The Reversed Hierophant

Chapter 87: Illness

Doctor Polly, his sleeves rolled up, stood before a coarse, heavy wooden mortar, vigorously pounding herbs with a pestle. On the table beside him lay an open book, its pages yellowed and soft, bound in a distinctive way. Every few pounds, he would glance distractedly at the text, a deep furrow forming between his already heavily wrinkled brows.

The sounds from the inner chamber gradually quieted. After a while, Julius walked out, straightening his sleeves, and closed the bedroom door behind him. He sat on the sofa beside Polly. The hem of his long coat slipped to the floor, its gold threads and tiny gemstones shimmering under the gas lamp.

The Secretary General of the Papal Palace said nothing.

He leaned back on the sofa, resting his forehead on one hand, his expression weary. Subtle dark circles lined his eyes. During Rafael’s disappearance, the pressure of the entire Papal States rested on his shoulders. Even the perpetually calm Julius was undeniably more tense than usual. And now Rafael had finally returned, only to be riddled with injuries and illness.

As long as he is alive. Julius felt an inappropriate flicker of relief. As long as he is still alive, there is still a way.

Separated only by a wall from the sleeping Rafael, Julius allowed himself a rare moment of slight relaxation. But soon, he tucked that weariness away again, burying it deep within his bones and organs.

“How is his leg?”

Julius didn’t change his position, simply opening his eyes to watch Doctor Polly pound medicine and flip through the book. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, as if afraid of waking someone.

Doctor Polly didn’t answer immediately. He carefully used his knuckle to press down the page and turn it, studying the illustrations and struggling to decipher each character.

After a while, he finally spoke. “I don’t know either.”Only when alone did Polly dare to speak the truth. “…An old ailment. He had the surgery at such a young age; theoretically, his recovery should have been excellent. But being locked up in Cantrella Castle for so long… Hmph, the environment there would kill even a healthy person. I told him long ago that he needed to take good care of it, take good care of it! But he treats my words like the wind!”

As he spoke, the old man’s eyes burned with anger.

“Terrible!” He forcibly swallowed the rest of what he wanted to say, concluding with just one word.

“It’s terrible!” He stressed again, unable to contain his frustration.

Julius was silent for a while. He shifted his posture, crossing his hands on his lap and leaning forward, his tone softening slightly: “If… I mean, is there any other way? He is only twenty-five. He still has a long path ahead of him. Florence and the Papal States cannot do without him.”

A person with a disability could not become Pope. So, Julius had not only concealed the news of Rafael’s injury but also had to find a way for him to walk normally in the future.

This wasn’t an easy task, as could be seen from Polly’s grim expression.

“I am a doctor, not the Holy Lord,” Polly couldn’t help but retort sarcastically. “When it comes to miracles, that’s your area of expertise.”

It was the first time Julius had been openly mocked like this. His deep violet eyes glanced at Polly, but he said nothing, his gaze dropping to the book: “What does it say?”

He was fluent in seven languages and had even studied some dead languages no longer in use. But he knew little about that distant, vast Eastern Empire—a common limitation due to the geographical isolation of the Syracuse Peninsula. The ocean separated the two civilizations, and aside from reckless madmen like Polly, no respectable person with a family and livelihood would dare to travel across the sea.

“I’m looking at it now,” Polly replied with a dark face. “I haven’t opened this book in years. Their script is truly difficult… I wasn’t very good at it even back then…”

The old man wore the pained expression of a struggling student.

Use it or lose it was the natural law. A language unused for decades would naturally be forgotten. Polly racked his brains, trying to recall what each square character meant, then haltingly reorganized the language in his own words.

“It will be very difficult to restore function to its former state,” Polly said. “He fell into the river, hit the riverbank, the bone was slightly displaced, and he was soaked in cold water for a long time… When he wakes up, I will need to reset the bone. If the alignment isn’t good, another surgery might be necessary.”

At this, not only did Julius’s expression change, but Polly’s own face turned extremely grim.

Unlike the first time he operated on Rafael, he was still young then and handled every step of the surgery himself, ensuring the best outcome. But now…

Not to mention that Rafael’s current condition was much worse than before. He was deeply worried that another surgery might have the opposite effect. Polly silently prayed that Rafael’s bones weren’t severely misaligned, hoping they could be reset without another operation.

Julius leaned back against the cushion, his body sinking into the soft feather pillows. He slowly closed his eyes. Polly quietly continued pounding the herbs. After a long time, Julius stood up and walked out of the Pope’s bedroom.

The next morning, before Polly could examine Rafael’s leg, Rafael developed a high fever. Perhaps the stressful journey to Calais had exhausted him completely, and once he reached a safe place, all the complications came rushing at him fiercely. Julius rushed over upon receiving the news, still in his sleeping robe with only a large cloak thrown over his shoulders. His iron-gray hair was uncombed, cascading loosely over his shoulders.

