The Reversed Hierophant Chapter 78
Deep seated malice
Twenty years ago, at the Roman Court.
The young Queen walked through the silent long corridor, holding her two-year-old princess by the hand. No ladies-in-waiting followed them. Everyone in this country knew that their King did not value this Queen from a foreign land, even though she had brought him a crown.
King Lav XI, who ascended the throne, was a man of indulgence, his excessive passions reserved for any woman but his lawful wife. His mistresses changed faster than noblewomen’s gowns. Some joked that there were only two types of women in the Roman Court: the King’s women, and the Queen.
Tonight was another boisterous night. The music from the Flower Hall Palace could be heard throughout half the palace. The laughter of women mingled with the rich scent of wine, spreading everywhere. Nobles brought their wives and daughters to the banquet, and they did not consider it shameful for their wives to become the King’s mistresses.
The King was not a stingy man; he would bestow great wealth upon his mistresses, granting their husbands titles and land. Even after they parted ways, he did not forget to appease them. And if a child came of it—all the better. With the queen failing to produce a legitimate heir, the king’s firstborn, even if a bastard, stood a strong chance of inheriting the throne.
Just imagine what a great honor that would be!
Amandra listened for a while to the laughter in the Flower Hall Palace, accurately distinguishing her husband’s voice among them.
The young Queen stood in the shadows, like a cold, rigid plaster statue. The young, naive princess didn’t quite understand what was happening. As long as she was held by her beloved mother, she paid little attention to external matters. At this moment, her full attention was on a passing ant.
Amandra stood there expressionlessly, quietly contemplating.
Her marriage, arranged when she was fourteen, was solely for reasons of responsibility, state, and similar considerations. In short, it was the Assyrian Princess who needed to become Queen, not “Amandra” as an individual. Amandra could clearly distinguish between the two.
As the Assyrian Princess, she needed to fulfill her duty as a future queen, strengthen the relationship between Rome and Assyria, and, according to the prenuptial agreement, bear a legitimate heir for the Roman monarch to inherit the two supreme crowns of Rome and Assyria.
Nowhere in these duties and obligations was there room for tender words like “love” or “care.”
So Amandra had never hoped to receive her husband’s affection.
But when she truly faced all of this, her feminine instincts still left her somewhat bewildered.
King Lav XI’s coldness was too obvious, almost possessing a strange, inexplicable hatred. Amandra had no way of knowing the source of this anomaly until one time, she saw the drunken King gazing at Sancha, and she suddenly realized something chilling from that suspicious, disgusted look.
Perhaps Rafael’s birth was not as complete a secret as she had once believed.
Through subsequent discreet probes, Amandra finally confirmed this fact.
Lav XI knew everything that had happened at Saint-Sardine Manor.
How could he have known?
Who told him?
Rafael’s disappearance… was it related to him?
Amandra was certain that the servants brought into Saint-Sardine Manor back then were all her trusted confidantes. Her father had exhausted himself to keep her unexpected childbirth a secret. She knew that the servants at the manor were gradually relocated to other places shortly after Rafael’s birth, making it impossible for them to communicate with the outside world. How could Lav XI, far away in Rome, know all this?
Five years after Rafael’s disappearance, Amandra finally found the culprit.
Her current husband, her daughter’s father, had stolen—and very likely killed—her firstborn.
A helpless infant, abducted by someone who hated him, could one still hope that person would show mercy to a frail baby?
The young mother wept silently in the night, mourning her child, who had died in an unknown place, his tiny body long decayed in the earth.
Lav XI was no fool either. He apparently realized from these veiled probes that his actions had been exposed. This noble couple did not foolishly argue face to face, but only they knew that their hostility and hatred towards each other had escalated to the highest point.
A wife who had betrayed him before marriage and given birth to an illegitimate child with another man.
A husband who cruelly took away his wife’s innocent newborn and constantly tormented and humiliated her within the marriage.
Even the most imaginative playwright could not create such an absurd and comical drama.
Bound by the diplomacy between Rome and Assyria, the King and Queen maintained appropriate courtesy and politeness in front of outsiders, but privately, they had reached a point of no return.
Lav XI began attempting to subtly kill his wife. The crown of Assyria could be inherited by Sancha. While the little Queen was still underage, this vast empire would undoubtedly be governed by her father as regent. He could also cleanse his shame; it was a win-win situation.
Amandra, not to be outdone, fought back. Although Lav XI indulged in many affairs, hoping to quickly father a son to replace Sancha as heir, Amandra’s ruthless and covert interference ensured that none of his mistresses successfully bore Lav XI’s child.
