The Reversed Hierophant

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.

He sat by the window, and when the other person looked up at him dazedly, he gave them a smile.

——How 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.

——But 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 –

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.

—If, 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.

—Until 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 gas lamps illuminated the colonnades of the papal palace. Portraits hung on one side of the arched, semi-open corridor, but years of weathering and the passage of time had tarnished even the most carefully preserved paintings. Under the light, the figures in the paintings seemed particularly eerie, and those dressed in religious robes or armor seemed to glance out at the passersby with a strange smile.

The young Pope walked through these gloomy corridors expressionlessly and met Ferrante face to face.

Ferrante must have been waiting here for a long time, as there were dark marks of dew staining his coat. When Rafael saw him, the uncontrollable violence in his heart surged up again. He knew that a large part of this feeling should be attributed to his current powerlessness. His meager strength forced him to choose such a vulgar and shameless method, but… but…

How could he completely control himself and not take his anger out on others?

Ferrante stood there nervously and saw the Pope walking towards him in the cold night wind. He stopped a few steps away from him and looked at him slowly with his lavender eyes, as if he had never seen him before. This look made Ferrante feel a creeping dread, as if he was being stared at by a snake.

“You can rest assured.” Rafael said, finally restraining himself, and there was no flaw in his tone.

Ferrante hesitated for a while. He hadn’t heard any news. If the Pope had a conflict with Francois, the explosive news would have swept through all of Florence in the first place. But he hadn’t heard any commotion in the papal palace, which was the center of Florence. He didn’t know what His Holiness had done, but Francois must not have suffered any losses.

He didn’t want to question or blame, but… the development of this matter seemed different from what he had imagined.

No matter how precocious and insightful he was about human nature, the young Ferrante still naively believed in the simple concept of ‘evil begets evil.’ In his view, if the Pope wanted to save those poor people, he would have to punish Francois, the culprit. Of course, he understood that the Pope couldn’t impose any substantial punishment on the Duke of Calais, but nothing?

He didn’t quite understand and he realized that something was completely different from what he had imagined.

Unlike the lower class he mingled with, the cold truth beneath Florence’s gorgeous clothes and luxurious jewels revealed a glimpse of itself to him.

He wanted to speak, but Rafael didn’t give him the chance. His excessive beauty – and his flushed complexion forced upon him by the intense pain of walking—added an enchanting magic to the otherworldly saint, like a crack in a beautiful jade or a broken half of the moon. Precisely because of its imperfection, it was even more tempting to gaze upon, making one want to pick it up and examine carefully, to pry it apart with your fingertips and carefully spy on it, to smell it, to touch it with one’s lips –

The Pope suddenly moved closer to him, his fingers, which were chilled by the night wind, grasped Ferrante’s chin and forced him to look at him.

The boy was half a head shorter than an adult, and he could only raise his head slightly. He heard the Pope say in a toneless voice: “I heard it, I achieved it.”

“—In return, you must give me your all.”

After making this arrogant and dictatorial declaration, the Pope released him, looked at him coldly for a few seconds, and walked away with a group of people towards the baths, leaving Ferrante standing blankly in the corridor, divided by shadows and light.

Having learned that the Pope was on his way back, the servants had already started preparing the baths. All the fireplaces were lit, and the bottom of the bath, modelled after ancient Roman styles, was embedded with numerous heat-conducting brass pipes. Coal was shovelled into the boiler room by the boxful, heating the water and filling the brass pipes, which in turn heated the wide pool. Soon, the whole bath was filled with hit steam, and it was even possible to sweat profusely after staying a long time inside.

The bottom of the pool was lined with colored glass, and the rich and varied colors shimmered with a jewel-like transparency under the refraction of the water and the wall lamps, as if the entire bathroom was suspended in a flowing ribbon. Light-colored velvet curtains shielded the surroundings. Rafael dismissed everyone, took off his clothes, wrapped a thin towel around his waist, and walked down the steps into the water, one at a time. He did not reveal a genuine look of pain until the hot water touched his cold knees.

The pool was very large, and even though it was for the Pope’s sole use, it was big enough for someone to swim in—of course, Rafael would not do such a thing. He continued to walk until the warm water covered his legs, his waist, and finally lapped gently at his chest. He stood in the center of the pool, his eyes lowered, enduring the sting of the sudden heat on his cold skin.

Wet golden hair was scattered on his fair, naked skin. The Narcissus in the water was slender and fragile, with water droplets condensed from mist hanging on his long eyelashes, dangling precariously at the corners of his eyes, like a tear shed by God. Even the most hard-hearted person could not face such a heartbreaking scene calmly. He was like a flower that had been casually broken and thrown into the water. Who would have thought that such a weary and broken person would dare to hold up the rotten ship of Florence on his own?

The quietly lowered curtain suddenly wrinkled slightly. The collision of hot and cold air currents made the mist on the surface of the pool drift away. The Pope, who had his eyes closed and seemed to be asleep, suddenly opened his eyes and shouted, “Who’s there? Who allowed you to come in?!”

The man who had come in heard the scolding, but did not pause. A slender gloved hand pushed aside the curtain, and a silver-plated cane tapped lightly on the marble floor, making a crisp sound with a slight echo.

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—” 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—the 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.

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