Julius. He knew Julius¡¯s mind and methods all too well. Yet, on the night of his death, there was no one outside the Pope¡¯s bedroom. The assassin had boldly pushed open the door and walked right up to his bed.


    Until he solved this mystery, he couldn¡¯t give his precious trust to anyone.


    Not even Julius.


    Especially Julius.


    Betrayal from someone close to you was more bitter than any wine in the world.


    Rafael was unwilling to taste that bitterness again.


    ¡°Father, father, the Pope is here to visit you, father, wake up...¡± Young Tondolo stood behind the curtain, softly calling out to the sleeping Cardinal Tondolo. The old man in the bed had white hair and beard, his face was full of old wrinkles, and his body was thin and sunken into the fluffy down quilt, like a dry branch falling into cotton. If you didn¡¯t look closely, you couldn¡¯t even see that there was a person there.


    Cardinal Tondolo, though barely in his early fifties, appeared as frail as an octogenarian. The wealth and splendor of Florence gave him a better life than most people, but it also drained the nutrients from his body in the last stage of his life.


    Constant streams of visitors roused him from his slumber, large doses of spices and medicines dragged his life on a thread, while his relatives tried to squeeze more wealth from him. The resources in the hands of a cardinal were so huge that ordinary people could hardly imagine. While he had not yet been called by the Lord Almighty, everyone wanted to grab the greatest benefit for themselves.


    Cardinal Tondolo¡¯s face was gray and deathly pale, his cheeks sunken. He lay in a long slumber, his mind constantly wandering back to his youth, a time filled with vigor and vitality. Alas it¡¯s great to be young. You had a flexible mind and quick thinking. He could wield a sword against bandits, debate endlessly with others over a single issue for days on end, and throw himself wholeheartedly into any task.


    His life was neither long nor short, yet to him it felt like an eternity. His dearest friends had long passed, his wife had abandoned him, and none of his brothers and sisters survived. He had taken on the responsibility of carrying on their bloodline, caring for his nieces and nephews as if they were his own children. He educated them, arranged their marriages, managed their wealth, and elevated them to higher positions, all to ensure the prosperity and continuity of the Tondolo family. For this, he had even chosen to sell his soul...


    ¡®Lord, is it possible for this soul to find salvation ...¡¯


    A voice, distant and then near, pulled at his clouded consciousness. With a hazy awareness, he recognized it as his son¡¯s.


    Piano, oh Piano, this overly naive and foolish child. Before his father had even drawn his last breath, he had already been manipulated by others. He even brought that venomous snake, Julius, to my bedside. When I am gone, what will become of that foolish boy? And what of the Tondolo family?


    ¡®So, who is it this time?¡¯


    With a sense of weariness and disgust, Cardinal Tondolo forced his eyelids open. Through the dim, flickering light of the room, he saw a figure standing at his bedside. ??


    Struggling to keep his eyes open, he could only make out a head of long, radiant golden hair. A familiar white-gold robe swirled closer as the figure leaned over him. The scent of green myrrh and spikenard, exclusive to the Pope, filled his nostrils. He had been surrounded by this fragrance day and night, and he could always count on seeing this familiar robe as soon as he opened his eyes.


    Through his blurred vision, he saw a pair of purple eyes staring at him, with their ends narrow and long, as sharp as a knife.


    He was very familiar with these eyes.


    Could it be that his old friend had come back to pick him up?


    Yes, yes, that¡¯s right, he was the Pope, God¡¯s representative on earth. After being called by the Lord, he would surely join the ranks of the angels. It was not strange for him to come to the mortal world to guide the souls of the dying...


    Young Tondolo watched in horror as his father, the dying Cardinal Tondolo, suddenly burst into tears. From somewhere, the cardinal found the strength to raise his trembling hands towards the young Pope, his chest heaving as if in supplication.


    ¡°Delacroix... Derek! Derek! Please ¨C Oh God, I¡¯m so sorry you had to come...¡±


    ¡°¡ªBeware of Portia!¡±


    Rafael was startled and instinctively tried to listen, but the man on the bed had already fallen silent.


    Young Tondolo, who was guarding the door, went in, and within moments, the room was filled with sorrowful cries.


    ¡°Fa


    Rafael stood at the door, his mind racing with thoughts, but in the end they all turned into Cardinal Tondolo¡¯s cry before his death.


    Beware of Portia4.


    Who was he talking to?


    Was it himself, or the Delacroix he imagined?


    Why should he be careful of Portia? Was it someone with the last name Portia, or was it a metaphor for something else?


    Delacroix came from the Portia family, and Portia was his strongest supporter. There should be no disagreement between the two.


    Or perhaps these words were meant for him?


    In his previous life, he hadn¡¯t visited Tondolo, so he had never heard these words. If he had, perhaps...


    Perhaps what? Rafael smiled self-deprecatingly. He wasn¡¯t the type to be suspicious over just a few words, but¡ª


    He had never felt so deeply that he was surrounded by so much fog.


    Portia, Tondolo, Delacroix...


    There seemed to be many intertwined secrets in the past that he could not reach.


    The servants began to prepare for the funeral in an orderly manner. As a cardinal, Tondolo¡¯s funeral could be held in the Angel Hall of the Holy Cross Cathedral, and the Pope could be invited to preside over the funeral. Rafael would naturally not refuse this invitation, but that was a matter for a few days later. The Palazzo Riccardi was in chaos due to the death of its master. Rafael was politely sent out by Tondolo to the carriage back to the Papal Palace, waiting for the messenger from the Palazzo Riccardi to officially deliver the obituary.


    As soon as he returned to the Papal Palace, the deacon guarding the door came to report that Julius Portia, the Duke of Rhine, had been waiting in the Papal Palace for a long time.


    Rafael, pressing down on his right knee which was aching more and more severely, stood up with the help of a deacon. Hearing the name ¡°Portia¡± again at this moment, he was almost sick of it.


    ¡°Please ask him to leave,¡± the young Pope said expressionlessly, for the first time turning his mentor away. ¡°It¡¯s very late. His Grace the Duke needs to go back and rest. Anything else can wait till tomorrow.¡±


    The handsome young man in a platinum robe said this and walked straight in. The Pope¡¯s carriage had drove straight into the Papal Palace. The head of the Portia family, standing behind the Roman column, heard the whole conversation and the smile on his face gradually faded.


    Author¡¯s Note


    The uncle calling his nephew ¡®Holy Father¡¯, the subtle feeling brought by the age difference and the reversed status difference....I really like this kind of strangeness.


    The surname Portia/Boeotia comes from the city-state of Thebes, which is equally famous alongside Athens and Sparta. Thebes is located in the Boeotia region so I used it as a name. It sounds very similar to the famous Borgia5 family, but my inspiration for designing this setting is the Medici6 family....But there could be similarities later....


    Translator¡¯s Note


    1 Frankincense ¨C Frankincense, also known as olibanum, is an aromatic resin used in incense and perfumes, originating from Africa, India, and the Middle East. The word is from Old French franc encens (¡®high-quality incense¡¯) and is commonly used in church services.


    2 Papal tiara ¨C A crown that is worn by popes of the Catholic Church from as early as the 8th century to the mid¨C20th century. It was last used by Pope Paul VI in 1963.


    3 Papal Conclave ¨C a gathering of the College of Cardinals convened to elect a bishop of Rome, also known as the pope. Catholics consider the pope to be the apostolic successor of Saint Peter and the earthly head of the Catholic Church.


    4 Portia ¨C Originally, the author was referencing Boeotia, one of the regional units of Greece since before the 6th century BC. It is part of the region of Central Greece. Its capital is Livadeia, and its largest city is Thebes. I decided to continue using Portia for the family name for easier translations.


    5 House of Borgia ¨C a Spanish noble family, which rose to prominence during the Italian Renaissance. The Borgias became prominent in ecclesiastical and political affairs in the 15th and 16th centuries, producing two popes, the most infamous being Rodrigo Borgia/Pope Alexander VI.


    6 House of Medici ¨C was an Italian banking family and political dynasty that founded the Medici Bank. This bank was the largest in Europe during the 15th century, facilitating the Medicis¡¯ rise to political power in Florence and made the Medici family the wealthiest in Europe for a time.


    PREVIOUS

 Chapter 6: Old Injuries

    Cardinal Tondolo¡¯s funeral was held with solemn simplicity. In accordance with his will, his estates, castles, and other fixed assets were inherited by his eldest son, young Tondolo. Half of his 9,800 gold florins went to his eldest son, and the other half was divided equally among his remaining children. For this, they also paid the Pope a ¡°notarization fee¡± of 11,000 gold florins.


    The Pope¡¯s income came from many sources. The main income was naturally the annual tithes and taxes from dioceses in various countries and the revenue from churches. Other sources included the regular position-retention fees paid by the clergy to Florence, the numerous taxes levied by Florence, and the fact that if a cleric died without a will, all their property would be confiscated by the Papal treasury.


    However, just before his death, Pope Leo VI had gifted all the cash in the papal treasury to his relatives and children, leaving Rafael with a nearly bankrupt papal palace. The 11,000 gold florins in income only barely covered the shortfall from the papal coronation ceremony, leaving countless gaps in the funding for the Florence city guard, the papal guard, the salaries of the papal palace servants, and so on.


    A pile of parchment scrolls covered the oak desk. A luxurious, long-haired carpet covered the entire room. Servants entered silently, turned a few valves, and the hissing of air passed through pipes buried in the ground and walls. The wicks in the glass covers suddenly lit up, and dozens of wall lamps emitted orange light one after another. Through the refraction of the gems on the lampshades, the study was enveloped in a dazzling glow.


    The Pope, sitting behind the desk, held a beauty more dazzling than the light. He had taken off the gorgeous robes he wore when presiding over the funeral during the day, and was only wearing a simple white robe, with an ermine blanket draped over his knees. He held a quill in his left hand, and his right hand was pressed under the blanket, his brows slightly furrowed.


    His recently washed long, golden hair was still damp, bound by a gold ring at the back of his head. The dampness had soaked through the thin clothing on his shoulders, but Rafael didn¡¯t notice. He gripped his quill and signed the parchment.


    At the beginning of his reign, there were holes everywhere that needed to be filled. Pope Leo VI had been very thorough, having distributed all of the Pope¡¯s disposable assets to his relatives in various ways.


    In fact, this was not surprising.


    Most popes would do everything they could to enrich themselves, creating new taxes or establishing new dioceses and appointing new bishops, all of which were good ways to make money. Of course, they wouldn¡¯t kindly give this money to their successors. Before being called by the Lord, every pope would plunder the papal treasury clean.


    Rafael had no comment on this. He was very clear about the virtues of Leo VI. This man, who was elevated to the papal throne during a period of chaos in order to balance various factions, was old and chronically ill. He was greedy, mediocre, and no one could expect him to do anything earth-shattering. He was merely a figurehead, and it was only natural for him to line his own pockets before he died.


    In his previous life, Leo VI had also left him an empty, bare treasury. Apart from the holy relics and jewels that couldn¡¯t be sold, Leo VI had practically looted the Papal Palace. His only legacy was a pile of bills signed by the Pope.


    But to be honest, despite being burdened with such a heavy debt as soon as he took office, Rafael had never truly worried about money. These debts were soon offset by his secretary general, and soon the Papal Palace returned to a life of wealth and luxury.


    His secretary general...Julius Portia.


    Rafael¡¯s pen hovered over the parchment, a drop of ink clinging to the tip, about to fall.


    His gaze involuntarily turned to the drawer beside him. At the very top of the drawer was an appointment letter, appointing Julius Portia as the Secretary of State1 of the Papal Palace during the reign of Pope Sistine I.


    The signature line below was blank. He had drafted this appointment letter on the night before his coronation, before his rebirth. As for the signature... When he wrote this appointment letter, he had already decided that as soon as he was crowned, he would sign it immediately, expressing his gratitude to his mentor in the capacity of Pope Sistine I. However...


    Rafael fell into deep thought.


    There was no denying that Julius was an exemplary Secretary of State. In fact, he was the perfect secretary. Under Julius¡¯s management, Florence flourished. Rafael didn¡¯t need to worry about anything; Julius could always solve any problem in the most appropriate way. Rafael was free to do whatever what he liked according to his own wishes.


    No one could refuse Julius.


    Even if he had a second chance, Rafael didn¡¯t think anyone could replace Julius at his side.


    But he still hesitated.


    The Papal States2 encompassed fourteen cities. After centuries of rise and fall, the only city that the Pope could firmly control was Florence, where the Papal Palace was located. The other thirteen cities had their own lords and families. The Portias, who had made their fortune in banking, were lords of the Rhine. Through the Portia Bank, they controlled the cash flow of half the continent. The florin, the currency of the Papal States, was issued by the Portia Bank. This monopoly made the Portias the leader of the thirteen lords.


    This also made them a major concern for successive popes.


    Every ambitious Pope wants a complete Papal State that belonged solely to the Pope, but no matter how much the thirteen lords fought among themselves in private, they always showed a surprising unity when facing the Pope.


    He had never cared about this before. Julius was a skilled diplomat who handled the relationship between the Pope and the lords very harmoniously, so they had always coexisted peacefully. R?¦Á?


    But perhaps... this kind of peaceful coexistence was merely his wishful thinking?


    The young Pope lowered his eyelids, his lavender eyes fixed gloomily on the parchment. His death was a mystery, and after careful consideration, he discovered that it seemed as if there were enemies everywhere around him.


    The guards swallowed up all the salary, medicine and food that he was entitled to. Julius, bearing the surname ¡®Portia¡¯, couldn¡¯t visit him openly, so he could only sneak up through the side gate of the castle after sunset.


    The guard was sleeping soundly with a bottle of wine in his arms. Rafael leaned against the wind-eroded wall, watching the noble Portia Patriarch climbing the wall clumsily. He was worried but couldn¡¯t help but laugh.


    Thinking about it this way, even though life was difficult and he only had water and hard bread every day, that was actually the happiest time of his life.


    Julius said he was taking care of him at the request of Vitalian III. These cousins had a significant age gap, but their relationship was unexpectedly good. Taking care of his deceased cousin¡¯s orphan was just a piece of cake for him.


    But Rafael never thought about why Julius had to come in person every time for such a simple matter that could be entrusted to the servants.


    In the desolate and dilapidated castle, countless nights, the Portia Patriarch would sit cross-legged on the ground, using the dim candlelight in the room to patiently massage his legs that were chilled by the night wind. They talked about astronomy and geography, about the situation in Florence, about the struggles between Rome and Calais, about the starry poems, and even about a bird that happened to pass by during the day.


    It was strange, because that period should have been the loneliest time for him.


    But he had never felt lonely.


    He only felt immense joy, far greater than he had ever felt while vying for power beside his father or living in the opulent palace of Florence.


    He never believed that Julius¡¯s feelings for him were insincere. For four whole years, how could a person be so deceitful and consistently visit him, a prisoner with a bleak future? It was precisely because of this long companionship that he would trust Julius so much in the years that followed, and even though the Portia family was ambitious, he never had the slightest suspicion of Julius.


    He was his companion, mentor, and guide, his savior, the only glimmer of light in his dark sky.


    Yet, thinking back to that time now, even though only six years have passed in his memory, it seemed like a lifetime ago.


    Julius didn¡¯t know what he was thinking. The skin under his palm gradually warmed up, and he finally spoke, ¡°You¡¯ve been standing for so long during the day. Why didn¡¯t you find a servant to massage you? If you¡¯re worried, I can have the doctor come to you.¡±


    Rafael didn¡¯t respond, lost in thought for a while, until Julius helplessly looked up at him, ¡°Why are you so lost in thought again?¡±


    Rafael gazed into those familiar deep purple eyes. An impulse surged in his heart, urging him to ask sharp questions about that silent and bloody night, but he controlled himself. The current Julius knew nothing about it, and this was just his guess after all.


    Julius keenly sensed Rafael¡¯s hesitation and said gently, ¡°What do you want to ask?¡±


    The tone was all too familiar. Under countless dim lights, they had talked about everything, and Julius had never been impatient with Rafael¡¯s endless questions. Even the most naive and straightforward questions, he would encourage Rafael to ask and was willing to give a proper answer.


    So much so that when Rafael heard this familiar question, he couldn¡¯t help himself.


    Slowly, word by word, with the blood surging in his veins and the icy wind whistling in his memory, he asked on behalf of that lonely soul with no one to rescue him.


    ¡°Under what circumstances would you kill me?¡±


    Julius¡¯s hand paused, and a tense atmosphere spread between them.


    Translator¡¯s Note


    1 Secretary of State ¨C The Secretary of State of His Holiness presides over the Holy See¡¯s Secretariat of State, which is the oldest and most important dicastery/ department of the Roman Curia (the central government of the Roman Catholic Church). The Secretariat of State performs all the political and diplomatic functions of the Holy See and the Vatican City State. The Secretary is the chief adminstator of various dicasteries in the Roman Curia. The position is sometimes described as the prime minister of the Holy See.


    In the translations, I¡¯ll mainly refer to the position as Secretary General since its easier to translate, but the term can be used interchangeably.


    2 Papal States ¨C The Papal States were a conglomeration of territories on the Italian Peninsula under the direct sovereign rule of the Pope from 756 to 1870. They were among the major states of Italy from the 8th century until the Unification of Italy , which took place between 1859 and 1870, and culminated in their demise.


    Previous

 Chapter 7: Meeting in the Library

    Julius withdrew his hand, pulling down Rafael¡¯s robe to cover his legs. He placed a warm leather waterbag on his knees and finally covered him with the silver ermine blanket.


    Rafael watched him slowly turn down his rolled-up sleeves and smooth out the wrinkles on his clothes. When he was done, the Portia Patriarch picked up the cane that was leaning against the table.


    ¡°Empty assumptions are meaningless fantasies.¡± Julius did not make any definitive denials or promises, but said matter-of-factly, ¡°What kind of answer do you want from me? That I will never betray you? That I will always be loyal to you?¡±


    He suddenly smiled, and his tone became softer than ever before.


    ¡°Rafa, you are my student. I taught you politics, history, literature, how to seize the greatest benefits in a struggle... and I also taught you to trust no one.¡±


    Julius looked at the young Pope with a complicated expression, and his voice was as soft as a feather brushing past: ¡°Have you forgotten?¡±


    Such a cold yet realistic warning was almost equivalent to declaring that he was not entirely loyal to Rafael, but this answer, paradoxically, made Rafael feel much more relaxed.


    When someone truly wanted to betray, they wouldn¡¯t be so blatant. Julius would certainly use sweet words to seduce his prey. This lord, who had grown up in the intricate intrigues of a great family, had a habit of resorting to any means necessary. Because of this, Rafael was certain that, at least for now, Julius had no intention of harming him.


    To people like them, a hurtful truth was far more beautiful than a moving lie.


    Julius didn¡¯t leave. Leaning against the edge of the oak table, he caught sight of the parchment under Rafael¡¯s hand.


    It was a funding approval request initiated by the Florence City Guard, asking the Pope to settle the unpaid salaries dating back to the reign of Pope Leo VI, totaling 1,260 gold florins.


    This amount was a mere drop in the bucket for the Papacy, but this application shouldn¡¯t have appeared here.


    The Florence City Guard was directly under the jurisdiction of the Gonfaloniere of Justice1 and was responsible for the security of the entire city. Their salaries were paid by the Florence Administrative Office. The Pope actually ruled over the entire Papal States and Florence, but nominally, he could only be the leader of faith and religion. These secular matters were handled by the Administrative Office and should not have been presented to the Pope at all.


    It was like the minister of spiritual and cultural affairs suddenly receiving an application from a clerk in the finance department. Not only did he find the wrong superior, he had also crossed several levels of authority.


    Julius knew the Captain of the Florence City Guard. He was the son of a minor noble family. He had invested a great deal of money and effort to obtain this lucrative position. Similarly, he was also a smooth and flexible person, otherwise he would not have been able to stay in this position that was easy to offend people for several years.


    Such a person would never make such a low-level mistake.


    Since it wasn¡¯t a mistake, it must have been intentional.


    They were testing the new pope.


    Julius thought for a moment and realized which families might be behind this. His eyes darkened slightly.


    ¡°They¡¯re targeting Portia,¡± Julius took the parchment from Rafael¡¯s and read it from beginning to end. ¡°I will handle this matter. The Portia Bank will send 50,000 gold florins to the Papal Palace. You can use this money as you see fit. Afterwards, the bills from the Papal Palace will be sent to the Rhine Palace¨C¡°


    The Duke of Rhine paused, took off the signet ring from his right thumb and placed it on the table, bent his knuckles and pushed it towards Rafael: ¡°If I¡¯m not around, you can use this to sign the bill at Portia Bank first.¡±


    Rafael lowered his eyes to look at the ring. The bronze ring surface was adorned with intricate patterns, a variation of the Portia¡¯s sword and staff emblem. At the top was a crown shaped by water droplets ¨C symbolizing that the bearer of this ring was the head of the Portia family. Countless people would have fought for this ring, but now it was casually placed in front of him.


    ¡ª¡ªA scene similar to his previous life.


    In his previous life, the salary approval application for the Florence City Guard had also been placed on his desk. He had trusted Julius immensely at that time, so he had asked Julius about the relevant matters. The patriarch of Portia had said exactly the same thing, taking full responsibility for solving all his problems and promising to bear all the future expenses of the Papal Palace.No?v(el)B\\jnn


    He wasn¡¯t lying. After Rafael handed over the financial authority of the Papal Palace to him, the Secretary General of the Papal Office solved all his problems perfectly. Rafael never worried about money, and similar malicious probes never appeared in front of him again.


    There was only one difference: Julius in his previous life had never taken off his ring and given it to him.


    The things behind this ring were enough to make anyone covetous. The Portia Bank, which spanned half a continent and controlled the economic lifelines of several countries, only recognized this signet ring. Members of the Portia family were willing to give up everything they had to obtain this ring, yet the true owner handed it over to another person so lightly.


    The process was almost casual.


    The Papal Guard belonged only to the Pope himself and existed solely to protect the Pope. They were only loyal to the position of ¡®Pope¡¯ rather than the Pope himself. Every captain of the Papal Guard had to be personally appointed by the Pope himself and swear allegiance to the Pope, even if it was just a formality.


    The name of the captain of the Papal Guard had been written on the document in sharp, slender letters: Bonn Tillet. In his previous life, he had also served as the captain of Rafael¡¯s Papal Guard. He could be considered loyal and dutiful. During the time he guarded the Pope, there had never been any incidents in the Papal Palace.


    A man who could be trusted, if Rafael hadn¡¯t died so quietly.


    The Pope had been murdered, and there was no guard on duty outside the door. Whether he truly didn¡¯t know or was involved, Bonn Tillet could no longer be trusted.


    Rafael crossed out Bonn Tillet¡¯s name without any hesitation.


    But who to appoint...


    Rafael suddenly realized that he couldn¡¯t think of a person worthy of entrusting his life to.


    He chuckled self-deprecatingly and threw down his quill. There was no need to rush. Rather than hastily selecting a new captain, it would be better to simply choose a new batch of members from various churches to join the Papal Guard. At least, he could ensure that some people would be loyal to him.


    The next day, the financial officer from the Bank of Portia arrived with a thick stack of documents. A total of 50,000 gold florins were transported by carriage into the Papal Palace¡¯s treasury, temporarily alleviating Rafael¡¯s financial difficulties. However, this was only temporary; with so many expenses for the Pope, money never stayed for long.


    The Papal Palace was once again filled with luxurious decorations. Servants and priests moved silently to and fro. Unlike the courts of secular monarchs, there were rarely any brightly dressed women to be seen here. People primarily dressed in black monastic robes, holding short wooden plaques adorned with thorn motifs, as they came and went. Occasionally, there would be bishops in purple robes and cardinals in red, but as for white and gold... that signified that the master of this palace had rarely come out.


    Of course, nuns would also come in and out. They followed the church rules, wearing solemn black clothes and triangular hats connected to long white head coverings, serving as ¡°exemplars of pure women¡± in the Holy Father¡¯s residence.


    So, when a bright and lively sapphire blue appeared in this uniform sea of black and white, even the most ascetic monks couldn¡¯t help but turn their gaze towards it.


    Princess Sancha, under the guidance of a nun, was touring the artworks in the Papal Palace gallery. These magnificent oil paintings were priceless treasures of the Church, and even Sancha, who was accustomed to fine things, couldn¡¯t help but stop and admire them.


    ¡°The Holy Father is waiting for you in the library.¡± Another deacon approached Sancha and whispered softly.


    Princess Sancha turned around, reluctantly tearing her gaze away from the painting ¡°Raphael Before the Flood¡±, nodded politely, and then, under the guidance of the nun, took a detour, passing through the garden, the sun room, the reliquary, and the fountain, before arriving at a separate two-story building.


    Although it was called a ¡°Library¡±, it was more than just one room. The Holy See¡¯s collection of books was enormous, dating back to stone tablets with carved letters when writing was just invented. The Papal Palace library houses the cre?me de la cre?me of the Holy See¡¯s collection of books for the Pope to read in his spare time.


    This ¡°library¡± was two stories high. Instead of the conventional rectangular bookshelves lining the walls, the shelves here were arranged in a unique spiral shape that rose from the center of the building, creating a dense, towering helix of books reaching all the way to the dome. A staircase winds its way alongside the bookshelves, allowing easy access to any book.


    The surrounding walls were predominantly made of glass, ensuring optimal natural light at all times. Outside, a fountain was gently burbling, creating a serene atmosphere, which was enough to make people imagine how pleasant it would be to read here.


    Several nuns were adjusting the flower arrangements in the marble vases. Freshly picked lilacs, lavender, and wormwood leaves still glistened with dew. A monk walked around the room, carrying a censer to ward off insects. The library placed a great emphasis on pest control and moisture prevention, which meant that most incense could not be used here. Some poorly tanned animal skins emitted an unpleasant odor, so they had to rely on this method to mask the smell.


    Upon seeing the visitor, the monks and nuns quickly finished their tasks and bowed to Princess Sancha before exiting the library one by one. The nun who had accompanied Sancha returned with a tray containing gloves, a magnifying glass, a page turner, and a copper bell for summoning servants. She placed the tray on a nearby wooden table and bowed before leaving.


    Only the faint scent of incense remained in the library, accompanied by the sound of the fountain from outside. Princess Sancha curiously walked around the magnificent, towering bookshelf for a while until a young man¡¯s voice called out from a distance, ¡°Good day, Your Highness. You can read the books here at will.¡±


    Sancha followed the sound and found the young Pope sitting on the stairs near the dome, his elbows resting on the stained glass window, his feet dangling in the air. Below him was a void seven or eight meters high. If he were to fall, the consequences would be disastrous.


    But the young Pope seemed completely unconcerned about his safety. He was not wearing the ornate robes Sancha had seen on him on the day of his coronation. A simple white robe with gold edging trailed down the stairs, its hem like drooping wings, fluttering in the wind at his feet. His long golden hair cascaded down his back, and the sunlight filtering through the window cast a fragrant halo around his profile. His beauty was almost unreal, like an elf who had stepped out of a forest painting.


    Sancha¡¯s heart skipped a beat.


    Oh, great Queen Amandra of Assyria... it seems that she¡¯s truly fallen in love. Should we have the Assyrian cavalry attack the Papal States now and snatch the Pope away?


    Translator¡¯s Note


    1 Gonfaloniere of Justice ¨C In Florence the gonfaloniers originated during the 1250s as commanders of the people¡¯s militia. In the 1280s a new office called the gonfalonier of justice was instituted to protect the interests of the people against the dominant magnate class. The holder of this office subsequently became the most prominent member of the Signoria (supreme executive council of Florence) and formal head of the civil administration.

 Chapter 8: Letter

    Sancha believed that the newly appointed Pope of Florence was one of the most interesting people she had ever met.


    This assessment couldn¡¯t be easily categorized as positive or negative; it simply indicated her curiosity about him.


    As the product of a Roman and Assyrian royal marriage, Sancha¡¯s life was more complex than that of an ordinary princess. After the divided Assyria moved towards unification and her mother was confirmed as the sole queen of Assyria, Sancha¡¯s status changed from a simple princess to a more prominent Assyrian Archduchess.


    As both a Roman princess and the first heir of Assyria, Sancha, though only nineteen years old, had already stood at the pinnacle of the world.No?v(el)B\\jnn


    With the crown adorned with flowers and jewels came an overwhelming tide of scrutiny and prying eyes. A barrage of words, both kind and cruel, true and false, flooded her, making it difficult to discern right from wrong. Sancha learned to face and master these difficulties, just as her mother had...


    But it was incredibly difficult. Everything around her seemed so unreal and the people around her also became strange. The tasks she had to perform were so daunting that she felt fear and despair.


    That was why she had eagerly accepted this mission to Florence. She wanted to escape from that suffocating atmosphere.


    After hearing her daughter muster up the courage to ask to go to Florence, the Queen of Assyria was silent for a moment.


    Sancha was surprised at how clearly she could recall that day.


    It was an afternoon when roses were in full bloom. The meticulously cultivated roses in the Roman palace were blooming in profusion, exuding a rich fragrance. The queen, who was still in her prime despite being past forty¡ªand also the regent of Rome¡ªsat in her study. Her golden-brown hair was coiled up in a diamond-studded crown, her deep blue eyes were captivating, and her full red lips were moist and luscious. A scar ran beneath her right eye. Unlike the pale and slender beauty that the Roman court favored, this queen from Assyria had wheat-colored skin and an untamed arrogance that radiated from her entire being. She was like a wild leopard from the savannah, her beauty so striking that it was almost overwhelming.


    Decades of life in the Roman court had worn away the wild edges of the Assyrian queen. She calmly set down her quill and looked at her daughter, who stood nervously before her. A flicker of expression crossed her eyes.


    ¡°Florence?¡± Queen Amandra asked softly, ¡°Why do you want to go there, my dear child?¡±


    Sancha lowered her head, her fingers unconsciously rubbing against the large gem on the hem of her skirt. Unlike her usual Romanesque gown with its large skirt, corset, wide collar, and ruffled sleeves, she was dressed very ¡°Assyrian¡± today. She wore a long dress made of a whole piece of silk, tied at the waist with a gem-studded belt, and a thin, flowing shawl draped from her shoulder to the ground, with gold powder sparkling as she walked.


    Her mother had long yearned for her homeland. Since becoming regent, Amandra had rarely confined herself to heavy, ornate Romanesque court gowns. Scarlet, royal blue, olive green, lemon yellow... all sorts of brilliant and rich colors became popular throughout the court with the influx of Assyrian silk. Amandra had also replaced the Romans¡¯ customary wine with the Assyrian melada, a morning drink, and so on.


    The queen¡¯s behavior certainly aroused dissatisfaction among many nobles, but due to Amandra¡¯s authority, they could only complain privately. Sancha had heard such complaints many times.


    Of course, Amandra was not completely unaware of this, but she arrogantly ignored all the discontent.


    ¡°I heard that the envoy to Calais is Duke Franc?ois. Shouldn¡¯t we send someone of a similar status in return? Otherwise, Florence might be dissatisfied with the Roman empire,¡± Sancha said softly.


    ¡°Assyria,¡± Amandra stared at her daughter, her ears adorned with two large, full tortoiseshell cat¡¯s eye earrings that reflected a brilliant light as the queen moved, ¡°You forgot to say Assyria.¡±


    Yes, with the highest rulers of the two countries currently being the same person, Assyria and Rome were essentially one.


    ¡°...Today I accepted the Pope¡¯s invitation and met him in the Papal Palace library. Sistine I possesses a charm far beyond ordinary people. Did the Minister of Foreign Affairs tell you what he was like? I find him very interesting, no... not that kind of interesting, but... I don¡¯t know how to say it, Mother. I¡¯ve never felt this way before. When he looks at me, my heart beats faster involuntarily. I want to get closer to him, I want to give him a hug. Is this what liking someone feels like? I don¡¯t know, it¡¯s very strange.¡±


    ¡°Have you ever had this feeling, too? With father? Ah, I seem to have strayed off topic, so let¡¯s get back to the topic. Sistine I loves to read. He gave me several books about Assyria, which I found very interesting. You might like them too, so I¡¯ve had someone send them back to Rome along with the gifts ¨C could you let me know if you¡¯ve read them? We didn¡¯t discuss many topics, but Rafael hinted that he would welcome the friendship of Rome and Assyria. I don¡¯t know why, but I feel that he doesn¡¯t like the visiting Duke Francois very much. That¡¯s normal, I don¡¯t like him either. Just as you said, the Duke is pretentious and ambitious. It¡¯s hard to say how much longer the Emperor of Calais can tolerate him.¡±


    At this point, Sancha paused to think for a moment. She wasn¡¯t quite sure how to explain her perception of Rafael. It was a subtle feeling, and she was certain that Rafael had buried his aversion deep down, but she could sense that underlying discontent beneath the young Pope¡¯s calm demeanor.


    A woman¡¯s sixth sense was truly mysterious, granting them an advantage in countless situations.


    And those confessions... Sancha pouted childishly. Words seemed to make it easier for people to reveal their true feelings. After all, she was still attached to her mother. Was there anything wrong with a daughter sharing little secrets with her mother?


    ¡°I¡¯ve noticed that Rafael¡¯s situation might not be very good right now. You know the Council of Thirteen in Florence, the alliance formed by the thirteen other cities of the Papal States. They¡¯re keeping a close eye on the new Pope, and as for the House of Portia... I don¡¯t quite understand why they seem to have distanced themselves from Rafael after supporting him. In any case, I think the Pope is in a bit of a predicament right now, but Rafael hasn¡¯t shown any signs of it. He seems very calm. I sincerely hope he can weather this storm¡ªwere all the previous Popes as miserable? Except for that greedy Leo VI, of course.¡±


    ¡°...Life here is pretty good, but being so far away from you makes me feel a little uneasy. I¡¯m already starting to miss you. If possible, I would love to get a hug from you.¡±


    ¡°Wishing the great Queen of Assyria and Regent of Rome all the best,


    ¡°Your Sancha, in Florence.¡±


    Sancha wrote several sheets of parchment with great enthusiasm before finally putting down her pen, satisfied. She rolled up the parchment and stuffed it into a wooden tube, sealing the opening tightly with wax.


    Meanwhile, the master of the Papal Palace had not yet gone to sleep. After finishing his brief meeting with Princess Sancha earlier in the day, he continued to immerse himself in endless work. Documents from the Papal States and other territories arrived in a continuous stream. He replied to the letters of greeting and set them aside to be sent back, while he spread out the documents from the Thirteen Cities on the table, his expression gloomy.


    As the newly crowned Pope, the Thirteen Cities, as territories of the Papal States, should have immediately sworn allegiance and paid their annual tribute. The lords had indeed sworn allegiance to Florence and Sistine I in various ways, but the most important annual tribute...


    Apart from the 50,000 gold florins sent by the Portia family and the 30,000 gold florins offered as last year¡¯s tax, the money sent by the other twelve cities combined didn¡¯t even reach 100,000 florins. They came up with all sorts of excuses about being poor, enough to fill a book titled ¡°How to Default on Your Debts.¡± Of course, Rafael didn¡¯t believe any of those excuses.


    But he was helpless at the moment.


    He had no one under his command. The Papal Guard was a disorganized mess, and he didn¡¯t have direct control over Florence¡¯s city guard. No one was completely loyal to him.


    Sancha¡¯s perception was right. After refusing Julius¡¯s protection, Rafael was now struggling.


    The young Pope¡¯s expression was heavy. After a long pause, he suddenly flashed a cold smile.


    ¡°Let¡¯s see who will have the last laugh.¡±

 Chapter 9: Ferrante

    As the heart of the Holy Faith, Florence has a large number of churches. Excluding the Great Prayer Hall, the Holy Thorn Cathedral and the White Crown Chapel which are exclusively used by the Pope, there are countless other churches of varying sizes and purposes. Some are as large as the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn, occupying half of Miracle Square, while others are as small as half a house. These churches were densely scattered like stars across Florence, welcoming countless believers.


    Like any other city in the world, Florence has a chaotic lower city. The poor live here like ants and every inch of land has already been divided. Those who couldn¡¯t rely on farming for income and couldn¡¯t find enough work can only resort to thievery and fraud. Therefore, prostitution runs rampant throughout the city, with at least two out of every ten women either currently involved or having been involved in the industry.


    Rafael had once tried hard to change this situation. He demanded that Florence provide certain jobs for women, that every registered business must hire a female employee who is not a family member, and that it was allowed to employ girls under the age of seven to provide laundry services¡ªthis greatly reduced the occurrence of child prostitution, as the original doctrine held that children were incapable of working and that employing children was a cruel act.


    ¡ª¡ª The previous policy of not ¡®hiring¡¯ child labor didn¡¯t mean merchants would stop using child labor; they simply used this as an excuse to pay child laborers extremely low wages.


    Raphael felt that he had done a good job, but the adult men whose jobs had been taken away were dissatisfied. However, since he died soon after, he didn¡¯t hear how they cursed him.


    Despite being the City of Cities and the land where gods have trodden, Florence¡¯s slums was not so ¡°pure¡±. Sewage flowed everywhere, garbage was littered all over the place, animal feces was everywhere, and the stench was overwhelming. As soon as it rained, the streets would be covered in muddy yellow water. Beggars ran barefoot through the streets, and all passersby avoided them cautiously.


    All the children who lived here belonged to a certain faction and followed criminal gangs in stealing, robbing, or defrauding. What they specifically did depended on what their leader did.


    However unlike the slums in other cities, the people living in the slums of Florence were more devout. They had grown up listening to hymns of the Lord and instinctively regarded their life¡¯s hardships and disappointments as tests from the Lord. They struggled, hoped, and walk towards death in their piety day after day.


    The churches in the lower town certainly wouldn¡¯t be very ornate. This Holy Grail Church stood on the main road leading up to the upper city. It was a complete building with side wings and a small courtyard. Although it was small in size, it had everything: a chapel, a small library, and a prayer room.


    Ferrante woke up feeling groggy. His head still ached. The blanket was too thin, and it had rained last night. Coupled with the heavy work, he had developed a fever since early morning. Fortunately, as a young man, he had a good physique, and he felt that he could get through it.


    He was awakened by the shrill ringing of a bell.


    A rusty copper bell hung outside the children¡¯s dormitory. Every morning, when the rooster crowed for the first time, the monk in charge of them would come and ring this bell.


    In the gloomy, cold room, countless rustling sounds could be heard. Sleep-deprived and tired children lifted their ragged blankets and got out of bed, put on their robes, and lined up in an open space. Ferrante consciously stood at the very end.


    The children¡¯s clothes were very loose, made of poor-quality linen, dyed unevenly black, and were long robes with no tailoring at all. They hung straight from the neck to the knees, and when they walked, they looked like little crows flapping their wings.


    Among the twenty-odd children, the youngest was only five years old and the oldest is fifteen-year-old Ferrante. They have different hair and eye colors, but they had one thing in common, that is, they all have decent looks and delicate features, and some of them can even be seen to have a good foundation.


    They stood in a disorderly line, and not a single child made a sound from beginning to end. After they had lined up, the door to the dormitory was pushed open, and a tall, thin priest in a black cassock walked in. His emotionless eyes scanned the room, counted the number of children, and then pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his sleeve. He began to call out names: ¡°Quinn, Seth, go find ¡®Little Foot Charlie¡¯, they¡¯re short two sheep today; Mary, Jane, Jenny, it¡¯s the same as yesterday, someone will come for you, be good, I don¡¯t want to receive any complaints from the guests... Those twelve and older, follow me.¡±


    He stuffed the paper back into his sleeve and without a glance at the children, walked away on his own.


    There were only four children over twelve years old. Ferrante and the other three followed silently, glancing at the children who had been assigned tasks. Their faces were pale and numb, like plaster masks in the dim room.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to go... I don¡¯t want to go...¡± Mary, a girl of only nine, whispered. She had a pair of beautiful blue eyes, as innocent and pure as an angel in a mural. She cried softly. The other two girls who had been named stood expressionless beside her, as if they had long since lost the strength to comfort their companion.


    The priest left, and the three children stood there, looking at each other for a moment before slowly walking away, their heads bowed. Ferrante, who had remained motionless, finally looked up. He pulled his senses out of the fog of drowsiness and watched as the black hem of the priest¡¯s robe, like a rolling black wave, touched the ground and disappeared around the corner of the corridor.


    The Holy Father?


    Ferrante repeated the word in his mind.


    He thought of the carriage that passed by here when the Pope was crowned a few days ago. He had never seen such a magnificent and dazzling carriage in his entire life. The carriage, inlaid with pearls, gold and gems seemed to have descended from heaven. Although the carriage had only toured around the outskirts of the lower city, Ferrante had squeezed into the best viewing position early on.


    Then he saw the person sitting in the carriage, the new Pope, Sistine I, who wore a magnificent crown. The man was so beautiful that he couldn¡¯t help but hold his breath. The Holy Father looked very similar to the oil painting on the wall, pure white, bright, and holy, so clean that he seemed to be glowing. Ferrante stared at him obsessively and felt that all the words in the scriptures proclaiming the greatness of God¡¯s light suddenly had a subject.


    ¡ª¡ªGod came to earth to cleanse the sins of the mortal world. He said to the people, ¡®Give me all your sins, I will bear them, and so you can ascend.¡¯


    ¡ª¡ªSo people gave their sins and filth to Him, and God¡¯s snow-white wings darkened. He then gave birth to Saint Leah, who bore the evil thoughts of the world. The people lifted up the saint and cheered for His birth.


    Ferrante stared at the person in the carriage through the countless cheering crowd. They were cheering the birth of the new Pope, just as they had cheered the birth of the saint a thousand years ago.


    If it were him... would he be the one who would bear the evil and save the fallen from sin? Would he, as he said, become a savior, a protector, a person who would always reach out to them?


    Could he be... the holy saint he had been waiting for?


    Ferrante licked his sharp canine teeth, and a hint of anticipation flashed in his deep blue eyes. As long as he seized this opportunity, he could leave this place and get closer to that person.


    He looked around, walking to the angel statue. There was a pool of dirty water nearby. Ferrante didn¡¯t mind. He squatted down, cupped his hands, and splashed the water on his face, rubbing vigorously until his skin turned red. He wiped away the water droplets with his sleeve and pushed back his wet, tangled black hair, fully revealing his delicate, almost feminine face.


    Like his prostitute mother, he had a face that was considered quite unfortunate in the slums. If he hadn¡¯t been thrown into the church...


    Ferrante curled his lip, as if things here were much better either.


    But years of struggle have left this young man with an extremely low moral bottom line and overly flexible means. He is unwilling to use this face to make money, as it wasn¡¯t a long-term solution. He might be dragged into an even worse, inescapable situation. Florence wasn¡¯t without male prostitutes, they were just hidden in darker places. Ferrante had seen them and was terrified of such a life.


    However, if you wanted to make a quick buck in a short period of time, this is the safest method besides killing someone.


    Anyway, as long as he gets the money, he could leave here and go to the Papal Palace... No one there will know what he had done, everyone is equal, and he can also meet the saint who saved him.


    A hint of genuine yearning appeared in Ferrante¡¯s eyes.No?v(el)B\\jnn

 Chapter 10: Alliance

    Half a month later, the churches in Florence began to submit their lists to the Papal Palace. After the secretaries and clerks compiled the lists, they eliminated those whose age and height did not meet the requirements and gave the remaining lists to Rafael for review.


    This job was originally supposed to be done by the Secretary General of the Papal Court, but Rafael had not yet announced his appointment of one. The cardinals had inquired about this matter overtly and covertly, and had even ¡°recommended¡± several people, but Rafael had suppressed them all.


    The Secretary General of the Holy See is the deputy of the Pope. As a symbol of religion, the Pope is pure, unique, and wholly devoted to the worship of God. He swears to reject all the temptations of worldly power and dedicates his body and mind to serving as God¡¯s spokesman, so he cannot hold any secular positions. Therefore, as his agent, the Secretary of State is almost equivalent to the highest executive officer of Florence.


    The position of Secretary General of the Holy See is enough to make everyone salivate, especially those nobles without clerical positions. Although the identity of the secular lord of Florence was not as supreme as that of the Pope, the power and wealth in his hands were real.


    But no matter how much they inquired, Sistine I, who had the sole power to appoint the Secretary General, refused to announce his decision. The cardinals didn¡¯t even know whether he hadn¡¯t found a suitable candidate or if he didn¡¯t want a Secretary General to act as his agent at all.


    If it were the former, that would be fine. But if it were the latter...


    Then they would have to reconsider the temperament of this new Pope.No?v(el)B\\jnn


    Cardinal Lombardy had privately cursed the Portia family countless times for this, including vicious insults against Rafael himself and his female relatives. Cardinal Lombardy¡¯s sons had long been accustomed to their father¡¯s rage. When the two brothers entered the Lombardy Palace with their riding whips, they heard their father¡¯s complaints coming from upstairs again, so they tacitly avoided the study to avoid being implicated.


    ¡°So what else did that Pope do to make Father so angry?¡± the younger brother asked casually.


    ¡°It must be the matter about the Secretary-General. You know, Father has always wanted you to take over this position, but the Pope seems to have his own ideas,¡± replied his brother.


    The younger brother showed a disdainful expression on his face: ¡°His own ideas! Ha! He was put into that position by Julius Portia. Did Portia allow him to have these cute little ideas?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right. I heard that in order to get him to that position, Julius gave at least 100,000 gold florins to each cardinal, not including various manors and real estates. As a result, as soon as he got that position, he immediately rebelled... Julius must have been furious. He had probably never met such an ungrateful white-eyed wolf in his life.¡±


    The two brothers couldn¡¯t help but laugh. Julius was their peer, but in the world of fame and fortune in Florence, he was someone even their father had to treat with caution. They enjoyed laughing at his mistakes, as if they were the ones who defeated him.


    Similar remarks were rampant in the Holy See. Everyone believed that the Pope and the Portia family had fallen out, and that this was an opportunity. Perhaps they could obtain more benefits from the young Pope who had no support. The matter regarding the Secretary-General was just a test, but no one expected that the seemingly young and inexperienced Pope turned out to be so unyielding, impervious to any persuasion.


    He seemed completely indifferent to flattery and unmoved by threats. Unlike his angelic and gentle appearance, this man was like a big stone, so hard that no one could do anything to him.


    Cardinal Lombardy was unaware that his two sons were whispering outside. After finishing his routine greetings to Rafael and Portia, he began to look at the documents sent up from below. On them, was a list of names and the churches they belonged to, including the Holy Grail Church in the lower town.


    The Papal Palace was selecting new guards, which was certainly a good opportunity to place their own people. The cardinals and nobles were all taking action. They each had several closely related churches, perhaps built or sponsored by them, or perhaps the priests there were their relatives or subordinates. In short, it was not difficult to select a certain number of qualified children from these churches.


    Cardinal Lombardy saw the name of the Holy Grail Church and his thick black eyebrows furrowed, but said nothing.


    ¡°Is that all?¡± Cardinal Lombardy had a square face, with rough eyebrows, and short, strong limbs, like a worker who had been working on the docks for a long time. His appearance was not only unrefined but also too rough. However, this appearance was indeed very popular with ordinary workers, which was an important reason why he was able to climb all the way from a small church on the verge of ruin to the position of cardinal.


    The steward stood beside him: ¡°Yes, my lord, only seventeen names were reported.¡±


    Lombardy frowned and pondered, ¡°Alright, that¡¯s fine. That pretty boy won¡¯t be able to keep all of them anyway. Other families will try to slip their own people in. Seventeen... hmph, that¡¯s about right. Is there anyone you¡¯re paying special attention to?¡±


    Assyria might soon be in trouble. Rafael stroked the papal ring on his thumb, recalling what happened in his previous life.


    Less than a year after his coronation, Assyria had rebelled again. This country, having long been accustomed to turmoil, could not maintain the united peace forcibly caused by Queen Amandra for a long time. What¡¯s more, there was Calais watching covetously from the sidelines and the Romans themselves also had many opinions about this foreign queen, so the Assyrian rebellion was long expected.


    As the Queen of Assyria, Amandra would lead her army back to her homeland and suppress the rebellion, before dying in battle. Shortly after, conflicts would erupt between the Calais Empire and Roman Empire.


    There was no need to elaborate on the subsequent turmoil. At that time, Rafael almost worked himself to an early grave in order to maintain the independence and stability of the Papal States among the major powers, as well as to protect the believers from being slaughtered in the war.


    However, his efforts were akin to a mantis trying to stop a chariot in the face of the wheel of time. Otherwise, he would not have received the ironic evaluation given to him in history books: ¡°Sistine I, a staunch adherent to outdated principles, was granted the final mercy of death before the dawn of a new era. It was the last grace of the Lord to him.¡±


    Now the Assyrian rebellion has not yet occurred, but there must have been signs. The queen was extremely intelligent and must have discovered something unusual. The alliance with the Papal States could only be considered a safety measure. As far as Rafael knew, Amandra seemed to be pushing for amendments to the Succession Law.


    Rome currently adopts the ¡°Sarik Succession Law¡±, prohibiting women from the rights to inherit the throne. Sancha is the only legitimate child of King Lav XI. Of course, Amandra would try her best to win the Roman crown for her daughter, but compared to a female heir, especially born from a foreign woman, the nobles were more afraid that Rome would eventually become part of Assyria. They firmly opposed Sancha¡¯s succession and demanded a male heir from the collateral royal bloodline.


    This was also why, even though it had been nearly three years since the death of King Lav XI, Rome still had no supreme ruler, and the queen served as regent instead.


    The tug of war between the two sides was covert and fierce. It seemed that the Roman nobles¡¯ tolerance for Amandra had reached its limit. They¡¯ve chosen to start from Assyria and drive this foreign queen back to her homeland.


    Amandra, on the other hand, has decided to bypass the legal provisions and seek religious support first. If even the Pope recognizes the legitimacy of Sancha, then the difficulties she faced would be greatly reduced.


    One of the main reasons why she was so eager to forge an alliance with Florence lied in this reason.


    Rafael watched Sancha, who was still oblivious to the impending storm, but ultimately decided not to say anything. While Sancha may still be young and naive, it didn¡¯t mean that she was foolish. She would soon figure out the deeper meaning behind this alliance.


    He was just pondering why Amandra hadn¡¯t sought an alliance with Florence in the previous life. He didn¡¯t believe that such a clever and decisive woman would give up such a good opportunity. What had changed to cause the two trajectories of fate to diverge?


    ¡°In the name of Assyria and Rome, we hereby sign a covenant. Assyria and Rome shall maintain eternal friendship with Florence under the leadership of Sistine I, without betrayal or suspicion, until time itself proves the end of this covenant.¡±


    Sancha extended her hand and grasped Rafael¡¯s wrist, and Rafael returned the grip.


    This ancient gesture of swearing an oath has a symbolic bloody meaning: those who betrayed the oath would have their wrist severed, paying for the betrayal of their allies with their own blood.


    ¡°In the name of God, we hereby sign a covenant. Florence will maintain eternal friendship with Assyria and Rome under the leadership of Queen Amandra, without betrayal or suspicion, until time itself proves the end of this covenant.¡±


    Rafael repeated the oath in a deep voice.


    ¡°100,000 gold florins as a congratulatory gift for your coronation will be sent to Florence immediately, and there will be additional funds gifted to you afterwards. If you have any needs, we would be happy to fulfill them for our ally.¡±


    The conclusion of the agreement brought a sigh of relief from Sancha. The pampered little princess¡¯s expression became radiant. ¡°Especially when it comes to money, you know my mother is the richest woman in the world.¡±


    The little princess winked mischievously and laughed happily. Sunlight streamed through the window and fell on her face, making her eyes sparkle like gems.

 Chapter 11: Glimpse of the Past

    Sancha left Florence on a sunny afternoon. Rafael, accompanied by a group of cardinals, hosted a farewell party for her. When Duke Franc?ois of Calais learned the news, he also prepared several lavish gifts. Sancha secretly complained to Rafael that she felt that Franc?ois at the farewell party was like a flamboyant rooster.


    When she said this, Franc?ois was talking to a lady. Rafael took a quick look at the other person and had to admit that Sancha¡¯s description was very accurate. This girl must have an extraordinary talent for rhetoric.


    The fashion of Calais has always been at the forefront of the entire continent. The strong national power has given the nobles ample time and energy to pursue frivolous trends. In recent years, they have come up with a new trend: using fresh fruits and flowers as ornaments to decorate wigs and clothes. Wigs one foot or even two feet high were often precariously adorned with grapes, apples, apricots, and walnuts. These ¡°fruit basket wigs¡± and ¡°flower basket wigs¡± had been all the rage across Calais.


    In this era, fresh fruit was a luxury, and using it as decoration was a way to show off one¡¯s wealth. The ladies were keen on this and even set up many hair salons for this purpose, where they competed with each other on how to pile fruits to infinite heights on their wigs.


    Of course, it is impossible for men to pile so many things on their heads, so they tried their best to decorate their plain hats, with feathers of various birds and gems. It was said that the little emperor of Calais has a hat decorated with peacock feathers and emerald gems piled underneath. The entire hat weighed a full five kilograms, and no one could get within a meter of him after putting it on.


    Duke Francois¡¯s attire today was very ¡°Calais¡±. He wore tight white trousers and a short coat fastened with a gem-studded belt. The coat was woven with intricate patterns of colorful feathers. Each layer consisted of feathers of the same colour, and the combination of different feather layers created a colorful pattern. The collar and cuffs were lined with expensive lace, with all sorts of accessories such as brooches and pendants attached. He was a walking jewelry display.


    Every time he turned to walk, the myriad of diamonds on his body refracted the light, casting shimmering ripples. Sancha had been dazzled by this light several times and secretly rolled her eyes behind the cover of her folding fan.


    Rafael pretended not to see Sancha¡¯s expression and turned naturally to speak to Julius ¨C yes, as the most prominent family in Florence, the head of Portia would naturally be present. Compared to the flamboyant Francois, Julius¡¯s attire was much more understated: a waistcoat and long coat, trousers tucked into short boots, with only a brooch and ring adorning him.


    But even so, with the surname ¡°Portia,¡± he was still the object of everyone¡¯s eager greetings.


    A young man with short, light blond hair and deep purple eyes stood not too far from Julius, wearing a purple chasuble symbolizing a bishop. Occasionally he would glance at Rafael with eyes full of subtle hostility and dissatisfaction.


    Rafael recognized him. This was the bishop whose messenger he had intercepted on the day of the coronation. Judging from his appearance, he had very strong ¡°Portia¡± bloodline characteristics, but that wasn¡¯t why Rafael remembered him.


    He remembered that in the chaotic whirlpool he had seen after his death, where fragments of the past and future intertwined and shattered, he had seen some fragmented historical pieces ¨C in the form of written records. And among these fragments, there was mention of a man named Cain Portia who succeeded Sistine I as Pope.


    His memory was excellent, so he was able to recall this person immediately. The Portia family had been entrenched in Florence for many years, almost turning it into their second home. Naturally, many family members had also entered the Holy Church. Although Rafael was the son of the Pope and had the blood of Pope Vitalian III, he was never publicly recognized. Candidates for the holy seat must fulfil a default precondition ¨C his birth had to be legally recognized and legitimate, both by God and by the laws of man.


    Rafael¡¯s name was recorded under the name of a long-dead collateral branch of the Portia family. The connection was so remote that he didn¡¯t even inherit the Portia surname. The Portia family also shared different opinions about him. For them, this ¡°Pope Portia¡± was not legitimate, and they naturally desired a pure-blooded ¡°Pope Portia¡± from a direct bloodline and an undisputed background.


    Cain Portia was the candidate they put forward.


    Before Rafael appeared, Cain had been steadily climbing the ecclesiastical ladder, starting as a priest and working his way up to the position of bishop. The next step for him should be a cardinal, but then Rafael appeared out of nowhere and snatched the opportunity from him. With his lifelong goal ruined, it was no wonder that Cain harbored resentment towards Rafael.


    But... Rafael remembered that he and Julius had a very good relationship in his previous life. So at the end of the fourth year of his reign, Julius asked him to sign Cain¡¯s appoinment and handed the cardinal¡¯s red robe to the unlucky man whose promotion path was cut off by Rafael.


    Julius¡¯s explanation at the time was also very interesting. He said that Cain had worked hard for the position of Pope for nearly 30 years, studying prayer books since he was five. He had practically dedicated his entire life to the Holy Church, and his efforts truly deserved a cardinal¡¯s red hat as a form of compensation.


    As for what kind of compensation it was, both Rafael and Julius understood each other¡¯s intentions.No?v(el)B\\jnn


    Thinking about it now, Rafael just found it funny.


    Perhaps from that moment on, the Portia family began to consider giving up on him, and Cain became their new choice¡ªor rather, the correct choice they had always intended.


    Rafael was merely the result of Julius¡¯s willful actions.


    But all mistakes must be corrected eventually.


    ¡®He¡¯s like a kitten with claws that haven¡¯t fully grown in,¡¯ Julius thought. ¡®He could be knocked over with a single finger, yet he¡¯s brimming with curiosity.¡¯


    Considering the matching purple eyes that clearly indicated their shared bloodline, he held back harsher words: ¡°You should have seen his expression. He looks very unwilling.¡±


    After a moment of thought, he added slowly: ¡°...and he¡¯s afraid of me.¡±


    The corner of Vitalian III¡¯s mouth twitched, and his expression became a little strange: ¡°Well... I don¡¯t think he¡¯s actually afraid of you... He¡¯s very smart, and besides, you know where he comes from ¨C he¡¯s your uncle, put your knife away!¡±


    The last sentence was directed at the seemingly weak and timid child.


    Julius was stunned for a moment, and when he looked carefully, he found that his cousin had been tightly gripping the child¡¯s right hand, preventing any movement. The child reluctantly released the hand behind his back¡ªa hand that had been clutching a small, razor-sharp knife!


    What hiding behind his father and not moving? He was actually being held by someone and unable to move.


    What kind of cowardice and not daring to look him in the eye? This child was actually observing his every move, waiting for the moment when he relaxes, and then ¨C delivering a fatal blow.


    This was a natural-born hunter, a venomous snake in disguise, a wolf cub bearing the purest and most authentic Portia blood.


    After being exposed, the small, cat-like child showed no embarrassment or regret. Instead, he shyly smiled at Julius, his cheeks flushed slightly as if to say, I¡¯m sorry, you found out.


    ¡°From now on, you will learn everything you can from him. Listen, Rafa,¡± Vitalian III pressed his son¡¯s shoulder and said patiently, ¡°Just like I told you before, you¡¯re very smart. You¡¯re going to accomplish great things. But before that, I want you to be more obedient, low-key, and listen to me.¡±


    ¡°What can he teach me?¡± The smile faded from the child¡¯s face. He looked at Julius with a coldness that was out of place for his age. Strangely, these two blood relatives, who had never met before, shared a striking resemblance at that moment. ¡°He acted very stupidly just now.¡±


    The child criticized Julius mercilessly, his tone contemptuous, clearly holding a grudge against Julius¡¯s reaction upon seeing him.


    ...still just a vengeful kitten.


    Julius thought to himself. It was undeniable that his boredom had disappeared. The child in front of him had ignited a desire for conquest in him that he had not felt for a long time. He wanted to tame this wild wolf cub, to make it obediently expose its belly to him.


    Besides, wanting to kill him at their first meeting... this belated danger and excitement thrilled Julius like never before.


    He seemed to...see his own kind.


    ¡°I can teach you anything you want to learn, power, wealth, status, even the crown on your father¡¯s head, if you want it, I can give it to you,¡± Julius closed his book and said seriously to Rafael.


    The child was startled, and a flash of naked suspicion crossed his eyes. Julius had thought he would have to expend more effort, but almost the moment his words left his mouth, Rafael blurted out in a crisp voice, ¡°Teacher!¡±


    The speed was so fast that Julius felt like he was being cheated.


    He looked suspiciously at the father and son in front of him, always feeling that something wasn¡¯t right.


    The father and son, both with equally handsome and beautiful appearances, simultaneously revealed similar innocent expressions.

 Chapter 12: Allegiance

    Julius thought back to the first time they met, when the boy was barely up to his waist. Now, looking at the young man who stood beside him, even he, who was never one to dwell on the past, couldn¡¯t help but feel a bit of regret over the passing of time.


    The child in his memory, who was naturally cold and cunning after being hardened by life, had gradually transformed into this gentle, ethereal man. Since Rafael had returned from exile to Florence, all those sharp edges, that cynicism and ruthlessness, seemed to have been completely stripped away. He adopted the polished manners, the gentle elegance, the aristocratic air and dignified smile that the nobles of Florence liked, becoming as much a living painting in the gallery as any of the portraits on its walls.


    These were all the results of Julius¡¯s teachings. The older mentor had taught his student everything, from how to treat others, how to smile, how to become ¡°one of our own¡± with the nobles, and how to become a thorough ¡°blue-blood¡± from the inside out. But sometimes, looking at the golden-haired young man bathed in light, he would feel dazed ¨C was this person really his Rafael?


    He had a perfect student, a perfect representative for the Portia family, yet he wasn¡¯t as happy as he thought he would be.


    It was odd.


    Not until their meeting after the coronation did he realize what had changed. Not until he descended the long staircase of the Palazzo Riccardi and walked towards the young Pope, who stood in the magnificent hall and looked back at him, calm, proud, and unmoved, waiting for him to approach ¨C just like a monarch awaiting his subject.


    In that instant of their gaze meeting, he realized that something had changed.


    Uncontrollable, unpredictable changes.


    That sharp, cold Rafael, the beggar and thief who had clawed his way out of the slums, the natural-born hunter who had dared to take a knife and murder the head of the Portia family at the age of twelve, the untamed wild wolf ¨C he had returned with a rage of the flames whose source could not be traced.No?v(el)B\\jnn


    After so many years, Julius once again felt that thrilling sensation.


    This wonderful feeling suddenly made him much more tolerant towards Rafael than ever before.


    ¡°Rafael,¡± Julius lowered his voice. His voice was naturally deep, and when he spoke so softly, the melodious waltz almost drowned out his words. Rafael frowned and unconsciously turned his head slightly to look at him. Julius was also looking at him, and Rafael was caught off guard and suddenly plunged into a deep purple lake.


    ¡°It¡¯s not a good idea for you to leave the Portia family now. You know very well that it¡¯s not just the Portia family, but the other twelve lords are also eyeing the position of Pope. Don¡¯t the cardinals also want to ascend the throne of Saint Leah? You¡¯ve been smart since you were a child. You knew all this when you were thirteen.¡±


    Rafael looked into his eyes briefly and was burned by the frank and naked sincerity in his eyes. He quickly turned his head away with a stiff expression.


    Julius had never shown such a vulnerable expression. For this man who was good at disguising himself and used to being strong, such open honesty was a huge sign of weakness.


    Before the death of Pope Vitalian III, Rafael had spent more time with his biological father than with Julius. As the Pope was at the center of the power struggle, Rafael had access to the most authentic information. The Pope was also generous in cultivating this child. Although he was still young, in order to be closer to his father, he had studied with almost manic intensity. Even adults might not possess such firm determination and perseverance.


    Therefore, although he was nominally a student of Julius at the Florence Seminary, Rafael had not spent a particularly long time there. Perhaps it was because Julius had seen him at his most wretched, at his absolute worst, that he was always instinctively more gentle and affectionate around Julius.


    Naturally, Julius would then become more forceful.


    It was only after the death of Pope Vitalian III, when Rafael¡¯s life was turned upside down again, that the two of them gradually grew closer.


    But even when they were close, Julius had never shown him such an expression.


    The corners of Rafael¡¯s mouth tightened, and he began to wonder if this was another one of Julius¡¯s disguises?


    Julius, not knowing what he was thinking, continued: ¡°I hope¡ªno, I beg you¡ª¡±


    It was the first time he had ever uttered such an unfamiliar word, so he felt a little awkward, but he himself did not expect that he actually managed to say it so fluently.


    ¡°I beg you, Rafa, to return to Portia¡¯s arms,¡± ??the head of Portia held the cane he always carried with him in one hand, his knuckles clenched so tightly that they turned white. He himself did not notice this, ¡°Or, come back to me. Not only does Portia need you, but you need Portia too.¡±


    Rafael was genuinely surprised this time. He looked at Julius meaningfully. Faced with the request of this possible murderer, he felt no other emotion but slight surprise.


    So Julius could also say the word ¡°beg¡±?


    ¡°Alright, I admit that Portia needs Sistine I.¡± Julius caught the fleeting abnormality in Rafael¡¯s eyes, but before he could investigate further, it disappeared, so he changed his tone and said gently, ¡°But you have to admit that with Portia¡¯s help, you will be able to sit more securely on the throne of Saint Leah. As for the confession you want-¡°


    Julius paused, observing Rafael¡¯s expression for a moment. Not finding anything unusual, he continued, ¡°I will tell you everything you want to know, without concealment ¨C on the condition that it doesn¡¯t harm Portia¡¯s interests.¡±


    A conditional promise was more real and credible.


    How rare, Rafael thought with a hint of irony. In his previous life, he trusted Julius too much, so he had never heard Julius speak so honestly to him.


    ¡°As a token of my sincerity, I¡¯ll tell you why I went to the Palazzo Riccardi. It¡¯s related to your father.¡± Julius took a golden goblet filled with wine from a passing servant¡¯s tray. Waiting for the servant to leave, he continued, ¡°Pope Vitalian III was murdered. You know that.¡±


    Of course Rafael knew.


    It was a bit funny that both pair of father and son popes ended up being murdered.


    But Pope Vitalian III was better off than he was, because his death was not concealed. The Papal Palace admitted the Pope¡¯s death. He died on a tour, his throat slit by a pagan with a dagger. This incident caused a frenzy among all the believers on the continent, and the purge of pagans reached its peak at that time. Tens of thousands of pagans died in the aftermath of this disaster.


    ¡°There were doubts about his death. I suspected that Tondolo might know something, so I went to ask him. But the old man was very tight-lipped, and I really didn¡¯t get anything out of him. The reason I took Redrick with me was also for this very reason. He was more suitable than you to see Tondolo.¡±


    Julius¡¯ words were subtle, but Rafael understood them instantly, After all, he was the illegitimate son of Pope Vitalian III, never publicly acknowledged, while Redrick was that man¡¯s legitimate son.


    Rafael sneered. He didn¡¯t feel anything about this matter, nor did he feel any inferiority complex as an illegitimate child. Perhaps he had once, but that feeling had quickly passed. It seemed like only Redrick and his brothers had ever cared.


    Upon hearing this, Rafael immediately lost all interest: ¡°Is that all you want to say? You came to me so urgently, are you worried that some lord will try to win me over? Or perhaps...¡±


    The young pope pondered for a moment, then broke into a strange smile. The cunning and cruelty of old seemed to seep out from beneath his skin. He looked at Julius almost mockingly. ¡°Are the lords getting restless? Do they want to use me against the Portias?¡±


    That was the only reason why the head of the Portia family would be so eager to approach him at this farewell party.


    Julius¡¯s quiet smile was a sign of agreement.


    ¡°This is beneficial for the Papal Palace as well, isn¡¯t it? You won¡¯t have to go through them to collect taxes from the Papal States anymore, and no one will be able to call the shots in the Papal States that belong to you. Portia is your backing, your pillar, the flowers beside your throne ¨C we pledge our loyalty to you.¡±


    The head with long iron-gray hair bowed towards the young Pope.


    He was right. The lords who had carved up most of the land of the Papal States were thorns in the eyes of successive popes. It would naturally be a great thing if these big trees entrenched in the Papal States could be eradicated.


    From then on, Rafael¡¯s papal bulls could be circulated smoothly throughout the Papal States, taxes and land would be collected by the Papal Court, and Portia would became the sole papal agent.


    It was a win-win situation for both sides.


    Rafael had no reason to refuse.


    The golden-haired, purple-eyed pope slowly extended his left hand, the papal ring on his thumb gleaming.


    The head of the Portia family lifted that hand and gently kissed the ring, pledging the Portia¡¯s loyalty.


    This scene occurred in plain sight, and everyone witnessed it. They immediately realized what it meant and were greatly shocked.


    The Portias had declared their allegiance to Sistine I?!

 Chapter 13: Resemblance to an Old Friend

    The expressions of some of the people present changed rapidly. They subconsciously began turning their heads to look for allies, exchanged glances with each other, and brooded about what to do next.


    The Papal States has a total of thirteen city-states besides Florence. Currently, to ¡°facilitate unified management¡± and ¡°better serve His Holiness the Pope¡±, their lords have established a thirteen-member council for the Free City State Alliance. Each lord took turns as the chairman, and in the past few years, it had been the Portia family¡¯s turn.


    It was said that it was ¡°out of loyalty to the Pope¡±, but everyone knows what the real purpose is. The Papal States were torn into pieces, and Florence was deliberately excluded. Wasn¡¯t it just to better seize the power of the Papal States and gain a completely independent status?


    What is Julius Portia doing now?


    Rafael took in the changes in the expressions of most people present and smiled very slightly. Of course, there was no need for him to extend his hand for Julius to kiss the papal ring at this moment, but so what?


    That¡¯s what he wanted to do. He wanted to force Julius to bow to him right now.


    At this moment, here ¨C in full view of everyone, bow your head to him and swear allegiance to him.


    Irrefutable. Indisputable.


    The moment Julius lowered his head, it was undeniable that a twisted sense of pleasure and strange intoxication arose in his heart.


    Rafael suddenly thought that perhaps he preferred this kind of oppression by force to any polite respect.


    Brutally stripping away all the polite veneers and tolerant smiles, putting power, wealth, and interests on the scales, seizing what he didn¡¯t have, and plundering what he desired.


    Just like what he learned in the slums.


    Everyone at the banquet had different thoughts, and until the end, some people were absent-minded. Sancha didn¡¯t care about this little incident. The happy little princess jumped into the carriage given by the Pope ¨C this carriage, equipped with the latest technology of the Papal State, had ferocious steam pipes coiled under its chassis, while gears and copper pipes drew heat from the coal to drive the carriage to a higher speed. Countless luggage carts followed Sancha¡¯s carriage, heading all the way east.


    Duke Francois, with a beautiful woman on his arm, watched the convoy disappear into the dust, gulped down the wine in the golden cup, rudely threw the golden cup engraved with the image of a beautiful angel on the ground, and showed a strange smile.


    After the banquet, the Portia Bank restored its previous ¡°good relations¡± with the Papal Palace. Before the gift from the Queen of Assyria arrived, the financial difficulties of the Papal Palace were resolved with the help of the Portia Bank.


    And as a token of gratitude...the appointment document that had been hidden in Rafael¡¯s drawer for nearly two months was finally signed.


    Julius Portia was appointed Secretary General of the Papal Palace, assisting the earthly sovereign in handling all worldly affairs, and becoming the highest administrative officer of Florence.


    The document was posted on the bulletin board of the Papal Palace for three days, and copies were sent to various city-states in the Papal States. The Portia family even sent people to parade around Florence with drums and gongs to inform people of the good news.


    On the same day the appointment was issued, Julius moved into the Papal Palace and officially began his duties as Secretary General of the Papal Court.


    It was obvious to the naked eye that that the burden on Rafael had been greatly lightened. He no longer needed to review countless documents one by one. Julius¡¯s ability was unquestionable. With the powerful financial and human resources of the Portia Bank, the entire city of Florence was quickly getting back on track.


    ¨C Of course, there was another important reason: due to Portia¡¯s deterrence, the cardinals were no longer keen on sabotaging the new Pope but obediently followed all orders from the Papal Palace.


    This sudden relief made Rafael feel unspeakably angry.No?v(el)B\\jnn


    But he couldn¡¯t say or express anything.


    However, Julius was very sensible. He no longer took charge of all matters as he had in the previous life. Instead, he let Rafael decide for himself which affairs to hand over to him and which to handle himself. He even stopped taking the initiative to solve problems for Rafael unless Rafael himself requested it.


    He knew him ¨C of course, how could he not know him? The uncrowned monarch of Florence. He once watched the Pope¡¯s golden carriage slowly passed through the streets, surrounded by thousands of people. Fragrant flowers and ribbons gushed out and scattered like a tide, while the servants distributed black bread and dried meat. Ferrante had fiercely squeezed his way through the crowd and grabbed the two largest pieces of black bread from the basket, hiding the hot bread against his chest amidst the scolding, and chased after the carriage.


    The black bread in his arms was hot. Blood, surging from his frantic run, pounded against his chest and brain. He was gasping for breath frantically, weaving through the crowd, chasing the looming sitting figure.


    What was he chasing? It seemed like a phantom in a dream, a salvation of fate, a saint in his heart. He didn¡¯t know, and he couldn¡¯t describe the feeling. He just ran.


    He ran until he tasted blood in his throat, until he was stopped by guards at the edge of the Upper City. The illusion and salvation shattered like bubbles. He finally stopped, sat on the ground, and slowly took out the hot bread ¨C it was no longer so hot, and it was just the right temperature when he put it into his mouth. Ferrante opened his mouth and put it into his parched lips, only to find a conspicuous red mark burned into his chest.


    Their closest encounter had been through a carriage window, with a guard between them. He had seen the new Pope¡¯s beautiful profile, his long golden hair and lavender eyes, and smelled a rich fragrance that seemed to come from heaven.


    And now... they were only separated by half an empty square, and there was no one to stop him. As long as he walked over, he could touch his saint who was so high above him.


    ¡°Get up! All of you!¡± The instructor roared, whipping the boys who were glued to the ground. Ferrante, caught by the whip, shrank back in pain. When he looked back again, the corner was empty.


    Rafael was discovered and his guards escorted him respectfully to the lounge upstairs. The person in charge of the group of children stood by the window, pointing out each boy to the Pope, detailing their circumstances.


    ¡°As for that one, the dark-haired one, his name is Ferrante. He was sent from the Lower City¡¯s Holy Grail Church. The other two with him didn¡¯t make it. One went back, and one was taken by Cardinal Lombardy. This young man is especially resilient. He¡¯s one of the youngest here, but he¡¯s the smartest. Several of the other boys already follow his lead ¨C a natural leader.¡±


    The man said with a hint of admiration.


    Rafael stroked the windowsill with his fingers, still haunted by the vague familiarity he had felt when he first saw Ferrante: ¡°Where about his parents?¡±


    The supervisor replied: ¡°An illegitimate child. His mother was a prostitute who worked in the Rose Garden. She gave birth to him there. His father was said to be a clerk who already had a wife and several children. He couldn¡¯t afford this sudden accident, so he didn¡¯t acknowledge Ferrante. His mother couldn¡¯t raise him either, so she sent him to the Holy Grail Church when he was six.¡±


    Rose Garden.


    Hearing this familiar name, Rafael¡¯s memories shrouded in fog seemed to suddenly come back to life. A long-lost face emerged from the fog. It was a beautiful woman with black curly hair and deep blue eyes, which seemed to always contain tears of sadness. The look she gave him was so gentle that it was heartbreaking.


    If you take away the fierceness in Ferrante¡¯s eyes, his face would overlap perfectly with that woman¡¯s.


    ¡°If I have a child,¡± the woman¡¯s embrace was warm and fragrant. She patted his back with soft hands, making him feel drowsy. ¡°I hope he can be as cute and brave as Rafa. Ah, it¡¯s best not to be a girl, that¡¯ll be too hard.¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s a child like Rafa, I¡¯ll name him¡ª¡± The woman¡¯s voice was gradually blurred by the hazy sleepiness, and the last few syllables disappeared into the air.


    Rafael¡¯s lips moved and he murmured, ¡°...Lia?¡±


    The person in charge didn¡¯t hear the Pope¡¯s words clearly and turned his head: ¡°What? Your Holiness?¡±


    ¡°No, nothing,¡± Rafael looked at the sweating boy downstairs with complicated eyes and finally said nothing. He simply ordered indifferently, ¡°Take good care of them. When the training is over, let Ferrante come to me.¡±


    The supervisor was shocked. He didn¡¯t expect that poor boy¡¯s luck would come so soon. Being able to be by His Holiness¡¯s side, what an honor! It seemed that he really had to take good care of him.


    ¡°I only want qualified people. If he¡¯s not qualified...¡± Rafael seemed to see through his thoughts. His pale purple eyes stared at him unblinkingly, his emotions difficult to discern. The last sentence was a little drawn out and he did not continue.


    The person in charge understood his words instantly, and a cold sweat broke out on his back. All his previous fantasies disappeared, and he hurriedly bowed his head deeply: ¡°Yes, I understand, Your Holiness.¡±


    Rafael took one last look at the square. The teenagers were still shouting slogans energetically. This vibrant and bustling scene seemed incompatible with his weary and corrupt soul. Rafael was silent for two seconds, then turned and left.

 Chapter 14: Knights Templar

    After leaving the training grounds, Rafael walked back. Along the way, he saw the priests and nuns bowing and making way for him in the middle of the road. Rafael skillfully responded to them with a smile. Halfway through, he met the hurried deacon.


    ¡°Your Holiness,¡± the deacon, who had finally found the Pope, breathed a sigh of relief and bowed respectfully, ¡°The president of the Roman Royal Bank is waiting for you in the reception room.¡±


    Florence¡¯s industrial development was mediocre. Due to its small land area and large population, the local economy is mainly driven by commerce. Therefore, many wealthy families whose livelihoods depended on trade would establish a base in the Holy City. The Roman royal family, of course, also had a bank here, but the scale of this bank was not only inferior to that of the giant Portia, it wasn¡¯t even among the top three.


    Most of the business of the Roman Royal Bank was only for people related to the Roman royal family. As soon as Rafael heard the name, he understood the purpose of the president¡¯s visit.


    It must be to send money on behalf of the Queen of Assyria.


    His guess was correct. The bank president waiting in the reception room had specially put on a new suit for today¡¯s meeting. His curly mustache was neatly trimmed, and he held a long box tied with a silk ribbon in his hands.


    The deacon opened the door for Rafael, and before the banker could see the young pope¡¯s face, he bowed deeply: ¡°Your Holiness, Sistine I, it is an honor to meet you. I am here on behalf of Her Majesty Queen Amandra of Rome, to add a little glory to your rule.¡±


    His voice was high-pitched and tremolo-like, as if he were singing an opera.


    But considering what he brought, Rafael was very tolerant of him: ¡°Please take a seat, sir.¡±


    The bank president humbly shook his head, and after repeated refusals, he cautiously placed half of his buttocks on the velvet chair, his face flushed with excitement.


    He opened the long box he was holding tightly, unfolded the rolled parchment with both hands, and placed it in front of Rafael: ¡°This is a gift from Her Majesty Queen Amandra to you. The gift has been converted into gold florins and will be paid to the Papal Palace in installments by the Roman Royal Bank. In addition, the Roman ship carrying iron ore has set sail yesterday and is expected to arrive in the Papal States in a month. Please have someone receive it then.¡±


    Rafael carefully examined at the amount on the parchment, picked up the quill in the inkwell, and signed his name.


    After he had signed, the president visibly breathed a sigh of relief. The feeling of having a heavy burden lifted from his shoulders restored his previous joy. He took back the documents, left the bank receipt and badge key, and bowed to Rafael again: ¡°Then, I won¡¯t disturb you, Your Holiness.¡±


    Rafael nodded to him and had the attendant send him out. When the door closed, his gaze fell on the small bag on the table containing the badge key.


    Putting the receipt in the drawer, Rafael picked up the small bag, opened the bag and poured it down. A Roman Bank badge and a golden key clinked onto the oak table.


    The gold key could open the safe in the bank, while the badge was a token for the handover with the captain of the ship carrying the iron ore.


    When Rafael negotiated with Sancha, in addition to the money that the Papal Palace urgently needed, he also requested an additional shipload of iron.


    In this era, iron that could be used to forge weapons was an absolute treasure no matter where you are. There were no iron mines in the Papal States, but Assyria was a country with abundant mineral resources. Rafael wanted to obtain some iron from the Assyrian queen to arm his own private guard, or even just to keep it for future use.


