The Reversed Hierophant

“In the year 1082 of the Holy Calendar, a tempest originating from the Syracuse Peninsula swept across the entire world. No one could clearly pinpoint where it began, but we have reason to believe that the eye of the storm always remained in the Papal States, in Florence, held within the hands of the great Pope Sistine I.

“Before Pope Sistine I announced his legitimate rule over Assyria, he had discreetly left Florence for the Roman capital of Perigo. This trip was not specifically mentioned in any documents from the Papal States. It was glossed over vaguely, as if it were merely the most routine papal visitation. Yet, half a month after the Pope’s return to Florence, the last will of Queen Amandra was publicly disclosed to the world by the Holy See.

“And the first to express support for him was none other than the Roman Queen Sancha I, whom people had expected to be the most vehement opponent. In the subsequent standoff between the Papal States and Calais, Rome remained a staunch ally of the Papal States, even despite the Queen’s confirmed marital agreement with the Emperor of Calais. Clearly, during that secret visit, the Pope and the Queen had reached an unknown agreement—one that laid the foundation for the later ‘Golden Alliance,’ even though the specific terms of the alliance remain a mystery to this day.

“Was it really kinship and affection that led the Queen to so magnanimously relinquish her claim to the Assyrian Empire? Or did the Pope promise a more tempting prize? Centuries later, we can only gaze upon the portrait of Pope Sixtus I and distantly imagine about his political acumen and his cunning, ever-changing artistry with words.”

Blue ink traced the final line onto the smooth paper surface, where printed text and handwritten notes densely intertwined. The hand closed the heavy book, and a line of gilt lettering on the cover was plainly revealed:

—A Millennium of Florence: The Founder of the Divine Kingdom on Earth, Pope Sistine I (Volume 1)

Belem was located on the border of Rome and Calais. As a typical border town, its commerce was highly developed, but its public safety was also extremely chaotic. For many years, it was a territory fought over and coveted by both Rome and Calais. Fifty years ago, the Lord of Belem passed away, and the Calais royal family reclaimed the land as a royal asset. However, due to the great distance from the capital Dudley, Belem was, in a sense, an almost ownerless land.

The Calais royal family didn’t pay much attention to Belem’s development. There were no mines or any resources worth noting. In fact, even the locals didn’t think much of Belem; they were just too poor to leave this chaotic place.

In front of the Belem City Hall lies a square. This building, funded by the royal family, is the most modern and luxurious in Belem, aside from the former lord’s mansion. However, the people didn’t much care for the spineless mayor. Anyone with a bit of influence or wealth wouldn’t be sent to Belem as an official. The people of Belem, hardened by long years of disorder, have developed sharp eyes, instantly seeing through the mayor’s weak nature. The June Blossom Square in front of City Hall quickly became a gathering place for merchants. They organized markets there, and the mayor didn’t bother to intervene. He spent his days holed up in his office, pondering how to return to the power center, Dudley. This hands-off approach actually led to a more prosperous market in Belem. Many merchants from Rome and even the Papal States were willing to come here to trade.

But things seemed to be different lately. The sharp-nosed merchants smelled an ominous and tense atmosphere in the air. Belem’s perpetually open city gates were now guarded by soldiers dispatched from who knows where. They didn’t bother with people entering the city, but they thoroughly inspected everyone trying to leave Belem.

“Those soldiers aren’t ordinary men. Dick saw an eagle head embroidered on their uniforms. That’s the royal symbol!”

“What? You mean the rumors about William the Coward being transferred back to Dudley are true?”

“Pah, how could that be? Someone even saw our dear mayor courteously entertaining those soldiers’ commander at the newly opened brothel. If he can leave, hmph, then tomorrow I’ll be the new mayor of Belem!”

“I suspect they’re here to catch a fugitive, and a very important one at that.”

“Ha, then they’re in for disappointment. Belem has no shortage of fugitives, if nothing else. May the Holy Lord bless that poor soul.”

The newly arrived soldiers became a topic of conversation among Belem’s residents. But what the residents didn’t know was that this blockade wasn’t limited to Belem alone; all border cities between Rome and Calais were under a strict lockdown—entry was easy, but exit was heavily controlled. The lower-ranking soldiers were only told that they needed to find a man with golden hair and violet eyes. Such a specific description was so targeted that the first person to come to every soldier’s mind was the Viscount whom the Emperor had doted on for several years.

So, had the empire’s uncrowned empress had a falling out with His Majesty and run away secretly?

The Calais soldiers, whose minds were poisoned by various romantic and outlandish love stories, suddenly understood.

No wonder their superiors weren’t searching for him publicly. It would be quite embarrassing if the Emperor was dumped by his lover.

As men, the soldiers unanimously sympathized with their high-and-mighty Emperor.

But only a small number of high-ranking officials knew who they were truly looking for.

There was a highly prominent figure whose identity couldn’t be openly stated, who also possessed distinctive golden hair and purple eyes. But due to his exceedingly noble status and low-profile demeanor, no one would connect the search to him. They’d rather the soldiers misunderstand and believe they were looking for the Emperor’s lover, playing down a serious political incident as a scandalous affair. This also helped to avoid exposing Calais’s shameful act of pursuing the Pope.

