Chapter 109 Hope Blue Diamond (Twenty-six)
◎ "Assassination"◎
After the turbulent breakfast came a busy day. Julius and Raphael were both extremely busy. The wave of the promulgation of the "Religious Freedom Act" had not yet passed. With the frequent coordination activities of the Portia family, the nobles of Florence no longer made any remarks that were unfavorable to the Pope - at least on the surface. The voices of the lower classes had long been diverted under the organized and large-scale leadership of the Holy Crows.
People may still have doubts about the Religious Freedom Act, but what His Holiness the Pope has done for them over the years is real, and when it comes to their own interests, they also know how to be smart and dumb.
When all storms begin to subside, the remaining sounds become particularly harsh.
Ferrante had no difficulty in picking out the name of Cardinal Lombardi from the tangled threads.
When Ferrante saw the name, he was stunned for a moment.
He still remembered how he left the Holy Grail Church in the slums.
A penniless poor boy, in order to quickly obtain two gold florins that could bribe the monks to put his name on the list of nominations, he could only go to the glass workshop to sell himself - this was something Ferrante had never wanted or dared to mention to Raphael. His mother ruined her life in the rose room, but her son was going to follow in her footsteps. What a sad joke, it seemed that there was a whirlpool there, and once you stepped into it, you would never be able to leave.
Fortunately, Ferrante is smarter and more ruthless than his mother.
He seduced three clerks who had some extra money, and kept them like dogs following a meat bone, emptied out all their belongings, and borrowed high-interest loans from black market lenders through them. Otherwise, he would not have been able to obtain such a huge amount of funds so quickly.
As for how those three unlucky guys would face the poor life and high loans after they woke up... Ferrante didn't care about that.
How can we expect him to show extra mercy to others when even his own survival is a problem?
It was this kind of ruthlessness that made him enter the vision of Cardinal Lombardi.
When he entered the Papal Palace as a trainee guard, Cardinal Lombardi's steward had contacted him privately. This was not a big problem. Every guard selected by the Papal Palace was carefully picked from the church, and not everyone was lucky enough to be kept by the Papal Palace. The unsuccessful ones would be picked up by other bishops and nobles, while those who were particularly outstanding like Ferrante would be reserved in advance.
It's just that he finally managed to stay in the Papal Palace, otherwise he might be Cardinal Lombardi's subordinate now.
This intersection was so shallow that he needed to think carefully to remember it. If it weren't for this sense of familiarity, he wouldn't have stopped at all when he saw the name.
After stripping away the complicated and redundant sources of the rumors, everything points to this cardinal who usually does not like to show off.
Every cardinal has a dream of becoming pope, and it is not shocking that Cardinal Lombardi spread remarks against Raphael. The only thing that needs to be lamented is that he usually restrained his ambitions quite well.
Ferrante rolled up the parchment on the table and prepared to go find Raphael. He had been busy looking for the guy who spread rumors in Florence these days and had not seen Raphael for a long time. Although it was only a short separation, or even not a separation at all, Ferrante couldn't help but feel happy at the thought of seeing Raphael. When he saw busy monks and nuns on the road, he was willing to give them a slight nod.
Ferrante calculated the time. The Pope always had a regular schedule, with a strict and monotonous daily schedule. The one hour in the afternoon was his rest time, and Raphael liked to spend this time in the garden or library.
Outside the bridge of the Grand Gallery is an archway leading to the garden, where a gardener has planted a field of different varieties of roses. These vigorous flowers have climbed up the archway to form a wall, and the hanging flowers and branches are like a flowing colorful waterfall, which completely blocks the surroundings. Everyone who passes by has to raise their hands to push them aside before entering the courtyard.
The gardeners originally wanted to make them more refreshing, but Lion VI preferred this natural and unrestrained style. Raphael did not have the extra leisure to instruct the gardeners to change them, so this flower waterfall became a tourist attraction embellishing the corridor outside the Grand Gallery.
Ferrante emerged from the darkened Great Gallery, where spots of light dappled the steps. The sound of the garden fountain was audible, and he could hear the whispers of people mixed in with the sound of the water.
That was Raphael's voice.