    But after some back and forth, a shipload of iron was eventually turned into a shipload of iron ore. However, Sancha promised that they would select the best quality ore, and additionally gift Florence two sets of steam light armor power cores as a gift.


    This condition was highly appealing to Rafael.


    Since a blacksmith invented a simple steam engine fifty years ago, the whole world has begun frantically exploring this new power source. Houses in the city were connected by pipes of various sizes, and steel pipes spewing white steam stood tall in the mountains and forests, blocking out the sky.


    Naturally, weapons were no exception. It could be said that the first application of steam technology was in the manufacture of firearms.


    The ancient matchlock gun was quickly phased out, replaced by the more lightweight mechanical gun. Crafted with brass gears and metal levers, these delicate and cold little devices became the favorites of noble officers. However, due to their entirely handmade nature, mechanical guns were prohibitively expensive, and their market share was almost negligible.


    Apart from this, another new killing weapon emerged.


    The person who first invented it just had a basic idea: armor is for defense, and those protected by it are often already physically exhausted. If the armor itself could run, it could carry its wearer away from danger ¨C how wonderful that would be.


    Thus, a chilling invention was born: the steam light armor.


    Driven by steam, various parts of the armor are connected in series through gears and ropes to achieve an integrated effect. Through the release of steam, this thing was lighter than ordinary armor and incredibly agile. Those wearing it on the battlefield could almost move as fast as a horse running at full speed. And as long as they held a weapon ¨C whether it was the most ordinary blade or gun ¨C who could escape their slaughter?


    But the technology of the steam power core was a closely guarded secret. Every country wanted to produce as many power cores as possible, but this thing was entirely made by hand-polished parts, with a level of precision that exceeded the most sensitive of watches. The success rate was so low as to be outrageous, and any failure meant starting from scratch. It was a veritable money pit in terms of resource consumption.


    Every king dreams of having an army of steam light-armored soldiers, but so far no one has been able to put it into action without risking the bankruptcy of their entire country.


    At most, there were a few small groups- of course, no one wanted to reveal the exact number.


    ¡°Please take a seat, Knight Leshert.¡±


    Rafael didn¡¯t address him as ¡°Grand Master¡±. Everyone knew that what Leshert was most proud of his identity as a Knight of the Knights Templar, not his status as the Grand Master.


    Leshert thanked him and sat down, his emerald green eyes fixed on the Pope, waiting for him to explain the purpose of calling him over.


    Being looked at with this gaze, Rafael felt uncomfortable again.


    It was too sincere, as if Leshert was trying to lay bare his soul, making Rafael wish he could find a box to hide in right there and then.


    He admitted that he did have a bit of a dark desire to control... or something of the sort. But Leshert¡¯s overly straightforward and sincere nature made him completely unable to face it.


    He would rather engage in intrigue with Julius, who was like a maze of twists and turns, than face Leshert.


    He was willing to tell you anything you ask of him, but that¡¯s also what was so daunting.


    ¡°A ship will arrive in Florence in a month.¡± Rafael decided to skip all the causes and consequences and get straight to the point. He knew that as long as he didn¡¯t say anything, the considerate Leshert would never take the initiative to inquire about it. ¡°It will be carrying iron ore and two sets of steam powered cores.¡±


    When Leshert heard the word ¡°steam powered core¡±, his eyes suddenly lit up as he deeply understood the meaning.


    ¡°I need the Knights Templar to receive them.¡± Rafael was burned by those sparkling eyes. Trying hard not to show any expression, he pushed the badge on the table forward.


    Leshert understood. He respectfully took the badge and put it away. After waiting a moment longer and seeing no other orders, he stood up to leave.


    But he stood there for a long time, showing no intention of leaving. Rafael, who was pretending to be reviewing the documents, felt a tingling sensation on the back of his head, and had to put down his quill: ¡°Is there anything else, Knight?¡±


    The Radiant Knight of the Knights Templar hesitated for a moment, his deep green eyes scanning the young Pope for a moment, before asking softly, ¡°Are you...are you feeling unwell?¡±


    ¡°I noticed that you seemed to be enduring pain.¡±


    Having practiced for a long time, Leshert was naturally very familiar with the feeling of enduring long, endless pain, so he had a subtle sensitivity to the pain of others.


    Although the Pope¡¯s expression showed nothing amiss, he could sense the fatigue and pain coming from the Pope.


    Rafael¡¯s pupils contracted.


    His right leg had been aching slightly since yesterday, as if thousands of tiny needles were pricking his bones. The pain clung to his leg like a malignant tumor, twitching from time to time to announce its presence.


    Rafael had gotten used to this feeling over the years. Last night, he had stayed silently awake in his bed till dawn. After getting up, he looked calm and even his walking didn¡¯t give him away. No one noticed anything unusual about him, but Leshert actually did.


    The young Pope stared at him for a long time before looking away. He said with some indifference and resistance: ¡°No, you¡¯re mistaken, Knight. Farewell.¡±


    The meaning of dismissal was as clear as day. Leshert stood there for a while, like an innocent big dog that was suddenly kicked while smiling and trying to show friendship, hesitating and not knowing what to think.


    ¡°I said, Farewell, Knight,¡± Rafael repeated more coldly.


    Leshert hesitated for two seconds, but ultimately chose to obey the Pope¡¯s order, bowing his head and leaving the room filled with the scent of incense.


    Julius, accompanied by attendants and a pile of documents for the Pope to review, came from the other end of the corridor. Seeing from afar the figure in armor leaving the Pope¡¯s reception room, he squinted at the figure for a while, thought for a moment, and dug that person¡¯s name out of his mind.


    Leshert? What did Rafael want with him?


    Translator¡¯s Note


    Sorry for the late update things have been pretty hectic and I¡¯ve just finished my work shift. But I promise pretty regular updates at weekdays and additional ones if I¡¯m free on the weekends. Enjoy the novel!


    1 Knights Templar ¨C a French military order of the Catholic faith, and one of the wealthiest and most popular military orders in the Roman Catholic Church. They were founded c. 1119 to defend pilgrims on their way to Jerusalem, and existed for nearly two centuries during the Middle Ages. The Templar knights, in their distinctive white mantles with a red cross, were among the most skilled fighting units of the Crusades. They also developed innovative financial techniques that were an early form of banking, building a network of nearly 1,000 commanderies and fortifications across Europe and the Holy Land.


    2 Grand Master of the Knights Templar ¨C the supreme commander of the holy order, starting with founder Hugues de Payens. Some held the office for life while others resigned life in monasteries or diplomacy. Grand masters often led their knights into battle on the front line and the numerous occupational hazards of battle made some tenures very short. The grand master controlled the actions of the order but he was expected to act the same way as the rest of the knights. After Pope Innocent II issued the papal bull acknowledging the Templars in 1139, the grand master was obliged to answer only to him.

 Chapter 15: Redrick

    Julius had come to have lunch with Rafael. The servants placed the documents on the table and withdrew one by one. Julius walked over to Rafael and picked up a book from the bookshelf. While flipping through it, he said, ¡°The Feast of Divine Grace is in two days. As usual, Florence will be organizing a large-scale celebration. Have you decided who will be in charge of the festivities?¡±


    The Church hosts many different festivals throughout the year, including the birthdays and feast days of various patron saints, as well as days of significance related to God, with special meanings and symbols. This included the Pope¡¯s birthday, and Rafael¡¯s birthday for this year had already passed. Nevertheless, there were still dozens of circled dates left on the ecclesiastical calendar.


    Rafael glanced at the specially made ecclesiastical calendar on his desk. The Feast of Divine Grace was marked just a week away.


    This was a celebration of the first day God came to earth, marking the new birth of the world. Afterward, God created all things, distinguished between men and women, calling them ¡®my children¡¯ and granted humanity consciousness as the firstborn of God.


    The festival would be celebrated for a week, with the Holy Church distributing food and drink, day and night. The gas lamps in Miracle Square would shine brightly throughout the night, and the streetlights would illuminate all of Florence, turning the holy city on earth into a heavenly paradise at twilight.


    But at the same time, those huge expenses and purchases were no small burden. The likelihood of drunken brawls would increase significantly during this period, and Florence¡¯s crime rate would be much higher than usual, making public safety a major concern.


    Choosing a suitable person in charge was necessary.


    In the past, entrusting the task to Julius would have been the best and most appropriate choice, but...


    Rafael felt a dull ache in his right leg, interrupting his thoughts and causing him to frown impatiently.


    He doesn¡¯t have a capable assistant, and he couldn¡¯t fully trust the most suitable person. This would be a good opportunity to put someone to the test. Of course, it would be best if he could hand it over it to a trusted confidant.


    A myriad of chaotic thoughts swirled around in Julius¡¯ mind, but he said nothing to disturb the young pope. Holding a book, he quietly watched Rafael¡¯s pensieve profile from above the open pages. The pope¡¯s long, golden hair cascaded over his shoulders, like a veil of shimmering light shrouding his slender frame.


    He seemed to have always been so thin.


    He should have recommended a candidate at this point, but Julius found himself thinking aimlessly about how, from their first meeting, that skinny child from the slums had never seemed to put on any weight. As a boy, he had often been bedridden due to a leg injury. After a few days of recuperation, he would always force himself to go out to work, as if nothing had happened so that no one could see any flaws.


    After the assassination of Pope Vitalian, Rafael had fallen into trouble again and was exiled to the poorest part of the Papal States, where he had spent his days in a dilapidated rock castle, and the little flesh he had managed to gain on his cheeks had quickly disappeared.


    Julius looked at Rafael absentmindedly, noticing the slight frown between his brows and the way he was gently biting his lower lip.


    Just like when he was a child, biting his lips whenever he feels pain or discomfort.


    ¡°Are you feeling unwell again? Did you get enough rest these days?¡± Julius¡¯s eyes fell on Rafael¡¯s right leg covered by his clothes.


    Rafael, already irritated, was even more annoyed by the question. He paused for two seconds before swallowing his angry words, but his tone was much colder. ¡°It¡¯s none of your business.¡±


    Julius was recalling Rafael¡¯s schedule for the past few days, crossing out the  less important items. He wasn¡¯t angry when he heard this, but instead spoke in a gentle and soothing tone, as if he was coaxing an angry cat: ¡°I¡¯ve written to the doctor who followed you before and asked him to come over. He¡¯ll be arriving in Florence soon. I¡¯ll ask him to take care of you.¡±


    Rafael opened his mouth, the words of refusal on the tip of his tongue, but Julius, who had seen through his thoughts, cut him off: ¡°This is a personal gift from me. He¡¯s too old and knows too much about the Portia family. He has no children, and if you refuse him, his final days will be terrible.¡±


    How could the Portia family not be able to take care of an old man? Rafael knew that this was just an excuse, but... maybe because his legs felt really painful and the pain disrupted his clear thinking, so he acquiesced to the decision.


    ¡°Young Tondolo,¡± Rafael suddenly said the name, and Julius instantly understood that their conversation had returned to the beginning. The boy who used to lean against him and speak affectionately now seemed to reject any warm topics, insisting on bringing the atmosphere back to business. ¡°What is he doing now?¡±


    Julius paused, sifting through the vast amount of information in his mind to find the recent situation of this ¡®Sir Goose¡¯. ¡°He doesn¡¯t hold any official position. Cardinal Tondolo originally wanted to put him into the Papal Palace before he died, but you stopped accepting external staff members for the Papal Palace after your coronation. After his death, he didn¡¯t care about those connections, and now young Tondolo has been worrying about his title. Cardinal Tondolo didn¡¯t have time to leave a will, and his half-brother has gathered a few people to fight for the title.¡±


    Rafael was stunned for a moment. He hadn¡¯t expected that young Tondolo, who had such a promising start, could end up in such a mess. Cardinal Tondolo had always regarded him as his heir, and as the legitimate son, there had never been any dispute over the inheritance of property and title. How useless must young Tondolo be to mess up something that was already in his grasp?


    Thinking of old Tondolo¡¯s plea to take care of this good-for-nothing before he died, Rafael frowned painfully and decided to put this useless egg aside for now. The Feast of Divine Grace couldn¡¯t be used as a training opportunity for this useless egg.


    After eliminating one candidate, the situation on the day of meeting Tondolo came to his mind again. Rafael hesitated for a moment. Even Julius could see his struggle: ¡°Rafa?¡±


    In fact, Redrick¡¯s reaction to this news was even more interesting than Rafael had imagined. Redrick was nineteen years old this year, at the age where he was most fearless and arrogant. When Julius informed him of this matter, he was overjoyed ¨C everyone knew how much power and glory he would gain as the person in charge of the Feast of Divine Grace. However, he soon heard from his respected uncle who had proposed this appointment.


    The little tyrant of Florence was dumbfounded.


    Julius, holding a book, walked around the living tree stump and returned to his desk without changing his expression. After turning three pages, the tree stump finally took a breath, which was so long that it seemed to squeeze his lungs dry. Then Julius witnessed the most interesting change of expression in history, from shock to bewilderment to disbelief, finally settling on anger.


    No, it should be called rage.


    Redrick jumped three feet high, his whole face flushed red, and he cursed loudly: ¡°What are his intentions?! That bastard born of unknown origin! I knew he was up to no good! He wants to humiliate me?! He can dream! I swear¡ªI swear in the name of Claudius, I will definitely repay him a thousand times over! That¡ªbastard!¡±


    He kept cursing and for a moment he even forgot where he was, until an instinctive intuition began to remind him, and he realized something belatedly and looked back tremblingly.


    Julius, who was sitting behind the desk, had closed his book at some point and was looking at him quietly and coldly.


    ¡°If I¡¯m not mistakan, I reminded you to respect your elder brother.¡± Julius¡¯s voice was deep and cold, devoid of any emotion. ¡°I also told you what would happen if you did it again.¡±


    Redrick covered his mouth reflexively.


    Julius stared at him for a moment, a hint of disappointment flashing in his eyes, and after a while he looked away: ¡°Don¡¯t worry about where the opportunity comes from, as long as it benefits you and you can climb up with it. As a Portia, you¡¯ve grown up to this age and still don¡¯t understand this simple truth?¡±


    It seemed that Redrick was really too spoiled, Julius thought wearily. No matter how he corrected him, the young man who had already been set in his ways was unwilling to give up his pathetic and laughable ¡°noble dignity¡±. Julius wanted to tell him that the nobility he prided himself on did not come from him at all, but...


    Forget it, Julius thought indifferently. Since this one was unsuitable, just pick another one. There are plenty of Portia family members anyway.


    Redrick¡¯s face turned pale. His feared uncle said, ¡°Now, go change your clothes, get ready, and go to the Papal Palace to thank the noble Sistine I¡ªyour brother who gave you this opportunity.¡±


    His tone was that familiar commanding tone that brooked no room for doubt or refusal.


    ¡°Tell him sincerely and respectfully that you¡¯re grateful for the opportunity he has given you,¡± said the patriarch of Portia.


    Redrick gritted his teeth and reluctantly lowered his head, forcing out a few words between clenched teeth: ¡°...I know.¡±


    He had mentally prepared himself during the journey to the Papal Palace, but to his surprise, his request for an audience was denied.


    A black-robed deacon, with a stern expression, repeated the Pope¡¯s words verbatim: ¡°His Holiness says he is aware of your piety and respect, and hopes you will complete the task entrusted to you well, and give Florence a perfect Feast. That is the best gratitude for his gift.¡±


    Redrick had just breathed a sigh of relief at not having to meet the person he hated the most, but upon hearing these words, he felt uncomfortable all over again.


    The young man, who was rejected at the door for the first time and was given a condescending lecture instead, had a gloomy face as he grabbed the carriage door. His face turned blue, but he had to obey his uncle¡¯s order and forced a smile. The coach driver shrank in fear, feeling that his master was like a powder keg that was about to explode, and he would be blown up sky high along with the carriage.


    Redrick felt a deep sense of shame, which made him feel even more at a loss than the news he had just heard from his uncle.


    The person whom he once despised and humiliated had indeed climbed over his head. He could so lightly give him the opportunity he had always dreamed of, or deny his audience even though he had mustered up the courage and prepared all the way.


    ...As if he truly didn¡¯t care about that old grudge.


    But was that really possible? Redrick sneered. He didn¡¯t believe that bastard had such a broad mind. They shared the same blood, so they were destined to fight each other to the death. Did he think he could get rid of him this way?


    ¡ª Dream on!

 Chapter 16: Doctor Polly

    No matter how much Redrick gritted his teeth, Rafael¡¯s life continued to move on.


    Julius would come by every day at a set time to eat with him. Of course, sometimes there would be other important guests joining their meals. This kind of dining was more like a social event, and filling his stomach was the last thing on his mind.


    Rafael had long been accustomed to such an arrangement. His days were divided into segments of varying lengths, each precisely allocated to different activities, from regular church prayers and blessings to papal sermons, to receiving visitors, to social dining, to handling paperwork, and adjusting the following day¡¯s schedule...


    Every night before bed, Julius would bring over the next day¡¯s itinerary and read it aloud to Rafael. Rafael paid partial attention and frowned when he heard a certain item: ¡°...Grand Prayer? It seems like we have a lot of blessings scheduled lately.¡±


    Julius nodded, ¡°As the newly appointed pope, you need to show yourself to the public more often to cultivate a positive image and make them like you more¡ªyou¡¯re naturally good at that.¡±


    This unnecessary remark made Rafael glance at him sharply, and his eyes clearly revealed a different meaning.


    He had never expected Julius to give him such an assessment: ¡®good at making people like him¡¯? Rafael almost laughed. In all his years, from his previous life to this one, he had never expected to receive such a compliment.


    Even when he was trying his best to disguise himself, even when he was on the verge of having his mask become a part of his face, he didn¡¯t believe he was particularly likable.


    He was born into a lowly family, with a physical disability, and a cold heart. He had relied on his relatively attractive appearance to navigate the social scene, using the social skills he had learned to get along with everyone, and imitated Julius¡¯s smile and demeanour. After pretending for a long time, he had almost convinced himself that he was just like everyone else.


    But he knew very well in his heart that a fake will always be a fake. His false sweet words and artificially disguised nobility would never be the same as the real ones. That was why; despite being surrounded by so many people, he could not count on even a single true friend at the end.


    This was nothing. Rafael was well aware of his true nature and had no complaints about it. Yet, when he heard Julius¡¯s comments, he still felt a sense of absurdity from the bottom of his heart.


    The feeling was so absurd that for a moment, Rafael didn¡¯t know what to say. He stared at Julius for two seconds before suddenly feeling a pain in his leg. Wincing and bending down, he complained, ¡°...It hurts.¡±


    Unlike the coldness he showed when talking to Julius just now, his words were now as coquettish as a child.


    The young pope was currently seated on a long, soft chair, a type of reclining chair that had been popular since the ancient Roman era. It was paired with a short, intricately carved side table, perfect for nobles to recline and reach for food. The table was laden with an assortment of fresh fruits: olives, apricots, grapes, apples, oranges, and tangerines. With the advent of greenhouses and fruit conservatories, there were even a few slices of watermelon on porcelain platters.


    Rafael sat on the recliner, showing little interest in the dazzling array of expensive fruits. His clothes were pulled up, revealing his slender, pale calves. An old man with messy gray hair and a beard sat cross-legged on a thick Assyrian carpet, applying pressure to the pope¡¯s leg in a rhythmic pattern.


    That was why Rafael had cried out in pain just now.


    ¡°Please believe me, Your Holiness, this is necessary,¡± the white-bearded old man said with a stern expression. He showed no fear or respect for the pope, instead adopting a tone that seemed to scold a disobedient child. ¡°If you had followed my medical advice and taken your medicine and massages regularly, or gotten enough rest, you wouldn¡¯t be in this situation. But I expected as much. After all, young people will never take an old man¡¯s words seriously.¡±


    Rafael offered a helpless smile: ¡°Polly...¡±


    ¡°Please call me dr. Polly, Your Holiness.¡± The stubborn old doctor was unwilling to accept the plea his disobedient patient.


    Rafael subconsciously turned to the only other person present, seeking help. Before he realized that his intimate behaviour was inappropriate, Julius gave him a helpless expression.


    The best doctor in the Portia family is Polly. This old man, who is already in his fifties, came from a family of doctors. He had a strong sense of adventure and innovation, and in his youth, he dreamed of being a pirate. So, he packed his bags and excitedly boarded a ship bound for the East, disappearing into the foreign lands for ten years. Everyone thought he had died at sea or in a foreign country, but unexpectedly he returned alive¡ªand brought back medical skills from the mysterious East.


    After Rafael underwent bone-setting surgery, he was bedridden for a month, fainting and waking up in agony every day. The doctors were helpless about the condition of the Pope¡¯s son. In the end, it was the experienced Polly who stepped forward. He performed a second surgery on Rafael and took on the subsequent care work, carefully protecting Rafael¡¯s right leg using Eastern massage and rehabilitation techniques.


    It can be said that Rafael was still able to walk today, thanks in large part to Polly.


    For a long time, Rafael and Polly were almost inseparable. Rafael had no resistance to this old man who simply cared about him. The fearless wolf cub would only cry in pain in front of Polly.


    Polly still had an angry look on his face. While grumbling, he carefully searched for the acupoints on Rafael¡¯s leg and pressed them with moderate force.


    The man who once sneaked out of his home and boarded a pirate ship under the pirates¡¯ noses said proudly.


    Rafael looked at him helplessly, his lavender eyes blinking softly, his expression like an innocent and pitiful kitten, just waiting for the human to give in and surrender as he had done thousands of times before.


    Who could resist the attack of such beauty?


    Julius turned his face away without a trace, hearing Polly¡¯s cold voice: ¡°Starting tomorrow.¡±


    ¡ª¡ªThis man actually resisted!


    Rafael¡¯s eyes changed, full of disbelief and incomprehension.


    Ah, to use an analogy, an invincible cat actually encountered a human who is indifferent to it acting cute. This can easily cause the kitten¡¯s worldview to collapse, creating the illusion that ¡®something must be wrong with this person¡¯.


    Anyway, everyone can have problems, but cats can never have problems.


    Seeing that the method that had always worked before had lost its effect, the young Pope sighed helplessly, nodded and succumbed to the doctor¡¯s intimidation: ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll remember it.¡±


    Polly packed up his medicine box, carried it and went out. After taking two steps in the corridor, he stood still as if struck by lightning. He took a few long, deep breaths and said to himself, ¡°Incredible. I almost got fooled. It was so close...¡±


    The old man, full of relief, left along the corridor, his faltering figure slowly melting into the dim light.


    The two people in the room fell into a period of silence. In the end, it was Rafael who took a step back and extended his right hand to Julius.


    Perhaps because of Polly¡¯s arrival just now, he was reminded of the time when he was taken care of by Julius, something he hadn¡¯t thought about in a long time. For once, he didn¡¯t want to think about those complicated things.


    Julius naturally grasped his hand and placed it on his shoulder, helping the young Pope walk slowly to the bed.


    Rafael¡¯s long, satin-like golden hair, cascaded down his back, and the loose strands brushed against Julius¡¯s neck, sending a cool tingle that made the Portia Patriarch momentarily distracted.


    When Rafael had just finished surgery, he was bedridden and had to rely on servants everywhere. Julius had carried him a few times. Back then, the young man was thin and frail, his golden hair soft, and he could feel his bony frame when he was nestled in his arms. But after Rafael recovered, they rarely had such intimacy.


    Lost in thought, Rafael had already reached the bedside and moved himself onto the bed.


    Julius looked around and saw that there was indeed nothing else he needed to do, so he said goodbye softly.


    ¡°Goodnight, I wish you a wonderful dream.¡±


    Rafael looked at him. Julius¡¯s meticulous iron-gray hair was slightly disheveled from his touch, and there were some wrinkles on his collar. Looking at the Portia Patriarch¡¯s head, who was, for once, not so well- kempt, Rafael finally showed a slight but genuine smile.


    ¡°Goodnight, Julius.¡±


    The Pope¡¯s voice was very calm and gentle, and when he speaks without any negative emotion, it sounded like an angel whispering.


    Julius left the Pope¡¯s bedchamber, closed the door himself, and casually instructed the guards on either side, ¡°Be more vigilant tonight. If His Holiness has any problems, report to me immediately.¡±


    The guard nodded, and Julius stood facing the closed door for a while. After a long time, he suddenly felt that his behavior was quite foolish and inexplicable, so he quickly left.

 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.


    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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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 Franc?ois 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 Franc?ois 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 Franc?ois¡¯s status and power, countless women were willing to be his mistresses ¨C of course, there were also some smart men among them. In addition, Franc?ois himself was considered handsome, tall and strong, a very popular type at the moment, so sleeping with him wasn¡¯t exactly a loss.


    And Franc?ois... 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 Franc?ois.


    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 ¨C and as the ruler of Florence, this outcome was very likely.


    Rafael now really wanted to drive Franc?ois, 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 find 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.¡±

 Chapter 18: A Snapshot of Francoiss Life in Florence

    Franc?ois was having a grand time in Florence.


    As the de facto ruler of the vast empire of Calais, he possessed countless wealth, power spanning across the continent, and a noble status. This allowed him to obtain everything he desired with ease. Except for the years he had to lurk under his brother¡¯s crown when he was young, he had never bowed to anyone¡¯s orders¡ªnot even to the Pope, the spiritual leader of the continent.


    The Pope... Humph, the Pope was merely something that needed to rely on the Calais royal family to survive, Franc?ois thought contemptuously as he kissed the cheek of the young woman in his arms and listened to her laughter.


    Florence boasted of its authority, claiming to have the faith of all the people, but it was the country and the royal family that truly owned these people. Since the fall of the Knights Templar, Florence¡¯s influence had declined significantly. Although those ignorant lambs were still foolishly willing to donate all their wealth to the church, a large portion of this money was embezzled by the lords and royalty before it reached Florence.


    Florence was, of course, aware of this dire situation and worked to change it. Pope Vitalian III had implemented a religious reform, and many of its measures had proven effective¡ªmeasures that the royal families and lords were not very happy about. Fortunately, the unlucky Vitalian III was soon assassinated, and his successor was a complete fool. Till his death, he was still figuring out how to empty the papal palace of its wealth. The Holy Reforms, which had been halfway completed, was thus put on hold in a muddled manner.


    Franc?ois¡¯s visit to Florence this time, in addition to celebrating the coronation of Sistine I, had another purpose: to confirm whether this new Pope would once again promote reforms that were unfavorable to the royal family.


    They were quite satisfied with Florence¡¯s current situation, so they were not stingy in giving Florence the title of a holy city and bestowing empty glory on the Pope¡ªas long as he is obedient and content, without doing unnecessary things or having unnecessary thoughts.


    However, he didn¡¯t expect that before he could find out what he wanted to know, his target had already become so disgusted with him that they wanted to kick him back to Calais.


    Franc?ois was naked from the waist up, his white trousers hanging loosely around his hips. His muscular chest was smeared with a transparent, shiny oil, imitating the custom of ancient Roman gladiators. His gold armbands and necklaces were shining. The woman lying on the couch turned over and looked at his back with infatuated eyes.


    Franc?ois¡¯s love for ancient Roman civilization was no secret. In the palace of Calais, he had imitated the customs of the Roman nobles, building a spacious arena, an open-air bathhouse, and an academic square. Those who entered had to wear ancient Roman attire, creating a retro atmosphere.


    A girl dressed in a long gauze skirt and dressed as a slave was kneeling on the carpet, holding a goblet filled with crimson wine. She knelt on Francois¡¯ side, raised the goblet high, and invited her brave master to relieve his fatigue.


    Franc?ois laughed, bent down, wrapped his arms around the slave¡¯s waist, and lifted her from the ground. The slave screamed, the golden goblet in her hand shook twice, but she managed to steady it. Franc?ois then took her hand, lowered his head and drank the glass of wine. Finally, he kissed the young girl hard on the lips.


    Neither the woman on the couch nor the female slaves around showed the slightest surprise at such an absurd scene, as if they were accustomed to it. They happily enjoyed the fragrant and mellow wine and the endless delicacies. High and low tables were filled with abundant fresh fruits and food, which everyone could take as much as they wanted.No?v(el)B\\jnn


    What was not lacking here were beautiful girls and handsome boys. They were of different ages, gathered in groups of three or five, sitting on the grass, talking in low voices or kissing each other, indulging in a degree of debauchery that was shocking. From time to time, someone would leave or join in, and whoever it was, they would greet the newcomer with a warm smile.


    Franc?ois was of course the most popular among them. Wherever he went, beautiful men and women would try to keep him from leaving. They were like the sweetest birds and the gentlest lambs, begging him to stay.


    No one in Florence knew that Franc?ois had built such a ¡°paradise on earth¡± in his residence. The guards and servants around were all his confidants brought from Calais, and the men and women who entered it consciously kept their mouths shut about the chaotic scene here.


    Besides the lovers who share Franc?ois¡¯s hobbies, the other beauties here are all scouted from the slums of Florence. All the outstanding men and women in the ¡®Rose Garden¡¯ and ¡®Glass Workshop¡¯ have been sold here, and some well-informed people have even come to recommend themselves, and the rewards they receive far exceed their expectations.


    Kindness in the slums is precious and rare, and it¡¯s enough to be able to give out just a little bit.


    But perhaps it was because of this meager kindness that when Mary disappeared, Jenny¡¯s first reaction was to come to this strange boy.


    Ferrante¡¯s gaze swept over Jenny¡¯s tattered black robe. This familiar black robe had also accompanied him for several years until he left the Holy Grail Church.


    Jenny was looking at him with full of expectation. She believed he was an ¡®amazing person¡¯, just as the priest said, who could serve by the side of the Holy Father, but how could he be so powerful? He didn¡¯t even have the qualifications to meet the Holy Father.


    ¡°I can¡¯t help you,¡± finally, Ferrante said this cruel sentence to the girl¡¯s expectant and trusting eyes, ¡°I can¡¯t do it, I¡¯m not as powerful as you think...¡±


    Ferrante said expressionlessly, watching the hope in Jenny¡¯s eyes gradually fade. Her tears welled up, growing larger and larger until they could no longer be contained, rolling silently down her cheeks.


    ¡°I...¡± The cold youth rolled his Adam¡¯s apple, his voice a little hoarse, ¡°I can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°...But,¡± Jenny trembled, loosening her grip on Ferrante¡¯s collar, sobbing for breath, ¡°Then, then can you go ask the Holy Father? The Holy Father... He loves us, he would be willing to help me, wouldn¡¯t he?¡±


    Ferrante moved his lips but said nothing.


    Saints were born to redeem the sins of the world. Would his saint... be willing to extend a hand to these souls in the mud?


    They were dirty and lowly, born in the quagmire of fate, stained with dust from birth. They were trampled and spit on, struggling to survive in the cracks. Such people... dared to hope to touch the clean hem of a saint¡¯s robe?


    Ferrante suddenly laughed, his tone strange. ¡°Then I¡¯ll go ask for you.¡±


    However, before Ferrante could find a way to see the Pope, Mary¡¯s body was sent back to the Holy Grail Church one morning.


    Death in the slums was a speck of dust not worth mentioning. The matter was lightly brushed aside by the few gold florins sent to the church with the body. No one mentioned it again.


    At the same time, far away in the Papal Palace, Rafael received Franc?ois who came to visit according to etiquette. He used all his patience to deal with this arrogant cockerel. He took a deep breath, trying to resist the dizziness caused by the pungent and strong perfume on the other party, and said to himself: ¡°I must kick this bastard back to Calais.¡±


    Julius, standing behind him, chuckled softly and rubbed his temples, saying nothing.

 Chapter 19: Celebration

    The Feast of Divine Grace arrived as scheduled. The bell of the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn, which had been silent since the day of the Pope¡¯s coronation, rang loudly. Following this, the bells of the Papal Palace, the Basilica of Our Lady of Mercy, the Advent Church, the Church of Blessed Sacrament... bells from all over the city rang out one after another. The deep, slow, and gentle chimes spread, awakening the slumbering holy city from the night and welcoming the first rays of dawn.


    On this grand festival, the divide between the upper and lower city was significantly weakened. In the dim, impoverished districts, the first to leave their homes at the sound of the bells were inevitably the poor, small workshop owners, artisans, and penniless apprentices. Their incomes were pitifully meager, and they could only rely on such a little unstable salary to survive every day. They did the most vulgar and dirty work in Florence, like a silent but massive foundation of mud that supported Florence¡¯s vast and magnificent body.


    Due to their limited assets, they could not afford to live in areas where they had to pay an ¡°urban maintenance fee.¡± Thus, the only areas left for them are the outskirts of Florence and the surplus land downstream of the river. These tumor-like proliferating houses accommodated half of Florence¡¯s population. They needed to cross two or three blocks and countless streets to reach the spacious and magnificent square of the upper city to receive the blessings of the festival so they always got up early before dawn, dressed neatly, and prepared to go out.


    The men wore linen or cotton shirts, covered by short coats of coarse wool, and wore dark soft hats. Their leather shoes were polished to a bright shine.


    The women walking beside them wore light-colored long dresses ¨C white was the best, of course. Those skilled in accessorizing would make creative changes to the collars and cuffs, such as designing unique decorations with lace or ribbons, and hanging colored ribbons around their waists ¨C this was a unique artistic sense bestowed upon women by God.


    The children screamed and played around their parents, enjoying the joy of the festival to the fullest. The shabby neighbourhood, which used to be dark and depressing, was now filled with a rare warm atmosphere. Loud laughter and brisk footsteps intertwined into a noisy melody. Although the people walking around looked haggard, they all showed joyful expressions.


    The roads in the lower city were rugged and dark, the winding roads like tangled balls of yarn. They were narrow, damp, and complex beyond human imagination. Unlike the upper city, where the districts were divided according to family power and bloodlines, the residences here were arranged haphazardly and were basically grouped by occupations. For example, there must be a glass workshop around a rose garden, cloth merchants will live next to tailors, and fishmongers prefer shabby restaurants.


    Here, their wages and salaries are insufficient to support them to form a large family. The sparse population and bloodline had to rely on their peers in the same industry to bolster their strength, so as not to suffer losses when they needed the support of blood relatives. Thus, the embryonic form of a guild was born here¡ªjust an embryonic form, for they lacked the intelligence and wealth to support the emergence of a more complete system.


    Rough, square stones were stacked into crooked, low buildings. Rusty iron railings, abandoned ancient battlements, and fortresses were divided into different dwellings. The ground was soaked with the blood and feces of livestock, and sewage was poured directly from windows and doors onto the streets. Houses grew wildly, greedily vying for space in the perpetually unchanging damp and fetid atmosphere, leaving the already dark streets forever shrouded in gloom, much like the people who lived there.


    The crowd from the lower city slowly merged into the light. Rafael¡¯s deacons were at the door of the papal palace to welcome the lords from afar. They had arrived in Florence at the latest the day before but had not come to pay their respects to the Pope. Rafael tolerantly ignored their tense private communications and collusion, and did not pursue it further because none of them were absent.


    But they obviously didn¡¯t think so.No?v(el)B\\jnn


    ¡°Sistine I wants to take our territory,¡± the lords reached a consensus under the light of the gas lamp, sitting nervously and angrily, sizing each other up. ¡°Portia betrayed us.¡±


    This was even worse news.


    ¡°Portia is already the speaker of the council, and he¡¯s still not satisfied? What else does he want?¡± someone cursed. ¡°Does he think that standing by the Pope, that kid will give him more benefits?!¡±


    Although they said so, they knew very well that if such an opportunity to control the Pope were placed in front of them, they would betray this loose alliance without hesitation.


    ¡°If Julius is determined to betray the alliance, then we can only strike first.¡±


    The speaker looked quite old, with half-length white hair and no expression on his wrinkled face: ¡°It¡¯s not easy to be an enemy of a Portia, so we need to work together, but if anyone wants to betray again...¡±


    The old man sneered: ¡°You¡¯d better think carefully about whether you have the weight to let Portia spare you¡ªbe careful not to end up as Portia¡¯s dessert.¡±


    As soon as these words came out, the eyes of several people who had originally looked a little shaken and hesitant suddenly became stern.


    Until this moment, they still firmly believed that everything was Julius¡¯s idea, and the Pope... wasn¡¯t that young and immature Pope just a puppet of Julius?


    In their view, Julius chose to attack them because he wanted to use the name of Sistine I to reunify the entire Papal States and then elevate Portia to the throne of the Holy City.


    Rafael¡¯s mouth curled up silently.


    Julius turned his gaze and stared at Redrick who had obediently retreated for two seconds. There was no emotion in his cold eyes behind his glasses as he watched his blood nephew walk away.


    ¡°His last name is still Portia.¡± Amidst the noisy cheers, the head of the Portia family reminded him softly.


    Rafael smiled nonchalantly: ¡°I¡¯m just teaching him to have the necessary respect.¡±


    Having said that, he released Julius¡¯s hand and sat down alone on the papal throne.


    Julius¡¯s hands were empty, and the warmth he had felt was mercilessly withdrawn. He couldn¡¯t help but frown and swallowed the words he had been about to say.


    He just wanted to say that the people of Redrick¡¯s maternal family wouldn¡¯t be happy to see Redrick and Rafael get along, no matter what kind of reconciliation it was. They still harbored the dream of having Redrick inherit the position of Pope Vitalian III, although Julius knew very well that this was impossible, but unfortunately, there were always more fools in the world.


    The secretary-general of the papal palace was busy with affairs, and even during the celebration, he could not rest. Julius was soon called away to another place, and a well-dressed middle-aged man came to Rafael¡¯s seat in a timely manner.


    ¡°Holy Father,¡± he bowed deeply to Rafael, and when he looked up again, there were even tears of excitement in his eyes, ¡°Oh my God, I can finally see you. I heard the news of your coronation in Besanc?on, and I couldn¡¯t wait to grow wings and fly to you to swear my allegiance, but... please forgive me, the people of Besanc?on cannot do without me, my city is really poor, I can¡¯t even offer you a rich enough gift...¡±


    He took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes in a pretentious manner.


    Rafael watched his performance patiently with a smile, and replied graciously: ¡°I forgive you.¡±


    ¡°Thank you very much, merciful Holy Father. Your glory is supreme, and your compassion prevents me from deceiving you any longer... Oh God, I shouldn¡¯t say this, but if you were to suffer any harm, and this harm was due to my concealment, then I would be punished by God for my hesitation today.¡±


    The smile in Rafael¡¯s heart grew even wider, but he still put on a look of appropriate vigilance. ¡°Lord Besanc?on, what do you mean by that?¡±


    Besanc?on seemed eager to pour everything he wanted to say into Rafael¡¯s ears, but for the sake of a complete performance, he still managed to finish expressing his rich and complex inner thoughts, although to Rafael, his eagerness was almost impossible to hide.


    ¡°It¡¯s the Portias, I think you should understand,¡± Besanc?on winked at the ¡®puppet pope¡¯ who was controlled by the Portias, and sure enough, as he had expected, the pope¡¯s smile disappeared when he mentioned the surname.


    ¡°This ambitious family has cut off the way for us, the pious lords, to be loyal to you. Alas, you may not know, we originally wanted to do our best to send enough gifts for your coronation, but the Portias stopped us. They seemed to think that the Portias needed the funds more than the papal palace.¡±


    Besanc?on shamelessly revealed the secret, and at the same time happily watched the pope¡¯s expression grow uglier, and his heart was filled with joy.


    Yes, that¡¯s right. Break up with Portias as soon as possible. In the end, no matter who loses, the lords will be the winners.


    As for this clumsy lie...


    It couldn¡¯t really be considered a lie, it was just a slight artistic modification, and besides, the Portias weren¡¯t exactly clean to begin with.

 Chapter 20: New Members of the Papal Guard

    Besanc?on sputtered on, heaping one accusation after another on the Portias. Rafael listened attentively with a smile, nodding slightly in agreement from time to time, or responding with a few casual remarks, causing Besanc?on to unknowingly reveal much more than he had originally intended.


    After he left Rafael, his hot head cooled down, and he realized that he might have said a little too much.


    It was really strange. Rafael clearly didn¡¯t express his attitude or say anything useful from beginning to end. Logically speaking, such an unequal conversation would be difficult to continue. However, Besancon didn¡¯t feel that he was being perfunctory. After leaving, he even felt that he had even more to say.


    ... It should be fine, Besanc?on hesitated, recalling that although he had said a lot of things, they were mostly boring idle chatter or gossip ¨C his wife was fond of socializing and liked to compare herself to the wives of other lords, so he was forced to learn a lot about the other lords¡¯ private affairs.


    He just didn¡¯t expect that His Holiness the Pope, who looked so dignified, would also enjoy listening to this kind of trivial gossip. It didn¡¯t really match his appearance.


    Rafael watched Besanc?on leave with a smile. The foolish lord had not realized that he had been fooled by the Pope, and had even forgotten the original purpose of his visit.


    Rafael didn¡¯t want to get involved in the undercurrents of conflict between Portia and the lords at this point in time. Let them think he was just a puppet pope. He had no power or manpower in his hands now, and rather than rushing into the struggle and ending up in defeat, it was better to watch from the sidelines and accumulate strength at the same time ¨C to reclaim the authority that rightfully belonged to him.


    Thinking about this, Rafael¡¯s brow furrowed involuntarily again. In the end, he just had no one he could use.


    He used to believe that sincerity and kindness would be rewarded in kind, but the facts proved that it was all just in his imagination. In Florence, this huge and luxurious world of fame and fortune, only tangible benefits and interests can win you allies.


    Like, Julius.


    He raised his eyes and looked around, seeing the tall figure with iron-gray hair standing not far away, talking to an archbishop. Both of them had carefully measured smiles on their faces.


    His relationship with Julius was more naked than in the previous life, a relationship maintained entirely by interests, but it had to be said that it was also more honest and intimate than in his previous life.


    How ridiculous.


    It just proves that sincerity is worthless and trust is just an empty rhetoric found in dramas.


    Rafael looked away and silently surveyed the entire scene. He saw the lords gathered in small groups, and Besanc?on was talking to the oldest of them. The man had hair that was too lush for his age, his silvery-white hair was combed neatly back from his head, and the ends of his hair had a rusty dark red hue. The withered skin on his skinny face drooped down, like a Shar-Pei dog that was intimidating without even being angry. Rafael thought for a moment and dug out the old man¡¯s surname from his memory.


    Russo.


    This shipping family of the Syracuse Peninsula had started out as penniless pirates, and after washing off the thick, bloody smell of their bodies, had transformed themselves into the protectors of shipping and patrons of sailors. Like a greedy beast, they occupied most of the ports of the Papal States.


    Except for the Portia family, who had forcefully broken through the claws of this giant beast with their pervasive capital and currency issuance rights, the other lords had to retreat to a place where they were out of reach of the Russo family¡¯s sharpness in terms of shipping.


    A greedy and shameless old man.


    Rafael had a very bad impression of the current ruler of the Russo family. He still remembered that his ship, loaded with ore, had to pass through the Russo family¡¯s port when it arrived in the Papal States. And in order to enter the port discreetly and avoid attracting attention, he needed to pay a high ship berthing fee for this ship ¨C which was another form of bribe to the Russo family. ?


    This bribe of nearly one thousand gold florins, which also included hush money for low-level officials and secretaries, was not something that Rafael could easily take out even though he was slightly better off now.


    Moreover, this ¡®ship berthing fee¡¯ that made the Russo family rich was not approved by the Papal Palace at all. The Russo family had established this tax without paying a single penny to the Papal Palace.


    They had made a fortune on the Papal States¡¯ land, using the Papal States¡¯ ports, and had refused to pay tribute to the Pope.


    The music in the palace was melodious and winding softly. Rafael turned three corridors before he completely left the sound behind. The Papal guards and deacons followed at a distance, ready to fulfill the Pope¡¯s any request. The young Pope completely ignored them, his white robe trailing elegant folds on the ground, as he went straight back to his bedroom.


    The two guards guarding the door immediately opened the magnificent door when they saw the Pope return. Rafael was about to go in when he caught a glimpse of a familiar face he had seen not long ago.


    ¡°You...¡±


    A moment of thought slowed his steps. He simply stopped and looked at the black-haired boy: ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±


    It was a rhetorical question, but as a ¡®first meeting,¡¯ this process still needed to be followed.


    A young man with curly black hair stood with a straight back. Although his face still bore a trace of childishness, his features already hinted at the otherworldly charm that would develop in him.


    ¡°My name is Ferrante, Holy Father.¡±


    He bowed his head deeply in accordance with etiquette and answered. Although he wanted desperately to look the other person in the eye and see the face of the saint who was so close to him, he couldn¡¯t.


    ¡®Be patient, Ferrante,¡® he whispered silently and slowly in his heart. ¡®Be patient, as you have countless times before. As long as you are patient... you will always get what you want.¡®


    Rafael looked at the head bowed in respect: ¡°I haven¡¯t seen you before, are you new here?¡±


    Ferrante¡¯s voice trembled slightly. Rafael said indulgently, ¡°Don¡¯t be nervous. I won¡¯t punish you.¡±


    Ferrante paused, and when he spoke again, his trembling voice and unsteady breath had calmed down a lot. He boldly raised his head. The deacon behind Rafael was about to reprimand the impertinent guard, but the Pope glanced at him lightly and he had to swallow the words he wanted to say.


    With the Pope¡¯s tacit permission, Ferrante raised his head and looked directly at his saint for the first time.


    It was exactly as he had seen countless times in his dreams: soft, pale golden hair, pale purple eyes, as if embraced by a hazy halo. The divine light favored His child walking on earth, and the saint was looking at him too. In the moment their gazes met, Ferrante suddenly felt his heart pounding.


    He didn¡¯t understand what this emotion was. It was as if he saw himself, who had been crawling in the mud, in the other¡¯s eyes, and then, in this gaze, he received an unprecedented sense of peace and comfort.


    Ferrante quickly lowered his head, hiding his inexplicable urge to cry, and heard the Pope change the subject, beginning to ask about the name of another new guard who had been selected alongside him.


    ¡°...They are new members of the Papal Guard selected from the churches below. They are all devout, kind, and loyal children of yours. These two are the most diligent, so they were allowed to serve at Your Holiness¡¯s side today.¡±


    A deacon walking behind Rafael came forward to report in a low voice.


    ¡°Is that so? I thought you would have to train for a while longer,¡± Rafael looked at them tenderly and sighed softly. ¡°It must have been very hard to complete the training in such a short time. My safety from now on will be in your hands.¡±


    Hearing the kind and amiable Pope say such words, the two new members straightened their backs involuntarily. The one with brown hair even said loudly, ¡°I swear to protect Your Holiness with my life!¡±


    Rafael looked at his eyes that were shining with excitement, smiled, and walked into his bedchamber.


    The two doors closed behind him, and Rafael¡¯s smile disappeared. He silently repeated Ferrante¡¯s name, and a rare hesitation appeared on his face.

 Chapter 21.1- Confrontation

    Rafael had another nightmare.


    He woke up from the dream, drenched in sweat. This time it was better than before, at least he didn¡¯t fall off the bed, but that was about it.


    The thin Pope lay stiff and rigid on the bed with fear. In his perception, even the expensive and soft silk quilt became a weapon that would entangle him to death. Rafael tried to relax his body, but his overly tense muscles did not obey his command at all. He still followed his instinct and remained alert to the outside world.


    A thin layer of sweat hung at the corners of his eyes, and his hair fell into his eyes, bringing an itchy and stinging pain, but he didn¡¯t dare close his eyes. His trembling and desperate soul was still immersed in the aftermath of the nightmare, giving him the illusion that he would be killed if he closed his eyes.


    After slowly breathing several times, Rafael finally regained a bit of his senses. He lifted the quilt and got out of bed, walked to the gas valve switch on the wall, and forcefully pulled the toggle switch up. The mechanism embedded in the wall began to operate, and the airflow made a hissing sound as it passed through the brass pipe. After a moment, the gas lamp in the room lit up steadily, casting a shadowless light in the room.


    Rafael did not stop. He pulled the switch again, pressing the gas valve to the bottom. The light immediately changed from moderate to blinding white, and the huge and gorgeous top crystal chandelier was like a miniature sun, leaving no room for any shadows.


    Surrounded by such light, Rafael finally calmed down.


    He returned to the bed and sat for a while, using his hand to brush his slightly damp hair back, revealing a smooth forehead. The fire in the fireplace had died out, and the temperature was slowly dropping with the half-open window. After his rebirth, Rafael had become very resistant to anyone entering his bedroom, especially when he was alone, so he refused to let the servant come in at night to look after the fireplace. As a result, the temperature in the room would always be much lower in the second half of the night.


    Sitting on the edge of the bed in this steadily decreasing chill, he may have thought about something or nothing at all. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked steadily, its mechanical, regular operation providing a silent, calming force. He finally felt a slight sense of peace, along with a belated drowsiness.


    Rafael stood up, seemingly with no intention of turning off the light, and rolled up the thin duvet on the bed. With practiced ease, he walked to the decorative cabinet and stuffed himself and the duvet inside.


    The cabinet was wide and low. The decorations inside had all been emptied one day according to the Pope¡¯s order, but the original wooden boards and lattice partitions could not be removed and were still preserved. These things prevented him from lying down comfortably and flat, and there was also a strong smell of spices inside, which would make his head feel slightly dizzy after smelling it for a long time.


    But Rafael needed this almost torturous kind of discomfort.


    He curled up his body and wedged himself into the cabinet. The poor circulation of blood soon caused his limbs to feel cool and tingling. Amidst the needle-like pain and the dizziness brought on by the spices, Rafael obediently sank into an endless black dream.


    ____________________________


    The next day, the bells of the celebration rang as scheduled. More people gathered in the Miracle Square than the day before. Amid the noisy crowd, a light drizzle began to fall. The sudden change in weather did not dampen people¡¯s enthusiasm. The people of Florence were still having a merry time, laughing and joking while covering their heads with whatever wooden boards they had picked up from somewhere.


    Ferrante had been standing at the door all night. His thin armor did not provide any insulation, his whole body felt as if it had been soaked in ice water. When it was time to change, his numb legs even made him unable to move for a while.


    An experienced old guard bent down, squeezed Ferrante¡¯s calf hard, and pounded it a few times. Ferrante almost grimaced at the sensation. A wave of soreness and numbness shot from his muscles to his brain, almost making Ferrante black out.


    The old guard chuckled, clearly familiar with the feeling. When Ferrante recovered, he patted the black-haired young man on the shoulder: ¡°Go eat quickly. There¡¯s roast beef for breakfast this morning, all from freshly slaughtered calves. Let the cook pick the tenderest one for you!¡±


    Ferrante gritted his teeth and nodded, before limping away with his short-haired companion, supporting each other.


    Rafael finished his morning prayers, pushed open the door and went out. As soon as he stepped out, he was stunned.


    It¡¯s raining?


    The sound of raindrops hit the ground, and a trace of irritation flashed across the usually smiling face of the young Pope. He remained silent all the way to the dining room, and the guards following behind him dared not make a sound, afraid of displeasing the Pontiff.


    This obvious displeasure vanished, or rather, was neatly concealed when he stepped into the dining room and saw the person inside.


    Julius was seated at the dining table waiting for him. A band was playing a cheerful morning tune, and the violinist was imitating the melodious singing of birds, the bow dancing lightly across the strings.


    Rafael glanced at the large French window. The sound of rain had become inaudible, and through the glass he could only see the plants in the garden rustling.


    His glance was very brief, but it was clearly seen by Julius who had been paying attention to him. Julius turned to the attendant beside him and whispered something, then stood up from the table and walked towards Rafael, subtly leading him away from the dining room.


    The attendants who served the Pope in the papal palace were all efficient. By the time Julius and Rafael reached the neighboring Spring Flower Hall, the dining table there had already been set. Pleasant music was coming from behind the emerald velvet curtains, and the violinist was hidden behind them so as not to disturb the Pope¡¯s meal.


    This dining room was enclosed, with a ceiling painting depicting the Spring Goddess born from the palm of a deity. Various colorful flowers bloomed and cascaded from the top, transforming into real flowers as they neared the ground. Vines and ivy, sweet olive, licorice, mint, roses, and calamus were arranged into intricate shapes, climbing up the wall-mounted vines and turning the Spring Flower Hall into an indoor garden.


    Rafael did not ask why they had changed dining rooms, and Julius did not say anything extra. The two of them finished a breakfast in a quiet and relaxed atmosphere, and it was still Rafael who left first.


    Julius watched the young Pope leave, turned the Portia ring on his finger, and asked his attendant, ¡°Where¡¯s Francois?¡±


    At yesterday¡¯s celebration, Francois had only appeared for a short while, as arrogant as ever, arriving at an awkward time and almost blatantly displaying his contempt for the Pope.


    When he arrived, Rafael had just left. Franc?ois seemed unhappy that he wasn¡¯t able to embarrass the Pope in person. He greeted Julius with a sullen face¡ªand of course, he didn¡¯t get anything out of it. Finally, he left with an unhappy expression.


    Julius immediately understood what this arrogant Duke of Calais was planning. Probably because he controlled a vast empire, and even the Emperor of Calais had to watch his step around him. Yet, he couldn¡¯t truly ascend to that throne. Thus, this regent duke harbored hostility towards anyone with a more legitimate status than him, as if trying to assert his own nobility by embarrassing others.


    Sure enough, he heard his attendant reply, ¡°The Duke of Francois¡¯ carriage is already waiting at his gate. It will arrive at the papal palace in about twenty-five minutes.¡±


    The banquet and celebration in the square would last for several days, and the banquet prepared for the Florentine nobility in the Papal Palace would certainly be no less spectacular. Upon hearing that Franc?ois would arrive so early, Julius, who knew that he had no good intentions, raised his eyebrow slightly.


    Originally, it wasn¡¯t a big problem. Rafael had encountered such difficulties many times before and could handle them with ease. But...


    Julius raised his eyes as if he could see through the walls and into the pouring rain outside.


    ¡°With such terrible weather today, there¡¯s no need to trouble Duke Francois with a visit,¡± the head of the Portia family said lightly.


    The servant, instantly understanding his master¡¯s meaning, nodded. An hour later, as Rafael sat among the nobles, he heard news that Duke Francois¡¯ carriage had broken down on the road. Apparently, a rivet on the wheel had come loose, and the wheel was detached from the body of the carriage. The carriage overturned to the side of the road, and the noble Duke had almost rolled into the dirty ditch.


    Having suffered such an embarrassing incident in public, Duke Francois did not appear at the papal palace that day, which brought a hint of comfort to Rafael¡¯s irritation.


    Catching this keyword, Rafael changed his polite smile and replaced it with a friendly apology: ¡°Your father asked me to look after you on his deathbed, but as you know, the Papal Palace is not in a good situation, and I¡¯ve never been able to spare the time to help you. But since you¡¯ve come to me personally, I would never refuse you ¨C come to think of it, aren¡¯t you quite close with Redrick? Why don¡¯t you go to Portia? Perhaps that would be quicker.¡±


    As he spoke, he winked playfully at young Tondolo, and his smile took on a naive, boyish quality, as if he were truly expressing doubt to a close friend.


    But Sir Goose, who had always been silly, suddenly became a little smart. Although he didn¡¯t understand the true meaning of the Pope¡¯s question, an instinctive warning reminded him to tell the truth, so Tondolo answered honestly: ¡°I... I thought about it... Portia is indeed very powerful...¡±


    This was an indisputable fact. The Portia crest was sometimes more effective in Florence than the Papal Palace.


    When he said this, Rafael continued smiling, and the smile was so sweet that it was almost eerie.


    ¡°But my younger brother...¡± When mentioning his younger brother, Tondolo couldn¡¯t help but show a look of disgust, as if he had swallowed a fly. ¡°His mother has a bit of a relationship with Portia...¡±


    He spoke very euphemistically, but Rafael immediately understood his meaning. After a brief moment of confusion, he couldn¡¯t help but laugh.


    Tondolo¡¯s thinking was very straightforward. He believed that Portia would help his illegitimate half-brother, so he tried his best to choose someone who had no relationship with the Portia family or who was on the opposite side. If that didn¡¯t work, he would give Portia some good things to make them remain neutral. After thinking about it, he realized that the monarch of Florence was his best target.


    Indeed, in the eyes of outsiders, Sistine I was just a puppet controlled by Julius. And a puppet, either follows its master wholeheartedly or becomes an enemy. If he goes to please the Pope, at worst he¡¯ll be rejected, or the money will end up in Portia¡¯s hands ¨C which makes no difference to him. But after taking the money, at least Portia wouldn¡¯t favor his brother, and the best outcome, of course, would be for the Pope to help him regain his title.


    Sometimes, not being able to give money is the worst thing. As long as Sistine I accepts the money, there¡¯s still room for maneuver.


    Rafael was surprised to find that despite Tondolo¡¯s apparent foolishness, he was actually quite clever at this critical moment.


    The Pope was pushed out to fight Portia, and he hid behind the Pope¡¯s shield, so he wouldn¡¯t suffer any loss.


    For the sake of those abundant gold coins, estates, and a port, Rafael didn¡¯t mind being used for once.


    He nodded happily: ¡°I¡¯ve received your sincerity. I¡¯ll help you solve this problem.¡±


    As soon as he finished speaking, he turned his head away, and Tondolo immediately retreated discreetly, relieved to have finally put this matter to rest.


    A countship title without real power was actually quite easy to solve. If it weren¡¯t for the fact that Cardinal Tondolo had died so suddenly without making any arrangements, and there was no powerful figure in the Tondolo family, young Tondolo wouldn¡¯t need to come begging him so humbly.


    Rafael didn¡¯t go to Julius to solve this problem. Putting all your eggs in one basket isn¡¯t a good thing. Once Julius refused him in the future, he would inevitably fall back into his previous predicament.


    He surveyed the room and nodded to Besanc?on when he looked over. Then he calmly looked away, as if they had just happened to meet each other¡¯s eyes.


    After a few seconds, Besancon walked up to him and bowed deeply: ¡°Your Holiness.¡±


    ¡°Ah, Lord Besanc?on.¡± Rafael feigned surprise and nodded to him, exchanging a few words of concern. In a seemingly aimless conversation, he casually mentioned Tondolo: ¡°... Poor Sir Tondolo, he¡¯s been pushed to the limit by his brother, and he even lost his composure in front of me just now.¡±


    Everyone in the room saw that Tondolo had been talking to the Pope for a long time.


    Besanc?on asked ingratiatingly, ¡°What happened to Sir Tondolo?¡±


    Rafael glanced at him and exclaimed, ¡°Oh, you don¡¯t know this. It¡¯s all because of Portia...¡±


    The Pope shook his head and looked at the already disappearing figure in the crowd with pity: ¡°His brother has the blood of the Portia family, and he¡¯s trying to seize his legitimate inheritance. It¡¯s terrible.¡±


    Besanc?on noticed that the Pope¡¯s face looked a little ugly when he said this, as if he had thought of his own similar predicament.


    This was an opportunity!


    Besanc?on was overjoyed. If he could pull the Pope to the side of the lords, what excuse would Portia have to oppose them? And controlling a Pope... what a dream come true! It seemed that Sistine I was already dissatisfied with the Portias, and with a little push, he could be made closer to himself...


    Besanc?on thought of Russo¡¯s old, pug-like face, and his greedy heart moved slightly. If he could use the power of the Pope, perhaps the Besanc?on family could also become like Russo¡¯s...


    ¡°That¡¯s a pity,¡± Besanc?on said quickly, ¡°Perhaps I can help you with that.¡±


    ¡°Oh? What do I have to worry about? Did you make a slip of the tongue?¡± The handsome Pope looked at him with a half-smile, his eyes filled with a sharp sense of oppression.


    But the more he acted as if nothing had happened, the more Besanc?on became convinced that he had long been dissatisfied with Portia.


    ¡°Yes, yes, of course there¡¯s nothing in the world worth worrying about for you, Your Holiness. What I mean is Tondolo. I think the Besanc?on family can help Sir Tondolo solve this problem. Even if it¡¯s Portia, the loyal and kind Besanc?on is willing to confront her.¡±


    Besancon lowered his voice: ¡°The Besancon family will show you our sincerity.¡±


    Rafael didn¡¯t know if he believed it. His pale purple eyes looked at Besanc?on for a long time before curving into a smile, ¡°Then let me see what the Besanco?ns are capable of.¡±


    He hadn¡¯t given anything in return, and his words were vague and ambiguous. Yet Besanc?on¡¯s expression was as if he had picked up a huge windfall. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes lit up, and he couldn¡¯t wait to go out and show his abilities.


    From beginning to end, Rafael had given no clear instructions, and even this favor was offered by Besancon himself.


    Being taken advantage of, offering to help, doing the deed himself, and yet thinking he had gained the upper hand ¨C where could you find such a good-natured person? Rafael looked at Besanc?on with almost pity. It was a pity that this trick could only be used once, otherwise, he really wanted to keep this sucker as a treasure.


    Julius, who had been repeatedly used as an imaginary enemy, stood in the crowd and suddenly felt a chill. He looked around suspiciously, but found nothing unusual. He wondered secretly, was it just him being too paranoid?


    Translator¡¯s Note


    Hello! I¡¯ll be splitting Chapter 21 since its almost thrice as long as a regular chapter. You¡¯ll find even after dividing it into two parts, this chapter is still the longest so far. Please give a like or comment if you enjoy the story, it gives me motivation to keep going!

 Chapter 21.2 Confrontation

    Rafael left before the banquet began. Doctor Polly had been waiting in his reception room for more than an hour. When he saw him come in, he glared at him and placed the tools in his medical bag with a bang. The Pope, who had been playing tricks just now, sat down immediately and put on a docile and innocent expression.


    ¡°Your clothes,¡± Polly said stiffly.


    Rafael obediently pulled up the hem of his clothes, revealing his pale legs.


    Polly touched his knees, feeling the bony and cold skin. He glared at Rafael fiercely: ¡°If you keep this up, you¡¯ll end up paralyzed sooner or later!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been sitting all day...¡± Rafael tried to defend himself, but Polly saw through his lie at a glance.


    ¡°What time did you go to bed last night? What time did you get up this morning?¡±


    Polly tapped Rafael¡¯s knees and calves with his fingers. Rafael felt the pain of poor blood circulation, but he didn¡¯t dare to speak. Of course, he didn¡¯t dare to say where he had been sleeping. If Polly knew, the old man might die of anger on the spot.


    Polly scolded Rafael fiercely, waving his arm. The Pope, who knew he was in the wrong, crouched there like a shiny little kitten, not daring to move, his hands neatly folded on his lap, as obedient as could be.


    Polly stepped out aggressively and said to the guard at the door, ¡°Go get a bucket of hot water.¡±


    He turned and walked back, and Rafael immediately gave him a flattering and obedient smile.


    Who doesn¡¯t love watching a cute little cat with golden fur and pale purple eyes act coquettish? Especially when it originally had sharp claws, but deliberately hid this weapon for you.


    Polly took a deep breath and held back what he had originally wanted to say.


    ¡°Holy Father, the hot water is ready.¡±


    Unexpectedly, it was Ferrante who came in carrying the bucket.


    The young man stood there a little uneasily. There were only three of them in the room, and this fact seemed to make him nervous, and fine sweat could be seen seeping from his temples.


    Of course, it might also be because the fireplace in the room was burning too hot.


    Rafael sank into a pile of fluffy, soft feather cushions, relaxing his tired bones, and a little drowsiness crept into his mind. He saw Ferrante was at a loss and beckoned him over: ¡°Come closer.¡±


    The black-haired youth walked over with the bucket and watched as Polly threw a handful of unknown herbs into the bucket. The steam rose, and an indescribable bitter smell spread. The water in the bucket turned a deep green, and Rafael kicked off his shoes and put his feet in. His fair skin soon turned a light pink.


    For some reason, this scene made Ferrante a little nervous. He didn¡¯t know where to put his eyes, so he just stared at his toes.


    It was strange. Even though he had seen more explicit and seductive scenes in the rose garden before, and even became accustomed to them, there was nothing wrong this time, why was he so uncomfortable?


    ¡°Ferrante, are you getting used to being here?¡± the young Pope asked gently.


    ¡°It¡¯s pretty good, the senior members of the guard take good care of us.¡± Ferrante answered carefully.


    The Pope noticed his nervousness and pointed to the sofa beside him, a smile in his eyes: ¡°No need to be so nervous¡ªyou were just as nervous when I saw you yesterday, as if I was going to eat you. The doctrine doesn¡¯t allow the Pope to eat people. Please sit down, I don¡¯t like talking to someone while they¡¯re standing.¡±


    He made a little joke and watched Ferrante sit down.


    The handsome young man had a thin face, probably due to a long life at the slums. His skin was a bit rough, and his long, bony fingers were calloused and had many small cuts. His curly black hair stood up defiantly, and under the uniform black of the Papal Guard, one could see the strong muscle contours.


    A bit malnourished, but healthy, agile, and...intelligent.


    ¡°No,¡± he heard his own voice say, ¡°Thank you very much, but I¡¯m not suited for study. Please let me follow and protect you.¡±


    Rafael looked at him for a few seconds, and for a moment, Ferrante thought he saw sorrow and pity in the other¡¯s eyes.


    Why was he so sad? Who was he sad for?


    Ferrante was about to blurt out these questions, but the look vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him wondering if it was an illusion.


    ¡°Very well, then. Since you¡¯ve refused, you won¡¯t get another chance like this. Don¡¯t regret it.¡± Sistine I smiled. His smile was as dignified as ever, like a saint walking among men, as if he had foreseen the tragedy to come.


    ¡°I won¡¯t regret it,¡± Ferrante replied firmly.


    This conversation was just a small interlude. Unconsciously, the people in the papal palace became accustomed to seeing the young guard named Ferrante always following the pope. The Pope seemed to be very fond of this handsome and upright young man. When he was meeting guests, going on processions, or during church services, this silent figure would always follow him, so much so that even the Secretary General of the Papal Palace had to pay some attention to him.


    ¡°Do you like Ferrante very much?¡± Julius asked casually at the breakfast table.


    Rafael paused mid-way through cutting his omelette, his attention momentarily diverted. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve never kept anyone around this long,¡± Julius observed.


    ¡°Oh...¡± Rafael came back to his senses and paused with the table knife in his hand, ¡°He is very obedient, easy to use, and very malleable.¡±


    This explanation was very casual, but Julius hadn¡¯t intended to launch an inquisition. He had merely made an offhand remark, and Rafael was willing to explain... that was enough.


    Just a boy who¡¯d clawed his way out of the slums, Julius thought idly, glancing at the stack of investigation files on the table. He quickly dismissed the matter.


    As Julius lowered his head, Rafael stared at him silently for a moment.


    The struggle for the Count Clement title soon concluded. The legitimate son of Cardinal Tondolo, young Sir Tondolo, inherited his father¡¯s title as expected. His illegitimate half-brother, dejected, left Florence with the portion of the inheritance he had received. The new Count Clement happily presented the Pope with the promised money, estates, and harbor deeds, then gleefully rode out of the city to go hunting.


    And Besancon, who had secretly contributed a lot to this...also returned to his residence happily after receiving the Pope¡¯s vague words of approval.


    Is it really impossible to fleece this sucker a few more times?


    Looking at Besancon¡¯s back, which was emitting joy as he thought he had obtained the Pope¡¯s approval, Rafael thought quietly. After all, this advantage was too easy to take, and he felt that it was too good to pass up.


    However, with great self-control, he suppressed that slight regret.


    Ferrante returned after seeing off the guest and found the Pope hunched over, reading a parchment. He silently took his place by the window, behind the curtain. This spot wouldn¡¯t obstruct the master¡¯s view or block any light, yet it provided a full view of the room and allowed him to be the first to shield his master. Ferrante knew his duties and his place very well. Even though the Pope had recently shown him unprecedented patience and favor, he had never lost sight of himself.


    Only occasionally... occasionally, in his free time before bed, he would quietly wonder why the Pope was so kind to him. He had never received such gentle affection and kindness from anyone before, so his first reaction was vigilance and reflection.


    But he had nothing, really. If anything, it was this face that could be considered good-looking, but the Pope was clearly more handsome. There could be no more beautiful being in the world than this saint on earth.


    During this time, he watched the Pope¡¯s every move as if he were seeing the true saint in his mind. He was compassionate, gentle, and treated everyone equally. He would not push away any muddy hand that reached out to him, nor would he ignore any tearful eyes. His tolerance made even Ferrante, who had received his favor, feel unworthy.


    His saint favored him, but he could not give him anything in return.


    It was called protection, but there was hardly any danger in the papal palace. So Ferrante spent more and more time gazing at the young Pope. He dared not look openly, so he could only steal glances out of the corner of his eye, watching the Pope¡¯s slender body and long, golden hair. He watched his occasional, involuntary smile, his motionless brows when he was angry, and his more graceful and slower steps than others. Then he would deliberately step in time with the other.


    The invisible overlapping of their steps gave Ferrante an inexplicable joy. He would fall asleep with this small sweetness, a secret happiness that only he knew.

 Chapter 22: Quiet Before the Storm

    On the third day of the celebration, according to custom, the Pope would go to Miracle Square and host a Grand Blessing. After the blessing, he would personally greet a few lucky selected people. Of course, for the safety of the Pope, these selected lucky people had undergone careful screening.


    As the Pope¡¯s new favorite, Ferrante was also involved in the screening process.


    Those selected could not be from the nobility, nor could they be unemployed or in debt, and they certainly couldn¡¯t have a criminal record¡ªthis alone excluded almost everyone from the lower town.


    Ideally, they should be involved in some sort of industry, such as a small factory owner or a Florentine civil servant. At the very least, they should be able to afford a decent-looking outfit and understand basic etiquette, so as not to behave inappropriately in front of the Pope...


    On the day of the celebration, Rafael arrived at the square in an open-top carriage. The crowd, thick as a swarm of bees, enthusiastically surrounded the carriage as it moved forward. To prevent the ejected steam from harming people, this carriage used the most primitive horse-drawn power. Two carefully selected beautiful white horses gently stepped on the ground, their manes were carefully braided, and the nuns had placed fresh lily wreaths on them, weaving various colorful flowers into their manes. The fragrance of the flowers made these two loyal animals constantly shake their heads and snort.


    The cheering and jubilant people reached out and threw newly picked flowers onto the convoy. Ferrante, standing behind Rafael as a guard, was also covered in petals. He turned his head and sneezed. Rafael, who had been smiling and nodding all the time, occasionally raising his hand to wave, noticed his embarrassment and a genuine smile flashed in his eyes.


    The Pope in the carriage perfectly matched people¡¯s imagination of God, as if the portrait hanging on the walls of the Vatican had come to life. He was beautiful, kind, and compassionate, and his every move was elegant and dignified. Wherever his gaze fell, people would burst into wild cheers.


    The grand blessing lasted for nearly three hours, and the people¡¯s enthusiasm never waned. Rafael¡¯s legs were numb from standing, and his right leg, which had an old injury, had completely lost all sensation, but he still maintained his usual demeanor and finished his speech calmly.


    Thankfully, it didn¡¯t rain today.


    Rafael thought to himself as he put away the parchment.


    He was going to step down from the makeshift platform to greet the people. As he turned around, the Pope¡¯s body swayed slightly. Ferrante quickly reached out to support him, but Rafael only leaned on his arm for a moment before quickly pushing him away.


    The Pope¡¯s every move was watched by the people, and his every action would be deeply analyzed and understood. If he lost his composure here, even just a change in expression, it would lead to much speculation.


    This would do him no good.


    Rafael understood this well, so even though his right leg was aching as if it was about to break, and the sharp pain piercing his muscles and blood vessels, as if someone was scratching his bones with their nails, he couldn¡¯t frown.


    The young and handsome Pope turned around and showed a perfectly curved smile to the people waiting below.


    He walked down the stairs unhurriedly, his steps slow and solemn, and extended his hand to the middle-aged man at the front of the line.


    ¡°May the Lord bless you,¡± the Pope placed his hand in the center of the man¡¯s open palms and pressed gently on the man¡¯s palm, saying softly, ¡°May His blessings ensure your life goes smoothly.¡±


    The man, who had put on a new wool coat and specially styled his hair¡ªhe had a strong smell of shampoo on him¡ªwas so excited that his face turned red. He was so overwhelmed with joy that he momentarily forgot how the priests from the Papal Palace had taught him to reply.


    ¡°Thank, thank you...¡± he stammered, ¡°Our whole family likes you very much, I mean, you¡¯re great, I mean¡ª¡±


    He tried to express his thoughts incoherently, and Rafael smiled patiently, listening to his words.


    The Pope¡¯s kind demeanor made him relax a lot. Braving his increasingly red face, he finished what he wanted to say, and then was led away by the priests waiting on the side.


    The next people were about the same as him, and being incoherent was already the best performance. One old woman even fainted when Rafael held her hand.


    Rafael half-supported and half-carried her, allowing the monks to come and take her to the church to rest. He didn¡¯t show any displeasure throughout the process, which obviously moved the people around him, and the shouts of ¡°Sistine I¡± gradually merged into a surging wave.


    The last person was led up, and Rafael was stunned for a moment.


    It was a little girl, who looked no older than ten. Perhaps, because she was so thin and her cheeks lacked the plumpness of a well-nourished child, she might be older than she appeared.


    But she was lovely, with big, round blue eyes and long, golden curls. She wore a snow-white dress that made her look like a little angel from a church painting.


    Rafael bent down and extended his hand. Seeing the sweat on her face from nervousness, he smiled reassuringly and lowered his voice, ¡°What is your name, child?¡±


    The girl trembled. She was on the verge of fainting from excitement, but she pinched herself hard. She couldn¡¯t faint, not now. She quickly glanced up at the handsome pope in front of her, her gaze sliding away from him as if she had touched something, and she replied timidly, ¡°Jenny, Your Holiness. My name is Jenny, from the Holy Grail Church in the Lower City.¡± r


    The head of the church would never offend Duke Francois for a missing girl, and a girl of that age was indeed not a suitable candidate to be received by the Pope. So how did Jenny pass the screening and see him? Who wanted to use her to expose Francois?


    Francois¡¯s enemies? Or his enemies?


    Does someone want to see him and Franc?ois clash?


    Or do you want to pit Florence against Calais?


    His thoughts raced like a whirlwind. A dense web of intrigue spread out from Jenny, and Rafael¡¯s expression grew grave, as if he were trying to see through the thin and frail girl to the sinister plots behind her.


    Ferrante stood stiffly, his mind racing. Had he been discovered? He had merely made a small alteration to the list; no one should have noticed. Even if someone did notice the anomaly in the list later, they wouldn¡¯t be able to trace it back to him.


    ¡°Your Holiness means...¡± he probed again.


    Rafael paused for a moment and replied decisively, ¡°Do nothing.¡±


    Ferrante¡¯s hands instantly stiffened. He stared at the figure with his back turned to him and murmured, ¡°Nothing... at all?¡±


    Those suffering children, those pale and lifeless corpses, those who had endured torture and died, those who were waiting, calling, praying for the saint to reach out to them...


    The saint who walked among men had rejected their pleas.


    Ferrante felt something crumbling within him.


    Rafael sensed that the warm hands had lost their temperature, so he turned his head to look at Ferrante and met a smile that seemed unchanged yet somehow different.


    ¡°Before I know the whole story, nothing.¡± Rafael patiently explained, a rare occurrence.


    ¡°Know the whole story? Then... those people, we¡¯ll just ignore them?¡± Ferrante asked almost in a whisper. His gaze was both dull and heavy, as if a storm was brewing deep in the clear blue sea. He stared fixedly at Rafael¡¯s pale neck, momentarily unsure of what he was saying.


    ¡°Yes.¡± He heard his saint answer without hesitation.


    Ah.


    Wrong.


    Something must be wrong.


    As if he hadn¡¯t heard clearly, Ferrante asked again, ¡°They might die soon, and we¡¯ll just ignore that?¡±


    This time, Rafael was silent for a longer time. His slender fingers tapped on the desk, his nails an unhealthy color. The thin Pope seemed so fragile that a gust of wind could break him, but his tone was harder than steel. ¡°Until I figure out who sent her, yes.¡±


    This was wrong.


    How could a saint... turn a blind eye to suffering?


    Unless... this was a devil disguised as a saint to lure people into sin.


    A sudden clap of thunder outside startled Rafael. He turned his head sharply, and a flash of uncontrollable fear crossed his lavender eyes. Ferrante noticed his fleeting expression, tilted his head slightly, and seemed to remember something. He looked at Rafael motionlessly from behind.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Ferrante is a mad dog, a real mad dog, one immersed in his own thoughts, tsk tsk.


    At present, his brain circuits are completely different from Rafael¡¯s, but it doesn¡¯t matter! The little pope will teach him how to be a normal person.

 Chapter 23: Choice

    Rafael did not contact Jenny in private, which could be considered a small kindness to this little girl who might have been exploited by others. If those people knew that Rafael hadn¡¯t paid attention to Jenny and hadn¡¯t gotten any information from her, the little girl would still have hope of living; otherwise, death would likely await her.


    Whether they thought Rafael was afraid of Franc?ois¡¯ power or had other plans, Jenny would no longer be their pawn.


    After his resurrection, this was the first time Rafael had shown such kindness to a stranger, although no one knew about it and no one ever would.


    Ferrante¡¯s order was to send Jenny out of the Papal Palace openly. The black-haired young guard accepted the order silently and carried it out without any compromise.


    At the entrance of the bustling Papal Palace, the little girl with golden-brown curly hair held the hand of the uniformed boy beside her. As she was about to leave, she couldn¡¯t help but turn her gaze to the unusually silent person beside her.


    ¡°Ferrante? Are you unhappy?¡±


    Jenny¡¯s voice was timid. That wasn¡¯t really what she wanted to ask, but her intuition told her it was best not to mention that matter now.


    ¡°No,¡± Ferrante denied concisely, and walked her out without even looking at her.


    Jenny lowered her head, rubbing her skirt with her small hands, and followed Ferrante¡¯s steps uneasily. After a while, she asked hesitantly, ¡°Is it... did I do something wrong? The Holy Father didn¡¯t want to see me.¡±


    Ferrante was silent for a moment: ¡°It¡¯s not your fault. I... I¡¯ll try again.¡±


    The young man¡¯s deep blue eyes were devoid of any emotion, as dark and deep as an underwater cave. No one could see what was really inside. He repeated to himself, as if trying to convince himself: ¡°I¡¯ll try and try again.¡±


    Meanwhile, Rafael was also talking to Julius.


    They were strolling through the Grand Gallery of the Papal Palace. This magnificent corridor housed the classic works of all the masters of the Church for a thousand years. Slender Roman columns supported the arch, and stained glass windows, finely crafted, were arranged in a variety of patterns in colorful compositions. with a pilgrimage picture that was painted by a master artist who spent thirty years of painstaking effort. On both sides hung art masterpieces of various sizes, including portraits of popes from past dynasties, coronation portraits and various religious paintings.


    This Grand Gallery was the Holy Church¡¯s proudest artistic achievement. Many famous masters were proud to be able to have their works displayed inside the gallery, but entering the Papal Palace¡¯s Grand Gallery required the Pope¡¯s personal permission, and very few people had received this honor so far.


    As for the Pope, such a masterpiece of art was just a place for him to stroll in his spare time. Dr. Polly had set a schedule for him that was accurate to the minute. Rafael certainly couldn¡¯t follow it completely ¨C if he did, he wouldn¡¯t be able to finish most of his work. But within his ability, he didn¡¯t mind making the dedicated old man happy.


    Having followed the doctor¡¯s advice and taken a half-hour stroll after dinner, the Pope and Julius met in the grand gallery. Perhaps the Secretary had been waiting for a chance encounter here, but Rafael didn¡¯t care about that.


    ¡°What has Franc?ois been up to lately?¡± The young Pope paused in front of a life-sized oil painting, looking up at the depiction of a saint being born from God¡¯s palm and descending to earth, as if asking casually.


    Julius hadn¡¯t expected the Pope to mention that name and paused for a moment before replying, ¡°He¡¯s been quite peaceful these past few days. There¡¯s been no major movement since the celebration, but he¡¯s been in contact with several cardinals.¡±


    He casually mentioned the names of several cardinals.