No matter how wary Lav XI was of his wife—he even refused to eat at the same table as Amandra and forbade anyone connected to her from entering his kitchen, changing all the tableware daily—Amandra still succeeded in slipping slow-acting poison into his food.
This silent struggle went unnoticed. Apart from the King and Queen’s most trusted confidants, no one knew of the horrific murder plots that had transpired in the Roman Court.
However, the Holy Lord perhaps still pitied and favored this poor mother. In the year 1069 of the holy calendar, twelve years after she lost her child, a letter arrived from the Papal States.
The Pope had found a child named Rafael in the slums and had him admitted to the Florence Seminary.
In the silent Roman Court, it was just an incredibly ordinary night. The young Queen, struggling in malice and turmoil, clutched this letter and wept uncontrollably. She tore at her hair, wishing she could dig out her heart and kiss that organ, still flowing with hot blood, as if cradling that newborn infant from years ago.
So tender, so tiny, so soft.
His bones were not yet fully formed; held in her arms, he was like a ball of cotton, a cloud that would dissipate with a touch.
He was now twelve years old, transforming from a crying baby in his mother’s arms into a young boy. How was he now? How tall was he? Did he resemble her? How had he spent these years? Did he have loving parents and siblings? Did he like riding horses as much as she did? Or did he love literature like his father? Had he ever wondered about the birth mother he never knew?
Amandra had poured double the love into Sancia—two goodnight kisses, two bedtime stories, two lullabies, two roses, two toys, two birthday gifts. Her little angel had died in the deep night twelve years ago, and the daylight sun had never known the source of such overflowing affection—until tonight, when her lost angel returned to the world of the living.
Amandra invoked the names of all the saints she knew. For the first time, the cold politician and the perpetually rational Queen so devoutly surrendered herself to the intangible faith, all for her long-lost son, found again.
During these twelve years, she tirelessly supported the charitable endeavors of monasteries and orphanages. She built houses for nurseries, hired caregivers. A few years later, calculating that Rafael would have been old enough to read, she renovated monastery libraries, then leveled horse fields, preparing sturdy clothes for the children. She looked at every child as if she were seeing her deceased Rafael.
How wonderful it was; her Rafael was still alive, just like every child she had seen, grown to the age where his father could find him.
Lav XI, his mind and body ravaged by chronic poison, glared at his wife with unprecedented hatred. The approaching footsteps of death pounded at his sanity, and he turned his gaze to the man who had seduced his wife.
The useless traitor failed to kill an infant; instead, out of misplaced pity and sympathy, he allowed the child to grow. So let this wretch kill his best friend! Betrayal is never a one-time affair!
The news of Delacroix’s death brought Lav XI a long-lost joy. Though already bedridden and paralyzed, he still managed to convey his utmost delight to Amandra through his eyes.
Now both queen and regent, Amandra sat on a long chair by the bed, holding the letter announcing the Holy Father’s death in her hands. Staring at that long-unseen name, she felt only a dazed emptiness.
The love of her youth had long been worn away by Rafael’s disappearance and years of separation. She had already forgotten the burning passion of those early days. Yet, undeniably, facing the death of the man who had once carried all the love and hate of her maiden years, she still felt a faint pang of sorrow.
The Queen slowly folded the letter, gazing at her husband on the bed, who was wheezing and laughing hoarsely on the bed. Her gaze coldly swept over his sagging flesh, as if looking at a lowly, insignificant insect.
It was not yet his time to die. She needed to wait until she had a more stable grasp of Rome before making her move.
Two years later, on a stormy night, the Queen personally looped a rope around the King’s neck.
Under the lamplight, the Queen’s face seemed gilded with a graceful gold. Her pale golden skin was more luxurious than the world’s most expensive silk. Her long, golden-brown hair still carried the steam from her bath, and her eyes, brighter than sapphires, glittered with the fire of vengeance. When she leaned down, it was as if a wild wind carrying the scent of roses descended from the heavens, the stars and the Milky Way pouring down upon them. Even Lav XI, who utterly loathed her, felt a bewildered tremor in his heart.
Amandra’s face was devoid of expression. The torment between them had been too long, more intimate than anyone, yet more distant than strangers. No words could serve as an epitaph for their twisted relationship. With a twist of her wrist, she tightened the fatal noose.
“May the Holy Lord grant you rest.”
In the end, that was all she said, her voice eerily calm.
The King, gasping desperately in the agony of suffocation, rolled his eyes. Fine foam flowed from the corners of his mouth. He wheezed, trying to make a sound, and finally, with unwillingness and hatred, he drew his last breath.
