Chapter 44 Jadeite Gem (15)

◎Tide of Rage◎

The rioting masses had already surged up the broad and majestic steps in front of the great court. The reliefs of ancient kings and knights carved on the huge round stone pillars were holding spears, their cloaks fluttering wildly, like their forerunners, gazing at the endless stream of people following their footsteps.

The black monks retreated again and again. They did not try to stop the crowd forcefully, and no one even shouted a word. They were as silent as reefs on the seashore. They just retreated cautiously at the right time as the waves came. They did not leave too quickly, nor did they stand still and cause conflict. They controlled the crowd's advance in a slow and orderly rhythm.

In the hot atmosphere, on the steps, the solemn door carved with a scale and crossed swords slowly opened, revealing a slightly thin figure behind the door.

The monks who keenly noticed who the visitor was took off the whips from their waists - some people only noticed at this time that they were tied with black cowhide whips that looked like belts. The fine and densely woven ropes were elastic, with rough edges, and were more than two feet long when shaken open. They raised the whips, swung them in the air, and skillfully swung the whips to avoid the people around them, and the loud and crisp sound of the whips exploded in the air.

The continuous sound of whips was like startling a bird flying high in the sky, slowly awakening the people immersed in violence from their collective will. They stopped and looked ahead in confusion, and then someone caught a glimpse of the figure standing at the door.

"It's Your Majesty!"

Screams of joy rang out, and the mob, who had been like mad lions and tigers just now, seemed to instantly return to their polite selves. They took off their tattered cloth hats, pressed them against their chests, and bowed to the Pope on the steps. When the crowd bowed, it was like waves of wheat falling to the ground.

All those storms and waves became gentle spring breezes and drizzles in front of the young Pope.

The people in the Great Court gathered at the windows that looked out, vigilantly grasping the thick velvet curtains. As they watched this scene, a vague thought flashed through everyone's mind: Sistine I was establishing his authority in Florence, and all the people were happy to see his name engraved on the cornerstone of the city.

The people's long-standing reverence and piety for religion have made them regard the Pope as the unquestionable ruler. When Saint Sistine I stepped into the lower town and used his own life and death as a bargaining chip, no one in Florence could stop him from taking back his rightful authority.

The defendants who were also listening to the noise outside looked at each other in bewilderment. They were more aware of what this meant than ordinary fools, and the fact before them was that if such a frenzy that came from nowhere was to be quelled, some sacrifices of sufficient weight would have to be thrown out.

Who will be the sacrifice?

Who should be the victim?

Several defendants looked pale, they had already thought of what was going to happen, but they still held out some hope that if they could imitate the actions of those witnesses, could they save their lives from the Pope? Even though their awakening came a little late, they can guarantee that their sincerity will never be discounted!

Some clever people have begun to look around quietly, searching for Ferrante. Everyone knows that he is a favorite of the Pope. At this critical juncture, of course they have to find the Pope's favorite confidant to pass on the message.

Raphael didn't know what happened in the court yet, but he could guess that under tremendous oppression, even the most stingy person would give up everything to survive. The crowds he saw were more effective than any threats or inducements, and this was just the first step.

The young Pope had a heart colder than steel when necessary. He had already sentenced those lords to death in his heart and would never forgive them for any reason.

But whether you call him cold-blooded or opportunistic, he let Ferrante incite the monks who remained in the crowd to launch this temporary attack on the Tribunal, which was bound to bring him a thousand-fold benefit.

Raphael walked out of the door with a faint pine scent and came outside. The sunlight had been obscured by thick clouds. Raphael walked down and walked to the stairs - at this time he was only five or six steps away from the nearest group of people rushing up the stairs.

"Your Majesty!"

Scattered shouts rang out in the crowd, and countless pairs of eager eyes were looking at him. Those people with tears in their eyes, excited expressions but trying to hold back, took off the cloak of the mob and looked at the Pope like children clinging to their father.