    Rafael fell into his own thoughts again, and Julius didn¡¯t wonder why he asked this question. If he was curious, he could always find out the answer.


    ¡°Does Franc?ois often stay in his manor?¡± Rafael suddenly asked again.


    Julius silently frowned.


    This was the second question centered around Franc?ois. Why was Rafa paying so much attention to him?


    ¡°Yes,¡± Julius said quickly, ¡°He seems... not very fond of going out.¡± As he said this, even the unruffled Julius couldn¡¯t help but feel the logic in this statement was odd. R?


    From any perspective, Franc?ois was not a low-key person. From their few meetings, it can be seen that the Duke has a flamboyant style, likes to show off, and was arrogant and self-centered. How could such a person refuse to socialize?


    Julius quickly realized that there was a problem.


    ¡°What have you heard?¡± Compared to Franc?ois, the head of the Portia family was more concerned about something else. How had Rafael discovered the anomaly that even he hadn¡¯t noticed?


    ¡®The fidelity of marriage and love is trampled upon, and they also violate God¡¯s teaching against same-sex love ¨C of course, their reason is that there is no love in it, but merely the venting of primitive desires... I¡¯m sorry, this dirty content may disgust you, I hope it hasn¡¯t disturbed your precious sleep.¡¯


    ¡®...I have also witnessed many more evil deeds that have claimed innocent lives. Will you save these poor people? They are trapped in the swamp of sin, but still yearn for salvation.¡¯


    ¡®Yours faithfully, Ferrante.¡¯


    These words were written on a piece of thin, poor-quality paper, carefully folded several times, and sewn between two pieces of leather before being delivered to him. The handwriting was crooked and there were a few spelling mistakes, but it did not hinder reading.


    Based on this content alone, Rafael already had a rough guess about what Franc?ois was doing. A violent rage swept through his mind, and the anger made him unable to control his strength for a moment, almost crushing the paper.


    But he quickly came to his senses and put the paper down.


    Now is not the time. Even if Franc?ois did something more excessive, he could not take action against the Duke of Calais.


    Otherwise, he would face the revenge of an empire.


    This was not about whether Duke Franc?ois himself was popular, but rather with the act of challenging the Empire¡¯s imperial authority.


    After thinking about it, this matter can only be regarded as a personal moral failing of Franc?ois himself.


    In this era where the poor have no human rights, it¡¯s such a charitable act for a great nobleman to pay money to buy people who can¡¯t survive. Even if he doesn¡¯t treat them as servants but uses them for personal pleasure, it¡¯s not a big problem in the eyes of many people.


    ¡ªAren¡¯t the prostitutes in the rose garden and the glass workshop doing the same thing? One pays money, the other pays with their bodies, what a fair trade!


    Even if they die, it can only be said to be a small error in the transaction process.


    At most... Franc?ois just plays bigger.


    But that¡¯s not right.


    Rafael crossed his hands, his fingers gently pressing against his bony knuckles, and thought silently.


    They are all just young children and should have the chance to live a decent life, instead of learning to take shortcuts early before the frivolous temptation of fate.


    What¡¯s more, they are the people of Florence, the children under his wings who pray for his protection every day.


    What should he do? How will he do it?


    Rafael was in a dilemma.


    On the one hand, there was the Duke of Calais, and on the other hand, there were the lowly commoners of Florence. These were not equal weights on the scale, and he had to choose one.


    And perhaps, there were others watching beside this scale, waiting for him to make a choice, and then pull him, or even Florence, into the abyss.


    He had no doubt about this. There were countless people coveting the position of Pope, and every cardinal had a dream of wearing a golden vestment. As long as he showed any flaws, they would not hesitate to spend all their fortune to expel him from the papal throne. Even Julius could not be trusted, and Florence...


    He loved this holy and magnificent ¡®City of Cities¡¯, this filthy and decadent city of doom. Would they also love it like this? They only loved the upper city with its elegant clothes and beautiful women, the magnificent Papal Palace and the Grand Gallery; and they wanted to cut off the lower city like a malignant tumor ¨C if they could, Rafael was sure they would do so without hesitation.


    Rafael flicked the small, exquisite clock on the table, listening to the pleasant sound of the gear shafts meshing. His face, reflected on the brass surface, was pale and stiff, and his pale purple eyes showed no emotion.


    ¡®Find a chance to leave and don¡¯t do anything unnecessary.¡¯


    In the end, the young Pope wrote these words on a paper.

 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 ¨C 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 Franc?ois 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 ¨C they were trivial things in his eyes.No?v(el)B\\jnn


    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 Franc?ois. 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.


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


    ¡ªHe 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.


    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 find that he couldn¡¯t find any trace of tenderness or compassion in them¡ªor 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 Franc?ois¡¯ 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.

 Chapter 25: What did he do to the Pope?

    This was definitely a mistake.


    He must have been bewitched by the devil.


    Rafael thought with a bit of malice and gave a polite smile to Duke Franc?ois who was waiting at the entrance of the mansion.


    ¡°Your Holiness, my humble abode is honored by your presence today.¡± The Duke of Calais, adorned in a shimmering cloak of jewels and pearls, greeted the impromptu visit of the Florentine monarch with a large retinue of servants.


    To be honest, even Francois himself was wondering why the Pope would visit so casually. Even with his self-confidence, he didn¡¯t believe his relationship with Sistine I was close enough to visit each other so informally. But then again, he thought, this was just a young man who had not experienced much of the world. No matter how heavy the crown on his head was, it couldn¡¯t change the fact that he lacked the time to polish the calmness in his bones. Perhaps this was just another impulsive decision on his part...


    Franc?ois thought casually that this was a good opportunity to show off Calais¡¯ wealth. He was always happy to show off his power to others.


    When Rafael saw Francois, truly glittering under the gaslights, he began to regret agreeing to Ferrante¡¯s request the night before. The culprit behind his current predicament, who was causing him to face this dandy, was diligently scrubbing the floor in the Papal Palace ¨C a direct order from His Holiness, forbidding any help from people or tools, and demanding that he personally clean the Pope¡¯s suite.


    Unlike the confrontation Ferrante had envisioned, Rafael had no intention of bringing this matter to light.


    What was he supposed to say?


    Ah, Your Grace, Duke of Calais, I hear you¡¯ve acquired many beautiful boys and girls for your estate. I hope you¡¯ll send them all away?


    Damn it, even if Rafael was insane, he would never say such a thing.


    Florence needed to maintain peace with Calais, and so Sistine I needed to maintain a good relationship with the Duke of Calais ¨C even if it was just a superficial friendship. Sixtus I couldn¡¯t afford to have a falling out with the Duke of Calais over some ¡®lowly and insignificant¡¯ commoners, even if it seemed like a trivial request.


    This was an interference in Franc?ois¡¯s private affairs. Even friends couldn¡¯t be so rude, let alone they were just superficial friends.


    Moreover, he had to maintain Franc?ois¡¯s dignity and prevent him from losing face in Florence.


    Thinking of this, Rafael felt as if he had swallowed a dead rat.


    So there was only one way to go. Rafael had to settle on the only feasible method, which was to create a misunderstanding that was neither too big nor too small. Even for the sake of his ¡®ally¡¯, Franc?ois would have no choice but to drive these people away.


    As for what strange label Sistine I will probably be given...


    Rafael could already fully imagine the contemptuous and ambiguous teasing that would be going on in private.


    It doesn¡¯t matter, the young pope returned to his indifferent expression. As long as he wore the crown of Saint Leah, they would have to remain respectful to him. As for what they said in private, what did it have to do with him? Would he mind this little bit of gossip?


    It¡¯s just that...


    Rafael sighed silently. Although he had agreed to Ferrante, he had to admit that he had actually taken advantage of a loophole and deliberately misinterpreted Ferrante¡¯s meaning.


    Franc?ois walked beside the Pope, observing the young pope who was inspired by a whim out of the corner of his eye without any expression. Unlike the gorgeous attire he had worn in the grand banquets before, the Florentine monarch was dressed very simply today, in a snow-white plain robe with a light golden pattern on the edge that was barely noticeable unless one looked closely, and a dark red velvet cloak draped over his shoulders. He was so low-key that it would make people laugh at his poverty.


    Franc?ois looked down on such a ¡®plain¡¯ Pope from the bottom of his heart. He was dressed even worse than his lovers. The Duke of Calais silently mocked the young man beside him, his face still beaming.


    ¡°Ah, what a coincidence, your loyal Cardinal Stone is also here. We were just discussing the spices produced in Calais. I hear you also enjoy bitter orange?¡± Francois casually brought up a topic of conversation.


    They were walking through the spacious garden of the courtyard. Contrary to Ferrante¡¯s description, there were no scenes of debauchery. The falling water from the fountain splashed transparent pearl-like fragments. Brand new dining tables were set up on the lawn, with snow-white tablecloths draped to the ground. The flower baskets on the tables were bright and vibrant as surging waves. A few good-looking boys and girls were strolling around, and upon seeing the group from a distance, they did not rush over but politely greeted them from a distance.


    ¡°They are...¡± Rafael asked casually as if unintentionally.


    Franc?ois glanced over there, his expression calm: ¡°Oh, those are my servants. I like pretty faces, and I appreciate and pursue beauty ¨C you should understand that, no?¡±


    Rafael looked over again and nodded: ¡°Yes, I understand very well.¡±


    They arrived at the reception room and met up with Cardinal Stone, who had come out to greet them. Stone was a dry, middle-aged man of average appearance. His only notable quality was his incredibly strong memory. He could recite the entire Aeneid and The Syracuse Epic verbatim, down to the specific line on a particular page, not to mention various religious texts and obscure records. This was a remarkable skill within the Holy See, but Rafael didn¡¯t have a deep impression of Cardinal Stone. Perhaps it was because in his previous life, this cardinal had unfortunately chosen the wrong side and had been unceremoniously kicked out of Florence by Julius, dying in a small church in the countryside.


    Francois¡¯s reception room was as luxurious as he was, adorned with lavish Calais-style decorations. There were plaster statues of goddesses holding vases in the corners, from which flowed carefully arranged bouquets. A towering arrangement of eucalyptus leaves, lilies of the valley, forget-me-nots, green roses, and geraniums filled the room with a delicate fragrance. Tapestries embroidered with the Calais royal emblem were everywhere, as well as portraits of Francois himself.


    The haze of drunkenness was suddenly dispelled. Francois sat up abruptly, pushing away the noblewoman who had been leaning against him. His eyes, sharp as a hawk, scanned the hall, unable to find the distinctive pale gold figure that should have been the most eye-catching in this chaos.


    ¡°Where¡¯s the Pope?¡± he demanded, grabbing a servant.


    ¡°I sent someone to look for him. Have you found him?¡± The servant stammered, unable to answer.


    Francois¡¯s heart sank. He realized something was terribly wrong, but he hoped it wasn¡¯t the worst-case scenario.


    However, his worst fears were confirmed. He saw his most trusted personal officer rushing in from outside. The man¡¯s face, usually marked by a humble smile, was now pale and rigid, like a corpse. He rushed to Francois.


    ¡°Your Highness,¡± the officer who had accompanied Franc?ois from prince to duke still insisted on addressing him as he used to, ¡°Sistine I...¡±


    He swallowed hard and took a deep breath under Francois¡¯s increasingly intense gaze. ¡°Sir Carlos... he mistook His Holiness for one of Your Grace¡¯s... lovers... he, he...¡±


    All the alcohol seemed to evaporate from Francois¡¯s body.


    He slowly stood up, his face as dark as a storm cloud. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat, the kind a beast makes when it encounters an enemy. ¡°That stupid bastard, what did he do?¡±


    Even the Duke of Calais was a little overwhelmed by this ¡®surprise¡¯.


    If things were as he suspected... heavens.


    ¡°No, it hasn¡¯t reached the worst point, but His Holiness was furious. He wanted to come to the hall and confront you, but I managed to calm him down. Please...¡± the officer said quickly.


    ¡°Very good.¡± Francois felt his suffocated heart barely starting to beat again. He absentmindedly praised the officer and strode out of the banquet hall.


    In every circle, there is a group of people who are born rich, idle, with no skills, and are only good at eating, drinking and having fun. The only expectation of their family is that they don¡¯t cause trouble. Sir Carlos is such a character in the Florentine circle.


    He had spent the first half of his life eating, drinking, and playing, never doing anything so bad that his family couldn¡¯t cover it up. He had no desire to climb the social ladder, and given his status, it was certainly impossible for him to meet the honorable Pope up close. And so... in his complacent idleness, he had done something earth-shaking that he could never have imagined in his entire life.


    He, Carlos, tried to force the Pope of Florence to ¨C


    Carlos had no idea how all this had happened. He just walked here in a comfortable drunken state as usual, ready to choose a lovely lady to spend a beautiful night with him. And by chance, he saw a heart-moving profile leaning against the window... God, he swore, he had never understood the meaning of love at first sight so deeply before. The other party had noticed his gaze and offered a glance and a smile, then left the window. Carlos, whose head was filled with wine, had a sudden inspiration. He was certain it was a silent invitation. So... so...


    He stood there, dazed, in the midst of the chaos, his mind numbed with fear. The beauty he had fallen for was sitting in an armchair, his fingers intertwined, his violet eyes filled with sharp, furious anger. He looked at him coldly, like a lion staring at a poor, trembling rabbit.


    The Pope... how could he be the Pope?!


    Carlos had a splitting headache. He didn¡¯t even dare think about the chaos that had ensued. His waist, which had been kicked, still ached, but he tried to shrink himself, wishing he could burrow into the ground to avoid this terrible gaze.


    There were hurried footsteps outside. All the onlookers who had been drawn by the commotion were being sent back to their rooms by Francois¡¯s servants. So, one can imagine who could make such a noise here.


    The tightly closed door opened, and at the same time, the young, cold Pope stood up. His hair was still a little disheveled, and his pale cheeks were flushed with anger. He strode towards the door, meeting Francois, who had hurried over, face-to-face¡ªand then passed right by him without stopping.


    The Duke of Calais, who had been so blatantly ignored for the first time, was so furious he almost roared. But he didn¡¯t dare. This time, he was in the wrong. No matter how the Pope expressed his dissatisfacion, he had to accept it respectfully.


    As Sistine I passed him, he coldly dropped a sentence, ¡°Your entertainment is very interesting, but I hope everyone here knows how to keep quiet. And of course, I don¡¯t want to see any more corpses or deaths on the streets of Florence that I have to deal with, Your Grace.¡±


    Francois forced out an ugly smile: ¡°Please rest assured, everything here will be a secret. I¡¯ll make sure they know what to say and what not to say.¡±


    The Pope seemed to sneer and left with a cold gust of wind, leaving Carlos to face Francois¡¯s terrifying gaze.


    ¡°Send everyone here away,¡± Francois gritted his teeth. Killing them would have been the better option, but hadn¡¯t he said that there couldn¡¯t be any disturbances in Florence? ¡°Give them plenty of money and tell them to keep their mouths shut. Tell them that if any rumors get out, they¡¯ll be dead.¡±


    The servant withdrew as ordered and went to disperse the crowd, while Carlos... the unfortunate knight, was left with only the Duke¡¯s meaningful, sinister smile.


    The crowd had gathered like crows and later disappeared in a very short time. The confused Carlos was the only one left in the room that was ravaged by the strong wind. Carlos stood dumbfounded in the middle of the room, feeling ice cold. Everything had happened so fast, so unexpectedly. He couldn¡¯t even believe what had happened. It was as if everything had been a terrible nightmare.

 Chapter 26: The Baths

    Rafael stormed up the carriage steps, his movements as swift as a gust of wind. His servants ran after him at a trot, their faces filled with suppressed panic and bewilderment.


    The carriage started moving as soon as the Pope got in. The servants hurriedly chased after it, forming a comical long line.


    Everything that had happened today was too strange. As they ran, they exchanged glances secretly, and then retracted their gazes after seeing each other¡¯s equally confused and surprised expressions.


    The servants living in the Papal Palace all had the same instinct for self-preservation. They knew very well that no matter what had happened today, they couldn¡¯t discuss it openly.


    Inside the carriage, Rafael revealed a pained expression as soon as the vehicle started moving. He bent down and carefully examined his right leg, from his fragile ankle to his more shattered knee. The kick he had landed on Carlos just now was too strong, and the way of exerting force was a bit awkward. The knee, which already had a serious old injury, began to ache slightly, announcing its existence with an unmistakable sharp pain.


    The Pope sighed softly, squeezing out the turbid air in his lungs, calming his overly racing heart before slowly beginning to tidy up his disheveled appearance.


    In order to express his anger, he had rushed out without straightening his disheveled clothes or hair. Taking advantage of this little time, he finally pulled out the slightly curled long hair hidden under his cloak. The pale golden strands, looking like a handful of cruelly crushed gold, were roughly pulled out and tossed behind him. His pale purple eyes were devoid of emotion.


    Choosing Carlos had been the result of careful consideration. After ¡®drunkenly¡¯ walking into the building, he had chosen an empty room and waited quietly. As the banquet progressed, there would inevitably be people who couldn¡¯t resist coming here to have fun. His guess was correct. Gradually, nobles came from the end of the path, and after waiting for a while, he set his eyes on Carlos who was alone.


    Looking at his face, there was no impression of him at all. He was just a minor noble without any qualifications to meet the Pope. The family crest on his clothing is very simple. His family roots weren¡¯t deep and wouldn¡¯t cause any turmoil in Florence.


    Rafael selected his prey with an almost cold eye.


    He sat by the window, and when the other person looked up at him dazedly, he gave them a smile.


    ¡ª¡ªHow pathetic.


    The monarch of Florence thought. He controlled the faith of millions of people on the continent, was God¡¯s representative on earth, held supreme authority, was called the King of all Kings, and even kings had to bow their heads before his chariot.


    ¡ª¡ªBut now he had to resort to selling his looks to achieve his goal.


    This was the method with the least adverse consequences. But if it were in the past... in the brief moment before the other person came upstairs, he thought aimlessly, if it were the him of the past, the him who was well protected by Julius, he would never have accepted such a humiliating method. The head of the Portia family would never have let him do such a thing. He could use the Portias to achieve any purpose ¨C


    The hot breath with the smell of alcohol approached him. Rafael endured it until a pair of hands touched his hair and began to pull at his clothes. A heavy body pressed against him, and Rafael suddenly opened his eyes, raised his right foot and kicked hard.


    ¡ªIf, what a beautiful word. He suddenly realized that Julius had actually protected him very well, like a precious piece of porcelain or a delicate rose. He kept him from harm and rain, blocked all the storms outside the Papal Palace, and built him a carefree Eden.


    ¡ªUntil he got tired of it.


    Rafael retied the strap of his cloak and pressed down hard on his right leg, using the artificially created pain to suppress the sourness that was rising in his bones. He silently let out a hideous smile.


    Even with this flawless face, this smile could not be made any more beautiful. However, it had nothing to do with any beautiful words and was entirely the product of an evil spirit that had crawled out of hell.


    The corners of his mouth were exaggeratedly stretched, his skin was deathly pale, his pupils dilated, and bright red blood vessels climbed up his eyeballs. The holy angel had shed its beautiful skin, and its white wings and golden hair were soaked in the malice of revenge and resentment. The blood of the world had become chains dragging him to hell, and he, rooted in hell, still vainly tried to climb the flowers of sin to the sky. His soul howled, roared, and screamed with resentment.


    The carriage stopped, and the interior was silent. The servants exchanged glances, not daring to disturb the Pope who might be in deep thought. Finally, the curtain was drawn back, and the Pope stepped out of the carriage. The servants hurried forward to support his arm, and the Pope slowly and solemnly stepped down from the footstool, walking straight into the corridor where the lights had already been lit.


    The iron-gray hair was covered with a thin layer of water vapor in the hot and humid air, and the dark red lips looked even colder against the pale skin. Unlike the Pope¡¯s clear and transparent lavender eyes, the visitor¡¯s deep purple eyes was like a deep well, with no one able to see the gloomy things flowing inside through the layer of mist.


    Julius Portia was dressed in a formal shirt, long coat, and a silk scarf tied in a beautiful knot, with a large purple sapphire embedded in the scarf, echoing the color of his eyes.


    The patriarch of the Portia family, who was in his prime, stood at the edge of the pool, his hands resting on his cane, looking down at the person in the pool with a dignified air.


    He looked calm, but Rafael saw that beneath his gentle and calm exterior was a quietly simmering rage.


    ¡°I heard you had some interesting experiences at Francois¡¯s place,¡± the Secretary General of the Papal Palace said softly.


    Rafael did not answer.


    He knew that there must be Julius¡¯s men among his attendants, and this matter could definitely not be hidden from him, but that didn¡¯t mean he needed to give any explanation.


    The Pope¡¯s silence seemed to be the final stone thrown into the volcano.


    The polite and gentle secretary threw his cane violently to the side. The heavy ebony wood collided with the marble, making a sharp sound. Amidst the reverberating echoes, he raised his hand and forcefully pulled off his silkscarf. The expensive violet gem, worth thousands of florins, splashed into the water. The silk scarf was thrown aside, followed by his long coat, and then his boots.


    The head of the Portia family slowly rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and then, wearing only a shirt and trousers, jumped into the pool. His fierce and furious demeanor made even Rafael unable to help but take a step back.


    ¡°You¡¯ve overstepped your bounds, Sir. You shouldn¡¯t¡ª¡± Before the young Pope could finish his words, the Secretary General of the Papal Palace broke through the water and came before him. The splashing water soaked his iron-gray hair, and drops of water slid down his cheeks and chin. His thin red lips were tightly pursed, and the anger in his deep purple eyes was clearly visible.


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t I?¡± Julius¡¯s voice was low but clear.


    ¡°Then was what you have done perfectly fine?¡± he asked coldly.


    The thin silk shirt barely covered anything in the water, and his muscular body exuded an oppressive heat. The Pope, with his frail constitution, could hardly bear this oppressive feeling of being stripped of all external things and exposed to the essence. Just like male animals in nature instinctively resisting the same sex showing off their strength, Rafael looked away.


    But clearly, Julius was not satisfied with his response.


    ¡°Answer me.¡±


    Commanded the Portia patriarch, who was more tyrannical than anyone else.


    Rafael was enraged by his commanding tone.


    Who had the right to speak to him like this? Especially Julius¡ªthe man who had protected him and then abandoned him. Even if Rafael were to die again, he would not accept his arrogant and self-righteous protection, let alone the fact that this protection was inherently tinged with distrust of him and pity for the weak.


    ¡°Julius Portia! The one standing before you is your sovereign!¡±


    Rafael said in a voice even colder than his.


    This should have been a very ambiguous scene. Both men in the water were exceptionally beautiful. They should have embraced or kissed, whispering soft and hot love words in the shimmering pool. Instead, they were confronting each other like wild beasts, staring at each other with fierce and cold eyes, wishing to strangle the other¡¯s neck, with neither of them willing to back down.

 Chapter 27: Differences

    Rage.


    Indifference.


    Suspicion.


    Murderous intent.


    The moment Julius found the last emotion in Rafael¡¯s pale, lavender eyes, he felt a chilling calm wash over him, extinguishing the fiery inferno of anger that had consumed him.


    He scrutinized the beautiful face before him as if seeing Rafael for the first time.


    Indisputably, Rafael was the most beautiful person he had ever seen, bar none.


    When they first met, Rafael was only twelve, a scrawny, feral cat with a crippled leg, baring his teeth and wary of his every move, daring to brandish his half-grown claws at him. Once he¡¯d been cleaned up, even though the cat was still thin, his beauty was evident, like an angel carefully painted on a fresco.


    As he grew older, his beauty that could illuminate Florence gradually emerged. What a beautiful child! Everyone who saw him could not help but sigh in admiration.


    More vibrant than a rose, more pure than an angel, a beauty beyond comprehension. The fatal beauty of Helen of Troy, the beauty of Solla that brought about the Great Flood, these terrifyingly beautiful beings from stories suddenly had a tangible form. Sometimes, Julius felt a sense of dread, a dread that turned into anxiety as he spent more time with Rafael.


    Rafael was clever, cunning, and even ruthless, but no matter how he and Pope Vitalian III educated him, the child always carried a bit of innocent tenderness in his heart. He would use schemes following their teachings, and would murder Vitalian III¡¯s enemies without hesitation, yet he still had the tenderness and persistence to not harm the innocent.


    When Julius first discovered this, he could hardly believe it.


    It wasn¡¯t that he expected Rafael to grow into a devil who killed indiscriminately without distinguishing between good and evil, but he thought Rafael should have known by now that necessary sacrifices and bloodshed were inevitable on the road to success.


    Did those who waged war not know that the soldiers who died were innocent?


    Were the only people who died in political struggles the main culprits?


    Julius thought Rafael should understand this simplest truth better than anyone else, but the child still secretly retained this bit of kindness.


    This would kill him.


    Julius looked at Rafael countless times and thought.


    He would certainly die for it.


    Florence would not accept someone like him in power.


    But what could he do? Julius had accepted the promise to protect Rafael from his own cousin¡¯s blood-stained hands. He could only hold this precious bird with its magnificent feathers in his palm and enclose the rose in his garden to protect it from the wind and rain.


    Then, suddenly one day, everything changed.


    The bird with magnificent feathers broke free from his palm, the rose grew thorns, and for the first time, Rafael¡¯s eyes, which had always held only trust, showed him killing intent.


    It was the look of a monarch.


    He seemed to see again the untamed, natural hunter he had first met many years ago. No, this hunter was even deeper, colder, and more relentless than before. ?


    Julius was certain that at this moment Rafael truly wanted to kill him.


    The monarch of Florence, the king of all kings, the thing he had so longed to see had finally grown in this thin, frail body.


    The Secretary General of the Papal Palace lowered his eyes and bowed his head slightly, which was a gesture of tacit submission.


    He took a step back.


    The heat enveloped them, but for a moment, Julius felt a sense of sadness. He realized that something had changed¡ªand it was an irreversible change. He would never be able to understand exactly what had happened, but from that look, he sensed a pain that transcended everything.


    ¡°Rafa.¡± Julius looked at him.


    After a long silence, he said softly, ¡°Your Holiness.¡±


    Rafael, however, no longer looked at him. He suppressed the trace of killing intent that he hadn¡¯t had time to hide after being provoked by Julius, and resumed a calm expression: ¡°Sir, you came to see me so urgently. Is there something wrong? I think that unless there¡¯s another siege of Florence, perhaps you shouldn¡¯t be in this place.¡±


    Julius rolled his eyes, his deep purple eyes fixed on Rafael, as if trying to see through the beautiful face to the handsome and pure angelic boy a few years ago: ¡°I told you something.¡±


    ¡ªDon¡¯t love anyone, but rather everyone.


    ¡°Don¡¯t love anyone, but rather everyone.¡±


    The same voice as in his memory sounded, Rafael raised his eyelids and looked at Julius quietly.


    ¡°Your love is precious and rare, and it should be given to a broader concept. You can¡¯t love one person, but you should see all the people of Florence, nobles, commoners, soldiers, farmers...¡± Julius said slowly, as if he had returned to the classroom, teaching his only student wholeheartedly, ¡°Falling in love with one person is a sin to you now. You can protect your people, of course, but it should be all the people¡ªnot just these few.¡±


    ¡°It is they who make up Florence, without these individuals, where is the all you speak of?¡± Rafael replied.


    The young pope showed a look of weariness. He raised his hand and gestured to stop the discussion. ¡°We have never reached a consensus on this issue. Let¡¯s stop this philosophical debate, dear Yura.¡±


    Julius was stunned by this intimate address.


    Rafael brushed away the hair on his cheek that had gradually cooled after getting wet, and said lightly, ¡°I can bear the consequences of my choices. What about you? What is your choice? Can you bear the consequences?¡±


    His question was deep, as if it had some other meaning. Julius¡¯s face suddenly tightened, and Rafael¡¯s words hit the most anxious part of his heart.


    Similar to the weak and turbulent Florence, the Portia family, which had reached its peak, also began to enter a period of turbulence. Julius was a tough-handed patriarch. In his hands, the Portia family at least maintained a superficial prosperity, but the undercurrents beneath could not be ignored. He felt like he was in control of a large ship in a storm, the ship was extremely heavy, and the rudder was not so obedient. He could only use more and more violent methods to suppress it¡ª appeasement could no longer steer the ship out of this storm.


    Like Florence, Portia needed a change.


    And Julius is still waiting, searching for this opportunity.


    Whether it¡¯s fragmentation or further unity.


    The pressing question is¡ªwho should the Portia family follow?


    Julius had single-handedly pushed Rafael onto the throne of Saint Leah, paying a large amount of money and land for it, which made the elders of Portia extremely dissatisfied. There were different voices within the family, and Julius forcefully suppressed the opposition. Although deep down, he didn¡¯t think their ideas were completely unreasonable.


    The Portia family needed a strong patriarch, and Florence needed a powerful enough pope. An even better situation would be for a powerful monarch to control the lords headed by the Portia family, thereby pushing Florence to its peak.


    Julius didn¡¯t mind submitting, he was just strong enough and intelligent enough, so no one could control him. However, male creatures instinctively admire the strong, and if a strong monarch appeared, he wouldn¡¯t mind offering his complete loyalty.


    He looked at Rafael and saw his own small shadow reflected in those pale purple eyes. Suddenly, he realized¡ªperhaps, this opportunity was right in front of him.


    Would the monarch he wanted be Rafael?


    The child who had irreconcilable conflicts with him and couldn¡¯t even trust him, the child who was brought up by him and had a nearly gentle compassion, the child who had just given him a murderous look?


    Rafael was asking him for a pledge of allegiance, and unlike the previous collaboration, this was a complete commitment.


    There was a long silence in the bath.


    The Secretary General of the Papal Palace sighed softly, put on a loose white robe, and bowed deeply to Rafael: ¡°It¡¯s already late, please allow me to retire, Your Holiness.¡±


    He made no promises.


    As Julius, he really wanted to try again, but as the patriarch of the huge Portia family, he couldn¡¯t easily make a promise.


    Let me see more, Rafa, Julius said with his eyes, let me see a qualified monarch, a monarch who can walk on the path he chooses, who can cut through all thorns and boulders, and firmly guard his crown and throne even without my protection.


    Come on, defeat me, crush me, control me.


    I await the day you command me to submit.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Julius and Rafael have fundamental differences. Rafael will use all kinds of schemes and conspiracies, and he doesn¡¯t mind killing, but he still has more pity for the weak. Julius is completely hard-hearted, hahahaha. They have quarreled many times because of this contradiction, and neither of them can convince the other.


    Julius is a person who admires the strong by nature. His philosophy is that powerful people have the obligation to protect the weak (in a broad sense). He thinks Rafael is a weak person, so he has always protected Rafael very carefully. However, Rafael¡¯s behavior today finally made him realize that this guy seemed to disdain his protection and even wanted to rebel, and has shown the corresponding ability. For the first time, Julius has taken Rafael seriously. This is a cause for celebration!


    But there is always uncertainty between them because of Rafael¡¯s death. Rafael can¡¯t trust him completely, and he doesn¡¯t know why he can¡¯t gain Rafael¡¯s trust. Damn, the abuse is coming. The only solution is that Rafael completely controls everything he has, and makes sure he cannot betray him, only then is there a possibility of a happy ending hahaha¡¾if this is indeed a couple¡¿The suspicion and temptation in this process, isn¡¯t it sweet!

 Chapter 28: Port Celia

    A group of knights clad in light armor galloped past a rural road. Their visors concealed their faces, and the armor, which enveloped their bodies tightly, reflected the golden sunlight. The road, of extremely poor quality, kicked up clouds of dust in their wake¡ªdespite the rain that had fallen the night before, the insignificant amount of precipitation had done nothing to prevent the omnipresent dust from rising.


    They didn¡¯t know how long they had been traveling day and night. The once-bright armor was now covered in a dull, yellowish layer of mud, and even the horses they rode were filthy.


    The journey from Florence to the port had not been peaceful, but since they were all armored and clearly skilled in combat, no fool had been stupid enough to cross their path. After galloping for a while longer and climbing a gentle hill, the leading knight pulled the reins and stopped his horse.


    The well-proportioned and strong white horse shook its head, panting heavily, and exhaled white mist from its nostrils. It slowly shuffled its feet in place.


    The knights behind him quickly caught up and stopped beside him one after another.


    ¡°Captain!¡±


    Several greetings of varying pitches rang out on the deserted hill.


    The knight raised the visor of his armor slightly, revealing a pair of clear, emerald green eyes. After several days of travel, these eyes were filled with deep fatigue, but they remained as bright and peaceful as a newborn baby.


    Leshert looked into the distance. From their vantage point, they could easily see the vast expanse of the ocean on the horizon. Birds were circling above the sparkling sea, and their clear chirping could be heard from afar.


    Sails carried ships back and forth from the harbor, and the masts formed another forest of towering grandeur. The pier extended out for several miles, and countless densely packed crowds were shuttling back and forth. The smell of the sea mingled with the noisy clamor and rose up on the wind.


    ¡°It¡¯s the port!¡± a knight shouted joyfully.


    They had been sent by the Pope to receive a ship from Assyria, and had spent nine days on the road. Adhering to the Knightly Order¡¯s precepts of being content in poverty and hardship, they had slept rough along the way, avoiding inns and the homes of believers. The wooden huts of forest rangers, caves, and abandoned houses had been their only options. Of course, before leaving, they would repair the dilapidated buildings to make it convenient for future travelers.


    ¡ªGod provided us with food, clothing, and shelter in times of need, and we should be content with the most basic necessities, rather than coveting warmth and delicious food. The cold tempers our will and hunger keeps us clear-headed and rational. We shall press on courageously and remain unwavering.


    This is the commandment from the code of the Knights Templar, which they silently abide by.


    But even with their unwavering determination, they couldn¡¯t help but smile with joy and relief when they saw the shadow of the port in the distance.


    Leshert estimated the distance and got off his horse: ¡°Let¡¯s rest for a while and set off again in the afternoon. We should be able to reach the port before nightfall.¡±


    The knights dismounted and led their companions to graze. Leshert took the waterskin from his saddle, unscrewed the cap, and took a few sips. Then he pulled out an oat biscuit from his backpack, broke it in half, and gave the larger half to his horse. The considerate white horse came over, first nuzzling its master¡¯s head affectionately before taking the oatcake and munching on it.


    Leshert watched it eat the oat biscuit, removed his helmet and placed it on the ground, and sat down himself. His long golden hair, soaked with sweat, fell messily over his shoulders, and his face, which hadn¡¯t been washed properly in days, was covered in a mixture of sweat and dust.


    As he stroked the white horse¡¯s forehead, he casually stuffed the other half of the oat biscuit into his own mouth. The biscuit was very dry and a bit scratchy, but he was clearly accustomed to such rough food and finished it off in a few bites. After resting for a while, he stood up and led his horse to drink.


    The knights all had their own horses, and they had to take personal care of these lovely and loyal animals. Even the commander would not entrust the care of his horse to others. They did everything themselves, such as bathing their horses, and Leshert was no exception.


    The Grand Master of the Knights Templar, with his glorious titles and honors, behaved no differently from an ordinary knight most of the time, and was even more humble, cautious, and gentle. The only thing that distinguished him from others was the unique temperament cultivated by his good upbringing and devout faith.


    Of course, that face also added a lot of points to him.


    After the horses had rested, the knights remounted and galloped towards their destination that was already in sight.


    Port Celia was a medium-sized port in the Papal States. More than a hundred years ago, it had belonged to a noble family, all of whom were devout believers. When the family line died out, the last female heir, Lady Celia, donated all her property to the Papal States before her death, including this port. The Pope at the time thanked her for her contribution and named the port after her.


    Port Celia was not large in scale, but its geographical location was quite advantageous. Before his death, Pope Leo VI had frantically plundered the private property of the Papal Palace, selling or giving away many of its assets. This port was bought by Cardinal Tondolo, but before he could even have his family crest hung on the port¡¯s bell tower, his incompetent son had returned Port Celia back to the Pope.


    So, after many twists and turns, Port Celia returned to the hands of the Pope.


    But because the handover had been so short, Raphael had no intention of claiming ownership for the time being. All matters of the port continued as before, and he merely lowered some taxes in an attempt to boost the port¡¯s shipping and cargo flow, adding a little income to the Papal Palace¡¯s meager coffers.


    He had obtained a lot of weapons, armor, and horses for Florence. These were tangible assets, and Florence now had at least some degree of protection, and would no longer have to patrol or fight with outdated or even rotten spears.


    A few days after the end of the negotiation, Franc?ois began to prepare to return to Calais. Upon hearing this news, Raphael sneered and handed the invitation to the farewell banquet to Julius beside him.


    The secretary general opened the invitation and shook his head with a noncommittal expression: ¡°I thought he would wait a few more days. The letters from Calais are already on the way. It seems that all his plans in Florence have been disrupted.¡±


    This was expected. Franc?ois was able to successfully control the vast empire of Calais not only because the Emperor of Calais was still young¡ª though said to be young, he was already eighteen years old, about the same age as Raphael. Franc?ois was by no means a simple arrogant fool. He had stayed in Florence for so long, secretly communicating and colluding with the nobles and bishops of the Papal States, it was clear that he had some ulterior motives.


    No matter what he wanted to do, at least for now, he had not succeeded.


    Raphael looked at him: ¡°What did you do?¡±


    Julius closed the invitation, placed it on the table, and replied lightly: ¡°I asked the Portia Bank to slightly slow down the transfer of funds to the Calais Royal Bank. The young emperor, who has no real power, can only rely on his uncle for most of his expenses... I think, no matter how wealthy he is, the Duke¡¯s current financial reserves should be bottoming out.¡±


    Having no money is a huge problem.


    Julius was indeed earnestly helping Raphael figure out a way to drive the annoying Franc?ois out of Florence.


    It was a foregone conclusion that Franc?ois would leave Florence in disgrace. They soon put the Duke aside and tuned to another group of big troublemakers who were still stationed in Florence.


    ¡°Do the lords have no objections to not being able to leave Florence?¡±


    Raphael asked softly.


    Julius had tricked the lords into Florence under the pretext of the Feast of Divine Grace, but he and Raphael had already reached a consensus that, barring any unforeseen circumstances, these lords would never be able to leave Florence in their lifetimes.


    House arrest.


    A very old but highly effective method. Without the leadership of their family heads, these lords¡¯ families would inevitably fall into a period of chaos, making it easier for Raphael and Julius to defeat them one by one.


    Unless the lords immediately rebelled and attacked Florence...


    But as long as they had any sense at all, they wouldn¡¯t dare do something as terrifying as attacking the Holy City.


    There were countless people eyeing their lands, eager to seize them. As long as the Pope issues an excommunication decree against them, everyone would have a legitimate reason to seize their wealth.


    Raphael wasn¡¯t afraid of their rebellion. This was a great opportunity to issue an excommunication decree. Ordinary crimes wouldn¡¯t allow him to punish them in one go.


    However, he needed to take a little risk... Well, perhaps a big risk, but what gamble is there without a wager?


    Moreover, on this issue, the Portias would stand by him as a staunch ally of Florence.


    ¡°Obviously they¡¯re very dissatisfied. Their contacts and gatherings have become more and more frequent lately,¡± said Julius.


    ¡°Really?¡± Raphael smiled indifferently. ¡°Then they have to be prepared. Days like these will last a long time.¡±


    He picked up the invitation on the table and casually tossed it into the roaring fireplace. The gold-embossed words quickly carbonized into curly black patterns.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Da da da, the leader of the knights who has been offline for a long time is online!


    The timeskip is about to start. The basic groundwork has been laid, and Rafa is about to ride the wind and waves, defending his throne in the storm!

 Chapter 29: Conspiracy

    The sound of horse hooves could be heard from the end of the cobblestone street. The main streets of Florence would be lit with gas lamps after nightfall, but this street was clearly not within the city¡¯s main scope of urban planning. Although it was located in the aristocratic upper district, it unfortunately didn¡¯t receive enough light despite being connected to two major road arteries.


    The few gas lamps that were installed were mostly damaged. There was a hissing sound of air rushing through the lamp tubes, but the feeble light never ignited.


    A small carriage emerged from the gloom. The coachman carefully guided the horse. Although the carriage was equipped with a convenient steam system, for some reason, it was not activated. Perhaps such a quiet, conspiratorial night was not suitable for excessive noise. In any case, it glided silently to the front of a mansion.


    Two ornate iron gates blocked the carriage¡¯s path. The coachman halted the horse, and a guard stepped forward, approaching the carriage window. He held a primitive oil lamp in his hand, the glass lampshade sooty and hazy. Through the dim light, he saw half a face peering out of the carriage window.


    ¡°Very well, sir,¡± the guard turned and opened the gate, pulling the heavy iron gate open just wide enough for the carriage to pass through.


    The carriage drove in with a clatter.


    There were no lights on in the house, which was quite unusual for the extravagant Florentine nobles.


    A figure cloaked in black stepped down from the carriage. He was completely covered in a black cloak, his hood obscuring most of his face. Not a single inch of his clothing was visible.


    He refused the coachman¡¯s hand, jumped from the carriage, and rushed through the front door with eager and quick steps.


    Inside the hall, a dozen people were already seated around a long table. They were all wearing hooded cloaks that concealed their faces, and the surrounding lights were dim and sparse, as if deliberately avoiding their faces.


    The scene looked like a secret gathering of some cult. Anyone who walked in would wonder if they had entered the wrong place.


    The newcomer stood in place for a moment. A man at the head of the long table extended his hand, ¡°Please take a seat, sir. We have been waiting for you for some time.¡±


    He pointed to an empty chair beside him.


    The man in black hesitated for a while. During that moment, he heard someone sneer, as if mocking him for hesitating even though he had come this far.


    Amidst the faint laughter, he lowered his head, walked to the chair and sat down.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it time to take off these useless disguises?¡± One of the young men said, and with that, he pulled off his hooded cloak, revealing a head of fiery red hair and a somewhat mean-looking face. He tossed the cloak to the ground casually, ¡°This makes me feel like a rat in a gutter.¡±


    The others looked at each other for a moment. The young man crossed his legs, ¡°Aren¡¯t we all acquainted with each other? Ladies? Gentlemen?¡±


    They were the twelve lords of the Council of Thirteen, excluding Portia. They greeted each other with cold expressions.


    ¡°And you, sir?¡± The red-haired young man turned to the last person who had not yet moved.


    The man shifted, his gaze seeming to scan everyone at the table. Finally, he made up his mind and removed his hood.


    The moment the black hood fell, everyone¡¯s eyes widened in shock. Two of the more sensitive lords even jumped up and frantically searched for any sign of an ambush.


    ¡°¡ª¡ªA trap?¡± Some people were ready to flee.


    ¡°Calm down, gentlemen. This is an unexpected friend, but doesn¡¯t it mean that our plan is more likely to succeed?¡± Old Russo, who sat at the head of the long table as steady as a Shar-Pei dog, was also momentarily shocked, but he quickly recovered and slapped the table.


    It was no wonder they were so panicked. The last young man who took off his hood had short light blond hair and purple eyes ¨C he was undoubtedly a descendant of the Portia family. For the people sitting here at this moment, this was undoubtedly the appearance they were most afraid of seeing.


    Cain Portia, in another time and space, will wear the Crown of Thorns of Saint Leah in a few years and become the supreme monarch of Florence ¨C of course, this was something only Rafael knew.


    He was now merely an ordinary archbishop, a position that would grant him the highest honor in other dioceses, but among the many archbishops of Florence, he was unremarkable. Besides bearing the Portia surname, few people would pay attention to him.


    But that was not the case a year ago.


    Before the death of Pope Leo VI, the cardinals of Florence and the various noble families had already fallen into a turbulent struggle for power, each hoping to elevate a member of their own family to the throne of the earthly kingdom of God. Naturally, the Portias could not stay out of it. They had chosen Cain Portia, and they had already spent a considerable amount of money to secure a cardinal¡¯s red robe for Cain, who was then still an archbishop. They had almost succeeded; Pope Leo VI, who was crazy about making money, did not mind selling one more cardinal¡¯s red robe before his death. The papal decree had been written and was just waiting to be announced.


    At this moment, the head of the Portia family, Julius, had proposed a name that Cain would come to loathe:


    ¡°Then our plan should be changed. How do we deliver the Pope and his loyal secretary to the arms of Saint Leah?¡±


    ¡°We have no army, and letters can¡¯t be sent out of Florence,¡± Besancon reiterated their predicament.


    Since the Feast of Divine Grace last year, Julius had been subtly tightening his supervision over them. They couldn¡¯t leave Florence. Their families could visit them, but once they came, they couldn¡¯t leave, and they only had a few personal guards¡ªthey were just here to attend the celebration! Who knew the Pope would be so unscrupulous as to trap them like this?


    ¡°Our armies can¡¯t march into Florence either,¡± said one lord. ¡°Besieging a holy city is something we absolutely cannot do. We were doing just fine in our own territories. Even the Pope couldn¡¯t order us around, but now that we¡¯ve been tricked into Florence, we¡¯ve lost all our advantages¡ªdamn Julius Portia! Damn Sistine I!¡±


    They had negotiated with Julius several times, but that airtight man remained indifferent to all the conditions they put forward, as if he was determined to trap them till death in Florence. As time passed, their hearts grew colder. They had lived in dire straits for a year, and now they could no longer sit idly by, especially Old Russo. His sons had already started fighting among themselves over who would be in power, and had completely forgotten their old father. One could imagine how angry he was.


    The consequences of the family head being absent were severe. Similar situations existed in other lords¡¯ families. They were all eager to return, not only to save their lives but also to preserve their power.


    To these people who have reached the pinnacle of their life, losing power would be worse than death. It was precisely for this reason that they were not afraid to take risks and held this secret meeting.


    ¡°We need to create chaos in Florence, just like they tricked us into coming here. Only by leaving Florence can we take the initiative,¡± said the young man with red hair.


    ¡°Giovanni¡¯s right,¡± someone agreed. ¡°With Sistine I and Julius in control of Florence, we won¡¯t have any chance. We have to get them out of here.¡±


    ¡°We need chaos, unparalleled chaos.¡±


    ¡°The fastest way is war,¡± the female lord said.


    ¡°No war,¡± Old Russo said, his eyelids drooping, rejecting the suggestion. ¡°Who¡¯s going to attack Florence? The kings aren¡¯t fools. They won¡¯t send their armies without sufficient profit, and doing this will leave an infamous reputation on their names for hundreds of years. Even the pagans wouldn¡¯t do something so stupid. The foolish believers would burn them at the stake. It would be a long-lasting catastrophe that would sweep across the entire continent. We can¡¯t do that.¡±


    Cain also showed dissatisfaction when he heard the word ¡°war¡±. The throne of Saint Leah would eventually belong to him, and he couldn¡¯t accept the idea of being crowned on a pile of ruins. So after old Russo raised his objection, he secretly breathed a sigh of relief.


    The female lord frowned. She had dressed very simply for tonight¡¯s meeting. There was no extra jewelry on her dark blue dress. She only had a gold necklace with a small locket around her neck. She stroked the locket with her hand, unable to hide her anxiety.


    Her child was still young and without a mother¡¯s protection, she would never survive in the family. No matter what, she must successfully complete this plan.


    ¡°Civilian riots?¡± Someone made a new suggestion.


    This suggestion was very feasible. If they couldn¡¯t cause chaos from the outside, then they would muddy the waters internally. Those ignorant peasants were just empty-headed idiots. By spreading rumors to make them hostile towards the Pope and inciting them to attack the papal palace, they could force Sistine I to flee Florence with the members of the papal palace, thus achieving their goal.


    But this time, it was the female lord who objected. She shook her head and said, ¡°What if the Pope decides to shut himself up in the papal palace? What if Julius decides to concentrate his forces to defend and counterattack? They will be heavily guarded, and... what if they suspect us of being behind this? Then we won¡¯t even have the freedom to sit together like this.¡±


    ¡°This won¡¯t work, that won¡¯t work, what the hell do we do?!¡± The lord whose suggestion had been rejected pounded the table angrily, and a gem on his sleeve caught his hand, making his face twitch in pain.


    Old Russo, sitting at the head of the table, raised his voice slightly and interrupted his outburst, ¡°Calm down, sir.¡±


    Old Russo, whose rise to wealth was filled with blood, sat like a hyena, his thoughts drifting from his early years following his father on a pirate ship, burning, killing and looting, to his later years walking among the nobles in elegant attire. The fragmented memories floated and swirled, before finally settling down.


    ¡°It¡¯s not just war that can cause chaos,¡± Old Russo smiled grimly, a hint of blood still lingering between his teeth, ¡°but also disease.¡±


    ¡°Let them tuck their tails between their legs, abandon this holy city, and run for their lives. We just need to wait and receive the sweet fruits.¡±


    Author¡¯s Note


    Time skip of one year!


    Basically, everyone who appears in my book has a heart... but they¡¯re all scheming and cruel, no matter if they are man or woman. There is no good person in the absolute sense. If you can¡¯t accept this, retreat immediately!


    Translator¡¯s Note


    And the first arc is done! This arc is mainly an introduction for all the main players and the background setting for the story. From now, the story should be much faster-paced and exciting. Let me know what you think of the story so far in likes and comments. I¡¯ll see you next week for the second arc!

 Chapter 30: Plague

    No one knew where or from whom the disease had come from. Perhaps it was from the sailors returning from distant ports¡ªthey had been to many places, and it was not surprising that they brought back some illness. Or maybe it was from a corpse that had lain uncollected for days on the street, gnawed at by rats and vermin, and then shared a bed with the living. Of course, it could also be that the gods, angered by the wickedness of humanity, had sent down flames of wrath to cleanse the insufficiently devout sinners. The ancient city of Solla, now submerged beneath the Black Sea, would certainly agree with this theory.


    In the first four hundred years, God had sent down a great flood to cleanse the world and sank the sinful city of Solla into the sea. In the next four hundred, God had sent down a raging fire to burn the sinful world and reduced the fallen city of Radha to ashes.


    Now, with a little over a century remaining until the next four hundred years, is He about to wield the blade of disease, to condemn the world for its sins?


    At first, it was merely rumors and laughable speculation. But as the number of people afflicted with boils and ulcers grew, the common people in the lower city fell into fear. They began to try to leave and go to places where there were no sick people. The prayers in the church continued day and night. There were too many dead bodies that needed to be prayed for, and even the clergy began to be short-handed. They reported the sudden catastrophe to the higher church and cautiously labeled it a ¡®highly contagious plague¡¯.


    These reports were immediately presented to the Pope¡¯s desk.


    The golden-haired Pope calmly read through the words and then passed them to Julius, who was sitting beside him.


    ¡°Plague?¡± Julius¡¯s smile vanished as soon as he saw the first line and his eyes showed an unprecedented solemnity.


    ¡°Are you certain?¡± The Secretary General of the Papal Palace tensed his muscles.


    At any time, this word always had a more terrifying effect than any disaster. The last great plague on the continent had resulted in the deaths of half the population and the extinction of two royal families. The subsequent wars that broke out leveled seven cities. The massive population decline gave merchants the opportunity to rise to the new noble class. The Holy See had sent the Knights Templar to participate in the rescue, but the horrific casualty rate had severely damaged the vitality of the Holy See. The Pope¡¯s authority had declined steadily over the following centuries, and many powers, including the right of coronation, had been stripped away. Even the Papal States had become fragmented...


    The outbreak of a plague would cause incalculable harm. Everyone was equal in the face of disease, and no power or wealth could prevent the God of Death from taking them at this opportunity.


    Rafael¡¯s brows were furrowed deeply. ¡°Many churches have submitted similar documents. There should be no doubt about their authenticity. What needs to be noted is that the earliest one can be traced back half a month ago ¨C but I¡¯m only seeing it now.¡±


    ¡°Half a month...¡± Julius¡¯s expression became increasingly grim.


    ¡°A bunch of idiots!¡± The Pope suddenly stood up and kicked the table leg hard. The heavy table made a sharp creaking movement due to his sudden outburst.


    ¡°They think I¡¯ll let them leave Florence because of the epidemic? They¡¯re dreaming! I¡¯ll rather hang them one by one on the gallows first!¡± Rafael said coldly and cruelly, ¡°Including that traitor who betrayed me!¡±


    Julius understood what he meant instantly, but he was a little confused: ¡°You think this is man-made? Why?¡±


    Rafael glanced at him, and there was something in his eyes that he couldn¡¯t understand.


    Because in his previous life, Florence had never experienced any plague. Just as human beings could not change the weather or storms, he absolutely did not believe that Florence would suddenly draw such a bad fortune from the gods. And the fact that the documents from half a month ago were held back until now was further proof that this was a deliberate act.


    They had caused this epidemic, and there were still people in the Papal Palace who had deceived him and allowed the disease to spread to an uncontrollable level before finally bringing it to his attention. Who had caused this disaster?


    For Rafael, it was almost a simple question that required no thought.


    Who in Florence hated him with a vengeance? Who shouldn¡¯t be here but was here?


    The lords who had been imprisoned by him for a year could finally no longer sit still.


    ¡°They thought I didn¡¯t kill them because I¡¯m weak and merciful?¡± Rafael gritted his teeth. He felt a sense of anger and shame, as if he had been bitten by a dog. ¡°They actually want to kill me this way?¡±


    Julius folded the paper in his hand solemnly: ¡°Perhaps they want more than just your life. If the plague is not controlled, Florence will fall into unprecedented chaos, and all the nobles will flee ¨C they want to divide up all of Florence.¡±


    Julius suddenly paused at this point, his expression turning ugly. He realized that the most valuable thing to be divided in Florence was undoubtedly the Portia family, under his control. A large portion of the Portia family¡¯s wealth was based in Florence. Perhaps this conspiracy was also directed at him.


    So the traitor in the Papal Palace...


    This strange, twisted smile that only appeared on the face of a corpse appeared for only a brief moment, so fast that Julius wondered if it was an illusion.


    ¡°I have never doubted the horror of death, nor have I ever thought of challenging the power of the God of Death. In fact, no one in this world is closer to death and fears death more than I am.¡± The Pope, who held one of the highest powers on the continent, said slowly and softly, his face pale and cold, ¡°Secretary-General, if possible, I would like to leave here more than anyone else.¡±


    The Pope, who had spoken such incredibly cowardly words, remained expressionless: ¡°But as long as I leave Florence, the noose that once hanged the King of Mindania will be hung around my neck. What do you think those lords will give me? A dagger? Poison? Or the guillotine?¡±


    A light and detached smile flashed across his face: ¡°Ah, with their courage, I doubt anyone would dare to chop off a Pope¡¯s head, so it would be a dagger or poison, or perhaps I would ¡®unfortunately contract the plague¡¯ when I stepped out of the gates of Florence.¡±


    When he mentioned ¡®dagger¡¯ and ¡®poison¡¯, a silent wave surged in his eyes.


    ¡°I will not accept such a fate,¡± he almost whispered, ¡°Never.¡±


    Julius looked at him in confusion.


    ¡°But I still hope we can reach a consensus,¡± the Pope looked at his Secretary General, ¡°You are my most trusted secretary, and the only person I can rely on in the Papal Palace. Besides you, I cannot entrust the Papal Palace to anyone else.¡±


    Julius pursed his lips for a long time, then shook his head slowly: ¡°No, I still can¡¯t accept it. I can¡¯t wait for an uncertain success, or receive news of your death one day.¡±


    A look of indescribable pain appeared on his face. ¡°I don¡¯t want to organize a funeral. There are already enough of the dead in Florence.¡±


    Rafael¡¯s cold and hard mask suddenly faded away, and his eyes became gentle and intimate ¨C just like the way he looked at the head of the Portia family who was climbing clumsily up the castle wall at Cantrella Castle a few years ago. He wanted to smile, but with innocent and playful worry, he looked at his mentor, the only person in the world who truly loved and protected him, his spiritual companion.


    At that time, there was no conflict of interest between them, nor was there any overwhelming power standing between them.


    Apart from life and death, nothing else mattered to them.


    Even after a long time had passed, Rafael was still willing to admit that it was the shortest and happiest time in his life.


    ¡°I won¡¯t die,¡± he sighed softly, walked behind Julius, and placed his hand on the shoulder of his secretary and mentor. ¡°I¡¯ll take Leshert and Ferrante with me. The Papal Guard won¡¯t let any patients near me, and the Knights Templar will protect my safety.¡±


    Julius¡¯s eyes changed slightly. He knew that Rafael was trying to revive the Knights Templar that once dominated the Syracuse Peninsula. Even he had to admit that Leshert was an extremely outstanding military strategist. If given enough time and money, the legion that had terrified the continent could eventually return to the world.


    But no matter how confidently Rafael spoke, it couldn¡¯t change the fact that the Knights Templar was now just a weak sprout. Julius doubted whether they had the ability to protect the Pope. The situation in the lower city was too complex, and in this chaotic place where all kinds of people mixed together, the crowned Pope would undoubtedly become a delicious morsel that fell into a pack of wolves. Everyone would be eager to take a bite.


    ¡°And my greatest reliance is of course you,¡± Rafael changed to a more intimate address, ¡°I place my life in your hands.¡±


    Julius¡¯s hand rested loosely on his lap. Rafael bent down and gently placed his hand on Julius¡¯s palm, grasping the man¡¯s fingers. The texture of the glove was extremely clear against their skin. Rafael touched the ring on Julius¡¯s thumb¡ªthe power and wealth he had once used to tempt Rafael, and which had been rejected by the Pope.


    ¡°Yura, will you abandon me?¡± Rafael asked the same question he had asked once before, like a siren¡¯s whisper to a lost traveler, ¡°How much am I worth to you?¡±


    Julius felt as if he had been suddenly scalded by a red-hot iron. He clenched his hands almost reflexively ¨C grasping Rafael¡¯s hand in his palm. The sudden pain of being held didn¡¯t change Rafael¡¯s expression. He heard Julius sigh as if in surrender.


    ¡°If you insist on my answer,¡± the head of the Portia family said, ¡°then my answer is that no one can afford the price at present.¡±


    Rafael laughed.


    ¡°I believe you, sir,¡± said the Pope.

 Chapter 31: Quarantine

    The guards, who had heard from their captain about what was happening in the lower city before arriving, were on edge, eager to avoid any physical contact. Their evasive actions filled the eyes of the poor with anger and hatred. The hands that stretched out from the gaps in the fences and barbed wire like waving black flags, exuding an ominous aura.


    ¡°Go back! Everyone, go back! Stay at home!¡±


    A man dressed in a captain uniform held up a crude loudspeaker made of rolled tin sheets, pressed it tightly against his mouth, and shouted at the top of his lungs.


    The silent crowd turned their eyes to him, and gradually, low whispers appeared in the crowd.


    ¡°They¡¯ve locked us up. Do they want us to die here?¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t care about us... It¡¯s an order from the Papal Palace. The Holy Father has abandoned us.¡±


    ¡°Go home? I don¡¯t have anything to eat at home. The York family at the bakery are all dead. There are too many corpses in the church that there are no places to put them. I¡¯ll die if I go home too. Has the Holy Father really abandoned us?¡±


    The whispers and confused sounds gradually grew louder, and the captain noticed that more and more people were coming from the street behind. They were pushing forward in confusion and anger, like a dark tide hitting a weak dam.


    ¡°The nobles in the upper city just don¡¯t want to be infected by us. They¡¯re afraid of death and they might run away from Florence soon. Then we will be the only ones who die here.¡±


    Someone said this in the crowd, and the captain¡¯s heart skipped a beat. He quickly looked around, but the crowd was so dense that he couldn¡¯t tell who said what.


    ¡°The Holy Father won¡¯t abandon you!¡± the captain shouted at the top of his lungs. ¡°Doctors from the Papal Palace are already preparing medicines. They will be here soon!¡±


    But his words didn¡¯t seem to calm the agitated crowd. A fiery light appeared in the eyes of the numb people, and they glared at the people on the other side of the fence. Some had already started trying to pull at the barbed wire on the fence.


    ¡°Oh my God, this won¡¯t do,¡± the captain realized something keenly. He was numb all over and subconsciously wanted to step back, but in front of the angry crowd staring at him, he felt that as soon as he stepped back, he would be swallowed up by the oncoming wave. ¡°Go and report to the Papal Palace. They¡¯re going to rebel!¡±


    The Holy Father in the Papal Palace did not, as people imagined, wait comfortably for the evacuation of Florence. The cardinals and nobles in the council chamber were already arguing. Each of them had a look of fear on their faces, and they were divided into two distinct factions, arguing fiercely about whether or not to withdraw the Holy See from Florence.


    As Rafael and Julius had anticipated, the news of the plague in the lower city quickly reached the desks of the cardinals and the great nobles of Florence. The Papal Palace¡¯s bailiff, wielding a staff decorated with the Holy Thorn, knocked on their doors and, in the name of the Holy Father, invited them to a meeting in the council chamber. Everyone knew full well that the topic of discussion was whether the Holy See should leave.


    Since Saint Leah had established his throne in Florence over a thousand years ago, the Holy See had never left. Under the threat of the plague, the Pope fleeing his own territory would be a huge blow to the Church¡¯s prestige. Wouldn¡¯t it prove that the Holy Church had been abandoned by God, and that divine punishment had even fallen on the papal throne? And the Pope, as God¡¯s representative on Earth, fleeing in disgrace, would forever nail the Church to the pillar of shame.


    The kings would be ecstatic about the decline of the Church¡¯s authority. They had long been eager to free the crown from the scepter of God, completely stripping the Pope of his influence over the people. Wasn¡¯t this a golden opportunity?


    Those who insisted that the Holy See should hold its ground in Florence argued forcefully, almost pointing their noses at the opposition and calling them demons who had abandoned the glory of God. Those who demanded that the Holy See withdraw were even more righteous, arguing that the disease could completely destroy the Holy See, and that it was acceptable to suffer a loss of prestige rather than face an empty Holy See.


    They asked again, was it their piety to watch cardinals, bishops, priests, and even those noble people die one after another? As they said this, they glanced at the Pope in the main seat. Everyone knew that the ¡®noble person¡¯ he most wanted to say but omitted was the Pope himself, but he had not said it out of courtesy.


    The two sides argued fiercely in the council chamber. An archbishop of the pro-migration faction was waving the report in his hand and shouting at the opposite side while standing on a stool. On the other side, an archbishop of the conservative faction immediately jumped onto the table and hit him right in the nose ¨C his movements were so fast that Rafael didn¡¯t even have time to ask the deacon to stop him. The two gray-haired clergymen soon started to reenact a Florentine version of gladiatorial combat on the long table, panting like bulls. r?


    The people around them stood up to pull them apart, and of course, there were inevitable physical conflicts. Rafael watched the scene of chaos that was gradually turning into a full-scale brawl and calmly turned to his secretary, ¡°How is the lockdown of the lower city going? ¨C No, let the gentlemen vent their anger. They will know when to be quiet.¡±


    His last words were addressed to the nervous-looking deacon.


    Julius smiled. ¡°The city guard has gone to the lower city. If they¡¯re quick, they¡¯ll report back soon.¡±


    He was right. Almost the next second after he finished speaking, a young man in a city guard uniform was led in hurriedly by the guard at the door. He stared dumbfounded at the scene of bishops and nobles in fine clothes fighting in the hall, his expression as if he had seen a god holding a roasted leg of lamb suddenly appear at his door and invite him to dance the samba.


    They walked through the flying papers and robes torn from someone, carefully tiptoeing to avoid stepping on broken glass ink bottles, like Saint Moriah coming to seek help from God after going through nine tribulations, and finally came before the Pope.


    Everyone had their mouths wide open, their expressions as comical as if they had swallowed a raw egg, and their faces were as colorful as a paint shop.


    Several people exchanged glances secretly, and their interactions, which they thought were hidden, fell into Julius¡¯s eyes. The Secretary-General stroked the ring on his thumb and wrote the names of these people into the blacklist.


    ¡°I don¡¯t need any objections,¡± Rafael blocked their words before they could speak, ¡°This is the result of my careful consideration. You can either stay with me or leave Florence ¨C I forgive you for all your self-preservation behaviors, and I forgive you on behalf of God.¡±


    Many people immediately swallowed what they were about to say and began to consider their choices.


    ¡°At your will, Your Holiness.¡±


    The most conservative group who reacted the fastest were already overjoyed and loudly agreed. As for the Pope¡¯s statement that he would enter the lower city... there would always be a way to make him change his mind.


    What they didn¡¯t expect was that after Pope Sistine I walked out of the council hall, the Knights Templar were already standing at the door in solemn and orderly formation. He boarded the carriage, and the knights surrounded the Pope, escorting the carriage straight west.


    The bishops who were left behind looked at the direction of the Pope¡¯s carriage in confusion. After a while, their faces turned pale. ¡°That¡¯s... that¡¯s the direction of the lower city! He was actually serious!¡±


    Of course he was serious.


    The decisive Sistine I, escorted by the Papal Guard and the Knights Templar, passed through the upper city and, under the watchful eyes of countless people, stopped in front of the layers of fences in the lower city.


    The people there were still in a standoff with the city guard. There were already remnants of a fence at their feet, and the city guard members, holding spears and flintlock guns, were nervously and anxiously confronting them at a distance.


    ¡°His Holiness the pious and great Pope Sistine I, has arrived!¡±


    The Pope¡¯s herald rode ahead on horseback and solemnly proclaimed the Pope¡¯s arrival.


    The arrival of the Pope stunned everyone. Even the angriest people couldn¡¯t overcome their long-standing respect and faith in the Pope. When they saw the silver light armor of the Knights Templar and the snow-white uniforms of the Papal Guard, they knelt down one after another, mumbling the Pope¡¯s title and praying for his protection.


    The carriage stopped, and a tall and slender young man jumped out of the carriage. He looked around, and the Knights Templar quickly found their guard positions. The young man with black curly hair tilted his head, revealing a handsome and somewhat enchanting profile, and reached out a hand towards the carriage.


    The thin Pope in the carriage lowered his head slightly and walked out. He stood on the carriage step, overlooking the vast crowd of people. Sunlight shone from behind him, and the messy, dirty, and depressing low-rise slums lined up on both sides of him. Everything was so suffocating. Standing in the sunlight, the Pope was like a saint descending from heaven, bringing the grace of God to this long-forgotten land.


    ¡°My people,¡± the golden-haired, purple-eyed Pope was tall and slender, and his snow-white robe and golden chasuble wrapped around his body. He looked like the messenger of God that people imagined in their impoverished imagination. God had sent him to the earth to face the suffering of the world, so he could reach out to lift up the helpless and sinking souls.


    ¡°I, Sistine I, as your protector whom you call upon for help, your Holy Father, the incarnation of God have sworn to save you. My children, my brothers and sisters, you have entrusted me with your precious faith, and I will be with you until the devil retreats from this sacred land under the glory of God.¡±


    His words were very brief, and after he finished speaking, he slowly got off the carriage with the help of the young man, tidied his clothes, and walked steadily towards the fence.


    ¡°Oh my God... Your Holiness!¡± The city guard didn¡¯t know whether to be amazed or shocked. The statue-like Knights Templar immediately moved. They strode forward, quickly dismantled the fences entangled with barbed wire, and cleared away the wooden boards, stones, and debris, opening a path for people to pass through.


    Sistine I didn¡¯t hesitate for a moment. Under the almost silent gaze of everyone, he raised his foot and stepped onto this rotten land that was flowing with pus and covered with scars.


    ¡°Seal off the lower city.¡±


    He gave the order as he passed through the fence.


    This time, no one expressed anger at the city guard who moved. The fence closed again behind the Pope, and the creaking sound seemed like a meaningful declaration.

 Chapter 32: Temptation of the Saint

    The papal procession finally came to a halt at a moderately sized church in the lower city. The person who chose this location was Ferrante who had climbed to the position of captain of the papal guard. Although, he had not yet reached the legal age of adulthood, he already possessed a calmness, maturity, and intelligence far beyond his years. Since the Francois incident last year, he had become unusually taciturn, following behind the Pope like a silent ghost, gazing at everyone who approached the Pope with emotionless eyes.


    In the papal palace, there was already growing discussion about Ferrante. Unlike the previous heated discussion caused by the Pope¡¯s favoritism towards him when he first arrived, this time the discussion was silent and subtle, like a long, cold stream flowing in an underground river, leaving no trace or sound, yet noticed by all the leaves and branches perched on the big tree of the papal palace.


    They said he was the Pope¡¯s shadow, a watchdog to the Holy Father, a loyal pet... No matter what, Ferrante had heard these whispers from his own numerous sources but had always laughed them off.


    This young man, who seemed to have taken the protection of the Pope as his only mission, was born in the lower city. No one knew better than he what stories had happened in these complex, dark, and damp streets. After careful comparison and consideration, he carefully selected this church for his Holy Father. Its decoration was not particularly gorgeous, but its greatest advantage was its safety.


    The Orange Blossom Church was originally a public schoolhouse left by the ancient Romans. After the collapse of the vast empire, the Holy See transformed it into a monastery. It still retained the solid foundation of the Roman era, and the thick arched brick walls enclosed the building tightly. The style was solemn and majestic, and although it was not as delicate and beautiful as other later-built churches, it had its own unique and rugged grandeur.


    This monastery was then abandoned fifty years after its establishment and later converted into a church. From the time it stood on the earth till present, it was probably the first time it welcomed a crown.


    The Knights Templar were very satisfied with this base. The open square left over from the ancient Roman era was very suitable for their training. The thick walls and regular structure also made it convenient for them to facilitate their garrison and guard. They quickly took over the external defence of the Orange Blossom Church, while the security of the Pope was left to the responsibility of the Papal Guard, who were dedicated to this matter.


    Rafael also assigned half of the knights to participate in the rescue and distribution of supplies in the lower city. This move obviously greatly calmed people¡¯s hearts. The people silently obeyed the words of these knights wearing snow-white robes and light armor, returning to their desolate homes and waiting for tomorrow.


    On the first day that Pope Sistine I entered the lower city, the rioting people quieted down and once again became obedient lambs under the throne of God.


    Julius sat in his study in the Papal Palace. The gates of Florence had been completely closed. In accordance with Sistine I¡¯s order before he left, he allowed those who wanted to flee to leave Florence. Those with a certificate of consent stamped with the Secretary-General¡¯s seal and signature could leave, but...


    Of course, it was impossible to let the guilty abandon Florence so easily.


    Julius neatly drew a cross on the application form just handed to him. The cursive handwriting was slender and upright, like a vine.


    Application denied.


    The bishop who received this document turned pale, in stark contrast with the jubilant crowd around him. His expression attracted the attention of his colleagues. They looked at him in confusion, and then discovered the rejected application in his hand. Their faces changed one after another, and their eyes looking at the bishop gradually became meaningful.


    At least under the holy decree of Sistine I, Julius Portia was not a harsh person. He would quickly approve the applications for leave submitted to his desk, including those from people who were not very friendly with the Portia family.


    But not everyone could get that seemingly easy-to-get signature.


    Those who had made their way up in the upper class of Florence were all shrewd. They quietly observed and quickly discovered that all the rejected applications were people related to the twelve lords.


    Not to mention the twelve lords themselves.


    At the same time that Sistine I took a carriage to the lower city, the Portia family¡¯s guards and the remaining guards of the papal palace went to the residences of the lords, surrounding them and not allowing anyone to enter or leave.


    Such an open act, coupled with this subtle timing, made many people vaguely guess the whole story, making them shudder.


    Although the plague occurred in the lower city, who knows if they would be so insane as to include the upper city in their attacks. What if the lords fought to the death and were determined to kill Sistine I? Wouldn¡¯t those living in the upper city also suffer an unexpected disaster?


    The frightened nobles rarely united against a common enemy. They subtly distanced themselves from the lords and rejected the letters of request sent from their residences, even if the letters only asked them to take one or two people with them in the caravan leaving the city.


    The nobles sneered and handed the letters directly to the papal palace.


    The upper city of Florence soon became empty. Only a few nobles remained. However, not many of the clergy were willing to leave. They knew very well that now that the pope had shown his determination to live and die with the people, if they really left, they would never be promoted in their lifetime, and they might even be excluded from Florence ¨C they would rather die than lose everything they had struggled for so many years.


    So people were surprised to find that more and more priests were coming to the lower city, and with the various materials sent by the nobles, life in the lower city actually seemed to be much better than before the plague.


    His Adam¡¯s apple bobbed, and a painful feeling like a knife scraped his throat. Fear and bitterness overwhelmed him.


    He hated this poor, damp, and decadent place, but seeing it really die, he felt an immense despair.


    ¡°This is your home,¡± the Pope said.


    After a long silence, Ferrante heard the Pope say gently, ¡°It¡¯s also my home.¡±


    Ferrante suddenly turned his head with such force that he almost twisted his head off.


    He didn¡¯t understand what the Pope meant.


    Rafael smiled at him, without any other meaning in his smile: ¡°This is a secret.¡±


    The golden-haired pope leaned close to Ferrante¡¯s ear and whispered: ¡°I grew up here in my childhood. Like you, I was a piece of trash that crawled out of the mud.¡±


    Huge waves rolled up in Ferrante¡¯s sea-blue eyes.


    Sistine I¡¯s origin was an open secret in Florence. He was recorded under the name of a branch of the Portia family and did not even get the surname Portia. However, they all guessed that he was the illegitimate son of Pope Vitalian III, but apart from that, no one knew who his mother was or where he grew up.


    They thought that he was like many illegitimate children of noble blood, born to a mother of humble status and raised until he was old enough to do things, and then brought up by his father. But in fact, no one really knew his childhood.


    The only person who knew of his origin and was still alive was Julius¡ªand now there was also Ferrante.


    The Holy See has always been creating a sacred origin for the Pope. The Pope was a being beyond mortals, he was pure and noble, and he must have grown up in fragrant brocade and flowers, carrying people¡¯s expectations and hopes ¨C no matter what, he should not be a lowly beggar who crawled around in the lower city.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take you to see my past,¡± Rafael continued in a low voice. His invitation was like poisoned honey. His lavender eyes were full of temptation, pity and sorrow, but Ferrante was still immersed in the huge shock, completely unaware of that bit of pity and sadness. ¡°Hold my hand, and I will tell you how a saint was born.¡±


    Ferrante couldn¡¯t resist such an invitation, or rather, he simply couldn¡¯t resist any invitation from this person.


    He subconsciously put his hand on the Pope¡¯s palm.


    At this moment, Rafael almost wanted to retract his hand. He wanted to let go of this poor innocent soul, but this hesitation only lasted for a moment.


    ¨C God, should he commit any sin in the future, please forgive him and let the flames fall only upon me, for all this was my temptation.


    Rafael murmured silently in his heart.


    The Pope tightened his grip on the hand and a flawless smile appeared on his face.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Rafa is going to do something bad...


    Translator¡¯s Note


    1 Vinegar water ¨C Vinegar has been used as an antiseptic and disinfectant since ancient times. The most famous during the plague is probably the four thieves vinegar. The story goes that during the terrible plague of Tolosa in 1630, four thieves, not considering the infection risks, entered the homes of plague victims, dying or died, to plunder their wealth. Arrested, they were sentenced to hang. An intelligent and curious judge wondered how to managed not to get infected. He questioned them promising them grace if they revealed the interesting secret. The thieves replied that twice a day they bath their wrists and temples with a macerate of various herbs in vinegar, which from that day took the name of ¡°vinegar of the 4 thieves¡°.


    This specific vinegar composition was popular during the black death epidemic of the medieval period, to prevent the catching of the plague.Plausible reasons for the effectiveness of this herbal concoction is due to its ingredients being natural flea repellents, since the flea is the carrier for the plague, as well as its antimicrobial properties.

 Chapter 33: Fragmented Past

    Two men, wrapped tightly from head to toe in long black cloaks, walked out of the small door of the Orange Blossom Church where vegetables were transported. The knight guarding the door glanced at them silently. One of them shook out a small parchment pass. The knight glanced at it and said nothing.


    The two stepped onto the wet and muddy road of the lower city.


    This massive tumor growing on the body of Florence was filled with fishy-smelling water. The working people had exercised an imagination that surpassed all artists in architectural design. Narrow houses were squeezed into the gaps between buildings. A few wooden boards could be casually placed on the eaves with a piece of oilcloth propped up to create a shelter. People with tenacious vitality live in every crevice, like earthworms and maggots in the soil, greedily absorbing the little sunlight and rainwater that leaked from the layers of rotten buildings.


    Damp and sticky moss grew from the ground up the walls and into the houses. These little things, nourished by animal manure, are a stubborn disease that can never be eliminated in the lower city. When you step on them, you will feel a soft and disgustingly slippery texture.


    Thieves, slaves, criminals, and prostitutes lived here. Many were already dead, and more were hiding in small, dark houses, peering through the cracks at the two people who still dared to walk on the street.


    Rafael walked in front. The blood that was surging in Ferrante¡¯s head had slowly cooled down. As he watched the buildings around him become increasingly low and chaotic, he suddenly realized what was happening ¨C His Holiness the Pope of Florence was venturing deep into the plague-ridden area alone, without any protection.


    This fact made Ferrante¡¯s blood run cold. He dared not imagine what would happen if His Holiness had an accident ¨C not just illness, there were too many evil deeds in the lower city that could take a person¡¯s life. The nobles didn¡¯t set foot here not only because it was dirty, but also because many desperadoes lived here.


    Given enough benefits, these desperadoes would not mind betraying their faith.


    Ferrante suddenly stepped forward and grabbed Rafael¡¯s wrist through his cloak: ¡°Your Holiness... please go back! This place is not suitable for you to set foot in. If...¡±


    Rafael glanced at Ferrante from under the wide hood that covered most of his face, his eyes filled with a gentle smile. Since leaving the Orange Blossom Church, he had seemed very patient, a patience different from his usual gentleness. He seemed to truly regard Ferrante as someone he could trust and was trying to bring him closer.


    This was not easy for Rafael.


    Only sincerity could be exchanged for sincerity. He painstakingly weighed the weight of every bit of sincerity and gave it to Ferrante. In exchange, he would take away Ferrante¡¯s life, freedom, and everything in the future.


    What was the value of a person¡¯s life, freedom, and reputation?


    Rafael didn¡¯t know, but he hoped he could afford the price.


    ¡°Shh...¡± The young Pope curled his lips, ¡°Call me Rafa. I¡¯m your elder brother now, remember that.¡±


    His attitude was as firm as his footsteps. He led Ferrante through the rugged steps and steep slopes with ease, climbing over low houses. The terrain here was extremely complicated. The steps might be on the roof of someone¡¯s house. Those who saw this terrain for the first time would always hesitate for a long time and unknowingly get lost here. But Rafael seemed to have run here countless times, and he could even climb to a high place to take a shortcut without any obstacles.


    He walked faster and faster. The low, sturdy walls and the rotten, damp wooden corridors were all his paths. He climbed in through open windows, walked through public corridors, and then came down from the iron stairs hanging on the walls. His skilled movements were no different from any of the people who lived here.


    Ferrante followed him closely, like a ghost, stepping lightly and silently on Rafael¡¯s footsteps as he crossed every obstacle. While jumping and running, he seemed to be back to the time before he went to the papal palace, running on the narrow road with a group of dirty children, causing a burst of curses.


    Far away from the Orange Blossom Church, Rafael stopped. He pressed his right knee, which was aching slightly, and broke free from those distant memories. Ferrante approached him: ¡°Your Holiness... Rafa?¡±


    Ferrante¡¯s voice trembled slightly, and he felt a slight guilt as he called out the name.


    ¡°Hmm,¡± Rafael hummed a low sound, stood up as if nothing had happened, and looked around, ¡°Ah, so we¡¯ve come to this place.¡±


    Unlike the other twisted and dilapidated buildings, the houses here were relatively tidy, even decorated with dirty glass. A blackened wooden sign hung from the dark door on the first floor, with a simply drawn rose on it.


    Ferrante¡¯s face stiffened.


    The Rose Garden.


