The Reversed Hierophant

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.”

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—you 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.

Rafael made a quick judgment.

“How did you come to think of joining the Papal Guard?” Rafael seemed to be chatting with him casually, and Ferrante, without too much guard, hesitated before answering softly, “I was an orphan adopted by the church. The church received an edict from the Papal Palace, and I was chosen.”

When he said the word “orphan,” Rafael’s muscles tensed, then relaxed.

“Is that so, that’s a pity. God will cherish His children who return to His embrace.” Rafael paused for a few seconds, then said slowly.

“Thank you, Holy Father.” Ferrante lowered his head.

“Then… did you come here voluntarily? I mean, you’re just the right age to study. If you want to go to school, I can sponsor you. How does the Florence Seminary sound? I studied there. The academic atmosphere and environment there are very good, and there won’t be any discrimination.”

As soon as he said this, not only Ferrante, but even Polly, who was preparing the medicine, looked at Rafael in astonishment.

He had more or less watched Rafael grow up, and no matter how heavy his filter was, he had to admit that in many cases, Rafael was not actually a particularly kind child.

No, this isn’t to say that Rafael is a bad person. But rather, he had a scale in his heart that measures everything according to his own standards. If he judges something to be beneficial, even if it harms others, he will do it. And if he determines that his life should be placed on that scale, he won’t hesitate to sacrifice it.

This kind of absolute fairness and impartiality once frightened Polly, sometimes making him feel as if he had truly encountered a saint walking among men.

The saints in ancient legends did not just save people but also had the merit of killing. The scales never changed because of life or death. Their standards of good and evil had a strange similarity to Rafael’s.

Even though Polly was wholeheartedly focused on medicine, he was well aware of Rafael’s difficult situation.

Sistine I of Florence was now almost universally known as a puppet pope. Portia had elevated him to the papal throne of Saint Leah, and through him, held the supreme authority of Florence and even the entire continent. Nowadays, the orders of the Papal Palace couldn’t even leave Florence. The former pope had plundered wealth and distributed it to his relatives, leaving Sistine I with no manpower, no money, and no power.

Rafael had nothing.

And at a time when he needed people the most, faced with a young, promising boy with a clean background, he actually chose to refuse?

Polly thought there was something fishy going on.

Either Rafael was crazy or he was crazy.

But there was no way Rafael was crazy, so it must be him;

Polly was satisfied with this conclusion and popped a mint into his mouth to refresh himself.

Ferrante had to admit that he was indeed shaken for a moment.

Studying at the Florence Theological Seminary was a beautiful dream that many children from the slums dared not even think about.

His mother also mentioned this matter in the same longing tone, but the frail woman hadn’t dared to mention this prestigious academy. She only mentioned the only church in the slums that had opened a religious school. The school was so small that it only had one classroom, which had been converted from the church’s dining room, but for people like them, it was already a place that was out of reach.

“Ferrante, it would be wonderful if you could study. You could become a priest or a scribe. You’re so smart, you’d learn faster than anyone else.” The gentle woman stroked his cheek, her scent rising with the warmth of her skin, making people feel as if they were sinking into soft cotton. The simple wooden house and thin silk curtains around them glowed with a dim, yellow light.

“I’ve saved some tuition money for you. When you’re a little bit older, I’ll take you to the church. The priest will like you.” Her eyes were bright, a deep blue eyes that rippled like a calm spring lake. She was imagining a beautiful future, and this fantasy brought young Ferrante comfort and ease.

“My little Ferrante, my little angel, my honey,” the woman laughed, bending down to kiss him. Mother and son laughed together.

These comforting memories quickly faded. The wooden house and silk curtains were gone, replaced by the opulent furnishings of the papal reception room.

“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.

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