Ferrante put on the hood behind his monk's robe. The loose hood covered his face tightly, leaving only his chin and the tip of his nose exposed. He stood behind the Pope like a ghost, his presence almost non-existent, with his hands crossed and clasped at his wrists under the cover of the half-cloak.

He was adjusting his breathing, imagining himself as a weed growing underground, with roots penetrating deep into the earth and climbing over every grain of sand. He did not open his eyes, but he heard countless voices in his perception, those voices of excitement or sadness intertwined and mixed together, like waves crashing towards him.

His fingers felt the cold, hard blade on his wrist, and it calmed him down as it had done countless times before.

Under the plain robes of all the black monks were a variety of weapons that were jaw-dropping. They had sharp short swords as thin as cicada wings tied to their wrists, cowhide whips wrapped around their waists, thin knives tied to their spines, short spears on their calves, and long needles on their ankles...

They are all excellent assassins and walking arsenals, which is why they walk with their hands holding each other's wrists - they are always ready to draw their blades and lick someone's throat.

But so far, they have been as silent as silent rocks, and no one has discovered this horrifying fact.

Ferrante focused his attention on his Holy Father, adjusted his muscles to the most suitable stage for exerting force, and stood there like a harmless plant.

Raphael opened his arms, faced the crowd, and said in a low and gentle voice: "My brothers and sisters."

He just said this sentence and someone started sobbing.

Raphael paused. In his previous life, he had given countless public speeches and no longer felt nervous or excited about it. He dared to say that he was absolutely sincere in every speech. Those appeals, prayers, calls and "I hope to be with you" were all from his heartfelt approval.

But today was different. He took a deep breath, stripped away all his past emotions, and then put all his emotions into it. He mobilized all his emotions, actions, and words. He wanted to control the wave he had created, and then use this wave to engulf his enemies.

God will judge me for my sin.

Raphael thought to himself.

Because I was arrogant, greedy, and conceited, because I treated equals as tools, because I abandoned the oath I once made of "sincerity, effort, and piety", and because I caused them to commit the sin of killing.

"...My non-blood relatives," the blond pope said with compassion. He looked like the Son of God carefully sketched in the mural, with his arms outstretched as if God was calling his children. "I know the terrible tragedy that has happened to you in the Lower Town these days. You cried for your dead relatives, fearing whether you can see tomorrow, fearing whether you will be abandoned by Florence and the Vatican, and crying until your last tear dries up for the precarious life."

His words brought people back to that dark and depressing period, when death was like a heavy cloud pressing down on their heads. Black birds of mourning flew over the branches and cried ominously at the windows. People fell dead on the roadside every moment, flies crawled in and out of the mouths of corpses, and undertakers pushed corpse carts over rugged roads. The muttering of scriptures echoed in the cold air day and night.

The kind of fear that is like a thorn in the bone is something that those who have experienced it will never forget for the rest of their lives. The cries of the death knell and the cloudy, wide-open eyes of the corpses will appear again and again in their dreams until they reach the final peace.

The painful memories that were awakened again covered everyone's face with a layer of gray. Big tears rolled down their eyes as they looked at their faith leader in despair.

"And I was with you while this was happening."

The Pope placed his hand on his heart with an earnest and sincere expression.

No words of comfort from someone else's perspective can compare to this true statement of sharing the joys and sorrows.

No one knew who was leading the crowd, but a wave of shouting came rolling in.

"Saint Sistine!"

"For the Holy See!"

The shouts gathered into a thunderous roar, shaking the glass windows and floor of the great courtroom slightly. Everyone in the building turned pale. Redrick, who was standing closest to the window, stared blankly at the scene with wide eyes. From his angle, he could only see the back of the Pope, a monarch who stood like a beacon in the storm of people in front of countless people. In front of him was an unmatched force like mountains and seas, but he easily blocked this huge force five steps away.

Redrick seemed to see his father many years ago.

The man whom he had admired most in his childhood, who had died.

Raphael waited for a few seconds while shouting, and at the right moment

Time turned his palm over and made a simple stop gesture.

