The Reversed Hierophant

Chapter 88: Announcing the Will

Julius stood behind a long table. This room was situated at the hub of several corridors leading from the conservatory; rather than a room, it was more of a small hall with four doors. Craftsmen had decorated it with gilded semicircular arches, carving patterns of hornbeam leaves and lily motifs. Aside from the plaster flower stands surrounding the perimeter, the only furniture in the center was a long, empty table.

This small hall served no specific purpose, and rarely did anyone linger here for long. Its sole virtues were its central location—nearest to all critical areas of the palace—and the vantage point it provided to observe the movement of almost everyone in the Papal Palace.

Julius had been here for two days. Apart from visiting Rafael, he had spent all his waking hours here. The long table was covered with all kinds of maps and documents.

As he leaned over the table, deep in thought, the heavy, melodious tolling of bells drifted in through the window. Florence’s morning prayer bells rang right on time. Julius looked up as if waking from a dream, rubbing his aching eye sockets. He saw the milky, misty blue morning light piercing through the glass, casting a cold glow on the floor, distinctly different from that of the gas lamps.

Another new day.

The Secretary-General rubbed his face wearily. The door directly opposite him opened silently. Julius looked up to see a man draped in a black monk’s robe, gliding in like a ghost. The two men exchanged a silent glance, saying nothing, but judging by Ferrante’s familiar stance at the other side of the table, it was clear they had been in constant communication over the past few days.

“I haven’t found any suspicious signs,” Julius said wearily, his voice hoarse from lack of use, the first two syllables barely audible.

Ferrante remained silent, looking down at the scattered papers on the table. Each sheet was stamped in the corner with a small emblem: a tiny pair of scales inside a dark blue circle, topped by a vertical eye totem. This was the insignia of the Arbitration Bureau under Ferrante’s control. Documents bearing this seal were secret files of the Bureau; without the permission of the Pope or Ferrante, no one below a certain rank was permitted to view them.

Julius walked to the side, lifted a crystal decanter, and poured himself a glass of mead. The cold, sweet liquid rushed down his throat, abruptly clearing his somewhat muddled mind. Holding the crystal glass, he turned to Ferrante: “How is His Holiness?”

Ferrante unfolded a rolled-up map and said calmly, “Just fell asleep. Doctor Polly says the medication is working. He needs to sleep more over the next few days to recover his strength.”Julius nodded absentmindedly, swirling his crystal glass. The octagonal vessel was intricately engraved, and the pale yellow mead inside shimmered like radiant amber with his movements, casting faint colored reflections onto his clothes.

Rafael’s fever had broken, but his body remained very frail. The doctors insisted he stay away from all official business, confining him to bed rest. Julius was more than happy to comply with this; he only visited periodically to report minor, inconsequential trifles, spending the bulk of his time consumed by the work here.

“…Nothing else?” Julius asked again, looking at the papers on the table.

Ferrante closed a map of Calais. The drawings made by the Holy Crows depicted some of Calais’s distinctive streets and landmarks, but such details were useless to them at the moment.

“That is everything,” Ferrante replied succinctly.

He rarely spent time alone with Julius outside of necessary administrative handovers. This was the first time they had coexisted for so long. Ferrante felt that the two of them might never be on harmonious terms; for reasons unknown, their temperaments simply clashed.

Had he not needed to investigate the cause behind the threat to Rafael—the reason the Pope remained as skittish as a startled bird even in illness—and had Julius not been subtly fishing for similar information from him, Ferrante would never have accepted this cooperation.

Nevertheless, he had to admit that Julius was truly capable. The secret reports of the Arbitration Bureau were as numerous as ox hairs, yet Julius had managed to organize the majore threads and pinpointed useful content in just a few days. This skill seemed simple, but one had to remember that the Bureau’s documents were written by the Holy Crows themselves. Many of the Crows came from impoverished backgrounds, had never attended school, and were illiterate; they could only express meaning through drawings and simple universal symbols. Julius’s ability to discern their intent and extract information from them was truly remarkable.

