The Reversed Hierophant

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 – 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.

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,

When thou dost reign eternal within my dream.¹

The marquis’s dying words, left on parchment, became his legacy. Leshert inadvertently recalled this passionate unrequited love, and suddenly felt that if he had been facing such a scene and such a person day and night, then falling into a desperate love wouldn’t be such a surprising thing.

“Your Holiness.” The knight knelt on one knee, gently took the thick book from the Pope’s hand, and placed it on a small round table nearby. The Pope’s fingers brushed against the back of his hand. The knight was stunned for a moment and reached back to gently grasp the Pope’s drooping fingers.

So cold.

He clasped his palms together, enclosing the Pope’s hand in his palm, warming the overly cold hand. At the same time he thought worriedly, it was already the month of June, and the fireplace was lit, why was His Holiness’s body still so cold?

Rafael walked alone in his dream. He walked on a path without any light, surrounded by thick darkness. All around him was only the dull echo of waves hitting the rocks, one after another, mixed with the vague singing of a woman.

Such a scene, enough to terrify and suffocate anyone, didn’t make Rafael show a bit of panic. He didn’t look back or forward, but just walked forward numbly. The monotonous and dull sound of the waves hit against his eardrums. He knew very clearly that he was dreaming, but he didn’t really want to wake up.

He even knew where the sound of the waves came from—a few miles from Cantrella Castle was a seaport. In the nearly four years he had lived there, or rather, been imprisoned there, he listened to such sounds every night, waiting for someone to come, or maybe not.

Julius only knew that every time he came, he could see Rafael, who hadn’t fallen asleep, waiting for him. But perhaps he had overlooked the fact that when he wasn’t there, the lonely boy could only wait quietly like this, waiting and waiting.

Rafael hated the sound of the tide. It reminded him of rainy days, of the screams for mercy as he rolled in the mud, of the futile waiting, of the dull drowsy pain, and of the nights of hope and disappointment.

But he didn’t understand where the vague woman’s singing came from. Perhaps in a more distant past, in a memory he couldn’t even remember, there was such a person who sang to him. Because this dream had left this blank space, enough for his imagination, and warmth he could rely on, he would rather listen to this eternal, repetitive sound of the tide, than wake up.

Then a hand lifted him out of the dream, very gently, as if scooping up a handful of moonlight or broken gold that was about to flow away, and lifted him out of the monotonous sea tide and the dark road.

Rafael curled up, giving up all resistance obediently, allowing the unknown but unusually warm person to hold his wandering and cold, tired soul.

“Your Holiness.” Leshert saw Rafael open his eyes. Those lavender eyes that were still intoxicating no matter how many times he saw them were filled with a hazy mist. The Lord of Florence, who had just woken up from his dream, was as gentle and soft as a white cloud. His eyes were filled with the frost that fell when the Black Sea monsoon blew, as if waiting for someone to wipe away all that frost.

But this fragile illusion only lasted for a moment. When Rafael blinked his eyes and dug out his clear reason from his mind, Leshert saw with joy and regret that the monarch who had presided over the June trial had appeared again.

“Good afternoon, Knight.”

Rafael quickly regained his composure, slowly sat up straight, and at the same time, calmly withdrew his hand from Leshert’s palm and retracted it under his loose sleeve, “Is there anything?”

As he asked, he quietly twisted his fingers, feeling the comfortable warmth on his skin, which was quite addictive, and it distracted him for a moment.

So warm, Rafael thought vaguely.

He seldom received such an intimate and unguarded touch. The poor environment in the lower city when he was young made him afraid to get close to anyone. After returning to the Papal Palace, all he met were gentlemen who adhered to aristocratic etiquette. Keeping a certain distance from each other was a dogma engraved in their bones, and his father – Vitalian III was not a man who liked to express his emotions with body language. Julius had a bit of mysophobia, and although he wouldn’t attack Rafael, he was also not used to physical contact. He didn’t have any close female companions around him.

Calculating this way, except for the necessary etiquette, the only ones whom he had any contact with beyond etiquette was Lia when he was young, and the rare periods when Julius showed concern for him.

Rafael thought calmly with a hint of self-mockery, and saw Leshert handing him a thick roll of paper.

He took it and flipped through it twice, quickly understanding: “Recruitment roster? These things were handed over to you. You can take care of all these things, no need to show it to me anymore. The Knights Templar now have 118 members. I hope to expand them to 800 before the end of July. I will equip them with armor, horses, and weapons. By the end of this year, you should have at least an army of 8,000 people, including 2,000 Knights Templar and 6,000 regular troops of the Papal States.

“Of course, the members of the Knights Templar will be listed under other names, such as the Papal Guard, the Florence City Guard, and so on. We also need to take care of the fragile sensibilities of other countries occasionally.”

The Pope’s tone was cold and indifferent. When he said the last sentence, there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Undoubtedly, in his blueprint, Leshert would become the general who commanded his entire army. The Commander of the Knights Templar had a sense of integrity that even he admired, but in many cases, integrity was not a compliment to a general.

So…

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.

—So 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—including 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—and 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!

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