    Rafael noticed his expression and pinched his chin with two fingers, examining the sea-blue eyes carefully, as if trying to find some emotion. After a long time, he released his hand, ¡°You know what this place is, you grew up here ¨C of course, your information was opened to me the day you entered the papal palace.¡±


    Ferrante didn¡¯t speak. Of course he knew about this, but Rafael had never mentioned it, so he just pretended it didn¡¯t exist.


    As the son of a prostitute, even among illegitimate children, he was the most despised kind.


    He waited for Rafael to say something.


    The pope¡¯s fingers shifted and pressed against his head, pulling Ferrante towards him. In the foul air of the lower city, he heard Rafael¡¯s soft voice, ¡°There¡¯s nothing to be ashamed of. The woman I once considered my mother also worked here. If possible, I hoped she was my mother. For that, I would accept the contempt and disdain of anyone. I even envied and hated her future children, what a good mother he would have...¡±


    Lia was sold to another rose garden. Until he left the lower city, Rafael didn¡¯t know where she had gone.


    ¡°...She was by the docks. The inner river passed through there, and there were a lot of people coming and going,¡± Ferrante said hoarsely.


    ¡°Oh, no wonder,¡± Rafael nodded. ¡°I always avoided that place... During that time, many street urchins were kidnapped, and they were all transported out through the docks. Children were careful not to go near the docks.¡±


    He seemed to want to smile but couldn¡¯t. He just stared into Ferrante¡¯s eyes.


    Ferrante met his gaze and saw that for a moment, those lavender eyes seemed to be filled with crystal tears.


    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry to her,¡± Rafael turned his head, took his hand off Ferrante¡¯s face, and took a step back, muttering, ¡°... I¡¯m so sorry to her.¡±


    He no longer looked at the eyes that were so similar to Lia¡¯s. He took a step forward in another direction, and Ferrante followed behind him, hearing the Pope change the subject: ¡°I heard you also participated in the blessing ceremony at the Holy Grail Church?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I can sing an entire hymn. The blessing ceremony needs children like this to sing hymns, and I can get two or three copper coins.¡± Ferrante replied honestly.


    Rafael looked up at the direction and chose a small path to climb up: ¡°I remember you were at... the Holy Grail Church? How were the priests there?¡±


    Ferrante was silent for a moment.


    Rafael got the answer he wanted from this silence. He sighed: ¡°Is that why you¡¯re so persistent in finding a saint that fits your imagination?¡±


    Ferrante¡¯s pupils shrank.


    They were walking up a flight of stone steps when the pope turned to look at him from above. His unspeakable thoughts seemed to be exposed in the other¡¯s eyes: ¡°You look at me as if I were a saint, but I¡¯m not.¡±


    The Pope, who is the incarnation of God on earth and holds the title of absolute saint, said shocking words in a place where no one knew:


    ¡°I am not the saint you want.¡±


    ¡°You made that little girl come to me to expose Francois, hoping that I would punish evil and promote good, but in the end, did you really get the result you expected?¡±


    Ferrante took a step back when he heard the first word. He didn¡¯t expect that matter to have been discovered.


    Rafael didn¡¯t get angry. He turned around and continued to walk up: ¡°You hope to see the wicked suffer eternal damnation, you hope to see the good people live happily ever after, you hope the saint will wash away the sins of the world, but Francois is still back in Calais living his luxurious life, and those innocent people who were released are still struggling in a painful life.¡±


    Ferrante¡¯s face changed. He shook his head, trying to leave or to stop Rafael from saying any more... he didn¡¯t want to listen anymore!


    But Rafael never softened his heart before achieving his goal: ¡°Don¡¯t you understand? I¡¯m not the saint you want. I am just like you. I crawled out of the mud, doing despicable things for my own purposes and desires in the secular world. If you want a saint, you shouldn¡¯t look for it in me.¡±


    Ferrante stood there stiffly, watching Rafael walk farther and farther away. After the Pope had walked a distance, he finally found that his guards were gone. He looked back and found that the black-haired boy had a look of despair and anger in his eyes that was very familiar to him.


    Rafael smiled silently and sadly.


    ¡°But I can give you a saint, the perfect saint you want,¡± said the representative of God on earth. ¡°Come, dear.¡±


    He found himself still unable to resist the voice, even though it had just cruelly shattered his fantasy.


    After a moment of stiffness, the boy with black curly hair finally lifted his feet and silently followed Rafael¡¯s footsteps. The young Pope seemed very gentle at this moment. He took Ferrante¡¯s hand and led him through the complex terrain, avoiding the wandering people, and finally stopped on a desolate hillside.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Rafael, the master of brainwashing, crushes Ferrante, reshapes him, puts his own mark on him, and then you can have a puppy of your own!


    Sistine I¡¯s Notes: I went hiking today. My knees hurt, walking was tiring, and I had to talk a lot, but it was worth it because I picked up a curly-haired puppy.

 Chapter 34: The Sinful Saint

    The doctors wearing bird-beaked masks and large hoods began to splash vinegar water again. The strong, pungent smell was carried by the wind to this small, barren hillside. Rafael, who had a keen sense of smell, sneezed twice. Ferrante glanced at him and silently changed his position, blocking a little of the wind for him.


    ¡°Look, Florence is dying.¡± Rafael didn¡¯t notice his movements, but just looked at the sprawling and rugged buildings and said softly.


    On the specially opened narrow road, carts carrying corpses passed one after another. The corpse bearers hunched over, sending the corpses with their miserable deaths into a unified tomb for burial. However, they might also fall to the ground on the journey, becoming a part of the cargo on the cart.


    Some carts were parked outside houses, while the corpse bearers were nowhere to be found. The priests no longer entered to check, but knocked on the door. If there was no response, they would seal the door and wait for manpower to be available before dealing with it again.


    ¡°Has God abandoned Florence?¡± No matter how many times he saw it, even the most hard-hearted person cannot remain indifferent when facing the death of his own kind. Ferrante was only a sixteen-year-old boy, and he had never seen such a living hell. The Holy See had an atlas obtained from an island country in the East, which recorded the people of that country¡¯s imagination of hell: twisted and terrifying demons dancing on corpses, with flames and sulfur burning in the stone mountains. When Ferrante looked at the scene in front of him, the chill of facing hell rolled down his spine again.


    Rafael curled his lips in mockery: ¡°God has never abandoned Florence. This is the evil deeds of greedy people.¡±


    Ferrante turned abruptly.


    As just a member of the papal guard, he was not qualified to know the true secret of the plague in Florence. Until now, he still thought that this plague was an accident, just like any other tragic story of coincidence, death and disease always fairly favored every person and every piece of land.


    So when Ferrante saw the desolate and miserable lower city, his only feeling was sadness. He was born here, and although this place was despised and hated by everyone, even the residents here hated it, but when this land really died, the children who were fed by its smelly and shriveled milk would also be sad about it.


    Perhaps he thought of the rotten roof that once covered his head, or perhaps he thought of the merchant who had cursed him but also gave him half a loaf of bread. They were all dying in this plague.


    But such death can be given by fate and sentenced by God, but it should never be imposed by humans.


    Ferrante¡¯s blood ran cold. Then he was filled with excruciating rage, the likes of which he had never experienced in his life. If the culprits were standing in front of him at this moment, he would not hesitate to pierce their bodies with his sword and throw them into the crowd of the sick, letting them also experience the feeling of their bodies covered with sores and carbuncles, spitting foul-smelling black blood and struggling on the ground.


    After this anger subsided, another strange and terrifying feeling surged up, like the cold hair of a banshee, wrapping around his heart.


    For the first time, he faced the ultimate malice of humanity and the indifferent contempt for committing such evil acts.


    He couldn¡¯t tell which he couldn¡¯t tolerate more; the evil done or the attitude of taking so many lives so lightly. The strange and indescribable feeling he had a year ago when he learned that Francois had not been punished reappeared, only this time it was more intense.


    He was angry, but he couldn¡¯t say why he was angry; he was sad, but he didn¡¯t know why he was sad; he was even afraid, but he didn¡¯t know why he was afraid.


    Ferrante looked at Rafael in despair. The slum boy who crawled out of the Holy Grail Church had faintly touched a more sinister rule. Unlike in the past when he obtained information through language and used cunning means to seek benefits, this was a much larger gamble. At the gambling table were the well-dressed big shots, and life, power, and wealth were the eternal stakes here. At the door of this gamble, he was seeking help from a reliable person.


    This was something Rafael was all too familiar with.


    Everything related to faith ultimately came down to the control of people¡¯s thought. Combined with his previous life, Rafael had been the Pope for six years, and with the education he received from Julius, he knew very well how to destroy a person, reconstruct a person, and even create a person.


    Just like taming one¡¯s own prey; you have to forcefully destroy all his reliance, cognition, and beliefs, stir up all his thoughts like a storm, uproot everything in his mind with a mixture of truth and falsehood, cleansing it thoroughly, and then he could easily and happily rebuild his own things on it.


    From the moment they went out, Rafael had been doing this.


    Telling him his own origin ¨C to destroy Ferrante¡¯s trust in the church.


    Telling him the origin of the plague in the lower city ¨C to destroy Ferrante¡¯s trust in people.


    His relationship with Lia became the only rope that Ferrante could grasp in the void. The kinship connected by the shadow of his mother was ethereal and fragile, but it was Ferrante¡¯s lifeline at the moment.


    Unlike the Knights Templar, it didn¡¯t need any bright and glorious code of conduct, nor does it need to abide by the doctrines of righteousness, kindness, and purity.


    Rafael wanted it to use any means necessary, to be shameless and vicious, to be a dog that crawled at his feet, and to bow its head obediently in his hands.


    ¡°I¡¯ll tell you where the saint is,¡± Rafael leaned closer to Ferrante. He paused, a fierce flame burning in his eyes. This flame seemed to have burned from the underworld, to burn through the chaotic world, and to blasphemously rush to the throne of God. He had never so clearly known how terrible the words he was about to say were, but he was rational and calm. His soul seemed to float out of his body, and he found a secret pleasure in that trembling fear. ¡°...The saint is everywhere.¡±


    Ferrante felt as if he was struck by lightning. He had never heard such blasphemous words, but the person who said them was the Pope who held the power of faith. The golden-haired Pope smiled subtly, and his lavender eyes flashed with a strange and crazy light: ¡°There are countless saints in the scriptures of the Holy See. Each one was canonized2 by the Pope, and the standards for sanctification were also formulated by the Pope. If you write me a document, I can even canonize your mother as a saint right now ¨C Saint Lia. How does that sound?¡±


    Rafael trembled involuntarily all over. He used up all his strength to say the following words, but he had to say them, he had to say them. He wanted someone who was completely loyal to him ¨C even God could not be above him!


    ¡°God will not answer you, nor will he reach out to you. I can forgive all sins, redeem all who want to live, balance all good and evil, and send everyone to where they should be. And you shall be my scale and my dagger ¨C Ferrante, give me your faith.¡±


    The most terrifying words came out of his mouth. At this moment, Rafael was ready to be punished by God and die.


    ¡°Do not be afraid.¡± The young Pope reached out and held Ferrante¡¯s face. The young man, who had suffered a huge shock, had a stiff expression. He was forced to listen to the Pope¡¯s words. These words poured into his brain, forcefully occupying all his thoughts.


    What is wrong?


    What is right?


    His faith had been shattered by the highest incarnation of this event, and he could no longer even pray to God for an answer.


    ¡°If you don¡¯t know what to do, give yourself to me, and let me tell you what to do,¡± Rafael¡¯s tone was unbelievably gentle. He murmured in Ferrante¡¯s ear like a baby. ¡°No need to think, no need to suffer. All sins belong to me, I practice fairness and justice, and you just need to follow me to get an ideal country.¡±


    Is there really anyone in this world who could refuse this invitation?


    Ferrante heard his soul let out a comfortable sigh. He squeezed a strange and familiar sound from his throat. This sound seemed to be his body eagerly responding, responding to the call of fate.


    ¡°Yes, I will believe in you and be loyal to you.¡±


    ¡°Holy Father.¡±


    His answer was like the hammer of divine punishment falling heavily, declaring that unforgivable sins were about to befall him. Rafael silently revealed a sad and desperate smile.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Diary of Sistine I: The puppy is very cute and obedient, I like it very much.


    Translator¡¯s Note


    Folks, while reading about someone like Rafael is quite cool, if you ever meet someone like him, run. They¡¯re most likely from a cult.


    1 The Inquisition ¨C a judicial procedure and a group of institutions within the Catholic Church whose aim was to combat heresy, apostasy, blasphemy, witchcraft, and customs considered deviant. Violence, torture, or the simple threat of its application, were used by the Inquisition to extract confessions and denunciations from heretics. One of the most famous being the Spanish Inquisition.


    With the exception of the Papal States, the institution of the Inquisition was abolished in the early 19th century, after the Napoleonic Wars in Europe and the Spanish American wars of independence in the Americas. In the Roman Curia of the Vatican, the institution survived and is currently called the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith.


    2 Canonization ¨C the declaration of a deceased person as an officially recognized saint.Popes began making such decrees in the tenth century. Up to that point, the local bishops governed the veneration of holy men and women within their own dioceses; and there may have been, for any particular saint, no formal decree at all.

 Chapter 35: Fire

    They returned to the Orange Blossom Church before nightfall. Ferrante didn¡¯t say a word along the way, as silent as a shadow. Rafael tolerantly accepted his silence, peacefully telling him some trivial matters, occasionally interspersing a little about Lia¡¯s past¡ªFerrante¡¯s attention was always unconsciously captured by the Pope. In fact, if Rafael intended for someone to like him, no one could escape his charm.


    Everything was as usual in the Orange Blossom Church, and no one seems to have noticed the Pope¡¯s short disappearance. Rafael took off his wide cloak, talking to Ferrante who was following closely behind him, and walked along the dark and narrow stone corridor. The church, converted from a monastery, was built with huge gray stones. These majestic and solemn buildings often had arched long corridors, high and narrow windows, and spires that seemed to pierce the sky. The interior was dimly lit and seemed to be perpetually cold. As soon as you stepped into that door, you could feel the sudden drop in temperature and the smell of candles burning for years.


    Stepping from the still damp and warm outdoors, Rafael immediately felt a needle-like pain in his knees. The Orange Blossom Church was good in every way, except that the temperature wasn¡¯t really suitable for him to live in. However, he did not raise any objection, although his opinion would always be considered as a primary factor.


    Ferrante took the long cloak from him, slung it over his arm, and followed the Holy Father. Then he stopped at the corner of the corridor ¨C because the noble person walking in front of him had suddenly stopped. Ferrante was glad that he wasn¡¯t distracted, otherwise he would have bumped into him.


    Around this bend was the Pope¡¯s suite, Ferrante tilted his head and saw the reason the Pope stopped in his tracks.


    A tall young man was standing at the door of the Pope¡¯s room, wearing armor that had been wiped clean. He held his helmet in his hand, revealing his golden long hair, and his whole person was like an ancient knight who had just walked out of a statue, radiating the virtues of integrity, purity, and humility.


    ¡°Ah...damn it.¡± Rafael murmured.


    Rafael¡¯s eyes wandered for a moment, and for a moment he wanted to turn around, but he quickly reacted¡ªwhy should I be afraid of him?!


    When he turned to look directly at the other party again, Leshert also saw him and walked towards him.


    ¡°Your Holiness.¡±


    The knight saluted him, and the forest green eyes under the golden hair were rich and transparent, purer than the finest emerald.


    He was looking at Rafael with disapproval with his extremely beautiful eyes.


    ¡°Your Holiness, where have you been? I haven¡¯t received a notice from the priest about you leaving, and you weren¡¯t at your room. I apologise for not being able to conduct a widespread search. It¡¯s very dangerous outside. If you didn¡¯t come back when the bell rings, I have to consider blocking all the streets¡ª¡±


    Leshert said in a solemn tone. Rafael felt a little guilty, but his expression remained calm, and he simply avoided this dangerous topic: ¡°What do you want to see me about?¡±


    Leshert had a lot of things to do, and he wouldn¡¯t come to see him often, which was why Rafael didn¡¯t tell him. Being caught red-handed this time was a complete coincidence.


    ¡°The Secretary-General sent Dr. Polly in, alongside a letter from Rome.¡± The upright knight commander answered the Pope¡¯s question obediently.


    The letter, enclosed in a well-sized leather bag, still carried the knight¡¯s body heat. Rafael took the letter, flipped it over and examined it. The letter was well sealed, and the wax seal was a gilded rose and long sword, the royal emblem of the Roman empire. The signature in cursive below was tall and beautiful, with a sharp sense of arrogance.


    It was a letter from Sancha.


    After the princess left Florence, she still maintained a certain amount of correspondence with Rafael. She seemed to regard Rafael as a trustworthy friend, discussing philosophy and art with him in her letters, or complaining to him about the annoying nobles in the Roman court. Sometimes she would also send some gifts alongside the letters.


    According to the old royal rules, Sancha also had companions who grew up with her. These companions were all from the families of Rome¡¯s powerful ministers and great nobles. Becoming the princess¡¯s companion was very beneficial to their future marriages, especially since Sancha also had the title of Archduchess of Assyria and would be the Queen of Assyria in the future. But Sancha didn¡¯t like these companions who came to her side for the sake of interests or rules.


    She complained more than once in her letters, ¡®If only they were willing to read something other than the ¡®Holy Scripture¡¯ and storybooks? I really don¡¯t want to talk to them about how to capture the heart of a handsome knight, nor do I want to study how to use belladonna to make my pupils look bigger and more pitiful¡ªhistory books are full of people who died from belladonna, but they don¡¯t care at all!¡¯


    Rafael had to admit that he didn¡¯t dislike this kind of correspondence, and he could even relax a little while corresponding with Sancha. Sancha was a very good conversationalist. The education she received gave her a rich knowledge reserve. The queen cultivated her into a humble and confident person. She was eager to know all kinds of new knowledge, and she was also willing to listen to the smallest troubles and accept opinions that were different from hers.


    Rafael held the letter in his hand and thanked Leshert. The knight commander watched the Pope walk past him and said earnestly, ¡°If Your Holiness must go out, for your own safety and that of Florence, please be sure to notify me.¡±


    Rafael sighed, ¡°I promise, Knight.¡±


    After getting a satisfactory answer, Leshert smiled. This kind of pure handsomeness was enough to make all the ladies scream and faint.


    Rafael pushed open the door and walked into the room expressionlessly. Polly was sitting in front of the fireplace, warming himself by the fire with a grin on his face. Seeing Rafael come in, the old man, who was still holding the poker to poke the fire, waved to him.


    Rafael closed the door with his backhand, and Ferrante hid in the corner like a shadow. The young Pope walked over and bent down beside Polly. The old man, whose cheeks were flushed red by the flames, glanced at him, his eyes fell on his legs, and he snorted: ¡°Feeling uncomfortable again?¡± R


    Polly stopped talking and showed a look of despair: ¡°Oh God, I can¡¯t imagine... it¡¯s crazy, but we really have no other way, Rafa, I know this is unacceptable, but but...¡±


    He couldn¡¯t go on. As someone who had been influenced by the doctrine since childhood, he couldn¡¯t so easily say such a suggestion.


    The young Pope stuffed the last bite of egg white into his mouth and carefully wiped the dust off his fingers. He looked down with a very gentle and peaceful expression, but this quietness only made Polly more uneasy: ¡°Listen, I know that this idea is terrible, and that people won¡¯t accept this, but we have to find a way to save those who haven¡¯t gotten sick yet, we can¡¯t cure...¡±


    ¡°Then let¡¯s do it.¡± After wiping the last finger, the golden-haired Pope raised his eyes and said lightly.


    ¡°Ah?¡± Polly, who had prepared a long speech to persuade Rafael, stopped abruptly, his eyes widened, and his mind hadn¡¯t turned around yet.


    Rafael smiled at him: ¡°You didn¡¯t need to say so much, and your persuasion skills are atrocious.¡±


    Polly was so annoyed by this that his nose twisted: ¡°What did you say?!¡±


    Rafael¡¯s expression was calm, as if making such a big decision was just a trivial matter for him: ¡°I will issue a papal edict to appease them, and the Knights Templar will be on standby at all times. Within three days, all the dead will be cremated and buried in the Holy See cemetery.¡±


    His words were cold. Although it was Polly who proposed this suggestion, when he heard such a clear and serious statement, Polly still felt an inexplicable chill in his heart.


    He remembered that when he first proposed this suggestion, all the doctors were devastated. They tried their best to find a better way to no avail, and had no choice but to submit this plan to Julius.


    The Portia family head reacted similarly to Rafael. He listened carefully, thought about it, and then agreed.


    Polly was of course happy to see a decision being made with such efficiency, but it was undeniable that as a human being, he also felt fear.


    They seemed to have stripped themselves of all human emotions, just weighing, considering, thinking, and then deciding.


    They skipped all the processes of sadness, struggle, and sorrow, and went directly to the end result.


    ¡°That¡¯s why I really dislike people like you.¡± Polly muttered in complaint.


    It made him feel hate, fear, and pity at the same time.


    It was unclear whether Rafael understood the meaning of his words or not. The Pope didn¡¯t say anything about this obvious act of disrespect. He lowered his head, peeled another egg, and handed it to Polly. There was a flawless smile on his face: ¡°Eat?¡±


    Polly looked at his indifferent reaction, gnashed his teeth in anger, and shouted viciously: ¡°...Eat!¡±


    Author¡¯s Note


    Sistine I¡¯s diary: ...The eggs are choking and hot.


    Translator¡¯s Note


    I find it pretty realistic that Rafa and the doctors were unable to find a cure for the plague. Even basic hygiene was still abysmal during that period let alone the discovery of something such as germ theory. Rafa was a person of the times who experienced rebirth not some transmigrator. Pretty brutal way of containing the spread of disease but definitely something expected of the Medieval period.


    Just a fun fact, the causative bacterium of plague was first described and cultured by Alexandre Yersin in Hong Kong in 1894, after which transmission of bacteria from rodents by flea bites was discovered by Jean-Paul Simond in 1898. Effective treatment with antiserum was initiated in 1896, but this therapy was supplanted by sulphonamides in the 1930s and by streptomycin starting in 1947. It can be seen that the cure for the plague has only been known in the last 200 years.


    1 Cremation ¨C Resurrection of the body is central to the beliefs and teachings of Catholicism and Christianity. Because of this belief, the Roman Catholic Church had a ban on cremation for most of its history. In the Middle Ages, cremation was sometimes used by Catholic authorities as part of punishment for accused heretics, which included burning at the stake. However, in 1963, Pope Paul VI lifted this ban, stating that cremation does not affect a person¡¯s soul, and does not prevent God from resurrecting the deceased¡¯s body to new life.


    2 Quarantine ¨C The word quarantine comes from quarantena or quarantaine, meaning ¡°forty days¡±, used in the Venetian language in the 14th and 15th centuries and also in France. The word is designated in the period during which all ships were required to be isolated for 40 days before passengers and crew could go ashore during the Black Death plague.


    The forty-day quarantine proved to be an effective formula for handling outbreaks of the plague. According to current estimates, the bubonic plague had a 37-day period from infection to death; therefore, the European quarantines would have been highly successful in determining the health of crews from potential trading and supply ships.

 Chapter 36: To Offer Him Flowers

    ¡®In the year 1080, a great plague struck Florence. Pope Sistine I went to the lower city to comfort the people. During this epidemic, he displayed an extraordinary calmness, rationality, and compassion, conducting daily requiem masses and receiving devout believers... To pray to God, he insisted on eating only one meal a day, consisting mainly of water, black bread, and cabbage soup. He underwent a major purification every five days, during which any food was prohibited... His actions inspired more and more people, and the chaotic lower city had never loved a Florentine religious leader as much...¡¯


    ¡®... A month after the outbreak, Pope Sistine I issued a papal bull, ordering that all people and livestock that died from the plague, as well as related clothing and items, be burned to ashes, including those who had already been buried... The lower city experienced several successive riots, and some patients even began to attack the checkpoints guarded by the Knights Templar and were shot dead...¡¯


    ¡®Three days after the papal bull was issued, the Knights Templar, in accordance with the Pope¡¯s orders, sent all of the plague-stricken dead and their related items in Florence to the pyre. Patients were sent to the Great Gospel Monastery for unified management...¡¯


    ¡®... A month after the papal bull was issued, the plague in Florence ended.¡¯


    ¡®Pope Sistine I was the first to adopt the method of quarantine and cremation to disinfect and eliminate the plague, which had a great impact on the prevailing theological idea in the Middle Ages. This practice effectively accelerated the elimination of infectious disease, and modern medicine thus emerged. As a theological leader and religious spokesperson, Pope Sistine I¡¯s actions were controversial at the time, and the Holy Church also had many debates about it...¡®


    ¡®However, undoubtedly, as the leader who faced the Florentine plague head-on, compared to the Black Death, which had ravaged most of the continent for more than a decade and claimed tens of millions of lives, Florence under the rule of Pope Sistine I only had a little over 7,000 deaths 1 during the disaster, which was a remarkable achievement...¡¯


    The record on paper only had a few lines. In the vast sea of files, this incident was just a moment in the long history of Florence. History does not listen to the cries of the dead, nor does it hear the complaints of the poor. The deaths of seven thousand people were reduced to cold numbers on paper, only four characters long, but behind it were the flames that never stopped burning day and night, the ashes that covered Florence¡¯s sky, and the desperate screams and shouts.


    The Great Gospel Monastery was built on the edge of the lower city of Florence. A few miles further out, one could see the ancient city walls of Florence. Some monks still lived in this monastery. They strictly adhered to the church rules and demanded the most austere and frugal lifestyle of themselves in order to draw closer to God.


    After the outbreak of the plague, all the monks of the Great Gospel Monastery left here and participated in the management and care of the patients. The monastery gates were open, allowing anyone to enter or leave freely, and accepted all homeless people. Ferrante and Rafael jointly designated it as the final residence for the patients of this epidemic. Because this monastery had very thick walls, narrow windows, and was located far away from residential areas.


    In short, it was easy to guard ¨C any internal or external threats could be easily dealt with.


    The patients were moved into the Great Gospel Monastery as quickly as possible. The Knights Templar blocked the streets and prohibited everyone from going out. Lines of stretchers converged into rivers on the roads. These rivers started from different places and eventually flowed into the remote Great Gospel Monastery.


    The streets were filled with cries of anguish.


    The Papal decree had been issued days ago, and everyone in the lower city knew what awaited the sick. The patients themselves also knew what their end would be. They wept helplessly and sorrowfully, begging for mercy from His Holiness the Pope or cursing him with words they themselves didn¡¯t understand.


    The closer one got to the Great Gospel Monastery, the louder the cries became. Some agitated patients even tried to leap from their stretchers and flee, only to be returned by the knights guarding on both sides. The monastery entrance was in chaos, and this turmoil continued until dusk.


    The city guards and knights stationed at the exit of the lower city had already shot and killed the sixth person that day who had tried to escape the lower city blockade. The ground was wet with blood. They carried buckets, pouring clean water over the ground to wash away the stench of blood. There was no expression on anyone¡¯s face.


    Rafael had been standing on the bell tower of the Orange Blossom Church for the whole day. From the moment the first stretcher was carried out of the gate to the closing of the Great Gospel Monastery, he stood there motionless, like a cold statue.


    The lower city was filled with cries, so many of them that they mixed into the ubiquitous sound of sobbing wind. All of the sounds were accusations against him.


    ¡®He is an extremely cruel Pope,¡¯ a minstrel wrote in his notebook. He had been fortunate enough not to enter the lower city before the plague arrived, but he had witnessed history at the place closest to this cruel fate.


    ¡®I cannot imagine how he could issue such an order, forcing devout believers to accept the fact that they would be burned after death. This is a punishment comparable to being sentenced to hell. As Pope, he should have been tolerant and compassionate towards his believers, but now there is only fear of him left in Florence.¡¯


    This worn notebook, well-preserved by the passage of time, was later placed in a museum in Florence. Page by page, the thin, brittle paper was carefully placed on a platform, illuminated by dim lights, allowing visitors to see the mental journey of an eyewitness to this disaster hundreds of years ago.


    ¡®...Although as someone not affected by the disease, I am sincerely grateful to him for cutting off the source of the epidemic, I have also heard the rolling curses directed towards him. Perhaps people in the future will have a different evaluation. Will they praise him instead? I hope that there really will be such a day. After all, he really doesn¡¯t look like a devil, even though he was so cold, decisive, and ruthless when issuing orders.¡¯


    ¡®May God bless him.¡¯


    Rafael knew nothing of this bystander¡¯s account. He ordered the Knights Templar to guard the Great Gospel Monastery strictly, allowing no one to enter or leave. Some family members of the patients, in an attempt to snatch away their loved ones ¡®about to be burned at the stake,¡¯ even made spears and other weapons, trying to break through the blockade and enter the monastery. To guard against these people, Rafael ordered the monastery gates to be sealed with mud and sand. All necessary supplies were transported through baskets tied to a rope and suspended from the monastery tower. The weapons of the Knights Templar were also changed from deterrent poles to lethal swords and spears.


    In the first few days, there were people at the gates of the Great Gospel Monastery every day who failed to break through the gates groaning on the ground, but since the Knights Templar changed their equipment and put on their light combat armor, every inch of their skin was tightly covered under the cold armor, losing their human faces. They were like ruthless killing machines standing on marble pedestals. Faced with their blades and guns, everyone finally realized: the Pope was serious this time.


    A large copper basin was erected, and bundles of spices were thrown into it. The fragrant aroma spread throughout the Lower City for the first time, and people greedily inhaled the scent that had previously only been found in the homes of the nobility and in great cathedrals. Their eyes were filled with tears from the smoke, and the Pope, dressed in a magnificent jeweled crown, held the double-winged scepter that symbolized God. He stepped onto the marble-paved platform.


    He completed the complicated and lengthy requiem ceremony according to procedure. As he lit the parchment, the thin ashes were carried away by the wind, as if there really were souls rising with it, soaring into the heavens and into the embrace of the Supreme Being. Everyone¡¯s heart was greatly soothed. The hatred, pain, sorrow, and oppression were brushed away by an invisible hand amid the heavy fragrance, the steady and gentle voice, the clear and ethereal singing of the choir, and the devout chanting of the clergy.


    Rafael looked at the countless faces, both clear and blurred, below him. He saw the intense emotions in their eyes gradually subside and turn into something heavier and more hidden. These lingering feelings could only be erased by time.


    The Pope looked at his believers, and the believers of Florence looked at their protector.


    They heard the young Pope, who was as beautiful as a painted angel, say, ¡°... God¡¯s trial is over. He has taken away His suffering children, leaving you as His servants on earth. You have proven your devotion and faith...¡±


    The Pope¡¯s golden hair shone with a holy glow in the sunlight, firm, beautiful, and determined, just as he had been when he had defied all opposition and entered the dangerous Lower City.


    ¡°Brothers and sisters, the plague is finally over. I am glad. The Lower City of Florence will soon begin to usher in a new day.¡±


    ¡°For now, let us weep for the dead and the living.¡±


    As soon as he finished speaking, the square remained silent, but tears gradually gathered in people¡¯s eyes, and low sobs could be heard. Someone started crying loudly, and the mournful wailing spread throughout the square.


    Amidst the weeping, Rafael slowly descended from the platform. An old woman standing near the steps suddenly reached out, trying to break through the line of knights, which caught Rafael¡¯s attention. The Pope looked at her. The hunchbacked, ragged, wrinkled old woman had tears on her face. She opened her almost toothless mouth and said, ¡°...My four children and three granddaughters died of the plague. They were all burned by your order.¡±


    Rafael froze. He forced himself not to look away, ready to accept any rebuke, interrogation, or scolding.


    ¡°Why did you do this?¡±


    The old woman tried hard to control her emotions and prevent her tears from affecting her words.


    Rafael looked at her silently. He suddenly realized that he couldn¡¯t even say a light ¡®sorry.¡¯ In the face of seven lives, any apology would be an insult.


    ¡°But...¡± The old woman let out a mournful cry like a mother who had lost her cub. She took a deep breath, ¡°But... please don¡¯t blame yourself, Holy Father. We all know that you¡¯ve done your best. I thank you. You saved my last two children. I... Holy Father...¡±


    She cried and said, ¡°Holy Father, we will always be your most devout and faithful children.¡±


    Rafael stared at her dazedly. He had been expecting a blade, but they had offered him flowers instead.


    Could life be so kind to him?


    The crowd pushed forward, carrying the old woman away from Rafael¡¯s sight. The Pope boarded his carriage and left the Lower City, surrounded by a crowd of people. This scene was later recorded and placed under the lights of a museum, with only a short sentence:


    ¡®Florence has never loved its father so deeply.¡¯


    Translator¡¯s Note


    Just for clarification, Rafael basically ordered all sick patients to be gathered and quarantined in the monastery. Once they died, they would then be cremated and buried in the monastery¡¯s cemetery. He didn¡¯t order the sick to be burned alive.


    1 This death toll was pretty mild for its time. During the Black Death in the 13th century, an estimated 60,000 people or 3 out of every 5 people died in Florence. The infected died within 3 days, people were infected by the smallest contact, even with the clothes or other objects handled by the ill. A historian witnessed dead bodies being thrown out upon the streets, after which, the animals who started to touch it fell down dead.

 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 ¨C 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¡ªsuch 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.


    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 ¨C 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 ¨C 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, ¡°find 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...

 Chapter 38: The Popes Letter

    Rafael held the letter from Rome, propping his head up with one hand as he drowsily stared at the parchment. The parchment had a classic yellowish hue, and the handwriting was bold and decisive, a stark contrast to the rounded, flowery script typically favored by noblewomen. Sancha¡¯s handwriting had a strong masculine quality, blurring all traces of gender. It would be impossible to determine the author¡¯s gender based on the script alone.


    In an era where the handwriting of royal members was carefully designed and trained, such a significant ¡®error¡¯ could not have been unintentional. Rafael was certain that Sancha had cultivated this distinctive style for a specific reason. Perhaps, from a very young age, Queen Amandra had already decided to place her on the throne.


    A monarch could be a woman, but in an era that always prioritized men, even a queen had to make certain compromises. Even if this compromise was merely a seemingly insignificant detail like handwriting, it would help to dilute her feminine qualities. At least, during correspondence, it would prevent people from being constantly reminded that she was a woman, thus avoiding unnecessary condescension.


    Rafael stared at the beautiful calligraphy, unsure of what he was feeling.


    Sancha¡¯s letters were always concise and informative, but the language was pure, the kind that Rafael preferred most. In this letter, Sancha informed him of a piece of news:


    ¡ªThree months ago, civil unrest broke out in Assyria.


    This vast and fertile land was dominated by plains, with continuous mountain ranges providing ample rainfall and a temperate climate. At the end lay vast frozen swamps, and the diverse climate resulted in an incredibly rich variety of species. The people living in this land followed the guidance of nature, which had bestowed everything upon them, and worshipped the gods of nature. They revered the wolf, feared brave tigers and leopards, and kept the bones of fierce beasts as symbols of courage. They cherished a fearless spirit and an appreciation for the grandeur of the primal wilderness.


    They were heretics in the eyes of the Church, but their gods had granted them unparalleled bravery. The Assyrian infantry was renowned throughout the continent. Every adult man in the tribe possessed the agility of a monkey, the endurance of a wolf, and the courage of a tiger. United under the leadership and guidance of their tribal priests, they pledged their loyalty to the Assyrian monarch.


    Unlike the monarchies of Rome and Calais, Assyria¡¯s unique belief system made their political system more primitive. They did have hereditary monarchs, but beside the monarch were high priests and priests, religious figures who had equal prestige. This religious faction who listened to the voice of gods controlled all aspects of the lives of the Assyrian people, and sometimes even the monarch had to yield to them.


    Before Amandra was born, Calais, along with several neighboring countries of Assyria, launched a war against the resource-rich Assyria. This war lasted for several years, and Assyria was divided as the smoke and flames of war spread across the land.


    When Amandra was slightly older, her father, the then King of Assyria, proposed an alliance with the Roman Empire to end the war as soon as possible. His only daughter became the ideal candidate for this marriage alliance. In preparation for becoming the Roman Queen, Amandra had received both Assyrian and Roman education since her youth, giving her both the wild pride of an Assyrian and the elegant reserve of a Roman.


    However, the alliance between Assyria and Rome did not bring Assyria the peace that they had hoped for.


    Although Assyria was reunited under the threat of force, this reconciliation was fraught with uncertainty ¨C Calais had not left Assyria empty handed. The unified and complete Assyrian Empire was plagued by the hidden dangers sown by decades of war. The regions where Assyria bordered other countries became notorious for their chaos, and the power of the monarchy was unprecedentedly constrained.


    Over the long years that followed, Amandra, with the help of the Roman Empire, finally managed to stabilize Assyria and took the crown from her father, ruling Assyria for nearly a decade¡ªuntil the internal strife in Assyria broke out this year.


    Assyria was no longer the unified and peaceful country it once was. Under the influence of various chaotic factions, it would erupt in large and small conflicts at any opportunity, dragging Assyria back into the Dark Ages.


    In fact, many countries didn¡¯t want to see a stable and powerful Assyria. They preferred the current chaotic state, which allowed them to intervene and profit.


    Rafael knew very well that this internal strife was inevitable. Or rather... he had long anticipated such a civil war would break out, one that would engulf all of Assyria, dragging their hard-won stability into a terrifying abyss, and even...


    Queen Amandra of Assyria would also die in this war.


    This had happened in his previous life, but Rafael¡¯s memories only went up to this point. Less than two months after the Assyrian queen¡¯s death, he was killed in a bloody murder.


    Rafael had once tried to warn Sancha, but of course, his words in the letter were very vague. Since he couldn¡¯t reveal his source of information, he could only say that the faith in Assyria was undergoing a turmoil:


    If Rome, Assyria, and Calais were unified, the newly born country would be even more vast than the Holy Roman Empire at its peak.


    This was a future that even Rafael was terrified of.


    Not to mention the other small countries that were already teetering on the brink under the influence of these three countries. They would be terrified of this future and would rather be shattered to pieces than allow this possibility to come into being.


    ¡®...I hope Her Majesty will realize the seriousness of this matter. If Assyria and Calais starts to negotiate a betrothal, then the price of you and the Emperor of Calais in the assassin market will be unprecedentedly high. And considering the difficulty of completing the task, it would obviously be more wise to choose you. After all, the young emperor still has a strong and healthy uncle of marriageable age. If you die instead, the queen wouldn¡¯t have a second daughter to complete the marriage.¡¯


    Moreover, as the monarch of Florence, he didn¡¯t want this marriage to take place.


    Before the Knights Templar grew to the extent he desired, he didn¡¯t wish for such a unified empire to appear. This would be a huge pressure on Florence. In this sense, the civil strife in Assyria was not without its benefits for him.


    After thinking absentmindedly for a while, Rafael suddenly came to his senses. Realizing what he had just thought, he involuntarily clenched his quill and sighed.


    ¡®In addition, I still have to remind you that while a monarch personally going on the front lines can indeed boost morale, the risks involved always need to be carefully considered. The importance of a young and strong monarch to a country surpasses all else. I hope the queen will carefully consider this matter.¡¯


    He finally added this sentence hesitantly. Queen Amandra¡¯s death was very sudden and the cause was unknown. Of course, this was also because he hadn¡¯t put too much effort into investigating this matter. Some said that the queen was heavily wounded and died on the battlefield, while others said that she died of a high fever caused by her injuries. In short, it was caused by the war. After her death, Assyria lost its last monarch to maintain it, and it was obvious what situation it would fall into.


    Rafael simply mentioned this out of respect for the strong, intelligent, and powerful woman, hoping that she could change this overly hasty and tragic fate.


    ¡®I¡¯m sorry that I can¡¯t offer a better solution. Florence is also facing an internal turmoil right now¡ªof course, please don¡¯t worry too much, this is not a problem for me. As a friend, I wish you and your country can safely pass through this ordeal.¡¯


    ¡ªThis was of course just a beautiful hope. Rafael placed the copper spoon containing the wax block over the flame and heated it, then dripped it onto the envelope and stamped it with his own seal before the wax had dried.


    His guess was right. In the Roman Palace, Amandra was considering the possibility of negotiating with Calais for a marriage alliance.


    The queen was wearing a tight-fitting long dress with a strong Assyrian style. The golden long skirt suddenly bloomed like a rose below her knees. The woman with skin as smooth as honey was at the most charming age. She was beautiful, amorous, and cold, and she was the most powerful and wealthy woman in Syracuse, a woman who controlled two powerful empires. Who wouldn¡¯t admire her? After the death of Lav XI, even the Duke of Calais, Franc?ois, had proposed to her. His intentions were obvious, and Amandra naturally rejected him.


    But now, she needed to carefully consider the possibility of restarting negotiations for a marriage alliance with Calais¡ªfor her beloved and only daughter.


    Amandra lowered her eyes, her sapphire blue eyes more beautiful than the most precious gems in the world. She was a pearl born on the vast plains of Assyria, and her golden brown hair was more dazzling than a leopard¡¯s fur. However, fate took away all the treasures and happiness it gave her, and this was perhaps a punishment for her for having enjoyed happiness that others had not.


    ¡°God, please forgive me and bless my poor child.¡±


    The woman, who had always been as tough as stone, murmured.


    ¡°I have given everything for Assyria, and we have all suffered enough. Please protect my child...¡±


    Her full and plump red lips moved slightly, and the lonely mother suppressed that inappropriate sadness. When she opened her eyes again, the queen who controlled both the Roman and Assyrian empires was back.

 Chapter 39: A Mother-Daughter Conversation

    Amandra leaned back on the satin-covered chaise lounge, allowing the sunlight to filter through the glass dome and bathe her face. Her honey-colored skin and misty blue eyelids shimmered with a pearlescent glow.


    The round table next to the chaise lounge was cluttered with inkwells, parchment, and a teacup that was steaming slightly. When Sancha walked in, lifting her skirt, she saw her mother sleeping tiredly, the golden eagle pendant that never left her chest pressed beneath the lotus-like spread of her sleeve.


    It was a rare sight. The Queen of Assyria always seemed full of energy. She steered the helm of the empire with an extraordinary acumen and a tenacity that surpassed that of men. She never revealed her feminine softness on any occasion ¨C unless it would help her gain more benefits. Even the Roman nobles sometimes forgot that she was a woman.


    Sancha rarely saw this side of her mother. She held a letter from Florence in her hand, its contents both unbelievable and undeniable. She wanted to ask her mother about it, but upon seeing this scene, she suddenly felt that perhaps there was no need to ask.


    The ladies-in-waiting sat far away in the long corridor, maintaining a distance that allowed them to see this side and provide timely service to their mistress, without overhearing the private conversation between the queen and the princess. They either read or chatted idly. The queen was very tolerant of the ladies-in-waiting around her and noble ladies were all vying for the opportunity to serve the queen¡ªof course, even if the queen were cruel and violent, they would still want to do so.


    Who would refuse to be near a monarch?


    Sancha was dressed in a rose-red riding suit without a complicated and cumbersome farthingale. Pearls and gems were embedded in her skirt that sparkled like sunlight with her every step. Her golden-brown hair and sapphire blue eyes inherited from her mother gave her a unique charm. The young princess, as light as a forest deer, trotted to her mother¡¯s side, examining the queen¡¯s sleeping face for a while, then casually sat down on the floor, leaning against the queen¡¯s legs, waiting for her to wake up.


    Her mother didn¡¯t keep her waiting for long.


    Amandra awoke from a short, sweet dream. As soon as she opened her eyes, she saw the head with golden-brown hair nestled against her knees. Her usually smooth hair was a bit disheveled from riding, scattered messily on the queen¡¯s golden-red dress. Amandra¡¯s expression still held a trace of the hazy tenderness from her dream. She raised a hand and gently placed it on the long hair, combing it bit by bit.


    ¡°Mother?¡± Sancha moved her neck and changed to a more comfortable leaning position against the queen¡¯s legs. She rested her head on the queen¡¯s thigh, hugging the queen¡¯s waist with one hand, and squinted her eyes comfortably.


    ¡°My little angel,¡± Amandra¡¯s voice was hoarse like fine wine, sounding sweet to the ear. Sancha closed her eyes and smiled. She hadn¡¯t heard this nickname in many years. When she was a toddler, Amandra was in a difficult situation in the palace. To protect her daughter, the queen was almost inseparable from her child.


    She fed her daughter with her own hands, sang the wild and long ballads of Assyria to coax her daughter to sleep, and told her daughter about the bits and pieces of her distant homeland. When her daughter was drowsy, she would gently call her ¡®my little angel¡¯ and leave her two goodnight kisses on her forehead.


    Why two goodnight kisses?


    Young Sancha asked her mother in a baby voice.


    At that time, the queen, dressed in a corset, farthingale, and an ornate and gorgeous long skirt according to the rules of the Roman court, smiled slightly, her forehead against her daughter¡¯s, as if telling a secret that only they could know, and said in a voice softer than the child¡¯s, ¡°Because two goodnight kisses are a double portion of love from Mommy, my little angel.¡±


    Lav XI did not love his wife, even though his wife brought an Assyrian crown into the marriage with the Roman Empire.


    This arrogant man didn¡¯t love his only daughter with Amandra either. For a long time, there was almost no trace of this father in Sancha¡¯s early childhood memories, but she still grew up to be as vibrant and proud as she is now, precisely because Amandra had diligently filled the gaps left by her father, raising her with genuine love.


    However, when Sancha grew a few years older, this intimate and sweet address became less frequent. Amandra began to devote more energy to politics. Her teachings to Sancha became strict, even the font she learned had to be personally reviewed and refined stroke by stroke. Such days were not bad, but sometimes Sancha would miss the mother who gently pressed her forehead against hers, gave her two goodnight kisses, and called her ¡®my little angel¡¯.


    Sancha coquettishly turned her face sideways, pressing her cheek against Amandra¡¯s hand. As a princess, queen, and empress, Amandra¡¯s hands were not as soft and smooth as those of ordinary noblewomen. There were rough calluses on her palms and her knuckles were rough. Although she had been carefully groomed, these marks could not be removed. It was precisely these marks that constantly reminded people of her title as the ¡°Warrior Queen¡±, who was best at using the Assyrian long sword, cutting off the heads of her enemies on the back of a galloping horse and letting the blood soak into the soil.


    Amandra gently stroked her daughter¡¯s cheek, her eyes regaining clarity. The haziness and confusion from being immersed in a dream faded from her face like water. She lowered her head and asked softly, ¡°My little sun, did you have a happy day?¡±


    Sancha¡¯s name means ¡®sun¡¯ in the Roman language. She was obviously more accustomed to this nickname that had accompanied her for a long time. She rubbed her cheek against her mother¡¯s hand with a smile, not caring about the rough texture at all. After a moment¡¯s thought, she said, ¡°I received a reply from Florence today.¡±


    Amandra paused her hand mid-stroke.


    Of course, Sancha¡¯s correspondence with the Pope couldn¡¯t be hidden from the queen. Even the messengers between Rome and Florence were arranged by the queen on her behalf.


    Sancha heard her mother¡¯s unusually gentle voice, ¡°Is that so? What did he say to you?¡±


    Sancha hesitated for a moment before taking out the letter. ¡°What he said is similar to what you told me. He¡¯s obviously about the same age as me, but he¡¯s incredibly wise. It¡¯s just that he mentioned something in the letter that I¡¯m not quite sure about...¡±


    Amandra took the letter and studied it for a long time before reading it word for word. When she finished, she nodded thoughtfully, patted her daughter¡¯s head and said, ¡°Are you asking about the marriage negotiations with Calais?¡±


    Sancha opened her eyes wide in surprise. ¡°Old injury? I didn¡¯t notice at all! No one has ever mentioned it to me...¡±


    Amandra looked at her helplessly, ¡°How could such a thing be known to everyone? One of the major requirements for becoming the Pope is to be healthy and without defects. I only learned about it through some channels.¡±


    She glossed over the subject.


    Sancha kept this in mind and began to prepare gifts and replies to be sent to Florence.


    While the atmosphere in Rome was warm, there was panic in Florence.


    As Ferrante¡¯s investigation deepened, more and more lords began to tremble in fear. They retreated to their manors, pacing anxiously day and night, cursing the damned Rafael in their hearts ¨C that crazy Pope! How dare he venture into the plague-ridden area and stay with those lowly commoners? No sane person would do such a thing! The actions of this madman completely shattered their wishful thinking. Not only had they failed to escape Florence, but they were now under strict surveillance. They could almost hear the footsteps of death approaching ¨C


    They dared not utter these curses aloud, for they didn¡¯t know which of their servants might be a spy for Sistine I.


    That madman had somehow gained a wolfhound and used despicable means to extract information from servants, attendants, and even laundrywomen. How could they have ever considered these people worthy of their attention? Yet, these very people, whom they had disregarded, actually knew so much!


    The lords were filled with hatred, but they could only struggle like cornered beasts. Ferrante¡¯s intelligence was still steadily delivered to Rafael¡¯s desk every day. As time passed, strange rumors began to circulate among the lords. More and more of them became restless. Carriages discreetly left their manors and arrived at the side gate of the papal palace, where they were ushered in by waiting black-robed deacons and confessed all their secrets in an attempt to save their own lives.


    The Pope behind his desk listened silently with a smile. The lord, prostrate on the floor, trembled, his face smeared with snot and tears. He trembled as he betrayed all his co-conspirators, swearing to heaven and earth of his innocence and his helplessness of being coerced.


    Sistine I, who looked like a saint in a painting, finally smiled.


    This unexpected reaction gave the lord a glimmer of hope. ¡°I am willing to expose their evil deeds for you!¡±


    ¡°And what are you willing to give in exchange for your precious life?¡± Sistine I asked gently.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to answer now.¡± The Pope raised a hand. From the shadows behind him emerged a monk with black curly hair. The young man had an overly delicate face but was as cold as a knife drawn from the night. He tossed a stack of paper, quill and ink before the lord.


    ¡°Please leave a price sufficient for God to forgive your sins.¡± The Pope smiled.


    ¡°This is your only chance. Please consider it carefully. This is not a negotiation, nor is it a business deal. Remember, God is always watching us. He sees our piety as well as our sins.¡±


    The young Pope left this meaningful statement behind and left the reception room, leaving the lord staring at the blank sheet of paper, trembling.


    ¡°How many was that?¡± Rafael asked Ferrante, who was standing beside him.


    ¡°The fifth,¡± Ferrante replied.


    Rafael smiled unchanged. ¡°Then let¡¯s wait a few more days, until they can no longer sit still, until... they are more fearful, panicked, and desperate to survive than ever before.¡±


    Ferrante bowed. ¡°I will continue to spread the relevant news.¡±


    Rafael looked at him and gently stroked his hair. The ¡®wolfhound¡¯ rubbed against his hand docilely.


    ¡°Good boy.¡±


    Rafael said softly.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Sistine I¡¯s Diary: Watch how I squeeze these scum dry.

 Chapter 40: The Grand Tribunal

    After watching the Pope¡¯s back disappear at the end of the corridor, Ferrante stood there for a while before returning to the reception room.


    The lord was still kneeling on the ground, staring at the stack of blank parchment. Cold sweat had dripped down his neck, soaking his expensive silk shirt. He kept tugging at the collar that clung to his skin, his anxious eyes darting around the room.No?v(el)B\\jnn


    He knew very well what the Pope wanted. Things with a clear price tag often had room for negotiation. The most terrifying thing in the world was a blank contract. No one knew what would be written on it, and now he was being forced to sign his name on that blank contract.


    When Ferrante walked into the room, the lord immediately looked at him for help, but his gaze lasted less than a second before he quickly looked away ¨C he remembered who this handsome young man was. They had fallen into this predicament largely due to this young man¡¯s efforts.


    But he didn¡¯t dare show any emotion.


    Ferrante stood a short distance from him, looking at him quietly.


    Feeling the pressure of the gaze, the lord reluctantly picked up a quill. A white hand holding a crystal inkwell appeared beside him at just the right moment.


    ¡°Your favorite gemstone-inlaid inkwell, of course. And the ink is specially customized for you, with the addition of your favorite laurel leaves,¡± the young man said with a smile, his words incredibly considerate, but the lord couldn¡¯t smile at all.


    Not only could he not smile, his face began to twitch uncontrollably and his eyes widened as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. In his eyes, the handsome black-haired boy looked like a living devil.


    Isn¡¯t he the devil? No one can remain indifferent when they heard their private habits and preferences being so clearly exposed. This was a threat!


    He swallowed hard and shakily wrote down his list of assets on the paper with the inked quill.


    Line after line of words appeared on the paper, revealing the wealth accumulated from the blood, tears and suffering of the countless poor on a thin sheet of parchment. Ferrante watched impassively, as if he were merely a servant attending to the lord¡¯s writing, but the oppressive feeling he had given off earlier was so strong that the lord dared not stop writing until he said so.


    Finally, he unfolded the paper filled with words and looked up at Ferrante nervously. But as soon as he looked up, he met the boy¡¯s sea-blue eyes.


    Those eyes had the depth of a cave, dark and gloomy, as if they could suck in a person¡¯s soul.


    ¡°Are you finished?¡± Ferrante asked politely.


    ¡°Y-yes.¡± The lord replied with a stutter.


    Ferrante laughed. ¡°Are you finished?¡±


    He repeated the question, this time with a different tone.


    Hot sweat slid down his back, and the lord¡¯s breathing grew heavy. He gritted his teeth and said, ¡°Yes.¡±


    Ferrante maintained the same smile, simply staring at him steadily, then drew out his tone, chewing each word slowly, and asked again: ¡°Are you finished?¡±


    The lord threw his quill away in despair: ¡°Has Sistine I gone mad? Does he want to take away all our property? That¡¯s impossible! He¡¯s dreaming!¡±


    Ferrante showed no anger; in fact, he was overly calm. Rising, he took another quill from the desk drawer¡ªthe drawer was stuffed full of countless quills and parchment, as if he had been prepared for this.


    He respectfully but firmly pressed the quill into the lord¡¯s trembling fingers. Leaning close to the sweaty, bloated face, he smiled and said, word by word: ¡°Are you finished?¡±


    This mechanical question was more chilling than any threat. The fat lord glared at Ferrante viciously, his eyes bloodshot. Overwhelmed by malice, he slapped the quill from Ferrante¡¯s hand and said with satisfaction, ¡°I¡¯ve given you more than enough!¡±


    He held up the parchment and thrust it at Ferrante. ¡°You¡¯ve never seen so much wealth in your life, have you? A few gold florins are enough to settle those dead peasants, and the rest will go straight into Sistine I¡¯s pocket. Even the greediest hyena should know when to stop!¡± r???


    Ferrante, who had been showing little to no emotion till now, suddenly raised his eyes. His blue eyes were as gloomy as a storm at sea.


    ¡°You came here of your own free will,¡± he said, changing the subject. ¡°Your servants and attendants can testify that you ordered them to bring you here to see the Holy Father. No one has bounded your hands or feet.¡±


    The lord¡¯s satisfied expression froze. He didn¡¯t quite understand what Ferrante meant.


    ¡°No, you haven¡¯t offended me,¡± Rafael seemed even more upset. His lips turned down slightly, like a grumpy, beautiful long-haired cat. For the pope who always had to smile, this slight change in expression already represented the severity of his mood. ¡°I just thought that if even you think so, then perhaps everyone in Florence has the same idea.¡±


    He paused, then said, ¡°I hope that the judgment they receive comes from those who have truly suffered devastating harm in the disaster. The law represents the will of the people. They must know that they are being judged because they have committed sins that need to be repented, not because God has sentenced them to be guilty.¡±


    Leshert was stunned for a moment.


    For a moment, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, a devout servant of God, was lost in thought.


    The will of the people?


    This was an incredible phrase.


    Just like the philosophers of ancient Rome who loudly debated ideas in their forums, birthing the earliest sprouts of human civilization. They pondered the relationship between the monarch and the people, the paths of history and art. They coined terms like ¡®the will of the people¡¯ and ¡®divine right,¡¯ defining these concepts and passing them down through the ages.


    Leshert had, of course, read those obscure works and he knew very well what Rafael meant. And yet, a profound shock resonated through his soul, a mix of unfamiliar confusion, curiosity, and caution.


    Suddenly, he found it all quite interesting.


    The interior of the main courtroom was a wide, circular open space. Around it, tiers of seats were constructed in the style of an ancient Roman colosseum, ensuring that every noble guest could clearly see those seated at the judgment bench. Of course, above all others, a special seat would be reserved for the most honored. The courtroom was as bustling as a May Day fair, with dignitaries conversing with the inferiors they despised the most or gesticulating across the guards who were there to maintain order.


    The judges, clutching the scales of justice and the gavel symbolizing fairness, entered in procession from the side door. Dressed in wide black robes, wearing silver wigs, and adorned with the golden holy emblem representing Florence on their chest, their faces glowed with a joyful flush. Before today, they had long held little power in Florence¡¯s judicial system. Even their stooped backs straightened with pride as they strode confidently onto the judgment bench and surveyed the room.


    These individuals, immersed in the power struggles of Florence and long relegated to the margins for many years, were well aware that this trial was more than just a simple legal proceeding. It could signal a redistribution of power among the institutions under the Pope¡¯s authority, granting the judiciary a renewed foothold amidst the thorny staff of theocracy. For Florence, with its singular power structure, this was akin to a storm sweeping through.


    Moreover, the sheer scope of this trial, the high status of the accused, and the vast number of victims meant that this would be a trial that would go down in history.


    A series of clear bell chimes rang out. The bailiff, dressed in a court uniform, stood at the door and shouted, ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, the court is about to begin. Please be quiet!¡±


    The noisy hall gradually quieted down. People found their seats and sat shoulder-to-shoulder, craning their necks to watch the center of the courtroom.


    The side door opened, and a group of twelve people entered. They were the twelve long-term citizens of Florence arbitrarily selected by the Pope. This citizen jury, composed of these twelve individuals, would have the authority to question any procedure of the court and affirm or negate the final verdict.


    Most of them were poorly dressed and haggard, clearly from the lower city. Led by the bailiff, they sat down in the jury seats silently and numbly, like a group of solid, mute sculptures.


    ¡°Why are there so many poor people from the lower city...¡± someone muttered from the audience.


    A deep, long horn sounded, and the side door on the other side opened again. ¡°His Holiness Sistine I has arrived!¡± the bailiff¡¯s high-pitched voice rang out once more.


    A rustling sound filled the hall as people stood up from their seats, the friction of their garments against each other creating a soft murmur. All eyes turned towards the side door as it creaked open.


    The blond-haired and green-eyed knight appeared first at the door. After scanning the hall, he stepped aside, bowing slightly. The young and handsome pope entered as expected, still draped in a pale gold chasuble. His snow-white robes trailed across the marble floor. His long hair was pulled back, and a simple circlet adorned his head.


    The congregation bowed in reverence. Ladies¡¯ gowns swept across the floor, while the sleeves of the men¡¯s garments rustled like silkworms.


    The Pope calmly acknowledged their greetings with a nod and, under their watchful gaze, walked through the crowd to his designated seat. A half-curtain was drawn, obscuring the view of those below. The others then took their seats.


    The Chief Judge was the only one who remained standing.


    He cleared his throat, picked up a long roll of parchment, and bowed once more to the Pope before beginning the lengthy opening remarks.


    As the Judge droned on, the doors of the Tribunal was closed. The square outside was already filled with people, eager to catch even a word of the proceedings.


    Several members of the city guard carried in huge wooden beams and began to hammer them into place.

 Chapter 41: Judgement I

    Redrick sat on the jury seat with a gloomy face, his eyes fixed on the long table in front of him. He felt the covert glances of many people falling on him. Duke of Lusanne, already in a foul mood, clicked his tongue loudly. He noticed that the commoners sitting on either side of him shrank back even further, their bodies cowering away from him.


    ...His mood worsened.


    Redrick pulled his face and glared fiercely at the side-front, where only a thin curtain had been drawn. The figure behind the curtain sat calmly, and it seemed that he was a holding a book.


    Redrick let out a harsh breath through his nose and looked around again. When his gaze passed over the chattering Judge, he rolled his eyes, making no effort to hide his annoyance.


    In fact, he couldn¡¯t understand why he was here ¨C among this group of lowly paupers.


    All members of the twelve-person special jury were randomly selected by the Pope. The Governor Palace keeps the household registrations of all residents of Florence, and the Pope only needed to randomly call out a few numbers to select the corresponding people from the corresponding boxes. These household registries included the poor from the lower city and the nobles from the upper city. This is probably the closest they have ever been to each other in their lives.


    Those who were selected were not allowed to refuse to attend unless they were ill. This was their duty as citizens of Florence. If they refused, they would immediately be stripped of their status as a Florentine citizen and expelled from the Holy City.


    Compared to such a cost, just sitting in court for half a day wasn¡¯t a big deal.


    ¡ªThat¡¯s what Redrick had originally thought, until he came to court and saw what kind of people were on the jury with him.


    Redrick was surprised.


    Redrick was confused.


    Redrick was furious.


    Redrick was convinced that this was definitely a plot by Rafael Garcia!


    He wanted to see him make a fool of himself! He was mocking him!


    The Duke of Lusanne, who was dressed in dazzlingly gorgeous clothes, pressed his hands on his cane, wary of letting any part of his body touch the table which might or might not have been properly cleaned. His anger was indiscriminately directed at everyone who looked at him.


    The innocent onlookers wisely turned their eyes away and didn¡¯t look at the Duke who was obviously unhappy. After no one looked at him, the young Duke seemed even more irritated.


    Julius, the Secretary General of the Papal Palace, stood behind the curtain accompanying Rafael. He noticed Redrick¡¯s series of reactions below and showed a knowing look. Through his glasses, his deep purple, gem-like eyes turned away without a ripple.


    ¡°What else do you want to see from Redrick?¡± he asked, leaning close to the young Pope¡¯s ear, a hint of helplessness in his tone.


    Rafael seemed to laugh. ¡°Ah... I don¡¯t know. Maybe I¡¯ll know what I want when I see it, but it¡¯s interesting, isn¡¯t it? Look, he¡¯s still sitting here, even though he knows this is at my behest.¡±


    Although it was a ¡®random selection¡¯, it was obvious that no one could refuse the Pope¡¯s request.


    Julius straightened up with an indulgent smile and asked no more questions. However, Rafael continued staring at the people below with interest.


    His position was neither too high nor too low. The ingenious architectural design allowed him to have a clear view of the entire court without being gawked at like a clown. This small platform symbolized the ultimate power. The white-gold tapestry embroidered with the papal emblem wrapped around the railing in front of him, and fresh, fragrant crown lilies climbed up the wood. A golden candelabrum was placed on the lectern in front of the Pope¡ªthere were also candlesticks on the tables in front of the jury and the audience, but they were only made of silver.


    But in this occasion, the only one who could truly put the candelabrum to use was the Pope himself.


    He was holding a book in his hand. This book came from his Secretary-General who knew him all too well. When the silver-haired Portia Patriarch hurried over from the secretariat, he didn¡¯t forget to bring His Holiness a book to pass the time. Facts have proven that the ever-calculating Lord Portia never made a mistake.


    Ferrante did not wear the stiff uniform of the papal guard. Instead, he was cloaked in a long black robe similar to the other crows. His wrists and ankles were bound with cloth, allowing for flexibility and ease of movement. The loose robe and short cloak concealed his body from the forearms up, shrouding him entirely in a secretive black color.


    Rising, he bowed to the Pope and then to the court. ¡°In accordance with the orders of our glorious Holy Father, Sistine I, and in the name of eternal truth and justice, I pledge that the following statements are true,¡± he began.


    From somewhere, he produced a rolled-up sheet of parchment and began to read.


    ¡°On the 18th of March, in the year of our Lord 1080, Lauren Russo, Alessandro Piero, Materazzi Dune, Clement Luranco, Simone Quentin, and seven other papal lords met in secret at the Dural Mansion. In an attempt to gain personal profit, they conspired to murder our Holy Father. They chose to spread a plague in Florence, causing unrest and upheaval, forcing the Holy See to leave the city, and then attempting to assassinate him en route.¡±


    ¡°On the 3rd of April, Simone Quentin purchased infected livestock with the help of his servant Albert. On the 10th of April, Clement Luranco sent his servants to place the sick animals next to human patients, infecting them with the disease. Afterwards, he bribed the dock workers Jerome and Joe to bring the sick patients aboard a ship on the 16th of April, taking them to the lower city of Florence and placing them in an inn, disguised as visiting travelers who had fallen ill.¡±


    ¡°On the 19th of April, the innkeeper developed a fever. By the 21st of April, all the inn¡¯s guests were infected with the disease. According to the testimonies of nearby residents, we can confirm that they were the first to perish from the plague, a total of twenty-four people.¡±


    ¡°On the 23rd of April, cases of plague began to appear in the lower city of Florence, spreading outward from the inn. Between the 23rd and 27th, approximately 236 people died.¡±


    ¡°Beginning on the 28th of April, the plague entered an uncontrollable phase of widespread contagion, and the death toll was immeasurable.¡±


    ¡°By the time the Holy Father entered the lower city and completely sealed it off, the conspirators led by Lauren Russo had caused over 3,000 deaths.¡±


    He summarized the series of events in a clear and concise manner. Anyone could tell that he did not add any personal emotions into the report. The cold, hard facts of dates, numbers, and names gave the report a sense of authenticity, and the shocking figures made everyone¡¯s hair stand on end. Even if they had experienced the disaster personally, they seemed to have just realized the true extent of horror that had happened.


    And such a disaster had been entirely man-made, committed for one¡¯s own selfish desires.


    The audience began to glare at the defendants with anger and contempt. The jurors from the lower city had their eyes bloodshot and their fists clenched, wishing they could rush forward and die together with the accused.


    ¡°I have finished my accusation,¡± Ferrante said. The lengthy narrative had not caused any impatience among the listeners; they had listened attentively to every figure and detail. After Ferrante sat down, the entire courtroom fell into solemn silence.


    ¡°Defendants, Sir Ferrante has accused you of these crimes. Have you fully understood these charges? Do you believe that there is any ambiguity in the charges in this indictment?¡± asked the Judge.


    The five lords stood there expressionlessly like ice sculptures in the dead of winter. Finally, old Russo sneered, lifting his drooping eyelids like a pug to reveal black eyes that were even more gloomy and murky than before. He stared fixedly at where the Pope was sitting: ¡°...No.¡±


    ¡°Do you admit that the charges against you are true?¡±


    An extremely malicious smile suddenly appeared in old Russo¡¯s turbid eyes. His back was hunched, and standing among the other four lords who were considered to be of noble bearing and upright posture, he resembled a dwarf who had suddenly collapsed. Yet, no one dared to underestimate him. It was clear to all that he was the mastermind behind this shocking conspiracy¡ªonly a person with the heart of a devil could commit such a heinous crime.


    ¡°I admit to committing some of the crimes mentioned above, but I did so at the behest of our esteemed and glorious Holy Father.¡±


    A brief silence followed, and then everyone¡¯s faces contorted in shock.


    Ferrante¡¯s lips flattened into a thin line.


    Rafael lazily lifted the corner of his eye. He tilted his head and coldly looked at old Russo who was staring at him below. They looked at each other through the thin curtain. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that Redrick, sitting in the jury seat had spat in shock on the ground.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Diary of Sistine I: I am vengeful and petty. Anyone who angers me will suffer. I am not tolerant, and I do not forgive.

 Chapter 42: Judgement II

    Old Russo smiled grimly, spread his hands, faced the audience, and said loudly: ¡°Look at me ¨C a decrepit old man! Could I possibly hope to gain anything from so many deaths? I have reached the end of my life. No matter how much wealth and power I have, they are useless to me. The only thing that attracts me is a healthy body and a sharp mind ¨C but that¡¯s the domain of the Supreme God. Our Father God treats everyone equally. He grants us the same length of life, and I know full well that I¡¯m about to squander this precious, irreplaceable treasure.¡±


    His words were true and sincere, instantly capturing everyone¡¯s attention.


    ¡°In these waning years of my life, what good would it do me to commit such murders? Could I possibly derive any pleasure from the deaths of those poor people? Any normal person with empathy would find that impossible. Of course, you can certainly accuse me of being a born demon who delights in the misery of others, but I know that I¡¯m also a son and a father. I¡¯m just an ordinary person with a bit more wealth and status than you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been accused of a crime deserving of hell. I can¡¯t deny that I have caused these tragedies, but was it out of my own will? A dying old man, one who no longer possesses youth or health, even if I could gain something from it, it would only be left to my children ¨C but my children! I¡¯m not afraid of your ridicule, history is full of such incompetent parents. I haven¡¯t been very successful in my family. My children covet my property, they can¡¯t wait for me to return to eternal peace so they can enjoy the riches I¡¯ve earned with my blood and tears ¨C would I commit such an evil act for them? Or am I foolish enough to think after the death of the Holy Father, I can wear the glorious and holy crown?¡±


    Old Russo clearly knew exactly what people wanted to hear. His social skills, acquired from following his father in various social circles, allowed him to immediately grasp people¡¯s thoughts and cleverly lead them into his own linguistic trap.


    For a moment, everyone was captured by his reasoning. They couldn¡¯t help but think, ¡®Yes, such an old man who is about to die, committing such a great crime ¡®for his own selfish gain¡¯ doesn¡¯t seem to benefit him either. So why did he do it? Could there be some hidden secret behind it?¡¯


    Julius¡¯s face changed. He realized what old Russo was about to say. This old madman, this old hyena, realized that he couldn¡¯t escape judgment and actually wanted to drag the Pope who was the actual victim into the water!


    The purpose of this trial was to let the people of Florence know the evil deeds committed by Old Russo and his cohorts, and to give Florence a legitimate reason to reclaim its territory. The Pope must be an unquestionable victim and a clean and impartial arbiter. Once dirty water was thrown on him, this trial would turn into a huge, earth-shattering conspiracy ¨C the deaths of over 7,000 people have become a tool for Old Russo to attack Rafael.


    Old Russo knew his defeat was a foregone conclusion, so he wanted to muddy the waters, to ensure that even if Rafael won, he would win in a inglorious, disgusting manner that would make everyone despise him.


    Proving a person¡¯s innocence in rumors is the most difficult thing, while it¡¯s easy to put a label on someone and throw dirty water on them.


    Old Russo knew all too well the minds of those ignorant lower-class peasants. They were empty-headed, always following the crowd, and had an innate hostility and hatred towards the upper class. As long as there was an excuse, even if that excuse and reason sounded so outrageous to be even investigated, they would believe it without a doubt and use it to attack others.


    Julius quickly walked to the railing and gestured to the guards below to stop old Russo from talking nonsense and prevent him from saying anything more.


    But a hand grabbed his sleeve.


    The blond, purple-eyed Pope sat there quietly, his calmness chilling.


    ¡°Let¡¯s listen to what he has to say,¡± the Pope said slowly, a cold, fierce light in his violet eyes. ¡°If we stop him now, any rumors he hasn¡¯t said will become proof of our guilt.¡±


    It¡¯s not that he didn¡¯t care, but he had already sentenced old Russo to death in his heart.


    Ferrante received his orders from the Pope and remained seated. He noticed a strange look on the faces of the crowd around him. Perhaps they had guessed what old Russo was going to say, and such an exciting plot twist undoubtedly satisfied their mood. The people on the defendants¡¯ seat were all of significant status, and they were engaged in a real-life struggle for life or death. How could this not make these people who were naturally spectators go wild?


    Leshert felt the excitement and heat rising from the crowd. The heat emitted by human bodies mixed with their turbid breath. He suddenly felt inexplicably nauseous. His stomach churned, trying to wring out its contents.


    But he had walked into the lower city that had been sentenced to death, he thought. He had saved you.


    Every word of Russo sounded like the tongue of a poisonous snake. He stared viciously at Julius in front of the curtain, his eyes like daggers, as if he wanted to tear the young man with iron-gray hair to pieces.


    ¡°We ¨C we are all deeply devout believers. We traveled thousands of miles from our territories to Florence to see His Holiness, and the noble Holiness gave us private opportunities. We were overjoyed, thinking that our piety had moved the incarnation of God on earth, but His Holiness soon revealed a terrible plan to us!¡±


    Old Russo was talking with his spit flying all over the place, and Redrick on the jury looked at him with disgust. He admitted that he hated and even despised Rafael, but that didn¡¯t mean he thought such slander was right. In some ways, Redrick still maintained a childlike naivety. He could ridicule and curse Rafael to his face, or find a group of people to fight with Rafael ¨C he had even done all these things. But he would never do such a despicable and shameless thing, something that would sell his soul.


    Not to mention, as a Portia, he naturally looked down on people like Old Russo.


    A bug that crawled out of the mud and changed his clothes thought he could be on par with Portia? Even if he was a bastard of Portia, whom he despised the most, he was not someone that this bug could bully at will!


    ¡°Yes, a terrible plan. It frightened our Lord Russo so much that he needed to murder over 7,000 people to calm his nerves.¡± Redrick said sarcastically.


    There was a moment of silence in the courtroom, and many people had distorted expressions on their faces, as if they wanted to laugh but didn¡¯t dare to.


    The emotion that Old Russo had been brewing was stuck in his throat by this sentence. He glared at Redrick gloomily, with a trace of contempt in his eyes. This foolish boy who relied on the protection of his family ¨C


    You¡¯re not qualified to speak in this game, boy.


    Redrick read the meaning in his eyes, and driven by anger, he reached for his cane to smash it on the old cur¡¯s head. But his hand was grabbed by another, stronger hand.


    Ferrante had stood behind him at some point, and the captain of the guard, who was an expert in his field, forcefully pressed the Duke of Lusanne back into his seat, glancing at old Russo expressionlessly.


    Behind him, a black-robed monk was leaving silently.


    ¡°As everyone knows, when His Holiness accepted the crown of God, Florence was in a rather bad state. Leo VI left behind a weak Florence and Papal Palace. If His Holiness wanted to completely control Florence, he needed enough capital ¨C people, wealth, or land. So he summoned us. This epidemic was entirely orchestrated by him. And the result was exactly as he expected. He gained the love and support of all the people of Florence, and now he is about to take away the legitimate wealth that our families have accumulated for generations.¡±


    This statement caused the audience to murmur. The most sophisticated lies are half-truths. Almost everything Old Russo said was true, except for one lie, and it was this lie that completely distorted all the truth.


    Amidst the wave of whispers, Julius remained unmoved, his crimson lips curling coldly: ¡°Your meaning is that His Holiness wanted to gain the love of the people of Florence through this disaster and take away the family wealth that you consider legitimate. So when you accepted this absurd order, didn¡¯t you think about what you could gain from it? Or are you as simple as a baby, accepting the order to start a massacre in Florence¡ª for free, voluntarily, and without any reward?¡±


    Old Russo¡¯s wrinkled face suddenly lengthened.


    He had painted himself as a completely innocent victim, but he forgot that he was the one who committed the evil deeds, and this was something he could never wash away. He wanted to blame all the mistakes on Rafael, but his logic created a fundamental contradiction.


    A completely innocent, deceived executioner and slaughterer? It sounded more absurd than the boasts of a drunkard at a May Day fair.

 Chapter 43: Judgement III

    ¡°No, I didn¡¯t accept that order willingly. It was His Holiness Sistine I who threatened me with my family ¨C ,¡± Old Russo retorted.


    Julius quickly interjected, ¡°But you just said that His Holiness inherited a weak papal palace, that he didn¡¯t have enough manpower or authority. So why would you fear of His Holiness who has no real power?¡±


    Old Russo¡¯s face turned green, ¡°As a devout believer, it is a truth taught by the doctrine that I respect and believe in His Holiness¡¯s authority!¡±


    Julius quickly laughed lightly, ¡°The doctrine tells you to obey the orders of His Holiness, but it doesn¡¯t tell you to uphold the good virtues of being honest, kind, and refraining from killing? Are you following the orders of the illusory His Holiness, or are you driven by personal interests?¡±


    The mockery in his smile was so heavy that some people started laughing as well.


    Old Russo gritted his teeth, his cheek muscles bulging like a frog about to croak, and his eyes darted rapidly. ¡°I admit that there was a little personal desire involved...¡±


    Julius didn¡¯t wait for him to finish, and began to question him rapidly, ¡°What were you conspiring about at the Dural Mansion on March 18th?¡±


    ¡°You claim that all conspiracies were ordered by the glorious His Holiness, is there any witness who can prove it?¡±


    ¡°What specific benefits do you hope to gain from this?¡±


    Before Old Russo could fabricate more lies, Julius quickly raised his hand, ¡°Of course, our one-sided words are not enough to convince anyone. Why don¡¯t we let the participants at that time answer for us? I think the testimony of seven people is more powerful than our two-person debate.¡±


    The Chief Judge understood the secretary¡¯s meaning and quickly knocked the gavel, ¡°Bring in the witnesses!¡±


    The oak side door was pulled open, and under the guidance of a black-clothed monk, seven lords walked in with their heads bowed. They deliberately avoided the vicious gaze from the defendants and nodded to the judge.


    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, as witnesses here, can you swear under oath that all your testimony in court comes from your heart and is absolutely true?¡±


    A black-clothed monk came forward with the Holy Book, and several lords placed their hands on the Holy Book one after another, ¡°I swear.¡±


    ¡°The defendants are accused of committing an unforgivable crime during the great plague in Florence, and the beginning of all conspiracies was in the secret meeting on March 18th. You are all accused of participating in that meeting. Please make a truthful statement on this.¡± The Chief Judge said solemnly.


    The several lords looked at each other, and a middle-aged man with a long golden wig spoke first, ¡± I first received an invitation from Lord Quentin at a dance party. He said there was a secret small gathering ¨C of course, I didn¡¯t know the content of that gathering was, was so unconscionable.¡±


    He swallowed, his eyes flickering, skipping over this detail, in fact, no one would pursue this insignificant little thought of his. ¡°After arriving at the Dural Mansion, I found that the participants in the meeting were all my old friends. We are all lords of the Papal States and have always maintained a close relationship. His Holiness invited us to Florence to participate in the the Feast of Divine Grace, but he has never allowed us to return. Some of us expressed our uneasiness about this. They seemed to think that His Holiness had... well, anyway, it was a very bad speculation, so they planned...¡±


    As he said this, he was silent for a moment, his whole body trembling slightly. This meaningful silence made everyone recall the tragic situation of the plague. The dead were piled up like mountains, and the fires of cremation burned day and night, turning half the sky of Florence¡¯s lower city red. Everyone who couldn¡¯t sleep could see that despairing fire symbolizing death, which almost dragged the holy city into eternal death.


    ¡°They originally wanted to start a war,¡± another lord took over, his voice low and slow. ¡°But war is uncontrollable, so Lord Russo finally proposed a disease. Use the plague to disrupt Florence and cause unrest among the people in the lower city¡ªthis plan was originally successful until His Holiness entered the lower city. The people who were inciting the people inside could not carry out the next step, which caused this plan to fail halfway.¡±


    Many people belatedly realized that the Pope, who was accused by Old Russo of causing the plague, was the first person to enter the epidemic area when the plague broke out.


    ¡°God has made all people equal in the face of death and disease, Lord Russo. The Pope, whom you say wanted to profit from this epidemic, was the first person to dare to step into that place. Are you trying to say that His Holiness used his own life and death as a bargaining chip on the gambling table¡ªfor the sake of an illusory benefit that he wasn¡¯t sure he could get?¡± Julius asked pointedly.


    Old Russo didn¡¯t speak. The four lords who were also defendants looked at each other and were ready to turn against him. If they didn¡¯t push Old Russo to the front now, would they be hanged on the gallows with him? This was not called betrayal, but a wise choice made according to the circumstances.


    At this moment, they seemed to have forgotten the accusations they had made against their seven companions when they entered the court.


    ¡°Please continue your statement,¡± the Judge brought the trial back on track.


    The only woman among the seven lords wore a huge Romanesque hard hat, with a soft veil hanging from the brim that could just cover her face, completely blocking her entire face. For a noblewoman, this was the only way to maintain her dignity in front of the public in the court.


