The Reversed Hierophant Chapter 41

After watching the Pope’s back disappear at the end of the corridor, Ferrante stood there for a while before returning to the reception room.

The lord was still kneeling on the ground, staring at the stack of blank parchment. Cold sweat had dripped down his neck, soaking his expensive silk shirt. He kept tugging at the collar that clung to his skin, his anxious eyes darting around the room.

He knew very well what the Pope wanted. Things with a clear price tag often had room for negotiation. The most terrifying thing in the world was a blank contract. No one knew what would be written on it, and now he was being forced to sign his name on that blank contract.

When Ferrante walked into the room, the lord immediately looked at him for help, but his gaze lasted less than a second before he quickly looked away – he remembered who this handsome young man was. They had fallen into this predicament largely due to this young man’s efforts.

But he didn’t dare show any emotion.

Ferrante stood a short distance from him, looking at him quietly.

Feeling the pressure of the gaze, the lord reluctantly picked up a quill. A white hand holding a crystal inkwell appeared beside him at just the right moment.

“Your favorite gemstone-inlaid inkwell, of course. And the ink is specially customized for you, with the addition of your favorite laurel leaves,” the young man said with a smile, his words incredibly considerate, but the lord couldn’t smile at all.

Not only could he not smile, his face began to twitch uncontrollably and his eyes widened as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. In his eyes, the handsome black-haired boy looked like a living devil.

He swallowed hard and shakily wrote down his list of assets on the paper with the inked quill.

Line after line of words appeared on the paper, revealing the wealth accumulated from the blood, tears and suffering of the countless poor on a thin sheet of parchment. Ferrante watched impassively, as if he were merely a servant attending to the lord’s writing, but the oppressive feeling he had given off earlier was so strong that the lord dared not stop writing until he said so.

Finally, he unfolded the paper filled with words and looked up at Ferrante nervously. But as soon as he looked up, he met the boy’s sea-blue eyes.

Those eyes had the depth of a cave, dark and gloomy, as if they could suck in a person’s soul.

“Are you finished?” Ferrante asked politely.

“Y-yes.” The lord replied with a stutter.

Ferrante laughed. “Are you finished?”

He repeated the question, this time with a different tone.

Hot sweat slid down his back, and the lord’s breathing grew heavy. He gritted his teeth and said, “Yes.”

Ferrante maintained the same smile, simply staring at him steadily, then drew out his tone, chewing each word slowly, and asked again: “Are you finished?”

The lord threw his quill away in despair: “Has Sistine I gone mad? Does he want to take away all our property? That’s impossible! He’s dreaming!”

Ferrante showed no anger; in fact, he was overly calm. Rising, he took another quill from the desk drawer—the drawer was stuffed full of countless quills and parchment, as if he had been prepared for this.

He respectfully but firmly pressed the quill into the lord’s trembling fingers. Leaning close to the sweaty, bloated face, he smiled and said, word by word: “Are you finished?”

This mechanical question was more chilling than any threat. The fat lord glared at Ferrante viciously, his eyes bloodshot. Overwhelmed by malice, he slapped the quill from Ferrante’s hand and said with satisfaction, “I’ve given you more than enough!”

He held up the parchment and thrust it at Ferrante. “You’ve never seen so much wealth in your life, have you? A few gold florins are enough to settle those dead peasants, and the rest will go straight into Sistine I’s pocket. Even the greediest hyena should know when to stop!” ṝ�

Ferrante, who had been showing little to no emotion till now, suddenly raised his eyes. His blue eyes were as gloomy as a storm at sea.

“You came here of your own free will,” he said, changing the subject. “Your servants and attendants can testify that you ordered them to bring you here to see the Holy Father. No one has bounded your hands or feet.”

The lord’s satisfied expression froze. He didn’t quite understand what Ferrante meant.

“And all I need to do is tell this to—say, Lord Russo? You can start thinking about how to use your remaining assets to gain his forgiveness. I wonder if he has the same patience and tolerance for traitors as His Holiness.” Ferrante stood up, casting a dark shadow over the lord like a raven.

“No—wait, wait a minute! I… let me think about it!”

As expected, that little bit of courage from the lord vanished like a cloud. Ferrante sneered indifferently, feeling extremely bored and disgusted.

“I remember, I still have a castle,” the lord said, sweat dripping onto his arm. Ferrante clicked his tongue and returned to his previous gentle demeanor. Leaning close to the lord’s ear, he said, “Perhaps you’ve forgotten about that vineyard your youngest son loves so much? And your lover’s jeweled apartment?”

His voice was like the hissing of a poisonous snake, completely destroying the last line of defense in the lord’s heart.

