The Reversed Hierophant

Chapter 92: The Caltrops

When Ashur was brought into the Papal Palace once again, she didn’t take the secret passage like before. Instead, Ferrante led her openly through the main entrance, following the Grand Gallery past the Reception Hall. Ever since the relationship between the Pope and Assyria had been disclosed, the hall was perpetually crowded with people waiting for an audience with His Holiness.

Most were envoys from the weak and small states surrounding the Papal States. They dared not overlook any developments within the Papal States and tried to impose their own stance on His Holiness—whether to wage war or seek peace—even though they knew full well that their opinions had no real impact on the Pope. But what if, just what if, they could glean even a scrap of new information from the Papal Palace?

With this mindset, these heavily burdened envoys sat in the Reception Hall from dawn till dusk, sipping the fine tea provided by the palace—or requesting wine instead. When hungry, they helped themselves to refreshments; the Papal Palace was always generous with its pastries, even those meant for guests were laden with expensive honey, a luxury some envoys could not afford even within their own lands. When tired, they could ask the servants for a temporary room to rest.

In short, as long as the Pope did not grant them an audience, they would linger there indefinitely.

As for when the Pope would receive them?

That remained an uncertain mystery.

Not that Rafael minded the expense; he would rather keep them comfortably fed and housed within the Papal Palace than let them wander outside spreading baseless rumors.

As Ashur passed them, the envoys were lounging comfortably in armchairs, cigars in hand, debating the value of an “Ancient Roman-era” antique pocket watch. One middle-aged gentleman had the bottom buttons of his shirt undone; with one hand tucked inside his shirt, he was puffing out his chest and stomach while composing an abstruse fugue. Ashur swore she didn’t hear a single “H” note throughout his composition, giving it a distinctly Roman flavor.

When Ashur was led through the hall, these seemingly idle envoys reacted like deer catching a whiff of a stranger. They ceased their movements and observed this unfamiliar woman through what they imagined were subtle glances.

They quickly deduced her identity; after all, Ashur had once been nearly inseparable from Queen Amandra.They keenly sensed that Ashur’s appearance heralded something significant. Was it related to Assyria? Or Rome? However, as with countless times before, they couldn’t pry any information out of the seemingly mute servants around them.

Under Ferrante’s lead, Ashur was intentionally paraded through the Reception Hall before exiting through an empty Drawing Room. Her eyebrows shot up at the sight of the vacant room. As Ferrante prepared to lead her further, she couldn’t help but probe the man shrouded in a black monk’s robe, who carried the faint scent of blood: “It feels as though I am participating in a grand procession.”

Ferrante was disinclined to speak, but his peripheral vision caught Ashur’s hands tightening within her wide sleeves. It seemed that if he didn’t provide a satisfactory answer, they might engage in a bout of close-quarters combat right there.

Once again, Ferrante gained a deeper impression of the queen’s lady-in-waiting. How should he put it? From this, one could infer the queen’s own exceedingly vigorous and decisive nature.

“His Holiness is undergoing treatment from his physicians and cannot currently leave his bed, so we are now heading to his bedchamber,” Ferrante stated flatly.

Ashur froze for a moment, then pressed on anxiously, “What happened to him? Is he ill?”

Ferrante hesitated. “I apologize, but I cannot disclose His Holiness’s condition. It is classified. You may ask him yourself.”

Then, a flash of inspiration hit him. He allowed a look of subtle struggle to cross his face before offering a hint: “However, His Holiness has not been sleeping well. As the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, perhaps you can make him feel a bit better?”

Whatever Ashur inferred from those words, her expression grew worried, and she remained silent for the rest of the walk. Ferrante brought her to a halt outside the papal bedroom. Two guards on duty nodded to him and moved their crossed spears aside.

“Please enter, My Lady.” Ferrante pushed the door open and stepped aside to let her in.

A fireplace was lit within the bedroom. Decorative arches separated the outer and inner chambers. Wisps of smoke rose from a golden censer, weaving ever-changing clouds in the air. Ashur’s sensitive nose picked up the scent of hypnotic and sedative herbs in the fragrance.

After bringing her in, Ferrante stepped ahead into the inner chamber. The curtains of the ivory four-poster bed were drawn up except at the foot, obscuring the activity within. Ferrante leaned toward the figure on the bed and whispered a report of Ashur’s arrival.