    At this moment, the female lord took over her companion¡¯s words: ¡°Lord Russo proposed the method of using the plague. If a plague breaks out in Florence, the Pope will leave the holy city to protect himself. We could also take this opportunity to return to our territory to protect ourselves. We¡ªwe agreed.¡±


    As soon as she finished speaking, there was a huge boo in the courtroom. Someone in the audience shouted loudly, ¡°Demon!¡±


    ¡°You should be hanged in the marketplace!¡±


    ¡°Hell hates your filthy, stinking souls!¡±


    The female lord¡¯s face turned slightly pale under the veil, but she insisted on continuing, ¡°...This matter has nothing to do with His Holiness Sistine I from beginning to end. Russo¡¯s accusations are all slander.¡±


    She clearly and frankly stated the Pope¡¯s innocence.


    After saying this, she returned to her armchair and didn¡¯t say another word.


    The others looked at each other for a moment, trying to imitate her and listen, but the sound of uniform footsteps came from outside the door, followed by the ringing of the bell announcing the opening of the court session.


    The black-clothed monks, still as a sculpture, suddenly came to life and walked towards them, ready to take them out.


    The lords walked out of the room again with doubts and uneasiness in their hearts. Without the sound insulation of the thick door, the deafening roar from outside the courtroom hit their ears.


    ¡°Death to these devils!¡±


    ¡ª¡ªCountless people were shouting.


    ¡°Hang these demons who want to murder His Holiness!¡±


    ¡ª¡ªShouting at the top of one¡¯s lungs.


    ¡°To hell with them! Off with their heads!¡±


    ¡ª¡ªMen, women, young and old were all roaring.


    ¡°Wicked people! Apologize to Florence!¡±


    ¡ªThe voice came from the largest and most humble people in the lower city.


    ¡°Protect His Holiness! They still want to slander the Holy See! These villains deserve to be burned to death!¡±


    ¡ªI don¡¯t know whose shout it was, but it was met with widespread approval.


    The entire people of Florence was shocked by this trial. Those who were not qualified to enter the courtroom surrounded the Tribunal building tightly. The originally solemn and grand building looked as delicate and fragile as a toy in the hands of a child, as if it would collapse with a gentle push.


    The black-clothed monks at the door formed a rope to block the crowd. It was precisely because they wore the thorns belonging to the papal palace that the people respectfully waited outside. However, no one knew who leaked Old Russo¡¯s words in the court, and these people became unprecedentedly enraged.


    Those devils who tried to destroy Florence actually wanted to murder the Pope, and after their sinister plan failed, actually tried to slander their Pope in court?!


    They surged forward angrily, wanting to rush directly into the courtroom and kill those sinners with their own hands. The boiling emotions gathered together, forming a storm that terrified everyone in the courtroom. They seemed to have lost their reason, and it was as if a hand was twisting them into a long spear, which was held in a certain person¡¯s hand, waiting to stab his enemy.


    This was an unprecedentedly terrifying scene. The rioters held bricks and broken tiles picked up from the ground in their hands, and old farm tools became their spears. Sticks or bottles were excellent weapons. They were like ferocious lions, tigers, and hungry wolves, surging up the steps in front of the courtroom.


    The rumbling footsteps and shouts made the glass windows in the courtroom tremble. Everyone who was led back to their seats turned pale and restless. They began to subconsciously look for a way to leave, but they found in despair that there seemed to be no way for them to pass through this group of irrational mob unscathed, except by flying from the sky.


    ¡ªPeople who have lost their reason won¡¯t care whether they are jurors or defendants, they will only wash away their anger with blood.


    Instinctively, they began to pray, looking at the statue made of colored glass on the dome of the grand courtroom, praying that God would send a savior to take them away from this desperate situation.


    Julius was accompanying Rafael through the corridor from the lounge to the courtroom. Of course, they also heard the sound of this crazy wave, and even the ground beneath their feet was shaking.


    The Pope¡¯s white robe fluttered gracefully on the ground like the tail fin of a swimming fish or the wings of a flying bird. The golden vestment wrapped his shoulders and waist, and the tail end fell on his abdomen, turning into beautiful golden waves with his steps. He walked quickly through the gaze of the portraits on both sides, and the sunlight cast by the glass window danced on his golden hair, splashing out a blurry golden luster.


    ¡°You heard them,¡± said Julius absentmindedly, ¡°Are you going to answer them?¡±


    This sentence had no clear direction and it seems to apply to both parties inside or outside the courtroom.


    The young Pope stood in front of the last door. Behind this thick door was a terrifying tide that could sweep away and crush anyone into pieces.


    He gave a strange smile: ¡°Of course, I am their father, the incarnation of God on earth.¡±


    Without letting the knights behind him take action, he pushed open the door with his own strength. The last half of the sentence floated away in the oncoming shouts.


    ¡°I never leave any prayer that comes to me in despair.¡±

 Chapter 44: Tide of Rage

    The rioting masses had already surged up the broad, majestic steps of the Great Hall. The ancient kings and knights carved in relief on the massive, round stone columns, holding spears with their cloaks billowing in the wind, seemed to be their precursors, gazing at the endless stream of people following in their footsteps.


    The black-robed monks retreated again and again. They did not try to obstruct the crowd forcefully, nor did a single one of them utter a word. They were as silent as the rocks on the seashore, retreating cautiously as the waves rolled in, neither retreating too quickly nor standing still to provoke conflict. They controlled the crowd¡¯s advance at a slow and orderly pace.


    In the sweltering atmosphere, on the steps above, the solemn door carved with scales and crossed swords slowly opened, revealing a somewhat thin figure.


    The monks, who had keenly noticed the identity of the newcomer, untied the whips from their waists¡ªsome only then noticed that they were wearing black leather whips that looked like belts. The fine and densely woven ropes were elastic, and the edges were rough. When they were shaken out, they were more than two feet long. They raised their whips and swung them in the air, skilfully avoiding the people around them, and a loud and clear whip crack exploded in the air.


    The continuous whip cracks were like birds swooping across the sky, causing the people immersed in violence to gradually awaken from the collective will. They stopped and looked ahead in confusion, and then someone caught a glimpse of the figure standing at the door.


    ¡°It¡¯s His Holiness!¡±


    A joyful scream rang out, and the rioting mob, which had been like mad lions and tigers just a moment ago, seemed to instantly return to their polite selves. They took off their tattered caps and pressed them against their chests, bowing to the Pope on the steps. The whole crowd began to bow, their movements akin to waves of wheat slowly falling to the ground.


    All those storms and waves turned into a gentle spring breeze and drizzle before the young Pope.


    The people inside the courtroom gathered by the windows that could see outside, nervously grasping the thick velvet curtains. As they watched this scene, a vague thought flashed through everyone¡¯s mind: Sistine I was establishing his authority in Florence, and all the people were happy to see his name engraved on the cornerstone of this city.


    The people¡¯s long-standing reverence and piety for religion have made them long regard the Pope as their unquestionable ruler. And when Pope Sistine I stepped into the lower city and used his own life as a bargaining chip, no one in Florence could stop him from taking back his rightful authority.


    The defendants, who were also listening to the commotion outside, looked at each other. They were more aware than the ordinary commoners of what this meant. And one fact was clear: if such a sudden and inexplicable frenzy was to be quelled, it was necessary to sacrifice something of sufficient weight.


    Who would be that sacrifice?


    Who should be that sacrifice?


    Several of the defendants had already turned pale. They had guessed what was about to happen, but they still held onto a glimmer of hope. If they could imitate the actions of those witnesses, could they exchange their lives for mercy from the Pope? Although their realization was a little late, they could guarantee that their sincerity would never be discounted!


    Some clever people had already begun to look around quietly, searching for Ferrante. Everyone knew he was the Pope¡¯s favorite. At this critical juncture, of course, they had to find the Pope¡¯s favored confidant to send a message.


    Rafael didn¡¯t know what was happening inside the court, but he could guess. Under tremendous oppression, even the most stingy people would give up everything to save their lives. The crowd they saw was more effective than any coercion or enticement, and this was just the first step.


    The young Pope had a heart colder than steel when necessary. He had already sentenced those lords to death in his heart and would never pardon them for any reason.


    But whether you call him cold-blooded or opportunistic, he had Ferrante incite the monks who remained in the crowd to launch this temporary attack on the Tribunal, which was bound to bring him a thousand-fold benefit.


    Rafael walked out of the door with the faint scent of pine and came outside. The sunlight had been obscured by thick clouds. Rafael walked down the steps¡ªat this point, he was only five or six steps away from the closest crowd that had rushed up the steps.


    ¡°Your Holiness!¡±


    Scattered calls rang out through the crowd, countless pairs of eager eyes looked at him. Those people, with tears in their eyes, and an expression full of excitement yet trying to restrain themselves, took off their hostile cloaks, and looked at the Pope like children clinging to their father.


    Ferrante put on the hood behind his monk¡¯s robe. The loose hood covered his face tightly, leaving only his chin and the tip of his nose exposed. He stood behind the Pope like a ghost, his presence almost non-existent, with his hands crossed and clasped at his wrists under the cover of his half-length cloak.


    He was adjusting his breathing, imagining himself as a weed growing at the bottom, its roots penetrating deep into the earth, climbing over every grain of sand. He didn¡¯t open his eyes, but he heard countless voices in his perception, those excited or sad voices intertwined and mixed together, like waves crashing towards him.


    His fingers touched the cold, hard blade on his wrist, calming his mind as it had countless times before.


    Underneath the simple robes of all the black-robed monks were a mind-boggling variety of weapons. They had razor-sharp daggers as thin as a cicada wing tied to their wrists, leather whips wrapped around their waists, thin knives strapped to their spines, short spears on their calves, and long needles on their ankles...


    They were all excellent assassins and walking arsenals, which was why they always walked with their hands clasped together around their wrists¡ªthey were always ready to draw their blades to cut someone¡¯s throat.


    What would happen to them after that?


    Julius didn¡¯t want to think about such a distant thing. Those hostilities, conspiracies, deals, and gambles were all put aside for the time being. At this moment, he simply stood quietly beside the pillar behind Rafael, watching everything from a distance, watching him radiate a brilliance that could illuminate all of Florence.


    He wished this second would last a little longer, just a bit longer.


    Leshert tensed up the moment the Pope stepped out of the Grand Tribunal. He and his knights were scattered far and wide in the streets, preventing more people from gathering. From time to time, he raised his head and looked at the direction of the Grand Tribunal anxiously. At this distance, he couldn¡¯t hear what His Holiness was saying, but that didn¡¯t stop him from worrying.


    God, please protect him, Leshert had never prayed so devoutly. He should not be harmed here.


    Amid the crowd¡¯s attention, Rafael continued, ¡°I know why you are here. You hope to seek justice for your relatives and friends who died of the plague. You hope to see the guilty punished as they deserve, to see them repent for the evils they have committed¡ªthis trial is exactly for this purpose.¡±


    ¡°All the judges have solemnly sworn to uphold the dignity and fairness of the law. All the special jury members were randomly selected by me from the household registration archives of Florence. Among them are survivors who have experienced the same disaster as you, witnesses who have seen everything, and kind people who have worked hard to transport supplies for you.¡±


    ¡°They are devout, kind, and upright. They have sworn according to the scriptures that they will be absolutely fair. You can fully trust them to bring you the results you want.¡±


    The crowd fell into a deathly silence.


    Suddenly, a woman raised her voice, ¡°We don¡¯t want this!¡±


    Rafael¡¯s gaze fell on her, and all eyes turned to her. Many people muttered under their breath, accusing her of rudely interrupting His Holiness. The woman, dressed in ragged but clean clothes, looked to be in her thirties, her face weathered by life, her knuckles large and her skin chapped. She clutched a wooden stick as thick as her arm. She looked fierce, but when the Pope looked at her, she shrank back and lowered her head timidly.


    ¡°Sister, may I have the honor of knowing your name?¡± Raphael asked gently.


    The peasant woman mustered up her courage and stammered, ¡°La...


    A rough male voice sounded at the same time, ¡°She¡¯s Laura, the barmaid from the tavern!¡±


    A low murmur of laughter ran through the crowd. Raphael did not laugh. He asked softly, ¡°Sister Laura, you say you don¡¯t want justice from the Tribunal, so what do you want?¡±


    Laura raised her head, tears welling up in her red and swollen eyes. ¡°Justice... We all came here to seek justice, but those criminals don¡¯t think they¡¯ve done anything wrong! They¡¯re all rich people, those lords. They want land, so they drive us into the river. They want money, so they plunder our last piece of cloth. They don¡¯t see us as people¡ªwould they regret killing a cow or a sheep? He¡¯s still arguing in court! He even slandered you!¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s right! They¡¯re all wicked criminals, and they won¡¯t repent at all!¡±


    Soon, others joined in loudly, denouncing the lords¡¯ crimes.


    ¡°They won¡¯t repent, and we don¡¯t want their hypocritical apologies! Hang them! Wash away their sins with their blood!¡±


    The last sentence was like thunder, instantly resonating with a large number of people.


    ¡°Hang them! Make them pay with their blood!¡±


    They shouted loudly, and Laura waved her arms vigorously, letting out a hoarse cry. Her hair was disheveled and stuck to her cheeks, and her eyes shot out a fierce light like a hungry wolf.


    ¡°Your Holiness! You are our holy father! You are the monarch of Florence! We love and trust you, we...¡± Laura said as she cried, her final words was lost in her intermittent sobs.


    Rafael looked at her and raised his hands again. When the wave of sound subsided, he said, ¡°As your holy father, I would very much like to do as you wish, but the city requires law and order. So, let us return to ancient tradition, and let all of Florence, as the fairest judge, oversee the progress of this trial.¡±


    He turned to the half-open door and commanded, ¡°Move the court here. I want all of Florence to participate in this trial.¡±

 Chapter 45.1 Execution

    Long tables were moved to the open space in front of the court. Black-robed monks led the court members out in a procession and stood behind the tables. This was an unprecedented feat, openly revealing the entire court trial process to the lowly people, as if they were someone to be respected. Did the trial still need to listen to their opinions?


    But no one dared to question at this moment. They stood silently in their places. Everywhere they looked was filled with people.No?v(el)B\\jnn


    The Chief Judge, supported by two monks on either side, was trembling slightly. He seemed a little weak in the legs. He held a piece of parchment in his hand and tried his best to shout, ¡°...In accordance with the wishes of the vast majority of the people of Florence, the Grand Tribunal, adhering to the principles of fairness, justice, and openness, will conduct a trial here against the Lords of the Papal States headed by Lord Lauren Russo for the crimes of premeditation to commit murder on the Pope, slaughtering civilians, and so on. Now, the witnesses will present their testimony.¡±


    Every word the Judge said was repeated verbatim by the monk standing beside him, and his words were passed from one person after another all the way to the end of the street.


    Unlike Miracle Square, the main base of the Papal Court, which had a large number of copper pipes buried underneath for sound amplification, the Grand Tribunal has never been favored, like a neglected child. The building hadn¡¯t been repaired for many years, and of course, a good thing such as sound amplification equipment hadn¡¯t been installed yet. So now they could only rely on the most primitive method of transmitting information.


    After shouting the words that the Pope¡¯s deacon had asked him to say, the Judge couldn¡¯t help but feel a little confused. The witness testimony had just ended, why did they have to do it again? But this was His Holiness¡¯s request, he dared not disobey. The deacon even gave him a piece of parchment, asking him to read it word for word. The Judge had to say that he felt like his professionalism had been insulted.


    But at the same time, he dared not disobey.


    The old man clutched the parchment in his hand, and the sweat from his palm moistened the scribbled words on it. He recognized that the handwriting belonged to His Excellency Portia, the Secretary-General of the Papal Palace.


    He didn¡¯t want to delve into what the implications were. He just relied on his years of survival experience and sensitively sensed that today¡¯s trial would mostly likely lead to an unexpected outcome ¨C one that had been planned by the hands of certain people.


    The witnesses also noticed the repetition of the process. They exchanged puzzled and uneasy glances with each other, realizing that there must be some problems involved. But before they could think further, the black-robed monks who had been prepared came up with the Holy Book and urged them to take the oath.


    They could only take the oath again while full of confusion.


    While they were taking the oath, the defendants, who were surrounded and protected by the security personnel, ¡ªthis was necessary, otherwise they would have been torn to pieces by the angry mob the moment they stepped out of the Tribunal¡ªalso noticed the abnormality. Quentin turned his head to say something to them, but before he could speak, he was stopped by the monks and bailiffs who were closely watching them.


    Unlike in the courtroom where they were allowed to speak freely, now Raphael didn¡¯t need them to say anything except to plead guilty.


    ¡°For the sixty-eight crimes committed by Lauren Russo and others, including attempting to assassinate the Pope, slaughtering civilians, and bribing public officials, please have the witnesses present their testimony.¡± The Judge said loudly.


    The witnesses who had previously spoken fluently in the courtroom now hesitated.


    Under the watchful eyes of everyone, every word they said was faithfully conveyed to everyone¡¯s ears. The entire Florence was listening to their words, which made them feel instinctively wary. Some even decided to keep their mouths shut as tightly as a clam.


    The Pope, who was seated in an armchair on the side, saw that they wanted to change their minds at the last minute and sneered. He turned his head to Ferrante behind him and said softly, ¡°Remind that lady what she wants.¡±


    Ferrante retreated from behind and moved stealthily through the crowd, finally standing in front of the crowd directly opposite the witness stand. He didn¡¯t even open his mouth, and his eyes met those of the female lord directly and frankly.


    The woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a veil met Ferrante¡¯s gaze in the crowd.


    This was no small matter. From the shouts of the people present, it could be seen that an overly lenient punishment would not satisfy them. On the other hand, if they really wanted to implement cruel and bloody methods¡ªsuch as ¡®dismemberment,¡¯ as some erudite genius had shouted out¡ªit would be a bit too inhumane and detrimental to the reputation of the Holy City of Florence.


    This trial would surely be faithfully recorded in history, and the final punishment undoubtedly needed to be carefully considered.


    But they didn¡¯t have any more time.


    The Chief Judge was still thinking about this question till the very last second as he walked up to the podium, hoping that someone could give him a hint. He looked expectantly at the young Pope beside him, but the other party kept his head down and looked at the book in his hand, firmly refusing to meet his gaze.


    Oh God.


    The Judge cried out painfully in his heart, if possible, you guys might as well carry out the execution yourselves!


    He walked up to the podium, knocked on the gavel, wiped the sweat from his face, and said, ¡°After serious discussion, this court now makes the following judgment: Lauren Russo, Alessandro Piero, Simone Quentin, Clement Luranco, and Materazzi Dune were found guilty of intention to assassinate the Pope, slaughtering civilians, violating Florence¡¯s current commercial law, and bribing public officials, a total of sixty-eight crimes. In accordance with the laws of Florence, all titles will be immediately stripped, all noble treatments are revoked, the title of lord is abolished, and the death penalty will be executed immediately. Please agree, Your Holiness.¡±


    The Judge bowed to the Pope. In the brief silence that followed, he felt the sweat on his back had already soaked his thick judicial robe, and all the nerves in his body was stiff with tension.


    He admitted that he had played a little trick at the last moment, such as deliberately omitting the manner of execution, and throwing this difficult problem to others. As for who would eventually take over this hot potato, he didn¡¯t care. He just wanted to get off this stage as soon as possible.


    Raphael looked at the head wearing the silver wig with a half-smile, and under the watchful eyes of everyone, he replied, ¡°I agree.¡±


    As soon as he finished speaking, there was a thunderous roar of cheers from the square, but soon, the question that had been blurred by the Judge was thrown out again.


    ¡°Hang them!¡±


    ¡°Behead them! Burn them at the stake!¡±


    Shouts rose one after another towards the court, and Raphael looked at the Judge again and said softly, ¡°Your Honor, the people are waiting for the specific punishment.¡±


    He wouldn¡¯t allow anyone to play tricks in front of him.


    The Pope¡¯s gentle but firm tone completely shattered the last bit of hope in the Judge¡¯s heart.


    Translator¡¯s Note


    This chapter will be split into two parts since its twice as long as usual chapters.

 Chapter 45.2 Execution

    The elderly judge straightened up and looked at the Pope for a few seconds. He saw some hints in the eyes of the young and handsome pontiff that he had long hoped to see, but at this moment, he desperately hoped that he hadn¡¯t understood anything.


    ¡°I declare that they shall be executed in the most extreme manner, pierced through their limbs with blades, and doused with boiling sulfur water. Their skin shall be peeled from their limbs and torso, and finally, they shall be drawn and quartered by five horses.¡±


    The Judge glanced discreetly at the Pope after each word, trying to discern from his face what he should say next, but it was clear that the Pope had no intention of giving him any hints. So, the Judge could only slowly finish saying these words.


    This terrible punishment was created by Emperor Lav III of Rome. He used this set of punishments to punish rebels who tried to assassinate him. It was said that most of those who had been subjected to this punishment still retained consciousness before being thrown into the fire, which obviously exceeded the limits of people¡¯s imagination.


    Many people fell silent after hearing these words, but soon they shouted and cheered again, ¡°That¡¯s right! We can¡¯t let them die so easily!¡±


    After the Judge finished saying these words, Piero, the fattest of the defendants, began to slide down without a word. The black-robed monks beside him forcefully lifted him up from both sides. The others were no better. They instantly became a puddle of mud, and someone had to pull them to prevent them from falling to the ground.


    ¡°No, no, no... Your Holiness! I plead guilty! I was wrong! I¡¯m willing to offer you all my possessions!¡± Quentin, who had the quickest reaction, shouted at the Pope on the stage, ¡°My estate, my land! I have two ports in Calais! And six trading ships!¡±


    His hoarse shouting failed to attract any attention from the Pope. Rafael slowly flipped through the book¡ªthis was the second time, but even the most boring rambling seemed more interesting to him than the lord¡¯s tearful plea for mercy.


    The black-robed monks walked over expressionlessly and dragged the five lords to the center of the empty square. Only then did people realize that several simple wooden platforms had been erected there at some point, with cross-shaped wooden racks inserted into them, clearly a simple execution platform.


    Seeing that they were getting closer and closer to the platform, the faces of the five lords changed. Even Old Russo, who had been sneering and making big speeches just a moment ago, turned pale, his eyes darting around. When he was dragged onto the first step, Old Russo kicked his legs hard and hooked his toes tightly on the edge of the step, ¡°Wait, wait a minute! I have something else to say¡ª¡±


    The black-robed monks, who had not received any orders, seemed to ignore his words and coldly dragged him upwards, easily causing old Russo, who had exerted all his strength, to lose his footing and be lifted onto the steps in a nearly comical manner.


    ¡°Wait¡ªI have something to say! Your Holiness¡ªHoly Father! I have something else to say!¡± Old Russo turned his head hard, trying to look at the young victor, ¡°I have something that you want! You¡¯ll be interested in it, I swear!¡±


    He roared at the top of his lungs. The Pope tilted his head, as if feeling bored. The black-robed monk who was pulling Old Russo immediately understood. He took a piece of hemp rope from his sleeve and forcefully tied it around Old Russo¡¯s mouth. His tongue was instantly rendered useless, and the old man¡¯s voice was muffled in his throat, only making low, humming noises.


    The few people were tied to the wooden rack. The experienced executioner was covered in a large cowhide coat, to prevent the splashing blood from staining his skin. Only two small round holes were made in the eye area. Through that round hole, Old Russo saw a pair of cold eyes with a ferocious smile.


    ¡°Ah¡ª¡±


    Sharp blades pierced their palms and ankles, and they let out a shrill scream, while the people below raised their arms high and cheered joyfully, as if drawing infinite strength from their pain.


    This set of punishments was not completed in one go. In the interval of waiting for the sulfuric water, the Judge once again climbed onto the podium, and this time his expression could no longer be described as ugly.


    ¡°This court now tries Lucrezia Bianchi, Albert Filch, Casappa Montague, and seven others for their involvement in the assassination attempt of the Pope and the slaughter of civilians¡ª¡±


    The seven lords standing on the witness stand were still immersed in the horror of the punishment. For a moment, they couldn¡¯t even recover their senses. When they heard their names being called out from a distance, they looked around dazedly. It wasn¡¯t until everyone¡¯s eyes fell on them that they suddenly realized what had happened.


    The few people on the witness stand turned their heads quickly towards the Pope with enough force to almost twist their heads off, their terrified and angry questions almost bursting out of their mouths.


    ¡ªHe had clearly promised them!


    They hadn¡¯t felt this betrayed in a long while. They had given up all their wealth and land in exchange for a promise from the Pope to spare their lives, and in exchange for the qualification to stand on the witness stand. Otherwise, they would have been nailed to the wooden frame and be screaming like Old Russo. But they hadn¡¯t even celebrated for a moment before being dragged to the place where Old Russo had just been?!


    Even a person with the strongest spirit couldn¡¯t accept this fact.


    The well-prepared, black-robed monks didn¡¯t even wait for them to shout anything. They stepped forward and grabbed their wrists, restraining all their movements, and at the same time took a wet piece of hemp cloth and covered their mouths and noses for a few seconds.


    When they let go, the lords were shocked to find that they couldn¡¯t utter a single word!No?v(el)B\\jnn


    The female lord withdrew her gaze and turned to the Judge, saying clearly, ¡°We have no objections.¡±


    The six lords looked at her with eyes more ferocious than evil spirits. If the monks had loosened their grip, they would have pounced on the woman and torn her to pieces!


    The executioner was already standing on the newly built platform, and the few people were dragged over. Lucrezia walked over by herself. As she passed Rafael, she said softly, ¡°Please tell my child that her mother deserved her fate.¡±


    Her voice was shaking badly, but there was no hesitation.


    This was the last gift she could give to her child. She saw something terrifying in the eyes of the young Pope, and she sincerely hoped that her child wouldn¡¯t become his enemy but instead grow up safely under his protection.


    Rafael turned his back to them. He heard the long blade fall, the blood splattering, and a heavy object falling dully onto the wooden floor. Deafening cheers rang out all around him, and he suddenly felt extremely tired.


    Ferrante keenly noticed the cloud of weariness that seemed to engulf the Pope. He quietly walked over, held his elbow, and asked with concern, ¡°Holy Father?¡±


    Rafael turned his head to look at him, there was a faint light of fatigue in his half-closed eyes, seemingly like a handful of broken gems, shimmering with a beautiful light, but everyone knew that it was instead the remains of a shattered corpse.


    Ferrante¡¯s heart skipped a beat, and he unconsciously increased the force in his hand, ¡°Are you...are you feeling unwell?¡±


    Rafael closed his eyes and quickly suppressed his inappropriate emotions. His whole person was once again wrapped in a flawless body, ¡°No, I¡¯m fine.¡±


    He faced the crowd, and countless trusting, expectant, and admiring eyes were fixed on him.


    Undoubtedly, this bloody massacre had won Rafael the absolute support of the entire Florence. Whether it was Russo or Portia, no one could overshadow the Pope¡¯s glory here, and no one could take away the Pope¡¯s authority. His orders would be unimpeded in Florence, and the Papal Palace would become the de facto ruling center of Florence.


    Sistine I finally had finally possessed his Florence completely.


    But this was not the end.


    He had done all this, and he must obtain the greatest result.


    ¡°In the name of reclaiming the territories of the criminal lords, issue a conscription notice,¡± Rafael said softly to Ferrante, ¡°Let Leshert choose the people he needs, put them under the name of the Papal Guard, and then go to war¡ªit¡¯s time for the Papal States to be unified.¡±


    He wanted a Papal State that was absolutely obedient to the Pope, a unified and independent Papal State.


    The young Pope stood on the high platform, with the bloody execution ground behind him, like an oil painting in thick colors. This scene was later frozen on paper, becoming an eternal historical moment.


    History faithfully recorded it in books: The June Trial of Florence, the beginning of the unification of the Papal States by Pope Sistine I.


    Author¡¯s Note


    Florence has been cleared! The Papal States will be coming soon!


    Note: The punishment of the five lords in the text is derived from the sentence of Louis XV on Damiens1.


    Translator¡¯s Note


    Hello, things have been pretty hectic lately for me so my translation schedule for the Reversed Hierophant will be delayed. Just like my other translated novel, I¡¯ll be updating chapters for this 2-3 times/week. Things should slow down a bit by early next year and updates could be more frequent.


    1 Robert-Franc?ois Damiens ¨C a French domestic servant whose attempted assassination of King Louis XV in 1757 culminated in his public execution. He was the last person to be executed in France by dismemberment, the traditional form of death penalty reserved for regicides. His torture and latter subsequent dismemberment was as gruesome as the punishment described here.

 Chapter 46: Conscription

    Since the June trial which soaked half of the square in front of the Grand Tribunal with blood, Pope Sistine I had re-established the supreme status of the Crown of Thorns in Florence. The papacy reclaimed its authority from the divided lords, and the blood of the principal offenders and their accomplices was spread across the marble floor. Cleaners scrubbed the floor over and over with pig bristle brushes, and buckets of water were poured. During that time, even the river in Florence was filled with a faint scent of blood.


    Recruitment notices from the Papal Palace were posted on the bulletin board outside the large iron gate. Black-robed monks, carrying gongs and a white linen bag, travelled through the streets and alleyways of Florence, orally conveying the Pope¡¯s will to all the people.


    His Holiness was going to organize an army to attack the territories of those lords who had committed crimes, so that the Papal States could be reunited.


    This news flew into every household like wings, and even more striking was the military recruitment conditions proposed by the Papal Palace.


    Those who participated in the war and were recruited as soldiers would receive an annual salary of ninety gold florins. Those who served for more than five years would have priority in purchasing apartments in the upper city and could also advance their salaries from the Papal Palace to purchase real estate. Their children would have priority admission in all public schools and colleges affiliated with Florence. If they died in battle, the Papal Palace would pay the family a lump sum of two hundred gold florins and allow one of their children to work in an industry affiliated with the Papal Palace.


    Ninety gold florins a year!


    Most people in the lower city of Florence may not even earn ten gold florins even if they worked day and night for the whole year!


    The conditions offered by the Papal Palace were so generous that even the nobles found it incomprehensible, let alone the people who were struggling at the bottom of society. Their trust and love for the Pope made them believe in the authenticity of these benefits without much questioning, and the number of people who volunteered to join the army was staggering.


    Although the monks repeatedly emphasized that those who joined the army needed to stay in the army for a whole year and were not allowed to leave the barracks, these conditions were insignificant compared to the temptation of ninety gold florins.


    Leshert walked into the Pope¡¯s reception room with a thick list. The two monks guarding the door glanced at him, nodded slightly, and pushed open the door for him. A warm breeze blew in his face.


    Leshert walked in, and the carved oak door closed behind him.


    The temperature inside was higher than outside. Although it was already mid-June, most of the rooms in the Papal Palace where the Pope might go still had fireplaces lit. Florence was close to the ocean, with little temperature differences throughout the year. It could be considered warm in winter and cool in summer, with abundant rainfall. However, for Rafael, whose physical foundation had been hollowed out in the lower city during his childhood, even the warmest natural temperature would still be cold for him.


    The handsome knight was still wearing light armor and, in accordance with etiquette, carried no sharp objects on him. He glanced around briefly and quickly spotted his monarch behind the bay window.


    The bay window made of glass was like a small balcony overlooking the garden. After the dark red velvet curtain fell, it became a secluded and leisurely little world.


    The curtain was half drawn, and a corner of the Pope¡¯s snow-white robe trailed out from the edge gently, like a handful of fresh snow, curling up at the edge of the curtain, making the white even whiter and the red even redder.


    Leshert walked over. The thick long wool carpet absorbed all his footsteps. He walked to the curtain, gently pushed aside the thick curtain, and silently held his breath.


    The young pope was asleep.


    He was like Narcissus in the ancient myth asleep in an intoxicating dream. His long, light golden hair spread out on the emerald-green velvet chair, as brilliant as the sun. Part of it fell down and was unconsciously tangled in his palm. His loose white robe was full of graceful wrinkles, and the Pope¡¯s golden hair jumped in the gaps, intertwining like molten gold and silver, framing his overly elegant and graceful face. He pressed one hand on his abdomen, and held a book in the other. In his sleep, the hand holding the book hung over the edge of the chair, and the spine pressed against the ground.


    Decades ago, the renowned artist Raphael who shared the same name as the Pope, painted a famous portrait titled ¡°Narcissus in the Water,¡± which was based off the famous historical tyrant Antium. Everyone knew that in addition to his absurd cruelty and promiscuity, Antium was also famous for his dazzling beauty in his youth. Many people believed that his twisted and insane psychology in his later years was caused by this cursed beauty ¨C this famous painting was hung in the hall of Rome¡¯s Crystal Palace, and everyone who saw it would be intoxicated and made crazy by it.


    One day, a marquis fell madly in love with the dying Narcissus in the painting. He begged the Roman King to give him the painting, and carried it with him wherever he went, regardless of time or place. Eventually, he died in a fire one night due to his hopeless love. ?A?


    This painting became famous as a result, but it was also burned in the fire. Later generations could only imagine the beauty of the young Narcissus from the painting through fragmentary descriptions, trying to fit the faces of all the famous beautiful boys into it.


    Leshert¡¯s family had a copy of ¡°Narcissus in the Water¡±. The imitator was probably just an apprentice with little skill. The picture was blurry, and the features of the characters were not processed in detail. All that could be seen clearly were the lush aquatic plants on the shore and the rippling still water.


    But at this moment, he suddenly and uncontrollably merged the scene before him with that clumsy imitation.


    Shall I compare thee to a summer¡¯s day?


    Thou art more lovely and more temperate:


    But thy eternal summer shall not fade,


    Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow¡¯st;


    Nor shall Death brag thou wander¡¯st in his shade,


    Rafael looked at the handsome knight, and the other party looked back, with a hint of confusion in his forest green eyes, as if he didn¡¯t understand why His Holiness suddenly fell silent.


    ¡ªSo he needed to try to change the other¡¯s mind, just a little bit.


    ¡°Your... Your Holiness is expanding the army,¡± Leshert paused for a moment and said softly, ¡°You are trying to revive the Knights Templar.¡±


    The Pope looked calm, as if he didn¡¯t think there was anything wrong with this question that would cause a major earthquake if put to the outside world: ¡°Obviously.¡±


    Leshert took a silent breath: ¡°But... we have long been forbidden...¡±


    ¡°We are forbidden,¡± the Pope repeated his words, the corners of his mouth curled up, and his lavender were cold without any smile, ¡°Who forbids us? Who gave us the order? Who put a dog¡¯s leash on us? Don¡¯t you understand why they did this?¡±


    The Pope looked at his knight aggressively: ¡°Answer me.¡±


    Leshert moved his Adam¡¯s apple with difficulty and said softly: ¡°The Treaty of the Holy City, was signed by sixteen countries and city-states including Calais, Rome, Burgundy, Pombare, the Duvesy Federation as well as the Papal States in Florence. In the treaty, the Holy See promised to never restore the Inquisition and to never allow the members of the Knights Templar to exceed 200 people.¡±


    ¡°Yes, the Treaty of the Holy City. They knocked on the door of the Papal States, forced the Pope to step down from the pedestal of God and to bow to them. From then on, they completely defeated the papal authority and divided the Papal States into fourteen city-states. Florence only bears the name of the Holy City, but in fact, it was just an insignificant supporting role on their stage. Everyone could plant spies in the Papal Palace. They manipulated Florence¡¯s politics and economy, sold the bishop¡¯s robes, and even murdered the popes they were dissatisfied with.¡±


    The Pope¡¯s voice was almost a whisper.


    The last sentence caused Leshert¡¯s pupils to shrink suddenly.


    This was no secret. After Florence fell and the Treaty of the Holy City was signed, the Pope, who had lost the protection of the Inquisition and the Knights Templar, was like a clam meat peeled out of its shell. On average, each pope¡¯s reign was eight years shorter than before the treaty was signed. The speed of papal succession accelerated, and as many as thirteen popes died from assassination¡ªincluding Rafael¡¯s father. Of course, if Rafael himself were included, it would be fourteen.


    It was just that his death was recorded in history as a natural death. Perhaps he didn¡¯t even deserve a place in it.


    Rafael lowered his eyes and looked at the knight kneeling beside his chair. He reached out and gently lifted a strand of golden hair that had fallen from his temple. Unlike his own cold, silvery, light gold hair, Leshert¡¯s hair color was darker, like thick, molten pure gold, warm and naturally shining like the sun.


    ¡°Are you willing? To be bound and confined, being watched vigilantly even though you have done nothing wrong, grovelling at everyone¡¯s feet like a dog, and doing whatever they say¡ªand all this just because they are weak and afraid.¡±


    Rafael said softly: ¡°The weak have no right to cry out. No one will hear your cries for help in the dead of the night. If you are a lion, you must do what a lion should do. It¡¯s useless to wag your tail like a dog and beg others to play with you.¡±


    He let go of the strand of golden hair, as if he had never said those words just now, and said in a normal tone, ¡°Assyria has fallen into civil war, and their queen will never sit idly by. Rome will definitely intervene in this chaos, and Calais will certainly not miss this opportunity. By then, all the surrounding countries will also take action, and Florence must have the capital to protect itself before then.¡±


    Leshert ordered himself to focus on these matters and thought for a while: ¡°What is the movement in Calais?¡±


    He only said a few words, and Rafael understood what he meant. A hint of a smile flashed in his eyes: ¡°Yes, the key lies in Calais¡¯s movements, and of course Rome. In the second half of the year, the Queen will invite me to Rome to speak out for Princess Sancha¡¯s inheritance rights. We don¡¯t have much time left, Knight.¡±


    Leshert bowed his head deeply: ¡°I shall be your strongest support.¡±


    In response to the answer from the leader of the Knights Templar, Rafael moved his lips silently.


    I hope so.


    Author¡¯s Note


    First of all, I have to make it clear that Rafael is not a warmonger. He is expanding his army not for his personal desire for power. The plot will explain this again later.


    In addition, the lines ¡°Shall I compare thee to summer¡¯s day¡± are from Shakespeare¡¯s Sonnet 18, with slight modifications.


    Translator¡¯s Note


    1 This poem is taken from Shakespeare¡¯s Sonnet 18. The only difference is the final line, which I tried as best as I could to follow the same lyrical style and rhythm. Sorry if there are any mistakes!

 Chapter 47: The Army and the Crows

    Due to the current backwards modes of labor, most armies today still rely on a mercenary recruitment system. When war breaks out, farmers are hired to join the army. After the war, they were paid in grain or money and sent home. Sometimes, soldiers even have to prepare their own dry food and weapons during the march. Consequently, it¡¯s not uncommon to see scenes on the battlefield where spears and rakes are flying, and wooden clubs and dung forks are clashing. This form of military composition cannot guarantee a fixed training period for the army, let alone stable combat effectiveness.


    Coexisting with the recruitment system is a conscription system that trains professional soldiers. Able-bodied adult males are selected to reside in military camps year-round to receive military training. The army would provide them with a regular salary, food and other basic necessities. Everyone understands the benefits of a conscription system: it can train highly combat-effective soldiers, stabilize military strength, foster strong morale and cohesion....


    However, alongside these benefits is a significant drawback: the high cost.


    The cost of supporting a group of adult men who basically do nothing all day cannot be underestimated. Money is spent like water, and there is no guarantee of return. An army of a thousand people requires an annual expenditure of about 100,000 gold florins. Such expenditure would bankrupt a small country with insufficient strength. Most royal families could only afford to maintain a regular army of few hundred men to safeguard the royal family and the capital, relying on mercenaries for the rest of the troops.


    In contrast, powerful nations like Rome, Calais, and Assyria all had their own standing armies, which was why they were able to hold an important position in the world for a long time.


    Rafael was determined not to entrust his life and the safety of Florence to mercenaries of unknown integrity. Throughout history, there have been countless mercenaries who took money from their employers before stabbing them in the back. The mercenaries of the Black Sea region were notorious for this, and many of their former employers¡¯ heads are buried beneath their mountains of gold. As a result, no organization is willing to accept those from the Black Sea region, and many employers would run away at the mere mention of the Black Sea. This has forced honest Black Sea mercenaries to fabricate themselves a more ¡®respectable¡¯ background.


    No matter the place or era, a loyal and combat-effective army directly under one¡¯s command is an invaluable treasure. Even if feeding them requires cutting out one¡¯s flesh and blood, Rafael was determined to grit his teeth and carry on. Moreover, he had already secured sufficient funds¡ªthe wool coming from those sheep, although the lords who died in the public square would not be pleased to hear such a statement.


    Rafael assigned several black monks recommended by Ferrante to Leshert to handle the inventory and distribution of all property seized during the army¡¯s conquest of territories. Leshert acquiesced to this arrangement, and Rafael was relieved.


    Throughout history, burning, killing and pillaging after capturing a castle was one of the most common things for soldiers to do. Through this means, they would obtain vast wealth unimaginable during their lifetime. However, for an army to have long-term vitality and stability, plundering and pillaging wasn¡¯t sustainable. The Ancient Assyrian cavalry that once dominated the world also fell victim to this trap. Their commanders allowed soldiers to plunder and wreak havoc in captured cities without restraint. Their lack of discipline and excessive greed made them resistant to tactics other than direct assault, which eventually resulted in them being worn down and defeated by the Knights Templar during a long battle of attrition.


    Strictness, purity, integrity, patience, and self-discipline were the qualities upheld by the Knights Templar. Rafael had no intention of tempting them with riches and simply cut off this possibility at the source. He was pleased that Leshert was a rational and clear-headed military leader and that he didn¡¯t need to waste any more effort to argue with him about the nuances.


    Of course, he didn¡¯t rule out the possibility of using the Arbitration Bureau and the Knights Templar to check and balance the other.


    The former held the money, while the latter wielded great military power. And the strings of both were undoubtedly held by the Pope.


    In August, the conscription in Florence came to an end, with 18,000 men signing up, nearly 90% of all able-bodied men in Florence. After excluding those unfit for military service due to physical condition or family circumstances, Leshert selected 3,500 men to form the initial expeditionary force. These men would be slowly tempered and polished in the crucible of war. The survivors would then undergo rigorous selection and evaluation to join the Knights Templar, forming the foundation for the future protectors of the Pope and Florence.


    This was only the first phase of conscription. As the civil unrest in Assyria develops, Rome and Calais¡¯s movements would become clearer, and the frequency of conscriptions would gradually increase. Ultimately, Rafael envisioned an army of at least 8,000 permanent soldiers would be established in Florence and even the Papal States.


    Although 8,000 might not seem like a large number, it should be considered that the King¡¯s army stationed in the capital of Calais has only a little over 3,000 men. Those massive armies numbering in the tens of thousands were scattered throughout the country.


    If he was given the opportunity to develop this quietly...


    Rafael thought silently that if he was given the time and opportunity, he would make Florence the most impregnable fortress and wield the sharpest sword in the world.


    In mid-August, as the weather grew warmer and everyone shed their thick cloaks for colorful, light garments. Leshert led the newly formed Florentine army into battle.


    Their first target was the city of Casso, closest to Florence. The city name was based off the Ancient Language meaning ¡°Pearl of the Gods.¡± After the Papal States split, the Quentin family had eventually established their rule here and had been the undisputed lords for two centuries.


    However, Quentin had been killed by the Pope in Florence and stripped of all his titles, lands, and possessions before his death. The legitimacy of the Quentin family¡¯s rule over Casso immediately collapsed, and Leshert captured this rich city with little effort.


    Rafael first opened Leshert¡¯s battle report.


    The beginning, as usual, was a long and flowery greeting. He skipped over this part directly: ¡®...The morale of the army is high, and our advance has been very smooth. We haven¡¯t encountered any major resistance along the way. Of course, there have been scattered battles, mostly caused by the remnants of the lords¡¯ forces, who are unwilling to surrender their power so easily. But these are all minor problems that can be dealt with. I expect that by the end of the year, we will be able to completely clear the twelve cities and bring you a great and glorious victory...¡¯


    ¡°As you predicted earlier, Rome will invite you to their capital in the second half of the year. I¡¯m afraid that I won¡¯t be able to spare myself at that time. Your safety is most paramount. I request that we delay the advance of the battle, or that you dispatch another trustworthy general to take control of the army, allowing me to lead the Knights Templar to follow you to Rome and protect you...¡±


    Rafael sighed when he saw this. Julius, who had entered with the rolled-up war report and some documents, pushed up his glasses and glanced at the letter in Rafael¡¯s hand. His eyes were cold, but there was a slight smile in his tone: ¡°What¡¯s wrong? Has our Knight Commander encountered any difficulties?¡±


    Rafael didn¡¯t look up at him, so he didn¡¯t notice the fake smile on Julius¡¯s lips. ¡°No, Leshert said he wanted to accompany me to Rome.¡±


    Rafael hesitated.


    The queen had yet to send him an official invitation, and he was unsure when it would come. But according to the news from Assyria, the civil unrest in Assyria had gradually expanded to engulf the entire country. There was no more time left for the queen to make arrangements. She would definitely arrange everything in Rome as soon as possible and then personally go to Assyria to suppress the rebellion¡ªthis was something that had actually happened before, but last time Rafael hadn¡¯t focused himself too much on such a distant matter. He was still groping for his own path, trying to solve all problems in a more gentle way.


    At that time, it was Julius who had handled everything.


    Thinking of this, Rafael glanced at the secretary-general in front of him. The secretary-general, who was neatly dressed with his shirt buttoned up tightly, tilted his head slightly in confusion, and a small question mark seemed to appear above his head. He was wearing a snow-white scarf with a large emerald gemstone embedded in the knot, and the soft scarf draped down, covering the last bit of skin on his neck.


    Julius, who was used to wrapping himself up tightly in any weather, looked at Rafael: ¡°Rafa?¡±


    Rafael came back to his senses: ¡°Oh... I would like to ask for your opinion.¡±


    ¡°My opinion,¡± Julius paused. It seemed like he hadn¡¯t heard such a phrase in a long time. He thought about it dazedly for a moment, before remembering the knight who was fighting for Rafael. A trace of wariness flashed in his eyes. Leshert was galloping through the lords¡¯ lands, while the Papal States, apart from Florence, had only one remaining lord, Portia. This instinctively made him feel threatened. Julius forcibly suppressed this instinctive warning. ¡°His opinion is very reasonable. You¡¯re going to Rome, a place so far away. You¡¯ll need strong military protection to ensure your safety. I... I don¡¯t wish to see another coffin sent back to Florence.¡±


    His tone was a little vague.


    Both of them fell silent at the same time.


    The last pope to leave Florence and return in the form of a coffin was Rafael¡¯s father and Julius¡¯s cousin.


    It was Julius himself who had collected the body of Pope Vitalian III.


    For once, Julius said sincerely, ¡°I hope he does as he promised and protect you well.¡±


    Author¡¯s Note


    Julius: Beware of that golden-haired knight.

 Chapter 48: Campaign

    Leshert gasped and pulled the sword out of the corpse with great effort. He wiped the blood and mud off his face and noticed several small cuts on his fingers. He stared at the tiny wounds that were still bleeding and found that he couldn¡¯t remember where he had been injured.


    This was easy to understand. There were always all sorts of strange injuries on the battlefield. Yesterday, when Leshert went on patrol, he saw a wounded soldier sitting on a bed, grimacing. The other knights said he had misjudged the opening direction of a door when he kicked it open and tore his ligaments.


    Ah, for men, this was such a sad and embarrassing injury.


    Leshert casually wiped the blood on his hands on his clothes. The humid summer wind with the breath of the ocean blew across his face, dispersing much of the strong smell of blood and making his breathing much easier.


    The Knight Commander stood on the hill, looking at the city in front of him ¨C the gates of this port city had been blown open by artillery fire, and the ancient city walls were riddled with mottled gaps and smoke. Some of the pungent-smelling gunpowder had not yet burned out and was still hissing, emitting large amounts of smoke and dust.


    Countless corpses were piled on the ground, hung on the city walls, and blocked in the trenches. The wounded horses let out pitiful neighs before being given a merciful death by slitting their throats.


    Wounded warhorses were useless, and they were inconvenient to keep during intensive marches. The most merciful way was to let them die with their masters.


    Knights wearing the insignia of the Knights Templar were dismantling catapults and loading them onto the carriages of steam locomotives in batches. Many soldiers were also installing rails with hammers¡ªiron was a precious resource, and the railway tracks that could run locomotives were all made of sections that were easy to disassemble. The tracks were laid on the required sections and removed after use. This was a very popular method. Of course, this method also made it impossible for the tracks to be too long, and steam locomotives could only travel short distances. If it were a long-distance track, it would require careful design and long-term construction.


    However, having such transportation support on the march was already very satisfying.


    Soldiers carrying wooden beams walked over with smiles, and everyone greeted Leshert loudly or bowed to him as they passed by. No matter how many people came to greet him, Leshert could accurately call out their names and respond to their greetings seriously.


    The city in front of them, which was slowly waking up in the smoke of gunpowder, was their last stop. Its lord, Lucrezia Bianchi, controlled this fertile land near the sea. Here, the sun was abundant and suitable for growing grapes. It was also very close to the port. Countless large and small vineyards took root and grew here, extracting nutrients from the land and turning them into red gold flowing in barrels. These wines, known as liquid gems, would be transported to all corners of the world by ships that travelled day and night.


    But their will to resist was also unprecedentedly strong.


    Compared to the cities of the previous few lords who had surrendered almost without a fight, Bianchi was the hardest nut to crack, second only to the Russo family. And Russo...


    Thinking of that word, Leshert¡¯s gentle and generous green eyes sank involuntarily.


    The Russo family, like their deceased leader, had a cruel and vicious nature, preferring to destroy the entire city rather than hand it over peacefully. Leshert could understand their extreme ideas, but when he was truly faced with the evil deeds they had committed, he felt immense anger and sadness.


    They seemed to be quite aware that they could not defeat Leshert, so they had taken the initiative to ransack the entire city before Leshert arrived.


    In the midst of extreme fear and disorder, an unprecedented great chaos occurred in the Russo city-state.


    Innocent people who resisted the Russo family¡¯s looting were nailed to the walls by the guards. All entrances and exits were guarded. Those who wanted to leave were thoroughly searched, and in the end, they couldn¡¯t even keep a complete set of clothes. In order to preserve their money, they began to find all sorts of ways to hide their property, such as swallowing coins, hoping to recover them after they left. This made them unable to swallow any food afterwards, and their bodies became swollen from hunger. Once their stomachs burst, the soldiers would find the money hidden inside them.


    So the guards began to cut open the bellies of the people while they were still alive to see if there was anything inside. Armed bandits ¨C who were still obedient civilians a day ago ¨C roamed everywhere, stabbing wooden sticks into their victims¡¯ rectums, forcing them to reveal the hiding places of their family¡¯s wealth.


    Everyone had become a madman, swept up and oppressed by the city¡¯s frenzy. There was no one who couldn¡¯t be robbed, no place that they couldn¡¯t go. Only those who were crazy enough could survive this catastrophe. Innocent and kind people couldn¡¯t find a safe place to hide themselves. They found that their once kind neighbors had also turned into demons in human skin.


    God had abandoned this city.


    The poor formed gangs and stormed into the noble districts, robbing houses, killing men, and assaulting women and children. They lit the already empty rooms with candlesticks, knocked off the gold and silver ornaments on doors and windows, and melted down the gilded decorations ¨C causing several fires. The taste of power and the thrill of the hunt in the midst of utter chaos made them completely lose themselves. They morbidly imitated the nobles, putting on makeup and even dressing themselves as women, strutting through the streets in exquisite and gorgeous cloaks, killing anyone who got in their way. ?


    Under the cover of this extreme chaos, no one noticed that the members of the Russo family who had caused the chaos had taken the opportunity to secretly escape.


    After looting the entire city and causing a frenzy of chaos, they deliberately set fires everywhere. They then quickly left with their trusted aides and the things they had looted, leaving behind only a groaning mad city.


    Lucrezia¡¯s husband had coveted the Bianchi lordship and was already killed by her. The child, who had lost all protection, needed a strong enough guardian, and the female lord chose Pope Sistine I for her.


    When you think about how she had attended that secret meeting in order to gain more resources for her child, one couldn¡¯t help but sigh and feel that fate was simply a farce.


    Leshert received a letter from the Pope and deliberately delayed the start of the war. On the night before the battle, the black-clothed monks who had secretly infiltrated Bianchi ¡°stole¡± the little girl from the lord¡¯s manor, along with a bigger child ¨C Ingrid, the little girl¡¯s cousin, who had been adopted by Lady Bianchi after her parents died. She tried hard to protect her little cousin who had lost all her support, and Lucrezia also cried and didn¡¯t want to abandon her sister, so the two of them were taken away by the monks together.


    Leshert promised to send them to Florence as soon as the war was over. The new lord of Bianchi obviously didn¡¯t care about these two little girls. They didn¡¯t even notice that someone was missing from the lord¡¯s manor and were still focused on resisting Leshert. While the cannons were roaring, the two girls stayed together in Leshert¡¯s tent.


    ¡°The war is over, and someone will take you to Florence soon,¡± Leshert told the little girl.


    Hearing about Florence, Lucrezia¡¯s eyes lit up: ¡°What does Florence... look like?¡±


    The handsome knight commander thought for a moment: ¡°It¡¯s the most beautiful city in the world, a place loved by God. You¡¯ll like it.¡±


    ¡°Then...¡± Lucrezia hesitated for a moment, and asked softly, ¡°What about His Holiness?¡±


    The little girl¡¯s voice trembled slightly, obviously, she wasn¡¯t completely unaware of her mother¡¯s fate in Florence.


    Leshert was startled and looked back at Ingrid. The girl¡¯s gaze was fixed on the ground, as if a rare and beautiful flower had bloomed there.


    ¡°It¡¯s complicated,¡± Leshert finally replied. He squatted down to level his eyes with Lucrezia. The knight took off the little girl¡¯s hood and tucked a few strands of hair that hadn¡¯t been tied into a pearl hairpin behind her ear, looking directly into those round brown eyes, ¡°How to judge a person... it¡¯s a very, very difficult question. No matter what others say, it¡¯s just their own opinion. Good people can also kill, and bad people can also save people. If you want to know, go and see for yourself, Miss Lucrezia.¡±


    The handsome knight smiled, and his emerald green eyes seemed to be rippling like deep lake water. In that quiet and dark forest, the midday sun occasionally fell, scattering a piece of golden light on the lake¡¯s surface. ¡°...Follow the guidance of your heart, and no one will not love him.¡±


    He heard the sound of a steam carriage, the hot gas in the pipe was suddenly released, and the long whistle was hoarse and high-pitched. A black-clothed monk walked to Ingrid¡¯s side, nodded to her, and gestured to Leshert in the tent.


    The Knight Commander then carefully stroked the little girl¡¯s head. He was very unfamiliar with this action, obviously he had never had such intimate contact with the opposite sex before, even with a young girl.


    ¡°Go, Miss Lucrezia, may God bless you, and may your future be smooth under the protection of the Holy Father.¡±


    The upright Knight Commander offered his sincere blessings.


    The two girls were sent on a carriage to Florence, escorted by several black-clothed monks and soldiers dispatched by Leshert. Rafael received them at the papal palace a week later. Lucrezia was obviously a little afraid of him, which was understandable, but the little girl still kissed his ring respectfully.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid,¡± the handsome pope reached out and gently placed his hand on Lucrezia¡¯s head. The little girl looked back dazedly and couldn¡¯t help but sink into those pale purple eyes like a sea of gems. He was more beautiful than any character in any painting or story, and even a young child could feel that beauty that transcended reason. ¡°I will protect you, just like your father.¡±


    The hand of the overly handsome Pope on her head was a little cold. Lucrezia listened blankly, not yet understanding the weight of this promise. But in her future life, she would recall this day and this moment countless times, remembering the Pope¡¯s hand on her head, which was not so warm but unshakeable.


    Author¡¯s Note


    The Papal War will be briefly mentioned and will end soon. A new plot will follow! Baby Rafa is going to travel abroad!!!


    References to the city looting content in this chapter:


    Montefiore, S. S. (2012). Jerusalem: The Biography. Vintage Books.

 Chapter 49: Celebrate

    Leshert finally managed to clean up the entire Papal States before Rome¡¯s invitation arrived in Florence.


    The diligent and conscientious Knight Commander led the surviving 2,100 soldiers back to Florence. Before leaving the Holy City, there had been 3,500 of them. Those who had died on the battlefield were carefully buried by their comrades, and a cemetery was built nearby. All that was brought back was a small wooden tag¡ªcrafted from sturdy, heavy ironwood, about an inch long and half an inch wide. It was engraved with the bearer¡¯s name, rank, commanding officer, and unit, serving as proof of identity.


    The soldiers joked that these were like the name tags noblemen put on their dogs, but everyone carefully hung their tag around their neck.


    If one were unfortunate enough to be blown to pieces by cannon fire, with their faces disfigured or their limbs torn off, at least this dogtag could prove their identity.


    Over a thousand of these ¡°dog tags¡± returned to Florence with the army. They would be returned to the families of the fallen soldiers, who could use them to claim regular pensions and benefits from the Papal Palace.


    When the iconic, towering bell tower of the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn came into distant view, all the soldiers couldn¡¯t help but raise their hands and cheer. They shouted and screamed wildly, embraced their comrades, and kissed each other passionately on the face, expressing their joy incoherently.


    They had finally survived those horrific battlefields and returned to their home.


    Leshert waited patiently for their celebration. Mounted on his horse, he looked out at the gray walls of Florence from afar. A thin mist shrouded the sky above Florence like a veil. The sun shone through the clouds, and under the Tyndall effect, beams of distinct golden light bloomed. Most of the buildings in the Holy City were white, with marble exteriors. When the churches stood tall in the sky with their Thorned Wings, countless white doves circled them. The city echoed with the faint singing of the choir children, their tender, pure, and soaring voices reaching the heavens like a fairy tale lullaby calling to the angels.


    This was the embodiment of sacred hope, the embodiment of happiness on Earth. God had placed His throne on the barren mountaintop, telling all who came to pilgrimage: ¡°Here I shall build my city, and My banner shall fly over the world. Only the most devout may enter here to find peace and receive My blessings.¡±


    Thus, in a single day, a holy city appeared in the vast wilderness. This snow-white city had an incomparable beauty. The church bells in the city echoed with ethereal sounds throughout the seasons, and amid the solemn ringing, pure children chanted hymns of blessing, praising all the virtues in the world. Everyone could find peace of mind and eternal joy here.


    This was the place Leshert had sworn to protect with everything he had. No matter how many times he saw it, he was intoxicated by its beauty and willingly surrendered at its feet, offering his most steadfast loyalty and faith.


    A mighty horn sounded, and the bells of the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn broke through the floating song. The circling white doves, startled, scattered like lily petals flying in the air, flapping their snow-white wings toward the sun-kissed clouds. The solemn, vast bell spread out in circles in the transparent air, silencing the entire city in this majestic sound that seemed to come from God.


    Leshert instantly understood. The usually reserved Knight Commander suddenly drew his longsword from his waist and raised it high above his head, shouting loudly, ¡°My brothers! Florence awaits us! Our families are waiting for us!¡±


    A thunderous roar of cheers, like a tidal wave, resounded through the mountains and the forest. Even the ground trembled with the noise. They cheered and sang, led by the Knight Commander at the forefront, and rushed towards their homeland.


    The victory ceremony held in the Papal Palace was extremely grand. It was like another festival celebration. The aroma of wine soaked the entire city in intoxication. Hot bread was constantly baked and piled on long iron plates, along with creamy stews, golden-brown ham, sizzling roast meat, and crispy, spiced pastries... countless delicacies were spread out in the Miracle Square, no less spectacular than Rafael¡¯s coronation ceremony. Leshert¡¯s expedition had brought Rafael the wealth accumulated by the Twelve Lords over several lifetimes. The mountains of gold and silver were stacked in wooden crates, and black-robed monks transported them by carriage under the cover of night. From the beginning of the war until the entire Papal States were pacified, at least twenty carriages had to be sent out every day.


    The warehouses of the Papal Palace were filled to the brim. Except for Julius, who was responsible for the inventory and the final tally, and Rafael, who listened to the reports, no one knew how much wealth they had obtained in this legal plunder.


    To put it loosely, it was enough for Rafael to hold a coronation ceremony every day for twenty years without exhausting it.


    Although the bishops had some guesses about this, no one dared to foolishly bring up this question openly. When they saw the Pope now, they would only bow their waists even deeper, lower their heads deeply, and use all their body language to express their respect and... fear for His Holiness.


    They feared this embodiment of Florence, there was no doubt about that.


    Before the soldiers could even remove their armor, they were dragged into the festivities by the joyous crowd. Bands and circuses paraded through the city in open carriages. The crowds surrounding the floats were like undulating waves. Streamers were flying everywhere, and spilled ale created damp patches on the ground. Bright flowers fell from women¡¯s hats and chests, crushed into fragrant floral mud by leather boots.


    The members of the Florence City Guard were wearing their uniforms and maintaining order. Although they were holding their weapons, they all wore a smile on their faces, swaying their bodies to the music. Occasionally, they would be handed a flower or a cup of beer by passersby. Their faces were flushed with a drunken glow, and their expressions were filled with contented pleasure.


    The carefree joy was like countless bubbles, lifting Florence up and floating it gently. In these bubbles, shimmering with intoxicating brilliance, the entire city became a stumbling drunkard.


    Rafael was overlooking this boiling, shimmering sea of joy.


    He was standing on the bell tower of the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn. This magnificent building, built several centuries ago, has become a landmark of Florence after numerous renovations by the Holy See. The top of this famous bell tower was open on all four sides, supported by slender, exquisite sword-shaped columns. Intricate stone thorns and lilies were entwined on the slender Roman columns of varying lengths. Cute, naked cupids stood on lily petals on one foot, holding harps, flutes, or small trumpets, looking endearing. The spiritual leader of Florence stood beside a slender pillar, silently watching the frothy joy below.


    There was no expression on the Pope¡¯s face, neither the joy of victory nor the excitement of acquiring great wealth. It was as if he had distanced himself from all the glitz and noise, standing alone and coldly watching everything, as if these things had nothing to do with him.


    The sound of footsteps came from afar.


    A bony prominent hand held a heavy ermine cloak and draped it over the Pope¡¯s shoulders. The cloak was embroidered with ribbons and inlaid with small diamonds, embossed with black silk thread in a diamond pattern. Each corner had a carefully selected, uniformly sized gem.


    ¡°...Oh, of course.¡± His earnestness caught Rafael off guard for a moment. The young Pope¡¯s lavender eyes widened slightly, and for a moment he didn¡¯t know how to deal with such a sincere and straightforward person. He was just joking, no one would be so persistent about a joke, but Leshert was obviously different from others, so he hesitated, not knowing how to explain this rather strange question.


    ¡°Julius... he, well, he has a strong desire to win,¡± Rafael tried to choose more euphemistic words, wanting to explain the problem without revealing too much of Julius¡¯s privacy. ¡°You are well known in Florence, and the evaluation you receive is completely different from his.¡±


    So it was normal for him to have a some inexplicable hostility towards Leshert.


    Rafael had never noticed this before, perhaps because in his previous life he hadn¡¯t planned to rebuild the Knights Templar. Leshert, as the Knight Commander, had always lived an ascetic life, rarely appearing in public, so Julius didn¡¯t have many opportunities to express his emotions. But this time, as Leshert¡¯s status in Florence became increasingly high, he had more opportunities to interact with Julius in various aspects, and Rafael vaguely realized this.


    This was just a small discovery of his own. Julius doesn¡¯t like meeting with Leshert, and he often lets others do the official handover. Whenever the Knight Commander reports to the Pope, the Secretary General, would always appear shortly after and suddenly have an important matter to discuss with His Holiness. Of course, you can¡¯t frankly ask Julius about such subtle targeting, so Rafael had only observed secretly with a curious mind.


    He didn¡¯t mind his two capable subordinates having conflicts. On the contrary, he would be worried if they were as close as family, so this was just right.


    With a somewhat dark and cold heart, Rafael coldly watched Julius¡¯s extremely well-hidden hostility towards Leshert.


    He admitted that he was a bit bad.


    ¡°Well,¡± Leshert sighed, as if understanding something, and then said, ¡°There¡¯s one thing I¡¯m not sure if Lord Portia knows. Maybe he hasn¡¯t had the chance to tell you yet.¡±


    ¡°I received a letter of intent to join the army from the Portia Palace. The applicant was Redrick Portia, Duke of Lusanne.¡±


    Rafael admitted that he was stunned when he heard this name, because the effect of the name with the context together seemed very bizarre to him.


    ¡°Redrick... join the army? What do you mean?¡± Rafael was certainly not someone who couldn¡¯t understand. He was just instinctively confirming the authenticity of this matter.


    ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t quite understand either, so I went to ask him just now,¡± the Knight Commander said frankly. ¡°He said he was very interested in war, and of course, gaining merits on the battlefield is the fastest way.¡±


    Rafael was silent for a moment and looked at him with indescribable eyes: ¡°You... what did you do to him?¡±


    It was no wonder he suddenly asked such a strange question. In Rafael¡¯s impression, Redrick was a petty little monster who constantly spewed venom in all directions all the time, with himself as the center. He was also very, very stubborn. It was harder to expect him to say something sincere than to kill him. In fact, Rafael had always suspected that if he encountered a robber who wanted to rob and murder him, Redrick would shout loudly about his identity as the Duke of Lusanne in front of the robber in order to protect his so-called ridiculous ¡°noble dignity¡± until the robber was so angry that he chopped off his head.


    But such a Redrick actually told Leshert his true thoughts honestly?


    It was hard for Rafael not to wonder if the Knight Commander had used some unspeakable method of physical persuasion.


    ¡°What? I didn¡¯t do anything.¡± Leshert was obviously very confused by the question. He replied, ¡°He was very happy when he saw me. I asked him and he told me. Actually, I think he¡¯s a lovely young man.¡±


    Rafael¡¯s face wrinkled up like a cat that had suddenly bitten into a pickle.


    No way... this reaction, so familiar to him, of a believer seeing a deity, of a worshiper meeting an idol...


    Redrick admires Leshert?


    Rafael¡¯s mind was stirred. Regardless of whether this guess was correct, it gave him some new ideas.


    The Portia family already had two dukes, one of whom was in charge of the administrative affairs of the Papal Palace and even Florence. If the other one was also involved in military power... was this Redrick¡¯s own idea or Julius¡¯s suggestion?


    No, Julius wasn¡¯t such an impatient person. Even if he had this idea, he wouldn¡¯t express it at this sensitive time. It was too hasty, too clumsy, and too unlike his methods.


    So it was Redrick¡¯s own idea? If so...


    ¡°Agree to him,¡± Rafael made up his mind, raising his eyes, his smile gentle. ¡°Let him be your deputy. I hope he can become as devout and brave as you.¡±


    Devoutly believing in the Pope, bravely fighting against the Portias.

 Chapter 50: Surrender

    The morning after the celebration, Florence was still immersed in an atmosphere of lingering joy. The festivities, authorized by the Papal Palace, were set to continue for at least four days. During these four days, the people of Florence could cast all their worries aside and fully enjoy the food and entertainment provided by their Holy Father.


    However, for most of those who bore the public responsibilities of Florence, a single day of leisure was already a remarkable feat. And for the Secretary-General of the Papal Palace, who was responsible for the administrative operations of all of Florence, even a night of relaxation was almost unimaginable.


    So, Julius naturally woke up at nine o¡¯clock in the morning, following his usual schedule. This time seemed rather early to most nobles, who often got up around one in the afternoon to enjoy brunch, followed by a leisurely afternoon tea. They would begin their dinner at eight or nine in the evening, attending or hosting grand banquets that would last until three or four in the morning. Being able to go to bed before five was considered a regular sleep schedule for them. Without any unexpected interruptions, they would continue to live this life of indulgence forever.


    The Secretary-General stood by the window, wearing a simple morning robe. The warm fireplace ensured that he wouldn¡¯t shiver from the December cold, even in just a silk robe. The robe was open all the way down and fastened only by a belt, revealing a well-defined chest. He was not wearing glasses, and his long silver hair was loosely tied with a ribbon. In his hand, he held a steaming cup of Ceylon tea.


    The large, floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooked the garden. The expensive and rare Queen¡¯s Rose had already passed its growing season. The gardener had pruned the rose¡¯s roots and planted seasonal tulips and roses. Hemlock and ornamental ivy climbed the gaps in the soil, covering every inch of the land and giving the entire garden a vibrant appearance.


    Every day, out-of-season flowers from the glass greenhouse were also moved into the garden to decorate the flower beds. Although these delicate and beautiful flowers could often only survive a few hours in the cold wind, their sole purpose was to brighten the mood of the master of the villa ¨C when possible.


    But it was obvious that the gardeners¡¯ hard work was about to be in vain.


    A knock sounded softly on the door. A servant, holding an envelope, handed it to his master who was standing by the window.


    Behind him, two maids carrying a four-tiered silver cake stand carefully placed it on the small round table beside their master. Dozens of exquisite pastries were arranged on it. It was evident that the kitchen had exhausted all their efforts for this beautiful and delicious display.


    Julius casually sat down at the table, put down his porcelain cup, and took the envelope from the servant.


    The wax seal on the envelope belonged to the Knights Templar.


    Julius frowned when he saw the emblem of a crossed sword and thorned scepter. He turned the envelope over, glanced at the name on it, and his eyes froze for a moment.


    ¡°Have Redrick come to see me,¡± he ordered quickly, his tone devoid of any emotion.


    But everyone present could feel the gradually sinking pressure emanating from their master. The maids bowed and retreated, and the servant quickly went to pass on the message.


    Redrick, who had been abruptly pulled from bed in the morning, was cursing angrily. He scratched his messy blond hair with his hands. His head, throbbing from a hangover, felt like it had been filled with half the Black Sea. The water seemed to sway and roll with every step he took, making him ready to burst. Redrick had to let the servant who delivered the message support him to avoid bumping into one of the statues in the corridor or rolling down the stairs.


    ¡°What does Julius want from me? It¡¯s only...¡± he blinked his bleary eyes, and the servant kindly reminded him, ¡°half past nine.¡± He continued, ¡°Right, it¡¯s only half past nine. Damn it, he¡¯s an early bird, but I¡¯m not. If this isn¡¯t something important, I¡¯m definitely going to punch him in the nose and make him keep the same hours as me today.¡±


    From these words, it could be inferred that His Grace, the Duke of Lusanne, was still under the influence of alcohol and was not fully sober.


    The servant smiled bitterly and silently said in his heart, I hope you can still maintain this confidence and courage after seeing His Grace.


    His guess was correct. As soon as Redrick stepped into Julius¡¯s room, he sobered up.


    Completely and utterly.


    Again, no one could remain unfazed under Julius Portia¡¯s cold and sharp gaze. Someone had even once privately said that even a lunatic in a mental asylum would clearly recall their first bedwetting experience under Julius¡¯s oppressive gaze.


    And Redrick, obviously, was not someone who could withstand strong pressure.


    The Secretary-General¡¯s deep purple eyes were like icebergs in midwinter, pressing directly onto the young man who had just entered. Redrick felt a sudden chill all over, and his hangover-ridden brain was clearer than ever before. He realized he might have done something wrong, but the problem was no matter how hard he thought, he couldn¡¯t figure out what mistake he had made.


    The Duke of Lusanne shuffled forward slowly, racking his brains to review all his actions recently. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn¡¯t think of anything he had done to anger his unpredictable uncle.


    Even though he desperately wished Julius¡¯s bedroom could be a hectare in size, reality cruelly gave him a huge blow. Julius watched Redrick walk up to him reluctantly, his body covered in the messy traces of having been forcibly pulled from bed with a hangover. The purple eyes that were the hallmark of the Portia family were filled with naive stupidity and an unconscious sense of righteousness.


    Julius suddenly felt extremely tired.


    The anger he had been brewing was extinguished by his stupid nephew, leaving him nowhere to vent. He tossed the letter in front of Redrick: ¡°Explain.¡±


    Noble families traditionally had such a custom. The eldest son inherited the title and entered politics, the second son went to a monastery to devote himself to religion, and the third son joined the army to control the military. This arrangement not only prevented the dispersion of property but also enabled the family to prosper in all fields. It was also jokingly called the ¡°Trinity¡± method of inheritance distribution.


    With Julius inheriting the title and entering politics, and Rafael becoming the Pope, the Portia family, according to common sense, was indeed lacking someone in the military.


    That was, if one of them wasn¡¯t Rafael.


    Was Rafael...someone who puts his family above all else?


    Julius knew the answer very well, but Redrick knew nothing.


    He still naively believed that Rafael, despite all the mockery and bullying he had endured, Rafael, who had received immense favor from the family ¨C bringing him out of the slums, given an education, and elevated to the throne of Saint Leah ¨C would always consider the Portias as his ultimate allegiance.


    But true monarchs never fixate themselves on narrow family ties.


    Julius had never realized this so clearly.


    The day Leshert returned, he knew that he had lost miserably in this silent gamble and that it was time to pledge his loyalty to his monarch.


    He glanced at Redrick, who was about the same age as Rafael but was incredibly foolish and felt a sharp pain throb in his temple. He said in a low voice, ¡°Shut up and bury that stupid idea of yours. Don¡¯t tell anyone about it. If you don¡¯t want to die young, get out of my sight now. As for this matter, I¡¯ll take care of it.¡±


    Redrick couldn¡¯t be allowed to become evidence of the Portias¡¯ ambitions for Rafael, nor could he be the opening for the downfall of this huge family.


    ¡°Also...¡± Julius raised his eyes and glanced at Redrick. At that moment, Redrick suddenly felt cold all over. An instinctive fear struck him. Without thinking, he lunged to the side, but he was still a step too slow.


    The sharp sword pierced his calf, and crimson blood splattered out as he screamed. Julius pulled out the sword expressionlessly. ¡°This is punishment for your disrespect towards His Holiness. I hope there won¡¯t be a next time.¡±


    The servant, who looked like a clay sculpture or wooden carving, suddenly came to life. He bent down to help the Duke of Lusanne, who was about to faint from pain, and left the room.


    Julius changed his clothes and went to the Papal Palace to see Rafael with the letter. The young Pope was leaning against a soft cushion, reading a book. When he saw Julius and the letter, a hint of understanding flashed in his eyes.


    ¡°I apologize, but Redrick may not be suitable...¡± Julius had only just begun to speak when he saw the Pope smile.


    Rafael¡¯s smile was very gentle and soft, as if he were blowing on a newly bloomed flower. ¡°Leshert recommended him to me. I think the Knight Commander¡¯s judgment is always trustworthy, isn¡¯t it? My dear Secretary-General?¡±


    His tone was gentle, but his eyes looked at Julius without any hint of a smile. Julius once again felt the silent oppression in his gaze, full of scrutiny and judgment. He was waiting for an answer that met his expectations.


    ¡°If that is your wish,¡± Julius finally spoke, sighing softly.


    This confrontation marked the end of the argument they had a year ago in the baths. They had finally determined the winner. Rafael had proven himself with an undeniable slaughter and war. He was qualified to be the hand that controlled everything, qualified to lead Julius and the Portias to a new path.


    Rafael smiled, closed the book, and held out his hand to Julius.


    The silver-haired secretary general exchanged his cane to his right hand, knelt on one knee, took the slightly cold hand, bowed his head, and kissed the ring on his finger. ¡°I pledge my loyalty to you.¡±


    From this angle, he raised his eyes, and a deep purple light flashed in his eyes, like a silver wolf with luxurious fur finding its monarch, willingly offering its collar and reins.


    ¡°Just in time,¡± Rafael pulled his hand away, ¡°Rome¡¯s invitation has arrived. I will be leading a group there in two days, and Redrick can also join the delegation to experience the world. As for my Papal State, I¡¯ll leave it to you, Yura.¡±


    His voice was as sweet as honey, and the smile in his eyes was genuine and gentle.


    Translator¡¯s Note


    In case you missed it, there was a servant present during the whole conversation between Redrick and Julius, where Redrick even insulted the Pope. Ferrante is infamous for having servants as spies in every noble family. Julius punishing Redrick by stabbing him in the leg could be his way of preventing Redrick from further punishment once the Pope hears about it. It could also be his way of displaying his and Portia¡¯s loyalty to the Pope. Or it could be that he just cared about Rafa. With his calculating nature, its most likely all three. Too bad Redrick probably won¡¯t realise his good intentions, and it¡¯ll be more likely for him to be more resentful instead.

 Chapter 51: Heading to Rome

    The carriage rumbled along the rugged mountain road, banners fluttered in the wind, obscuring the sky. The serpentine procession wound through the mountains, with white-gold banners embroidered with lilies, irises, and laurel leaves. A totem with thorned wings seemed to spread its wings as if ready to fly. Knights and infantry moved forward silently and swiftly. The scouts at the front went back and forth repeatedly, rotating at the head and tail of the entire team.


    This was the Pope of Florence¡¯s convoy. They had been traveling in the mountains for four days and were about to reach the plains. After leaving this mountain, they could switch to a train. A few days before the Pope¡¯s departure, the engineering team had already set off at full speed, laying the tracks ahead of His Holiness, connecting the various unplanned and scattered stations to reduce the time spent on the road.


    Behind the largest golden carriage were many smaller ones. The Pope was God¡¯s representative on earth, and wherever he was, was the Holy See on earth. A small portion of Florence¡¯s clerks and clergy were taken away by him. Although it was said to be a small portion, compared to the vast number of Florence itself, it was by no means a small number. These people¡¯s names had been carefully selected by Julius, , with absolute loyalty to His Holiness as a prerequisite, supplemented by other conditions such as wit and capability. Those who were qualified to appear in the team could be regarded as the Pope¡¯s direct subordinates.


    The carriage window behind the Pope¡¯s carriage was hung with wine-red curtains. A small hand reached out and lifted a corner of it, looking out through the tiny gap. The pair of bright brown eyes were round and innocent.


    ¡°Lucrezia, come and have some tea,¡± Ingrid called to her little cousin in the carriage. She was holding a large tin kettle, and there were snacks and teacups on the small table.


    The little girl immediately lowered the curtain and snuggled up to her sister: ¡°I want more milk and honey.¡±


    Ingrid shook the tin kettle in her hand, and the liquid inside made a gurgling sound: ¡°Alright, the rest is yours. How is it outside?¡±


    The Pope¡¯s departure from Florence was a grand affair. Leshert led the Knights Templar as guards, and many of the clergy accompanied the Pope. They might not follow him all the way to Rome, but they might stop somewhere halfway to spread the teachings and blessings of God. They were all devout and steadfast monks who were willing to give everything for their faith.


    Not only that, but there were also many common people following the Pope¡¯s convoy. They insisted on being bathed in God¡¯s gospel for eternal life and following the Holy See, in other words, they would follow the Pope for the rest of their lives until they were called by God.


    There were also some merchants following the convoy. They provided various supplies for the Pope and his entourage during the long journey and opened up new trade routes. These accompanying merchants were the best speculators in the world. They were greedy and ambitious, hoping to show their faces in front of His Holiness and gain more benefits.


    Accompanying merchants had existed since before the Middle Ages. Every time the royal family traveled, there would be such a group of people following behind them, looking for the best jewelry, silk, ornaments, decorations, and all sorts of strange things for them. If they were lucky, they might become royal merchants and gradually enter the upper class, gradually becoming one of them. Even if they were unlucky, they could still get opportunities to make money.


    Rafael was not a hedonistic person like Franc?ois, but he also admitted that he did not like a hard life¡ªthis is human nature. If there is a more comfortable life for people to choose, who would suffer for no reason?


    The papal palace brought with it some of the things His Holiness used on a daily basis, while the rest were provided by the accompanying merchants at any time on the road, which also reduced the burden on the convoy.


    The pot of fresh milk and honey in Lucrezia¡¯s carriage were offered by the accompanying merchants. These flexible and intelligent people had eyes sharper than an owl. They had long noticed this carriage that was very close to His Holiness¡¯ carriage. From ancient times to the present, the method of judging relationships based on distance has never been wrong.


