Chapter 24 Misty Rose (Twenty-Four)

I heard it

Ferrante was sitting under the grape trellis in the corridor. Thick green leaves as big as an adult's palm hung down. Curly vines were wrapped around slender plaster columns. Sunlight like broken gold was cast through the gaps, just shining on Ferrante's legs. The black-haired boy half-raised his face, with smooth and undulating curves of his profile, a high nose bridge, and a delicate jaw, as if he was Narcissus sitting by the lake in deep thought.

He felt a little cold.

This seemed like a long-lost feeling, but when he thought about it carefully, it was just a few months ago that he was still wearing thin clothes in the church, gritting his teeth and persevering in the illness brought by the cold wind, feeling the chill that he would never be able to escape eroding his skin.

And now, the Papal Palace gave him warm clothes and delicious food, making him quickly forget the days of hunger and cold. He mistakenly thought that he had grown up in such a magnificent palace. What was this, a rubbish instinct for warmth?

But reality will eventually wake him up from his dream.

After taking off the uniform of the Pope's Guard - a rather formal set of clothes including a white silk shirt, a large lapel jacket and trousers, a short white cloak worn diagonally across the chest, and cowhide riding boots, it also had to be paired with a three-cornered hat, the edges of which were decorated with white thorns and lily patterns symbolizing the Holy See and the Pope. Everyone wrapped in the uniform of the Pope's Guard could become tall and handsome. The uniform clothes erased the barriers of wealth and background. For a long time, Ferrante even forgot where he grew up.

He unconsciously touched the cold and soft fabric on his cuffs. This expensive silk came from the far east. That vast empire was rich in spices and silk, and countless covetous eyes fell on it. However, due to the other side's powerful military strength, no country could cross the strait and set foot on the land flowing with gold and fragrance.

In the past, Ferrante didn’t even know that there was such precious fabric in the world. It was as soft as water, as light as moonlight, and had a natural gem-like luster under the sun.

These were gifts that François gave to the most beautiful boys and girls in the garden, and like the diamond brooches, tiaras, and ivory that were given away in piles, they were just the most insignificant things in his eyes.

Ferrante became the most eye-catching boy in the garden at an almost astonishing speed. He was shy and affectionate, never refusing anyone's kiss, but would also pull away at the last moment. They laughed at him and called him a "baby who has not grown up yet", but Ferrante just smiled. They looked at his smile and would tolerate his departure again and again, just like countless times before.

Sometimes even he himself would be amazed at how smoothly things went. He almost instinctively guessed the meaning of everyone's words and expressions and skillfully made different responses. A smile, or a perfect hug, appropriate rejection could make people more obsessed with him. Alienation and enthusiasm have never been antonyms... These are things that require the top spies and lovers to learn for several years, but he has been exposed to them since birth and has had them integrated into his bones and blood during his long period of lonely life.

He is a natural communicator and spy. Few people can keep their secrets in front of him, and when he puts on different masks, his skillful and seamless posture is as if he has never had his own personality.

So far, no one has discovered his terrible talent, and he himself has only vaguely used this ability to benefit himself. Even Raphael... He has to admit that when he was with the Pope, for some reason, he always showed the image of a positive, optimistic, innocent and pious poor boy. The Pope favored him as he wished, and he got what he wanted, and was willing to pretend to be a stupid and naive boy in order to gain such favor.

Until I came here.

In the warm garden wrapped in silk and spices, he keenly discovered the truth hidden underneath. Everyone was doing their best to win the love of the masters headed by François. Ferrante's instinct was like seedlings seeing rain and dew, and it madly broke through the shackles, like a wild beast confining its own territory. In just a few days, he gained the right to wear silk clothes.

A maggot is a maggot, something that crawled out of a filthy mud pit. No matter how much softness and tenderness it is wrapped in, it cannot change its deceptive nature.

Ferrante thought about this absentmindedly, and for the first time he felt that he was truly hopeless.

But he clearly understood his own nature, but he could never understand that person... His hands clenched under his sleeves, and a piece of paper wet with sweat in his palm was already blurred. There was only a short line of words on it. The handwriting was sharp and slender, like the branches of a flower entwined and growing gracefully. He had read that sentence countless times, to the point of memorizing it by heart, but he just couldn't understand it.

——Why do you want him to leave? Does the Pope really intend to abandon these poor people to despair?

——He can’t accept it.

His mother, a piece of porcelain that was thrown to the ground and shattered by fate, a woman who was tortured to death by life, was a devout believer. Even at the end of her life, she would not forget to pray to the Lord, asking for forgiveness of her sins, and praising the saint who bore the sins of the world with expectation.

Saint Leah was born from the palm of God and came to redeem sinful mankind. She took on the heavy sins and walked the world so that people could be freed from sin and gain the qualification to ascend to the arms of the Lord.

She had such an unwavering belief that the saint would come to save her, that the saint would cleanse her of her filthy sins and allow her to obtain eternal peace after death.

She prayed to the saints, and he prayed to the saints.

There must exist such a pure, kind, compassionate, and philanthropic saint in the world who loves all people equally, regardless of whether they are poor or rich, humble or noble. He bears their sins, just as a father loves all his children equally. Only in this way can he be sure that his poor mother is now enjoying the happiness she has longed for.

As the Vatican claims, the incarnation of Saint Leah on earth is the monarch of Florence.

Is his saint going to abandon these...dirty, vile whores? Why? Because they degenerate?

Ferrante was unwilling to think about another possibility, unwilling to think that perhaps such a saint did not exist in the world at all. He did not even dare to touch such an assumption.