Every document regarding the Pope’s assassination attempt and the situation in Calais had been brought here. The two men took turns organizing and analyzing them. Yet even after reviewing everything and clearly realizing that Calais might have long held a grander scheme, they could find no information that would explain Rafael’s profound unease.

The number of Holy Crows in Calais was decreasing at an inconspicuous rate, a change even Ferrante hadn’t initially noticed. Many Crows had their day jobs, and most who provided intelligence were traveling merchants; it was normal for merchants to move between regions. It wasn’t until Rafael ordered him to investigate that Ferrante put all the intel together and discovered, to his surprise, that the reports sent back from Calais this year and last had plummeted by nearly a third compared to previous years.

But even if they discovered that Calais intended to start a war, it shouldn’t have caused Rafael such distress—his anxiety was different from worrying about the Papal States; it was a trepidation regarding his own personal safety. Neither Ferrante nor Julius could find further clues.

This puzzled them greatly.

After enduring it for several days, Ferrante finally couldn’t help himself. When Rafael was recovered enough to leave his bed for a walk, Ferrante asked indirectly: “Have you still been having dreams these past few nights?”

Rafael’s face stiffened instantly.

They were strolling in the garden. Rafael casually plucked a Marguerite rose that had crowded and bloomed beyond the bamboo fence. This rose, named after a certain Roman princess, had a large, thick blossom. The deep red of its stamen diffused outward, eventually becoming an elegant white. Rafael twirled the stem, a gentle smile on his face, though inwardly he grew wary.

“I don’t recall having any dreams,” Rafael said, his tone as usual.

He felt somewhat averse to this topic, much like disliking someone touching a thorn that had already grown into the flesh. He instinctively changed the subject: “…How is the situation with the Holy Crows in Calais?”

Ferrante noticed his aversion and compliantly played along: “It is much as you expected. The number of merchants within Calais is slowly decreasing, and their control over border cities has tightened. They are likely making pre-war preparations.”

He used the more euphemistic “likely,” but both knew this speculation was fact.

Rafael stopped before a fountain. He stared at the shimmering water in the fountain pool, as if reaching a decision: “Have Julius come see me.”

He casually placed the flower into Ferrante’s hand, looking into those deep blue eyes: “You know what I’m going to tell him, don’t you?”

Ferrante silently grasped the rose stem, offering no reply.

Did he know? Ferrante walked down the deep corridor holding the flower, a cold, mocking smile playing on his lips. Of course he knew. He had personally led Ashur through the secret passage to the Holy See; she was even currently hiding in a stronghold he had arranged. He wasn’t a fool; he could always form his own guesses through the Pope’s subsequent actions.

He didn’t care about His Holiness’s origins, nor what power His Holiness might come to possess. He only cared about His Holiness himself—but perhaps… Ferrante thought, His Holiness wouldn’t be pleased that he had “guessed” these things.

When Julius found Rafael, the young Pope was sitting in his private library.

The light in the library was excellent. Nuns, wearing triangular caps attached to long white headscarves, were tending to the flowers in the marble basins of the study. They removed bouquets that had been soaking for a day and had begun to wilt, carefully skimmed the petals floating on the water’s surface, and replaced them with large, freshly cut bundles. They adjusted each stem with rigorous precision. Meanwhile, a monk carrying a spherical censer orbited the bookshelves, the bitter scent of wormwood—used to ward off dampness and pests—drifting through the air. On the glass dome, branches of red pine brushed against the panes, where small squirrels leaped with weightless agility.

The Pope sat on a high shelf near the dome. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass window depicting an angel, casting a brilliant prismatic light on his pale complexion, still recovering from illness This gave him a strange, almost alluring beauty that felt out of place in the solemn silence of the library. His loose white robes trailed beside him like the plumage of a broken-winged bird perching lonely and weary on a high branch.

He seemed as if he might fall at any moment.

Julius could not suppress this peculiar imagery in his mind.

“It’s dangerous up there.” Though his mind flashed with scenes of bloodshed, Julius’s voice remained steady. He stood below, looking up at the Pope perched precariously high above. The library’s vast, acoustically resonant design meant he didn’t need to raise his voice for his words to echo throughout the room.

