The Reversed Hierophant

Julius stood behind a long table. This room was situated at the hub of several corridors leading from the conservatory; rather than a room, it was more of a small hall with four doors. Craftsmen had decorated it with gilded semicircular arches, carving patterns of hornbeam leaves and lily motifs. Aside from the plaster flower stands surrounding the perimeter, the only furniture in the center was a long, empty table.

This small hall served no specific purpose, and rarely did anyone linger here for long. Its sole virtues were its central location—nearest to all critical areas of the palace—and the vantage point it provided to observe the movement of almost everyone in the Papal Palace.

Julius had been here for two days. Apart from visiting Rafael, he had spent all his waking hours here. The long table was covered with all kinds of maps and documents.

As he leaned over the table, deep in thought, the heavy, melodious tolling of bells drifted in through the window. Florence’s morning prayer bells rang right on time. Julius looked up as if waking from a dream, rubbing his aching eye sockets. He saw the milky, misty blue morning light piercing through the glass, casting a cold glow on the floor, distinctly different from that of the gas lamps.

Another new day.

The Secretary-General rubbed his face wearily. The door directly opposite him opened silently. Julius looked up to see a man draped in a black monk’s robe, gliding in like a ghost. The two men exchanged a silent glance, saying nothing, but judging by Ferrante’s familiar stance at the other side of the table, it was clear they had been in constant communication over the past few days.

“I haven’t found any suspicious signs,” Julius said wearily, his voice hoarse from lack of use, the first two syllables barely audible.

Ferrante remained silent, looking down at the scattered papers on the table. Each sheet was stamped in the corner with a small emblem: a tiny pair of scales inside a dark blue circle, topped by a vertical eye totem. This was the insignia of the Arbitration Bureau under Ferrante’s control. Documents bearing this seal were secret files of the Bureau; without the permission of the Pope or Ferrante, no one below a certain rank was permitted to view them.

Julius walked to the side, lifted a crystal decanter, and poured himself a glass of mead. The cold, sweet liquid rushed down his throat, abruptly clearing his somewhat muddled mind. Holding the crystal glass, he turned to Ferrante: “How is His Holiness?”

Ferrante unfolded a rolled-up map and said calmly, “Just fell asleep. Doctor Polly says the medication is working. He needs to sleep more over the next few days to recover his strength.” Julius nodded absentmindedly, swirling his crystal glass. The octagonal vessel was intricately engraved, and the pale yellow mead inside shimmered like radiant amber with his movements, casting faint colored reflections onto his clothes.

Rafael’s fever had broken, but his body remained very frail. The doctors insisted he stay away from all official business, confining him to bed rest. Julius was more than happy to comply with this; he only visited periodically to report minor, inconsequential trifles, spending the bulk of his time consumed by the work here.

“…Nothing else?” Julius asked again, looking at the papers on the table.

Ferrante closed a map of Calais. The drawings made by the Holy Crows depicted some of Calais’s distinctive streets and landmarks, but such details were useless to them at the moment.

“That is everything,” Ferrante replied succinctly.

He rarely spent time alone with Julius outside of necessary administrative handovers. This was the first time they had coexisted for so long. Ferrante felt that the two of them might never be on harmonious terms; for reasons unknown, their temperaments simply clashed.

Had he not needed to investigate the cause behind the threat to Rafael—the reason the Pope remained as skittish as a startled bird even in illness—and had Julius not been subtly fishing for similar information from him, Ferrante would never have accepted this cooperation.

Nevertheless, he had to admit that Julius was truly capable. The secret reports of the Arbitration Bureau were as numerous as ox hairs, yet Julius had managed to organize the majore threads and pinpointed useful content in just a few days. This skill seemed simple, but one had to remember that the Bureau’s documents were written by the Holy Crows themselves. Many of the Crows came from impoverished backgrounds, had never attended school, and were illiterate; they could only express meaning through drawings and simple universal symbols. Julius’s ability to discern their intent and extract information from them was truly remarkable.

Every document regarding the Pope’s assassination attempt and the situation in Calais had been brought here. The two men took turns organizing and analyzing them. Yet even after reviewing everything and clearly realizing that Calais might have long held a grander scheme, they could find no information that would explain Rafael’s profound unease.

The number of Holy Crows in Calais was decreasing at an inconspicuous rate, a change even Ferrante hadn’t initially noticed. Many Crows had their day jobs, and most who provided intelligence were traveling merchants; it was normal for merchants to move between regions. It wasn’t until Rafael ordered him to investigate that Ferrante put all the intel together and discovered, to his surprise, that the reports sent back from Calais this year and last had plummeted by nearly a third compared to previous years.

But even if they discovered that Calais intended to start a war, it shouldn’t have caused Rafael such distress—his anxiety was different from worrying about the Papal States; it was a trepidation regarding his own personal safety. Neither Ferrante nor Julius could find further clues.

This puzzled them greatly.

After enduring it for several days, Ferrante finally couldn’t help himself. When Rafael was recovered enough to leave his bed for a walk, Ferrante asked indirectly: “Have you still been having dreams these past few nights?”

Rafael’s face stiffened instantly.

They were strolling in the garden. Rafael casually plucked a Marguerite rose that had crowded and bloomed beyond the bamboo fence. This rose, named after a certain Roman princess, had a large, thick blossom. The deep red of its stamen diffused outward, eventually becoming an elegant white. Rafael twirled the stem, a gentle smile on his face, though inwardly he grew wary.

“I don’t recall having any dreams,” Rafael said, his tone as usual.

He felt somewhat averse to this topic, much like disliking someone touching a thorn that had already grown into the flesh. He instinctively changed the subject: “…How is the situation with the Holy Crows in Calais?”

Ferrante noticed his aversion and compliantly played along: “It is much as you expected. The number of merchants within Calais is slowly decreasing, and their control over border cities has tightened. They are likely making pre-war preparations.”

He used the more euphemistic “likely,” but both knew this speculation was fact.

Rafael stopped before a fountain. He stared at the shimmering water in the fountain pool, as if reaching a decision: “Have Julius come see me.”

He casually placed the flower into Ferrante’s hand, looking into those deep blue eyes: “You know what I’m going to tell him, don’t you?”

Ferrante silently grasped the rose stem, offering no reply.