God, please be merciful, please be tolerant, he closed his eyes and prayed madly in his heart, I will be extremely pious, I will follow all his orders, but please give him your will, please...

His thoughts were interrupted here as a faint calling voice came from outside the wall where the grape trellis was close to. Ferrante opened his eyes and neatly took off his silk robe, revealing a simple linen shirt and tight trousers that he had prepared long ago. He casually rolled up these expensive and luxurious things, held them in his hands, stepped on the grape trellis and neatly climbed over the wall.

There were people patrolling around François's mansion all the time, and anyone who peeped in could not find any gaps, but at this moment there was no guard outside. There was only a little beggar with a dirty face standing there. When he saw Ferrante coming out, he immediately breathed a sigh of relief.

"Hurry up, they're coming soon, my brothers can only hold them off for a while."

As he said this, his eyes were like a vulture searching for prey, staring quickly, accurately and fiercely at the silk robe in Ferrante's hand.

Ferrante tossed the expensive and luxurious item to him nonchalantly, and watched him stuff it happily into his chest, not caring how strange the bulge there was.

After receiving the silk robe, the little beggar’s attitude towards Ferrante became visibly more intimate. He led the tall young man around and into a small alley, and said very quickly: "There has been nothing going on in the Papal Palace these days, and the Pope has not come out - it’s really strange. The pope used to go out often, and every time he went out, someone would distribute food. Is Sistine I some kind of obedient little girl? Why are you looking at me like that? Well, those carriages you asked me to check, some belong to cardinals, and some belong to ambassadors of principalities..."

The little beggar uttered a few names fluently, then stood there looking at Ferrante, motionless. 〓

Ferrante understood what he meant instantly and looked at him expressionlessly: "I gave you enough. That dress can be sold for more than a dozen gold florins."

When the little beggar heard the number, he was surprised at first, then hesitated for a moment, and finally his eyes became fierce, and he chose to stand there motionless.

If he can take out such an expensive piece of clothing, maybe this fat sheep has something even more valuable on him? And... he came out of the Duke François's mansion. They, the beggars, had some guesses about what he was doing inside. This handsome boy might have escaped. If he couldn't come up with the money, they would tie him up and take him back! Perhaps the Duke would give them more money if he was pleased?

Ferrante took one look at him and understood what he was thinking. A cold smile flashed in his deep blue eyes. The next second, screams and violent beatings were heard in the narrow alley.

It was almost evening when Ferrante quietly returned to the Papal Palace. Raphael listened to his detailed report but did not comment on its contents. Instead, he looked at him quietly, from the boy's messy black curly hair, to his dirty linen shirt, and the hideous blue-red color on his cheekbones.

"You had a fight with Francois's lovers?" the Pope asked slowly.

A sudden blush of embarrassment appeared on the black-haired boy's face.

He touched the wound on his face and denied vaguely: "No, I met a group of beggars on the way back..."

Raphael raised his eyebrows slightly. He wanted to say that the security in Florence should not be so bad, but when he saw Ferrante's pleading eyes, he did not say it out loud.

In fact, he didn't know that his Pope's guard was already amazing enough. After all, not everyone could fight against eight people alone and still stand in front of him so lively and safely.

"Okay, I understand. Go and have a rest." Hearing the Pope's euphemistic order to expel him, Ferrante did not move. His beautiful eyes, as deep as the ocean, looked at the monarch of Florence. In the brief silence, the young man asked hoarsely, "Your Majesty, are you really not going to save them?"

Raphael realized something from this sentence. He remembered that after seeing Jenny that day, Ferrante had repeatedly asked him this question in a similar tone.

"You want me to save them." Raphael said in a positive tone.

Ferrante remained silent before this sentence.

"Then what do you want me to do?" asked the young Pope. Their lavender and dark blue eyes met, and Ferrante was shocked to find that he could not find any trace of tenderness and compassion in them - no, perhaps there was, but those eyes were clear and cold, and he didn't even dare to look directly at the indifferent and empty purple plain for long.

"I, I don't know." Ferrante felt as if he had to say something, but what should he say? Could the sweet words used to deal with François's lovers be applied here?

He then frantically tried to dissect his worthless self: "I don't know..."

Raphael looked at him indifferently. The tall and straight young man bent his back slightly for the first time, as if something heavier than life was pressing on his shoulders, forcing him to try to take this step.

"I... beg you..."

The young man, who was good at sweet talk, seemed to have returned to his childhood, imitating his mother's behavior and begging for mercy from the saint, "I beg you to save me... us."

It is a pious plea for help that requires digging out one's heart.

Ferrante thought blankly that this matter had nothing to do with him, but he didn't know why he cared so much about it, as if he had to use it to prove something.

The Pope, who was sitting in the dark, sighed silently. He stood up, walked around the large desk, and placed his cold hands on the top of Ferrante's head. The chill passed through his hair and touched the boy's hot skin, causing him to shiver involuntarily.

The begging of the past will never hear an echo, and the saints high above just smile silently.

"I heard it," the Pope replied softly.

Raphael found that no matter how determined he was, he could not refuse the genuine cry for help in front of him.

How could he ignore the call of Florence? As he said, he loved Florence deeply, with its carbuncles and its beauty equally.

Ferrante's gaze rested on the falling hem of the Pope's robe in front of him. A corner of his snow-white robe dragged on the gorgeous shag carpet, as if a white flower had grown on the ground.

The devout believer finally heard the saint's answer.

The author has something to say:

Raphael: Sometimes I feel soft-hearted.