“Let her come closer.” An excessively pale hand pressed against Ferrante’s head, gently and slowly pushing the blood-scented Head of the Arbitration Bureau away.

Ferrante seemed unbothered by this slightly dismissive gesture. He straightened up obediently, his gaze falling on the approaching Ashur.

The physicians tactfully withdrew, gathering outside to discuss professional matters. The last to leave, a bearded old man, frowned and muttered something under his breath before holding it in.

“Your Highness.” Ashur lowered her head and performed a deep curtsy. Her simple linen dress fanned out on the floor, appearing like a small, pale flame against the extravagant carpet woven from peacock feathers.

She insisted on calling him “Your Highness.” As an Assyrian who had never embraced the faith of the Syracuse Peninsula, his status as the Grand Duke of Assyria held more weight to her than his role as the Pontiff.

Rafael did not object to the title. He was always excessively tolerant regarding such harmless details.

Rafael patted the back of Ferrante’s hand. The dark-haired man gave Ashur a cold look before silently vacating his spot by the bed.

“Please, come closer and let me see you,” Rafael said softly.

Ashur looked up and was stunned the second her eyes landed on him.

The last time she had seen Rafael, the young man though thin, appeared quite healthy. In the short time since, the youth lying in bed looked anything but healthy. Only those gleaming pale violet eyes proved his will remained as steadfast as ever.

Wrapped in thick down and silk quilts, he leaned against a pile of soft pillows. His long, pale-gold hair was tied loosely behind his head. In his hand, he held a slender lady’s pipe. This style of pipe was popular in aristocratic circles—crafted from expensive ivory or silver-plated fragrant wood, carved with floral patterns, and inlaid with jewels. It was more an ornamental art piece than a smoking implement.

Ladies’ pipes were more delicate than men’s, designed to be held lightly in the palm. The pipe’s slender, elegant curves elongated the silhouette, allowing ladies to fully display their graceful, slender necks.

In short, unless one had a genuine addiction, it functioned much like a fan—an aesthetic accessory for self-presentation.

The pale, sickly Pope held such a pipe. Its body was ivory-white, finger-thick, entwined with winding, curling golden vines inlaid with tiny diamonds and colored gems to form flowers. Its style bore the extravagance of a bygone era, clearly a treasured artifact hidden within the Holy See’s inner treasury.

Holding it, it was hard to tell which resembled ivory more: his hand or the pipe. That vintage decadence, elegance, and opulence dragged the supposedly pure and dignified Pope down from his lofty pedestal into the gilded paradise of wine and sensuality. Alcohol seemed to corrode his healthy body, gifting him pale skin and a reddish flush at the corners of his eyes. One could imagine crowds elevating him on a throne of silk and petals, prostrating themselves at his feet, begging for a glimpse of his indifferent gaze.

The scene was even more chilling than the painting Ashna Bearing the Flame. In the stories, the witch Ashna, seduced by the devil, went to light the path for the poor as the Holy Lord led them through the wilderness. But the torch in the witch’s hand was forged from death and pestilence. With her beauty and exceptional wit, she beguiled everyone, leading them to their doom with her poisoned flame, inflicting upon the Lord his most devastating defeat since his descent to earth.

Later painters delighted in using the story as subject matter. They universally depicted the infamous, cruel witch as frail and pale—a symbol of her status as the Mother of Pestilence. In all these works, Ashna had snow-white skin, crimson lips, and a slender, lithe body. Her beauty was terrifying, and those following her gazed at her obsessively, as if seeing the light of the Promised Land.

That extreme contrast now subtly overlapped with the Pope.

Ashur couldn’t help but shiver.

Rafael lowered the hand holding the pipe and motioned for her to sit on a velvet-cushioned stool by the bed. The thick cushion was fringed with gemstone tassels that tinkled together as she sat.

“My doctors suggested I use tobacco occasionally to ease my mood.” Seeing Ashur’s fixated gaze on the pipe, Rafael generously held it out for her to see while explaining.

“But I noticed you don’t seem well,” Ashur hesitated before taking the pipe and pointing out the obvious.

As she spoke, she noticed the pipe was already packed. Unlike common tobacco, the leaves in the bowl were a greenish hue, seemingly not fully processed. She frowned slightly and took a subtle sniff, confirming the scent of a certain analgesic and sedative herb.