Yes, these soldiers, who were so brazenly blockading border cities to search for a “fugitive,” had no idea that the person they were truly hunting was the monarch of the Papal States, the master of earthly faith, Pope Sistine I.

Why the Pope would come to Calais and be secretly pursued was an utterly absurd matter, yet it happened in August of 1082.

Near June Blossom Square were many small, cramped inns for traveling merchants. The chaotic state of these buildings rivaled the free-spirited designs of Florence’s slums. In some apartments, over a dozen people lived in a single room. Landlords collected a meager profit from them to get by, and every face was etched with the numb weariness of a life of struggle.

A pair of siblings recently moved into a dark and narrow inn. The brother had a tall and strong physique, his back straight, with an obvious air of someone who had undergone rigorous training. His face was hidden under a large cloak, but one could see his jawline was sharp and clean—undoubtedly a rare handsome man. And his sister—

Even though she was carried in her brother’s arms at the time, bundled tightly in a cloak, based solely on the glimpse of her profile through a gap, the landlady would swear on her experience hosting countless guests that she was absolutely a stunningly beautiful young lady.

This pair of siblings carried an air that was completely out of place in Belem, yet their clothes were old and worn, with frayed edges. Perhaps they were children from a fallen noble family wandering abroad. Such people weren’t uncommon. The landlady’s curiosity lasted only a moment before she dismissed them from her mind. Her guests were a motley crew, and as long as they paid their rent on time, she didn’t care about their background or what they’d done.

The tall man pulled his hood down low and ascended the old, creaking wooden stairs in a few quick steps. Worm-eaten holes, blackish-green, dotted the edges of the steps densely. He always worried the stairs might suddenly break, making him instinctively skip several steps at a time to pass them as quickly as possible.

The corridor on the second floor was so narrow you could barely turn around. The floor, painted red, had lost most of its color, leaving a strange mottled pattern of red and white that looked unsettling. Eight rooms were evenly spaced along both sides of the hallway. He quickly walked to the last room on the right and used a rusty copper key to unlock the door – applying some force.

The rusty brass hinges groaned unwillingly. The man slipped into the room, closed the door behind him, and looked inside.

The room was small, without any decorations or partitions, easily taken in at a glance. A table and chair stood under the window, a chest of drawers against the wall, and a bed right next to the chest.

The man took off his hood, revealing the face of the Grandmaster of the Knights Templar.

He bowed to the person sitting on the bed. “Your Holiness, there;s nothing unusual outside. They are only at the city gates and don’t seem to be conducting any large-scale search within the city.”

The person on the bed, who was wrapped tightly in a blanket, raised their head.

It was none other than Pope Sistine I, who should have been sitting on his throne in the Holy See in Florence.

He wore none of the garments befitting his status, dressed instead like any commoner in Belem in a simple linen robe. The collar hung loose, revealing a glimpse of his collarbone. His usually meticulously arranged pale golden hair fell casually over his shoulders, softening the strongly masculine lines of his face and, combined with his excessively handsome features, giving him a delicate, almost androgynous beauty.

He was holding a small book and reading. His long, slender, and fair fingers and noble, elegant demeanor, combined with the sunlight streaming in from the window, made him appear radiant. But when you added the terrible surroundings and the cheap, crudely made booklet that he held, the scene became something out of a “The Daily Life of a Downtrodden Aristocrat in Exile.”

Wait, a booklet… where did a book come from in this room?

Leshert was certain he had thoroughly inspected the entire room and had not seen any reading material. For the common people, books were expensive and impractical. Given the current literacy rates, a book would never appear here.

As if hearing the Templar Grandmaster’s thoughts, the Pope on the bed lazily turned a page and replied, “The landlady gave it to me when she brought my lunch. She seems to think we have some… unspeakable difficulties, perhaps financial…”

As he spoke, the corner of his mouth quirked into a meaningful arc. This faint, almost-smile expression was utterly devastating on Rafael’s face.

Leshert frowned and walked over, adjusting his angle to look at the book in the Pope’s hands. But a pale hand deftly blocked the contents just before he could see.

The Pope tilted his body slightly, smiling as he gave the Grandmaster a playful wink. “I don’t think this is quite suitable for you, my dear Knight.”

His evasion made Leshert feel a little nervous. Traveling alone with the Pope in enemy territory while evading a pursuit—such an experience was far too much, even for the Grandmaster. Ever since he realized their grim predicament, the Grandmaster, burdened with the mission of protecting the Pope, had been under immense pressure. He was compelled to be vigilant, wary of everyone and everything around him, including this abruptly appearing book.

“Forgive my offense, but I must ensure your safety, Your Holiness.” The Grandmaster’s voice was tense. As he spoke, he moved closer to Rafael, his knee pressing down on the blanket, body leaning forward, attempting to reach for the book over Rafael’s body.

