The Reversed Hierophant

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 – 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.

—That’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 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—there 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.

Rafael turned to a new page. The human anatomy diagram outlined in red ink on the paper was bloody and eye-catching. Rafael raised an eyebrow subconsciously, and the energy he had lazily used to listen to the Judge’s nonsense was finally focused entirely on the thing in front of him.

He closed the book again and glanced at the cover. The handwritten book cover was inscribed with a short line of letters in neat and formal script: ‘Natural Science and Human Medicine.’

Rafael straightened from his seat and opened the book again with an unreadable expression.

Like any other work of this era, the book was filled with lengthy passages praising divine grace and the papal court, interspersed with pretentious scientific tales. The author rambled on and on, repeating theories that had long been proven right or wrong by history. It was as if an incompetent folk scientist had proudly thrown together everything they’d heard, explaining them with their own unique imagination and theories, while attributing all the inexplicable things as miracles of God—a dual believer and heretic of both science and religion.

The tasteless, cumbersome, and rotten words, mixed with the overly literary nonsense, made Rafael’s forehead twitch. He flipped back to the illustration and stared at the overly gory image in silence for two seconds. The picture was clearly too precise, far beyond the realm of artistic imagination and creation. Organs and blood vessels were laid bare within the red and white flesh, creating a visual impact no less shocking than if Rafael had seen a group of Redricks appearing in front of him with a fawning smile.

Rafael slammed the book shut and stared at the author’s name for two seconds.

Anastasia.

No surname.

Rafael stroked the rough paper, wanting to say something, but from below the courtroom came the sound of the Judge banging his gavel. “Silence!”

“We gather here solemnly to seek the truth behind the plague that broke out in the lower district of Florence in early 1080. Accusations have been made that this disaster was man-made. By the order of His Holiness Sistine I, God’s representative on Earth, the Arbitration Bureau has established a special investigation committee to investigate the allegations against the twelve lords of the Papal States, led by Lauren Russo, for spreading the plague in Florence, conspiracy to murder the Pope, and slaughtering innocent people. The Florence Tribunal, adheres to the principles of fairness, openness, and justice. In front of God and His earthly incarnation, we swear to be loyal to the law and Florence, to judge justly and with a clear conscience.”

As he recited the oath, all members of the court, including the jury, echoed in unison, “Fairness! Openness! Justice! Loyalty to the law, loyalty to Florence!”

They shouted this three times in unison, mingled with Redrick’s reluctant muttering.

No one noticed the word ‘Arbitration Bureau’ that the Judge had casually slipped into his long-winded speech. Perhaps some did, but they merely wondered, if they had ever heard of such an organization before. Only a very few sharp-minded individuals could quickly connect it to that group of ubiquitous, omnipresent crow-like black-robed monks.

After the shouts subsided, the Judge continued, “As per His Holiness’s request, the witness testimonies for this case are now complete. Do you permit the court to proceed?”

He turned to the Pope, who sat behind the lectern, holding the book. His expression was calm. “I permit it.”

The Judge straightened, his aged, wrinkled face alight. He proclaimed loudly, “I declare! Court is now in session! Bring in the accused!”

The bailiff standing by a side door grasped the heavy, gold-plated handle and pulled open the thick oak door with force. A group of black-robed monks entered silently, like a flock of crows perched on a nest. An invisible sense of oppression spread wherever they went. Their hands were crossed at their wrists and rested on their abdomens, their eyes fixed calmly on the ground a few feet in front of them. They seemed harmless enough, but based on instinct alone, no one would underestimate these seemingly unarmed men.

Under their ‘escort,’ five lords were brought to the defendant’s bench. They looked upon each other with surprise and suspicion. Upon realizing that there were only five of them, they simultaneously understood something and began to curse inwardly at those cowardly and weak individuals, infinitely regretting that they had not betrayed their companions earlier.

They had been under strict surveillance ever since the plague ended. Ferrante had even sent people to watch every window and chimney of their residences. No one could communicate secretly under such tight surveillance. Only today, when they were brought out by the black-robed monks, did they see their former allies for the first time.

Old Russo’s face turned unusually gloomy as he glanced at the people standing beside him. The cruelty of a man who once committed murder and robbery in his early years was revealed from under his well-hidden skin. This kind of vile, base, greedy and viscous malice made the lords around him shudder.

“Now, I call upon Ferrante, the head of the Arbitration Bureau’s investigation committee and captain of the Papal Guard, to read the charges,” the Judge announced, knocking his gavel to draw everyone’s attention.

Rafael leaned forward slightly, looking intently at Ferrante who stood up. Before that, he had been sitting in the jury box in a low-key manner.

The young man with black curly hair held the title of captain of the Papal Guard. This title was considered low-ranking in the Florentine official hierarchy, but the people it allowed one to interact with and its actual significance gave almost every captain the hidden power of a Florentine governor. Surprisingly, this captain who held such power in Florence was still a young man no older than twenty.

His youth brought a nostalgic look to some of the older people in the audience. They vaguely remembered that a long time ago, there was also a similarly young child who had once stood at the center of Florence’s political storm.

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—only 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.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!