Chapter 19 Misty Rose (XIX)
◎Celebration undercurrent◎
The Feast of Grace arrived as scheduled. The bell of the Basilica of the Holy Thorn, which had been silent since the day of the Pope's coronation, rang out loudly. Then the bells of the Apostolic Palace, the Basilica of Our Lady of Mercy, the Basilica of Advent, the Basilica of the Protection... bells from all over the city rang out one after another. The deep, slow and gentle bells fell, awakening the sleeping holy city from the darkness and allowing them to welcome the first ray of light of dawn.
During this grand festival, the barriers between the upper and lower towns were infinitely weakened. In the dark and poor neighborhoods, the first people to walk out of their homes at the sound of the bells must be the poor, small workshop owners, handicraft practitioners and apprentices who had nothing. Their income was pitifully meager and they could only live on such a little unstable salary every day. They did the most vulgar and dirty work in Florence, like a silent but huge foundation in the mud, holding up the huge and magnificent body of Florence.
Due to asset limitations, they cannot live in areas that require paying "urban maintenance fees", so the only areas left for them are the corners of Florence and the excess areas downstream of the river. Those tumor-like proliferating houses accommodate half of Florence's population. They need to cross two or three blocks and countless streets to reach the spacious and magnificent upper town square to receive the blessings of the festival, so they always dress neatly and get ready to go out early before dawn.
The men wore a linen or cotton shirt, a short tweed coat, a dark soft hat, and a leather cap.
The shoes were polished to a high shine.
The women walking beside them wore light-colored long skirts - white was best of course. Women who were good at accessorizing would make creative changes to the collars and cuffs, such as designing unique decorations with lace or ribbons, and hanging ribbons of different colors around their waists - this was the unique artistic sense bestowed by God on women.
The children screamed and played around their parents, enjoying the joy of the festival to the fullest. The shabby neighborhood, which used to be dark and depressing, was now filled with a rare warm atmosphere. Loud laughter and brisk footsteps intertwined into noisy music. Although the people walking among them had haggard faces, they all showed joyful expressions.
The roads in the lower city are rugged and dark, and the winding roads are like tangled balls of wool. They are narrow, damp, and complex enough to surpass human imagination. Unlike the blocks in the upper city that are divided according to family power and blood surnames, the residences here are ridiculously arbitrary and basically rely on occupations to live in groups. For example, there must be a glass workshop around a rose house, cloth merchants will live next to tailors, and fishmongers prefer shabby restaurants.
Here, their wages and salaries are not enough to support them to form a big family. The scarce population and bloodline have to rely on peers in the same industry to strengthen their momentum, so as not to suffer losses due to lack of manpower when they need support from blood relatives. Therefore, the prototype of the guild was born here - just a prototype, they do not have the intelligence and money to support the emergence of a more complete system.
Rough square boulders are stacked up to form crooked low buildings. Rusty iron fences, abandoned old battlements, and fortresses are divided and cut into different residences. The ground is soaked with livestock blood and feces, and sewage is poured directly from windows and doors into the street. Houses grow wantonly, greedily competing for space in the perpetual damp and smelly smell, making the already dark streets forever dim and dark, just like the people living here.
The flow of people in the lower town slowly merged into the light. Raphael's deacons were welcoming the lords who came from afar at the gate of the Papal Palace. They had arrived in Florence at the latest the day before, but had not come to meet the Pope. Raphael tolerantly ignored their tense communication and coordination in private, and did not pursue it further because none of them were absent.
But they obviously didn't think so.
"Sistine I wants to attack our territory," the lords reached a consensus under the light of the gas lamp. They sat there nervously and angrily, sizing up each other's expressions, "Portia betrayed us."
This is even worse news.
"Portia is already the Speaker of the Parliament, and he's still not satisfied? What else does he want?" Someone cursed, "Does he think that if he stands on the side of the Pope, that guy will give him more benefits?!"
Although they said so, they knew in their hearts that if they were given an opportunity to control the Pope, they would betray this loose alliance without hesitation.
"If Julius is determined to betray the alliance, then we have no choice but to strike first."
The person who spoke looked quite old, with half-long white hair and a wrinkled face without any expression: "It is not easy to be an enemy of Portia, so we need to work together, but if someone wants to betray again..."
The old man sneered: "You'd better think carefully about whether you are worthy enough for Portia to let you go - be careful not to become Portia's dessert in the end."
As soon as these words came out, the eyes of several people who had originally looked a little shaken and hesitant suddenly became stern.
Until this moment, they still firmly believed that everything was Julius' idea, and the Pope... wasn't that young and immature Pope just a puppet of Julius?
In their view, Julius chose to attack them because he wanted to use the name of Sistine I to reunite the entire Papal States and then place Portia on the throne of the Holy City.
He is dreaming!
Because of the decline of the Knights Templar, the ancestors of the lords had finally managed to bite off a piece of fat meat from the iron-clad Papal Palace and became the free masters of the Papal States. All their wealth depended on these cities. Do they want to take back the land and city-states from them?
These hyenas and poisonous snakes who are entrenched in wealth will never agree even if they die.
When the bell rang for the third time, Raphael appeared in the Square of Miracles wearing a golden surplice and a snow-white robe. On his head was a simple ring-shaped crown of thorns. The crown, made of bronze and gold, had thorns as long and sharp as thorns, which could easily cut the wearer. The wearer must always be vigilant and careful, and keep himself correct - this is also the purpose of the crown of thorns: not to be tempted by power and the throne, and always remember the identity of the Lord's shepherd.
