The Reversed Hierophant

A storm swept through the entire Port Doga, with leaden, heavy clouds pressing down on the sky. The rain was heavy and cold, like soft, icy molten iron crashing down on everything it could invade. Everyone in Port Doga was fleeing in panic, trying to find shelter as quickly as possible to keep this malevolent gift from the heavens at bay.

The owner of the Iron Anchor Tavern slammed the heavy oak door shut, the dull brass hinges groaning and creaking in protest. The bearded owner spat on the ground in frustration, cursing the wretched weather and the damned brass hinges. He jumped away from the door where rainwater was seeping in and moved to the window, gazing out at the dark, chaotic docks.

Magnificent ships stood tall on the dock, like giants reaching the sky. They sat securely on the water in the midst of the storm, as if the raging sea was nothing more than a mother’s gentle cradle, and they were the lazy infants within.

The endless row of ships had all furled their massive sails, their heavy iron anchors and chains securing them in place. Sailors ran frantically across the slippery decks, shouting hoarsely at each other over the short distances, using every available rope to secure anything that was shaking violently in the storm. It was no easy task; every sway of the massive ships was a deadly threat to them. One misstep, and they would be swept into the sea, ending their unfortunate and short lives.

Most of the sailors were bare-chested, wearing only woolen trousers tucked into standard-issue leather boots, which finally gave them the distinctive look of soldiers. The royal banner of Rome had been lowered before the storm arrived. This vanguard of the expeditionary force was temporarily blocked in Port Doga by the great storm, waiting for a clear day to come.

The commander of the vanguard was also on board. The lead ship was larger and seemed more stable than the others, but this could not completely prevent the ship from swaying. Everything in the cabin was fastened to the floor and walls with nails or ropes. Even in the most spacious and luxurious quarters, there were no fragile ornaments, despite it being the residence of the Queen Mother of Rome and the Queen of Assyria.

But Amandra didn’t care about that.

The Queen had changed out of her cumbersome and ornate gown, wearing army-standard tight woolen trousers and a short jacket, her trousers neatly tucked into long leather boots. A belt cinched her shirt at the waist, and she wore no extra jewelry except for a golden stripe on the collar and cuffs of her clothes, signifying her noble status.

She sat upright at her desk, the slight swaying of the ground preventing her from writing steadily. In fact, she was not in the mood to write at the moment. The incessant heavy rain beat against the narrow windows, and the noisy sounds made the Queen extremely irritable. This irritability even prevented her from noticing someone entering the room at first.

“Ashur,” Amandra softly called out the name of her most trusted lady-in-waiting, her cousin by blood.

“The experienced sailors say the storm will pass by tomorrow afternoon. We can set the sails fuller and make up for the time lost in the port,” Ashur said, using careful words to comfort her cousin.

“Yes, yes, I know. This is beyond human control,” Amandra said noncommittally to her lady-in-waiting’s reassurance.

“Amandra,” Ashur, who had accompanied her cousin from Assyria to Rome, called out softly, using the name that had long been buried under various noble titles. Her voice was soft and hoarse, carrying an unspoken sorrow. “You’ve done more than enough.”

Amandra, hearing this familiar yet distant name, was momentarily dazed.

Since she left Assyria, over the years, no one had called her by that name with such tenderness and intimacy. ‘Amandra’ had died, replaced by ‘Queen’ in the mouth of Lav XI, ‘Her Majesty the Queen Mother’ to the people of Rome, ‘Her Majesty the Queen’ to the Assyrians, and ‘Mother’ to Sancha. She was everyone’s queen, the crowned one, but no longer the Amandra who once ran freely across the plains of Assyria.

“My God, how long has it been since I last heard that name?” The Queen tried to smile, but the expression faded before it fully formed. “No one has called me that since the day I left Assyria.”