The nuns placed the last flower, tenderly turning its bloom toward the Pope. Then, they bowed deeply to the Pope above and filed out of the library in an orderly line.

As the last person left, they hung a golden bell with a clapper shaped like a small wing upon the door—a symbol that the Pope was in residence and no one was to enter without a summons.

A book lay open on Rafael’s lap. From such a distance, Julius couldn’t make out the title. Rafael wasn’t reading; he was staring quietly out the stained glass at the scenery beyond.

He had lost a great deal of weight. The trials of his childhood and the constant vigilance of his youth had already weakened his constitution. Rafael had always been thinner than his peers, but now the change was stark. His robes, which usually fit well, hung hollowly on his frame, making him look like a white bird with feathers far too heavy for its body. One couldn’t help but fear he might be crushed by the weight of his own splendor.

“Is there anywhere in this world that isn’t dangerous?” Rafael replied softly. He turned his face, looking down from his high perch at his Secretary-General, each word laden with meaning. “A person walking on the road could be run over by a carriage. A person lying in bed could die of a stroke. Foreseeable danger is the danger that least warrants worry.”

Julius looked at him: “So, are you going to try the danger of falling from the sky?”

He slowly rolled up his sleeves and stretched out his arms. The smooth, defined muscles of his forearms traced elegant lines as he moved. “Come then, Rafa. Let me catch you.”

Rafael leaned forward slightly. The drop below him was roughly seven meters. Whether Julius could catch him was uncertain; even if he did, the result would likely be fatal for both.

“Oh,” Rafael’s lips curled into a peculiar smile. “You sound as if you are inviting me to a lovers’ suicide.”

Julius’s deep purple eyes shimmered in the light, his iron-gray hair gleaming like polished silver. He kept his arms extended, his expression unchanging. “Then do I have that honor?”

This was going too far, Rafael thought. Although he had considered exploiting Julius’s feelings, this conversation was venturing into dangerous territory.

“You shouldn’t say such things to the Holy Father,” Rafael finally said.

Yet his posture remained unchanged, like a swan poised lightly on the edge of a pond, reservedly testing the water’s temperature.

“There are many things in this world that should not be, yet people do them anyway,” Julius countered, throwing Rafael’s own logic back at him.

Rafael seemed to let out a silent sigh. He locked eyes with Julius for a long time. Finally, he nudged the heavy “book” in his lap—but what fell was not a book, but a thin sheet of parchment.

The yellowed parchment spiraled and drifted through the air. Both of their gazes followed its descent. Julius noticed that for a split second, a flash of regret crossed Rafael’s eyes, as if he wanted to reach out and snatch it back. The way Rafael nearly let go of the ladder’s edge caused Julius’s heart to leap into his throat; his muscles tensed, instinctively moving into a bracing position to catch a falling body.

In that second, he truly would have caught him, even if the cost was his own life.

The parchment hit the floor. Rafael slowly straightened his body, his features settling into a frozen calm, as if the regretful man from a moment ago had never existed. He stared at Julius and asked a seemingly unrelated question: “Is there anything you’ve been hiding from me? Something you’ve hidden for many years?”

Julius’s eyelashes fluttered slightly, his deep purple eyes filled with complex emotions. Rafael suddenly turned his face away, exhaled, and waved a hand wearily, as if refusing to hear the answer. “The Secretariat must be busy. You should go. I wish to sit here a while longer.”

He no longer looked at Julius.

Julius bent down and picked up the old parchment lying at his feet. With just a glance, his pupils contracted sharply. He jerked his head up to look at Rafael, who now presented only a silent, unresponsive profile.

In a flash of insight, Julius finally understood the catalyst for Rafael’s sudden journey to Rome and the subsequent assassination attempt. He also realized the intent behind the question Rafael had just asked. Holding the will written by the Queen twenty-five years ago, the Papal Secretary General stood there for a moment, lips pressed tight. Eventually, he finally turned and slowly withdrew from the library.

Author’s Note

Rafael still suspects Julius regarding the truth of his birth. He believes it’s impossible for Julius to know nothing at all. As for whether Julius actually knows… emmm, it’s hard to say.

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