The Reversed Hierophant

“The guardian of eternal reason,

Drives his celestial chariot,

Chasing the sun as it rises in the east and sets in the west,

His radiance illuminates the earth,

All things revive with his arrival…”

The actor’s loud recitation opened the second act of the play. The Sun God of Reason and Order drove his celestial chariot across the sky, passing by the garden of the gods, where he caught sight of a budding rose. Intrigued by this never-before-seen flower, he decided to investigate it further that night.

In the box on the second floor, Rafael listened to the actors’ singing absentmindedly. The surrounding temperature was a bit high, but it was just right for him. He reclined in the soft and comfortable Roman-style armchair. The spiced wine and mead he had just drunk began to take effect, flowing warmly through his veins, driving away the cold and damp air from his body, and warming every drop of blood, making him feel so soft and comfortable that he seemed to melt into a ball of cotton.

The loud and clear singing slid past his ears, turning into a lullaby-like tune that lulled him to sleep. Rafael listened drowsily, propping his head up. He hadn’t been this relaxed in a long time. The fatigue from working non-stop since returning to Florence surged up all at once. The warm surroundings, the calming spices, the soothing wine, and the presence of someone he trusted allowed him to unconsciously relax. His eyelids felt heavy, as if tiny hooks were pulling them down.

Rafael mumbled, “If there are any new developments in the lower city, be sure to wake me.”

He thought he had spoken clearly, but in fact, he couldn’t even finish the sentence under the haze of sleep. Julius only heard him hum like a kitten twice, and then those pale purple eyes, watery with sleepiness, closed. His long eyelashes brushed against his palm, leaving a trembling itch on his skin.

Julius didn’t withdraw his hand. His other hand still held the gloves he had removed. He leaned forward, casting a large shadow over Rafael. His deep purple eyes swirled with obscure, cold light.

“…This nameless flower!

Why were you born?

I have never seen such a spirit,

You will surely steal the love of the gods,

This frightens me

,

The enemy of irrationality threatens me,

Robbing me of my former wisdom…”

The song rose with the wind, spiraling up in the open hall. The Sun God, wearing a golden laurel wreath, held a golden bow and sang passionately. His perfect singing did not, however, impress his investor. Julius was not even listening to his voice at this moment.

The Secretary-General of the Papal Palace lowered his eyes, quietly gazing at the person sleeping peacefully under his hand—his student, his blood-related nephew, his master, his…

The sleeping youth was oblivious to the outside world. The god of sleep had captured this beautiful butterfly, tenderly ensnaring him in his web, leaving his unclaimed body to rest in the mortal world, thus giving the vile voyeur an opportunity.

“…The water nymphs beg for my love,

The beauty holding the golden apple

,

Wishes to offer me her fragrant kiss,

I cast aside fervent love like worn-out shoes,

And now fate teaches me what retribution is!”

Julius straightened his back, still keeping his hand over Rafael’s eyes, shielding him from the bright light. His breathing was momentarily disturbed. No one could tell what he was thinking at this moment.

Perhaps it was the scattered sycamore leaves in the Florence Seminary. He used to walk aimlessly with Rafael on that path, teaching Rafael simple Latin, occasionally resting his hand on the boy’s head—back then, Rafael had just been brought back from the slums, thin and scrawny like a reed. To rid him of lice, his light golden hair had been cut short and uneven, almost growing close to his scalp, and his hair was coated with medicine that had a strange smell.

He was an unlikable child, no one would love him. He was thin, shriveled, and even somewhat ugly. When he walked beside the tall and handsome Julius, everyone casted complex and disgusted glances at him.

An ugly duckling, a rough stone, a piece of rubble.

And then he grew into what he is now.

His light golden hair was like silk, his figure slender, his face as beautiful as a saint. He had so many people who loved him, all of Florence sang the name of Pope Sistine I. They loved him as they loved the great Lord.

But who would still love him after seeing that scrawny, withered child? Who would love him knowing the great deeds he would accomplish in the future? Who would love him before everything began, before time was recorded in history?

