Chapter 83: Speculation
In Belem City, Rafael and Leshert selected an inn as their temporary base. It was a place with convenient transportation and a mix of all kinds of people, making it ideal for hiding their identities. More importantly, Rafael was drawn to one of the rooms that had a window facing a river outside. Additionally, it was possible to access the room across the corridor from it—a room whose window overlooked a bustling market that never slept, day or night.
In short, after confirming the location was convenient for a quick escape, the two paid a deposit for four days’ rent. It wasn’t that Leshert couldn’t afford more, but Rafael didn’t want him to display too much wealth.
They deliberately disguised themselves as impoverished, minor nobles. Because of their excellent appearance, which clearly suggested a privileged upbringing, they couldn’t convincingly pose as poor people. Otherwise, Rafael would have preferred to dress as a commoner—a role he had extensive experience with—and the people searching for them would never have imagined they would “stoop so low.”
Unfortunately, the well-proportioned figures and smooth skin cultivated through years of comfortable living couldn’t be concealed overnight. Such a disguise would only make them more suspicious if exposed.
So Rafael had to settle for the second-best option: posing as a destitute noble lady. Such a significant gender swap was baffling enough to confuse the soldiers.
‘Miss Eulalia’ watched her older brother, ‘Sir Leslie,’ nervously pace the room twice while holding the book, then open the window and forcefully toss the book into the river. The “plop” was exceptionally clear, and immediately, both of them heard the sounds of children calling out to each other from the opposite bank, followed by the noise of splashing as they jumped into the water.
Leshert: …
Rafael propped his chin with one hand, a smile in his eyes: “You should have thrown it at night. Those children like to hang out by the river, trying to fish out whatever is in it.”
Leshert stared at the filthy river, his expression shocked. The river flowed slowly, and the grey-green water was highly polluted, with large clumps of suspicious refuse floating on the surface, yet the children jumped in without hesitation.
This river supplied the daily water for thousands of poor residents in Belem’s lower city. Waste was directly discharged into the river, and water for washing, cooking, and even drinking was drawn directly from it—without any filtration or disinfection, of course. “You’ve been standing by the window long enough,” Rafael reminded him.
Leshert took a final look at the children—several of whom were already submerged, only their round heads visible on the water’s surface—and then closed the window.
The Knight Commander brought back food as well as information. The meals provided by the inn proprietress were included in the cheap room fee, which naturally did not promise delicious food. The black bread was dry and crumbly, mixed with chaff, and could easily scratch the throat. The milk had been filtered several times, but it still had dried grass fragments floating in it, and the fishy smell was so strong it felt like drinking straight from the cow’s udder. There were only two finger-sized hard biscuits that could be used as weapons to stab someone, and jam was out of the question.
The only alternative meal option was substituting the milk for a cup of butterbeer. This Belem specialty was mixed with hot melted butter, and its high fat and alcohol content made it very popular among the laboring class. As for the taste, it could only be described as… novel.
Rafael, fitting his persona, refused the butterbeer and chose the strong-smelling milk. The proprietress, to show goodwill to the noble lady, purposefully filled the greasy cup—which carried a strange odor and felt like it hadn’t been washed in a long time—to the brim, and used the opportunity to present Rafael with a small complimentary pamphlet.
“Please do not read such books in the future. They are far too…” The Knight Commander shifted uncomfortably, thought for a moment, and finally forced out a less harsh adjective through clenched teeth. “…Explicit. If… if you are interested in such knowledge, I will find suitable books for you once we return to Florence.”
Rafael looked at him in surprise, and after a moment, he burst out laughing, collapsing onto the bedding.
How had he never known before that this Knight Commander could be so amusing?!
“Alright, alright,” Faced with Leshert’s forest-green eyes, even the most hard-hearted person would soften, and Rafael never minded making small concessions to demonstrate his magnanimity. “Thank you for your advice, my righteous Sir Knight. I shall take it to heart. However, I must point out that the ‘well-meaning’ lady’s suggestion might be exactly what we need right now. No, no, please don’t look at me like that—it makes me feel as if I’ve committed some heinous crime. What I mean is…”
Rafael paused, subtly avoiding Leshert’s gaze, and explained, “You see, we both know that my eyes are far too distinctive. Even with this gender disguise and confusion, it’s only temporary. I can move freely around the city like this, but if we want to leave Belem—the soldiers at the gate are checking every single face. I won’t be able to avoid that inspection.”