This position allowed the long-limbed Grandmaster to easily take the book from the defenseless Pope. He quickly flipped through a couple of pages, and his face instantly turned crimson. The flush spread like wildfire all the way to his ears. The righteous, good-hearted… and celibate-to-this-day Grandmaster felt like he was on fire.

Watching the serious and dignified Grandmaster get flustered was quite amusing. Rafael, pinned to the bed, remain unperturbed. He just smiled at Leshert who was still on top of him, pretending to be serious, and said, “I told you Knight, it’s not for you.” Follow current novels on 𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩⁂𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢⁂𝔫𝔢𝔱

The booklet contained no words, only crude illustrations. For Leshert, who only read serious and dry literature and whose most “romantic” literary encounter was a collection of hardcover love poetry, the contents were enough to shatter his worldview.

No, it wasn’t that the Grandmaster was… well, naive. Of course, he knew what happened between men and women. But, dear Lord, forgive him, he was the kind of traditional man who would only use the missionary position after marriage and insisted on a weekly quota of two nights of intimacy, seeing excessive pleasure as a devil that weakened one’s will. He was… a “feudal” monk, if you will.

So when he got this thing from the Pope—not just anyone, but the representative of the Holy See itself!—one can imagine the intensity of the shock.

For a moment, Leshert was completely stunned.

His vaunted reflexes went on strike. Although it wasn’t his intention, his superior memory and reading ability allowed him to clearly see the pictures on the pages. Those unheard-of positions utterly shattered Leshert’s mind. He tried his best to forget them, but the human mind is a rebellious thing; the more you try to forget something, the more vividly you remember it. He had to start reciting passages from the Gospel to calm his heart.

“I think you’ve forgotten something, Knight?” Rafael moved his leg, gesturing for the Grandmaster to look at their current situation.

Their posture was far too intimate. Half of Leshert’s body was pressing down on Rafael. He could even feel the Pope’s heartbeat. The warm breath from the Pope’s words brushed against his neck, causing a strange shiver.

Leshert’s recitation of the scripture stopped halfway, and he jumped up in a panic. He uncontrollably recalled a certain position from the booklet—one that bore a striking resemblance to their current position.

This fleeting thought made Leshert’s legs go weak, and he nearly tumbled off the side of the bed.

“You, you, you… I apologise, I, I didn’t mean to…” The Grandmaster was practically steaming.

The overly upright knight instinctively began to criticise himself, even forgetting that the culprit should have been Rafael. As the Pope, it was entirely inappropriate to be reading such a book, but at this moment, Leshert was clearly not thinking about that.

“That landlady has obviously misunderstood something,” Rafael wouldn’t give Leshert a chance to figure it out. He casually shifted the blame away from himself. “She seems to think we are descendants of a fallen noble family who have ended up here, and that we are in dire straits. She ‘kindly’ offered to provide me with a job.”

He gave a meaningful glance at the thing still clutched in Leshert’s hand.

This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence.

Many fallen nobles, after losing their wealth, often fell from grace faster than ordinary people. Their once privileged lives, luxurious habits, and early days of being adored by everyone left them lacking the courage to face hardship. Their extravagant and decadent nature made them desperate to choose easier, more “pleasurable” ways to make money..

Even in the slums of Florence, Rafael knew there was no shortage of noble-born women in the brothels. Some noble ladies were even sold by their own fathers and brothers, and these girls were often more sought-after.

Clearly… that “kind-hearted” landlady also mistook him and Leshert for fallen nobles who had drifted to Belem.

After understanding the meaning behind Rafael’s words, Leshert first froze for a moment, then anger surfaced on his face. “How could she do that! If she really lured girls into…”

The Knight Commander’s face darkened. He didn’t continue, but a look of pain and pity flashed in his forest-green eyes.

The Grandmaster’s face darkened, and he didn’t continue. His forest-green eyes flashed with sorrow.

Rafael had been watching Leshert’s expression. In that instant, he suddenly realized that Leshert genuinely felt pain for those girls who might have been deceived and lured, truly putting himself in their shoes.

Even though he didn’t know those girls, even though he was worlds apart from their lives, at this moment, he felt a nearly compassionate sorrow for them.

Good heavens. Rafael instinctively shifted uncomfortably, unnaturally averting his gaze. He felt a bit… hesitant to get close to such a person.

“Another thing,” Rafael quickly changed the subject. He felt he had to say something, at least to stop lingering on this topic. “Is there still no news from Francois? Can you contact the Holy Crows?”

“There’s been no movement related to the Calais Emperor. He probably hasn’t guessed we are in Belem. The blockade here is likely just a precautionary measure,” Mentioning official business, Leshert forcibly reined in his thoughts and reported methodically. “I can’t contact anyone from the Papal Palace. There are no traces of the Holy Crows here in Belem.”

Rafael frowned. This was not good.

Over a month ago, after receiving the will from Ashur, he had spent a few days considering it and decided to first go to Rome to meet Sancha. But on the return journey, he was ambushed by a large group of assassins.

• Click to share on X (Opens in new window) X
• Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook