The Reversed Hierophant Chapter 45

The rioting masses had already surged up the broad, majestic steps of the Great Hall. The ancient kings and knights carved in relief on the massive, round stone columns, holding spears with their cloaks billowing in the wind, seemed to be their precursors, gazing at the endless stream of people following in their footsteps.

The black-robed monks retreated again and again. They did not try to obstruct the crowd forcefully, nor did a single one of them utter a word. They were as silent as the rocks on the seashore, retreating cautiously as the waves rolled in, neither retreating too quickly nor standing still to provoke conflict. They controlled the crowd’s advance at a slow and orderly pace.

In the sweltering atmosphere, on the steps above, the solemn door carved with scales and crossed swords slowly opened, revealing a somewhat thin figure.

The monks, who had keenly noticed the identity of the newcomer, untied the whips from their waists—some only then noticed that they were wearing black leather whips that looked like belts. The fine and densely woven ropes were elastic, and the edges were rough. When they were shaken out, they were more than two feet long. They raised their whips and swung them in the air, skilfully avoiding the people around them, and a loud and clear whip crack exploded in the air.

The continuous whip cracks were like birds swooping across the sky, causing the people immersed in violence to gradually awaken from the collective will. They stopped and looked ahead in confusion, and then someone caught a glimpse of the figure standing at the door.

“It’s His Holiness!”

A joyful scream rang out, and the rioting mob, which had been like mad lions and tigers just a moment ago, seemed to instantly return to their polite selves. They took off their tattered caps and pressed them against their chests, bowing to the Pope on the steps. The whole crowd began to bow, their movements akin to waves of wheat slowly falling to the ground.

All those storms and waves turned into a gentle spring breeze and drizzle before the young Pope.

The people inside the courtroom gathered by the windows that could see outside, nervously grasping the thick velvet curtains. As they watched this scene, a vague thought flashed through everyone’s mind: Sistine I was establishing his authority in Florence, and all the people were happy to see his name engraved on the cornerstone of this city.

The defendants, who were also listening to the commotion outside, looked at each other. They were more aware than the ordinary commoners of what this meant. And one fact was clear: if such a sudden and inexplicable frenzy was to be quelled, it was necessary to sacrifice something of sufficient weight.

Who would be that sacrifice?

Who should be that sacrifice?

Several of the defendants had already turned pale. They had guessed what was about to happen, but they still held onto a glimmer of hope. If they could imitate the actions of those witnesses, could they exchange their lives for mercy from the Pope? Although their realization was a little late, they could guarantee that their sincerity would never be discounted!

Some clever people had already begun to look around quietly, searching for Ferrante. Everyone knew he was the Pope’s favorite. At this critical juncture, of course, they had to find the Pope’s favored confidant to send a message.

Rafael didn’t know what was happening inside the court, but he could guess. Under tremendous oppression, even the most stingy people would give up everything to save their lives. The crowd they saw was more effective than any coercion or enticement, and this was just the first step.

The young Pope had a heart colder than steel when necessary. He had already sentenced those lords to death in his heart and would never pardon them for any reason.

But whether you call him cold-blooded or opportunistic, he had Ferrante incite the monks who remained in the crowd to launch this temporary attack on the Tribunal, which was bound to bring him a thousand-fold benefit.

Rafael walked out of the door with the faint scent of pine and came outside. The sunlight had been obscured by thick clouds. Rafael walked down the steps—at this point, he was only five or six steps away from the closest crowd that had rushed up the steps.

“Your Holiness!”

Scattered calls rang out through the crowd, countless pairs of eager eyes looked at him. Those people, with tears in their eyes, and an expression full of excitement yet trying to restrain themselves, took off their hostile cloaks, and looked at the Pope like children clinging to their father.

Ferrante put on the hood behind his monk’s robe. The loose hood covered his face tightly, leaving only his chin and the tip of his nose exposed. He stood behind the Pope like a ghost, his presence almost non-existent, with his hands crossed and clasped at his wrists under the cover of his half-length cloak.

He was adjusting his breathing, imagining himself as a weed growing at the bottom, its roots penetrating deep into the earth, climbing over every grain of sand. He didn’t open his eyes, but he heard countless voices in his perception, those excited or sad voices intertwined and mixed together, like waves crashing towards him.

His fingers touched the cold, hard blade on his wrist, calming his mind as it had countless times before.

Underneath the simple robes of all the black-robed monks were a mind-boggling variety of weapons. They had razor-sharp daggers as thin as a cicada wing tied to their wrists, leather whips wrapped around their waists, thin knives strapped to their spines, short spears on their calves, and long needles on their ankles…

They were all excellent assassins and walking arsenals, which was why they always walked with their hands clasped together around their wrists—they were always ready to draw their blades to cut someone’s throat.

But so far, they had been as silent and harmless as stone, and no one had discovered this terrifying fact.

Ferrante focused his attention on his Holy Father, adjusted his muscles to the optimal state for exerting force, and stood there like a harmless plant.

Rafael opened his arms, facing the crowd, his voice low and gentle, “My brothers and sisters.”

As soon as he said this, someone started to sob.

Rafael paused. In his previous life, he had given countless public speeches and had long since ceased to feel nervous or excited about it. He dared say that he had always been absolutely sincere in every speech. Those appeals, those prayers, those calls to action, those “I am with you,” all came from his sincere heart.

But today was different. He took a deep breath. He stripped away all his past emotions and concentrated all of his sincerity. He mobilized all his emotions, actions, and words. He wanted to control the wave he had created and then use this wave to devour his enemies.

God will judge me for my sins.

Rafael thought to himself.

Because of my arrogance, greed, and pride, because I treated my equals as tools, because I abandoned the oath I once made of ‘sincerity, diligence, and piety’, and because I made them to commit the sin of killing.

“… My fellow kin,” the golden-haired Pope said with compassion. He looked like the Saint carefully sketched on a mural, his arms outstretched like God calling to His children, “I know of the terrible tragedies that have happened in the lower city and to you in recent days. You mourn for your dead loved ones, fearing whether you can see tomorrow, fearing whether you will be abandoned by Florence and the Holy See, and crying until the last tear dries up for your precarious life.”

His words brought people back to those dark and depressing days. Death hung over their heads like a heavy cloud. Black birds of ill omen flew through the branches and cried out ominously at the windows. People died on the roadside every moment, flies crawled in and out of the mouths of corpses, and undertakers pushed their funeral carts along the rough roads. The muttering of scriptures echoed in the cold air day and night.

The kind of fear that clung to one like a bone was something those who had experienced it could never forget. The caws of the harbingers of death and the cloudy, wide-open eyes of the corpses would appear again and again in their dreams until they reached their final peace.

The painful memories that were reawakened covered everyone’s faces with a gray hue. Tears rolled down their cheeks, and they looked at their spiritual leader with despair.

“And all this while, I was there with you.”

The Pope pressed his hand to his heart, his expression earnest and sincere. No comforting words could compare to this solid statement of shared hardship.

“Pope Sistine!”

“For the Holy See!”

The shouts merged into a thunderous roar, shaking the glass windows and floor of the Great Hall. Everyone in the building turned pale. Redrick, who was standing closest to the window, stared blankly at this scene with wide eyes. From his angle, he could only see the Pope’s back, a monarch who stood like a beacon amidst the storm of humanity before countless people. Before him was an invincible force akin to mountains and seas, but he easily held back this huge force five steps away.

Redrick seemed to see his father of many years ago.

The man whom he had admired most in his childhood.

The man who had died.

Rafael waited a few seconds amid the shouts, and at the right time turned his palm over and made a simple gesture to stop.

And incredibly, the uncontrollable crowd gradually quieted down at his simple gesture.

Julius, stood in the shadow of the pillar behind Rafael, letting out a sigh that sounded half surprised and half relieved.

His rose, having been polished by the storm into an indestructible gem, was about to go to the highest place.

What would happen to them after that?

Julius didn’t want to think about such a distant thing. Those hostilities, conspiracies, deals, and gambles were all put aside for the time being. At this moment, he simply stood quietly beside the pillar behind Rafael, watching everything from a distance, watching him radiate a brilliance that could illuminate all of Florence.

He wished this second would last a little longer, just a bit longer.

Leshert tensed up the moment the Pope stepped out of the Grand Tribunal. He and his knights were scattered far and wide in the streets, preventing more people from gathering. From time to time, he raised his head and looked at the direction of the Grand Tribunal anxiously. At this distance, he couldn’t hear what His Holiness was saying, but that didn’t stop him from worrying.

God, please protect him, Leshert had never prayed so devoutly. He should not be harmed here.

Amid the crowd’s attention, Rafael continued, “I know why you are here. You hope to seek justice for your relatives and friends who died of the plague. You hope to see the guilty punished as they deserve, to see them repent for the evils they have committed—this trial is exactly for this purpose.”

“All the judges have solemnly sworn to uphold the dignity and fairness of the law. All the special jury members were randomly selected by me from the household registration archives of Florence. Among them are survivors who have experienced the same disaster as you, witnesses who have seen everything, and kind people who have worked hard to transport supplies for you.”

“They are devout, kind, and upright. They have sworn according to the scriptures that they will be absolutely fair. You can fully trust them to bring you the results you want.”

The crowd fell into a deathly silence.

Suddenly, a woman raised her voice, “We don’t want this!”

Rafael’s gaze fell on her, and all eyes turned to her. Many people muttered under their breath, accusing her of rudely interrupting His Holiness. The woman, dressed in ragged but clean clothes, looked to be in her thirties, her face weathered by life, her knuckles large and her skin chapped. She clutched a wooden stick as thick as her arm. She looked fierce, but when the Pope looked at her, she shrank back and lowered her head timidly.

“Sister, may I have the honor of knowing your name?” Raphael asked gently.

The peasant woman mustered up her courage and stammered, “La… Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on ɴo(v)elFɪre.ɴet

A rough male voice sounded at the same time, “She’s Laura, the barmaid from the tavern!”

A low murmur of laughter ran through the crowd. Raphael did not laugh. He asked softly, “Sister Laura, you say you don’t want justice from the Tribunal, so what do you want?”

Laura raised her head, tears welling up in her red and swollen eyes. “Justice… We all came here to seek justice, but those criminals don’t think they’ve done anything wrong! They’re all rich people, those lords. They want land, so they drive us into the river. They want money, so they plunder our last piece of cloth. They don’t see us as people—would they regret killing a cow or a sheep? He’s still arguing in court! He even slandered you!”

“She’s right! They’re all wicked criminals, and they won’t repent at all!”

Soon, others joined in loudly, denouncing the lords’ crimes.

“They won’t repent, and we don’t want their hypocritical apologies! Hang them! Wash away their sins with their blood!”

The last sentence was like thunder, instantly resonating with a large number of people.

“Hang them! Make them pay with their blood!”

They shouted loudly, and Laura waved her arms vigorously, letting out a hoarse cry. Her hair was disheveled and stuck to her cheeks, and her eyes shot out a fierce light like a hungry wolf.

“Your Holiness! You are our holy father! You are the monarch of Florence! We love and trust you, we…” Laura said as she cried, her final words was lost in her intermittent sobs.

Rafael looked at her and raised his hands again. When the wave of sound subsided, he said, “As your holy father, I would very much like to do as you wish, but the city requires law and order. So, let us return to ancient tradition, and let all of Florence, as the fairest judge, oversee the progress of this trial.”

He turned to the half-open door and commanded, “Move the court here. I want all of Florence to participate in this trial.”