Raphael, holding a short staff wrapped with a thorn totem, saluted the people standing at the bottom of the steps, which brought waves of cheers. The thirteen lords of the Papal States, headed by Julius Portia, stood respectfully on both sides and bowed to the Pope. From their positions, it was easy to see that Julius occupied the highest position, but was isolated intentionally or unintentionally.
Not knowing what Julius had said in the letter he wrote to them, Raphael thought as he walked, it must be some serious threat, otherwise these greedy and life-threatening lords would not have appeared here in unison and shown such obvious hostility towards Julius.
They were almost wary of Julius to the point of fearing he would shoot them in public.
But it was also good this way. The young and handsome Pope gave the lords an impeccable smile. His already dazzling face almost glowed with this smile.
Even the lords who looked down on this "puppet pope" could not help but be dazzled for a moment by this smile.
But Raphael quickly passed them and went up the steps.
Redrick stood beside the scarlet curtain at the top of the steps, holding a roll of parchment in his hand, his face looking extremely grim. He was dressed in formal attire according to etiquette, and next to him was Julius, who was dressed similarly. Both of them had deep purple eyes and the deep features of the Portia family, but when they stood together, everyone would immediately look at Julius.
The secretary general with iron-gray hair helped Raphael as he came over. Noticing this action, Redrick's face became even gloomier. He squeezed over without any hesitation and began to report his work in a torrent of words - these things should have been reported to the Pope earlier, but the damn Raphael did not allow him to set foot in the Pope's palace at all!
Having been rejected for an audience at least six times, Redrick felt incredible about his own patience. If someone had dared to refuse him entry in the past, he would definitely take his guards to tear down the door of that family and throw it on the road to trample on it.
But that bastard is now the Pope of Florence.
Redrick knew the Pope's status better than anyone else, especially since his father once held this honorable crown and he had enjoyed the authority of the Pope's son, so he saw it more deeply.
...Despicable bastard, Redrick looked at Raphael grimly and cursed him viciously in his heart. He seized the glory and power that did not belong to him. Even if Julius was deceived by him now, it was only temporary. One day he would spit out all these things and return to the mud in the slums, and his terrible past would rot together.
Raphael suddenly glanced at him with a cold look. Redrick was startled and felt like he was seen through. However, Raphael quickly looked away and continued to look ahead: "Got it, you can go down."
His tone was very calm, but precisely because of its calmness, Redrick's anger suddenly rose up - no one had ever spoken to him like this!
However, he didn't say anything in the end. Not only did he not curse or mock Raphael like before, he didn't even say a word of complaint.
It seems that the repeated rejections and indifference have made the arrogant Duke subconsciously feel awe towards Raphael, although even he himself has not yet realized this subtle mentality.
Just like training a dog, if it is scolded enough times, even the most vicious dog will still respect its owner.
Raphael's mouth curled up silently.
Julius turned his eyes away and stared at Redrick who had obediently retreated for two seconds. There was no emotion in his cold eyes behind his glasses as he watched his blood nephew walk away.
"His last name is Portia." Amid the noisy cheers, the head of Portia's family whispered a reminder.
Raphael smiled nonchalantly: "I'm just teaching him to have the necessary respect."
Having said these words, he released Julius's hand and sat down alone on the papal throne.
Julius's hands were empty, and the warmth was mercilessly withdrawn. He couldn't help but frown and swallowed the words he was about to say. ┆
He just wanted to say that the people of Rederick's mother's family would not be happy to see the relationship between Rederick and Raphael improve, no matter what the reconciliation was. They still held on to the dream of letting Rederick inherit the position of Saint Vitalian III, although Julius knew very well that this was impossible. However, there were always more fools in the world.
The Secretary General of the Papal Palace was very busy and could not rest even during the celebration. Julius was soon called to another place, and a well-dressed middle-aged man came to Raphael's seat at the right time.
"Holy Father," he bowed deeply to Raphael, and when he raised his head again, there were even tears of excitement in his eyes, "Oh my God, I can finally meet you. I heard the news of your coronation in Besancon, and I wanted to grow wings and fly to you to swear my loyalty, but... please forgive me, the people of Besancon cannot live without me, and my city is really poor. I can't even offer you a generous enough gift..."
He took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes in a pretentious manner.
Raphael watched his performance patiently with a smile, and replied graciously: "I forgive."
"Thank you very much, merciful Holy Father. Your glory is supreme, and your mercy makes it impossible for me to lie against my conscience... Oh, God, I really shouldn't say this, but if you are hurt in the slightest, and this hurt is due to my concealment, then I will be punished by God in the future for my hesitation today."
Raphael's smile grew wider in his heart, but his face still showed a vigilant look that was appropriate for the situation: "Lord Besancon, what do you mean by this?"
Besancon seemed to want to pour out everything he was about to say to Raphael, but for the sake of the completeness of the performance, he still reluctantly finished speaking about his rich and tortuous inner thoughts, even though in Raphael's opinion his eagerness could not be concealed.
"It's Portia. I think you should understand." Besancon gave a knowing look to the "puppet pope controlled by Portia". Sure enough, as he expected, the pope's smile disappeared when he mentioned this surname. "This ambitious family has cut off the way for us, the pious lords, to pledge allegiance to you. Alas, you may not know that we originally wanted to do our best to send enough gifts for your coronation, but Portia stopped us. They seemed to think that Portia needed the funds more than the Papal Palace."
Besancon revealed the secret unscrupulously, and at the same time he watched with pleasure as the Pope's face became increasingly ugly, and the joy in his heart was about to burst out.
Yes, that’s right. Let’s break up with Portia as soon as possible. No matter who suffers, the lords will be the winners.
As for this clumsy lie...
This is not really a lie, just a little bit of artistic processing, and Portia is not so clean to begin with.
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