Just hearing the other person's voice was enough to make Ferrante happy. He could not wait to walk down the corridor, raised his hand to lift the vines of the floral waterfall, and called the other person's name eagerly and gently. Before the sound formed an airflow, he heard Raphael's hoarse murmur.
“No…wait a minute—”
The smile on Ferrante's face froze instantly.
What a familiar sound. Of course, it was very familiar to him. It should appear in the rose room, or behind the dark curtains of a decadent banquet, or even in the jungle shrouded in night, but not at this time and in this place!
It shouldn't be this voice or this person.
Ferrante instinctively denied his own judgment, but he did not open his mouth to call out his lover's name.
The silent man grabbed the branch, which was rustling in the wind. In the gap between the swaying, he saw the end of the lounge chair under the shade of the tree in the distance. From this angle, he could only see the slender white ankles against the side of the hard armrest, the bare feet tiptoed diagonally on the other person's neatly dressed legs, the purple veins on the instep bulged due to the force, and the snow-white robe slid down the knees and along the rocking chair, with most of it dragging on the grass.
Ferrante could even imagine their current posture based on this little detail. The half-covered and half-exposed sight was more stimulating than the clear exposure. He hated his superior eyesight. Every tiny detail was constantly magnified in his eyes. His head was buzzing, and he seemed to hear those sounds coming into his ears from time to time, and then rumbling away.
The director of the Arbitration Bureau was naturally whiter than others, and at this moment his face was completely bloodless, paler than a ghost crawling out of a grave. With a black hooded robe and thick long curly hair, he looked more like a qualified corpse than an actor on the stage.
He didn't know how long he stood there. After the violent impact at the beginning passed, a twisted rage bit Ferrante's heart like a poisonous snake. The organs in his chest contracted, pumping out poisonous blood, which flowed through his blood vessels through his limbs. He clenched the branches and leaves in his hands with such great force that the fresh juice instantly dyed his palms green. The sticky juice flowed along his palm lines to his wrists, bringing out leaves and flowers that were twisted into a ball of mud, which fell to the ground.
Raphael was leaning back in the rocking chair, his eyes half closed. There was moisture on his eyelashes, which wetly stuck his long eyelashes together. He looked pitiful and fragile, with red at the corners of his eyes and hot cheeks. Julius was slowly kissing his collarbone. The Pope's robe was piled loosely on the chair, wrapping the Pope inside like a ball of snow.
Most of the secretary general's shirt was torn open, revealing a large area of skin, but the man who was always well-dressed didn't care about it. He took off his glasses, which he always wore. His eyes without lenses were sharp, arrogant and full of aggression. A few strands of hair broke free from the hairband and fell beside his cheeks. This unkempt and messy look made him look sexually tense, like a wild beast eagerly looking for prey, but also showing off his beautiful fur in front of his partner without making a sound.
Raphael squinted his eyes and turned his face slightly to avoid the sunlight from shining into his eyes. He liked this time when the garden was not yet hot. The sun was warm and everything was just right. When he was in a good mood, he didn't mind Julius's being a little too demanding. The iron-gray hair slid down and brushed his neck. Raphael blew gently to blow away a few strands of hair. When Julius' kiss fell on his chest, he casually raised his foot and stepped on his leg. ∫
It was a very disrespectful gesture, but the Secretary General obviously did not mind. He put his arms around the Pope's thin calves, slid his palms down, and hooked the Pope's knees. When he lowered his head again and wanted to continue, Raphael glanced down, noticed his intention, and raised one hand, grabbed Julius's long hair, and stopped his downward movement.
"Please stop, teacher."
His voice was still hoarse with passion, and his breathing was rapid. Julius was not much better than him, with a thin layer of sweat on his forehead. This kind of weather was just right for Raphael, who was in poor health, but it was a bit hot for him, not to mention being forcibly interrupted. There was a ball of fire in his voice, as if he wanted to laugh, but also as if he was holding back his anger: "You call me teacher at this time, what do you want me to teach you?"
Raphael still looked like he was letting people do whatever they wanted, but the strength in his hands didn't weaken at all. He smiled with the corners of his mouth raised, like a cat that deliberately made mistakes to anger people, and proudly reviewed his achievements: "It's to remind you to pay attention to your character as a teacher."
"--For example, don't commit adultery with students in broad daylight in the Holy Church."