The uncontrollable crowd actually gradually quieted down under his simple action.

Julius stood in the shadow of the pillar behind Raphael and sighed in a way that sounded half surprised and half relieved.

His rose, having been polished by the storm into an indestructible gem, was about to go to the highest place.

What will happen to them after that?

Julius didn't want to think about such distant things. Let's put aside the hostility, conspiracy, transactions, and gambling for the time being. At this moment, he just stood quietly beside the pillar behind Raphael, watching everything from a distance, watching him emitting the dazzling light that could illuminate the entire Florence.

He hoped that this second would be longer and longer.

Leshert's nerves tensed up the moment the Pope stepped out of the door of the Grand Court. He and his knights dispersed far away in the streets to prevent more people from gathering. From time to time, he raised his head and looked anxiously in the direction of the Grand Court. At this distance, he could not hear what His Majesty said, but that did not stop him from worrying about it.

God, please protect him, Leshter had never prayed so devoutly, he should not be hurt here.

Under the attention of the crowd, Raphael continued, "I know why you came here. You hope to seek justice for your relatives and friends who died in the plague. You hope to see the criminals get the punishment they deserve and hope to see them repent for the evil deeds they committed. This trial is for this reason. All judges have solemnly sworn to uphold the dignity and fairness of the law. All special jury members were randomly selected by me from the household registration files of Florence. Among them are survivors who have experienced the disaster like you, witnesses who have seen everything, and kind people who have worked hard to transport supplies for you. They are pious, upright, and kind. They have sworn in the scriptures that they will be absolutely fair. You can completely trust them and let them bring back the results you want."

The crowd fell into deathly silence.

A woman suddenly raised her voice: "We don't want this!"

Raphael's gaze turned to her, and everyone's eyes were on her. Many people whispered, accusing her of interrupting His Majesty rudely. The woman, who was dressed in tattered but clean clothes, looked to be in her thirties, with a weather-beaten face worn by life, her hands had thick joints and cracked skin, and she was holding a wooden stick as thick as her arm. She looked fierce, but when the Pope looked at her, she shrank back and lowered her head timidly.

"Sister, perhaps I may have the honor of knowing your name?" Raphael asked gently.

The peasant woman mustered up her courage and stammered, "Laura, Laura..."

A rough male voice sounded at the same time: "She is Laura, the barrel of the tavern!"

There was a low laugh from the crowd, but Raphael did not laugh. He asked softly, "Sister Laura, you said you don't want justice from the Grand Court, so what do you want?"

Laura raised her head, tears welling up in her loose and swollen eyes. "Fairness... We all came here to seek fairness, but those criminals don't think they are wrong! They are all rich people, the masters. They want land, so they drive us into the river. They want money, so they take away our last piece of cloth. They don't treat us as human beings. Will they regret killing cattle and sheep? He is still quibbling in court! He even slanders you!"

"She's right! They are all unforgivable evildoers, they won't repent at all!"

Then someone echoed loudly, and more and more voices began to denounce the lords' mistakes.

"They won't repent, and we don't want their hypocritical apologies! Hang them! Wash away their sins with their blood!"

The last sentence was like thunder, instantly causing a lot of resonance.

"Hang them! Make them pay with blood!"

They shouted loudly, and Laura also waved her arms and shouted at the top of her lungs, her hair sticking to her cheeks in a messy manner, and her eyes shot out a fierce light like a hungry wolf.

"Your Majesty! You are our Holy Father! You are the monarch of Florence! We love you and trust you, we..." Laura said crying, and the last syllable was lost in the intermittent sobbing voice.

Raphael looked at her and raised his hands again. When the sound waves died down, he said, "As your holy father, I really want to do as you wish, but the city needs order and law. So, let us return to the ancient tradition and let the whole of Florence, as the most fair judge, supervise the trial."

He turned his body and gave an order towards the half-open door: "Move the court here. I want all of Florence to participate in this trial."