Rafael’s words made sense. The color of his pupils was rare and beautiful, but now that beauty had become a shackle. He couldn’t conceal the color of his eyes, and that would prevent him from leaving Belem. As the search narrowed, there would inevitably come a day when they were found. Moreover, he couldn’t passively wait here to face judgment—Florence was eagerly awaiting the return of its Holy See.
The Pope’s journey was a secret. If he remained absent for too long without any news, that secret would become a bomb set to detonate the Papal States.
Rafael would absolutely not allow the Papal States to face further turmoil.
He had to return to Florence before François could do anything to the Papal States.
So he said: “I can’t walk up to the soldiers and let them inspect me, so the only way is to make it so they cannot, or rather, dare not inspect me.”
His meaning was clear, and Leshert, also of noble birth, instantly understood.
The only people who could prevent soldiers from daring to inspect them were nobles.
But the kind of destitute nobles they were pretending to be would not suffice. They needed to be genuine nobles, and even ones with a certain level of power who could resist such widespread scrutiny, or perhaps simply high-ranking military officers.
Leshert pondered for a while, then suddenly noticed the Pope’s unwavering composure and relaxed demeanor, and immediately understood: “…You already have an idea?”
Rafael looked up and smiled at him, lightly denying it: “No.”
“Then…”
Honestly, Rafael’s current state did not look like he was at a loss or without a clue; he was too composed, as if everything was under his control.
But Rafael genuinely hadn’t made a final decision; it was just a vague initial outline. He was simply used to being the stabilizing force that reassured others.
“Compared to this matter, I’m actually more concerned about another question. As a border city of Calais, there’s no reason for Ferrante to overlook Belem. Why is there no trace of the ‘Holy Crows’ here?” Rafael brought his fingertips together, his gaze falling on his hands as he sank into thought.
“This shouldn’t be. Ferrante isn’t that careless,” the Pope murmured to himself.
“Perhaps…”
“Perhaps…”
Rafael and Leshert were silent for a moment before speaking simultaneously, then looked at each other in surprise, stopping at the same time.
Rafael raised his hand with a slight lift at the corner of his eye, signaling Leshert to speak first. The always steady and resolute Commander of the Knights Templar, however, hesitated once again before slowly saying, “Perhaps… they’ve been discovered?”
His voice was very low. This sentence seemed to amuse the Pope, and he heard His Holiness let out a short laugh.
“No need to be so cautious with your words. I’m not a child who can be frightened by a single sentence. You can say it directly—they had been purged.” Although he said this in a light tone, there was no trace of a smile in Rafael’s eyes. When he uttered the word “purged,” his teeth clicked lightly together, as if he were biting into the flesh and blood of an enemy, grinding it down slowly and forcefully.
“A very, very likely guess,” Rafael said. “I think so too.”
However, the implications of this guess were even more terrifying than the guess itself.
The Holy Crows under Ferrante’s control were an extremely vast organization. The core members, centered around the Arbitration Bureau, were the backbone maintaining this system, while the periphery consisted of a diverse and complex array of groups. To extend the Papal States’ reach as far as possible in the shortest time, the Holy Crows were not stringent in their selection of peripheral members. Merchants, artisans, servants, sailors, and even vagrants could be targets for recruitment.
Of course, the Crows did not place full trust in these individuals of questionable loyalty, with monetary relationships being the primary basis.
But wherever something exists, traces remain. Rafael never expected the Holy Crows to remain hidden until the day they chose to reveal themselves. Perhaps many nations had already discovered their presence. Yet, just as Calais had planted numerous spies in the Papal States in the past, in this chaotic era, it was commonplace for countries to plant spies in each other’s territories. All diplomats were spies; even nobles and religious figures often held spy identities, allowing them easy access to high-society gatherings to obtain secrets without facing a quiet death if their identities were discovered.
The disappearance of the Holy Crows in Belem gave Rafael an extremely bad premonition.
Under what circumstances would a country need to uncharacteristically begin purging spies within its borders?
Rafael could only think of one scenario: before a war.
If François knew about Queen Amandra’s will, found a way to trap him in Belem, and then purged the Church’s forces in the border city… this series of actions pointed to an answer that Rafael found hard to believe.
Leshert’s war instincts was sharper than his. The Knight Commander’s face had already changed. Without needing Rafael’s reminder, he skipped all logical reasoning, relying on his intuition and premonition for crisis to arrive at the same conclusion.