The Secretary-General, wrapped in the morning chill, stormed in. The doctors scattered like a flock of startled birds under his imposing presence. Julius raised his hand, and the attendants behind him immediately understood, Pollytely but firmly ushering the doctors out of the Pope’s bedroom.

Polly anxiously looked at Julius, then at Rafael. He wanted to say something, but held his tongue, turning back to study his surgical plans.

Rafael woke up once in the middle of his illness. Julius sat by the bed, using a dampened silk handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. Rafael turned his head, vaguely seeking that cool touch. His muddled mind floated in and out of the pain, his fever-red lips trembling.

Julius leaned close to listen, catching only a few confused syllables—illogical, disjointed, and chaotic.

“…Mother…” The young Pope, like a wronged child, complained to his mother in his dreams. “…Hurt… letter… manor…”

He was delirious with fever, sobbing amidst the prolonged and intense pain, trying to curl up but too weak to even move his limbs. This made him feel even more aggrieved. Tears slid from the corners of his eyes, his long lashes damp with moisture. Julius patiently wiped his face.

A letter? What letter?

Julius pondered distractedly while soothing him, his tone unprecedentedly gentle. He even leaned over, resting his upper body by the pillow, cheek close to Rafael’s, murmuring softly.

“I’m here, Rafa, I’m here, dear one,” he coaxed the delirious Rafael as if comforting a child. He removed his signet ring, which he never took off, and gently covered Rafael’s feverish cheek with his broad hand, lightly stroking his ear.

“Shh… Sleep well,” Julius’s voice was almost a whisper. “Sleep well. No one can take you away from me.”

Rafael didn’t seem to hear his words. Like an injured kitten, he instinctively burrowed towards the warm source, pressing his head against Julius’s shoulder. His temples and forehead were damp with sweat, his eyelids half-open. His light purple pupils were devoid of light, like gemstones with their fires extinguished, making Julius’s heart ache with sorrow and anxiety.

Rafael furrowed his brows. Julius kissed his forehead and cheeks, gently kneading the back of his neck like stroking a cat, trying to get him to relax. Even in his feverish state, Rafael maintained an almost instinctive vigilance. His entire body was tense and sore, letting out a low whimper when Julius touched him.

Julius held him. Outside, the sky was bright, but the interior curtains were tightly drawn. The room was filled with the scent of frankincense and myrrh. The strong aroma created a drowsy atmosphere, yet Rafael couldn’t achieve deep sleep. He woke repeatedly and was repeatedly soothed back to sleep by Julius, only to be startled awake after a brief rest. This cycle repeated for a long time, making sleep itself feel like a torment.

“Why can’t he sleep?” Julius was also exhausted after an entire day of this, sporting dark circles under his eyes, his face grim and irritable. He was still wearing his sleeping robe, the garment covered in messy wrinkles, looking utterly unlike the dignified, impeccably refined Patriarch of the Portia family he usually was.

“This shouldn’t be happening.” Doctor Polly wore a puzzled expression. “Sick people are the easiest to put to sleep. And the incense contains sedative herbs as well. He shouldn’t be waking up constantly.”

“He’s resisting sleep. Why?” After much thought, this seemed the only reason that could explain Rafael’s repeated awakenings.

Julius silently looked at the young man, whose cheeks were flushed with an unhealthy red under the blanket. He reached out and covered Rafael’s ears, noticing that Rafael had opened his eyes again. His gaze was dull, clearly still dazed. Forcing his eyes open had brought a thin layer of tears, making his light purple irises appear exceptionally soft in the watery light, like a groggy rabbit just waking up.

Julius moved his hand from Rafael’s ears to cover his eyes. The damp eyelashes brushed against his palm, sending a tingling itch. A moment later, the itchy sensation faded, and Rafael’s breathing became steady again. Julius moved his hand away and saw that Rafael had closed his eyes and fallen into slumber.

But his sleep was restless, a faint furrow remained between his brows, his expression uneasy. His eyeballs moved beneath his lids, seemingly ready to snap open at any moment, as if he were in an extremely unsafe environment and needed to maintain constant high vigilance.

Julius was stunned by his own association.

Unsafe?

He stared intently at Rafael’s face, his confusion deepening.

Do you not feel safe here? Even in the Florentine Papal Palace, surrounded by your own guard?

But why?

Julius had never realized Rafael had such an extremely sensitive nature. He had never displayed any distrust of those around him. Whether it was tasking Ferrante with training the Holy Crows and the Papal Guard or entrusting the affairs of the Papal Palace back to Julius, Rafael had always shown unwavering composure and trust in them.

Why would he feel uneasy lying in his own bedroom in the Papal Palace? Why would he strive to resist the drowsiness of illness and the sedation of the medicine, insisting on maintaining a precarious state of wakefulness, even if it amounted to torture?

This question was destined to remain unanswered.

Through the collective efforts of the doctors, the Holy Father finally regained consciousness on the fifth day, his fever having broken. He opened his eyes. It was late at night, and the bedroom was silent, save for the faint hiss of gas steadily feeding the lamp through the brass pipes. This white noise was quite hypnotic. Rafael groggily turned his head and saw Ferrante sitting in the single armchair by the bed, his head bowed in a light doze.

The youth, dressed in a black cassock, looked travel-worn. His semi-long, curly black hair was messily scattered around his neck. His strikingly handsome features had now developed the masculine sharpness and aggression of maturity. His tall frame was somewhat awkwardly fitted into the armchair, his long legs uncomfortably tucked into the space beside it, like an eagle that had flown wearily back to its nest to roost.

Rafael thought hazily, how long had he been asleep?

He remembered sending Ferrante out to investigate the status of the Holy Crows in Calais. When was that? Had Ferrante already returned? Had he been ill for a long time?

Rafael pondered the question while slowly and silently withdrawing his hand from under the pillow, maintaining his just-awakened posture.

He had been having the same dream for the past few days.

In the dream was the Virgin holding the Holy Infant. She wore a long, snow-white headscarf, her face a blank, standing in the shadows looking down at him. Candlelight from an unknown source flickered in the wind, causing the Madonna’s shadow to loom high and low, long and short, like a living creature baring its claws, sneaking closer with a sinister laugh. The dream was deathly silent, only the strange sound of footsteps gradually approaching. As the footsteps drew nearer, Rafael’s fear climbed to its peak, forcing him to wake up.

Countless times in the dream, he reached out his hand, trying to grasp something, but his extended hand never met a response. Or, if he seemed to grab something, it would instantly slip from his fingers, and no matter how desperate he was, he couldn’t pick it up again.

It wasn’t until his hand found the familiar cold touch of the short dagger under his pillow, firmly gripping the cold, hard hilt, that he finally breathed a sigh of relief, experiencing rebirth from that suffocating agony.

Rafael wasn’t unaware of what he was dreaming about, but why would he suddenly dream of this scene? He hadn’t thought of this matter in a long time.

Perhaps it was the illness, or maybe the pursuit by François IV had unsettled his mind?

Rafael found an excuse for himself, deliberately avoiding the question.

As he gently turned his head and closed his eyes again, sinking into calm sleep, Ferrante, who had maintained his feigned slumber, finally opened his eyes, looking at him with a complex expression.

The moment Rafael’s breathing changed and he opened his eyes, Ferrante had been startled awake. But Rafael’s instinctive movement to reach under the pillow was so swift that to save Rafael any embarrassment, Ferrante chose to pretend he was still asleep.

Yet, this did not mitigate the shock and confusion expanding in his heart like a storm cloud.

His specialized profession made him more familiar than anyone with what Rafael’s movement implied. He could even easily guess what lay beneath that pillow.

But this should not be.

Only battle-hardened soldiers, assassins living on the knife’s edge, or desperate people clinging to survival sleep with their weapons nearby. Only those whose lives are constantly hanging by a thread would immediately seek for their blade the moment they wake up.

Anyone might be forced into such a predicament, but never the Pope of Florence, who was surrounded and protected by knights, beloved and supported by the people, and revered by countless individuals.

What was Rafael so afraid of?

A terrible storm brewed in Ferrante’s deep blue eyes. This indicated an absolute dereliction of duty on his part. Under his protection, the Holy Father had felt isolated and fearful. This was no different from slapping Ferrante twice across the face. More importantly…

Rafael had never informed him, nor shown him, such worry. Did this mean… Rafael didn’t trust him?

This conjecture was more terrifying than the realization that he might have been derelict in his duty.

He couldn’t accept this fact.

He silently stood up, resolving to double the guard force within the Papal Palace, and also…

Ferrante’s gaze flickered. He hesitated for a moment, then finally made up his mind. As long as he was discreet enough, Rafael wouldn’t know he had investigated him. He was always careful to avoid anything that might displease Rafael. He knew the Holy Crows under his control possessed excessive deterrent power. No one would fail to fear a person who held all your secrets. Ferrante did not want Rafael to realize that the blade in his hand had developed a consciousness of its own. He was completely loyal to the Pope, and he would never do anything Rafael hadn’t commanded.

This is the only time, he swore in his heart. It wasn’t for his own selfish desires. He simply wanted to know what kept Rafael from sleeping soundly day and night.

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