Ashur looked at her cousin with sadness. She knelt by Amandra’s chair, gently placing her hands on Amandra’s knees, touching the protruding bones beneath her palms. Outwardly, Amandra had a well-proportioned and tall figure, and the thinness under her clothes was completely hidden. A woman who carried the weight of two empires on her shoulders was not as carefree as she appeared. The vast responsibilities and the passage of time had nearly crushed her, yet when she stood before others, no one could see her weariness.

Amandra had left Assyria at the age of eighteen to marry into Rome. The Assyrian royal bloodline had dwindled, forcing Amandra to bring her maternal cousin Ashur with her. Over the long years in the Roman Empire, the loyal ladies-in-waiting who had accompanied her had either died or scattered, leaving only Ashur silently by her side.

“I always think of that incident, Ashur, every time it rains.” Only with her cousin could Amandra occasionally revert to the girl who once galloped across the Assyrian plains. “The biggest mistake of my life, the one that made me taste betrayal and loss.”

Ashur sadly stroked her cousin’s knees, trying to warm her with the heat of her palms, but her hands were cold, and she could warm no one.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ashur was like Amandra’s shadow. She rarely spoke in public, and even Sancha had little interaction with this loyal lady-in-waiting of her mother. Only in private, when she was alone with the queen, did she come alive, like a person infused with vitality. “We all know it wasn’t your fault, and you’ve already made him pay the price.”

Amandra stared silently at the pouring rain outside the window, placing her hand on her cousin’s hand, her expression cold. “But that’s far from enough. Death can’t make him atone for his crimes. And mistakes… can never be undone.”

Ashur shivered. The Queen’s hand was colder than hers, like eternal, unyielding ice.

“…Send the people in Florence to Rafael when the time is right. Delacroix probably didn’t tell him when he died,” Amandra said.

“Yes… Indeed, Rafael was still in Florence when Vitalian III was assassinated. But those people were with Vitalian III at the time. Julius Portia might have noticed—he’s a sharp man,” Ashur said softly.

Amandra sneered silently. “Maybe he knows, but he would never say it. He’s a rational and cold-blooded creature of power. Why would he do something that would increase his enemy’s bargaining chips? Deals and negotiation are what we’re all familiar with.”

Ashur said nothing, and Amandra fell silent as well. The two middle-aged sisters looked out at the vast rain and wind outside the window. Beyond the ocean was their long-lost homeland, the vast and boundless continent, a land of snow-capped mountains, lakes, and eternal bonfires under the night sky.

Similar to Port Doga thousands of miles away, Florence was also experiencing a rainstorm.

Every dog and rat was scurrying for shelter in the torrential rain, trying to find a roof to hide under. The sewers were overflowing, bringing up a pungent stench, with suspicious solids floating in the water. The gas pipelines were flooded, plunging half the city back to the era of wood and candle lighting of a century ago. Of course, the upper city where the nobles lived would never encounter such a situation.

The Florence Theater was still brightly lit, with the rain and cold wind unable to penetrate the magnificent palace. Exquisitely carved gas lamps worked diligently every few steps along the walls, decorating the entire theater with dazzling brilliance.

Nobles arrived in carriages from all directions, stepping inside with dignified grace. Towering wigs and jewel-encrusted gowns shimmered under the crystal chandeliers. They chatted and laughed loudly, exchanging gossip about others. But someone with sharp eyes spotted a figure walking along the second-floor corridor, covering the lower half of her face with a feather fan. “Is that Lord Portia?”

Her companion followed the direction of the fan and saw only a shadow disappearing through an arched doorway. However, the distinctive iron-gray hair and tall, upright figure left no doubt. She nodded without hesitation. “It is Lord Portia—why is he here today? He’s been staying at the Papal Palace since His Holiness returned to Florence a few days ago.”

“Perhaps… His Holiness is here too,” the speaker said casually, making a joke. After all, everyone knew that His Holiness rarely went out and never went to crowded places. But to their surprise, Rafael was indeed sitting in a box on the second floor of the theater at that moment.