This herb was common in Assyria. Injured animals would eat it to dull their pain, and Assyrian healers used it as a primary medicinal ingredient. However, beyond its potent painkilling effects, it was highly addictive and hallucinogenic. Long-term users would become emaciated, suffer memory loss, or even become delirious, trapped within their own hallucinations.

Ashur’s expression turned grave.

“Don’t worry,” Rafael said, as if reading her mind. Before her warning could leave her lips, he nimbly took the pipe back from her hand. “My doctors are more concerned about these matters than you are. This is only used when there is no other alternative.”

Ashur watched as he casually handed the pipe to Ferrante. The man in the monk’s robe took it silently and retreated to a corner. Had she not watched him walk there, she might never have noticed a person standing in the shadows of the bed curtains.

“Returning to our previous topic… I believe you have some secrets to tell me.”

Rafael folded his hands over the quilt, tilting his head. Looking at Ashur with those clear, jewel-like violet eyes, he appeared almost… obedient.

Like a cat waiting for its owner to feed it, Ashur thought vaguely.

This strange sense of déjà vu allowed the woman to relax the nerves that had tightened upon recognizing the drug. Now was not the time to discuss the herbs; that would come later…

She thought for a moment, then shifted the topic: “Beyond the crown of Assyria, Her Majesty did indeed have something else to entrust to you.”

“These items should have reached your hands two years ago. When Her Majesty led her army toward Assyria, she mentioned this to me on the road. However, the ensuing war grew dire, and she had no time to explain the origins and consequences, so the matter was shelved.”

Ashur glanced at Rafael and noticed him listening with rapt attention. This allowed her to relax further, her tone softening: “…This matter traces back to the time of your birth.”

“It is the custom of the Assyrian royalty that every member, upon birth, is granted a group of guards personally chosen and trained by their elders. You may understand them as shadow guards—more… desperate than your knights. They are unburdened by family, indifferent to gold, wealth, or fame. Their sole concern is their master. Assyria adopted this system from the far East, and before you were born, Her Majesty prepared such guardians for you.”

“In the royal court, they are known as the Caltrops.”

Rafael nodded slightly to show he understood. He harbored no thoughts of ‘morality’; in this dark age where the lives of the poor were as worthless as grass, he had heard of similar things more than once. Even in Florence, similar entities existed—some of his archbishops secretly tried to train their own death squads. If he hadn’t chosen Ferrante back then, Ferrante might have remained with Cardinal Lombardy as a dog to be summoned or discarded at will.

“And Her Majesty’s own guard?” Rafael asked a seemingly unrelated question.

Ashur hesitated. She expected his first instinct to be concern for his own protection, but she answered nonetheless: “They accompanied Her Majesty from her marriage in Assyria to Rome. During her time there, they all perished one after another.”

A flicker of sorrow passed through her eyes.

Not one of those loyal ladies had betrayed their oath; they had all laid down their lives for Queen Amandra. During the most intense years of the Queen’s struggle against Lav XI, her guards were depleted almost daily. Those secret assassinations were kept at bay by an impenetrable wall of flesh and blood. If it weren’t for the heavy losses of her personal guards, how could the Queen have been successfully assassinated on the battlefield?

“Her Majesty originally intended to send them to your side once their training was complete. However, due to Your Highness’s disappearance, the plan was halted. It was only after you were found in Florence that she reconsidered. Due to time constraints, she couldn’t train enough fully qualified Caltrops, so she chose a larger group and a shorter duration, hoping to send you a small-scale escort.”

“However, this was vetoed by Pope Vitalian III. He did not wish for you to possess such a force before receiving a complete education. Thus, they agreed to send them to Florence once you reached adulthood.”

Ashur paused here.

Clearly, plans could not keep pace with change. Pope Vitalian III passed away before Rafael turned eighteen, and the Queen was then trapped in the Roman court, unable to look after herself. The plan stalled again.

“However, Her Majesty never intended to follow Pope Vitalian III’s advice,” Ashur clarified, seeing through Rafael’s thoughts and denying it. “These people arrived in Florence successively around the year 1073. Before you came of age, they were held by Vitalian III, though they did not take his orders—they merely assisted in his affairs occasionally. You were always their master. But later, when the Pope was murdered and you were exiled, you were the target of all Florence as his former secretary. Her Majesty ordered them into dormancy until they received the command to awaken.”