Amandra maintained her posture unhurriedly for a while longer, until Lav XI was completely still, then slowly loosened the noose.
She gazed at the ugly, distorted face on the bed, suddenly feeling tired and empty.
Her lover, her husband—those she had loved, those she had hated—were all dead. The life belonging to “Amandra” ended completely on this day.
The queen lifted her head, blew out the candle by the bed, and walked silently out of the room.
Rafael suddenly awoke from a dream.
The next second, a hand reached from beside him to his forehead. A heavy fragrance immediately enveloped him, and iron-gray hair fell like a dense spiderweb on Rafael’s face. The cool touch made him realize he was in reality.
Julius withdrew his hand, exhaling from his chest. The Secretary-General’s eyes showed undisguised fatigue. He took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and his voice, hoarse from lack of sleep, said, “…If you didn’t wake up soon, the Cardinals would’ve started scheming to elect a new Holy Father behind your back.”
His words clearly contained an exaggerated jest. Rafael turned his face to look at him, tugging at his lips, trying to show a smile. Julius brought over a cup of warm water from the side, helped Rafael drink a few sips, and heard the Pope, who was recovering from a serious illness, say in a soft, somewhat ethereal voice, “Then I authorize my Secretary-General to strip them of their cardinal titles.”
Julius’s movements paused.
The moment passed between them, unspoken but understood. Julius began recounting the critical affairs during the pope’s coma. First and foremost was naturally the former Duke François, whom they had snatched back from the brink of death. Then, the current situation of the Assyrian Queen – subsequent intelligence proved that the Queen’s death was merely a rumor.
Rafael sighed, “Although I guessed it was likely a rumor…”
This rumor caused a rift in the relationship between the Papal States and Calais.
Although they both knew that there could be no true friendship between nations, openly sheltering a contender for the throne was a little too blatant.
If time hadn’t been so pressing, Rafael would have had many ways to handle this matter more elegantly and smoothly, rather than clashing with the young emperor directly.
However, he didn’t regret it. The incident had served as a warning, forcing him to reconsider the relationships between Calais, Rome, and Assyria…
A new perspective he had never considered before:
“If… the Assyrian rebellion is quelled and it successfully unifies…” Rafael suddenly murmured out of nowhere, “Who would be the most afraid?”
The Pope and the Secretary-General exchanged glances, a flash of realization passing between them.
Julius suddenly stood up. Rafael spoke at the same time, “Bring me my seal…”
Before he could finish, Julius had already hurried to the table, dipped a quill pen in ink, and began writing quickly.
After writing a few brief sentences, he returned to the bedside with the Pope’s personal ring, allowing Rafael to place his seal at the end.
“Send it to Assyria at the fastest possible speed.”
Rafael watched Julius leave with the letter, then leaned back against the pillow, gently closing his eyes, and tried to recall past events. Most of the events from his previous life could no longer serve as a reference. He only remembered that this war did not end until his death. Two years later, the Queen would die in battle in Assyria, followed by his own death. At that time, the Papal States and Rome were not allied, and he had no way of knowing more information.
Calais had always held the upper hand among the three nations. The internal strife in Assyria back then had Calais’s involvement, and Amandra’s marriage to Lav XI was also due to the pressure from Calais. Imagine, if Assyria was pacified and Amandra completely controlled the Assyrian Empire, and her daughter possessed a stable and unified Rome, who would be the most afraid?
Who would be most eager to break up this natural alliance?
The current peace between Calais, Rome, and Assyria existed solely because Assyria was in chaos—unable to pose a real threat to Calais, yet still serving as a counterbalance alongside Rome. But if Assyria returned to its former glory…
It now seemed that there might be more to the Queen’s death.
Rafael folded his hands and gently pressed them against his lips, praying in his heart that his guess was wrong. But his perpetually calm rationality reminded him that his predictions were never wrong.
If everything was as he expected, then the critical turning point of this war should be in two years. Otherwise, Calais wouldn’t make a move then. It seemed they still had plenty of time, but… he had already changed many things. Would this matter also unfold as before?
For the first time, Rafael felt a slight bewilderment and an inexplicable sadness.
Author’s Note
There were actually many small details and hints in the earlier chapters. I wonder how many of you precious readers discovered them, hahaha. Some facts still haven’t been written out, so everyone can fill them in based on the details~ For example, how exactly did Lav XI knew about Amandra and Delacroix’s affair, and has no one wondered why Lav XI disliked his wife and daughter so much? The earlier chapters hinted that he held a lot of malice towards Amandra from the beginning, not only because of the throne but also because he was cuckolded, hahaha…