Julius’s exclusive box was very private, with an excellent view, allowing him to survey the entire theater without being noticed. Rafael sat in a soft chair, gazing at the stage, his mind racing with thoughts about the reconstruction of the city’s drainage system. Florence’s sewer system dated back to the Roman era, so ancient that it could be sent to a museum as a treasure, but it was still struggling to operate, which was a testament to the durability of Roman engineering—and the laziness and poverty of Florence’s successive rulers.

Rafael didn’t intend to push this mess onto the next Pope. With Florence currently stable and peaceful, he planned to seize the opportunity to tear open the ground and overhaul the crumbling pipes. His confidence stemmed largely from the wealth confiscated from the lords, Julius’s formidable efficiency, and the ample manpower now at his disposal.

Speaking of manpower, he might as well stuff Tondolo under Julius’s command to help with the digging. Even a useless person could do this kind of work. He hoped Tondolo wouldn’t let him down.

Thinking of this, Rafael’s thoughts turned to his conversation with Count Tondolo that day. He had been taken to Tondolo Palace by Tondolo on the first day of his return. The Count had indeed given him a small box, with old Tondolo’s signature and the wax seal of Vitalian III. The box was small, with an iron lock, and didn’t seem to have been opened.

Tondolo had given the box to Rafael, but Rafael had been very busy these past few days and had no desire to explore his father’s affairs. He casually tossed the box aside and hadn’t had time to open it.

Should he take a look tonight?

Rafael mused idly, taking a sip of the warm wine on the table. The mulled wine with cloves, nutmeg, and pepper was spicy but could dispel the chill from the rain. But Rafael wasn’t used to such strong flavors. After one sip, he had the wine removed and replaced with a smoother mead.

The door to the box opened, but instead of a servant, it was Julius, cloaked and dripping wet, who entered carrying the mead.

The Secretary General’s cloak was dripping wet, obviously just coming in from outside.

He placed the mead on the table beside Rafael’s hand, took off his cloak and threw it on the embroidered carpet. The ends of his iron-gray long hair were damp, clinging to his skin. He ignored his disheveled hair, raised his hand to take off his glasses, wiped the water droplets with a handkerchief, and placed them back on the bridge of his nose. Then he settled into the plush chair.

The series of movements was natural and smooth, and by the time he looked up, a steaming cup of mead had been placed in front of him.

Rafael was putting down the wine jug in his hand, leaning back in his chair. “How’s the situation in the lower city?”

Julius didn’t beat around the bush, his tone crisp. “Terrible.”

He didn’t elaborate, but Rafael, having lived there for so long, understood well enough.

“Have Tondolo lead a team to block the sewer outlets. At least prevent the lower districts from flooding. Clear out the drowned livestock and find a way to hold out until the weather clears. Start construction immediately. Then tell Astasinia to prepare for disease control. Funds can be drawn from the Papal Palace first, and the city can reimburse later…”

Seeing Rafael fully immersed in government matters, Julius’s eyes flickered with a hint of helplessness. “Rafa, we’re not short on time. Let the actors finish this act.”

Rafael was stunned for a moment, and then smiled, visibly relaxing a lot. “Alright.”

The young Pope turned his gaze to the stage where the curtain was slowly rising, not seeing Julius looking at him with a complex expression.

The emotions in those deep purple eyes surged like the tide. Even the most brilliant psychologist would not be able to tell what Julius was feeling at the moment.

Yet he simply gazed quietly at Rafael’s profile, just as he had done so many times before.

The play being performed at the Florence Theater today was still “The Birth of Bacchus.” This play, which had become popular in Florence, was sweeping through all the cities of the Papal States with unstoppable momentum. And in the city where it was born, the Florence Theater would perform it in its entirety every Thursday night.

Julius hadn’t realized they’d coincidentally arrived on its performance night—he had just temporarily decided to pull Rafael out for a break.

The Secretary-General smiled faintly, a touch of bitterness in his expression.

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