“…She hoped you would grow into a qualified monarch; otherwise, they would never appear before you and would only protect you from the shadows. Possessing such a force is not always a blessing; she feared that what she experienced in the Roman court would happen to you as well.”

Ashur said softly, “She was once very hesitant. After you ascended the Papal throne, if you had become a puppet Pope like Leo VI, this power would only have led to your death.”

Rafael’s finger gave a sudden, convulsive twitch.

Is this why I never heard a word about these people in my previous life?

Indeed, he had been a puppet Pope protected in a glass jar by Julius. He had naively practiced his doctrines, playing the role of the benevolent, learned, and compassionate Pope. To outsiders, he would have looked like a foolish puppet, a figurehead pushed to the front by Julius. Perhaps, rather than wielding such a sharp blade himself, it was deemed better for him to be protected in ignorance.

But he hadn’t been protected.

As soon as the Queen died, he was brutally murdered. Perhaps the killer had known of their secret connection all along; once the mother beast’s protection was gone, the weak cub’s neck was snapped just as easily.

It was such a logical explanation.

“Besides you, who else knows of their existence?” Rafael asked.

Ashur thought for a moment. “It’s hard to say. We didn’t have much contact with Vitalian III. Perhaps he revealed something to those close to him—”

She stopped abruptly. After a moment, she slowly breathed out a name: “Julius Portia.”

Rafael’s eyelashes flew up instantly.

“…If I had to choose one person who might know, it would be him. The cousin who had remained by Vitalian III’s side from beginning to end—a clever and ruthless man. He was also with the Pope when he was assassinated. Perhaps he had noticed some signs.”

Ashur’s voice was almost a whisper.

Rafael listened silently, inconspicuously tucking his hands under the quilt to hide the purple bruises he had pinched into his own palms.

Julius. A very logical suspicion.

Could it be him?

No, it still wasn’t right. Rafael dismissed the answer. Julius might know something, but he couldn’t be the mastermind behind everything. Rafael’s death brought him no benefit.

“There are currently seventy-three Caltrops in Florence. Some hold positions within the Papal Palace, while others act as mobile agents outside. I will give you the list of their names,” Ashur added.

“Please do not blame Her Majesty for neglecting you all these years,” the lady-in-waiting hesitated before saying. “She truly did her best.”

Rafael kept his eyes downcast. After a while, he looked up and offered Ashur a smile. “I understand. I have never blamed her.”

After Ashur left, Ferrante emerged from the shadows and walked to the bedside. Rafael had already composed himself, his expression flawless. He reached out for the pipe and said as usual: “Has Dr. Polly reached a conclusion? I want the surgery to begin as soon as possible—we have many important things to do.”

Ferrante bent down. Given his tall stature, the posture was awkward, so he simply knelt on the carpet by the bed. He carefully took Rafael’s hand and gently pressed his cheek into the palm.

Rafael froze.

The gesture was delicate—the kind of act only an affectionate pet, a young child, or a devoted lover would perform for their master, mother, or beloved.

And the relationship between Ferrante and Rafael was none of the above.

The warmth of the face against his palm made Rafael feel instinctively uneasy, as if fuzzy hairs were traveling through his veins, making him itch all over without knowing exactly where.

“I swear, I will never betray you,” Ferrante said out of the blue.

Rafael looked down at him. Because of his own selfish desire to survive back then, Ferrante had become a man shunned by the vast majority of the palace and the nobility. People secretly called him the Pope’s dog; if the Pope needed it, he would bite anyone to death. The prisons he managed were filled with the scent of blood that could never be washed clean. People feared him like a serpent, yet, just as he had promised, he followed Rafael with a devotion bordering on piety, willing to cut open his heart for him at any time.

Without asking why, without questioning of good or evil.

And yet, Rafael had once been so certain that he wanted to find a pure, white saint.

In that moment, time seemed to freeze between them. Rafael moved slightly; instead of withdrawing his hand, he lightly pinched Ferrante’s cheek, a thin trace of a smile touching his eyes. “Very well. If you don’t care what they say about you being my dog.”

Ferrante’s deep blue eyes narrowed slightly. He gave a sly blink, and a low sound rumbled from his throat.

“Woof.”

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