The Reversed Hierophant

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 François, but he also admitted that he did not like a hard life—this 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.

Ingrid put away the honey pot and didn’t add any to her own cup. Instead, she picked up a book from the shelf: “Have you finished reading the book His Holiness sent yesterday? What is it about?”

At the mention of this, Lucrezia’s eyes lit up instantly, bringing a strange glow to her fair face. “It’s about the History of Rome, very interesting! But But there are some words that I don’t understand. Maybe you could read it to me again tonight? I’d love to hear it as a bedtime story!”

She quickly squeezed next to Ingrid, flipped the book to the first page, and looked at her sister with expectant eyes.

“Alright,” Ingrid smiled. She was glad to see her sister regain her former innocence and liveliness. Even though they had lost the protection of Lady Bianchi and their future life would be more difficult, their guardian at least knew that Lucrezia liked reading books… which seemed pretty good.

Beside the moving carriage, a wheat-colored hand grabbed the carriage pole. The young man, like an agile cheetah, ran a few steps after the steam carriage and then, with a strong arm, pulled himself onto the speeding carriage. This set of movements was full of danger but was also neat and graceful. The knights on horseback guarding on both saw this scene and cheered.

The carriage door opened and closed quickly. The monk with long, curly black hair quickly took off his dusty outer robe and threw it carelessly on the floor. The dust raised by the passing convoy was as tall as a person, and no matter how well protected they were, they couldn’t stop the dust from clinging to their bodies. Even staying in the carriage, they needed to change their clothes several times a day.

Ferrante stopped there and shook his hair vigorously. His long, curly black hair was supple and lustrous, like a lion with gorgeous fur elegantly cleaning its fur. Every inch of his hair revealed a wild and primitive charm. He casually combed his messy half-length hair back, bent down, and sat at the table.

The person behind the desk heard the sudden cheers outside and obviously knew who had come. He leaned against the soft cushion and didn’t even raise his eyes. He continued to focus on the book in his hand, but pointed to the table.

A teacup on the table was already filled with red tea at a suitable temperature. Sugar cubes and honey were in a transparent glass jar next to it, exuding a sweet and crystalline fragrance, waiting to be tasted.

But Ferrante wasn’t a very good connoisseur. It was undeniable that his early experiences in the slums had given him very little experience in this area. Even if he found a teacher to teach him, his solidified and damaged taste buds couldn’t allow him to taste the difference in the aroma between two wines produced in the same season from two different estates. So Ferrante spent more of his energy on crash courses, such as various social skills, ballroom dancing, jewelry analysis, spice identification, etc. The first few were to better blend into the corresponding occasions at the right time, and the last was for personal safety.

In this era of medical ignorance, spices were often mistaken for poisons, and many poisons were used as fragrant incense. The most notorious of these plants was belladonna. This berrylike fruit, when ripe, was a glossy purple-black with purple juice. The root and stem were rich in atropine, a single dose of which could paralyze and kill an adult. Yet, due to its anesthetic and sedative properties, and its ability to dilate pupils, many noblewomen would drip its juice into their eyes to enlarge their pupils, giving them a pitifully charming appearance. Countless lives were lost to this deadly and wonderful plant.

Regardless of the purpose, Ferrante needed to master as many plant species and their uses as possible.

He sat down at the table, throwing enough sugar cubes in his tea to make one wince, stirring it with a spoon before gulping down the warm liquid in one breath.

Only after finishing his tea did Ferrante feel his racing heart settle. “In about three days, we will be leaving the Kaliana Mountains and enter the River Plain. The engineering team has sent word that the rail connection is in the final stages. It should be completed before your arrival. We’ll then switch to a steam train. Our first stop is Vallado City, where the person you asked us to find lives. Several monks have already located him.”

He hesitated for a moment before continuing, “They say he’s a lunatic, a mentally ill person, and seems to have some intellectual disabilities.”

Rafael closed his book and asked with interest, “Is that so?”

Leaning back against the soft cushions in a very relaxed posture, the Pope replied, “A madman, mentally ill, but the things he writes are very interesting, although—most of it is the kind of crazy rambling a drunk would do.”

Ferrante clearly knew what he was talking about, having read the ‘very interesting book’. Recalling the book, his expression turned sour and he replied after a long pause, “I feel like I’ve been trampled on by a herd of elephants after reading that book.”

His crude analogy made the Pope laugh loudly, a faint blush spreading across his pale face. By the end of his laughter, Rafael even felt a bit short of breath. He pressed his waist and wiped away the tears from the corners of his eyes. “Well… his choice of words is indeed a bit… unexpected, but did you notice the picture?”

Ferrante immediately pictured the drawing the Holy Father was referring to. The drawing in the manuscript was entirely hand-drawn, and it was incredible that the artist could use such simple red and blue ink to create such a detailed picture. picture. Everything about the human body was laid bare on the paper, stripped of beauty, ugliness, height, or even gender. The dissected person was simply “human,” stripped of all its adornments, and the bloody organs, blood vessels, and bones were enough to frighten anyone.

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—it 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—I honestly suspect the only reason Julius brought it to me was that he was driven mad by it.

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