    The merchants were like flies that could fly into any hole. They immediately found out who was sitting in this carriage, the only daughter of the female lord who died in the June trial, a little girl of only six or seven years old. His Holiness kept her by his side and took care of her as if she were his own.


    They instantly understood what to do.


    Pleasing a little girl wasn¡¯t too difficult. His Holiness was heavily guarded, and those ubiquitous, black-robed monks watched over His Holiness¡¯ carriage with eagle eyes. Anyone who wants to him must go through at least six rounds of interrogation. His Holiness rarely came out to see people, so an indirect approach became their first choice.


    Thanks to them, Lucrezia had a very comfortable journey. Not only was she not tired from the trip, but her face even became more plump.


    Ingrid poured milk into a silver cup and opened the honey jar, letting Lucrezia scoop out a spoonful. When the little girl looked at her with big, pitiful eyes, she shook her head and announced with an iron heart, ¡°Just one spoonful, dear.¡±


    Lucrezia pouted and carefully scooped out a full spoonful, stirring it in her cup.


    Honestly, Ferrante was no stranger to these things, but he couldn¡¯t understand why anyone would draw them so meticulously, as if they were studying some kind of treasure.


    ¡°Julius recommended this person to me, so I should go and see him,¡± Rafael added.


    The book was sent to him after Julius had selected it. Before giving the book to the Pope, Julius must have read it first. Even Ferrante had found the book outrageous, so it was impossible for Julius, who had profound literary attainments, to fail to see it. Yet Julius still gave this ¡°Natural Science and Human Medicine¡± book to Rafael.


    This is a silent recommendation.


    Julius believed that there was something extraordinary about this book, and even the confusing and incoherent text couldn¡¯t erase its brilliance. Rafael had felt the same way, so he had handed Ferrante the author¡¯s name, asking his group of cute little crows to help him investigate.


    Ferrante narrowed his eyes at the name, a cold glint flashing in his icy blue eyes. ¡°The Secretary General¡¯s recommendation?¡±


    There was something strange in his tone, and Rafael picked up on this subtle change. Thinking Ferrante might be wary of Julius planting someone, Rafael sighed. ¡°Don¡¯t overthink it. Julius is very rational, and this is my own judgment. It seems you distrust him more than you trust me, dear.¡±


    His voice trailed off, his lavender eyes gazing at Ferrante quietly with an emotionless intensity. When he looked at Ferrante silently, a cold, oppressive feeling washed over him, forcing Ferrante to clear his mind completely, making him want to tear out his own heart to prove his devotion to him.


    Ferrante¡¯s eyes widened slightly, a fear of being scrutinized, dissected, and abandoned flooding his mind. Without thinking, he immediately denied, ¡°No, I didn¡¯t think that.¡±


    Rafael said nothing, continuing to stare at him quietly until Ferrante grew uneasy. Then, he spoke softly, ¡°Is that so?¡±


    Without waiting for Ferrante¡¯s answer, he reached out and gently cupped Ferrante¡¯s face, his nose brushing against Ferrante¡¯s as he looked closely into those vast, ocean-blue eyes. ¡°I hope that you can trust me, to give me everything you have, including your fears. I promised you that I would show you the new world you desire. And the price is that you become mine.¡±


    It was the first time he had spoken so bluntly, yet as he had expected, such bluntness didn¡¯t make Ferrante resist. Instead, the young man with black curly hair felt a sense of security, like a tamed wolfdog feeling a sense of ease and control when it felt the collar around its neck¡ªit meant he wouldn¡¯t be abandoned, he wouldn¡¯t be thrown away, someone would always have their arms open for him, always accepting his ugliness, his sins, his inadequacies, and his vileness.


    What a great happiness it was.


    ¡°Yes, I belong to you,¡± Ferrante repeated, closing his eyes obediently.


    He had inherited his mother¡¯s exquisite features. His feminine appearance was tempered by masculine characteristics, creating a more bizarre beauty. However, he usually had a cold expression, with his curly hair and hood covering most of his features. He carried the cold, bloody smell of the interrogation room, and few dared to look directly at him. When he closed his eyes, his gentle, soft quality washed away the cold thorns.


    Rafael kissed him on the forehead. ¡°I accept.¡±


    Author¡¯s Note


    Remember where this book appeared? It was the reading material Rafael used to pass the time during the trial.


    Diary of Sistine I: To be honest, when I read the first half of this book, I felt like I was surrounded and trampled countless times by mad wild horses, and those mad horses were even trying to perform an opera for me. If Julius hadn¡¯t brought me this book, I would have thrown it into old Russo¡¯s mouth, at least as a form of recycling¡ªI honestly suspect the only reason Julius brought it to me was that he was driven mad by it.

 Chapter 52: Anastasia

    The Pope¡¯s convoy arrived in Vallado City three days later in the evening. They would rest here for a day before taking a train to Perigo, the capital of the Roman Empire. Vallado was the last city in the Papal States bordering Rome. Due to its proximity to Rome and other free city-states, commerce and trade were very developed here. There were seven banks in the city alone.


    The mayor borrowed a holiday castle from a baron and barely managed to accommodate the Pope and his entourage. Rafael took a bath and came down the stairs with his long hair still a little wet. Several black-clothed monks were scattered around the hall on the first floor. Two soft chairs were placed in front of the fireplace, and Ferrante stood beside an empty chair.


    Rafael walked over and sat down in the chair next to Ferrante.


    Ferrante turned his head and glanced at him, his eyes showing a hint of helplessness. He reached into his sleeve and took out a roll of silk ribbon, tying Rafael¡¯s long hair up. His movements were so skilful that it was astonishing, as if he had repeated it countless times.


    Rafael obediently let him play with his hair, staring intently at the person in the opposite armchair with curious and inquiring eyes.


    It was a woman.


    But at first glance, it was really difficult to identify her gender.


    Her hair was shaved shorter than that of an ordinary man, like a messily trimmed stubble, piled haphazardly on top of her head. A tattered felt hat covered most of her forehead, revealing a pair of particularly spirited blue eyes. Her cheekbones were high, her chin was pointed, and her facial features had a masculine toughness. She was thin and wrapped in a loose, men¡¯s short coat and her trousers were tied at the waist with a straw rope. She wasn¡¯t really a woman who could be praised for her beauty. Rather, according to current standards, a woman with such a masculine appearance could be considered ugly, especially since she didn¡¯t seem to consider herself a woman. Whether in her dress or expression, she exuded a masculine aggressiveness.


    ¡°Ms. Anastasia, I apologize for inviting you to visit in this way. I hope my children have not been rude to you,¡± Rafael smiled apologetically at her. ¡°In fact, my original plan was to visit you, but my attendant said you¡¯ve been staying in the cemetery these past few days¡ª¡±


    Anastasia curled her lips and sneered, whether in mockery or silence.


    Seeing her vigilance, Rafael gently placed the book he had been holding in his hand on his lap and revealed the cover to her.


    As soon as she saw the book, Anastasia¡¯s eyes changed. Her gaze fixed on the cover, and the vigilance melted away from her face like water, replaced by another kind of joy and excitement. ¡°You¡¯ve read this book? Do you agree with my point of view? I told you! There are still smart people in the world! Are you here to exchange ideas with me...¡±


    Her questions came at Rafael like a string of cannonballs, one after another. The young Pope involuntarily leaned back, a surprised smile on his face. He didn¡¯t expect that a woman who had been so on guard just a moment ago would let down her guard so easily. He didn¡¯t know whether to praise her naivety or criticize her lack of vigilance.


    Anastasia was completely unaware of Rafael¡¯s complex psychological activities. She seemed to be immersed in her own world, beginning to preach her self-contained ¡°academic theory¡± on her own: ¡°... Through my research, I have found that everyone¡¯s structure is exactly the same. God created us and gave us perfect bodies in the womb. This is not a feat that humans can accomplish. Every organ has its purpose, and the direction of blood flow is also fixed. No theory can explain this. Except for the omnipotent and supreme God, who else can formulate such a sophisticated system and make it work? In fact, through my research and confirmation, I believe¡ª¡±


    Rafael listened to her enthusiastic preaching with a smile, picked up the porcelain cup next to him, and gently sipped the sweet tea with the fragrance of flowers and herbs. This sweet tea made from seasonal flowers and herbs was a specialty of Vallado City. The mayor of Vallado was promoting this product to the merchants in His Holiness¡¯s entourage, and Rafael didn¡¯t mind tasting this unique tea more often during his subsequent journey.


    As soon as the sweet tea entered his mouth, he heard Anastasia announce firmly and loudly, ¡°¡ªGod has a gender, and God is female!¡±


    ¡°Cough, cough, cough...¡± Rafael choked on a mouthful of tea, and his trachea immediately issued a solemn protest. The Pope almost couldn¡¯t hold the cup in his hand. Ferrante took the teacup from his hand and placed it on the table, patted His Holiness on the back and glared at Anastasia with cold eyes.


    ¡°A very, very creative insight, but I sincerely hope you haven¡¯t publicized your new discovery to others.¡± Rafael said this with absolute sincerity.


    This involves the Church¡¯s current interpretation of doctrine.


    At present, when theology and religion have not yet developed to a perfect stage, the Holy See holds all the rights to interpret the doctrine. Any new interpretation of the scriptures and doctrines was not allowed. Once there is a different interpretation of the doctrine, the person will be judged as a blasphemer by the Holy See and subjected to strict education. If the education is ineffective, the Holy See has the right to legally sentence them to death.


    Of course, within the Holy See, there are also different schools of interpretation, and the Pope often has to be involved in these disputes. Of course, apart from the most devout believers, many disputes are based on whether the interpretation was beneficial to oneself and whether it can increase the Church¡¯s ruling power.


    Of all these issues, one of the most important was naturally the debate over the gender of God.


    Is God male or female? Does God have a specific gender, or is Their gender fluid? Or are They without gender?


    This question has been highly debated within the Holy See for over a hundred years, but the current mainstream thought is that God appears on earth in a male form. This choice symbolizes the absolute dominance of men over women, indicating that men are the perfect first gender and rightfully acquire a higher status than women¡ªof course, such an explanation was entirely to annotate the gender oppression of a patriarchal society.


    And the ¡°Goddess¡± believers propose that only women can give birth to offspring, and the first child in the world was also born of a woman. By extension, God, when giving birth to the firstborn, should be a woman. This was absolutely certain. It is women who holds the most primitive power to continue one¡¯s bloodline, therefore God is a woman.


    After discovering that she couldn¡¯t escape, the woman glared at Rafael angrily: ¡°Liar! You hypocritical liars! You use embellished lies to deceive the ignorant masses, and you arbitrarily tamper with God¡¯s will to realize your own greedy ambitions. You blaspheme the most supreme God!¡±


    She cursed the Church and the Pope with spit flying all over the place, wishing she could single-handedly overthrow the entire Church and sweep away all the clergy in Florence, tearing up all the doctrines and throwing them into the cesspool. Seeing her getting more and more excited, with a crimson blush on her cheeks and her blue eyes burning like fire, Rafael took a deep breath: ¡°Madam, if you don¡¯t want to go to prison for the crime of desecrating corpses and digging up other people¡¯s bodies without permission, you¡¯d better shut up before my patience runs out. According to what you did to those poor people, perhaps an unprecedented huge bonfire will need to be erected for you in front of Vallado Square.¡±


    Anastasia¡¯s voice suddenly stopped.


    Her face also turned colourful, and after a long while, she mumbled, ¡°Oh.¡±


    Obviously, this seemingly fearless lady also knew that what she was doing was not actually legal.


    She was both bold and pragmatic, highly adaptable to an astonishing degree. She seemed crazy, but in fact, she was very clear-headed and rational.


    A very powerful woman.


    Rafael pointed to the page with the human figure drawing towards her again and said concisely: ¡°As for what you did in the cemetery, the people here have some guesses, but they just don¡¯t have such wild imaginations, and they just think you are studying some kind of witchcraft. In fact, the punishment for both is burning at the stake. If you don¡¯t want to be suddenly reported and exposed in the future, please keep silent at the right time on the right topic. I came here to find you for this matter. I think you should know about the great epidemic in Florence half a year ago?¡±


    Anastasia snorted reluctantly from her nose.


    ¡°... Some of the medical discoveries you made in it are considered to be very valuable after being studied by my doctors. I hope you can go to Florence and become my personal medical advisor to help my doctors in establishing the Florence Medical School. At that time, you can study these openly, and you don¡¯t have to sneak into the cemetery at night... to steal from those poor people.¡±


    Anastasia raised her head sharply, almost twisting her head off with such force: ¡°Are you serious?¡±


    Rafael didn¡¯t care about her rudeness and said tolerantly, ¡°I never lie.¡±


    The woman looked at him cautiously for a few seconds, then smiled and said, ¡°Deal.¡±


    Rafael was surprised to find that when this woman with a hard and sharp face smiled, she actually had a unique and heroic temperament. This temperament made her instantly stand out from the crowd, making her possess a kind of wisdom and invincibility of a female warrior in a classical painting.


    ¡°Just watch, without women, you can¡¯t do anything.¡± Anastasia arrogantly raised her head.


    Lucrezia watched this scene while hiding behind the bay window, her slender fingers tightly gripping the cover of her book. She suddenly felt that this strange, ugly, and disheveled woman seemed to be glowing.


    Future history books will record this meeting in detail, describing how Anastasia, the mother of modern medicine, a woman born in poverty without even a surname, tore open her own sky in this chaotic and gloomy era.


    She was a staunch feminist and one of the earliest initiators of the women¡¯s movement. She saved countless people with her medical talent, was the first doctor to systematically conduct anatomical research on the human body and was also the first doctor to try to establish a systematic modern medical system. Her research greatly reduced the risks of women during childbirth, abandoning the primitive and faith-based methods of inducing labor, and adopted more scientific methods of childbirth, greatly improving the survival rate of both mothers and infants. Therefore, although she remained unmarried and childless throughout her life, she was also known as ¡®our mother¡¯.


    She, single-handedly, proved that women could shine as brightly as men in any field, completely crushing the derogatory term ¡°male appendage¡± under her feet. In her time and after, women with the same talent began to emerge continuously. Their brilliance was so faint in the long river of history, but these faint points of light, when connected together, were enough to illuminate the sky.


    A personal statue of her was erected in Signoria Square. The woman with her short hair and trousers was looking forward, holding a notebook in her hand, with a thin robe draped over her shoulders. Her strong face bore a proud smile and she looked high spirited as if she was constantly running from one ward to another. On the bronze base was engraved a personal quote of hers. Because this saying violated the doctrine, it wasn¡¯t engraved until more than 50 years after her death when the will left by Pope Sistine I came to light.


    ¡ª¡ªWomen are born from women, and one must become women themselves.


    Author¡¯s Note


    A unique new character, hahaha! I quite like Anastasia hehehe. I tried to create a character that I¡¯ve never seen in any literature before. Hope you like it!


    The last sentence is inspired by Simone de Beauvoir¡¯s ¡°One is not born a woman, but becomes one,¡± which is so insightful.


    However, the ¡®woman¡¯ in ¡°Women must become women¡± is defined by Anastasia as being intelligent, brave, strong, and independent, which is different from the traditional image of a woman at the time who is virtuous, kind, and being completely devoted to their family. It cannot be said who is right or wrong, please interpret it in the context of the times in the story.

 Chapter 53: Fairytale

    Watching as Anastasia was escorted onto the carriage bound for Florence by several black-robed monks, Rafael felt her impassioned exclamation still echoing in his ears: ¡®...God has given everyone the same organs and composition, what a wonderful creation! We are all born equal!¡¯


    Born equal.


    Rafael smiled silently.


    What a naive vision.


    But people are born unequal. Some are mired in the slums, sacrificing half of their lives for a crust of bread, while others can appreciate the beauty of raindrops on flower petals on rainy days and savor new tea sent from across the sea by the fireplace.


    When stripped of name, wealth, appearance, and status, when passing through the gates of the underworld and standing before God to be judged, everyone is equally noble. Yet, the human world is full of scales for measuring the high and low.


    Ferrante stood behind him, gazing out the window at the receding crowd in the courtyard: ¡°She¡¯s quite a unique woman.¡±


    Rafael said softly, ¡°Yes, it¡¯s a tragedy that she lives in this era, but this era should be ecstatic to have her.¡±


    Ferrante asked in surprise, ¡°You think so highly of her?¡±


    In Ferrante¡¯s eyes, this madwoman was simply unreasonable, spouting nonsense. If not for the Pope being here, he would have definitely sent her to a convent to be properly educated.


    ¡°An extremely devout fanatic, a blasphemer who despises religion to the extreme,¡± Rafael said thoughtfully, ¡°but she only believes in her own God.¡±


    It was very interesting. Anastasia¡¯s soul was something he had never seen before, incredibly free and independent. Even he himself, along with Julius, Sancha, and others who had received the highest level of education in this era, could not maintain such absolute independence. But Anastasia had done it. All her thoughts were formed after witnessing reality and making her own judgments. Even if there were chaotic and contradictory parts, it was simply because her knowledge level was insufficient to explain those phenomena, so she had to turn to theology.


    Beneath the fanatical and chaotic appearance was the most independent and calm soul. Such a contrast made Rafael uncontrollably curious.


    However, he still curbed his inappropriate curiosity.


    Let Julius worry about these matters. He still had a lot to do, such as enjoying tonight¡¯s dinner.


    After a day of rest, on the afternoon of the third day, the Pope, along with his monks and knights, boarded the train bound for Rome. This special train was built specifically for this journey. Cities along the route had already been notified and had signed transit permits, so it would run all the way to the Roman capital, Perigo, and would not stop in between unless it needed to replenish supplies.


    Ferrante mysteriously disappeared before the train started, taking most of the black-robed monks with him. Rafael didn¡¯t ask where they were going, but he had a rough guess.


    The convenience of the journey also meant being a fixed target. Now, half of Syracuse knew the route the Pope would be taking, and this route was unchangeable. If one wanted to ambush the Pope here, it was an excellent opportunity.


    Pope Vitalian III was assassinated while on tour, and Rafael...


    The porcelain cup clinked slightly against the edge as he put it down, Rafael turned his head, and his pupils reflected the passing scenery outside the window. The train was not moving very fast, allowing people to comfortably lean against the wide cushions and admire the plains, flocks of sheep, and windmills.


    This carriage was decorated with burgundy velvet and embellished with deep and gorgeous gold stripes. The floor was covered with a soft, long-haired carpet, and equipped with various furnishings such as tables, chairs, and other utensils. Rafael grew tired of the unchanging scenery of the plains and turned his head to focus on the letter in his hand. The messengers from Florence needed to accurately calculate His Holiness¡¯s itinerary so that they could deliver the letter to the train on the way with the least amount of time.


    This letter in his hand was Julius¡¯s daily report, with a short note attached at the end, asking him to pass it on to Redrick.


    Redrick...


    Rafael hesitated for a moment and began to recall that after Redrick¡¯s application was approved, he was assigned to Leshert¡¯s command. As the Duke of Lusanne, he certainly couldn¡¯t become a member of the Knights Templar, and he would definitely form his own army in the future. This was just to accumulate experience for him.


    On this trip, Redrick¡¯s name was also on the list of attendees, listed under the Papal guard, but Rafael had never actually seen him among the guards. If not for this sudden note, he would have almost forgotten that there was such a person in his team.


    Rafael smiled and caressed the soft vellum with his pale fingers: ¡°Humans will tamper with history, but rarely with fairy tales, folk songs, and legends. And this book...¡±


    He turned the book over and pointed to the gilded thorned-wing totem on the cover and its pitted marks: ¡°It was once attempted to be destroyed, but it was eventually preserved by the Papal Palace. As a fairy tale, don¡¯t you think it has too many experiences?¡±


    Rafael opened the book back to the previous title page: ¡®The Story of the Pirate Orne.¡¯


    The Papal States has a long coastline to the southeast, bordering the Black Sea, and across the Black Sea is Assyria. Therefore, both countries suffered greatly from pirate raids. However, Assyria has been in chaos in recent years, providing many opportunities to fish in troubled waters. Pirates flocked to Assyria like sharks smelling blood, which benefited the Papal States by accident. Therefore, in the culture of the southeastern part of the Papal States, there are many stories related to pirates.


    The fairy tale was simple, a typical story of punishing evil and rewarding good, with the villain repenting.


    The pirate leader Orne, who committed all kinds of evil, had a kind-hearted young son. The pirate cherished this young son very much and protected him on an island. He built a high fortress for him, plundered all kinds of treasures for his enjoyment, and cut off the tongues of the captured people as servants to serve him. When the naive and innocent child turned eighteen, his father kidnapped a princess for him as his wife ¨C of course, she had her tongue cut out, and he lied to him saying that she was a noble girl rescued from a wrecked ship.


    His son happily married the beautiful princess, but after the wedding, the princess was melancholic. To make his wife happy, the husband tried everything he could. Finally, with the help of seabirds, mermaids, and dolphins, he learned about his wife¡¯s past and discovered that his father was actually a wicked pirate.


    Exposed, the pirate, in order to no longer disappoint his son, decided to turn over a new leaf. He surrendered all of his looted treasure, released the poor servants, and sailed his ship into a storm one night, never to return.


    His son was heartbroken by his father¡¯s departure, but with the princess¡¯s comfort, he eventually recovered and the couple lived happily ever after. He also inherited a title from the princess¡¯s father, becoming a true nobleman.


    The plot of the story is full of ups and downs, but upon closer examination, it¡¯s actually quite simple. After answering some grammatical questions from Lucrezia, Rafael looked at the little girl¡¯s bright eyes and said, ¡°This story was actually based on a true story.¡±


    Lucrezia widened her eyes in surprise, ¡°Really? Who was it?¡±


    Rafael thought silently for a moment, then shook his head, ¡°I forgot the name. I saw it a long time ago, but that story was much more bloody and real than this fairy tale.¡±


    ¡°A pirate had a clever and ambitious son. They frantically plundered merchant ships, killed the people on board, and left the wealthy nobles behind, forcing their families to empty their pockets to ransom them. In just a few decades, they became a huge shadow lurking on the sea. One day, his son said, ¡®We need to go to land, that¡¯s the foundation for our family to continue.¡¯ So they tried every means to attack a large port and kidnapped the duke¡¯s daughter who happened to be passing through ¨C of course, this was a carefully planned event.¡±


    ¡°The pirate¡¯s son married the duke¡¯s daughter, thereby establishing a relationship with the duke. They paid half of all the wealth they had plundered over the years ¨C it was no small sum, enough to drive the kings of small countries crazy ¨C and reached a cooperation agreement with the duke. Thus, the duke¡¯s son-in-law was able to step onto the port openly and became a member of the aristocratic society. His father-in-law paved the way for him in high society, while his father continued to plunder money and wealth for him on the sea...¡±


    As he spoke, Lucrezia held her breath. She was uncontrollably drawn into that bloody storm. Those crazy schemes and cunning maneuvers were vividly detached from the book, as if they were being played out right in front of her. She fascinatedly listened to these past events, feeling as if her whole blood was boiling. An inexplicable emotion seized her heart.


    ¡°They successfully achieved their former plan, from penniless commoners to blood-stained pirates, and then to well-dressed nobles. The duke¡¯s son-in-law successfully inherited the title of duke as he wished. One month after he buried his father-in-law, his father, who had roamed the seas for many years, also died at sea ¨C what a sad and perfect coincidence. No one could blame his origin anymore, because his hands had never been directly stained with blood. He had always been the innocent prince protected by his father in a high tower.¡±


    ¡°Is... is this true? Is there really such a story behind the fairy tale?¡± Lucrezia asked anxiously.


    Rafael replied lightly, ¡°Oh, of course, but for us its not called a story but history.¡±


    ¡°History...¡± Lucrezia repeated the word, thoughtfully, ¡°That¡¯s amazing, who recorded these things?¡±


    Rafael closed the book: ¡°He didn¡¯t leave a name, but I think it doesn¡¯t matter to him, because he has left us enough, and these things will be passed down from generation to generation, such as from me to you, and from you to someone else. Alright, Lucrezia, today¡¯s story time is over. Go back to your carriage and let Ingrid make you a cup of hot tea. Go to bed early.¡±


    The girl slid down from the stool reluctantly, hugged the book, glanced at Rafael, and said softly, ¡°Thank you, Your Holiness.¡±


    The little girl trotted away. Rafael looked out of the window again. He had modified and embellished a few details of this story. He always had a good memory, and of course, he couldn¡¯t forget the name of the protagonist of that story.


    It was the bloody history of the Russo family¡¯s rise to power. However, perhaps Lucrezia should not hear those names that would sadden and frighten her anymore. Maybe he could tell her the truth of this story later, maybe not... Who knows.


    Rafael pushed away the now cold tea and watched the sun outside the window slowly sink below the horizon.

 Chapter 54: Conversation at the Mirror Palace

    The capital of the Roman Empire, Perigo, was built on a sprawling plain at the foot of a mountain range. Unlike the capital of Calais, which was known as the first city of Syracuse, Perigo was famous for its romance, passion and beauty. Poets have hailed Perigo as ¡°the city most suitable for the blossoming of love¡±. Adhering to its main belief on the goddess of beauty and love, every corner of the city was steeped in tales of romance, giving birth to a diverse array of arts.


    However, it was the holy city of Florence that truly reigns as the capital of art. The Portia family¡¯s patronage of artistic masters and their insatiable appetite for collecting various artworks have undeniably made Florence the most coveted destination for artists. Perigo, on the other hand, was a paradise for wanderers, poets, and lovers.


    Crowds gathered at the city gates, eagerly waiting for the distinguished guests from Florence to arrive. The streets and windowsills were adorned with lush Perigo roses and snow-white Florentine lilies, filling the city with a fragrant and intoxicating aroma. Flags bearing the symbols of Rome and the Holy See flew side by side from every visible vantage point, proclaiming the friendly relationship between the two. The entire city was lifted by a wave of enthusiastic cheers.


    Redrick, riding his horse, was almost entirely concealed by the uniform armor of the knights. His visor covered his features, but the rigorous training these knights had undergone made them all possess an outstanding and upright figure. Young ladies on either side of the procession threw bouquets of flowers, their cheers filling the air. Though they modestly wore veiled hats to conceal their faces, the corners of their veils were coyly lifted at a corner.


    His position at the front of the procession was a prime spot to attract the crowd¡¯s scrutiny and welcome, a clear indication that those who arranged the seating knew his identity and were deliberately trying to please him.


    Redrick had long been accustomed to such flattery and accepted it with a sense of entitlement.


    He casually caught a bouquet of champagne-colored roses that flew into his arms and tucked it into the gap in his chest armor, hearing a delighted scream from the crowd.


    ¡°He accepted it! Oh my!¡±


    Redrick puffed out his chest in pride. Although the rules prohibited him from waving to the sides, that didn¡¯t prevent him from nodding his head in greeting.


    The people clearly loved a knight who was polite and willing to cooperate, and their cheers grew louder and louder, like a strong liquor, soaking Redrick in a drunken state of happiness.


    He rarely received such straightforward, unadulterated affection, without any interests involved. From birth, he had been surrounded by the halo of his parents¡¯ noble bloodlines, and later he had smoothly inherited the title of duke. Everyone had surrounded him like bees around a flower, eager to reap the sweet rewards from him, cultivating in Redrick an overly straightforward love-hate nature and an overbearing arrogance in his character.


    Servants flattered him because he was their master who could decide their fate; guests complimented him because he held the things they needed; friends surrounded him because he was the most powerful among them.


    In his mind, those who were good to him must have something to ask of him, so no matter how he bullied the other, it was all part of an equal exchange. As a result, he had never experienced emotions like ¡°regret¡± or ¡°pity.¡±


    Until this straightforward but shallow affection engulfed him.


    It was something he had never encountered before.


    Redrick was surprised and bewildered.


    He simply couldn¡¯t understand. Clearly, he hadn¡¯t done anything for them, and they couldn¡¯t get anything from him, but they were acting as if they had just reunited with a long-lost relative.


    ...Are these the people of Perigo are like? As expected of the people from the city of romance, each of them has an enthusiastic and passionate temperament.


    Redrick sighed quietly in his heart, but he didn¡¯t hate this feeling.


    That was until the Pope¡¯s carriage entered the city gate, and a deafening cheer covered every street in Perigo. The evergreen holly trees that had been green all year round swayed, and colored ribbons and petals fluttered down from the windows like rain. The orchestra played the second movement of ¡°Glory Has Come to Me,¡± and the majestic and solemn music swept across the wind as everyone waved their flowers and flags in time with the music.


    The devout believers had been waiting there for a long time, and when they saw the Pope¡¯s handsome face, as beautiful as the Son of God, they were moved to tears, bowing their heads deeply with the others. The ladies curtsied, and the gentlemen took off their hats and bowed, paying the most devout respect to the Lord of their faith.


    A group of black-clothed monks guarded the sides of the Pope¡¯s carriage. They walked along with the slowly moving carriage, each of them covering half of their face with a large hood, their hands crossed and folded in their sleeves, all of them possessing the solemnity and frugalness unique to ascetics. As they passed by, the people gazed at them with respect and offered them bread and water.


    The long procession finally stopped in front of Perigo¡¯s Mirror Palace, where the Roman nobles and courtiers were waiting. At the head was Rafael¡¯s old acquaintance, Princess Sancha.


    The young princess was dressed in gorgeous clothes, wearing a crown and a gold and red sash with medals on her shoulders. Her sapphire blue gown was studded with sparkling diamonds, and like the other male nobles, she placed a gloved hand on the hilt of her sword at her waist. Although she was younger than everyone else present, her aura was no less impressive than theirs.


    Rafael stepped out of the carriage and offered a subtle smile to Sancha who was waiting there. Sancha stepped forward, winking mischievously at him behind everyone¡¯s back. Instead of curtsying, she placed her hand on her chest and bowed slightly: ¡°Rome has been waiting for your arrival for a long time, Your Holiness. Your presence fills the hearts of Rome¡¯s believers with gratitude.¡±


    As the most luxurious palace in Perigo, the Mirror Palace had been expanded and renovated countless times over the decades, making it one of the most magnificent palaces in the entire country. The palace was named after its 3,728 floor-to-ceiling mirrors made up of 10,423 pieces of glass. The crystal-clear mirrors reflected the luxurious murals on the ceiling, and every few meters in the hall, there was a three-tiered candelabrum present. The mirrors reflected the candlelight, illuminating every corner of the palace.


    In the largest Spring Goddess Hall in the Mirror Palace, a grand banquet was entering its final preparations. Countless servants and maids were scurrying back and forth, and dozens of lamplighters turned the cranks on the walls to lower the huge chandeliers on the ceiling, one by one, lighting them one by one and then raising them back up. The entire restaurant was suddenly resplendent.


    By the time the guests began to arrive, the palace had been completely transformed. The magnificent spectacle left the Florentine envoys in awe, while the Roman nobles and courtiers puffed out their chests in pride. The two groups quickly mingled and began to converse, all the while keeping a close eye on the movements of the servants at the door.


    The most important dignitaries had yet to arrive. It was customary for the more prestigious individuals to appear later.


    At that moment, Rafael was in a small, floral-decorated hall on the second floor. Sitting across from him was Her Majesty Queen Amandra, who ruled over the two huge empires of Rome and Assyria. Sancha smiled sweetly as she filled their teacups and then bowed before retreating, her skirt disappearing behind a round arch.


    The tea table was covered with a lace tablecloth. The gossamer-thin cloth draped over the edge, and the pattern left on the table was three tightly closed rosebuds. Each of the three roses pointed in a different direction, like three crimson blades, two of which were directly facing Rafael and Amandra.


    Rafael stared at the pattern of the three roses for a moment before smiling at the queen across from him: ¡°It seems you¡¯ve given me a gift that I can¡¯t refuse today, leaving me quite flustered.¡±


    This was the first time in his two lifetimes he had ever seen this world-famous queen.


    Even though she already had a daughter of marriageable age, the queen was still as stunningly beautiful as ever. She wore a long dress of golden red silk, adorned with fine white mink. The sleeves, which were puffed up, tightened at the wrist, accentuating her figure with exaggerated lines. She wore a golden eagle pendant on her chest, which was obviously Assyrian in style. Her long, golden-brown hair was bound by a pearl-encrusted crown, and the white mink lining of her dress was pressed against her hair. The cloisonne? enamel and the circled gemstones shimmered like a flowing river of fire in the light. The overly rich and magnificent colors did not overshadow the queen¡¯s presence but instead made the wild and proud temperament on her body burst forth a hundredfold.


    She was an undeniable queen, a woman who had secured her throne through her own means and wisdom.


    Rafael saw in her eyes the bearing of a monarch.


    ¡°Does that make you nervous?¡± Amandra¡¯s voice was a little hoarse, as sticky as honey, but her tone was very gentle, and her pitch was low and slow, eliminating all sense of oppression.


    A clear sign of goodwill, Rafael judged.


    ¡°Perhaps more flattered than anything,¡± Rafael also softened his tone, adjusting his approach to the conversation.


    ¡°Ah, it was just a little surprise, I thought you might like it,¡± Amandra¡¯s eyes curved gently. The years had not been entirely kind to her, but the fine lines they had bestowed had not diminished Amandra¡¯s beauty in the slightest. Those wrinkles were like the delicate veins on a rose petal, growing gently on her skin. ¡°It¡¯s also the basis for our conversation.¡±


    Ah, here comes the main topic. Rafael perked up slightly. ¡°As we discussed earlier, I¡¯m here for the issue of Princess Sancha¡¯s succession¡ªI think the situation in Assyria no longer allows you to hesitate any longer. When will the legislative assembly be held?¡±


    Amandra said softly, ¡°It¡¯s set for February¡ªthat¡¯s not a problem.¡±


    She didn¡¯t seem eager to discuss the matter, even though it was a major concern of hers and she had been planning and scheming for it for a long time, even inviting Rafael from Florence to Perigo.


    The queen calmly picked up her teacup and blew on the hot mist. ¡°Florence¡¯s grand trial in June had shocked every country. Your courage is admirable, and even Calais has been deeply moved by it.¡±


    So Rome and Calais were indeed privately in contact.


    Rafael smiled. ¡°Foolish people always have inappropriate ambitions.¡±


    ¡°Yes, they never know when to stop, but¡ª¡± Amandra gently set down her teacup, the porcelain cup and saucer making a crisp sound. The queen raised her eyes, revealing her sapphire blue eyes. The old scar under her right eye was like the thorn of a rose. ¡°What surprised us even more were your subsequent actions. It turns out that the Knights Templar still possess such a formidable power, capable of dominating the Papal States. It inevitably reminds one of the glory of the Knights Templar¡¯s heyday many years ago, when the banners of the Holy See were planted all over the world.¡±


    Rafael¡¯s heart skipped a beat.


    Here it comes.

 Chapter 55: Rose of Silence

    Ever since he ordered Leshert to re-expand the army and form the Knights Templar, he knew that one day he would have to face this problem.


    Neither Rome, Calais, nor the surrounding states of Florence could ignore the resurgence of the Papal States.


    Florence had already possessed a lofty status superior to all secular monarchs. Once it had an invincible army... they would definitely be unable to sleep at night.


    Rafael said lightly, ¡°You¡¯re worrying too much. This is just necessary self-protection. According to the provisions of the Holy City Treaty, the Knights Templar of Florence will never exceed two hundred. The troops that have set out this time are all temporary recruits from the common people, and will not be included in the Knights Templar.¡±


    This explanation was full of vague and ambiguous concept substitutions. If it was investigated more deeply, many problems could be found.


    But the Queen, who was always perceptive, did not ask any further questions. She was silent for a moment and said: ¡°This explanation is not strong enough.¡±


    Her response was equally implicit and vague.


    ¡°Grand Duke Francois is very dissatisfied with the changes in Florence. He has tried to contact me to question Florence, demanding a census of all adult males in the Papal States who have been armed for a long time, and to calculate the military expenditures. Your explanation is unlikely satisfy him.¡± The Queen almost frankly stated the content of her private dealings with Calais, which could also be regarded as a gesture of goodwill towards Rafael.


    ¡°I don¡¯t need to satisfy him,¡± Rafael understood the queen¡¯s meaning, and the heavy stone hanging in his heart finally fell to the ground. His lavender eyes curved slightly, ¡°The problem is not whether he is satisfied or not, but whether he will accept it.¡±


    ¡°If Rome and Assyria acquiesce to this fact, then Calais will not be the first to step forward. Although Francois is arrogant, he is not a complete fool.¡±


    Rafael moved slightly closer to the table, his slender fingers stroking the warm exterior of the teacup: ¡°...So, what do you think?¡±


    It was a rhetorical question.


    The Queen glanced at the Pope opposite her. The young Pope had an overly dazzling face. His golden long hair was bound by a crown of thorns made of silver and gold, and loose hair like gold flowed down his back. One could almost see the light blue veins under his fair skin. His thin body leaned against the chair, as if a steel bone supported this not-so-strong body, making everyone who saw him ignore the lingering weariness and fatigue on his face.


    ¡°Rome will always respect Florence¡¯s guidance.¡± Amandra sighed slightly in her heart, but her face remained calm as she replied.


    ¡°I have shown my sincerity. If Your Holiness is willing, you can stir up the chaos in Rome at any time.¡± The Queen threw a sugar cube into the cup and stirred it twice with a long-handled silver spoon.


    ¡°Of course I wouldn¡¯t do that. We¡¯re allies, aren¡¯t we?¡± Rafael got a satisfactory answer, so he said lightly.


    ¡°Yes, an ally,¡± the Queen suddenly laughed. This time, the smile on her face was much simpler. She looked at Rafael no longer as an enemy, an ally, or a monarch of equal status, but as an elder looking at a younger generation, ¡°Sancha likes you very much. As a mother, I¡¯m also very happy that my child can make such a good friend.¡±


    ¡°I thought you would be very wary. As the heirs of two empires, Sancha becoming friends with the Pope...¡± Rafael¡¯s words stopped abruptly, the implication being very obvious. This friendship could not be known to the world. Their status and position would cause all their interactions to be subject to much speculation, as if all their words and deeds carried ulterior motives.


    After the official business was settled, the private conversation no longer needed to be so tense. The two of them were visibly more relaxed.


    ¡°Do I look like a stubborn old woman?¡± the Queen laughed lightly, her sapphire blue eyes sparkling in the light, ¡°On the contrary, I hope that while I can still protect Sancha, she can encounter as many setbacks as possible. At least it proves that she won¡¯t make such mistakes again in the future. And, if your betrayal makes her sad, then I have to sympathize with you¡ªmy little sun is quite resilient, but you¡¯re about to lose one of the best friends in the world.¡±


    Queen Amandra¡¯s tone was as if she were talking to a friend of her daughter. Rafael changed his attitude accordingly and replied, ¡°Then I¡¯m afraid you¡¯ll be disappointed. I¡¯m not ready to lose such a good friend.¡±


    Both of them smiled pleasantly at the playful joke. Seizing the opportunity, Rafael asked about something that had been bothering him for quite a while, ¡°You seem to trust me a great deal, just like when you sent Sancha to Florence to make an alliance with me. I understand your urgency, but given the situation at the time, you could have perhaps considered it for much longer.¡±


    If he hadn¡¯t asked this question, a thorn would have forever remained in his heart. The mutual aid agreement between the Papal States and Roman Empire signed with Sancha had been too easily obtained. At that time, he had been overwhelmed with internal and external troubles and had no time to delve into the secrets behind it. Even if Sancha had offered him poisoned bait, as long as it didn¡¯t kill him immediately, he would have had to swallow it.


    By asking this question now, he was showing his desire to resolve this issue and ensure that there were no hidden dangers in the cooperation between Florence and Perigo.


    Rafael, realizing this was a planned conversation, picked up his teacup, not to drink, but moved it towards the rose facing him, signaling his acceptance of the confidentiality agreement. ¡°Please, go on.¡±


    He knew there was no such thing as a free gift in this world. All favors had to be repaid.


    In the Spring Goddess Hall, music was playing lightly. The herald standing at the door straightened his back and announced loudly, ¡°Her Royal Highness, Princess Sancha has arrived!¡±


    The people who had been waiting with their ears pricked up immediately ended their meaningless small talk and turned their gazes towards the door.


    A young woman with light honey-colored skin walked in with her head held high. The gentlemen on either side bowed, while the ladies curtsied.


    ¡°His Holiness, Pope Sistine I, and Her Majesty the Queen Mother have arrived!¡±


    A powerful voice echoed through the spacious hall.


    The Pope and the Queen entered hand in hand. According to etiquette, Queen Amandra¡¯s arm was linked with Rafael¡¯s, and their body language was filled with politeness and formality.


    Although they had already been struck by the young Pope¡¯s beauty at the entrance of the Mirror Palace, as he walked inside, the countless bright lights reflected by the mirrors illuminated his long hair, golden vestments, and snow-white robes. His flawless beauty was like a surging wave that crashed into their eyes once again, rewriting all aesthetics that were contrary to his.


    As they passed, men and women bowed deeply one after another, bending their bodies at a much greater angle than before. They couldn¡¯t help but want to write their loyalty and respect for the Pope and the Queen on their faces.


    Everyone sat down in order. The long table stretched from one end of the hall to the other. Those seated here were all the upper echelons of the Roman Empire. Men and women sat together at intervals, conversing with each other. Servants began serving dishes like flowing water. Crimson-red wine swirled in crystal glasses, and snow-white porcelain plates were placed one after another on the dining table, set against a backdrop of fresh flowers from the garden, their refreshing fragrance filling the air.


    The Queen picked up a silver spoon and gently tapped the crystal goblet in front of her. The crisp tinkling sound attracted the attention of all the guests. She picked up a newly poured glass of wine from the tray of a servant waiting beside her and raised it to everyone, ¡°We gather here today to welcome our distinguished guest from afar, His Holiness Pope Sistine I. The friendship between Rome and the Papal States has lasted for many years and will continue to do so long into the future. I ask all of you present to bear witness to this. Let us raise a toast together to our esteemed guests who have traveled a long way to visit Perigo.¡±


    Everyone raised their glasses and shouted, ¡°To His Holiness!¡±


    Rafael raised his glass in return, ¡°To Your Majesty.¡±


    The nobles raised their glasses once more: ¡°To Her Majesty.¡±


    With the formalities out of the way, a lively tune began to play, signaling the official start of the banquet.


    As the most honored guest, Rafael was seated to the queen¡¯s right, with Sancha on his other side. To the queen¡¯s left sat Duke Horton¡ªthe cousin of Lav XI and the biggest obstacle to Sancha¡¯s succession. The middle-aged man was dressed in elegant attire, with hair the same color as Sancha¡¯s. He wore a smiling expression, but it was clear to everyone that he was in a terrible mood.


    Everyone knew the reason the Pope had come to Rome. Duke Horton would have loved nothing more than for Rafael to disappear from the face of the earth. It would be strange if he could be happy when he saw the foreign aid invited by his rival.


    However, aside from his followers, no one now cared about his mood.


    Sancha was quietly introducing the dishes on the table to Rafael, eagerly recommending Rome¡¯s specialties. Two servants stood nearby, holding enormous platters. A roasted chicken, drenched in creamy white sauce, sizzled invitingly. Rafael took a knife and sliced open the chicken¡¯s belly. The rich aroma of butter hit him like a bomb, while the scents of basil and lemon gently intertwined, neutralizing the overly greasy dish into a mellow and flavorful one.


    Rafael cut a piece of the roast chicken and placed it on his plate. A servant on the side ladled a spoonful of hot, seasoned cream over the chicken. Rafael could smell the fragrant aroma of fruitwood, mixed with the faint scent of orange leaves.


    Food was meant to be enjoyed.


    As for the angry look in Duke Horton¡¯s eyes...


    What does it have to do with him?

 Chapter 56: Duke Horton

    The banquet at the Mirror Palace finally ended a little after three in the morning. The candles that had burned all night were reduced to nothing but pools of wax. The servants turned the heavy iron winches, lowering the enormous chandeliers from the ceiling. They stripped off the congealed wax and replaced the candles with new ones.


    While the servants worked diligently on the first floor, the kitchen began to prepare meals for the new day. The second floor, where the masters rested, was completely silent.


    Rafael had a terrible headache. The journey by carriage had been fairly smooth, but as soon as he lay down on the bed, he began to feel unwell. His head was throbbing. Although he was obviously terribly sleepy, he couldn¡¯t fall asleep. He tossed and turned until the sun rose, before finally getting up, throwing on a robe.


    The climate of Rome was warmer and more humid than that of Florence. The monsoon brought abundant rainfall every year, and the vast mountains blocked the cold current flowing from the south. The country was born on fertile plains, and its excellent geographical location near the sea gave it a large population of skilled swimmers. The Roman navy was the strongest in the world, a fact that even Calais had to grudgingly admit.


    Rafael was staying in the best suite at the Mirror Palace. The fireplace heated the entire room, making it dry and warm. He walked barefoot on the carpet, his ankles sinking into the soft, thick threads.


    Unlike the large, magnificent frescoes commonly found in Florence, Rome favoured a more delicate and elegant style. Stuccos were framed in oval or square golden frames and hung on walls adorned with deep red or dark green wallpaper and curtains.


    In anticipation of the Pope¡¯s arrival, some of the more romantic and out-of-place pieces in the Mirror Palace had been replaced with more religious artwork. Rafael shifted his gaze away from an oil painting and settled into an armchair in front of the fireplace. He curled his feet up onto the chair, resembling a cat curled up in a ball. He allowed his mind to drift lazily, enjoying the comfortable drowsiness.


    Ferrante pushed the door open quietly and as expected, found the bed empty. A moment later, he easily located his holy father in front of the fireplace.


    ¡®Just like a cat,¡¯ he thought disrespectfully. ¡®Always curling himself up in a warm spot, napping peacefully.¡¯


    But this also puzzled him. Though he often found the Pope napping in front of the fireplace, he wondered why the Pope didn¡¯t sleep in the bed. He seemed to have never seen the Holy Father asleep in his bed. Either he worked late into the night, was already up early, or, like now, would lazily spend his leisure time dozing in front of the fireplace after getting up.


    This sudden realization made Ferrante worry about the Pope¡¯s sleeping habits for the first time.


    ¡°Your Holiness,¡± the young man in the black monk¡¯s robe approached Rafael and deliberately made a sound. When the other opened his eyes and looked over, he bowed his head respectfully. ¡°Did you not sleep well last night? It¡¯s only six o¡¯clock, and it¡¯s not yet time for morning prayers.¡±


    ¡°Mmm...¡± the Pope grumbled in a low, dissatisfied voice. He shifted slightly, changing to a more comfortable position. He pulled his wandering soul back and roughly stuffed it into his body. ¡°What is it?¡±


    His voice was still a little sleepy, but from the slowly clearing look in his eyes, it was clear he would be fully awake in a few seconds.


    Ferrante stepped forward and placed his hand on the Pope¡¯s temple. His slender and powerful hands began to lightly and skillfully press on the Pope¡¯s acupoints¡ªsomething Dr. Polly had taught him before they left. He said it would help relax the mind. Dr. Polly was supposed to accompany the group to Rome, but the Pope had firmly refused, saying that the old man shouldn¡¯t go through such a rough journey. Apparently being described as ¡°old¡± had infuriated Dr. Polly, and he had not seen the Pope again until the convoy left Florence.


    Dr. Polly¡¯s medical skills were not in vain. After just a few presses, a hazy mist returned to the pale purple eyes. The sleepiness that was about to fade away gently embraced the tired monarch again. Of course, one of the main reasons for this was that Rafael wasn¡¯t particularly eager to wake up in the first place.


    He remained in that languid, floating state, listening to Ferrante give a low-voiced report of the events along the way, including the several assassination attempts that had been intercepted ¨C this was inevitable. The hired assassins were quite skilled at eliminating any evidence of their identity, but Ferrante was an expert in this field as well. He had caught a few alive who hadn¡¯t managed to escape and had interrogated them in a separate carriage for several days. After that, they had obediently spilled all the information they had.


    Sitting in front of him was a person completely shrouded in a black cloak. The huge cloak covered his entire body, making it difficult to determine his face or even his gender, until he spoke. Only then did Horton confirm that it was a man¡ªa rather short man.


    ¡°This wasn¡¯t a part of our agreement,¡± Duke Horton said coldly.


    The man scoffed. ¡°Is that such a big problem? Besides, isn¡¯t that what you want? No, I should say, compared to your initiative, the conditions I proposed are already outdated.¡±


    Duke Horton¡¯s pupils shrank suddenly. ¡°You¡ª!¡±


    ¡°Curious on how I know?¡± The man in the black cloak chuckled, like an oversized grey magpie, facing Horton¡¯s vigilance and killing intent with composure. ¡°Your skill in doing bad things really needs improvement. Those paid assassins¡¯ mouths aren¡¯t as tight-lipped as you think. They would even share their missions with each other in taverns... Alright, I¡¯ve answered your question, now it¡¯s your turn¡ªagree or refuse.¡±


    Duke Horton¡¯s eyeballs moved unconsciously in their sockets. He was thinking nervously, and at the same time, he was madly cursing those lowly people who had taken the money and messed things up. It would be fine if they were dead, but they had even let people to trace it back to him?


    But, but it was one thing to do bad things secretly, and it was another thing to be forced to join in doing bad things after being discovered. Of course, this wasn¡¯t to say that Duke Horton was a particularly noble or principled person. A truly noble¡ªor even slightly principled¡ªperson wouldn¡¯t casually hire assassins to kill people. He was simply unaccustomed to being threatened and instinctively resisted the person in front of him.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you think, Your Grace, that what I can find out, His Holiness wouldn¡¯t also know about it?¡± Seeing that Horton was still hesitant, the man pushed him again.


    ¡°You¡¯ve already taken a stand against him, and you¡¯ve done this kind of thing... Could it be that you now have the idea of begging for the Holy Father¡¯s forgiveness? Then perhaps you should donate enough for your atonement to Florence. According to the latest situation, the current price is a large enough territory, a noble title, and family wealth¡ªthe authenticity of the above has already been guaranteed by twelve people including Lauren Russo, Matterazzi Dune, Lucrezia Bianchi, and Giuseppe Montague.¡±


    The man told a rather unfunny black joke. He derived a sense of humor from it that only he could understand, slapping his thigh and cackling with self-satisfaction, while the content of his words turned Duke Horton¡¯s face livid.


    ¡°I am a duke of the Roman Empire... No matter how far his hands reach, he can¡¯t reach from the Papal States to Perigo.¡± The Duke squeezed these words out through gritted teeth.


    ¡°Oh, really?¡± There was still a lingering amusement in the man¡¯s voice. ¡°Then, when he helps Princess Sancha ascend to the throne, do you think that this princess who was personally educated by the queen will make some concessions to show her goodwill towards His Holiness? For example, turning a blind eye to the occasional murder or two in Perigo...¡±


    Damn it, that was entirely possible!


    Duke Horton placed himself in Sancha¡¯s position and imagined that if he were in her position, he would definitely eliminate all his enemies as soon as possible, not to mention he could also do someone a favor.


    ¡°...What do you want me to do?¡± Duke Horton finally opened his mouth with difficulty, but after saying this, the rest of his words flowed more smoothly. ¡°It won¡¯t be so easy to kill him, or I can only provide help within Perigo, the rest¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no, no, please don¡¯t think so far ahead. As a qualified ally, our first step is to help you win this battle¡ªthe Roman crown. Hopefully with this we¡¯ll be able to show our sincerity, presented to...¡± The man stood up and bowed to Duke Horton, his movements exaggerated and somewhat comical, like a circus clown.


    All of Duke Horton¡¯s nerves were tensed by this sentence. His face contorted with a mix of excitement, enthusiasm, tension, and fear. The man finally uttered the concluding words slowly: ¡°... His Majesty Horton I the Great.¡±

 Chapter 57: A Secret Meeting

    The carriages outside the Mirror Palace gradually increased in number. Pious believers, cunning speculators, and fence-sitters eager for news... all sorts of people filled the palace secretariat with their requests for an audience. Several secretaries who had followed the Pope from Florence had to sort through the voluminous correspondence daily, categorizing it before presenting it to His Holiness before his morning prayers. The workload was undeniably immense.


    Unless invited to a banquet by Her Majesty the Queen, Pope Sistine I¡¯s daily routine was regular and simple. A half-hour of morning prayer, breakfast, receiving one or two visitors, then an afternoon of work, followed by tea, and finally, the most important meal of the day, dinner, and some free time.


    This routine continued until February when the Royal Council of Perigo convened to discuss the issue of Princess Sancha¡¯s legitimate succession rights.


    The first day of the meeting was open to both upper and lower houses of parliament, where they publicly debated whether to uphold the Sarik Succession Law, an ancient law that had been in place in Rome for hundreds of years, excluding women from the right of succession. As the only legitimate child of Lav XI, Sancha was naturally excluded from the line of succession.


    According to the law of succession, if Sancha was excluded, the heir would need to be traced back up the bloodline to find the closest male relative to inherit Lav XI¡¯s throne. As Lav XI¡¯s cousin, Duke Horton was the chosen one.


    Naturally, Amandra couldn¡¯t bear to see her daughter¡¯s throne fall into someone else¡¯s hands. The nobles, on the other hand, held an ambiguous attitude towards this problem. They were hesitant to have a princess with foreign blood ruling Rome, especially since this could potentially lead to Rome becoming part of Assyria. But this also meant that Queen Mother Amandra would have to make significant concessions to them to gain their support. Moreover, women would always have to eventually marry and have children. Perhaps they had a chance to introduce their family¡¯s lineage into the bloodline of Rome¡¯s royal family?


    After all, people are selfish creatures. In their pursuit of power and the expansion of their family¡¯s influence, the nobles sometimes didn¡¯t care so much about the fate of the Roman Empire. As long as the price was right, they could kneel before Sancha and swear their allegiance without blinking an eye.


    The Princess faction and the Duke faction had been at odds for the five years since Lav XI¡¯s death, but neither side had completely broken with the other. The longer the time dragged on, the more opportunities there were for the nobles to profit by playing both sides. They didn¡¯t want to completely offend either party. As long as they didn¡¯t resort to unforgivable means, even if they lost in the struggle for the throne, the loser would still be the duke or princess, while they themselves didn¡¯t have such a golden ticket to immunity.


    The debate in the parliament about the succession law had continued for dozens of sessions, each time halted for different reasons. Until this time, with the escalating chaos in Assyria and the arrival of the Pope, everyone knew that this meeting would be the last. The Roman crown, which had been vacant for nearly five years, was about to find its new owner.


    Rafael did not attend the first day of the meeting. After all, it was Rome¡¯s domestic affair. As an outsider, he only needed to attend on specific occasions. As night fell, a letter from the palace was delivered to the Mirror Palace, informing him of the day¡¯s results.


    The result was that there was no result.


    The Duke¡¯s faction insisted on following tradition and demanded the continuation of the Sarik Law of Succession, refusing to amend or abolish it. The Princess¡¯s faction proposed abolishing some of its clauses and adding relevant content to keep up with the times.


    The two sides argued fiercely for a whole day, but still reached an impasse. By dinner time, the Speaker announced the adjournment of the meeting.


    ¡°We¡¯ve been stalled,¡± Rafael said thoughtfully after reading the short letter. ¡°For Duke Horton, as long as he does nothing, he can win. Compared to the trouble of modifying or abolishing the law, Horton¡¯s chances of winning are much greater.¡±


    However, he didn¡¯t think the Queen would allow Duke Horton to drag this on. The chaos in Assyria had reached an uncontrollable point, and the Queen¡¯s patience had been exhausted by the long tug-of-war. In fact, Rafael guessed that if Duke Horton continued to be so complacent, Amandra, who was previously known as the ¡°Warrior Princess,¡± might stage a Roman version of a royal revolution.


    The next day, the progress of the parliament remained stagnant. As the glow of the setting sun shone on the scales above the door of the parliament hall, the Speaker rang the bell and announced the adjournment of the meeting again.


    As the Queen Mother of Rome, Amandra was not legally qualified to attend the council, but in reality, she had served as regent for five years, and the council had set up a seat for the Queen Mother below the seat that rightfully belonged to the monarch.


    On the third day, the councilors were still arguing heatedly, and the tea was constantly being replaced. Everyone looked tired. Amandra sat for half an hour before leaving. Her chief lady-in-waiting listened to the rest of the meeting on her behalf¡ªanother day with no progress.@@@@


    That night, several unusually low-key carriages left the palace and entered the homes of several nobles.


    At the same time, the Mirror Palace also welcomed a distinguished guest.


    Rafael and his guest strolled through the long corridors of the Mirror Palace. Rafael was nominally the temporary master of the Mirror Palace, but it was clear that he was not as familiar with the palace as the man beside him.


    They stood in the armory, and Duke Horton casually pulled out a spear held by an armored knight. ¡°When I was a child, my grandmother would invite all the royal children to the Mirror Palace for vacation every summer. My father died early, so my grandmother took special care of me. I was treated better than any of the other children, almost as well as my cousin at the time. There was a royal forest outside, exclusively for us to hunt, and I could see the lake in the center of the forest from my room.¡±


    Rafael also picked up a dagger from the cabinet and tested the blade with his thumb. The blade, which had been stored here for many years, had not lost its sharpness, leaving a thin red mark on his fingertip.


    Rafael wiped away the blood without a care and heard Duke Horton exclaim in surprise, ¡°Oh, this long sword is still here!¡±


    Rafael turned and saw the duke bending over, pulling out half a sword from the knight¡¯s leather scabbard behind him.


    It was a broadsword as wide as an adult man¡¯s palm, made of bronze, and covered in rust. It was broken abruptly in the middle of the blade, as if it had been split in two after suffering some kind of heavy blow.


    Duke Horton smiled nostalgically. ¡°This was the weapon used by my ancestor, Lav V. His most famous battle was the Battle of Tenburg against Assyria. In that battle, he alone killed 68 Assyrian soldiers with this very sword. After his death, this sword was treasured here. When I was a child, I often came here to play with my cousin, holding the weapons here and pretending to be heroes. This sword was accidentally broken by me at that time.¡±


    Originally, he had thought Duke Horton would say something useful, but it turned out to be a ridiculous rumor. Rafael immediately lost interest in dealing with him and turned to leave. Duke Horton raised his voice, ¡°Did Lav XI and Vitalian III really have no connection? Why did His Holiness suddenly decide to go on a tour?¡±


    ¡°It was to inspect the religious reforms within the Papal States,¡± Rafael said in a deep voice.


    ¡°Perhaps that was just a cover. The real reason was that he was about to do the same thing you are doing now.¡± Duke Horton slowly repeated what the man had told him.


    Rafael suddenly raised his eyes.


    Was Pope Vitalian III also going to Rome at that time? Indeed, his route was very close to the border of the Papal States, and a few more cities would bring him to the border of the Roman Empire. His entourage was also larger than usual, and it could be said that it was a diplomatic visit. But a papal visit was not a big deal, so why would he pretend to be on a tour? Unless this visit was illegal...


    Illegal, illegal...


    Had he not been invited by the Roman Emperor?


    If that was the case, why would he have gone to Rome...


    ¡®He was about to do the same thing you are doing now¡¯ ¨C Vitalian III had been invited by Queen Amandra at the time. He was going to Rome to help Amandra reform the succession law and push for Sancha to gain legitimate succession rights!


    Duke Horton walked over and approached him and this time Rafael didn¡¯t move. The duke whispered in his ear, ¡°My cousin was a man of many loves. He had several illegitimate children, and Sancha was just one of his least favored daughters, but she happened to be his only legitimate child.¡±


    ¡°Are you going to help the enemy who directly caused Vitalian III¡¯s death to obtain the throne? This mother and daughter have vicious hearts and cunning minds, and you are not without other options. If you are willing, I can help you take revenge openly. Of course, to make up for some of the mistakes I¡¯ve made before, you will also have the full support of Rome.¡±


    Duke Horton nodded slightly at him and left.


    Rafael stood there, digesting the fact that Horton had brought to him. His mind worked faster than his emotions. Although it was very bizarre, he had to admit that what Horton had said was probably the truth.


    Back then, the situation in Rome was turbulent. Lav XI¡¯s health was declining, and he had no choice but to let Queen Amandra serve as regent. As the queen¡¯s power gradually grew, Lav XI felt uneasy. He wanted to establish his illegitimate son as the heir to the throne. Amandra discovered her husband¡¯s intentions and wanted to abolish the Sarik Law ahead of time to allow Sancha to inherit the throne. To this end, she sought the help of her ally, Vitalian III. However, Lav XI noticed their actions and intercepted the Pope halfway, causing Amandra¡¯s plan to fail, and the succession to the Roman throne fell into deadlock once again.


    It fit perfectly.


    Rafael exhaled slowly. When they talked in the secret room of the Mirror Palace, Amandra hadn¡¯t told him about this. Was it because their cooperation wasn¡¯t close enough, or did Amandra still not trust him, or was this whole thing just a ploy by Duke Horton to sow discord?


    He needed more evidence.


    On the fourth day, when the Speaker once again numbly read out the agenda and announced the beginning of the meeting, Queen Regent Amandra, who had sat in her seat for three days without saying a word, rang the bell in front of her seat.


    The Queen¡¯s voice was majestic and cold, ¡°Gentlemen, my time is very precious. For reasons that are well known to all, I cannot wait for you all to speak here and exercise your brilliant wisdom. I need an answer as soon as possible. The modification of the succession law, can it be done, or not?¡±


    ¡°To improve our efficiency, let us follow Florence¡¯s example of electing a pope. From now on, until a decision is reached, our meeting will not be adjourned.¡±


    As the Queen¡¯s voice fell, the councilors were astonished to find that all the doors and windows of the meeting hall had been tightly closed. Royal guards flooded in and stood in a circle along the walls, their hands gripping gleaming swords, their waists hung with brass spears, their blades pointed towards the conference table. The implication was extremely clear.


    Either give an answer that satisfies the Queen as soon as possible, or stay here forever.


    Amandra looked coldly at everyone around the long table, her face devoid of any expression.


    She knew that this act would definitely provoke the anger and resistance of the nobles. Those nobles who were on her side also showed dissatisfaction in their expressions. In the absence of external enemies, the nobles and the monarch could never stand on the same side. Her actions were almost a display of the monarch¡¯s authority to the entire noble class, but she had no more time to waste.


    A new report had just arrived from Assyria. The capital, Gonda, was under siege by rebel forces. If Gonda fell, the entire Assyria would completely fall apart. She couldn¡¯t wait any longer.


    ¡°Answer me, gentlemen.¡±


    The Queen repeated.

 Chapter 58: Invitation to a Duel

    Rafael sat in the council chamber¡¯s reception room, blowing on a steaming cup of red tea. The steam formed a thin layer of mist in front of him. When the mist dissipated, he saw Ferrante walking through the decorative archway and leaning down slightly.


    ¡°Holy Father, the royal guard has entered.¡±


    Rafael turned his head. ¡°With weapons?¡±


    ¡°With weapons,¡± Ferrante confirmed.


    ¡°It seems that Her Majesty is anxious... But it shouldn¡¯t be this early ¨C is there trouble in Assyria?¡± the Pope speculated, setting down the porcelain cup in his hand. ¡°Well, it¡¯s time for us to make our entrance.¡±


    As soon as he finished speaking, there was a polite knock at the door, three times in total, each neither light nor heavy.


    Ferrante went to open the door. A queen¡¯s servant, dressed in a fine uniform, bowed to him. ¡°By order of Her Majesty, His Holiness is requested join the council in the chamber.¡±


    ¡°Understood.¡± The dark-haired monk¡¯s voice was deep and husky from puberty. He closed the door and returned to his Holy Father, who was already standing in front of a mirror examining his appearance. A crown of crimson velvet was placed near him on a low stool half a person¡¯s height.


    The intertwined thorns of the crown gleamed with the cold light of age, and a circle of tiny colorless gems was embedded in the base. The gold crown bore the marks of age, with scratches from years of use, but this did not diminish its status as the oldest crown in the world.


    Ferrante carefully lifted the papal crown and gently placed it on the golden hair. Rafael adjusted the position of the crown with his fingers and picked up the pastoral staff that Ferrante handed him. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±


    The silent monks followed closely behind the Pope like gloomy, voiceless souls. Every door they passed was tightly shut. Guards, upon seeing them, would lower their heads and reluctantly open the door, only to shut it immediately afterward. The atmosphere was so tense that Ferrante couldn¡¯t help but touch the dagger strapped to his sleeve.


    Door after door opened before them and closed behind them. The gradually rising temperature indicated that they were nearing the heart of the council. When the final door was pushed open, a grand and magnificent hall came into their view, along with the trembling nobles seated around a long marble table.


    Rafael glanced around the room calmly and quickly. Guards with drawn weapons stood motionless like statues. At the head of the table sat the Queen with an expressionless face. The surrounded nobles, some angry, some frightened, turned towards them as they entered.


    ¡°I thank our loyal ally, Florence, for their assistance. As a neutral third party, the Holy See, with all its virtues and as the incarnation of God on earth, is more than qualified to witness and arbitrate this meeting,¡± Queen Amandra began.


    ¡°During our discussion just now, you have all signed the document agreeing to amend the Sarik Law. According to the regulations, the Sarik Succession Law will be temporarily invalidated from this moment on. Our next step is to formulate a legal treaty to supplement the outdated provisions of the law and make it the cornerstone of the Roman throne once more.¡±


    The Queen pointed to a roll of parchment on the table, where the signatures of two-thirds of the nobles at the long table were present, proving that the inheritance law would enter the stage of supplementary revision.


    ¡°All amendments are made to better adapt to the times. My husband, Lav XI, passed away nearly five years ago, and the Roman crown remains vacant. My daughter, Princess Sancha, as the only legitimate child of Lav XI, has the right to take precedence in the succession to the throne. Therefore, I propose that the clause in the Sarik Law prohibiting women from inheriting the throne be abolished, and that legitimate children be treated equally.¡±


    The nobles clamped their mouths shut like clams.


    After a long silence, someone finally voiced their agreement. ¡°According to the oldest inheritance system, tracing back to Roman law, there are precedents of legitimate daughters inheriting their father¡¯s property in the absence of a legitimate son. This is precedent for this.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Princess Sancha, as the only legitimate child of King Lav XI, has the right to the throne.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s assuming that Lav XI had no other children!¡± someone objected fiercely.


    ¡°The royal family has more suitable male heirs. Instead of a queen, we should consider a male king in his prime...¡±


    The hall buzzed with chaotic arguments once more. Rafael sat beside Amandra, and they watched the farce below, both knowing the outcome of this show.


    The deal had already been made the night before. Those who needed to be bought had been bought. All the disputes were merely temporary, to make their surrender seem less hasty.


    ¡°But women can never possess the same wisdom as men!¡± a nobleman exclaimed loudly. ¡°Since God distinguished between men and women at creation, men have always been leaders and rulers. They are the embodiment of wisdom, courage, fortitude, and calmness, while women are sensitive, stubborn, and foolish. How can we, as the rulers of a country, place the crown on the head of an immature girl? This will be the greatest mistake you will ever make!¡± The old nobleman with a full white beard roared, his spittle even landing on the head of the unlucky nobleman next to him. raNO?B?????


    When Amandra heard those words, she merely raised an eyebrow indifferently. She had long grown accustomed to this kind of ridicule against women, and Sancha... she would have to get used to it sooner or later.


    Rafael raised his hand, picked up the small copper bell on the table and shook it twice. The clear and pleasant sound silenced the ensuing argument. Lowering the bell, the overly young and handsome pope said apologetically, ¡°I shouldn¡¯t interfere in this matter, but I heard a misinterpretation of God¡¯s decree.¡±


    He nodded apologetically to the Queen beside him, who returned a smile.


    In that moment when Amandra smiled, it seemed to overlap with Sancha, and Rafael suddenly felt a jumble of fragments flash through his mind, but they shattered and disappeared quickly.


    ¡°When God created the world, he separated men and women, so that each could take on different responsibilities for the world,¡± the Pope said slowly. ¡°Men are naturally strong and therefore take on the responsibilities of obtaining food, hunting, and defending against enemies. Women are sensitive and caring, so they are responsible for healing and nurturing. Listening to what this gentleman said, it seems that the women created by God are worthless ¨C is this your accusation and contempt for God?¡±


    ¡°Are you saying this to provoke the Church?¡±


    ¡°Are you declaring the deficiencies of women to prove that God can also make mistakes? Is this your personal new interpretation of the doctrine, or have you been influenced by someone else?¡±


    His tone remained gentle and peaceful, but the meaning behind his words became heavier and heavier. Seeing that the Pope was about to accuse him of colluding with heretics, the arrogant old nobleman¡¯s legs softened, and he began to explain frantically, ¡°No! That¡¯s not what I meant! Your Holiness, please forgive my unintentional words!¡±


    Rafael smiled faintly, neither confirming nor denying his apology.


    This little episode calmed everyone down. They looked at Amandra and Rafael with hidden glances, secretly alarmed by the Pope¡¯s undisguised partiality. Sitting at the front, Duke Horton stared at Rafael in disbelief. He had remained silent throughout the long debate, knowing that it was not appropriate for him to speak directly at this moment. He just needed to let his ¡°wolfhounds¡± do the fighting for him. But now he couldn¡¯t believe what he was seeing ¨C he had clearly informed Pope Vitalian III¡¯s cause of death! Yet the Pope still cooperated with Amandra without any grudges?


    Amandra replied calmly, ¡°You seem to have forgotten that the Sarik Inheritance Law is currently under revision. The clauses regarding gender in the succession are still pending. Since there is no explicit rule stating that women cannot inherit the throne, Sancha¡¯s presence here is justified. As a party to the inheritance law, she has the right to participate in all proceedings.¡±


    ¡°Very well,¡± Duke Horton forced a twisted smile, attempting to feign indifference. ¡°You are the Queen. Your word is law.¡±


    Amandra ignored his sarcasm. She had always despised on this cowardly, dark, petty, and stupid man. Fate had granted him a privileged birth, but he treated it like melting ice cream. Compared to his cunning and ruthless cousin, this blood relative was simply useless. Sometimes, Amandra even wondered whether either Lav XI or Duke Horton were the result of an illicit affair.


    The challenges she faced were never just from Duke Horton, but from the entire Roman aristocracy and the doubtful people of Rome.


    ¡°Returning to the previous topic, Your Majesty, perhaps we could suggest another option. Princess Sancha could inherit the Roman crown and simultaneously reject the marriage alliance with Calais. In this way, we would not have to face this dilemma.¡±


    A noble suggested, his words heavy with implication.


    If the Queen chose to marry Sancha to a noble within Rome, there would be no need for Amandra to maneuver so carefully. The great nobles present would immediately rush to cast their votes in favor of Sancha¡¯s crown. Who wouldn¡¯t be eager to incorporate their bloodline with the royal lineage?, Even if the chance was slim. But as long as there was a possibility, there was a chance!


    This was the quickest path to victory for them. Both Amandra and Sancha were certain that if they nodded at this moment, they would achieve a great triumph.


    However, both the princess and the queen remained silent.


    After a long pause, Amandra said firmly, ¡°No, Sancha will inherit the crown of Roman, and she will continue with the marriage negotiations with Calais.¡±


    ¡°Through this marriage, Rome, Assyria, and Calais will be united. In years to come, we can recreate the glory of the Ancient Roman Empire. A vast unified land will stretch across both sides of the Black Sea, and the imperial flag will fly over both sea and land. We can have a monarch with the title of ¡®Emperor¡¯.¡±


    Her words left everyone breathless. The Roman Empire was a cultural aspiration deeply ingrained in their hearts.


    ¡°Your vision is truly magnificent, and I am deeply moved, Your Majesty,¡± the noble said softly. ¡°However, I may not live to see the birth of such an emperor, so I can only be responsible for the people of Rome who are alive today.¡±


    ¡°If you insist on marrying Princess Sancha to Calais, I cannot accept such a ruler who would leave our country.¡±


    With a forceful voice, he declared, ¡°I refuse to accept Princess Sancha as Queen of the Roman Empire.¡±


    After his voice fell, more and more nobles joined in, their voices growing stronger. As the number of supporters grew, their resolve hardened, and the gleaming blades and brass gun barrels around them were ignored.


    ¡°Shua¡ª¡±


    The sharp sound of a blade being drawn cut through their words. The nobles turned around, alert, searching for the audacious individual who had dared to interrupt them.


    It was Princess Sancha, who had been silently observing their debate.


    While they had been discussing her, she had remained silent, qyuetly restraining her presence. This made her seem like the opposite of her mother. One was cold and hard, while the other gentle and serene. She seemed... like she could be easily controlled.


    Indeed, some people thought to themselves, with a hint of contempt in their hearts that she was indeed just a woman. Even with a mother like Amandra, a daughter can¡¯t escape the docile and gentle nature expected of women. As for Amandra... she was nothing more than a barbaric heathen who knew nothing of propriety. Roman women should be like the princess, listening attentively and remaining silent when men speak.


    It wasn¡¯t until this moment, when Sancha drew the dagger she always carried, gripped it with practiced ease, and slowly surveyed the nobles at the long table, that these men began to realize something was amiss.


    ¡°What you all fear is that I will leave Rome after marrying into Calais. But your concerns are unfounded. During the marriage negotiations, I will propose that after the wedding, I will spend five months each year in Rome¡ª¡±


    ¡°How can you guarantee Calais will agree to such terms?¡± someone immediately retorted.


    ¡°As long as the young Emperor of Calais values his life and wishes to preserve his crown, he will definitely agree. You seem to have forgotten about his ambitious uncle, who covets the Calais throne¡ªcoincidentally, I happen to have such a good uncle as well.¡±


    Sancha¡¯s emotionless gaze fell on Duke Horton, and she smiled.


    Duke Horton¡¯s face turned a multitude of colors like a revolving lantern.


    The nobles fell into deep thought. Duke Francois... Indeed, they had forgotten about him. As the young emperor grew older, the voices within Calais calling for the return of power to the Emperor grew stronger. The young Emperor was now akin to sitting on the edge of a volcano, desperately needing allies. He would not hesitate to make concessions for the sake of his life and throne.


    ¡°My uncle, previously the only conflict between us was our gender. Now that the inheritance laws no longer restrict us, let us return to the most primal and fair form of competition.¡±


    The princess, dressed in a crimson gown, smiled slightly, a dimple appearing on her cheek, a sweetness that was in stark contrast with her cold words.


    ¡°Draw your sword. Right here, right now. Show me your determination to claim the Roman throne.¡±


    With those words, Sancha leaped down from the platform, like a silent thunderbolt, driving her gleaming dagger into the table in front of Duke Horton. Amid the splintering wood and the gasps of shock, the smiling Sancha locked eyes with the wide-eyed Horton.


    ¡°Come, I am prepared to die for this. Are you prepared?¡±


    The young princess challenged her uncle to a duel.

 Chapter 59: Duel

    As soon as Sancha finished speaking, the entire hall fell into a deathly silence.


    Hundreds of people remained frozen in their poses, staring dumbfounded at the girl who had uttered such a mad declaration.


    The Roman princess rested one hand on the table in front of Duke Horton, the other gripping the dagger embedded deep in the tabletop. Her gaze, through the gleaming blade, locked onto her older, wealthy uncle. Compared to her rival, she looked so young, so delicate, with honey-colored skin like soft pearls and blue eyes as innocent as a baby¡¯s.


    Such a young and beautiful maiden should be listening to passionate love poems from knights among the rose bushes, choosing a beloved from among many suitors, and o spend her precious years adorned in jewels and fine garments.


    The only thing she shouldn¡¯t do is draw her sword in this arena full of men.


    Yet, it cannot be denied that when she pulled out her dagger and plunged it deep into the table, even the most stubborn traditionalist couldn¡¯t help but inwardly marvel.


    How beautiful.


    At that moment, when the princess drew her sword and cut through the romantic sonnets, standing in the cruel arena to defend her crown, shedding the youthful skin that fate had given her, the proud and courageous girl shone as if she was glowing.


    This time, no one felt that she and Amandra were not alike, they were strikingly alike! They were exactly the same!


    ¡°Come on, Uncle Horton, are you scared?¡± Princess Sancha lowered her body, like a beast fiercely cornering her prey. At this moment, there were no constraints of gender or familial hierarchy between them, only the stark identity of competitors.


    Her gentle blue eyes were as deep as the sea, and her expression strangely overlapped with the aloof Amandra at the moment.


    Duke Horton looked at his niece, his back pressed tightly against the chair, and his sweat was about to soak his clothes. But he had no intention of standing up, not only did he not, he even had a moment where he wished that he could disappear from here.


    Devil!


    Sancha was a devil just like her pagan mother!


    Rome had never been involved in such a ridiculous gamble ¨C letting the heir to the throne decide the winner by a duel like a clown? This wasn¡¯t some Roman Gladiatorial game! What¡¯s more, he is an elder, and also a man, ¡ªwas he supposed to compete with his niece in martial prowess?


    It¡¯s ridiculous!


    Duke Horton subconsciously wanted to look around at the others, to wake up those guys whose mouths seemed to be sewn shut, but he failed ¨C he couldn¡¯t even move his eyes away from Sancha¡¯s face, which was sharply staring at him.


    ¡°If you are unwilling, do you plan to admit defeat to me?¡± Sang Xia asked clearly, word by word, in a voice that everyone could hear.


    At this moment, her gaze towards Duke Horton carried a bit of pity and contempt.


    Her uncle, how foolish and shallow.


    What exactly did he rely on to become her opponent? Simply because God had bestowed upon him the advantage of his gender?


    He still doesn¡¯t understand that his gender advantage has vanished. At this moment, in front of the throne, they are absolutely equal.


    But he didn¡¯t even dare to stand up, didn¡¯t dare to answer her under her blade.


    The atmosphere fell into a stalemate, and the gazes on Duke Horton slowly became meaningful. The nobles were certainly not so willing to support the queen, but they also didn¡¯t like to see a king who was so weak that he even feared a woman¡¯s blade. r?aNObE?S


    Duke Horton noticed the change in people¡¯s hearts. He gritted his teeth and stood up abruptly, reaching for his waist ¨C but he felt nothing. Only then did he belatedly realize that all the councillors had to remove their weapons when they entered the council hall, and the duke was no exception.


    Duke Horton gritted his teeth and glared at Sancha, the young princess straightened up and smiled at him: ¡°Please don¡¯t be afraid, uncle, I won¡¯t attack you before you draw your sword.¡±


    Her words sounded more like a condescending and confident declaration than a comfort.


    Queen Amandra was silent from beginning to end, and only now finally raised her hand. The attendant behind her understood and quickly left. After a while, the door opened, the steward of Duke Horton came in from outside the door. He held a broadsword used by men in his hand and walked to the Duke.


    Duke Horton reached out and grasped the broadsword that had accompanied him for many years with a complicated expression on his face. He recalled the days when he learned swordsmanship with his cousin when he was young. The Roman royal family has always had this tradition. All royal children were skilled in the art of the sword. Though he now appeared bloated, dull, and slow, he once sweated profusely in the training ground day and night, capable of defeating even the most skilled fencing instructors.


    Appearing with the steward was Princess Sancha¡¯s knight.


    It wasn¡¯t until this moment, as she swung the sabre and split the heavy, hard marble floor, storming into everyone¡¯s vision like a force of nature, that they realized with unprecedented clarity:


    This might be their future queen.


    Not Princess Sancha, sheltered by Amandra, but Sancha, the heir to the Roman throne.


    Horton hadn¡¯t held a sword in years. His body, spoiled by years of luxury, had become a hollow shell of its former self. Wielding the broadsword now felt like a struggle, but the life-and-death duel sent adrenaline surging through him. His muscles tightened, his blood raced, and the rustiness quickly faded. He stared at Sancha, at her youthful face, and the malice in his heart grew like weeds under the sun, wild and unchecked.


    He did not hold back, and every move was aimed at taking Sancha¡¯s life. This was originally a duel, a legitimate opportunity to take Sancha¡¯s life ¨C how perfect! As long as he could kill her, what excuse would Yamala have to stop him from ascending the throne? She was nothing but the widow of the late king, shamelessly clinging to the Roman throne for so long. It was time to return everything to its rightful place!