Ferrante left the reception room in a refreshed mood, holding a stack of signed asset donations. All that was left on the carpet was a pauper with a pale, dull expression – his only possessions were the carriage outside and the clothes on his back.

This silent storm, having stripped seven lords of all their assets, finally subsided. The seven lords, who had bought their lives at an exorbitant price from the Pope, returned to their secluded lives. They could finally sleep well, but the impending loss of all their assets filled them with anxiety. However, they decided to put those worries aside for now, eagerly awaiting news of old Russo’s demise.

As former allies who had attempted to assassinate the Pope, they had once been the most steadfast of companions. Yet, just as they had plotted their crime, once it was exposed, their first instinct was still to escape punishment by any means necessary, no matter how dirty.

After receiving a pardon from Sistine I, their only remaining worry was their former ally, old Russo. He was not a man who would let traitors go. Compared to Sistine I, who was still willing to negotiate, the old man who had made his fortune through piracy and murder would rather drag everyone down to hell with him.

They prayed day and night for old Russo to be hanged as soon as possible. Only then could they truly find peace.

Days passed in this state of unease. One ordinary morning—which history books would not record—dozens of simple carriages emerged simultaneously from the gates of the papal palace, dispersing in all directions throughout Florence. These carriages were driven by black-cloaked monks dressed in plain robes. Each wore a golden sash symbolizing the Pope around their waists with a thorned branch in their hands. All maintained a silent solemnity reminiscent of a monastery mural, their faces mostly hidden by large hoods, with a unique gloomy and bloody smell lingering around them.

This uniquely dressed group of monks entered the public eye of Florence for the first time. It was also the first time that the Holy Arbitration Bureau, directly under Pope Sistine I, made its appearance to the world. But soon, this group of monks, dubbed “the Pope’s crows,” would step onto the stage of history. Under the Pope’s command, they would stir up storms that would sweep across the world, propelling their monarch to the pinnacle of the world.

The carriages stopped before a number of ornate mansions. The black-cloaked monks, holding the thorned branch to their chests, knocked on the manor doors. They politely extended a standardized invitation to whoever answered.

“By order of the glorious Father, the shining representative of God on Earth, His Holiness Sistine I, you are hereby invited to participate in the Grand Tribunal to hear the case of the great plague in Florence.”

Countless people boarded the simple carriages with anxiety or joy. Of course, there were also a few who were half-carried and half-dragged aboard.

As the carriages made their way to their destination, the largest bronze bell in the belltower of the Papal Palace tower rang loudly. City guards shook small hand bells as they traversed the streets and alleys, spreading the news of the impending grand tribunal to every corner. Just like during the Pope’s coronation, countless people flooded the streets, but unlike then, most wore no smiles.

The Grand Tribunal of Florence was built adjacent to the Holy Thorn Cathedral. Though nominally possessing the highest judicial authority, this institution of law and justice had always been given little weight in Florence, where divine authority transcended all else. Even secular laws had to yield to the glory of God.

So when it became known that the Pope was determined to have the plague case tried in the Grand Tribunal, many people were puzzled.

Leshert, leading a group of the Knights Templars, escorted the Pope’s carriage to the Grand Tribunal. A dense crowd had gathered in front of the imposing building, modeled after ancient Rome. Most were poorly dressed, with depressed and gloomy expressions. They stared fixedly at the passing carriages as if trying to see through the wooden walls to the nobles inside.

Only when they saw the golden carriage belonging to the Pope did their faces light up with hope, and they raised their hands to cheer.

The carriage did not stop in front of the crowd but continued along the driveway before stopping in front of the marble steps. Leshert dismounted and reached out to help the young Pope out of the carriage. As soon as those hands touched his palm, a vague thought flashed through the knight’s mind: So cold. Was His Holiness ill?

The Pope stepped out of the carriage, placed one hand on the knight’s forearm, and followed the knight’s lead. As they passed through a passageway specially cordoned off with velvet curtains for the Pope, he heard the knight ask softly, “Your Holiness, why did you hold the trial in the Tribunal?”

Rafael walked on without looking around. The shadows on the walls, caused by years of oil lamp smoke, were covered by velvet curtains. Gas lamps illuminated this expensive path, and the gold threads pressed into the fabric refracted a faint light. The deacons trailed far behind them.

“Are you curious why I am not exercising my papal authority?” Rafael asked.

Leshert hesitated for a moment, before admitting: “Yes, as the Pope of Florence…”

“As Pope, I should always put my identity as God’s representative on earth first and judge and arbitrate in the name of God,” Rafael said, expressing Leshert’s thoughts.