Who would climb up that desolate fortress to recite a poem for him? Who would brave into the endless desolation in the wilderness and the cold wind to find him?

“You love my handsome face,

You love my boundless achievements,

You love my strong body,

You love my abundant wealth

,“

Julius suddenly remembered the years when Rafael was exiled. Cantrella Castle was a few hours away from Florence in the distant suburbs, and further on, you could even see the faint shadow of the ocean. As the son once highly regarded by Vitalian III, Rafael had participated in drafting the religious reform decree, yet without the protection of the Portia surname, everyone saw him as a thorn in their side.

At that time, Rafael was only eighteen years old.

Julius, in the storm following Vitalian III’s sudden death, struggled to steer the massive ship of the Borgia family. Every day, he engaged in heated debates with the elders and dealt with the inquiries from the Church. So many people wanted Rafael dead, and it seemed that he was the only one in the world trying to protect this young man who had lost all support.

But whenever he arrived at Cantrella Castle under the stars, quietly climbing up the dilapidated tower to see the flickering flame and saw the person in the light hugging his knees and waiting for him, he suddenly felt that everything still had a bit of meaning.

They talked softly about poetry and literature, drawing dry inspiration from the yellowed pages of philosophy. They discussed the political situation in Florence, and no one but Rafael could keep up with Julius’s thoughts.

This was his protected rose, his polished gem, the star he held in his hand, the person he had raised and educated, the person who had the same resonant thoughts and soul as him. His cousin had entrusted this helpless child to him before his death, and from then on, Rafael belonged to Julius.

He loved Rafael as he would his own child, willing to give him the best of everything. For this, he went to great lengths to bring Rafael back to Florence and bought him the throne of Saint Leah. It was a staggering amount of wealth, but Julius didn’t care.

Yet, this rose, this bird, was finally about to fly away.

The Secretary-General of the Papal Palace’s straight back bent slightly, as if in extreme pain, yet unable to cry out. The blade of fate was about to cut open his soul, tearing away the other half. How could he fight against it?

—He didn’t even understand when this happened.

When had the love begun, and when had the departure started?

Only when Rafael was asleep could he touch him so gently.

Julius silently watched the young Pope. The unspoken pain was like magma, scaldingly washing over his ribs, threatening to burst out of his chest in one go, but his face was calm as usual, and no one could see the turmoil in his emotions at that moment.

In the long silence, the singing on the stage reached its climax.

“Hear me!

God of Reason and Order!

Love shall strip you of your authority,

It is the world’s most potent poison,

A brew of disorder, chaos, and morbidity!

Stay away from it,

That nameless flower!

The garden of the gods is filled with fragrance,

Why long for this mortal love?”

The actor’s singing, accompanied by the grandeur of the pipe organ, soared higher and higher. The crystal chandeliers trembled in resonance with the music, each note striking the eardrums like a sword piercing through the heart, making the audience empathize with the goddess’s warning.

“It shall send you to eternal ruin,

Strip you of the reason you pride yourself on,

Plunge you into an unknowable abyss,

And shroud your radiance in darkness!”

Julius could no longer hear the subsequent singing. He bent down, pressing his slightly cold lips against Rafael’s.

The young Pope remained asleep, his breathing calm and steady, undisturbed by this mad act.

This was an immoral act, and Julius knew it clearly.

The person he coveted was the monarch of Florence, the Pope who had sworn to renounce all worldly love, serving the Holy Lord with a pure body and devout soul. He was also his blood-related nephew, a man of the same sex as him.

Yet, he could no longer care.

His gloved hand gently pressed against Rafael’s lips and cheeks. The potent spiced wine had made Rafael fall into a peaceful dream. Not only did he not wake up, but he also drowsily leaned into Julius’s palm, like a kitten seeking warmth, chasing the heat of a human body. This made it easier for the Secretary General to kiss him.

He kissed him lightly, lovingly across his lips, the tip of his tongue tentatively touching his lips.

“The sovereign of all creation,

The supreme Reason and Order!

All things in the world must rise up,

Mourning your fall!

What shall be born from the ashes of your soul?