    The Roman Crown! It was originally his!


    The broadsword and the sabre collided with a deafening crash, sparks flying as the blades clashed. A scorching storm swept through the hall. The queen on the steps watched the scene below calmly, as if the one whose life was hanging in the balance was not her only daughter. There was not even a trace of emotion in those eyes.


    Rafael turned his face: ¡°Aren¡¯t you worried?¡±


    At his words, Amandra shifted her gaze from Sancha and replied softly, ¡°If she loses, it will prove she¡¯s truly unfit for the throne.¡±


    Rafael raised an eyebrow. ¡°And yet, you¡¯ve put so much effort into this day.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Amandra¡¯s voice carried a hint of laughter, or perhaps a sigh. ¡°I¡¯ve put in so much effort just to let her stand in a place where she can be seen...¡±


    So how could she lose?


    No one knew how much effort Sancha had poured into this day. Her little sun, from carrying the blade on her back, to cradling it, to finally wielding it with ease¡ªher palms had grown rough with calluses, she had fallen off horses and limped back on to continue practicing...


    How could that useless, corrupt fool possibly win against her?


    Sancha¡¯s strikes grew faster and faster. The sabre in her hands was constantly gathering momentum, whipping up a tornado centered around her. The heavy blade accumulated force with each swing, crashing down with wide, powerful arcs. Sancha was like a nimble butterfly attached to the hilt, skillfully controlling the long blade, dancing forward with each strike. Horton felt as though he was facing an unprecedented, terrifying storm. He couldn¡¯t interrupt it. His long-unused muscles screamed in fatigue, his heart and lungs working furiously to pump oxygen into his body, but it still wasn¡¯t enough¡ªnever enough.


    ¡°Why aren¡¯t you fighting back? Hiding won¡¯t help, Uncle. How long do you plan to keep dodging? Are you waiting for the crown to fall into your hands?¡± Sancha suddenly swept the blade low to the ground, sending scattered broken stones flying. Horton shuddered, leaping awkwardly to avoid the strike.


    ¡°The crown won¡¯t come to you on its own, Uncle!¡± Sancha¡¯s golden-brown hair was disheveled, and through the tangled strands, her blue eyes gleamed with the ferocity of a wolf.


    ¡°You have to seize it!¡±


    The heavy sabre didn¡¯t retract after the missed strike. Instead, it flipped in place, the thick, solid blade like a tidal wave, slamming horizontally into Duke Horton¡¯s waist. The portly duke was sent flying sideways, rolling a dozen times on the ground before finally crashing into the leg of the parliamentary table.


    This ferocious display left everyone in shock.


    Sancha dragged her blade over, coldly staring at her uncle for a moment. Duke Horton, dazed and disoriented from the impact, shook his head and tried to stand up, only to have a foot press down on his chest.


    The cold edge of the blade pressed against his neck, the tip of the sabre still dragging on the ground. Sancha held it like a guillotine, the sharp edge resting against the duke¡¯s throat. A thin line of blood trickled down his neck, but Horton keenly noticed that the pressure from the blade didn¡¯t lessen¡ªSancha truly intended to kill him!


    At this moment, he conveniently forgot his earlier thoughts. Horton let out a miserable scream, casting aside any thoughts of the throne: ¡°Stop, stop, stop! I surrender! I surrender! Sancha! My dear Sancha! Please, stop! I¡¯m your uncle!¡±


    The princess maintained her stance, one foot on Duke Horton¡¯s chest, the sabre in her hand like a guillotine. Beneath her disheveled hair, her sharp eyes swept across the long table.


    ¡°Now, I say I¡¯ve won. Does anyone object?¡±


    Every noble who met Sancha¡¯s gaze immediately lowered their heads. One by one, the entire table bowed, as if pledging allegiance to a new monarch.


    Sancha then declared, ¡°Therefore, I hereby abolish the clause in the Sarik Succession Law that prohibits women from inheriting the throne. In accordance with the succession laws, I, Sancha Isabella Gondola Romanina, am the first in line to the Roman throne. Upon the signing of the marriage contract with Calais, I will ascend as Queen of the Roman Empire, to be known as Sancha I.¡±


    After a brief silence, a low murmur rose from the long table: ¡°As you command, Your Highness.¡±


    Zhanmadao ”ØñRµ¶ ¨C also known as horse chopping ¡®sabre¡¯/¡¯dao¡¯/¡¯single-edged blade¡¯) is a single-edged sabre with a long broad blade, and a long handle suitable for two-handed use. It was used as an anti-cavalry weapon, dating from Emperor Cheng of Han, made to slice through a horse¡¯s legs. There are various iterations of its form over the dynasties but what¡¯s described in here was probably closest to the ones in the Song-Qing or Ming-Qing period. ??


    An example of a Zhanmadao

 Chapter 60: Marriage

    Princess Sancha of Rome was granted the title of Princess of Perigo.


    The title of Prince of Perigo is traditionally held by the heir apparent of the Roman Empire. This ancient title does not come with an actual fiefdom¡ªaccording to the rule that the title itself represents the territory, Perigo would be the fiefdom of the crown prince. However, no matter how you look at it, the capital cannot truly belong to anyone other than the king. Thus, this title is merely symbolic, signifying that its holder is the future Roman monarch.


    This news quickly spread like wildfire to the capitals of various nations. The fierce struggle for the throne of the vast Roman Empire had finally come to an end, and the winner was not entirely unexpected.


    Julius was at the theatre when he received the news. The extensive intelligence network of the Portia family delivered countless pieces of information here daily. After a preliminary screening, it would be summarized and the most important ones were directly presented to the family head. Given that this matter concerned the Roman throne it was immediately delivered to the Duke of Rhine, Julius who sat in the private box on the upper level of the theatre. After listening to the servant¡¯s report, he nodded expressionlessly and then turned his attention back to the stage.


    He seemed indifferent to the matter, and indeed, the changes in the Roman throne had little to do with the Portia family, which was far away in Florence. No matter who ascended the throne, they would still rely on the ubiquitous Portia Bank for trade. Julius didn¡¯t care who sat on the throne¡ªeven if it were a dog, it wouldn¡¯t matter to him.


    At this moment, the Roman throne was not as important to him as the play that was about to begin.


    Julius relaxed his body, leaning back on the soft cushions, patiently waiting for the stage curtains to rise.


    The Florence Opera House was performing The Birth of Bacchus, a play adapted from the traditional Roman festival drama. Since most members of the Portia family had a fondness for the arts, many great artists had worked for the family at some point, and the creation of numerous artistic treasures was closely tied to the Portia name.


    For example, the famous painting The Three Goddesses of Spring was a portrait of the three Portia sisters by the master Schelint. The renowned painting Winter Feast depicted a family gathering of the Portia family at a certain year, and the sculpture The Sleeper was modeled after a Portia who enjoyed sports...


    In short, the Portia family was a prolific patron of artists. Julius himself had no particular obsession with art, but following family tradition, he would regularly commission works from artists and support the development of young talents. In return, they would present their masterpieces to this generous and kind patron.


    The Birth of Bacchus was the work of a rising playwright who had dedicated it to Julius as a token of gratitude for his support. The playwright had boldly reimagined and innovated the piece, and everyone who had seen excerpts of it praised it highly. However, he insisted that its premiere be performed in front of Julius to thank the Portia family for their patronage.


    Julius was indifferent to this gesture but still made time to sit in the opera house, which he hadn¡¯t visited in a long time.


    As the soothing orchestral music began, a joyful female voice sang lovingly: ¡°In the garden of the gods, a rose was born.¡±


    In the garden of the gods,


    A rose was born,


    A kind never heard of nor seen before,


    Its scarlet velvet petals wrapped around an egg-shaped bud,


    Its dark green stems adorned with hook-like thorns.


    ¡°How could such a cruel flower exist! It was born to harm!¡± The gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus whispered among themselves as they gathered around this flower they had never seen before. When a water nymph was pricked by its thorns, they exclaimed in astonishment.


    ¡°It has such beautiful petals, red like congealed divine blood. Only when lovers are consumed by the flames of passion can such vivid blood be shed. Could this be a careless creation of the God of Love?¡± R?a?No??E?S??


    ¡°Yet it did not bloom upon hearing the name of the God of Love. It requires the light of reason to shine upon its petals. Every line of it is a crystallization of wisdom, born from the constancy of numbers and all things. Who else could have created it but the God of Wisdom?¡±


    The gods argued endlessly over who had created this most beautiful flower, and the goddess of discord planted seeds of strife among them, stirring up their anger.


    The play¡¯s plot was intricate, its pacing masterful, and its language elegant, making it hard to believe it was the work of a newcomer. However, by the end of the third act, Julius still hadn¡¯t figured out where the titular god of wine, Bacchus, fit into the story.


    The young playwright seemed determined to present something entirely new, blending Roman and Greek cultures into an unprecedented cultural backdrop. Julius found it quite intriguing, but unfortunately, his busy schedule didn¡¯t allow him to stay for the remaining acts.


    The head of the Portia family stood up, fastening his cloak as he walked out. As he passed the attendant stationed at the door, he casually remarked, ¡°Find that playwright and get a complete copy of the script. Place it on my desk.¡±


    The cloaked duke discreetly exited the theater from the side. Behind him, on the stage, an actress was singing in a rich, resonant voice the soliloquy of the sun god, who had secretly visited the garden under the moonlight.


    ¡°The moonlight is so gentle,


    Hush,


    Avoiding my sister¡¯s silver chariot,


    Indeed, the wealth the Portia family had plundered was enough to make them obediently turn a blind eye to all of the Pope¡¯s actions. They ruthlessly dismembered and gutted their former allies, carving them up and stripping them to the bone, and used their remains to magnify the glory of the Portia name.


    Then they realized something was wrong.


    The Pope had assembled an army, sweeping across the entire Papal States, and the unified authority had returned to Florence¡ªthis was not what they had hoped for.


    A unified country with a powerful monarch¡ªwhich powerful ministers would wish to see such a thing?


    They wanted to be free and independent vassals and a fragmented Papal States would better serve their interests. One group of lords could die, and another could take their place, but there must never be a Pope who held all the power. And everything Rafael now possessed had made these old men feel threatened. Now that all the lords were dead, who would be the next?


    Not to mention, Rafael is of the Portia family, but he doesn¡¯t seem to care about the Portia family at all.


    ¡°Our Pope is still young and inexperienced. He doesn¡¯t yet understand what is most important. The elders around him should teach him these things. If he fails to learn, it is the fault of those who teach him.¡±


    Everyone knew that when the Pope was still studying at the Florence Seminary, Pope Vitalian III had chosen Julius as his teacher. These words, both overtly and covertly, were an accusation against Julius.


    ¡°His Holiness is the embodiment of God, endowed with divine wisdom. Who dares claim they can teach him?¡± Julius deflected the question lightly.


    ¡°Sophistry! It was you who pushed him onto the throne of Saint Leah against all opposition! How much money did we pay for his crown?¡± one old man angrily retorted.


    ¡°And he has repaid it a hundredfold. If I recall correctly, the new assets your family acquired after June now provide you with an annual income of at least two hundred thousand gold florins. And that¡¯s just from real estate alone, not to mention the jewels, livestock, shops, and people...¡± Julius stroked the smooth surface of his ring¡¯s gemstone, his tone cold.


    The old man abruptly fell silent, his face flushing with embarrassment.


    ¡°That¡¯s not the issue we¡¯re discussing,¡± another elder interjected slowly. He was wiser than the previous one, his tone gentle, looking kindly. ¡°You see, Yura, no one can exist apart from their family. Rafael is still young. He doesn¡¯t understand that everyone needs a family, a foundation. The Portia family helped him succeed, proving that we love all children of Portia blood equally. Rafael should come home and visit more often¡ªhe hasn¡¯t returned to the Portia Palace since his ascension. No matter how splendid the Papal Palace is, this is his home. No one understands this principle better than you.¡±


    Julius pressed his lips together.


    ¡°If you truly care for him, you should bring him closer to the Portia family,¡± another added. ¡°He is our child, and we love him as much as we love Redrick.¡±


    A flicker of weariness passed through Julius¡¯s eyes, but he still calmly replied, ¡°Yes, I understand.¡±


    ¡°I hope you truly do understand. Remember, we don¡¯t necessarily need him,¡± a cold, hard voice said. ¡°To show our support for him, we secretly executed Cain. But that doesn¡¯t mean there aren¡¯t better candidates within the Portia family besides Cain.¡±


    ¡°Now, now, Yura has always been clever. He knows how to communicate with Rafael,¡± a final voice chimed in, attempting to smooth things over while at the same time tentatively asking, ¡°Redrick went to Rome with Rafael. Yura, you don¡¯t have any children of suitable age around you now, do you?¡±


    Hearing this, Julius stood up, placing one hand on the back of his chair, and quickly said, ¡°There¡¯s still much to do at the Papal Pace. Let¡¯s meet again another time, gentlemen.¡±


    Without waiting for a response, he strode out of the room. The elders left behind exchanged bewildered glances. Someone let out a long sigh and muttered, ¡°Young people...¡±


    Meanwhile, the envoy from Calais, after a long journey, finally arrived in Perigo. The news of Princess Sancha being granted the title of Princess of Perigo naturally reached them, prompting them to overturn the original marriage terms and to urgently redraft them ¡ªproposing to a princess was entirely different from proposing to a crown princess. Although they had vaguely anticipated this before setting out, they were still inevitably thrown into disarray when the time came.


    After sending over a dozen urgent letters back to Calais, the new marriage proposal was presented to Queen Amandra and Princess Sancha of Perigo.


    ¡°Land, titles, wealth...¡± Amandra tapped the thick proposal with her fingertip. The document, written in fine script, meticulously listed the lavish betrothal gifts Calais was offering. To win Sancha¡¯s hand, they had clearly spared no expense. The lands gifted to Sancha would not be reclaimed after her death, and everything including jewelry and other treasures would become her personal property.


    ¡°Of course, they also sent a portrait of the young emperor,¡± Amandra said, raising her hand. The maids pulled down the cloth covering a life-sized painting.


    Beneath the cloth was a full-length portrait of Franc?ois, the Emperor of Calais. The young and handsome emperor had thick, brown curly hair cascading down his back. He had a slender and agile frame along with a youthful vigor characteristic of his age. His cheeks bore a faint blush, his skin snow-white, with a strange innocence in his eyes. Although he was dressed gorgeously and solemnly as an emperor, his body decorated with a sash inlaid with jewels and medals, he looked less like a majestic ruler and more like a delicate doll placed inside a glass music box¡ªbeautiful but lacking the gravitas of a monarch.


    An emperor without the aura of an emperor.


    He was the same age as Rafael and, by contemporary standards, still a young man who had only recently come of age. Sancha stood in front of the portrait, carefully studying her fiance?. She searched her not-so-distant memories for the time she had met Duke Franc?ois and compared the two. She found that the uncle and nephew bore a striking resemblance. ¡°His hair is similar to the golden fleece, although a bit lighter in color,¡± she remarked.


    Amandra chuckled. ¡°Then you should take a closer look at what he is offering to marry you. Let¡¯s see if it matches the value of the golden fleece.¡±

 Chapter 61: Emperor of Calais

    Rafael was also fortunate enough to take a look at that extravagant betrothal gift. Even he couldn¡¯t help but marvel at the generosity of the Emperor of Calais. It seemed that the young emperor had taken out everything he could within his authority, and his sincerity in marrying Sancha was undeniable.


    So, his current situation must be quite dire.


    This was Rafael¡¯s only thought after he finished reading the parchment.


    Duke Franc?ois has certainly been putting immense pressure on his young nephew. Rafael hadn¡¯t devoted much attention to the affairs of Calais, nor was he fully aware of the current state of the Calais court. However, judging by the offerings the young emperor had presented, it was clear that he was in desperate need of an ally to help him escape the oppression of his powerful, elder uncle.


    Since ancient times, the struggle for the throne has been a fight to the death. Franc?ois III of Calais passed away due to illness in 1075, and at that time, the young emperor Franc?ois IV was just seventeen years old. He was essentially the late emperor¡¯s child born in his old age, arriving when the emperor was nearly fifty. Naturally, he had two older brothers ahead of him, but these two strong and promising crown princes died one after another due to different reasons, and thus the crown of Calais inevitably fell to Franc?ois IV, who had never received any formal education in governance.


    The old emperor was worried about his young and inexperienced son possessing such a huge empire, so he appointed his most trusted brother as his son¡¯s chief regent. Thus, the Duke successfully grasped the supreme power of the empire.


    He had once fought alongside his brother, risking life and limb for his brother¡¯s country and throne. Otherwise, the cunning Francois III would never have handed over his trust to him so easily.


    But power and ambition can change a person.


    Clearly, the Duke was no longer content with merely being a steady support for his nephew. He wants more ¨C no, it should be said that even earlier, he had already been unable to suppress his greedy desires.


    Franc?ois IV was now twenty-three, well past the legal age for independent rule, yet the Duke showed no intention of relinquishing his regency, blatantly ignoring the calls to step down. Isn¡¯t the implication obvious?


    A duke who had been on the battlefield, had troops in his hands, was entrusted with power by the late king¡¯s will, was in his prime, and had extremely high prestige, compared with a young and inexperienced emperor. Calais was invisibly divided into two factions, fighting each other secretly.


    However, such struggles will never exist forever. As the little emperor grew older, as long as the duke failed to launch a successful coup, his chances of failure would only grow larger and larger.


    In Rafael¡¯s opinion, Francois¡¯s failure was already doomed the moment he didn¡¯t cut off the little crown prince¡¯s head immediately after the old emperor¡¯s death.


    He waited and waited, hesitated and hesitated, and finally allowed the little emperor to gain an ally in the Roman Empire.


    Therefore, to achieve great things, one must be quick and ruthless.


    Sancha accepted the marriage proposal. The next step was to set off for Calais to hold the engagement ceremony. Both sides quickly agreed on the location for the engagement ceremony. For safety reasons, the ceremony was chosen to be held at Cha?teau de Houssancourt on the border. This place was located on the border between Calais and Rome, equidistant from the two countries. It¡¯s clear that whoever chose this location racked their brains to find a place that perfectly balanced the interests of both nations.


    Letters between Perigo and Daudet were frequent. After the location was determined, Daudet quickly dispatched a large number of people to Houssancourt, and at the same time sent out invitations to the nobles to attend the ceremony. The entire capital of Calais was filled with a festive atmosphere ¨C of course, except for the place where Duke Francois lived.


    However, everyone knew that this silent battle for the throne had basically come to an end. The Crown Princess of Perigo would bring an unquestionable victory to the little emperor. The loser of the gamble would completely withdraw from this historical game. The only reason why the nobles hadn¡¯t rushed to throw stones at the drowning man was that there was still some time before this engaged couple officially tied the knot, and fate was never stingy in playing tricks on people.


    The dawn of the dust settling could already be seen, but the possibility of accidents could not be ignored.


    After all, there were so many wise and capable monarchs in history who died on the eve of victory. Who could guarantee that Francois IV won¡¯t be the unlucky one?


    The court architecture of Daudet is world-renowned. While Florence prefers to use alabaster and white marble to create a holy atmosphere, and the palace of Perigo favors a romantic and refined classical style, the monarchs of Daudet consistently pursue opulence. Calais is rich in resources, and the royal family even has gold and silver mines under its name, making their palaces astonishingly splendid. All members of the royal family seem to have a penchant for the extravagant pleasures reminiscent of ancient Roman nobility, even if it makes them appear quite decadent.


    Lights in the palace were burning day and night. All rooms and courtyards ¨C even the remote corners that the little emperor would never set foot in his life ¨C were lit with gasoline lamps day and night. They didn¡¯t care about waste, and took pride in such extravagance.


    In the central courtyard of the palace lies a massive garden maze, covering nearly a hundred acres. The paths within are so narrow that they can only allow two people to walk closely side by side. The hedges are dense and towering, making it impossible for anyone inside to see what lies beside them, let alone attempt to climb over, as the thorns entwined within will warn you of the consequences of underestimating them. The hedges also host many climbing plants that bloom into beautiful flowers, hiding the dangerous thorns beneath their delicate petals. The maze features elegantly designed fountains and sculptures, making it a marvelous work of art by day, combining fun and excitement. ra?O?bE?S


    But if someone were to wander into it at night...


    At the exit of the maze, a group of servants holding lanterns stood in silence, waiting. They stood motionless, like breathing statues, until the faint orange light from the maze swayed into view, enveloping the young man with half of his body covered in blood in a halo.


    The leader of the group shook out a cloak, stepped forward, and draped it over the young man¡¯s shoulders, bowing deeply. ¡°Your Majesty.¡±


    The young emperor tilted his head up, his snow-white face still wearing a gentle smile. There were still traces of blood that had not completely dried on his face, which made his smile particularly creepy. ¡°What is it? Did you find more of my uncle¡¯s spies? The game ends here for today. Let them stay in the dungeon for now.¡±


    ¡°No, Your Majesty. There are no more of the Duke¡¯s men in the palace at present. Its news from Houssancourt. The Princess of Perigo has set out, and she has also sent word that His Holiness the Pope will accompany her to Houssancourt to be a witness to your engagement ceremony.¡±


    ¡°Ah, so it¡¯s good news,¡± the young emperor narrowed his eyes, like a well-fed cat purring contentedly. His eyes were a light brown, but under the swaying lantern light, they occasionally took on a golden hue, like the pupils of a beast. ¡°My fiance?e is really considerate. This saves us the trouble of communicating with Florence¡ªa gentle, wise wife, who will also be the best queen for Calais, won¡¯t she?¡±


    The servant did not answer, but bowed his head even lower, expressing his silent reverence.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be nervous. After all, I¡¯m not some kind of demon. My dear uncle is bound to make a big move soon. I hope he acts swiftly¡ªI wouldn¡¯t want my queen to see anything she shouldn¡¯t. That would seriously affect our relationship as husband and wife¡ª¡± he said seriously, ¡°And I¡¯m not very patient when it comes to comforting girls.¡±


    He casually threw the hatchet in his hand to the ground, took the snow-white handkerchief handed over by the attendant, and wiped the blood stains on his face absently, walking towards the brightly lit palace. The entire luxurious and magnificent palace was silent at this moment. Only when its master stepped onto the stairs did the palace seem to come alive, as other sounds finally emerged.


    Rafael hadn¡¯t originally planned to go to Houssancourt, but... well, Lucrezia was clearly very curious about this matter. As a reward for the girl¡¯s obedience and diligence during this time, Rafael decided to change his plans and accompany Sancha¡¯s convoy on the journey to Houssancourt.


    A week after they set off for Houssancourt, Amandra led her army from Perigo, aiming to reach Assyria before the end of spring to quell the rebellion around Gonda.


    Before their departure, Rafael met Amandra in the garden. The queen was as radiant and wild as ever, her golden eagle pendant gleaming in the sunlight.


    ¡°...I¡¯m very glad to have met you in person. Although Sancha has told me how wonderful you are, as a mother, I can never truly feel at ease until I¡¯ve seen you with my own eyes,¡± Amandra said with a smile.


    ¡°And, although it¡¯s hard to believe, it is amazing how that bastard Delacroix actually managed to have a good child like you. It¡¯s truly astonishing. Your God is too kind to him,¡± the queen added with a teasing tone.


    Rafael couldn¡¯t help but ask, ¡°It sounds like he was quite a terrible person back then.¡±


    Amandra made a subtle expression. ¡°Terrible doesn¡¯t even begin to cover it. I¡¯d call him a wicked scoundrel, a morally corrupt teacher, a wretch even the devil would spit on¡ª¡±


    As she spoke, she couldn¡¯t help but laugh along with Rafael.


    ¡°But to think he had a child like you...¡± the queen sighed softly, her gaze lingering on Rafael¡¯s face as if she was seeing a distant old friend through him.


    Those were the years of her youth, her girlhood, the long-lost and forgotten years sealed away in a distant homeland.


    ¡°These years must have been hard for you, child,¡± Amandra reached out and gently touched Rafael¡¯s hair. Her gesture held no pity, simply like the touch of a mother to her child. ¡°You¡¯ve done very well. If I were your mother, I would be proud of you.¡±


    Her voice was low and gentle, and the fingers that brushed Rafael¡¯s forehead were rough but warm enough to bring tears to his eyes.


    The touch lasted only for a brief moment.


    ¡°Don¡¯t resent fate,¡± Amandra lowered her hand, her blue eyes fixed on Rafael. ¡°It has already given you everything it could.¡±


    Rafael watched as the queen¡¯s figure disappeared into the corner of the garden, feeling an inexplicable sense of loss.

 Chapter 62: Arrival

    Rafael once again heard the slow, distant chanting of a woman¡¯s voice in his dream. Waves pushed forward one after another, crashing against the foam suspended on the rocks. Raindrops pounded on the glass window, creating a high and low accompaniment. The ethereal and gentle singing echoed, causing him to sink deeper and deeper into the dream, as if descending to the most primitive beginning of life, into the warm amniotic fluid of a mother¡¯s womb, wrapped in silence and an eternal sense of security.


    All memories were cut into fragmented pieces floating up and down, forming an illogical ring circling around Rafael. He hugged his body with his arms, like a baby protecting itself in the womb. He didn¡¯t open his eyes to look at those shattered memories, but just kept sinking in the intoxicating and soothing song.


    Rafael had a rare good night¡¯s sleep, meaning he wasn¡¯t awakened by any nightmares in the middle of the night, nor was he disturbed by any sudden events outside. He slept soundly from ten o¡¯clock in the evening to six o¡¯clock in the morning, a full eight hours, absolutely perfect.


    Such sleep was a luxury for him, so much so that when he woke up, Rafael still felt the illusion of being held by the song and a swaying embrace. This made him too lazy to move, and he buried his face in the blanket, trying to hold onto the fleeting comfort. Unfortunately, the elusive song was like sand slipping through his fingers, quickly erased from his memory as soon as he became conscious.


    Ten minutes after he fully woke up, he had completely forgotten everything he had heard in the dream.


    ¡°It seems you had a good dream.¡±


    Lucrezia, who had just entered the room, was carrying a large tin jug filled with fresh, hot milk. The little girl was dressed in a cotton dress that reached her calves, with a lace apron tied around her waist. She had even wrapped her hair in a pristine white scarf, looking quite serious.


    The little girl, dressed as a maid, placed the milk pot on the carpet and lifted a corner of her skirt towards the pope on the bed, giving a wobbly curtsy: ¡°Good morning, Your Holiness. Today, your servant is Lucrezia.¡±


    Speaking these words clearly took all the shy little girl¡¯s strength. Her face flushed red, and her big eyes looked at the ground in a loss, until she heard a short, suppressed laugh from the young man on the bed.


    ¡°Alright, thank you, lovely Miss Lucrezia. Who came up with this idea today? Also, I must say I really liked your outfit yesterday.¡± Rafael got out of bed, his smooth robe swaying around his legs. He walked over, patted the little girl¡¯s head, and placed the milk jug on a table that was too high for Lucrezia to reach, then tapped the copper bell on the table.


    Lucrezia didn¡¯t hold any official title, but as the child who followed the Pope, she was tacitly acknowledged by everyone as His Holiness¡¯s adopted daughter. Coupled with her naturally endearing personality, the Papal guards and the monks and nuns showered her with affection. However, they soon noticed that the child was overly shy and introverted.


    This wasn¡¯t necessarily a bad thing. For a noblewoman, gentleness and obedience were the highest virtues expected of her. But Rafael didn¡¯t want Lucrezia to be so shy and reserved. At the very least, she needed to learn how to present herself confidently in front of others.


    It¡¯s unknown which fellow had come up with the idea of encouraging Lucrezia to play role-playing games, ostensibly to help the naive little girl interact with different types of people and naturally become more confident.


    Rafael was noncommittal about this playful exercise, but watching Lucrezia seriously take on different roles every day, he occasionally found it... quite amusing.


    Yesterday she was a knight, the day before a nun, and today a maid. He wondered what surprise she would bring tomorrow.


    At the age of twenty-three, Rafael was getting a taste of the joy that new fathers would experience centuries later.


    ¡°Yesterday¡¯s idea came from Sir Redrick,¡± the little girl answered promptly, always eager to share everything with the Pope she respected. ¡°And the sword was also a gift from Sir Redrick. He said it was once a treasure of Vitalian III, used to teach children swordsmanship. It even has the initials ¡®DA¡¯ of the previous owner engraved on it. I really like that font.¡±


    ¡°Is that so? You could try learning it. The nobles of Calais are quite fond of innovative fonts. I hear Franc?ois IV is a master calligrapher. If you get the chance, you could ask him for guidance. As Sancha¡¯s fiance?, he¡¯d probably be delighted to have such a lovely student like you.¡± Rafael remarked casually. Sancha adored Lucrezia. Perhaps because she had no siblings of her own, she showed great enthusiasm for the little girl Rafael raised by his side, wishing she could give Lucrezia all the good things she used when she was a child. Rafael was naturally happy to see this.


    They had arrived at Hawthorne Castle three days ago. A messenger from Calais had informed them that their emperor would take two more days to arrive, so the castle became Rafael and Sancha¡¯s domain. However, the small border town offered little in the way of entertainment. The vast forests and fields stretched as far as the eye could see, and the two spent their days idly riding out to camp and wander, passing the time and growing closer in the process.


    After having breakfast with Lucrezia, Rafael changed into more practical attire, fastening the buttons on his sleeves as he walked downstairs. Sure enough, Sancha, dressed in her riding outfit, was already waiting for him in the hall.


    Seeing him come down, the dashing princess grabbed the riding whip beside her and waved to him lightly: ¡°Hurry up, you didn¡¯t catch anything yesterday, you can¡¯t go back empty-handed again today, right?¡±


    The Pope, who wasn¡¯t particularly skilled at hunting, paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face.


    As expected of the extravagant style of the Calais royal family, the tent could easily be described as a mobile miniature castle, excessively luxurious, adorned with gold and red banners and ribbons everywhere. At the top stood a pure golden lion statue, and in front of the tent, they had even managed to carve out a small garden.


    Both Rafael and Sanxia¡¯s gazes lingered on the small garden for a moment. The flowers were packed tightly together, still glistening with fresh dew, clearly high-quality specimens cultivated in a greenhouse. Transplanted into this relatively crude garden, they gave off an oddly incongruous feeling.


    ¡°Your Holiness, Your Highness,¡± a young aide-de-camp came out of the tent and saluted them with a straight face. ¡°His Majesty, hearing of your arrival, is very pleased and has sent me to welcome you.¡±


    Rafael noticed that his clothes were extremely plain and simple, with only a golden tassel hanging on his chest and a few small medals below.


    Well-bred, a veteran of the battlefield, and around the same age as Franc?ois IV¡ªthis was likely one of the young emperor¡¯s close confidants.


    They followed the young man into the tent and took their seats one by one. After taking off his hood, Rafael suddenly frowned slightly¡ªhe had that feeling of being watched again. An unknown gaze fell on him, more oppressive than all the previous ones.


    Rafael moved his eyes imperceptibly. There was no one in the tent. The maidservants poured tea for the guests in an orderly manner before retreating, and no one acted out of line.


    The drooping curtain was lifted again, and a young man walked in with his head slightly lowered. He was tall, with thick, fluffy light brown long curls like a sheep¡¯s thick wool, draped softly on his back, adding a bit of harmlessness to his extremely handsome face. His light brown eyes, slightly rounded at the corners, gave him a harmless, almost deer-like appearance. Perhaps because he was still young, his face, which bore a strong resemblance to Duke Franc?ois, lacked the imposing majesty of his uncle. Instead, he seemed approachable, even a bit soft and unassuming.


    Seeing Rafael and Sancha, he smiled, his eyes quickly glancing over Sancha¡¯s face before retracting, a faint blush rising on his cheeks and behind his ears, like a young boy seeing his sweetheart, not knowing where to put his hands and feet, and could only look between Sancha and Rafael, stuttering, ¡°Welcome, Your Highness Sancha.¡±


    Before Sancha could respond, he hurriedly shifted his gaze to Rafael¡¯s face.


    This time he seemed much calmer. His light brown eyes curved, forming fox-like crescents on his pale face. His full lips curled into a smile, and the joy in his eyes was so intense that it was a bit uncomfortable, like a small animal seeing a trusted companion, trying to squeeze and rub against the other¡¯s soft fur: ¡°Welcome, Your Holiness.¡±


    Compared to his nervousness when greeting Sancha, his voice was now perfectly normal, the soft lilt at the end of his words clearly conveying his fondness for Rafael.


    ...A highly unguarded emperor. Rafael almost wanted to laugh or cry. The young man might as well have had ¡°I¡¯m an open book¡± written on his forehead. It was hard to understand how someone like him had managed to grow up under Duke Franc?ois¡¯s watch.


    ¡°Good day, Your Majesty. I hope we¡¯re not too late. We heard you encountered some trouble,¡± Rafael replied.


    The young emperor focused his gaze on his face. Rafael frowned very slightly. He didn¡¯t particularly like being stared at like this, but the little emperor seemed to notice his discomfort and quickly looked away.


    ¡°Of course, of course, it¡¯s not a big problem,¡± Francois looked at the patterns on the carpet, feeling his heart beat faster and faster. A dizzying intoxication and crazy joy collided in his brain. He had to use all his strength to restrain his disobedient hands and eyes, to restrain himself from breaking into an odd smile. His ears caught the faint tremor in his own voice as he spoke. ¡°...You¡¯re not late at all. In fact, I¡¯m very glad to see you... both at this moment.¡±


    The young emperor of Calais lowered his head, revealing the greedy smile of a hungry beast.


    Author¡¯s Note:


    The young emperor [hiding behind the tent, peeking]: Let me take a look at my future wife... Wife, hehehe... Wife...


    Rafael: [Who¡¯s watching me?] Creepy.


    Sancha: ...Is he serious about planting flowers here? Does he like gardening? Oh no, we might not have anything in common.

 Chapter 63: Sudden Confession

    Rafael felt that there was something off about the way Franc?ois looked at him, but having never been exposed to such emotions since childhood, even if he sensed something unusual about Franc?ois, he couldn¡¯t quite grasp what it was.


    Calais had meticulously prepared a banquet to entertain Rafael and Sancha. During the banquet, no one mentioned the assassination attempt on Franc?ois IV. Everyone was cheerful and lively, as if this was just a timely grand celebration.


    The next day, the Calais delegation set off and finally arrived at Hawthorne Castle safely. This time the journey was smooth without any unexpected incidents along the way.


    Nobles from both Calais and Rome had gathered in this remote town. The nearby castles and manors had already been claimed by the high-ranking nobles, leaving the lesser nobles to fend for themselves. Soon, a sea of tents surrounded Hawthorne Castle, with flags bearing various family crests fluttering in the wind. With Hawthorne Castle as the centre, the area around it was strictly divided into two distinct zones, with Calais and Rome clearly separated on each side. Rafael stood at the castle window, looking down at the scene, finding it particularly interesting.


    Though called a castle, compared to those built in prosperous areas, Hawthorne Castle was merely a shell of its former self. The walls, eroded by wind and frost, were covered in emerald green ivy. The grayish-white main structure was pockmarked, and the tower¡¯s top was noticeably damaged. All the windows had been recently replaced, and the sills were covered with velvet cloth but traces of mold could still be seen underneath.


    The servants had tried their best to decorate the place splendidly, but to Rafael, their efforts were like draping a skeleton infested with maggots with gorgeous brocade.


    Hawthorne Castle wasn¡¯t large, and the three most prominent figures each occupied a wing, resulting in the interior being divided into three distinct styles.


    The betrothal ceremony began and ended quickly. Neither Franc?ois nor Sancha wanted to delay the matter. All negotiations and probing had already taken place; now, they just needed to sign this document, which was more of an alliance than a marriage contract, to gain more leverage for their current ambitions.


    As the witness, Rafael naturally occupied the most important position.


    Compared to the lengthy betrothal letter that was more than ten feet long, the vow was only a few lines long, stating the identities and names of the betrothed couple as well as their promise to never betray each other under the witness of the Holy Lord.


    Franc?ois and Sancha signed their names on the parchment, followed by Rafael.


    The gilded quill felt cold in his hand. Rafael stared at the still-damp signatures of the betrothed couple above and signed his name in the witness section.


    As he put down the quill, the cannons outside Hawthorne Castle fired, and all the nobles in the room stood up, applauding and cheering, offering their sincere blessings to the newly betrothed couple. The nobles waiting outside the castle also erupted into enthusiastic smiles, congratulating each other. They had witnessed the birth of the world¡¯s most noble couple, and everyone¡¯s face bore a proud smile.


    Rafael left the joyous hall quietly and silently. The spotlight wasn¡¯t on him this time, and the Pope¡¯s departure didn¡¯t attract much attention. However, a pair of hazel eyes in the crowd followed him, silently watching as he disappeared through the door.


    On the open ground below the castle, a grand feast had been set up to celebrate the end of the betrothal ceremony. Rare and expensive ingredients had been transported here continuously for the past two days. Franc?ois IV seemed determined to host an unprecedented banquet here, and the surrounding villages all received gifts from the emperor. For the first time in their lives, the poor tasted white bread free of sand and bran, sizzling roasted meat, and sweet wine. Barrels of wine, mead, and fruit wine were delivered to every inhabited area, allowing people to drink freely.


    According to Sancha¡¯s estimate, the cost of gifting the surrounding villages alone amounted to tens of thousands of gold florins. When the Princess of Perigo mentioned this matter to Rafael in private, she winced in heartache.


    As a Roman princess, Sancha wasn¡¯t stingy with money. The rare treasures she owned were each worth a fortune. The birthday gifts she received from the nobles every year totaled hundreds of thousands of gold florins. However, Rome was currently mobilizing troops for the Assyrian campaign, and the long-distance expedition required massive military expenditures. Even the Roman court had tightened its belt to supply the front lines. With Amandra leading the army to Assyria, all logistics and funding were managed by Sancha, giving the princess a rare taste of the hardships of leadership.


    Rafael thought of Sancha¡¯s expression at that time and couldn¡¯t help but smile. This smile was like a flower floating in the water, which was soon washed away by the current. A hand holding a golden cup appeared before him, interrupting his thoughts.


    The blood-red wine swayed in the golden cup, reflecting a shimmering light. Rafael saw his own face reflected in the liquid, distorted and grotesque in the ripples.


    Rafael turned around and did not take the golden cup. He looked at the person who appeared here at this moment with a puzzled expression: ¡°Your Majesty? You should be downstairs receiving people¡¯s congratulations.¡±


    The lavishly dressed Franc?ois IV smiled shyly: ¡°I¡¯m not used to such environments... You¡¯re not participating either, are you?¡±


    The emperor, adorned with gold and silver ornaments according to Calais aesthetics, looked like a bug golden puppent. His thick, woolly hair cascaded down his back, and his soft, kind eyes exuded the pure innocence of a deer, unlike an emperor wielding great power at all.


    ¡°I¡¯m not the protagonist of this grand event,¡± Rafael said politely.


    ¡°You¡¯re so cold to me,¡± the young emperor sighed softly, his tone gentle. ¡°Yet you¡¯re so affectionate with those around you. My fiance?e is also very close to you. Have I done something to displease you?¡±


    Rafael frowned slightly and instinctively explained: ¡°Please don¡¯t misunderstand. I must solemnly declare that Sancha and I are just friends. She will be your most loyal wife, and I don¡¯t want my presence to cause any rift in the harmonious relationship between the two of you.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± but although Francois said such words, he didn¡¯t seem to be angry at all. Instead, he was inexplicably happy, ¡°I don¡¯t mind that, but you call her by her name, yet you still address me as ¡®Your Majesty.¡¯¡±


    The little emperor looked straight at Rafael, and the meaning was self-evident.


    Rafael was stunned for a moment, and the strange feeling in his heart grew stronger and stronger.


    The pale-faced young emperor took another small step forward, offering the golden cup to Rafael, his voice soft: ¡°When I was in Daudet, my teacher in religious studies mentioned you. Of course, as the Holy See of Florence, how could religious history overlook you?¡±


    Franc?ois leaned closer, breaching the normal social distance, the distance between them so close that they could almost feel each other¡¯s breath. Rafael¡¯s smile stiffened as he regarded the noble emperor coldly, who seemed oblivious to his hostility towards him: ¡°We were born in the same year.¡±


    His topic shifted rapidly, like a madman plucking scattered fragments of thought from their own world.


    ¡°...We¡¯re the same age, in similar situations... How interesting. I have an uncle who wishes I were dead, and you have a secretary who controls everything about you. We¡¯re both puppets in someone else¡¯s hands, forced to do their bidding. The emperor¡ªha! The supreme Pope!¡±


    He giggled, his pale cheeks flushing with a sickly red: ¡°Aren¡¯t we the same? I understand you, and you understand me. Though we¡¯ve never met before, in this world, I am you, and you are me! Everyone around us seeks fame and power from us. Hyenas circle the throne, our cups are always filled with poison, and a blade hangs over our beds¡ª¡±


    Rafael¡¯s expression changed abruptly at one of the statements, and he warned in a low voice: ¡°Your Majesty!¡±


    Franc?ois not only didn¡¯t stop but sped up, his soft, sticky tones blending together like thick paste, a snake¡¯s venomous tongue slithering into Rafael¡¯s ears: ¡°What are you afraid of? Don¡¯t be afraid, I won¡¯t hurt you. How could I hurt you... No one in this world loves you more than I do. From the moment I saw you, I knew our souls were the same.¡±


    Rafael¡¯s face changed completely. He took a step back, his entire body stiff as a statue. Shock, anger, and astonishment flashed through his light purple eyes. Franc?ois stared at him, the golden cup still held out, a hint of hurt in his eyes: ¡°You don¡¯t believe me?¡±


    This was the ramblings of a madman!


    The impact was so great that Rafael momentarily lost his ability to speak. He had never imagined that he would one day face such a situation¡ªhis good friend, the fiance? of his non-blood-related sister, declaring his love to him?!


    Not only were they of the same gender, but their positions were also highly sensitive¡ªone the Emperor of Calais, the other the Pope of Florence. In his extreme shock, Rafael even wondered if this was some absurd joke, and if Franc?ois IV would soon reveal a mischievous grin. If so, Rafael was willing to forgive his offense¡ªas long as he admitted that it was just a joke!


    But those light brown eyes continued to gaze at him with an overly devoted smile. At a certain angle, as the sunlight poured down, Franc?ois¡¯s light brown pupils seemed to be coated with a layer of gold, resembling the vertical pupils of a snake, filled with an inorganic, cold scrutiny. Rafael felt a chill run through his body, as if he had been marked as prey by a serpent slithering through the underbrush. The strange sensation of being entangled and licked by an unseen force made his head spin.


    ¡°You¡¯re drunk,¡± Rafael finally said coldly. ¡°You¡¯ve said some irrational things, and I didn¡¯t hear it clearly. I hope you¡¯ll think it over carefully once you¡¯re sober. Princess Sancha is still waiting for you downstairs, and the nobles of Calais and Rome are all eager to offer their blessings. Your uncle is also waiting for your return in Daudet¡ªstop drinking so much, Your Majesty.¡±


    He emphasized the last few words, reminding Franc?ois not to forget his identity.


    The young emperor looked at him, his pupils slightly dilated, like a fawn that had been kicked. A thin mist seemed to gather in his eyes. ¡°Oh dear, how could you be so cruel to me.¡±


    Rafael couldn¡¯t help but inhale sharply.


    Was there something wrong with Franc?ois IV¡¯s mind?


    ¡°No, I¡¯m not unwell. I¡¯m fine,¡± the young emperor¡¯s tone lifted cheerfully, as if he had heard Rafael¡¯s thoughts and smiled. The way he smiled was bizzare, his eyes curving strangely, every muscle in his face seemed to be strain too hard. The dark crescents of his smiling eyes on his pale face gave off an eerie, twisted feeling.


    ¡°Following Your Holiness¡¯s teachings, I am sincere, kind, honest, and helpful,¡± he laughed to himself, his gaze filled with undisguised infatuation as he looked at Rafael. ¡°I trust you as I trust myself. It doesn¡¯t matter if you don¡¯t believe me now, but you¡¯ll understand eventually. In this world, only we are alike. We are the same.¡±


    He raised his hand slightly, as if to touch Rafael, but the Pope took another step back. ¡°The betrothal ceremony is over, and my duty is done. I will leave Hawthorne tomorrow.¡±


    With that, Rafael quickly turned and left the corridor, leaving the emperor standing alone by the window, staring blankly at his retreating figure.


    ¡°...What a beautiful soul, the other half of myself in this world, my body lost in a foreign land, my brother, lover, companion...¡± Franc?ois muttered incoherently, suddenly breaking into a foolish laugh. He drained the cold wine from the golden cup, licking the remnants from his lips with the tip of his tongue, and carefully restrained his overly exaggerated smile, like a monster hiding himself little by little in the human skin.


    Rafael, having faced the greatest shock of his life, slumped into an armchair. He was accustomed to the evils of human nature and the intricacies of conspiracies, but something as bizarre and unsettling as Franc?ois¡¯s behavior was a first for him.


    He sincerely hoped that the young emperor was just having a mental breakdown and didn¡¯t actually harbor any unusual feelings for him.


    No, it wouldn¡¯t matter even if he did. Rafael had no prejudice against same-sex love. While religious doctrine often condemned such relationships to encourage procreation, Rafael didn¡¯t believe that suppressing same-sex love would boost birth rates. Ancient Rome had its famous Sacred Band, and same-sex relationships were a societal trend at the time. Even the tyrant Nero married a male empress. In short, Rafael didn¡¯t care whom Franc?ois loved.


    But the condition was that Franc?ois kept these outlandish thoughts to himself.


    Most noble marriages were open, and it was common for both partners to have their own lovers outside the marriage. Sancha was also prepared for this, as their union was primarily for political alliance and mutual support. The idea of love was laughable in such arrangements, but a third party with equal power and influence could never be involved.


    Just then, Leshert came to report on some matters. When he entered the room, he saw the Pope sitting by the fireplace, his expression grim. Even when Leshert approached, Rafael¡¯s furrowed brow didn¡¯t relax.


    ¡°Your Holiness, what¡¯s wrong?¡± Leshert walked over to the Pope, not taking a seat in the chair near to him. Instead, he subconsciously chose a position closer to the Pope, kneeling on one knee beside him, one hand resting on the arm of the Pope¡¯s chair¡ªa posture that was overly intimate. However, due to the knight¡¯s upright demeanor and protective gesture, Rafael didn¡¯t notice anything wrong at all.


    ¡°Nothing... it¡¯s nothing,¡± Rafael quickly denied.


    The words spoken by the Emperor of Calais could be considered a scandal of earth-shattering proportions. Even to Sancha, he couldn¡¯t reveal the truth.


    ¡°Actually, I was about to look for you. Prepare the team. We leave tomorrow, first to Perigo for rest, and then back to Florence,¡± the young Pope closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. His long golden hair fell against the back of the chair, and beneath his usually composed demeanor, his face looked somewhat weary.


    Leshert asked in surprise, ¡°So soon? The celebrations are supposed to last several days. Wouldn¡¯t leaving now be inappropriate?¡±


    Rafael gritted his teeth. ¡°...Don¡¯t worry about it. I¡¯ll explain it to Sancha.¡±


    Leshert noticed that he only mentioned Sancha and didn¡¯t mention the other party who would need a farewell. He tucked this observation away and nodded obediently. ¡°Understood. I¡¯ll make the preparations. You should rest well tonight.¡±


    Rafael didn¡¯t respond, lost in thought.


    Author¡¯s Note:


    Rafael was utterly terrified by the young emperor¡¯s confession, hahaha!


    He¡¯s never encountered such an exciting situation in both his lifetimes. The pure-hearted cat was completely furious.


    Also, take note of the premise of the young emperor¡¯s love at first sight¡ªhe had already heard of Rafael a long time ago!

 Chapter 64: Singing

    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 Franc?ois 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.


    Sancha picked up her teacup and blew on the steam, ¡°I heard that you and Francois had an unpleasant encounter this afternoon?¡±


    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¡ªwhether it was a test or something else, she would have chosen a more cautious way.


    ¡°Yes, your fiance? 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¡ªwhy 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 Franc?ois 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 Franc?ois III, focused on gaining greater power and answering only to the emperor. They were personally handed over to his son by Franc?ois 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.


    ¡ªTrash 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¡ª¡±


    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.

 Chapter 65: Rainstorm

    A storm swept through the entire Port Doga, with leaden, heavy clouds pressing down on the sky. The rain was heavy and cold, like soft, icy molten iron crashing down on everything it could invade. Everyone in Port Doga was fleeing in panic, trying to find shelter as quickly as possible to keep this malevolent gift from the heavens at bay.


    The owner of the Iron Anchor Tavern slammed the heavy oak door shut, the dull brass hinges groaning and creaking in protest. The bearded owner spat on the ground in frustration, cursing the wretched weather and the damned brass hinges. He jumped away from the door where rainwater was seeping in and moved to the window, gazing out at the dark, chaotic docks.


    Magnificent ships stood tall on the dock, like giants reaching the sky. They sat securely on the water in the midst of the storm, as if the raging sea was nothing more than a mother¡¯s gentle cradle, and they were the lazy infants within.


    The endless row of ships had all furled their massive sails, their heavy iron anchors and chains securing them in place. Sailors ran frantically across the slippery decks, shouting hoarsely at each other over the short distances, using every available rope to secure anything that was shaking violently in the storm. It was no easy task; every sway of the massive ships was a deadly threat to them. One misstep, and they would be swept into the sea, ending their unfortunate and short lives.


    Most of the sailors were bare-chested, wearing only woolen trousers tucked into standard-issue leather boots, which finally gave them the distinctive look of soldiers. The royal banner of Rome had been lowered before the storm arrived. This vanguard of the expeditionary force was temporarily blocked in Port Doga by the great storm, waiting for a clear day to come.


    The commander of the vanguard was also on board. The lead ship was larger and seemed more stable than the others, but this could not completely prevent the ship from swaying. Everything in the cabin was fastened to the floor and walls with nails or ropes. Even in the most spacious and luxurious quarters, there were no fragile ornaments, despite it being the residence of the Queen Mother of Rome and the Queen of Assyria.


    But Amandra didn¡¯t care about that.


    The Queen had changed out of her cumbersome and ornate gown, wearing army-standard tight woolen trousers and a short jacket, her trousers neatly tucked into long leather boots. A belt cinched her shirt at the waist, and she wore no extra jewelry except for a golden stripe on the collar and cuffs of her clothes, signifying her noble status.


    She sat upright at her desk, the slight swaying of the ground preventing her from writing steadily. In fact, she was not in the mood to write at the moment. The incessant heavy rain beat against the narrow windows, and the noisy sounds made the Queen extremely irritable. This irritability even prevented her from noticing someone entering the room at first.


    ¡°Your Majesty,¡± said the woman who entered, She had features similar to Amandra¡¯s, though her appearance was far plainer compared to Amandra¡¯s striking, wild beauty.


    ¡°Ashur,¡± Amandra softly called out the name of her most trusted lady-in-waiting, her cousin by blood.


    ¡°The experienced sailors say the storm will pass by tomorrow afternoon. We can set the sails fuller and make up for the time lost in the port,¡± Ashur said, using careful words to comfort her cousin.


    ¡°Yes, yes, I know. This is beyond human control,¡± Amandra said noncommittally to her lady-in-waiting¡¯s reassurance.


    ¡°Amandra,¡± Ashur, who had accompanied her cousin from Assyria to Rome, called out softly, using the name that had long been buried under various noble titles. Her voice was soft and hoarse, carrying an unspoken sorrow. ¡°You¡¯ve done more than enough.¡±


    Amandra, hearing this familiar yet distant name, was momentarily dazed.


    Since she left Assyria, over the years, no one had called her by that name with such tenderness and intimacy. ¡®Amandra¡¯ had died, replaced by ¡®Queen¡¯ in the mouth of Lav XI, ¡®Her Majesty the Queen Mother¡¯ to the people of Rome, ¡®Her Majesty the Queen¡¯ to the Assyrians, and ¡®Mother¡¯ to Sancha. She was everyone¡¯s queen, the crowned one, but no longer the Amandra who once ran freely across the plains of Assyria.


    ¡°My God, how long has it been since I last heard that name?¡± The Queen tried to smile, but the expression faded before it fully formed. ¡°No one has called me that since the day I left Assyria.¡±


    Ashur looked at her cousin with sadness. She knelt by Amandra¡¯s chair, gently placing her hands on Amandra¡¯s knees, touching the protruding bones beneath her palms. Outwardly, Amandra had a well-proportioned and tall figure, and the thinness under her clothes was completely hidden. A woman who carried the weight of two empires on her shoulders was not as carefree as she appeared. The vast responsibilities and the passage of time had nearly crushed her, yet when she stood before others, no one could see her weariness.


    Amandra had left Assyria at the age of eighteen to marry into Rome. The Assyrian royal bloodline had dwindled, forcing Amandra to bring her maternal cousin Ashur with her. Over the long years in the Roman Empire, the loyal ladies-in-waiting who had accompanied her had either died or scattered, leaving only Ashur silently by her side.


    ¡°I always think of that incident, Ashur, every time it rains.¡± Only with her cousin could Amandra occasionally revert to the girl who once galloped across the Assyrian plains. ¡°The biggest mistake of my life, the one that made me taste betrayal and loss.¡±


    Ashur sadly stroked her cousin¡¯s knees, trying to warm her with the heat of her palms, but her hands were cold, and she could warm no one.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t your fault,¡± Ashur was like Amandra¡¯s shadow. She rarely spoke in public, and even Sancha had little interaction with this loyal lady-in-waiting of her mother. Only in private, when she was alone with the queen, did she come alive, like a person infused with vitality. ¡°We all know it wasn¡¯t your fault, and you¡¯ve already made him pay the price.¡±


    Amandra stared silently at the pouring rain outside the window, placing her hand on her cousin¡¯s hand, her expression cold. ¡°But that¡¯s far from enough. Death can¡¯t make him atone for his crimes. And mistakes... can never be undone.¡±


    Ashur shivered. The Queen¡¯s hand was colder than hers, like eternal, unyielding ice.


    ¡°...Send the people in Florence to Rafael when the time is right. Delacroix probably didn¡¯t tell him when he died,¡± Amandra said.


    ¡°Yes... Indeed, Rafael was still in Florence when Vitalian III was assassinated. But those people were with Vitalian III at the time. Julius Portia might have noticed¡ªhe¡¯s a sharp man,¡± Ashur said softly.


    Amandra sneered silently. ¡°Maybe he knows, but he would never say it. He¡¯s a rational and cold-blooded creature of power. Why would he do something that would increase his enemy¡¯s bargaining chips? Deals and negotiation are what we¡¯re all familiar with.¡±


    Ashur said nothing, and Amandra fell silent as well. The two middle-aged sisters looked out at the vast rain and wind outside the window. Beyond the ocean was their long-lost homeland, the vast and boundless continent, a land of snow-capped mountains, lakes, and eternal bonfires under the night sky.


    Similar to Port Doga thousands of miles away, Florence was also experiencing a rainstorm.


    Every dog and rat was scurrying for shelter in the torrential rain, trying to find a roof to hide under. The sewers were overflowing, bringing up a pungent stench, with suspicious solids floating in the water. The gas pipelines were flooded, plunging half the city back to the era of wood and candle lighting of a century ago. Of course, the upper city where the nobles lived would never encounter such a situation.


    The Florence Theater was still brightly lit, with the rain and cold wind unable to penetrate the magnificent palace. Exquisitely carved gas lamps worked diligently every few steps along the walls, decorating the entire theater with dazzling brilliance.


    Nobles arrived in carriages from all directions, stepping inside with dignified grace. Towering wigs and jewel-encrusted gowns shimmered under the crystal chandeliers. They chatted and laughed loudly, exchanging gossip about others. But someone with sharp eyes spotted a figure walking along the second-floor corridor, covering the lower half of her face with a feather fan. ¡°Is that Lord Portia?¡±


    Her companion followed the direction of the fan and saw only a shadow disappearing through an arched doorway. However, the distinctive iron-gray hair and tall, upright figure left no doubt. She nodded without hesitation. ¡°It is Lord Portia¡ªwhy is he here today? He¡¯s been staying at the Papal Palace since His Holiness returned to Florence a few days ago.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps... His Holiness is here too,¡± the speaker said casually, making a joke. After all, everyone knew that His Holiness rarely went out and never went to crowded places. But to their surprise, Rafael was indeed sitting in a box on the second floor of the theater at that moment.


    Julius¡¯s exclusive box was very private, with an excellent view, allowing him to survey the entire theater without being noticed. Rafael sat in a soft chair, gazing at the stage, his mind racing with thoughts about the reconstruction of the city¡¯s drainage system. Florence¡¯s sewer system dated back to the Roman era, so ancient that it could be sent to a museum as a treasure, but it was still struggling to operate, which was a testament to the durability of Roman engineering¡ªand the laziness and poverty of Florence¡¯s successive rulers.


    Rafael didn¡¯t intend to push this mess onto the next Pope. With Florence currently stable and peaceful, he planned to seize the opportunity to tear open the ground and overhaul the crumbling pipes. His confidence stemmed largely from the wealth confiscated from the lords, Julius¡¯s formidable efficiency, and the ample manpower now at his disposal.


    Speaking of manpower, he might as well stuff Tondolo under Julius¡¯s command to help with the digging. Even a useless person could do this kind of work. He hoped Tondolo wouldn¡¯t let him down.


    Thinking of this, Rafael¡¯s thoughts turned to his conversation with Count Tondolo that day. He had been taken to Tondolo Palace by Tondolo on the first day of his return. The Count had indeed given him a small box, with old Tondolo¡¯s signature and the wax seal of Vitalian III. The box was small, with an iron lock, and didn¡¯t seem to have been opened.


    Tondolo had given the box to Rafael, but Rafael had been very busy these past few days and had no desire to explore his father¡¯s affairs. He casually tossed the box aside and hadn¡¯t had time to open it.


    Should he take a look tonight?


    Rafael mused idly, taking a sip of the warm wine on the table. The mulled wine with cloves, nutmeg, and pepper was spicy but could dispel the chill from the rain. But Rafael wasn¡¯t used to such strong flavors. After one sip, he had the wine removed and replaced with a smoother mead.


    The door to the box opened, but instead of a servant, it was Julius, cloaked and dripping wet, who entered carrying the mead.


    The Secretary General¡¯s cloak was dripping wet, obviously just coming in from outside.


    He placed the mead on the table beside Rafael¡¯s hand, took off his cloak and threw it on the embroidered carpet. The ends of his iron-gray long hair were damp, clinging to his skin. He ignored his disheveled hair, raised his hand to take off his glasses, wiped the water droplets with a handkerchief, and placed them back on the bridge of his nose. Then he settled into the plush chair.


    The series of movements was natural and smooth, and by the time he looked up, a steaming cup of mead had been placed in front of him.


    Rafael was putting down the wine jug in his hand, leaning back in his chair. ¡°How¡¯s the situation in the lower city?¡±


    Julius didn¡¯t beat around the bush, his tone crisp. ¡°Terrible.¡±


    He didn¡¯t elaborate, but Rafael, having lived there for so long, understood well enough.


    ¡°Have Tondolo lead a team to block the sewer outlets. At least prevent the lower districts from flooding. Clear out the drowned livestock and find a way to hold out until the weather clears. Start construction immediately. Then tell Astasinia to prepare for disease control. Funds can be drawn from the Papal Palace first, and the city can reimburse later...¡±


    Seeing Rafael fully immersed in government matters, Julius¡¯s eyes flickered with a hint of helplessness. ¡°Rafa, we¡¯re not short on time. Let the actors finish this act.¡±


    Rafael was stunned for a moment, and then smiled, visibly relaxing a lot. ¡°Alright.¡±


    The young Pope turned his gaze to the stage where the curtain was slowly rising, not seeing Julius looking at him with a complex expression.


    The emotions in those deep purple eyes surged like the tide. Even the most brilliant psychologist would not be able to tell what Julius was feeling at the moment.


    Yet he simply gazed quietly at Rafael¡¯s profile, just as he had done so many times before.


    The play being performed at the Florence Theater today was still ¡°The Birth of Bacchus.¡± This play, which had become popular in Florence, was sweeping through all the cities of the Papal States with unstoppable momentum. And in the city where it was born, the Florence Theater would perform it in its entirety every Thursday night.


    Julius hadn¡¯t realized they¡¯d coincidentally arrived on its performance night¡ªhe had just temporarily decided to pull Rafael out for a break.


    The Secretary-General smiled faintly, a touch of bitterness in his expression.


    Previous


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 Chapter 66: Secret Kiss

    ¡°The guardian of eternal reason,


    Drives his celestial chariot,


    Chasing the sun as it rises in the east and sets in the west,


    His radiance illuminates the earth,


    All things revive with his arrival...¡±


    The actor¡¯s loud recitation opened the second act of the play. The Sun God of Reason and Order drove his celestial chariot across the sky, passing by the garden of the gods, where he caught sight of a budding rose. Intrigued by this never-before-seen flower, he decided to investigate it further that night.


    In the box on the second floor, Rafael listened to the actors¡¯ singing absentmindedly. The surrounding temperature was a bit high, but it was just right for him. He reclined in the soft and comfortable Roman-style armchair. The spiced wine and mead he had just drunk began to take effect, flowing warmly through his veins, driving away the cold and damp air from his body, and warming every drop of blood, making him feel so soft and comfortable that he seemed to melt into a ball of cotton.


    The loud and clear singing slid past his ears, turning into a lullaby-like tune that lulled him to sleep. Rafael listened drowsily, propping his head up. He hadn¡¯t been this relaxed in a long time. The fatigue from working non-stop since returning to Florence surged up all at once. The warm surroundings, the calming spices, the soothing wine, and the presence of someone he trusted allowed him to unconsciously relax. His eyelids felt heavy, as if tiny hooks were pulling them down.


    He was struggling against his sleepiness when a warm hand gently covered his eyes. A man¡¯s deep, hoarse voice became the final weight in this one-sided battle: ¡°Sleep, I¡¯ll wake you.¡±


    Rafael mumbled, ¡°If there are any new developments in the lower city, be sure to wake me.¡±


    He thought he had spoken clearly, but in fact, he couldn¡¯t even finish the sentence under the haze of sleep. Julius only heard him hum like a kitten twice, and then those pale purple eyes, watery with sleepiness, closed. His long eyelashes brushed against his palm, leaving a trembling itch on his skin.


    Julius didn¡¯t withdraw his hand. His other hand still held the gloves he had removed. He leaned forward, casting a large shadow over Rafael. His deep purple eyes swirled with obscure, cold light.


    ¡°...This nameless flower!


    Why were you born?


    I have never seen such a spirit,


    You will surely steal the love of the gods,


    This frightens me


    ,


    The enemy of irrationality threatens me,


    Robbing me of my former wisdom...¡±


    The song rose with the wind, spiraling up in the open hall. The Sun God, wearing a golden laurel wreath, held a golden bow and sang passionately. His perfect singing did not, however, impress his investor. Julius was not even listening to his voice at this moment.


    The Secretary-General of the Papal Palace lowered his eyes, quietly gazing at the person sleeping peacefully under his hand¡ªhis student, his blood-related nephew, his master, his...


    The sleeping youth was oblivious to the outside world. The god of sleep had captured this beautiful butterfly, tenderly ensnaring him in his web, leaving his unclaimed body to rest in the mortal world, thus giving the vile voyeur an opportunity.


    ¡°...The water nymphs beg for my love,


    The beauty holding the golden apple


    ,


    Wishes to offer me her fragrant kiss,


    I cast aside fervent love like worn-out shoes,


    And now fate teaches me what retribution is!¡±


    Julius straightened his back, still keeping his hand over Rafael¡¯s eyes, shielding him from the bright light. His breathing was momentarily disturbed. No one could tell what he was thinking at this moment.


    Perhaps it was the scattered sycamore leaves in the Florence Seminary. He used to walk aimlessly with Rafael on that path, teaching Rafael simple Latin, occasionally resting his hand on the boy¡¯s head¡ªback then, Rafael had just been brought back from the slums, thin and scrawny like a reed. To rid him of lice, his light golden hair had been cut short and uneven, almost growing close to his scalp, and his hair was coated with medicine that had a strange smell.


    He was an unlikable child, no one would love him. He was thin, shriveled, and even somewhat ugly. When he walked beside the tall and handsome Julius, everyone casted complex and disgusted glances at him.


    An ugly duckling, a rough stone, a piece of rubble.


    And then he grew into what he is now.


    His light golden hair was like silk, his figure slender, his face as beautiful as a saint. He had so many people who loved him, all of Florence sang the name of Pope Sistine I. They loved him as they loved the great Lord.


    But who would still love him after seeing that scrawny, withered child? Who would love him knowing the great deeds he would accomplish in the future? Who would love him before everything began, before time was recorded in history?


    Who would climb up that desolate fortress to recite a poem for him? Who would brave into the endless desolation in the wilderness and the cold wind to find him?


    ¡°You love my handsome face,


    You love my boundless achievements,


    You love my strong body,


    You love my abundant wealth


    ,¡°


    Julius suddenly remembered the years when Rafael was exiled. Cantrella Castle was a few hours away from Florence in the distant suburbs, and further on, you could even see the faint shadow of the ocean. As the son once highly regarded by Vitalian III, Rafael had participated in drafting the religious reform decree, yet without the protection of the Portia surname, everyone saw him as a thorn in their side.


    At that time, Rafael was only eighteen years old.


    Julius, in the storm following Vitalian III¡¯s sudden death, struggled to steer the massive ship of the Borgia family. Every day, he engaged in heated debates with the elders and dealt with the inquiries from the Church. So many people wanted Rafael dead, and it seemed that he was the only one in the world trying to protect this young man who had lost all support.


    But whenever he arrived at Cantrella Castle under the stars, quietly climbing up the dilapidated tower to see the flickering flame and saw the person in the light hugging his knees and waiting for him, he suddenly felt that everything still had a bit of meaning.


    They talked softly about poetry and literature, drawing dry inspiration from the yellowed pages of philosophy. They discussed the political situation in Florence, and no one but Rafael could keep up with Julius¡¯s thoughts.


    This was his protected rose, his polished gem, the star he held in his hand, the person he had raised and educated, the person who had the same resonant thoughts and soul as him. His cousin had entrusted this helpless child to him before his death, and from then on, Rafael belonged to Julius.


    He loved Rafael as he would his own child, willing to give him the best of everything. For this, he went to great lengths to bring Rafael back to Florence and bought him the throne of Saint Leah. It was a staggering amount of wealth, but Julius didn¡¯t care.


    Yet, this rose, this bird, was finally about to fly away.


    The Secretary-General of the Papal Palace¡¯s straight back bent slightly, as if in extreme pain, yet unable to cry out. The blade of fate was about to cut open his soul, tearing away the other half. How could he fight against it?


    ¡ªHe didn¡¯t even understand when this happened.


    When had the love begun, and when had the departure started?


    Only when Rafael was asleep could he touch him so gently.


    Julius silently watched the young Pope. The unspoken pain was like magma, scaldingly washing over his ribs, threatening to burst out of his chest in one go, but his face was calm as usual, and no one could see the turmoil in his emotions at that moment.


    In the long silence, the singing on the stage reached its climax.


    ¡°Hear me!


    God of Reason and Order!


    Love shall strip you of your authority,


    It is the world¡¯s most potent poison,


    A brew of disorder, chaos, and morbidity!


    Stay away from it,


    That nameless flower!


    The garden of the gods is filled with fragrance,


    Why long for this mortal love?¡±


    The actor¡¯s singing, accompanied by the grandeur of the pipe organ, soared higher and higher. The crystal chandeliers trembled in resonance with the music, each note striking the eardrums like a sword piercing through the heart, making the audience empathize with the goddess¡¯s warning.


    ¡°It shall send you to eternal ruin,


    Strip you of the reason you pride yourself on,


    Plunge you into an unknowable abyss,


    And shroud your radiance in darkness!¡±


    Julius could no longer hear the subsequent singing. He bent down, pressing his slightly cold lips against Rafael¡¯s.


    The young Pope remained asleep, his breathing calm and steady, undisturbed by this mad act.


    This was an immoral act, and Julius knew it clearly.


    The person he coveted was the monarch of Florence, the Pope who had sworn to renounce all worldly love, serving the Holy Lord with a pure body and devout soul. He was also his blood-related nephew, a man of the same sex as him.


    Yet, he could no longer care.


    His gloved hand gently pressed against Rafael¡¯s lips and cheeks. The potent spiced wine had made Rafael fall into a peaceful dream. Not only did he not wake up, but he also drowsily leaned into Julius¡¯s palm, like a kitten seeking warmth, chasing the heat of a human body. This made it easier for the Secretary General to kiss him.


    He kissed him lightly, lovingly across his lips, the tip of his tongue tentatively touching his lips.


    ¡°The sovereign of all creation,


    The supreme Reason and Order!


    All things in the world must rise up,


    Mourning your fall!


    What shall be born from the ashes of your soul?


    A new god,


    The champion of madness and joy!


    The pursuer of life¡¯s pleasures!


    O gods,


    We have witnessed the birth of Bacchus!¡±


    The intense and high pitched singing, accompanied by the infinitely grand accompaniment, stirred the emotions of everyone present. Everyone was concentrating on mourning the fall of the Sun God for love. No one knew that in this corner of the second-floor box, a kiss more thrilling than the play was quietly taking place.


    Julius¡¯s hand remained steadily covering Rafael¡¯s eyes. Only when the other¡¯s breathing began to quicken slightly did he end this stolen intimacy. A faint sheen of moisture lingered on Rafael¡¯s lips, and Julius gently wiped it away with his free hand. He sat up straight, his expression calm, neatly tucking away all the surging, twisted, and boiling emotions deep within himself, sealing them tightly.


    Half an hour later, Rafael slowly awoke. Julius noticed his awakening immediately, moving his hand away and putting on his gloves as he asked, ¡°Do you want to rest for a while? The performance isn¡¯t over yet.¡±


    His face was calm as usual, without any sign of abnormality.


    When he chose to disguise himself, no one could detect Julius Portia¡¯s flaws¡ªunless they caught him in the act of his crime.


    Rafael lazily sat up, accepting the floral tea Julius handed him. He blew away the steam at the rim of the cup and took a few sips, his lowered eyelids hiding all his thoughts.


    ¡ªAs if he had truly just woken up.


    Under Julius¡¯s careful teaching, Rafael, like Julius, had the ability to hide himself so that others could never see through him unless he wanted them to.


    Even if his heart was surging at the moment, he could still lie there peacefully for half an hour, and then wake up as if nothing had happened.


    The play on stage had reached its end. The paragon of absolute reason and order had died for that flower, and the God of Wine, symbol of revelry and joy, born from the Sun God¡¯s remains, symbolized the ultimate tragedy and comedy, leaving the audience both weeping and laughing. All attention was firmly captured by the performance on the stage, except for the two people in the box at the moment.


    They were all staring at the stage intently, but neither of them had their minds on the stage.


    When the stage curtain fell, Rafael stood up and said goodbye to Julius. Ferrante was standing at the door, with Rafael¡¯s cloak in his arm. When he saw him coming out, he immediately put it on him.


    Julius stood there watching Rafael walk away. The hem of the light golden cloak billowed like golden waves on the dark red carpet, dazzling like a blooming flower.


    The Secretary General smiled silently, taking off his silver-rimmed glasses, and wiping them gently. The iron gray hair fell beside his cheeks, casting a faint gray shadow on his face, hiding his deep purple eyes in the interplay of light and shadow.


    ¡ªRafa, I once taught you that avoidance is the most useless move.


    He put his glasses back on, looking towards the now-empty corridor.


    ¡ªBut you always choose to avoid me.


    Rafael walked faster and faster, almost rushing into the carriage waiting at the foot of the steps. He didn¡¯t even wait for the flustered servant trying to hold an umbrella for him. Once Ferrante also boarded the carriage, he urgently tapped the carriage wall, signaling the coachman to depart immediately, as if some ferocious beast were chasing him.


    Ferrante frowned tightly. He didn¡¯t know what happened in the theater. He had been in the lower district completing His Holiness¡¯s tasks and had only rushed over afterward to escort the Pope back to the papal palace. But it seemed that something had quietly occurred in his absence. Perhaps it was his professional habit, but this feeling of being kept in the dark made him extremely uncomfortable¡ªespecially since it concerned His Holiness. ¡°What¡¯s wrong? Is it related to Lord Portia?¡±


    Ferrante¡¯s intuition was indeed sharp.


    Rafael immediately denied it: ¡°No, it has nothing to do with him.¡±


    Lie.


    Ferrante silently refuted in his heart.


    He had interrogated many people and extracted information from countless mouths. Detecting lies was his specialty. How could he not recognize such an obvious falsehood?


    But he didn¡¯t expose it, because the one telling the lie was His Holiness.


    He would always believe every word His Holiness said, whether it was a lie or not.


    ¡°I was thinking about the flood in the lower district. This matter will be handed over to Tondolo. Find two people to keep an eye on him,¡± Rafael said.


    ¡°Understood.¡± After a moment of silence, the wolfhound with long black hair smiled and obediently accepted Rafael¡¯s explanation.


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 Chapter 67: Decaying Mystery

    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.


    The Arbitration Bureau established by Rafael had already developed to a certain scale under Ferrante¡¯s hands. A vast intelligence network, spread through merchant caravans and fleets, extended into various nations. An organization bound by faith had, in a very short time, amassed a large number of informants. Some of them didn¡¯t even know what they were doing or whom they served, but in the churches, they would always tell the priests in the confessional everything without reservation.


    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¡ªRafael 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¡ªhe 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¡ªah! 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 ¨C 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¡ªwhich 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¡ªeven if this was now an unspoken secret between them¡ªthat 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¡ªthe 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 ¨C 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¡ªno 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¡ªperhaps 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¡ªI 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¡ªan 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.


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¨C


    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¡ª¡±


    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¡ªthe 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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 Chapter 68: Murder and Deception

    ¡°...A person¡¯s life is always filled with many mistakes. The years I spent listening to confessions in the confessional were enough for me to recognize the weakness and folly of human will. They make many seemingly incomprehensible wrong choices, then at the crossroads of fate, they steadfastly choose the wrong path and continue down it without ever looking back.


    ¡°No one can avoid making mistakes forever. Vast wealth, lofty status, and prominent positions can minimize the probability of error, but conversely, once those who possess these things make a mistake, that mistake will be unimaginably profound.


    ¡°In my youth, I only understood the former truth. By the time I understood the latter, it was already too late...¡±


    ¡°Delacroix, my dearest friend in this life, as life approaches its end, I dare to sincerely affirm that no one will ever replace his position in my life. Even now, I must say this: I would have given my life for him¡ªperhaps the cruelty of fate lies in this, that I actually murdered the friend for whom I would have laid down my life for. My God, it feels like some wretched, tasteless joke.¡±


    ¡°If someone had told me in my youth that I would betray Delacroix, I would have undoubtedly hung them from the city hall gates without hesitation. But... it suddenly occurs to me that over twenty years ago, I lost even the right to rage over such things. Holy Lord, the sinner before You now repents. Agony gnaws at my heart day and night¡ªI am nearly crushed by guilt. Let me go to hell. How could a vile, despicable wretch like me share the same afterlife as my friend?¡±


    There were dried water stains on the paper, resembling tears.


    ¡°If this letter is to be considered a statement from a sinner, it might serve as evidence in court. I considered destroying everything, but in the end, I hesitated. Just as every night is followed by dawn, my crimes, too, will inevitably come to light one day. Rather than leave others to speculate, I decided to write this confession myself.¡±


    ¡°The motive for this murder was very simple. Lav XI promised me certain things¡ªthough one could just as easily interpret it as a threat. It was for the sake of my family and my children. Let me emphasize: I personally gained no benefit from this¡ªno wealth or power could ever outweigh Delacroix¡¯s worth. Although it¡¯s absurd to say this at this point, my only goal was to protect all members of the Tondolo family. Whether the reader believes this or not matters little. But I digress. In the end, I agreed to nurture this conspiracy, festering with corruption from its very inception.¡±


    ¡°Lav XI had been bedridden for several years. Based on the information I gathered, what brought him to this state was clearly not some ridiculous family hereditary disease. His queen, even if by my assessment, was a remarkable woman. Adding chronic poison to his diet would not have been difficult for her. Although this couple had long reached a point of mutual antagonism, I heard that Lav XI even forbade his wife and her ladies-in-waiting from approaching his chambers, his decrees were clearly ineffective.¡±


    ¡°Omitting the bitter history of this couple¡¯s struggles, it is a past that is far too complex. My friend played an indispensable role in it. Perhaps at the end of his life, unable to prevent Amandra from seizing Roman power, Lav XI began to seek revenge that was many years overdue. I was not a witness to all of this and can only offer crude guesses.¡±


    ¡°As Lav XI¡¯s health deteriorated, the struggle for the Roman succession had entered a fierce stage. Lav XI seemed to refuse to hand over the throne to his daughter born to Amandra. His hatred for his wife had extended to his child. Personally, I believe the child was blameless, but by all accounts, his only legitimate heir faced harsh treatment in the Roman court.¡±


    ¡°And Delacroix¡ªmy righteous, loyal friend¡ªapparently agreed to Amandra¡¯s request to travel to Rome and push for amendments to the succession laws. This, undoubtedly, became the spark for Lav XI¡¯s revenge. I tried to dissuade Delacroix from going, but perhaps my insistence was too fervent, tipping him off to something amiss. My friend had always been perceptive¡ªhad our friendship not clouded his judgment, he might have... In the end, he refused to heed my advice.¡±


    ¡°I hid that Roman assassin in my carriage. How much my friend trusted me! He carefully identified and screened everyone in the team¡ªit seems he was not completely unaware of Lav XI¡¯s hatred, but he never suspected me.¡±


    Years earlier, on that fateful night in a border town between Rome and the Papal States, the papal convoy was a day away from crossing the frontier. Cardinal Tondolo, still vigorous then, sat silently in his carriage, watching the assassin polish a short blade before coating it with a viscous green liquid.


    ¡°What is that?¡± the Cardinal asked softly.


    ¡°Belladonna,¡± the Roman assassin pronounced the word in somewhat stiff Latin.


    A deadly poison that could kill with a single drop. No one could escape its hunt. These small fruits looked very similar to currants, easy to pick and collect. Assassins liked these round little fruits very much, affectionately calling them ¡°the kiss of death.¡±


    The Cardinal¡¯s body involuntarily trembled when he heard the evil word, silently clenching the thorny wings beneath his robes.


    ¡°You are a Cardinal,¡± he didn¡¯t speak, but the assassin spoke first, ¡°I would like to confess¡ªthis is my habit before every job. In the past, I would find a nearby church, but some priests couldn¡¯t even recite the scriptures clearly.¡±


    Cardinal Tondolo choked, asking with difficulty, ¡°You... are a believer?¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± the assassin nodded matter-of-factly.


    ¡°Do you know who your target is?¡± Cardinal Tondolo confirmed once more.


    ¡°Of course,¡± this time the assassin¡¯s eyes looked like he was looking at a madman.


    The Cardinal¡¯s mind fell into chaos.


    A devout assassin, confessing to a Cardinal¡ªhis accomplice¡ªbefore murdering the Pope, seeking absolution from the Holy Lord?


    But he said nothing more. The assassin earnestly confessed to Cardinal Tondolo, then looked at the Cardinal with those emotionless eyes. The person being watched slowly reached out and touched the other¡¯s forehead, the familiar words he had spoken thousands of times seeming to catch in his throat, making him feel suffocated.


    But in the end, he still uttered those two words.


    ¡°Ego te absolvo.¡± (I absolve you.)