“He’s mad,” the Knight Commander whispered.
“That’s the Papal States, the Holy City,” he said. “The city of the King of Kings, the earthly divine kingdom of the Lord, the ultimate land of faith for millions… He cannot do such a thing.”
“Really? Is it truly impossible?” Rafael muttered to himself, almost sarcastically. “The King of Kings is currently trapped in Belem by him.”
“Does he want to be a second Maud III?” Leshret reacted swiftly.
In the twenty years after the demise of the Knights Templar, the Papal States fell into a state of being bullied at will. The once lofty and magnificent nation vanished almost overnight, its lingering glory only attracting covetous gazes. After losing its sharpest spear and sturdiest shield, everything fell into ruin.
At that time, the Calais monarch Maud III, as the primary force behind the destruction of the Knights Templar, naturally reaped the richest rewards—he forced the Pope to relocate the Holy City, moving the center of the Church within Calais borders, effectively seizing control of the entire Church. This event became known as the Disgrace of Florence, and even the Pope of that time was later denounced by the Church as a heretical usurper.
During those years, the Papal States existed in name only. Florence, pillaged countless times, became a barren, empty city. Most of the Church’s buildings were destroyed by looting soldiers, and all residents were fleeing desperately, wanting to get as far away from Florence as possible.
After losing control of Florence, independent city-states slowly emerged within the Papal States. These self-proclaimed independent city-states separated and merged, eventually stabilizing into thirteen, and through long evolution, formed the Council of Thirteen, led by the Portia family, which held actual power over the Papal States’ territories outside of Florence. This lasted until Pope Sistine I, leveraging the great plague of Florence, completely purged this alliance that had existed for over a century.
That young emperor, nicknamed the Mad Emperor—the one who was moody, unpredictable, and considered by outsiders to be blinded by lust—did he harbor the dream of becoming the second Maud III?
Rafael recalled the words the little emperor had spoken to him during the wedding contract signing ceremony for Sancha, and his expression involuntarily twisted in disgust.
He refused to recall those fragments any further; it made him feel physically sick, as if a snake were coiling around his body, its cold, slimy scales scraping and sliding against warm skin—a sensation enough to utterly disgust anyone without particular peculiar tastes.
Rafael took a deep breath: “Let’s put this question aside for now. If this conjecture is true, we need to return to Florence as quickly as possible. If it’s false… we still need to return to Florence and take control of the situation.”
The Pope whispered, “I hate the feeling of being controlled.”
Anthony walked through the City Hall, stroking his meticulously trimmed mustache, watching with pleasure as the servants busied themselves in the ballroom below. The Mayor of Belem had a noticeable large belly. His brown hair was curled and draped over his shoulders; the curve of each curl had been precisely adjusted. His hair was heavily slicked with pomade, which shone under the light with a white, halo-like ring, so slick that a fly would do the splits trying to land on it.
With one hand on his hip, he swaggered around, surveying his domain, looking very much like a pot-bellied samovar, his face flushed with excitement, occasionally instructing a passing servant.
“Turn that vase the other way.”
“Change the rug to green.”
A few minutes later, he would issue completely contradictory commands.
“Turn that vase back.”
“Change the rug to red.”
In short, he was the biggest nuisance in the controlled chaos of this occasion.
But even if the Holy Lord could not tolerate his excitement and loss of composure at the moment, after Anthony ordered the servant to turn the vase around for the third time, the servant viciously thought to himself: I hope that officer gentleman doesn’t vomit last night’s dinner from the smell of the Mayor’s hair oil.
Anthony was hosting a banquet tonight at the City Hall for a high-ranking military officer—the very officer who had sealed off Belem. The Mayor didn’t care how long Belem would be sealed; he only cared about his own future, and he saw a possibility of returning to Dudley through this officer.
“Where are the ladies?” Anthony suddenly remembered this, quickly grabbing his passing secretary.
In many cases, the City Hall was practically the Mayor’s personal domain, and the staff within were naturally treated as his personal servants and attendants, and the employees who received their salaries from the City Hall had little room to refuse.
The secretary replied, “The carriage was sent out half an hour ago; they should be back soon.”
The Mayor of Belem stroked his mustache, which he was particularly pleased with, and announced smugly, “Excellent. We shall give that gentleman an absolutely unforgettable evening.”
- Click to share on X (Opens in new window) X
- Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Facebook