The Reversed Hierophant Chapter 8
Letter
Sancha believed that the newly appointed Pope of Florence was one of the most interesting people she had ever met.
This assessment couldn’t be easily categorized as positive or negative; it simply indicated her curiosity about him.
As the product of a Roman and Assyrian royal marriage, Sancha’s life was more complex than that of an ordinary princess. After the divided Assyria moved towards unification and her mother was confirmed as the sole queen of Assyria, Sancha’s status changed from a simple princess to a more prominent Assyrian Archduchess.
As both a Roman princess and the first heir of Assyria, Sancha, though only nineteen years old, had already stood at the pinnacle of the world.
With the crown adorned with flowers and jewels came an overwhelming tide of scrutiny and prying eyes. A barrage of words, both kind and cruel, true and false, flooded her, making it difficult to discern right from wrong. Sancha learned to face and master these difficulties, just as her mother had…
But it was incredibly difficult. Everything around her seemed so unreal and the people around her also became strange. The tasks she had to perform were so daunting that she felt fear and despair.
That was why she had eagerly accepted this mission to Florence. She wanted to escape from that suffocating atmosphere.
After hearing her daughter muster up the courage to ask to go to Florence, the Queen of Assyria was silent for a moment.
Sancha was surprised at how clearly she could recall that day.
Decades of life in the Roman court had worn away the wild edges of the Assyrian queen. She calmly set down her quill and looked at her daughter, who stood nervously before her. A flicker of expression crossed her eyes.
“Florence?” Queen Amandra asked softly, “Why do you want to go there, my dear child?”
Sancha lowered her head, her fingers unconsciously rubbing against the large gem on the hem of her skirt. Unlike her usual Romanesque gown with its large skirt, corset, wide collar, and ruffled sleeves, she was dressed very “Assyrian” today. She wore a long dress made of a whole piece of silk, tied at the waist with a gem-studded belt, and a thin, flowing shawl draped from her shoulder to the ground, with gold powder sparkling as she walked.
Her mother had long yearned for her homeland. Since becoming regent, Amandra had rarely confined herself to heavy, ornate Romanesque court gowns. Scarlet, royal blue, olive green, lemon yellow… all sorts of brilliant and rich colors became popular throughout the court with the influx of Assyrian silk. Amandra had also replaced the Romans’ customary wine with the Assyrian melada, a morning drink, and so on.
The queen’s behavior certainly aroused dissatisfaction among many nobles, but due to Amandra’s authority, they could only complain privately. Sancha had heard such complaints many times.
Of course, Amandra was not completely unaware of this, but she arrogantly ignored all the discontent.
“I heard that the envoy to Calais is Duke François. Shouldn’t we send someone of a similar status in return? Otherwise, Florence might be dissatisfied with the Roman empire,” Sancha said softly.
“Assyria,” Amandra stared at her daughter, her ears adorned with two large, full tortoiseshell cat’s eye earrings that reflected a brilliant light as the queen moved, “You forgot to say Assyria.”
Yes, with the highest rulers of the two countries currently being the same person, Assyria and Rome were essentially one.
But she didn’t say anything more, instead turning to the pile of paperwork on the table: “It would be good to go out and see the world.”
Her mother agreed so quickly that Sancha, who had been preparing for this for two days, thought she was hallucinating. She looked up in disbelief and found that her mother’s expression was strange. 𝐑
It was as if she were looking at the words on the paper but at the same time not taking anything in.
“I’ll have someone pick out some gifts for you to take to Florence. And… take the dagger that Assyria just sent. It can be a congratulatory gift for the new Pope’s coronation.”
A trace of doubt flashed across Sancha’s face. Her mother loved that dagger and had been wearing it ever since she received it. Now she was willing to part with it? It seemed that Florence was still indispensable to both Assyria and Rome.
Amandra raised her eyes and looked at her young and tender daughter. “I’ll allow you to stay in Florence for a while longer. If possible, build a good relationship with the Pope. At least, don’t let Florence lean towards Calais.”
When mentioning Calais, a trace of undisguised disgust and hatred flashed in the queen’s eyes: “Beware of Francois, he is a wild dog that will do anything to achieve his goal. At all times, don’t let your knights stray too far away from you…”
Pausing, she suddenly added: “You can stay in Florence for a while, until you’re willing to come back.”
Sancha looked at her in shock. The older woman had long seen through her little schemes, but she didn’t expose them. Instead, she said gently: “I hope you’re happy, Sancha. I’ve will try my best to give you everything, even the kingdom and my crown – but besides these responsibilities that cannot be abandoned, my greatest wish is only for you to be happy.”
These tender words made Sancha feel as if she had returned to her childhood. Back then, the Roman court was filled with chattering noblewomen, and countless butterflies flitted around the monarch. They gossiped about the king’s ever-changing mistresses and the latest expensive jewelry and fashionable clothing. Shielding their faces with fans, they would silently sneer at the queen’s incompatibility with the court, curtsying to the young princess with restrained contempt.
In those days, Amandra was silent and calm. Wearing a Roman court dress and holding a glass of wine, she transformed herself into a proper Roman. Only when she saw Sancha would she reveal a gentle smile, sing Assyrian lullabies in her ear, and give the sleeping little princess a warm embrace.
She loved her child so deeply that despite the complexities of the Roman court, Sancha, as the king’s only child, lived a life that was virtually carefree.
Everything changed when she became regent and the Roman King Lav XI passed away.
Sancha loved her mother just the same, but she found that she no longer knew how to get along with her.
So she left her mother, crossed the strait and mountains, came to the distant Florence, and met a person…who was hard to describe in words.
“Mother, I apologize for taking so long to write to you. I’ve seen many interesting things in Florence and would love to share them with you immediately. How are you doing in Rome? I hope Madame Simonne is making sure you get enough rest. I’ve had people send you many specialties from Florence, and hope you might enjoy them.”
In Florence, in the palace allocated for the envoys of Rome and Assyria, Princess Sancha lowered her head and carefully wrote a letter to her mother.
This was the first time she wrote to her mother since coming to Florence. Thinking of her meeting with the Pope in the library during the day, she pondered for a while, dipped her quill in the inkwell, and continued writing.
“…Today I accepted the Pope’s invitation and met him in the Papal Palace library. Sistine I possesses a charm far beyond ordinary people. Did the Minister of Foreign Affairs tell you what he was like? I find him very interesting, no… not that kind of interesting, but… I don’t know how to say it, Mother. I’ve never felt this way before. When he looks at me, my heart beats faster involuntarily. I want to get closer to him, I want to give him a hug. Is this what liking someone feels like? I don’t know, it’s very strange.”
“Have you ever had this feeling, too? With father? Ah, I seem to have strayed off topic, so let’s get back to the topic. Sistine I loves to read. He gave me several books about Assyria, which I found very interesting. You might like them too, so I’ve had someone send them back to Rome along with the gifts – could you let me know if you’ve read them? We didn’t discuss many topics, but Rafael hinted that he would welcome the friendship of Rome and Assyria. I don’t know why, but I feel that he doesn’t like the visiting Duke Francois very much. That’s normal, I don’t like him either. Just as you said, the Duke is pretentious and ambitious. It’s hard to say how much longer the Emperor of Calais can tolerate him.”
At this point, Sancha paused to think for a moment. She wasn’t quite sure how to explain her perception of Rafael. It was a subtle feeling, and she was certain that Rafael had buried his aversion deep down, but she could sense that underlying discontent beneath the young Pope’s calm demeanor.
A woman’s sixth sense was truly mysterious, granting them an advantage in countless situations.
And those confessions… Sancha pouted childishly. Words seemed to make it easier for people to reveal their true feelings. After all, she was still attached to her mother. Was there anything wrong with a daughter sharing little secrets with her mother?
“I’ve noticed that Rafael’s situation might not be very good right now. You know the Council of Thirteen in Florence, the alliance formed by the thirteen other cities of the Papal States. They’re keeping a close eye on the new Pope, and as for the House of Portia… I don’t quite understand why they seem to have distanced themselves from Rafael after supporting him. In any case, I think the Pope is in a bit of a predicament right now, but Rafael hasn’t shown any signs of it. He seems very calm. I sincerely hope he can weather this storm—were all the previous Popes as miserable? Except for that greedy Leo VI, of course.”
“…Life here is pretty good, but being so far away from you makes me feel a little uneasy. I’m already starting to miss you. If possible, I would love to get a hug from you.”
“Wishing the great Queen of Assyria and Regent of Rome all the best,
“Your Sancha, in Florence.”
Sancha wrote several sheets of parchment with great enthusiasm before finally putting down her pen, satisfied. She rolled up the parchment and stuffed it into a wooden tube, sealing the opening tightly with wax.
Meanwhile, the master of the Papal Palace had not yet gone to sleep. After finishing his brief meeting with Princess Sancha earlier in the day, he continued to immerse himself in endless work. Documents from the Papal States and other territories arrived in a continuous stream. He replied to the letters of greeting and set them aside to be sent back, while he spread out the documents from the Thirteen Cities on the table, his expression gloomy.
As the newly crowned Pope, the Thirteen Cities, as territories of the Papal States, should have immediately sworn allegiance and paid their annual tribute. The lords had indeed sworn allegiance to Florence and Sistine I in various ways, but the most important annual tribute…
Apart from the 50,000 gold florins sent by the Portia family and the 30,000 gold florins offered as last year’s tax, the money sent by the other twelve cities combined didn’t even reach 100,000 florins. They came up with all sorts of excuses about being poor, enough to fill a book titled “How to Default on Your Debts.” Of course, Rafael didn’t believe any of those excuses.
But he was helpless at the moment.
He had no one under his command. The Papal Guard was a disorganized mess, and he didn’t have direct control over Florence’s city guard. No one was completely loyal to him.
Sancha’s perception was right. After refusing Julius’s protection, Rafael was now struggling.
The young Pope’s expression was heavy. After a long pause, he suddenly flashed a cold smile.
“Let’s see who will have the last laugh.”