The honest and reserved knight was taken aback, sensing that His Holiness seemed a little upset. He didn’t understand what had happened, but the tolerance and gentleness he had learned from following the chivalric code for so long made him instinctively apologize, “I’m sorry if my question offended you.” ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by Novᴇ(l)Fɪre .ɴᴇt

“No, you haven’t offended me,” Rafael seemed even more upset. His lips turned down slightly, like a grumpy, beautiful long-haired cat. For the pope who always had to smile, this slight change in expression already represented the severity of his mood. “I just thought that if even you think so, then perhaps everyone in Florence has the same idea.”

He paused, then said, “I hope that the judgment they receive comes from those who have truly suffered devastating harm in the disaster. The law represents the will of the people. They must know that they are being judged because they have committed sins that need to be repented, not because God has sentenced them to be guilty.”

Leshert was stunned for a moment.

For a moment, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, a devout servant of God, was lost in thought.

The will of the people?

This was an incredible phrase.

Just like the philosophers of ancient Rome who loudly debated ideas in their forums, birthing the earliest sprouts of human civilization. They pondered the relationship between the monarch and the people, the paths of history and art. They coined terms like ‘the will of the people’ and ‘divine right,’ defining these concepts and passing them down through the ages.

Leshert had, of course, read those obscure works and he knew very well what Rafael meant. And yet, a profound shock resonated through his soul, a mix of unfamiliar confusion, curiosity, and caution.

Suddenly, he found it all quite interesting.

The interior of the main courtroom was a wide, circular open space. Around it, tiers of seats were constructed in the style of an ancient Roman colosseum, ensuring that every noble guest could clearly see those seated at the judgment bench. Of course, above all others, a special seat would be reserved for the most honored. The courtroom was as bustling as a May Day fair, with dignitaries conversing with the inferiors they despised the most or gesticulating across the guards who were there to maintain order.

The judges, clutching the scales of justice and the gavel symbolizing fairness, entered in procession from the side door. Dressed in wide black robes, wearing silver wigs, and adorned with the golden holy emblem representing Florence on their chest, their faces glowed with a joyful flush. Before today, they had long held little power in Florence’s judicial system. Even their stooped backs straightened with pride as they strode confidently onto the judgment bench and surveyed the room.

These individuals, immersed in the power struggles of Florence and long relegated to the margins for many years, were well aware that this trial was more than just a simple legal proceeding. It could signal a redistribution of power among the institutions under the Pope’s authority, granting the judiciary a renewed foothold amidst the thorny staff of theocracy. For Florence, with its singular power structure, this was akin to a storm sweeping through.

Moreover, the sheer scope of this trial, the high status of the accused, and the vast number of victims meant that this would be a trial that would go down in history.

A series of clear bell chimes rang out. The bailiff, dressed in a court uniform, stood at the door and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, the court is about to begin. Please be quiet!”

The noisy hall gradually quieted down. People found their seats and sat shoulder-to-shoulder, craning their necks to watch the center of the courtroom.

The side door opened, and a group of twelve people entered. They were the twelve long-term citizens of Florence arbitrarily selected by the Pope. This citizen jury, composed of these twelve individuals, would have the authority to question any procedure of the court and affirm or negate the final verdict.

Most of them were poorly dressed and haggard, clearly from the lower city. Led by the bailiff, they sat down in the jury seats silently and numbly, like a group of solid, mute sculptures.

“Why are there so many poor people from the lower city…” someone muttered from the audience.

A deep, long horn sounded, and the side door on the other side opened again. “His Holiness Sistine I has arrived!” the bailiff’s high-pitched voice rang out once more.

A rustling sound filled the hall as people stood up from their seats, the friction of their garments against each other creating a soft murmur. All eyes turned towards the side door as it creaked open.

The blond-haired and green-eyed knight appeared first at the door. After scanning the hall, he stepped aside, bowing slightly. The young and handsome pope entered as expected, still draped in a pale gold chasuble. His snow-white robes trailed across the marble floor. His long hair was pulled back, and a simple circlet adorned his head.

The congregation bowed in reverence. Ladies’ gowns swept across the floor, while the sleeves of the men’s garments rustled like silkworms.

The Pope calmly acknowledged their greetings with a nod and, under their watchful gaze, walked through the crowd to his designated seat. A half-curtain was drawn, obscuring the view of those below. The others then took their seats.

The Chief Judge was the only one who remained standing.

He cleared his throat, picked up a long roll of parchment, and bowed once more to the Pope before beginning the lengthy opening remarks.

As the Judge droned on, the doors of the Tribunal was closed. The square outside was already filled with people, eager to catch even a word of the proceedings.

Several members of the city guard carried in huge wooden beams and began to hammer them into place.