Julius buried his face in Raphael's neck and laughed softly: "As a teacher, I think this is an important lesson I should teach my students, how to properly deal with your desires. I never taught you this lesson, right? Maybe it's not too late to make up for it now."
Raphael sneered and said in a mocking tone: "Praise the teacher."
This time Julius laughed even harder.
Except for the gravel path in the garden, the rest of the place was covered with thick lichens and short Selaginella. Ferrante silently clenched the dagger hidden in his sleeve and moved forward lightly on the thick and soft plants. These cute little things absorbed all his movements. He was the best stealth fighter in Florence. As long as he wanted, no one could discover his trace.
The cold and hard hilt of the sword pressed against his palm. The sticky rose juice still remained in his hand, and the half-dry and half-wet mixture created a very strange feeling. However, he felt an unprecedented calm, just like every time he prayed before the Holy Lord, like every time he stood quietly in the most secluded place and watched the blond Pope on the altar radiating brilliance in front of everyone.
He had never been so peaceful.
The sword blade coated with belladonna juice is a dull black color and does not reflect light, so it will not alert the prey. The ghost in a black cloak walks forward under the shade of the trees with the breath of death.
That night, the news of the Pope's assassination spread in a small circle among the aristocratic circles of Florence.
The reason why it was a small-scale attack was that the Pope was not injured, and the assassin became famous because of this battle - he was able to assassinate the Pope and escape unscathed in the presence of Ferrante, the wild dog, and Julius, and the guards didn't even touch a single hair of his. This was a great humiliation to the Pope's guards.
It is said that when the guard members arrived at the scene, the Secretary General of the Papal Palace and the Director of the Arbitration Bureau were both in a dishevel, with bruises all over their bodies, and they stood at a distance with gloomy faces.
The protagonist of this "legendary assassin" story is now sitting in the Pope's bedroom, stretching out one hand silently and letting His Majesty bandage his wound.
Julius rarely resorted to violence, but he was not
A weak blue-blooded noble who is powerless in the traditional sense. Anyone who looks down on him will be taught a lesson by the rapier in his cane to become a new person - in the physical sense.
There was a long scar on Ferrante's arm that went from the wrist to the elbow. Julius's rapier was extremely sharp, and it could easily break through the flesh with just a scratch.
Raphael wrapped the linen soaked in mandragora juice around Ferrante's hands, his movements steady and his tone calm: "I don't want to see anyone use a knife in front of me, no matter what the purpose is. This is the first time and the last time."
There was a strong warning tone in his voice.
Raphael didn't care that much about their private fight, but he hated when someone raised a knife to him - even if the blade was not pointed at him.
God knows how terrified he was when he saw Ferrante raising the dagger behind Julius. The nightmare entangled in his bones instantly pulled him back to that horrible night, the cold blade and the flickering light on the blade, and the body that could not move -
"I hate it when someone points a knife at me, even if it's you, Ferrante," Raphael wrapped the last piece of sackcloth around Ferrante's hand, and the last words were like a whisper, "Don't challenge my patience."
Ferrante was still wearing the black robe he had worn during the day, with several scratches on his clothes. He sat there like a solidified sculpture, and did not say a word no matter how the Pope manipulated him, as if the wound was not on his body. Only when he heard Raphael's words did he slowly raise his eyes, and a flash of sadness passed through his deep blue pupils.
He whispered, "So, you want to abandon me?"
"My love tires you?"
Raphael looked at him calmly, as if he did not feel embarrassed about being seen by Julius being intimate with him - in this respect, the Pope's calmness was enough to make all the nobles who tried to balance relationships with their mistresses and failed feel inferior.
Raphael touched Ferrante's wound wrapped in sackcloth and looked at him with lavender eyes, as if he was looking at an ignorant child: "It's not love that I need, dear."
It was the first time he addressed Ferrante so affectionately, but his tone was not that of intimacy towards a lover.
"How can you blame me for not giving you an equal response?"
The Pope's question was justified.
Ferrante moved her lips and looked at him blankly.
The love he gave was not what Raphael wanted, so what else could he give? What else could he do that could make Raphael happy? Is there anything else that can retain this heartless and indifferent Pope?
The author has something to say:
I'm so busy. This week, we're on duty, but the leader doesn't do anything and leaves us to do everything. Shit...
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