A new god,

The champion of madness and joy!

The pursuer of life’s pleasures!

O gods,

We have witnessed the birth of Bacchus!”

The intense and high pitched singing, accompanied by the infinitely grand accompaniment, stirred the emotions of everyone present. Everyone was concentrating on mourning the fall of the Sun God for love. No one knew that in this corner of the second-floor box, a kiss more thrilling than the play was quietly taking place.

Julius’s hand remained steadily covering Rafael’s eyes. Only when the other’s breathing began to quicken slightly did he end this stolen intimacy. A faint sheen of moisture lingered on Rafael’s lips, and Julius gently wiped it away with his free hand. He sat up straight, his expression calm, neatly tucking away all the surging, twisted, and boiling emotions deep within himself, sealing them tightly.

Half an hour later, Rafael slowly awoke. Julius noticed his awakening immediately, moving his hand away and putting on his gloves as he asked, “Do you want to rest for a while? The performance isn’t over yet.”

His face was calm as usual, without any sign of abnormality.

When he chose to disguise himself, no one could detect Julius Portia’s flaws—unless they caught him in the act of his crime.

Rafael lazily sat up, accepting the floral tea Julius handed him. He blew away the steam at the rim of the cup and took a few sips, his lowered eyelids hiding all his thoughts.

—As if he had truly just woken up.

Under Julius’s careful teaching, Rafael, like Julius, had the ability to hide himself so that others could never see through him unless he wanted them to.

Even if his heart was surging at the moment, he could still lie there peacefully for half an hour, and then wake up as if nothing had happened.

The play on stage had reached its end. The paragon of absolute reason and order had died for that flower, and the God of Wine, symbol of revelry and joy, born from the Sun God’s remains, symbolized the ultimate tragedy and comedy, leaving the audience both weeping and laughing. All attention was firmly captured by the performance on the stage, except for the two people in the box at the moment.

They were all staring at the stage intently, but neither of them had their minds on the stage.

When the stage curtain fell, Rafael stood up and said goodbye to Julius. Ferrante was standing at the door, with Rafael’s cloak in his arm. When he saw him coming out, he immediately put it on him.

Julius stood there watching Rafael walk away. The hem of the light golden cloak billowed like golden waves on the dark red carpet, dazzling like a blooming flower.

The Secretary General smiled silently, taking off his silver-rimmed glasses, and wiping them gently. The iron gray hair fell beside his cheeks, casting a faint gray shadow on his face, hiding his deep purple eyes in the interplay of light and shadow.

—Rafa, I once taught you that avoidance is the most useless move.

He put his glasses back on, looking towards the now-empty corridor.

—But you always choose to avoid me.

Rafael walked faster and faster, almost rushing into the carriage waiting at the foot of the steps. He didn’t even wait for the flustered servant trying to hold an umbrella for him. Once Ferrante also boarded the carriage, he urgently tapped the carriage wall, signaling the coachman to depart immediately, as if some ferocious beast were chasing him.

Ferrante frowned tightly. He didn’t know what happened in the theater. He had been in the lower district completing His Holiness’s tasks and had only rushed over afterward to escort the Pope back to the papal palace. But it seemed that something had quietly occurred in his absence. Perhaps it was his professional habit, but this feeling of being kept in the dark made him extremely uncomfortable—especially since it concerned His Holiness. “What’s wrong? Is it related to Lord Portia?”

Ferrante’s intuition was indeed sharp.

Rafael immediately denied it: “No, it has nothing to do with him.”

Lie.

Ferrante silently refuted in his heart.

He had interrogated many people and extracted information from countless mouths. Detecting lies was his specialty. How could he not recognize such an obvious falsehood?

But he didn’t expose it, because the one telling the lie was His Holiness.

He would always believe every word His Holiness said, whether it was a lie or not.

“I was thinking about the flood in the lower district. This matter will be handed over to Tondolo. Find two people to keep an eye on him,” Rafael said.

“Understood.” After a moment of silence, the wolfhound with long black hair smiled and obediently accepted Rafael’s explanation.

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