    The assassin picked up the dagger from the table and tucked it into his clothes. The Cardinal sat there, knowing that this dagger would soon pierce the chest of his dearest friend¡ªor perhaps his throat. If he stepped out now, he could still fulfill his old vow: to shield his friend, let that venomous steel sink into his own flesh instead. If he shouted now, if he¡ª


    Countless scenarios frantically raced through his brain. In the end, only his own words, ¡°I absolve you,¡± echoed repeatedly in his mind, turning into a booming thunder.


    This sound covered all his hearing until, ten minutes later, the curtain of his carriage was lifted by a panicked servant, and he vaguely realized that it was not just his hallucination, but that his surroundings had already fallen into chaos.


    ¡°An assassin¡ªthere¡¯s an assassin¡ªHis Holiness is injured¡ª¡±


    The servant¡¯s face was deathly pale as he reported to his master inside the carriage, ¡°His Holiness has been assassinated, he has already...¡±


    The Cardinal, who had been sitting upright in the carriage like a wooden statue, suddenly stood up. The servant helped him stumble out of the carriage. Illuminated by the torches outside, the servant belatedly realized that his master¡¯s face was already covered in tears.


    This discovery caused him to be somewhat careless. The Cardinal he was supporting almost tripped over a tree branch on the ground. The servant hurriedly apologized, but the Cardinal forcefully grabbed his arm, his voice hoarse and strange.


    ¡°I absolve you.¡±


    Somehow, the servant heard something in those two simple words that made his hair stand on end.


    ¡°Delacroix is dead. My friend is dead¡ªmy comrade in ideals, my childhood confidant, my playmate from youth, my companion in travels across the lands... murdered by my hand on the night of September 18th, 1074, at 10:20 PM. The weapons that killed him were a Roman-made dagger and belladonna.¡±


    ¡°Before this murder occurred, I absolved the killer.¡±


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª¡ª


    The city gates of Gonda were tightly shut. The walls were constructed from large blocks of pale yellow rock, abundant in the mountains near Gonda. This rock was lustrous, hard, and massive, requiring gunpowder to blast it open. Then, quarry workers would tirelessly hammer and chisel it day and night, transporting the extracted stones on minecarts to build the wall that encircled the entire city of Gonda.


    Amandra reined in her horse, gazing from afar at the winding city walls. This was a place she knew intimately. She had grown up here. Her father had seen her off at the city gate when she married. When she returned again, she was coldly rejected by her own home.


    A smile, devoid of any discernible emotion, curled the corner of the Queen¡¯s lips.


    She wore very simple armor, only covering a few vital points. Her right hand hung down, the tip of her two-meter-long beheading sword dragging on the ground. The fierce cold weapon reflected the cold light of the sun, mirroring the vast army behind her, as if a pack of wolves were baring their fangs at Gonda.


    The battering ram slowly pushed towards the bottom of the city walls. Stones soaked in sulfur and oil in the catapults were lit. With a sharp whistle, boulders carrying scorching flames flew towards the top of the wall, blossoms of blood erupting where they landed. The sheer momentum sent bodies flying, screams ringing out as a dozen lives were extinguished in an instant.


    As the mechanically driven battering ram moved forward tirelessly, the Roman army also began to advance. Amandra felt somewhat dazed. For a brief moment, she couldn¡¯t even distinguish who she was. An Assyrian? But she was leading the Roman army to attack the city of Gonda. A Roman? But even she herself was unwilling to admit it.


    She suddenly recalled the negotiations with the High Priest before the siege. He was an old man on the verge of death. When she was stilll a girl, the High Priest had taken her hunting in the forest. At that time, the High Priest was in his strongest middle age.


    It was a negotiation that ended in discord.


    Amandra was certain that she was trying hard to persuade the High Priest, but the old man remained silent, merely listening.


    He demanded that Amandra renounce the Assyrian crown, give up her rule over Assyria, or sever ties with Rome.


    ¡°Assyria needs a devout and independent monarch, not a queen who governs another nation. You haven¡¯t returned for twenty years, Amandra. You have been gone for too long. Your people no longer recognize you.¡±


    The High Priest spoke in a hoarse, aged voice. His gaze pierced through the tent, as if he could see the Roman soldiers outside: ¡°You bring the Romans to Assyria, claiming it is for Assyria¡¯s unification and independence... what difference is there between your actions and invasion?¡±


    Amandra felt a chill run through her. ¡°You¡ªwhat do you mean by this?! I am the Queen of Assyria. Assyria can no longer rely on its own strength to restore peace. I¡¯ve gone to great lengths to secure allies! And you accuse me of invading... my own country?¡±


    She almost laughed at the absurdity.


    But the High Priest did not laugh.


    The old man¡¯s drooping eyelids did not move, like an extremely weary old wolf. He held the scepter he had carved from the roots of an ancient tree, his posture regal and cold. ¡°Assyria does not need allies! Under the protection of the Eternal Sky, we gallop across the grasslands and snow-capped mountains. We are the children of nature, the children of the sky! Assyria has always been independent and free. We do not need the help of other countries, nor do we deign to accept it. We can solve all our problems ourselves.¡±


    Amandra¡¯s face was grim. ¡°We can¡¯t! Otherwise, why has Assyria been in chaos for so many years?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps we can¡¯t,¡± the High Priest surprisingly did not strongly insist on his point of view. He said calmly and coldly, ¡°But the Eternal Sky will send a hero¡ªjust as your ancestor Chieftain Bairaetu united Assyria and passed the royal bloodline to you. Someone will rise. And he will be Assyrian.¡±


    Amandra stared at him, already realizing what the High Priest was about to say next.


    Sure enough, after a moment of pause, the old man asked calmly, ¡°Amandra, you left Assyria over twenty years ago. You married in Rome, bore children, ruled its people. You are Rome¡¯s wife now¡ªno longer Assyria¡¯s daughter.¡±


    The High Priest slowly stood up. Despite his old age, his movements were still steady. ¡°Go back, child. Let Assyria solve its own problems. Your home is on the other side of the Black Sea.¡±


    Her own country had rejected her return, declaring that she no longer belonged there.


    After the negotiations broke down, Amandra decided to lead the troops herself. A betrayed queen, commanding a foreign army to storm her own capital¡ªit was a farce from start to finish. Yet this was the reality she faced.


    Wasn¡¯t her departure from Assyria to Rome initially to exchange for peace in Assyria? Now that the Roman threat to Assyria was lifted, the High Priest could righteously erase all her sacrifices. They had never seen her struggles in Rome, nor cared for the years she and Sancha had given. Since when did the world reward loyalty with such ingratitude?


    What was hers would remain hers.


    If need be, she would become the next Bairaetu herself.


    The gates, shattered by the ram, collapsed inward. The waiting defenders surged forward in formation. Amanra lowered her body, clinging to her horse¡¯s back. With a squeeze of her legs, the steed shot out like a sharp arrow flying close to the ground, the beheading sword drawing brilliant sparks on the ground, followed by the equally fierce Roman soldiers behind her.


    The High Priest, standing on the city wall, his old eyes blurred, could no longer see the specific details, but he still caught sight of the figure charging ahead at the very front.


    ¡°Is that her?¡±


    The priest beside him replied, ¡°It¡¯s Amandra¡ªshe looks the same as before.¡±


    ¡°The same as before...¡± the High Priest said softly, ¡°I still remember when she was young, how beautiful she was, the daughter of Assyria, the pearl of Gonda. She went to fight in place of her father. People called her the Warrior Princess. She had a scar under her eye, left from the Battle of the Port.¡±


    The figure charging ahead on the battlefield clashed with the troops pouring out of the city gate, and immediately large sprays of blood erupted, staining the sandy ground red.


    The High Priest said nothing more. He silently gazed in that direction, his expression sorrowful and solemn. Soldiers hurried past him. Everyone who recognized him showed a devout and respectful look, striking their chests in salute.


    ¡°The Warrior Princess of Assyria, in the end, still pointed her blade at the Assyrians. Perhaps we should never have agreed to that marriage alliance with Rome.¡± His words were barely audible. ¡°...Better she had died in battle as an Assyrian.¡±


    This question was destined to remain unanswered. The High Priest did not seek an answer. The past could not be undone. They were all prisoners of fate, driven forward by its unrelenting tide.


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 Chapter 69: Ferrantes Realisation

    Rafael swiftly scanned all the contents of the leather-bound notebook. Only a little over half an hour had passed since he woke up. The hour hand of the grandfather clock accurately pointed to the vine-like Roman numeral eleven, and the dim light stretched the Pope¡¯s shadow endlessly across the carpet.


    A secret murder buried for many years, a feast of vengeance woven from blood, hatred, and betrayal¡ªthe prize being the life of a Pope and the delayed amendment of a royal succession law.


    Rafael tossed the thin notebook back into the box, suddenly losing the desire to explore anything else. He felt a sense of weariness, the cause of which was unknown, spreading from the depths of his body like a tide, submerging his bones and thoughts.


    It had only been a little over a year since he gained a new life, but the dark fire of revenge that had burned in his body had already dried up.


    Rafael had never given up seeking the truth, but as he delved deeper and deeper into the past, the more those rotting memories clung to him like the muck of a swamp, slowly suffocating him.


    Sometimes... Rafael wondered if it might not be so bad to live like his previous self¡ªan oblivious puppet, doing as he pleased.


    For example, right now, he suddenly thought of the vineyard estate in the countryside. In previous years, he would take a month off to vacation at the vineyard, leaving all matters to Julius.


    However¡ªRafael couldn¡¯t help but wonder, did Julius know the truth about Delacroix¡¯s death? Tondolo still firmly occupied his position of cardinal after Delacroix¡¯s death. Who had supported him behind the scenes? Besides the network that Lav XI had buried in Florence, who else was involved in this secret murder, balancing the power and bloodshed on the scales?


    Once his thoughts started running, they galloped uncontrollably. Clever people always had this habit of overthinking, and they also liked to be suspicious. Rafael had to admit that he himself was synonymous with suspicion and the desire for control, especially after dying once. He wanted to dissect every person around him, turning them inside out until he understood them completely.


    ¡ªSo, it seemed that his previous fantasy of being a comfortable puppet Pope was just a self-amusing reverie.


    Such suspicion was endless and meaningless, Rafael knew this very well, so he forcibly stopped his thoughts and casually opened the two letters in the box, with Lav XI¡¯s name signed at the bottom¡ªit seemed that Cardinal Tondolo didn¡¯t trust this mastermind that much either.


    He had kept the two most important letters from his correspondence with Lav XI, which stated the plan to assassinate Pope Vitalian III in not-so-veiled words.


    Clearly, Lav XI was very confident in his accomplice. This unspeakable conspiracy gave the two a solid foundation of trust. The letters also bore Lav XI¡¯s private seal, but he obviously didn¡¯t expect Tondolo to preserve such damning evidence¡ªsomething that served him no benefit at all.


    If these two letters were made public, then Lav XI¡¯s name would be eternally tarnished, and the Roman Empire would become the target of hatred for all believers. The Papal States could easily launch a holy war of revenge against Rome, dragging this vast empire into the abyss of disintegration¡ªif Rafael was willing.


    Rafael stuffed the letters back into the envelopes, and wearily closed the box. There was still a parchment scroll inside, but he was in no mood to open it now.


    Betrayal, murder, poison, and daggers¡ªthese words sounded terrifyingly familiar.


    Rafael propped his forehead with his fingers, staring at the intricate patterns on the desk. His mind was unprecedentedly blank, like a newborn baby staring blankly ahead, until a long-lost drowsiness gently embraced him.


    Ferrante, with his hands tucked into his sleeves, walked into the Pope¡¯s suite softly and silently before the morning bells of Florence began to ring for prayer. His deep blue eyes were slightly lowered, clearly somewhat distracted, otherwise he would have noticed the figure slumped on the desk at the first moment.


    However, his reaction was only delayed by a mere two seconds.


    ¡°Hmm?¡± The youth with many terrifying titles made a surprised murmur from his throat. He pulled out the hand tucked under his wide sleeve, every nerve in his body tensed. He rushed forward in three strides and, relying on his superb professional skills, realized that his Holy Father had not suffered any misfortune but had simply fallen asleep.


    But, why here?


    Ferrante didn¡¯t wake the Holy Father but stealthily crept to the four-poster bed and reached out to touch the quilt.


    Cold, without a trace of warmth.


    Clearly, the Holy Father had already gotten up, or perhaps he hadn¡¯t slept at all?


    Ferrante frowned. He was a little angry, a nameless and inexplicable anger, perhaps partly directed at himself.


    ...In the future, he would have to come regularly to check on the Holy Father¡¯s sleep.


    The leader of the Arbitration Bureau returned to the Pope¡¯s side, looking slightly troubled as he watched His Holiness still in deep sleep.


    Sleeping in this position was very bad for the body, especially since the Holy Father¡¯s health wasn¡¯t very good to begin with. But Ferrante also knew that the Pope¡¯s sleep quality had always been terrible, probably because he had too many things to think about and deal with. It was rare for the Pope to get a full night¡¯s sleep, and it was even rarer for him to get this close without being awakened.


    So, should he wake His Holiness?


    Ferrante struggled painfully. If he woke him, according to the Holy Father¡¯s personality, he would definitely get up and work directly. If he didn¡¯t wake him, the Holy Father might wake up feeling pain all over...


    The head of the Arbitration Bureau was in a dilemma.


    As he deeply pondered this century-old problem, the morning bells suddenly rang loudly. Ferrante was startled and, without time to think more, subconsciously reached out and covered Rafael¡¯s ears.


    Only after completing this series of actions did he belatedly realize how foolish his behavior was.


    But it was too late to withdraw his hand.


    Ferrante half-bent over, stiffly maintained this posture, his gaze sliding down to see Rafael¡¯s peacefully closed eyes. His long eyelashes gently cast a faint shadow on his lower eyelids. His light golden hair was somewhat disheveled, spilled across his neck¡ªa few tangled around Ferrante¡¯s fingers like a gilded net, capturing a butterfly with fluttering wings.


    His heart began to beat wildly. Ferrante suspected that the sound of his heartbeat at this moment was loud enough for everyone in Florence to hear. He tried hard to stay quiet, but even though he held his breath, he still sadly and helplessly heard his own arrogant heartbeat.


    Unable to help it, Ferrante¡¯s gaze uncontrollably traced the elegant curve of Rafael¡¯s pale neck. The rounded collar of the Pope¡¯s sleep robe revealed just enough¡ªthe smooth line of his throat, the subtle dip of his collarbones¡ª


    Ferrante¡¯s gaze lingered for a split second before he jerked away.


    Unlike the excessively nai?ve Leshert, Ferrante¡¯s upbringing was extremely harsh. Moreover, since he was born in the Rose Garden, Ferrante had grown up exposed to all kinds of desires from a young age. Under such constant influence, no one knew better than him what these dark and subtle thoughts and actions represented.


    His wildly pounding heart stopped instantly, as if facing the most terrifying scene in the world.


    He¡ªhow could he possibly harbor such thoughts toward His Holiness?!


    This was impossible¡ªthis shouldn¡¯t¡ª


    All sorts of amorous thoughts were washed away. Ferrante tried to convince himself that this was just an accident, but he knew better than anyone what his thoughts just now meant.


    Rafael had saved him, dragged him out of the muddy world, given him a new life, and become his only spiritual pillar and guiding light, a perfect, noble existence. How many people wished to get close to Rafael, and yet such a person had focused his gaze on him¡ªwho could remain unmoved by such favor?


    There were far too many reasons for Ferrante to fall in love with Rafael¡ªenough to form a raging flood that would obliterate any feeble excuse to resist.


    And besides, Ferrante had never been one to follow the rules.


    How could a conventional person survive in the mire of the lower city?


    The young man, barely into his youth, possessed a lithe, tall physique and outstanding appearance. He lowered his eyes, his deep blue irises perfectly reflecting the person sleeping soundly on the desk.


    Unrestrainedly, meticulously, he gazed at Rafael inch by inch.


    The hand covering Rafael¡¯s ear remained as steady as ever. To protect the Pope, Ferrante and his subordinates had learned martial arts that leaned towards the secrecy of assassins, emphasizing concealment, lethal strikes, and extreme patience and stability. No matter how intense and crazy his thoughts were at this moment, his hand remained motionless.


    Rafael was awakened entirely by the soreness in his neck. The muscles in his neck, due to the incorrect sleeping posture, stubbornly began to assert their presence. Rafael painfully opened his eyes and met Ferrante¡¯s deep, sea blue eyes.


    ¡°Ferrante?¡± The Pope murmured the name of his trusted subordinate, who then offered him a dependent smile.


    ¡°Why did you fall asleep here?¡± Ferrante¡¯s tone held a hint of gentle reproach. Rafael did not answer him because of his guilty conscience and the pain in his neck. Then, he felt a warm hand press down forcefully on the aching muscles.


    The extreme soreness mixed with the ease of being kneaded, carried by the nerves in his spine, surged all the way into his brain. Before his reason could react, his senses had already responded. The corners of Rafael¡¯s eyes instantly turned red from the overly complex sensation, a thin layer of tears coated his eyes, and a low whimper escaped his throat, only to be swallowed back, turning into a choked sob.


    The young Pope subconsciously wanted to avoid the hand, but Ferrante stepped forward, his hands pressing down on him with irresistible force. One hand loosely circled Rafael¡¯s body, drawing him closer, while the other hand continued to steadily knead his shoulders and neck, his tone carrying a hint of almost imperceptible amusement. ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid, Rafael, it will be better soon, otherwise you¡¯ll feel uncomfortable all day.¡±


    Rafael was very ticklish, so he also resisted others touching his waist and the hollows of his neck, as even a light touch was unbearable. Now, suddenly being kneaded by Ferrante, it felt as if a shy stray cat had been firmly grabbed by the scruff of its neck, unable to escape, only able to tremble as it was held in his arms. He didn¡¯t even notice Ferrante¡¯s form of address.


    No, he had noticed it, but he didn¡¯t have the mental energy to analyze the change now. He just vaguely thought that he had allowed Ferrante to call him by his name before, but Ferrante had always refused. Why had he suddenly changed now?


    This thought was quickly washed away by the tidal wave of soreness and numbness. Colorful fireworks exploded in his mind. Rafael suppressed the frequency of his breathing, involuntarily clutching the corner of Ferrante¡¯s clothes, like an insecure fluffy little animal desperately burrowing into Ferrante¡¯s arms, as if trying to dig a hole that would allow him to escape on the spot, completely disappearing into Ferrante¡¯s palm.


    The young man with black curly hair lowered his eyes, looking at the Pope trembling and curled up in his arms. He had to manually pull him out, casually stroking the other¡¯s soft long hair twice. When he met those reddened pale purple eyes, Ferrante¡¯s breath hitched very lightly for a moment, and then he smiled. ¡°Don¡¯t you like this kind of massage? I learned it from Doctor Polly.¡±


    Rafael used all his strength not to scream out in embarrassment. He blinked, clearing the moisture that obscured his vision, his voice trembling. ¡°No... I¡¯m just not used to it.¡±


    ¡°Ah... then you can get used to it by trying it a few more times.¡± Ferrante said the words that sent shivers down Rafael¡¯s spine in the most harmless tone.


    The Pope almost jumped out of his chair, but Ferrante gently stopped him, simultaneously changing the subject. ¡°I noticed your quilt is cold. You wouldn¡¯t have slept like this all night, would you?¡±


    This topic made Rafael feel guilty and short of breath again. Ferrante said softly, ¡°Doctor Polly said that you need a comfortable sleep. If I see this again next time, I will report to Doctor Polly¡ªuntil then, I will visit you periodically to check on your sleep.¡±


    His words made Rafael¡¯s face change repeatedly, but the guilty Pope ultimately didn¡¯t refute him, only feeling a faint unease in his heart. Ferrante had always cared about him, but had he been this forceful before? Or was he particularly angry today?


    Harboring such doubts, Rafael finished his morning prayers and breakfast. Reports on the flooding in the lower city of Florence were piled high on his desk. Many of them had been compiled and organized by Ferrante¡¯s subordinates, and the situation was more comprehensive than what Julius had gathered. After all, the Secretary of State wouldn¡¯t have beggar informants from the lower city, while Ferrante...


    Rafael had heard that Ferrante was recently trying to categorize his informants by profession. He already had groups of thieves, beggars, prostitutes, small workshop owners, and so on. Illegal activities in Florence were constantly being suppressed, and if Ferrante could keep them in his grasp, Rafael felt it wasn¡¯t a bad thing.


    Ferrante was also very careful in doing this. Unlike the official guilds, the informants he controlled regarded him as a broker in some gray area, which made it easier for him to obtain information. Therefore, Ferrante was very careful about maintaining confidentiality. If those people knew they were providing information to the Papal Palace, they would definitely burrow back into their lairs like rats at the arrival of daylight and never appear before Ferrante again.


    But there were also some clever people vaguely realized something. Ferrante welcomed such clever people to work with him. As long as desire existed, he could skillfully keep them in his grasp.


    ¡°Count Tondolo is currently quite dutiful and has diligently completed the tasks assigned to him,¡± Ferrante said casually.


    Hearing this surname, Rafael¡¯s eyelashes trembled slightly, but he said nothing, just nodded, his tone steady. ¡°Then give him more tasks. I don¡¯t treat those who can work badly.¡±


    Ferrante hesitated for a moment, pulled a roll of paper from his sleeve, and spread it on Rafael¡¯s desk. ¡°My men have discovered that recently, someone in the lower city has been buying children between the ages of six and ten. After investigation, they were found in Cardinal Lombardi¡¯s estate.¡±


    Rafael stopped writing and stared at the list in front of him. ¡°What does he want to do?¡±


    Ferrante licked his lips. In fact, during the time between being chosen by the Holy Grail Church to go to the Papal Palace, he had also lived in Cardinal Lombardi¡¯s estate. He knew very well that if Rafael hadn¡¯t chosen him back then, he would have become a knife in Cardinal Lombardi¡¯s hand, and these children were clearly a reflection of his other possible fate. ¡°Perhaps... training them to become his private guards.¡±


    Although he used uncertain words, his tone was certain.


    Rafael sensed something from Ferrante¡¯s tone, raised his eyes and met Ferrante¡¯s gaze for a moment. The cold iciness in his pale purple pupils slowly melted into gentle water. He gently patted Ferrante¡¯s hand on the desk, saying nothing, but Ferrante¡¯s heart miraculously relaxed.


    ¡°The laws of the Papal States do not explicitly prohibit the trade of people, but with such quantity... and with his position as cardinal... what is he planning to do? Could his popularity have deteriorated to the point where he would have his head cut off with a dinner knife if he didn¡¯t have guards surrounding him while he ate?¡± Rafael frowned, ironically sarcastic, looking somewhat weary.


    ¡°Inform Julius about this. He¡¯s good at handling this. Return the children to their families. If they have nowhere to go, place them in the monasteries under the Papal Palace.¡±


    Ferrante accepted the order, watching Rafael pull over a piece of memo paper and quickly and hastily write a few lines, then stamp it with his private seal. ¡°Remember to remind me when you have time. Lombardi has been sitting in that cardinal¡¯s seat long enough. It¡¯s time for someone else to take it¡ªthere are plenty of people who want to exchange their robes for a red one.¡±


    The position of cardinal was always for life, but... how could the Pope be wrong?


    Ferrante¡¯s lips curled up slightly. ¡°I will remember.¡±


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 Chapter 70: Steam Armor

    The fierce battle outside the city of Gonda has entered its fourth day.


    From the second day onwards, the soldiers involved in the battle had already become consumed by bloodlust. Morality and humanity were irrelevant; everyone in the maelstrom of war was treated equally, their individual thoughts erased, becoming cogs in this meat grinder. The only thought ingrained in their minds was to eliminate every enemy in sight.


    This was no longer war, but a bloody massacre.


    The only difference was that neither side held an absolute advantage, dragging the carnage out indefinitely.


    But all slaughters must eventually end, either when the last man of one side falls, or when a weight heavy enough to tip the scales appears on the battlefield.


    Amandra returned to camp, dragging her blood-soaked longsword. The hilt of the sword was covered in layers of blood and sticky, shredded flesh, a bizarre sensation of being wet and dry, like an old, clotted sponge soaked and swollen.


    ¡°How is it on the Cholakh side?¡± The queen was covered in blood and dust, her long hair, coiled in a vine-like crown, was filthy, indistinguishable from every other soldier around her. Yet, her blue eyes gleamed with a burning intensity that was impossible to look at directly.


    Ashur calmly took the queen¡¯s longsword. The heavy blade seemed weightless in her hands. The reserved chief lady-in-waiting softly replied, ¡°The battle report from Cholakh City arrived an hour ago. Your vanguard has beheaded the traitors, and Cholakh has sworn allegiance to you.¡±


    Amandra¡¯s lips curved upward. ¡°And what about Ponler?¡±


    Ashur shook her head. ¡°No news has come from Ponler City yet; it seems to be in a stalemate there.¡±


    Amandra frowned, pulling off her soaked gloves and throwing them to the ground. She strode to the huge sand table terrain map in the center of the tent, propping her hands on the edge of the table, her gaze sweeping over it.


    With Gonda as the center, Cholakh and Ponler were located on either side of the royal city. These two cities guarded the critical passages to other regions, forming an unbreakable triad¡ªa fortress that forced any who coveted Assyria to think twice.


    For the past few days, Amandra had been madly throwing lives into the meat grinder of Gonds to tie down Gonda¡¯s main forces, preventing reinforcements from reaching Cholakh and Ponler. And Ponler, a city of industry and machinery known only to Assyrian nobles, concealed vast mineral resources and weaponry. Even if it couldn¡¯t be conquered, besieging Ponler to prevent it from supporting Gonda was essential.


    Gonda¡¯s royal army possessed Assyria¡¯s most elite combat capabilities. As a princess who had personally led this army into battle and now as queen, Amandra knew this all too well. If the royal army broke through the blockade and linked up with Ponler, she would lose any chance of turning the tide of this war.


    ¡°Gonda has launched its eleventh breakthrough attempt!¡± a dust-covered soldier stumbled in to report, blood oozing from his chapped lips.


    Amandra casually pushed her cup on the table aside. It still held half a cup of tea she hadn¡¯t had time to drink when she last returned. Ashur understood, picked up the cup of water, and offered it to the extremely thirsty soldier.


    The soldier paused, as if not quite registering what was happening, then, at Ashur¡¯s silent urging, took the cup and greedily, yet carefully, drank all the tea inside.


    Watching him drag his weary body back to the battlefield, Ashur returned with the cup. ¡°...He still looks like a child.¡±


    Amandra didn¡¯t look up, saying coldly, ¡°There are no children on the battlefield. No one will give up killing their enemy because of their age.¡±


    Ashur hesitated, glanced at Amandra, and then walked away helplessly.


    Amandra knew perfectly well that wasn¡¯t what she wanted to say, but...


    The queen didn¡¯t stay in the tent for long. Almost immediately after the soldier left, she held her longsword, which Ashur had briefly cleaned, and mounted her horse again.


    The next time she returned here would be three hours later, when Roman¡¯s last batch of reinforcements, having crossed the mountains, would arrive in Gonda.


    They brought the final contingent of soldiers, and the resources Amandra urgently needed, and most importantly¡ªtwelve steam light armors and hundreds of heavy armors.


    Assyrian warriors were born for slaughter. The vast plains gifted them speed and strength beyond ordinary men; their primal worship of beasts honed their instincts¡ªthe cunning of wolves, the ferocity of lions, the agility of leopards. Unlike the Romans and Calais, Assyrians were taller and more robust. A hand cannon that required two men to carry elsewhere, they could drag alone. The weight of armor meant nothing to them. When they roared behind their massive oak shields, advancing like an unbreakable tide, the earth itself seemed to tremble.


    Many within the Roman vanguard were literally crushed to death by such shield formations.


    The Romans¡¯ physical strength couldn¡¯t match the Assyrians. They couldn¡¯t break through the shields, their spears couldn¡¯t pierce through their thick armor, and while their officers¡¯ mechanical guns could penetrate through wood, their shields were also wrapped in iron, causing gunpowder to get stuck, making progress impossible...


    Infantry battles was a devastatingly one-sided affair. If not for Roman¡¯s skilled cavalry and abundant reserves of gunpowder weapons, Amandra would have found it difficult to bring the battle to its current fifty-fifty stalemate.


    However, this deadlock would soon end.


    Physical might is insignificant in the face of absolute firepower.


    The greatest¡ªand cruelest¡ªinvention in human history: steam-powered armor. Driven by a core of pressurized steam, its segments interlocked with gears and cables, moving as one seamless entity. Lighter than standard arm yet terrifyingly agile, a soldier clad in it could match the speed of a galloping warhorse, and as long as they held a weapon¡ªbe it the most ordinary blade or gun¡ªwho could escape their slaughter?


    The steam light armor was the iron sword of the Bronze Age, the flintlock of the Silver Age; it was a killing weapon that transcended its era.


    When Sancha allied with the newly crowned Raphael, among the gifts secretly given to him by Rome were two steam light armor power cores. He handed these two power cores to Leshert for reverse engineering and reassembly. As the giver, Rome naturally had more.


    But this device was extremely expensive; each steam light armor cost as much as a temporary palace. Even for a great empire like Rome, only twenty-six units were currently in service.


    And Amandra had transferred twelve of them to the Assyrian battlefield.


    ¡°Eternal Sky... will you condemn your daughter as a monster?¡± The queen reined in her horse, turning it around. She watched a group of mechanics in uniform moving in and out of her royal tent behind her. The gushing steam rose like clouds into the sky, mixed with an immense, undeniable heat that assaulted her, making her skin feel a dense, prickling sensation.


    The queen¡¯s muttered words were unheard by anyone but herself, just as her inner pain and struggle remained unknown. Soldiers and guards could only see the queen standing there with a cold and stern expression, her back and head proudly straight in a line. Nothing could destroy her unwavering belief in victory for this war.


    The plumes of steam erupting here were so obvious that people on the distant city wall also saw them. Gonda¡¯s city gate had been breached by Rome¡¯s attack at midnight on the first day. The tug-of-war between the two sides unfolded around the city gate, one side desperately trying to rush in, the other desperately pushing out those who had entered. Bodies piled up like mountains beneath the city wall, Assyrian and Roman soldiers intertwined like twisted vines, their limbs mixed together. Only for two hours each evening did they tacitly halt the fighting to retrieve the bodies of their comrades.


    An Assyrian soldier on the city wall saw the cloud-like steam rising from behind the royal tent. He knew who commanded it: the Queen of Assyria, nominally his sovereign.


    Yet, his queen was leading the armies of other nations to attack Assyria¡¯s royal city, and he was desperately resisting the queen¡¯s army, even aiming to kill her on this battlefield.


    Even for the lowest-ranking soldier, he felt this situation exceeded the limits of his comprehension.


    However, this was the High Priest¡¯s command.


    The High Priest, listening to the voice of the Eternal Sky, declared that Assyria would no longer accept Queen Amandra¡¯s rule. They would have a new monarch¡ªa new Bairaetu¡ªand under the banner of this new hero, Assyria would restore the Eternal Sky¡¯s glory of dominating the Black Sea.


    The High Priest quickly received the news and, surrounded and supported by the temple priests, ascended the city wall, settling at the vantage point with the best view.


    A group of people silently watched the surging, cloud-like steam in the distance, their hearts sinking simultaneously.


    Assyria did not possess steam-powered armor.


    Years of internal strife had depleted Assyria¡¯s self-development capabilities. Assyria¡¯s weapon technology was still ten years behind that of the Syracuse Peninsula. In those ten years, steam light armor had become the focus of research for Rome and Calais, but this didn¡¯t prevent the priests from knowing about this terrifying weapon; they had also seen corresponding illustrated catalogs through various channels.


    The priests wore cloaks woven from eagle feathers over their linen round-necked robes. Wolf teeth, ox bones, and other ornaments hung from their cowhide belts, and many hardened, sun-dried fruits were strung on the straw ropes across their chests¡ªsymbolizing the priests¡¯ mastery over life and death, their role as bridges communicating with the Eternal Sky and all things in nature.


    Their faces were painted in verdant green and crimson, ancient patterns resembling the oldest script. The High Priest¡¯s forehead bore a sun totem drawn in fresh ox blood, to bless the warriors on the battlefield. When he looked up at the Roman camp, the still-damp, sticky blood ran down, across the corner of his eye, bringing a stinging sensation.


    ¡°Hurry and reinforce the city gates, avoid direct combat,¡± the High Priest finally gave this order.


    ¡°Why? Our warriors fear no challenge!¡± the centurion, wielding a huge battle-axe, said excitedly.


    But the High Priest did not answer, nor did he need to. Everyone could see that the surging steam clouds behind the royal tent suddenly expanding at an extremely fast rate. Something had changed.


    The twelve armors were inspected. The carefully selected knights pulled down their steel visors, concealing every last inch of skin beneath the impenetrable armor. They methodically flexed their fingers, wrists, and ankles one by one, and then stood up.


    This process was utterly terrifying to unarmed people. Each armor stood nearly three meters tall, the steel humanoid figures appeared both human and absolutely non-human. As they moved their limbs, mimicking human actions, there was a sudden sense of an alienated creature coming to life.


    Gears inside the armor rotated and engaged with their movements, emitting precise, regular clicking sounds. Levers and knobs began to operate, cylinders and pistons sang joyfully under the influence of newly added oil. After a long period of preheating, the armor had reached its optimal state. As the knights stood up, the pipes connected to the massive steam power core devices on their backs detached with a snap, spraying hot, scalding steam that instantly burned several people who hadn¡¯t moved away in time.


    This was an absolute weapon of violence. Every part of the armor could be used to kill; every intricate design served this purpose. The knights walked silently along the pre-cleared path, like moving mountains casting shadows on either side. Steam hissed from the seams of their armor with every step, shrouding them in a faint mist, making them appear like demons that descended from ancient myths.


    An undeniable slaughter began.


    No matter how great the Assyrians¡¯ strength, before this mechanical masterpiece, it was like a praying mantis trying to stop a chariot. The steam power operated furiously, allowing the knights, who were rushing down the hillside, to instantly overtake the horses in front of them, sweeping like a whirlwind into the Assyrian army. Wherever they went, Assyrian soldiers collapsed at the slightest touch.


    Four-meter-long swords were like toys in their hands, easily cleaving through a line of people at the waist. Oak shields could be crushed by the high-powered armor. They advanced wildly, sparing no weapons. If a longsword became too slippery with blood, they would draw a knife from their waist or a sword from their back. Short blades could spring from the front of their iron boots. Every one of their movements reaped countless souls.


    No one could be indifferent to this scene. Even the most cruel executioners or serial killers would be dumbfounded by such an unbridled slaughter of life. We can tolerate fighting and killing between individuals, but we absolutely cannot accept such widespread death that defies all reason.


    Amandra stood on a high hillside, watching this scene. Her expression was as cold as ever, just a shade paler than before.


    Steam light armor had existed for many years, but its true application on the battlefield, especially against an opponent so outmatched, seemed to be a first.


    Even the Roman soldiers beside her, witnessing this sight, felt their blood run cold, their joy imperceptibly diluted to almost nothing.


    Ashur stood a few steps away from the queen, also looking at the horrific scene below. ¡°Do you regret it?¡±


    Amandra said nothing. She stood firmly there, her back more rigid than a statue.


    ¡°Assyria will henceforth view you as a tyrant,¡± Ashur¡¯s voice was like a gust of wind; if one wasn¡¯t careful, it would be blown away. ¡°You reduced casualties, but even those Assyrian subjects who still longed for you will no longer approach you.¡±


    Amandra still said nothing.


    Ashur was silent for two seconds, then walked over, spread her arms, and draped a heavy cloak over the queen¡¯s shoulders.


    Her hands lingered on the queen for a moment. Beneath her palm, the queen¡¯s body trembled slightly, very faintly.


    ¡°But this is war,¡± Amandra finally spoke, eyes fixed ahead. ¡°My father told me never to consider right or wrong in war. The only thing is victory. I am the queen; I cannot lose.¡±


    ¡°I have achieved countless victories for Assyria, allowing Assyria to live freely and independently on this side of the Black Sea. Now I still must win¡ªjust like before.¡±


    The queen said softly, her body trembling, yet her voice was more stable than bedrock.


    She did not care if they called her a tyrant.


    She would take back her Assyria.


    Author¡¯s Note:


    Just a reminder¡ªfrom the perspective of our universal values, the actions of the characters in this book are both right and wrong. However, there are no perfect saints in the world, and even villains can do good deeds. All actions are based on the character¡¯s personality and identity. Please keep this in mind! Even Raphael is capable of wrongdoing (please don¡¯t learn from him). In short, the environment shapes the characters. If you really can¡¯t accept it, please quietly leave. [crying]


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 Chapter 71: Dudleys Empress

    On the ninth day of the war, Gonda fell.


    ¡ªNo, it should be said that the rebellious royal city of Assyria had once again pledged allegiance to their Queen.


    Years of chaos in Assyria had filled its ranks with spies and informants from various countries. The fall of Gonda quickly spread across the Black Sea through multiple channels, reaching the hands of different factions.


    In the opulent palace of Dudley, banquets and music and dance continued day and night. The nobles of Calais inherited the ancient Roman tradition of extravagance, using it to flaunt their wealth. The previous emperor had even dug a huge swimming pool in the palace courtyard, filled not with clear water, but with aged wine. Commoners outside would never taste a single cup of such wine in their lives, but a single royal banquet would consume hundreds of barrels.


    The banquet hall of Dudley Palace covered more than two thousand square meters, cleverly divided into different spaces with mirrors and flower walls. Curtains woven from crystal and diamonds made the entire space glitter. The wall decorations were either gold or silver, blatantly luxurious. The owner of the palace seemed to want to engrave the words ¡°I am rich¡± on their forehead.


    A band by the dance floor was playing a waltz. Men and women in splendid attire skillfully twirled and moved in the dance hall. Grand and magnificent court dances were the origin of group dances. When the notes for changing partners fell, the vibrant and beautiful voluminous long skirts of all the women blossomed into dazzling circles on the polished floor. That extreme aesthetic and impact were beyond imagination.


    However, for the emperor, who was lazily seated at the throne, this scene was merely a daily embellishment he had seen since childhood. He was even tired of the repetitive dance steps.


    The young emperor leaned against the golden throne, his body as if boneless, propped against the armrest, his legs crossed. His fluffy, wool-like long hair cascaded down his back. His black jacket was open, his cravat long gone. His pristine silk shirt was messily unbuttoned down to his abdomen. Apart from the two lowest buttons that held their ground, the jewel buttons above were long gone. Faint lipstick marks of varying shades could still be seen on his collar.


    Debauched, extravagant, decadent.


    Everyone who saw the young emperor on the throne had only this one thought in their mind.


    However, unlike before, the nobles showed more trepidation and respect when facing their emperor. He had returned alive from the border, and had successfully brought back an engagement with a future Roman Queen. Everyone could smell the scent of an impending storm in the air. Hadn¡¯t even the once-overbearing Duke grown noticeably subdued?


    It seemed that the silent war that had spanned years between uncle and nephew was about to end.


    Despite this, the nobles couldn¡¯t help but sigh inwardly. Who would have thought that the winner would be the seemingly meek young emperor? When he was a prince, he was notoriously absurd and violent. After becoming emperor, he had improved a lot¡ªthough it couldn¡¯t be ruled out that the pressure from his uncle, the Duke, forced him to rein himself in.


    With Duke Franc?ois¡¯s recent low profile, that twisted brutality in the young emperor¡¯s character seemed to be slowly resurfacing. The most perceptive nobles could feel the increasing pressure from the emperor. The number of palace staff would occasionally decrease, and people could hear horrifying screams from the palace in the silent night, a sound that would send chills down the spines of the bravest. Yet, no one dared to speculate on what was happening.


    Truly a bloodthirsty family, the nobles whispered privately. Every member of the royal family seemed to be naturally twisted madmen and sadists. The history of this family was written in dark, bloody ink. Among them were emperors who killed for pleasure, princesses who bathed in the fresh blood of maidens to maintain eternal youth, and dukes who tortured their wives to death. The previous emperor had a hobby of flogging his attendants, and his brother¡ªnow Duke Franc?ois¡ªenjoyed toying with beautiful men and women. As for his son, the current Emperor of Calais, he didn¡¯t seem to have any perverse fetishes at the moment, but peculiar signs were gradually emerging.


    This family¡¯s blood runs with sickness and madness. Every one of them is a born sadist and murderer. To crown them as rulers is a mockery of all laws and the mercy of the Holy Lord.


    This quote came from a noble fifty years ago who was beheaded by the emperor. The reason for his death sentence was his refusal of the emperor¡¯s sudden proposition during a parliamentary session.


    The key point was, the emperor propositioned him in parliament, while ministers were debating tax collection. The emperor, who was seriously listening to the ministers¡¯ speeches, suddenly turned to his finance minister and extended this invitation.


    It was hard to imagine what the scene was like then. No one recorded this absurd event in their notes¡ªperhaps because they didn¡¯t dare to. In any case, the finance minister who flatly rejected this outrageous invitation was dragged to the guillotine that same afternoon.


    This unparalleled absurd event directly led to internal turmoil in Calais until Franc?ois III and his brother demonstrated extraordinary military talent, sweeping away a group of ¡°ill-intentioned¡± nobles, which then stabilized the throne once again.


    Thus, some people secretly cursed, saying that members of this mad family often died from ignominious murders or assassinations, yet incredibly, prodigious geniuses also often emerged among them. It¡¯s as if the Holy Lord has cursed Calais with them!


    The young emperor, with half-closed, half-awake amber eyes, adjusted himself into a comfortable position, hooked his feet over the armrest, and lay sprawled across the throne in an extremely impolite manner¡ªthough it was very impolite, who would dare to criticize him?


    The gold-inlaid ceiling was painted with intricate and lavish frescoes using dissolved colored minerals and abundant silver. Huge crystal chandeliers cast a brilliant light. When the light hits the facets of the crystals, the falling rays carried intensely pure and transparent colored halos. These halos were as beautiful as a dream, and staring at them for too long would induce a dizzying, floating sensation.


    Franc?ois felt a little lightheaded now.


    The light, flowing music was distorted into disjointed notes in his mind. In his peripheral vision, he could see the shifting figures of women, their wide, scarlet, snowy white, and dark blue skirts blooming like flowers. Silken scarves were draped over their plump arms, and soft tassels concealed skin made pale and fragrant by perfume, mixing together like melted pigments, reminding him of thick, neon-pink liquid oozing down in slow, viscous streams.


    Franc?ois then smiled strangely. The lady closest to him boldly cast a flirtatious glance at the young and handsome emperor¡ªthey were well aware of the emperor¡¯s bad reputation, but what girl would be indifferent to that noble empress¡¯s crown?


    Gain always comes with risk, and besides, His Majesty seemed to be in a good mood now.


    Franc?ois lazily slid off the chair and sat on the cold floor for a while, then unsteadily stood up and stepped onto the dance floor.


    Everyone rejoiced at the emperor¡¯s arrival.


    He moved through countless arms. Soft, fragrant fingers lightly grazed his cheek, shoulders, and chest with the changing dance steps, ambiguously trying to stir his emotions. Franc?ois casually took a lady¡¯s hand, kissed the back of it, and then pushed her into the arms of her dance partner, hearing undisguised snickers from the onlookers.


    Fervent, admiring gazes enveloped him tightly like a silk net. If Franc?ois were an insect, he had no doubt he would be completely bound and devoured by the ladies¡¯ gazes.


    Unfortunately, he was no insect.


    The young emperor seemed to have grown tired, or perhaps the large amount of alcohol he had just consumed made him drowsy. He completely disregarded that he was in the center of the dance floor and simply lay down. Without his command, the band dared not stop playing, and the dancers in the hall dared not leave on their own. So, everything continued smoothly, even if the scene looked truly absurd.


    The disheveled young emperor lay on the marble floor, his eyes slightly narrowed. The light from the crystal chandeliers made his eyes uncomfortable. The expensive and magnificent skirts of ladies and noblewomen bloomed and twirled around him at intervals. Bold women deliberately twirled their skirts over his face, like an unspoken invitation.


    Franc?ois reached out to touch the deliberately close, snow-white thighs, grabbing an ankle. Amidst their quiet gasps, he pulled them over, lying on the ground, embracing and kissing the face he couldn¡¯t quite see.


    This hazy, semi-intoxicated state made him feel comfortable. In his half-closed eyes, his pupils glinted with an inorganic, viscous coldness, like a snake¡¯s. The girls, their cheeks flushed and lost in dreams of becoming queen, feared these eyes, which were infinitely close to a reptile¡¯s, yet yearned to approach the monarch of the empire. This contradiction made the people around Franc?ois flow in and out like water.


    The lavish affair was interrupted by an untimely sound from a stringed instrument.


    A string on a violinist¡¯s instrument in the band suddenly snapped. It was a minor mistake, but the emperor, with his keen hearing, caught it even in his daze. Through countless pairs of gleaming leather boots and exquisite high heels, the emperor¡¯s snake-like eyes fixed on the errant violinist. The ferocity in his gaze slowly turned to surprise as soon as he saw the man¡¯s face.


    The band was disrupted by this sudden interlude, stiffly ceasing their movements under the emperor¡¯s stare. The violinist, whose eyes were fixed on the emperor, trembled all over, his hand gripping the bow so hard it turned blue, his purple eyes filled with terror.


    He had a pair of purple eyes.


    Their color was unique, like a pair of amethyst stones.


    Franc?ois climbed up from the ground, stumbling through the crowd. Under the gaze of countless onlookers, he bent down and used a finger to lift the violinist¡¯s chin, bringing his face close to examine him carefully.


    The other man was terrified beyond measure, his face was as pale as paper, his body trembling like a leaf in the wind. Combined with his delicate appearance, he looked extremely pitiful.


    Those chosen for the court orchestra had to be not only exceptionally talented but also have proper features and good looks. This violinist¡¯s talent might not have been outstanding, which was why he was relegated to the back of the band, but his face undoubtedly provided the most thorough explanation for his presence there.


    A beautiful young man, with rare and stunning purple eyes. Many nobles displayed covetous expressions.


    After scrutinizing him for a while, the young emperor suddenly asked, ¡°Which family did you come from?¡±


    The blond violinist swallowed, feeling his throat terribly dry. He began to desperately regret insisting on joining this performance; for it, he had even deliberately injured another violinist¡¯s wrist. He just wanted to come here to flirt with a noblewoman. With his looks, becoming a noblewoman¡¯s lover would have been easy, but he never expected to be noticed by His Majesty!


    It was too terrifying, too terrifying.


    Essentially, he was a timid and self-serving commoner. How could he have imagined that one day he would be this close to the emperor?


    But His Majesty had asked, and he dared not not answer.


    ¡°Eugene... Your Majesty, my name is Eugene.¡± Excessive nervousness made his vision go white, and he even misheard Franc?ois¡¯s question. The young emperor slowly raised an eyebrow, surprisingly not getting angry, but instead smiled intimately.


    ¡°What does your family do?¡± the young emperor asked, almost amiably.


    ¡°...My great-grandfather.... was a banker, I think...¡± It clearly sounded like a vague ¡°ancient family history¡± meant to gild his own reputation, but Franc?ois showed a thoughtful expression.


    The descendants of the Portia family were numerous. Just as there were those like Julius who held great power, there would naturally be those like this one, adrift in a foreign land, their lineage so thin that even their surname was long forgotten.


    A distant side branch, whose name would no longer appear even on the family tree. Only they themselves orally passed down a glorious past, yet they didn¡¯t even know their own surname anymore.


    Franc?ois laughed happily, pinching Eugene¡¯s chin and shaking it, as if petting a pet. He nonchalantly dropped a bombshell: ¡°I like you very much. I¡¯ll make you a viscount. From now on, you¡¯ll live in the palace with me.¡±


    This good news came too suddenly, instantly making the violinist dizzy.


    Ten minutes ago, he was a penniless, down-on-his-luck violinist. Now, he had leaped to become the noble Viscount?!


    ¡°But, I don¡¯t really like your name. Let¡¯s change it,¡± the young emperor narrowed his eyes, gently patting Eugene¡¯s head as if patting an obedient dog. Eugene stiffened his body, allowing the pat, as if fearing he wasn¡¯t compliant enough, wishing he could bend his head all the way down. ¡°Let¡¯s call you Julia. The great archangel beside the Holy Lord¡ªwhat a beautiful name!¡±


    But it was a girl¡¯s name. Eugene didn¡¯t dare to voice this thought, instead echoing with a smile.


    The newly appointed Viscount Julia became a hot favorite in the Dudley¡¯s court. He and the young emperor went everywhere together, inseparable like conjoined twins. The emperor¡¯s favor for him reached a level that astonished everyone. Jewels flowed into the viscount¡¯s palace like water, and various rare artworks were sent for his enjoyment. The emperor even indulged him in freely entering his study.


    An unknown attendant claimed to have seen the viscount acting coquettishly to the emperor in private, and the emperor actually let the viscount play with his crown.


    This overwhelming favor instantly made this young man of ordinary background lose himself. He madly and greedily demanded wealth and jewels from the emperor, imperiously ordered the noble-born attendants, and spoke curtly to ministers who sought an audience with the emperor. For a time, Calais seemed to have gained an uncrowned empress¡ªexcept for not being able to bear His Majesty a child, Viscount Julia possessed everything a empress would.


    Franc?ois sat on a long bench, watching Julia tune his violin. Unlike the shabby uniform he wore at the previous banquet, the viscount was now dressed in splendid attire similar to the emperor¡¯s. His short blond hair had grown long enough to be tied back. The pampered life had caused the frivolousness and arrogance in his demeanor to inflate infinitely. After two adjustments, Julia tossed the violin onto the table and touched the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck.


    ¡°Your Majesty, my hair is a bit too long. I want to cut it.¡± After probing for a period of time, he had discovered the emperor¡¯s inexplicable indulgence and kindness towards him. He interpreted it as love at first sight, because each time the young emperor looked at him, the intense and passionate love in his eyes made even the surrounding maids blush.


    But to his surprise, the emperor did not agree to this small suggestion. Not only did he not agree, but he also revealed a chilling smile: ¡°No, my dear. I wish your hair could¡ª¡±


    He extended his hand, gesturing towards Julia¡¯s waist: ¡°¡ªreach there.¡±


    Under the refraction of sunlight, the emperor¡¯s amber pupils glinted with an alien, serpentine gold. His tone was sweet and intimate, just like every time he coaxed him into bed, yet it sent shivers down Julia¡¯s spine: ¡°I like this length, my dear, what do you think?¡±


    ¡°I... me too, Your Majesty,¡± Julia replied softly, using all his strength.


    ¡°Ah, yes, I remember you love iris flowers. I had the gardener plant many in the garden. Shall we go see them together?¡± Franc?ois invited with a smile, the love in his eyes as rich as fine wine, enough to intoxicate anyone who witnessed it.


    ...Except for Julia.


    He didn¡¯t actually like irises that much. At this moment, the viscount felt as if he had fallen into an ice cave, but he dared not say anything. Like a rabbit stared down by a snake, he could only nod tremblingly.


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 Chapter 72: Daily Life after the Storm

    Rafael tilted his head back, watching as water dripped from the sculptures atop the marble portico. The droplets refracted dazzling, prismatic light¡ªstaring at them too long induced a strange, dizzying sensation, like the floating euphoria of a drunken mind, as if the soul itself were about to take flight.


    The Papal Palace was vast. As the de facto political center of the Papal States, it housed the training base for the Knights Templar, a sprawling Secretariat, and a large body of monks and nuns who come for study and spiritual refinement. Of course, the heart of the Papal Palace was naturally the Pope¡¯s living quarters. His Holiness¡¯s private area occupies only two-fifths of the entire Papal Palace. Knights guarded all access routes to this area, like impenetrable shields, protecting the crown.


    On the sixth day of Florence¡¯s great storm, the heavy rain ceased. The plans, after dozens of revisions, were finally dispatched to the city hall. Secretaries, clerks, engineers, and urban planners, who had been burning the midnight oil for days and nights without rest, swayed unsteadily, forming groups with huge dark circles under their eyes. Clutching large rolls of blueprints, they hurried to various locations throughout Florence.


    The benevolent Pope sent his trusted personal guards to protect them. These guards were dressed as monks, their black, plain robes and hoods completely concealing their figures. They were as silent as statues, their hands tucked into their sleeves, following these physically weak and chattering scholars and secretaries like wolves circling a flock of sheep.


    They remained silent, not answering the curious scholars¡¯ questions. Thwarted, the scholars quickly lost interest in them and turned their attention to the poor road conditions after the rain, shaking their heads at the tumor-like sprawl of buildings in the lower city.


    ¡°Unbelievable... just one more rain, and the people living here will be buried alive!¡±


    ¡°My God, it¡¯s incredible that there¡¯s never been a fire here! If a single spark fell here, I bet it would burn all of Florence into a giant torch!¡±


    The scholars lamented the terrible urban planning with heartfelt indignation. The faces of the people peering out from these dilapidated buildings bore a wary, fierce expression, like hedgehogs. However, this expression quickly melted like snow in sunlight when they encountered the Pope¡¯s guard detail accompanying the scholars.


    The group also included a few aloof-looking women. They wore robes similar to nuns, with white armbands on their sleeves adorned with the thorny double-winged totem of the Papal Palace. Underneath their robes were trousers cinched at the ankles, and each woman carried a heavy-looking wooden box. The woman leading them had closely cropped hair, sharp, bright blue eyes, and high cheekbones and a pointed chin that made her seem unapproachable.


    ¡°Are the tents set up?¡± Astasinia, impatient with trailing behind the endlessly debating scholars, broke away to ask their guide.


    The guide, also dressed in a monk¡¯s black robe, was not as silent as his companions; he was surprisingly cheerful, smiling like a sparrow among black crows: ¡°They¡¯ve been set up already. According to your wishes, Madam, each tent has curtains.¡±


    Astasinia nodded in satisfaction and repeated, ¡°Today, we¡¯re only seeing women and children.¡±


    She emphasized, ¡°All women, as long as they want to come.¡±


    The person in charge paused, then noticed her gaze briefly sweep over the wooden sign of a nearby rose house, and immediately understood her meaning: ¡°I understand. No one will stop them.¡±


    For a long time, only men could be doctors. Even if women learned medicine, they could only practice as midwives. Only a few people could receive treatment, and prostitutes were at the bottom of this chain of contempt. No doctor was willing to treat prostitutes riddled with diseases, and many believed that receiving treatment alongside prostitutes would ruin their reputation. Therefore, once they fell ill, only death awaited these poor women.


    But Astasinia didn¡¯t care about any of that.


    In her eyes, all women in the world were lovely and pure. They possessed noble souls bestowed by the Lord. God was born from a woman¡¯s body and was born female, so why should men condescendingly dominate women?


    She led her medical team into the tents. These tents were very crudely constructed ¨C bamboo poles, oiled canvas, and hemp rope ¨C but the builders¡¯ skills must have been excellent, as they blocked out every gust of wind and were very sturdy. Astasinia nodded in satisfaction; this meant her patients could frankly expose their bodies here without fear of being spied upon.


    She drew back the curtain. A notice for free diagnosis had already been posted outside, and clerks were loudly announcing it. ¡°Free¡± had an irresistible pull for everyone in the lower city. Shabbily dressed men and women cautiously gathered, scrutinizing the suddenly erected, sealed tents. Their eyes held a mixture of doubt and expectation. When they saw only women entering and exiting, someone finally couldn¡¯t help but ask, ¡°Where are the doctors?¡±


    They were self-aware; anyone who would come here to treat them certainly wouldn¡¯t be someone important, perhaps just apprentices. But even apprentices were a rare find for them, and they hadn¡¯t seen any male apprentices here.


    ¡°We are.¡±


    Astasinia, holding a basin of water, turned and glanced at him, then said, ¡°Men, come back tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°Women...?¡± Some had already hesitated and stopped, and more people began to whisper about Astasinia and the others, their gazes constantly flitting to her unusually short hair.


    ¡°Why are they all women?¡±


    ¡°For women¡¯s diseases? Then what are we doing here...¡±


    A few burly men in the group showed expressions of displeasure.


    One female doctor frowned and corrected them, ¡°We are general practitioners.¡±


    The men exchanged glances, then burst into laughter, putting their hands in their crotches and making a vulgar gesture: ¡°Then will you check here too? Hahaha!¡±


    ¡°...And they all have curtains. Who knows what they¡¯re doing inside, a bunch of women...¡±


    The atmosphere around them quickly became strange. Many men meaningfully exchanged glances, snickering. Such vulgar jokes were very popular in the lower city and quickly spread. The women who had been standing in line also awkwardly stood still; they didn¡¯t endorse these crude jokes, but it was clear that if they entered the tents for treatment, they would quickly become part of the joke.


    ¡°That woman over there is the best-looking, I want to choose her¡ª¡± A man was whispering and snickering with his companion. Before he could finish his sentence, he suddenly heard gasps around him, and then felt a chill by his temple. A delayed sense of danger made his scalp tingle. He fearfully turned his face, seeing his hair rustling down in his peripheral vision. He touched it with his hand and found a bald spot on one side of his scalp.


    The leading female doctor stood beside him, watching him coldly, holding a surgical knife that looked exceptionally sharp. There were a few of his short hairs on the blade.


    The man, like a fish pulled ashore, stared at this fierce woman with bulging eyes. His throat gurgled a few times, and then his crotch suddenly became wet.


    The surrounding people drew out a long ¡°Eugh!¡± and silently stepped back a few paces. Astasinia¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change in the slightest. She slowly looked around, and every man who met her gaze instinctively avoided her stare.


    The female doctor calmly announced again, ¡°We are doctors. Today we are seeing women and children. Men, please come back tomorrow.¡±


    She didn¡¯t utter any more threats, but she stood there holding that blade, and everyone inexplicably fell silent.


    This incident quickly reached the Pope¡¯s ears. Rafael sighed and dispatched more guards to the lower city to protect the doctors and scholars, without any suggestion of recalling them. This era was simply unfair to women; if Astasinia insisted on this path, this was what they would inevitably face.


    Count Tondolo led another group of surveyors to the outskirts of Florence to plan land for new residential areas, as ordered by the Pope. Florence¡¯s population was constantly increasing, and the existing city planning could no longer meet the demand. Since he had acquired vast wealth after confiscating the lords¡¯ properties, he decided to seize this opportunity to boldly expand the city and renovate outdated facilities.


    Rafael tucked old Tondolo¡¯s box back into the cabinet, determined not to see it again for a while.


    Even though the dried bloodstains lay exposed before him, he had no intention of acting on them.


    The individuals involved in the conspiracy had long since perished. Should he extend his hatred to the next generation, who knew nothing? Rafael simply felt weary; blood, death, and betrayal surrounded him constantly, like venomous snakes coiling around his neck, hissing and flicking their tongues. The feeling of being embroiled in it all was complex, and he could only forget it temporarily.


    However, occasionally, he would recall visiting old Tondolo that year. The old man¡¯s clouded eyes were filled with complex emotions. He lay on a soft bed, doors and windows tightly shut, the heavy scent of frankincense and myrrh lingering in the air. This aroma, mixed with the old man¡¯s imminent death, became a strange and unpleasant smell. The emaciated old Tondolo looked at him, disease having destroyed the old man¡¯s spirit. The dying man, semi-conscious between dreams and reality, opened his tired eyes, and upon seeing Rafael, suddenly burst into tears.


    He had mistaken Rafael for Delacroix.


    The decaying old man called out the name of his deceased dearest friend, repeatedly asking the same question:


    ¡°Have you forgiven me?¡±


    This question was destined to echo eternally through empty history; the one qualified to answer it had died years ago in the dead of night.


    Rafael pushed these heavy thoughts aside. A new letter had arrived from Rome, stating that Sancha had successfully been crowned Crown Princess in Perigo a few days prior, inheriting the Roman throne. Rafael replied with a letter of congratulations, attaching appropriate gifts.


    It could be said that through the Roman Empire as a bridge, Calais, the Papal States, Rome, and Assyria had entered a stable honeymoon period. Aside from Assyria¡¯s ongoing civil war, the relationships between the major countries were harmonious and friendly, as if world peace were just around the corner.


    Calais also began sending regular gifts to the Papal States. Valuable gifts were transported from Dudley to Florence, presented to the Pope under the guise of diocesan tribute and a secular monarch¡¯s homage. Alongside these gifts came the increasingly scandalous rumors about the Emperor of Calais.


    Of course, there were falsehoods in these rumors, but no one could deny that he was almost madly favoring on a male favorite of humble origin. Everyone eagerly awaited Sancha¡¯s reaction, but to their disappointment, the relationship between Rome and Calais remained unchanged.


    The Emperor of Calais still retained a shred of sanity; he sent a large number of valuable gifts to his fiance?e in Perigo, enough to astound anyone who saw the procession. If a man¡¯s love could be measured by wealth, then the Crown Princess of Perigo was undoubtedly the Emperor of Calais¡¯s true love.


    Perhaps it was this clear declaration that made Sancha turn a deaf ear to the Emperor¡¯s ill rumors. And in fact...


    ¡°...I couldn¡¯t care less who he fancies. Thank the Lord¡ªthis lets me stay in Rome another two years. At least I have to wait until my mother¡¯s war in Assyria ends, otherwise Rome will also fall into turmoil. Every day I pray before the Lord, hoping the wedding can be postponed further. As long as Franc?ois IV doesn¡¯t sire any bastards, I can generously give the other half of his bed to that man...¡±


    Even as crown princess, Sancha¡¯s letters still carried the lively tone of a young girl, leaving Rafael both amused and exasperated.


    But this was good too, at least she wouldn¡¯t be saddened by it.


    Rafael folded the letter, thinking to himself.


    Lucrezia walked over with a book, her small steps light. She had been sitting by the bay window, where there was a fluffy rug and warm milk tea. The little girl was naturally perceptive and loved to cling to His Holiness the Pope. Rafael was exceedingly indulgent with the child he raised, and besides, Lucrezia was a very clever girl. Teaching her to read gave Rafael a great sense of accomplishment¡ªit had become his recent leisure activity for relaxation.


    And... Rafael took the thick book from Lucretia¡¯s hands, his gaze subtly flitting towards the door. Of course, he couldn¡¯t see the doorway through all the arches and decorations, but he knew that Redrick was surely standing guard outside.


    Yes, that unruly brother who disliked Rafael and always opposed him, ever since that trip to Rome, had inexplicably become much more obedient. Although he still looked unconvinced and talked back to Rafael, he had never refused any task assigned to him and even seemed to enjoy it.


    Rafael interpreted this as a long-idle and carefree spendthrift finding a sense of accomplishment in work. As for Redrick¡¯s psychological changes... he didn¡¯t have the leisure to investigate.


    Redrick hadn¡¯t expressed a desire to leave the Knights Templar, and Rafael was too lazy to bother with him. As long as Leshert wasn¡¯t annoyed, what did it matter to him?


    And the Knight Commander was famously good-tempered and tolerant; Redrick was hardly a bother in his eyes.


    However, Rafael wondered if it was his imagination, but Redrick seemed to be very caring towards Lucrezia. He had felt this way during their journey to Rome; Redrick even showed a brotherly sense of responsibility towards Lucrezia.


    Rafael had no desire to understand his neurotic brother¡¯s thought processes; dealing with the greetings from the Emperor of Calais was already enough to trouble him.


    The gifts from Dudley were still piled in his storeroom. Not to mention the jewels, but the irises sent with their soil were simply too ambiguous. Not only could Rafael not return them, but he also had to find ways to conceal them from Julius and Ferrante¡ªthough he didn¡¯t know why he had to hide them. Rafael believed it was because it concerned the friendly relations between the Papal States and Calais. Franc?ois IV didn¡¯t care about scandals, but he did!


    Author¡¯s Note


    Redrick doesn¡¯t have that kind of idea about Lucrezia! He sees her purely as a little sister ¨C don¡¯t overthink it!


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 Chapter 73: The Unfought War

    The torrential downpour in Florence lasted for eight days. After the rain ceased, a vigorous reconstruction effort, organized by the Holy See, began. Dilapidated old buildings were all torn down and rebuilt, and roads were excavated, bringing ancient Roman pipelines back into the light of day. Scholars, with their pants rolled up, trudged laboriously through the stagnant water, cursing the terrible city planning while frantically scribbling on their blueprints¡ªand occasionally trying to sneak a section of the water pipe home as a keepsake. After all, it was a relic from ancient Rome! Every historian would be interested in it!


    After the third battle over the water pipes, the knights dispatched by the Pope to protect these scholars finally lost their patience. Pointing at the seemingly endless, massive structure underground¡ªtoo large for an adult to embrace with both arms, cast from heavy sand, iron filings, and clay¡ªthey asked, ¡°Gentlemen, before you fight to the death over this stinky thing, have you considered how you¡¯re going to carry it home?¡±


    Of course, the knight who uttered those words ended up with the heaviest transportation task. His companions refused to speak to the foolish fellow and spat at him a few times.


    In addition, the free clinic activities in the lower city continued with the strong support of the Holy See. Although the process was bumpy, with several fights and medical disputes, under Rafael¡¯s almost forceful attitude and the increasing pressure from the knights assigned to the medical team, the free clinic activities finally concluded successfully after a month and a half. Most of the public accepted consultations from female doctors and recognized their medical skills¡ªthis was undoubtedly a great encouragement for the female doctors.


    Thus, half a month after the free clinics ended, Anastasia, as the leader of the medical team, once again submitted an application to the Pope. They requested to leave Florence and conduct free clinics in other cities across the Papal States.


    Rafael did not agree immediately.


    The young Pope read the short application repeatedly, given that Anastasia had not received formal education in rhetoric or linguistics, the application was rather crude and impolite. However, compared to his first encounter with the woman, the letter already showed her utmost sincerity.


    Rafael leaned back against the soft cushions, sighed deeply, and pressed the application face down on the table. He quietly asked, ¡°Should I agree?¡±


    The spacious and luxurious room was excessively quiet, with only the grandfather clock ticking, as if his own breathing was the only sound echoing in the room. But he knew that not far behind him, hidden in the shadows, was the person he trusted most, to whom he had even entrusted his life. And that person was surely listening intently to him.


    No matter when, as long as he spoke, the other person would never miss a single syllable of what he said.


    But he didn¡¯t need an answer.


    The other person clearly understood this, so after a long silence, Rafael silently picked up his pen and signed his name at the bottom of the overly rough application. At the same time, he took off the papal ring from his hand and stamped the paper with the Pope¡¯s personal seal.


    A hand extended from the shadows at the opportune moment, holding a soft, snow-white cotton cloth, gently wrapping around the Pope¡¯s finger to wipe the ink from the ring.


    ¡°Ferrante, send some capable men to accompany them. I want them to return to Florence unharmed, every last one.¡±


    The young man in the shadows bowed his head to the Pope, silently accepting the order.


    As he exited the room through the secret passage, Julius happened to enter through the main door. The Secretary General obviously couldn¡¯t see any trace of the elusive young man, but a strange sixth sense made him pause at the doorway and quickly survey his surroundings.


    Naturally, he found nothing.


    ¡°According to the latest war report from Assyria, the Queen has re-established the Sargon Dynasty centered in the capital in the south, but for some reason, the war in the north has reached a stalemate. Assyria won¡¯t regain peace in a short time¡ªmy people have discovered many troublemakers in Assyria, some from the Duvesy Federation, some from Danone, even Pombara and Sandon¡ªof course, most are from Calais.¡±


    When the last sentence was spoken, neither Julius nor Rafael showed any surprise or anger. Clearly, such surreptitious backstabbing by an ally like Calais was not something that surprised them.


    A marriage alliance was one thing, but fishing in troubled waters such as a war zone was a more tangible interest, and no one would miss out on such benefits.


    Even Sancha would only turn a blind eye to this matter if she knew about it. Sometimes, they needed this slight bit of ambiguity; overly transparent relationships would make these born political creatures uneasy. They were more adept at finding a sense of security in prolonged struggles and probes.


    ¡°In northern Assyria, a religious alliance called the Heavenly Pilgrimage Alliance has been established, led by the High Priest. It¡¯s a purely religious group centered on their native Eternal Sky faith. Those who join the Heavenly Pilgrimage Alliance are mostly fervent religious followers who seek to restore ¡®the purest faith¡¯ and return Assyria to ¡®an ancient kingdom, primitive and blessed by the Eternal Sky.¡¯ Such propaganda has attracted many people, and large numbers of displaced people have begun migrating north from the southern Sargon.¡± Julius spoke in a calm tone.


    ¡°A purely religious alliance...¡± Rafael murmured, repeating the words, feeling a fleeting sense of strangeness that intensified with Julius¡¯s subsequent narration.


    A very strange, strong sense of de?ja? vu¡ª


    Rafael suddenly raised his eyes and met Julius¡¯s gaze. Being overly sensitive and intelligent, they both saw the same thing in each other¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°The last similar religious alliance...¡± Rafael moved his lips.


    Julius smoothly finished what he wanted to say: ¡°It¡¯s the current Papal States, Your Holiness.¡±


    Rafael¡¯s hand clenched suddenly on the armrest of the solid wood chair.


    Indeed, religion was a very dangerous and useful tool. Fanatical believers could achieve anything impossible in the world; they could offer everything they had, even their family¡¯s lives, for the ephemeral decrees of their god. As the world¡¯s largest religious leader, Rafael was acutely aware of its power.


    Therefore, when this Heavenly Pilgrimage Alliance appeared before him, he instinctively perceived the immense, surging threat within it.


    Assyria was a land independent of the Syracuse Peninsula, with a large population, vast territory, and abundant resources. More importantly, they had their own devout religion. Successive Popes had dreamed of planting their flag on that land, not only to gain more abundant human resources but also because they had long realized that once an independent religious group emerged in Assyria, it would be enough to confront the Papal States and Florence.


    And what successive Popes had worried about, finally, during Rafael¡¯s reign, turned from a nightmare into reality.


    In this barbaric resource-plundering era, there was no talk of peaceful coexistence. When two equally greedy and ferocious beasts met, the only option was to devour the other.


    ¡°The Heavenly Pilgrimage Alliance cannot be allowed to exist.¡± Rafael¡¯s voice was light, but the coldness in his tone was like a sharp, bloody ice blade.


    Whether for the sake of his alliance with Amandra or for the Papal States themselves, there could not be a second religious group with the potential to develop further in the world.


    He knew every word he spoke would soon be written in blood, but he had no choice.


    Tides and storms surged in his light purple eyes: ¡°In the name of the Pope, send word to all kings and lords¡ªthe banner of heresy has been raised in the East. To purge this unholy, wicked group, we must take up the sword in the name of the Holy Lord.¡±


    Julius understood what he meant instantly. A trace of shock flashed in the eyes of the ever-composed House of Portia¡¯s patriarch, and he instinctively spoke out against it: ¡°You¡¯re going to launch a Crusade?! You can¡¯t do this!¡±


    Rafael gazed at the oak desktop, listening to Julius¡¯s urgent, low-pitched advice: ¡°Every Pope who launched a Crusade met a terrible end! Charles VI was hanged in a monastery, Jose I is still reviled to this day, and the family of Leo II vanished without a trace! The greater the prestige they gained back then, the more wretched their downfall! Amandra hasn¡¯t reached a dead end yet; she and the Heavenly Pilgrimage Alliance are already in a fight to the death. We just need to wait for them to fight it out, and when a victor emerges, it won¡¯t be too late to use this method.¡±


    Rafael glanced at him: ¡°The best time to eliminate an enemy is when he is not yet grown¡ªthat¡¯s what you taught me, Teacher.¡±


    He uttered the long-unspoken address. Julius was stunned for a moment.


    That address, for a fleeting moment, transported him back to the Florence Seminary, where sunlight danced on the rhododendron leaves and the air was filled with the scent of fresh flowers. Girls wore pristine white dresses, boys¡¯ uniforms were immaculately pressed, their badges gleaming. Everything felt bright and vibrant, and all love and hatred were simple.


    Back then, the Portia gardens had not yet been overrun by boundless irises, and the sun god, riding his celestial chariot, had not yet laid eyes on that rose that would topple deities.


    ¡°You know this is the best course of action,¡± Rafael still gazed fixedly at Julius.


    ¡°Please don¡¯t let personal emotions sway your judgment,¡± Rafael said unhurriedly, now as cruel and cold as an executioner, sending shivers down Julius¡¯s spine. ¡°Reason. Judgment. Decision¡ªthe Portia¡¯s family creed.¡±


    The young Pope seemed to want to smile, but the smile faded before it could fully form.


    Sunlight drew a clear line on the scarlet carpet. Julius stood on the side of light, while Rafael, behind the desk, was enveloped in silent shadow.


    They fell silent simultaneously for a while, as if lost in thought, or perhaps thinking nothing at all.


    Finally, Julius firmly said, ¡°I disagree.¡±


    The Secretary General calmly stated, ¡°The Secretariat will refuse to issue this decree. Of course, you may order me to carry it out¡ªin which case, I will resign as Secretary-General.¡±


    Rafael suddenly looked up, his pale purple eyes deepening slightly with anger. ¡°Are you threatening me?¡±


    ¡°Of course not, I would never threaten you,¡± Julius calmly retorted. ¡°But I believe you need to think carefully. In my opinion, you are the one swayed by emotion. You appear to have invested too much emotion in your alliances with Rome and Assyria¡ªloyalty has never been our virtue.¡±


    Rafael¡¯s pupils constricted slightly.


    Julius no longer looked at him. ¡°Please reconsider.¡±


    Rafael watched the Secretary gracefully bow and withdraw, remaining frozen behind his desk like a statue. It wasn¡¯t until the gas lamp in the study lit up on time that he moved his stiff legs.


    A tingling pain, like needles, spread up from his knees. Rafael lowered his head, pressing his legs, and a pained gasp escaped his throat, quickly bitten off and swallowed.


    In the end, the order was never issued. Beyond the two esteemed figures, no one ever knew that a war capable of sweeping across the entire continent had been so simply nipped in the bud.


    In distant Assyria, bonfires burned continuously through the night, sparks scattering like flowers. Soldiers patrolled back and forth with gas lamps, their elongated shadows swaying on the ground. A little further away, the engineering team worked tirelessly day and night. They needed to lay railways in the shortest possible time to connect the cities that had submitted to the Queen, preventing them from rebelling again. Steam-powered armor also required railways for transport¡ªno one would use such expensive war machines as mere carriages.


    Amandra sat in a remote small tent. Compared to her previous royal tent, this one was simple, indistinguishable from most officers¡¯ tents. In fact, it truly was an officer¡¯s tent¡ªafter the Queen encountered her sixth assassination attempt, she began to randomly choose her resting place for the day. Except for her most trusted cousin, Ashur, no one knew the Queen¡¯s exact location.


    The curtain was pulled back, and Ashur walked in with a basin of water, kneeling beside the Queen. ¡°Your wound has reopened. Don¡¯t go into battle tomorrow.¡±


    The Queen¡¯s long saber lay by the table, its blade gleaming with a cold light. A white cotton bandage wrapped from her shoulder across her chest, and bloodstains could vaguely be seen¡ªthe result of the fifth assassination attempt.


    Amandra raised her head. She was now as gaunt as a withered branch, her skin deeply tanned, her hair braided and coiled at the nape of her neck. She wore no adornments, only a pair of blue eyes radiating a brilliance more dazzling than ever before. Anyone who met her gaze could glimpse the powerful, radiant soul within. This great Queen, destined to leave a glorious page in history, possessed a spirit far stronger than most people of her time.


    Ashur began to carefully cut away the Queen¡¯s blood-stained bandage with scissors. A dull pain emanated from the wound, but the Queen showed no sign of discomfort, calmly looking at the doorway. After a while, she suddenly said, ¡°Ashur, did I make a mistake?¡±


    Ashur¡¯s movements paused for a moment, and she quickly glanced at the Queen. ¡°You never doubt yourself.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I never doubt any of my decisions.¡±


    ¡°Has the night made you sentimental?¡±


    ¡°...Who knows? I¡¯ve been thinking about the past a lot lately, maybe it¡¯s because I¡¯ve encountered too many assassins.¡± The Queen turned her face, her gem-like blue eyes sparkling under the dim light. ¡°They are all my people, yet they are genuinely opposing me.¡±


    Ashur was silent for a moment, knowing the Queen was recalling one of the assassins.


    That young assassin had golden hair and blue eyes, a slender build, and still a touch of childishness. He was the same age as the Queen¡¯s child. She knew who the Queen thought of when she saw him, which was why she hadn¡¯t dodged the dagger immediately.


    Before being decapitated by the guards, the young assassin displayed extreme resentment towards the Queen, cursing her with all his might, using the most malicious words and expressions.


    ¡°...The Eternal Sky will forsake you! You shall lose all you love! Your child will die in agony! Your beloved will despise you, revile you¡ªyou will never meet again in this life! All you seek will elude you, all you cherish will perish! By the Eternal Sky¡¯s witness¡ªyour love is more poisonous than venom!¡±


    ¡°O gods, why have you brought this calamitous woman upon Assyria?!¡±


    Ashur shuddered at the memory of those vicious words. Sensing her unease, the Queen laid a reassuring hand over hers.


    ¡°They just don¡¯t understand that you are doing what¡¯s best for them. A monarch¡¯s vision must always look further. Ancient religions cannot lead Assyria forward; only a stronger monarch can adapt to this era.¡±


    The theocratic system had left Assyria far behind other countries on the Syracuse Peninsula, and chaos had made Assyria increasingly weak. Amandra was determined to change all of this, but the six assassination attempts she faced were the people¡¯s answer to her.


    She was like a frail boatman, the hemp rope already cutting into her shoulders, the heavy boat slowly sinking in the water, and she was almost parallel to the ground, straining with her very life to drag this massive barge against the current.


    ¡°I can no longer retreat.¡±


    Finally, the Queen said softly.


    ¡°If the Eternal Sky refuses my prayers, then I shall find another god.¡± A faint, ghostly fire burned in the Queen¡¯s blue eyes.


    Ashur suddenly looked up at the princess she had followed for many years, now Queen, with fear and unfamiliarity in her eyes for the first time.


    ¡°You... you would forsake the Eternal Sky?!¡± She didn¡¯t even dare to say it loudly, her voice a whisper.


    Controlling and supressing religion was one thing; a monarch apostatizing was another entirely.


    Ashur gripped the Queen¡¯s hand tightly. She knew too well what those fanatical believers of the Eternal Heaven would do. ¡°No, please don¡¯t do this... you will die! All of Assyria will become your enemy! They will believe you betrayed Assyria!¡±


    ¡°When did the Eternal Sky become equal to Assyria?¡± the Queen calmly retorted.


    Her own heart was also beating rapidly. When she was a girl, she was more devout than anyone. She deeply loved Assyria, deeply loved the people and things of this land, and deeply loved the Eternal Sky who had bestowed upon them all abundance.


    ¡°Assyria possesses the Eternal Sky, not the other way round,¡± the Queen said. ¡°I want to remind them of this. To freely choose their faith... or to choose none at all.¡±


    The Queen¡¯s words were cold, but her expression actually seemed a little gentle.


    Ashur stared at her, her lips moving, her voice hoarse: ¡°Is that all?¡±


    The Queen met her gaze, then after a long moment, quirked the corner of her mouth in a faint, almost mischievous smile¡ªreminiscent of the playful cunning of her youth.


    ¡°Well, as Assyria¡¯s Queen and mother, is this not the greatest gift I could give my children?¡±


    She waved a hand, dismissing the topic, and moved on. ¡°Dear cousin, fetch me a fresh parchment. I think it¡¯s time for me to make my will.¡±


    This was nothing new; to prevent unforeseen circumstances and family instability, high-ranking and powerful individuals always had a habit of regularly updating their wills. As a monarch, Amandra naturally paid even more attention to this; her will was updated twice a year.


    As the parchment unrolled, she sat there silently. Ashur took the pen for Amandra, who found it difficult to hold, and after thinking for a while, the Queen slowly began: ¡°I, Amandra Sargon, daughter of the great King Zhenya and Queen Hashur, eighth monarch of the Sargon Dynasty by divine mandate, hereby make the following last will and testament...¡±


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