Chapter 40 Jadeite Gem (11)
◎Price and the Grand Court◎
After watching the Pope's back disappear at the end of the corridor, Ferrante stood there for a while and then returned to the reception room.
The lord was still kneeling on the ground, looking at the stack of blank papers. Cold sweat had already flowed down his neck, wetting his expensive silk shirt. He kept pulling at the collar that was stuck to his skin with his hands, and his uneasy eyes wandered around the room.
He knew very well what the Pope wanted. Things with a clear price tag often have room for bargaining. The most terrifying thing in the world is a blank contract. No one knew what would be written on it, and he was the one who was forced to sign his name on a blank contract.
When Ferrante walked into the room, the lord immediately looked at him for help, but his gaze lasted less than a second before he quickly looked away - he remembered who the handsome young man in front of him was, and that this young man had played a major role in their current situation.
But he didn't dare show any emotion.
Ferrante stood not far in front of him, looking at him quietly.
Feeling the pressure of the gaze, the lord reluctantly picked up the feather pen, and a white hand holding a crystal ink bottle appeared beside him at the right time.
"Your favorite Gem brand ink bottle. Of course, the ink is also specially customized for you, and your most commonly used laurel leaves are added to it." There was a smile in the boy's voice, and the content was considerate to the extreme, but the lord could not laugh at all.
Not only was he unable to laugh, his face began to twitch uncontrollably and his eyes widened as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. In his eyes, the handsome black-haired boy looked like a living devil.
Isn't it the devil? No one can remain indifferent when hearing their private habits and preferences being dissected so clearly. This is a threat!
He swallowed, and shakily wrote down the list of his assets on the paper with a pen dipped in ink.
Line after line of words appeared on the paper. The wealth that was brewing the blood, tears and suffering of countless poor people was revealed on a thin piece of parchment. Ferrante watched without changing his expression, as if he was just a servant who came to serve the lord in writing. However, the sense of oppression he gave people just now was too strong, so strong that the lord did not even dare to stop writing until he shouted to stop.
Finally, he unfolded the paper covered with words and looked at Ferrante timidly. But when he raised his head, he met the boy's sea-blue eyes.
There were deep holes in those eyes, so dark inside that they seemed to be able to suck in a person's soul.
“Have you finished writing?” Ferrante asked politely.
"Yes... yes." The lord replied stutteringly.
Ferrante laughed. “Have you finished writing?”
He repeated the question, this time with a different tone.
Hot sweat slid down his back, and the lord's breathing became heavy. He gritted his teeth and said, "Yes."
Ferrante still kept that smile, just staring at him steadily, then stretched out his tone, chewing each word slowly, and asked again: "Have you finished writing?"
The lord threw his quill away in despair: "Is Sistine I crazy? Does he want to take away all our property? This is impossible! He is dreaming!"
Ferrante was not angry, but rather too calm. He stood up and took out a new quill from the desk drawer - the drawer was filled with countless pens and papers, and it seemed that he was well prepared.
He respectfully but firmly pressed the pen into the lord's trembling fingers, leaned closer to the fat, sweaty face, smiled, and said word by word: "Have you finished writing?"
This mechanical question was more frightening than any threats or inducements. The obese lord glared at Ferrante fiercely, with bloodshot eyes. With extreme malice, he slapped the feather pen in Ferrante's hand and said with great satisfaction: "I have given you more than enough!"
He held up the paper and thrust it in front of Ferrante. “You’ve never seen so much wealth in your life, have you? The dead pariahs will only need a few gold florins to settle the matter, and the rest will all go into the pocket of Sistine I. Even the most greedy hyena should know when to stop!”
Ferrante, who had been showing no emotion until now, suddenly raised his eyes, and his blue eyes were as gloomy as a storm at sea.
"You came here of your own free will," he said, but when he spoke, he spoke irrelevant words. "Your servants and attendants can testify that you ordered them to come here to see the Holy Father. No one has bound your hands and feet or your will."
The lord's pleased look froze. He didn't quite understand what Ferrante meant by that.
"And I just need to tell this fact - for example, Mr. Russo, old man? You can start thinking about how to use the remaining assets to gain his forgiveness. I wonder if he has the same patience and tolerance for betrayers as Your Majesty." Ferrante stood up and cast a dark shadow like a crow on the lord.
"No—wait, wait a minute! I, let me think about it!"
As he expected, that little bit of courage quickly leaked out of the lord's body like a cloud. Ferrante sneered indifferently, feeling extremely bored and disgusted. ┆
"I remember that I have a castle..." The sweat on the lord's head hit his arm. Ferrante clicked his tongue lightly, regained his previous gentleness, and leaned close to the other's ear: "Perhaps, you have also forgotten the vineyard that your youngest son loves very much? And the jewelry apartment where your lover lives?"
His voice was like the hissing of a poisonous snake, completely destroying the shaky last line of defense in the lord's heart.
Ferrante left the reception room in a refreshed mood, holding a stack of signed lists of asset donations. All that was left on the carpet was a pauper with a dull expression and pale face - his only assets were the carriage outside the door and the clothes on his body.
This silent storm finally stopped after sweeping away all the assets of the seven lords. The seven lords who had bought their lives from the Pope at an unprecedented high price began to live a secluded life again. They could finally sleep well, but the upcoming liquidation of their assets made them anxious again. However, these worries had to be put aside for now as they were eagerly looking forward to hearing the date of old Russo's death.
As allies who had once attempted to assassinate the Pope, they were originally the most steadfast allies in the world. However, just as they had done when planning the crime, once the crime was exposed, their first reaction was to spare no effort to use dirty means to get away with it.
After receiving pardon from Sistine I, the only thing they had to worry about was their former allies. Old Russo was not a good man who would let a traitor go. Compared to Sistine I who was still willing to negotiate, the old man who made his fortune as a pirate and killed people was more willing to drag everyone to hell.
They prayed day and night that old Russo would be hanged as soon as possible. Only in this way could they truly get their final peace.
A few days of anxiety passed like this, and on an ordinary morning - of course, this is not recorded in history books - dozens of simple carriages drove out of the gate of the Papal Palace at the same time, and scattered in all directions into every corner of Florence. These carriages were driven by black-robed monks in simple robes, with golden belts symbolizing the Pope around their waists and thorn branches in their hands. Everyone was as silent and solemn as a mural walking out of a monastery, with most of their heads and faces covered by large hoods, and a unique gloomy and bloody smell lingering around them.
This group of monks in unique attire entered the vision of the people of Florence for the first time. This was also the first time that the Holy Arbitration Bureau directly under Pope St. Sistine I appeared in front of the world. But soon, this group of monks with the title of "Pope's Crows" would step onto the stage of history. Under the baton of the Pope, they would set off a series of storms that would sweep the world and push their monarch to the pinnacle of the world.
The carriages stopped in front of a number of richly decorated manors. The black-robed monks placed their hands holding the thorn branches on their chests, knocked on the manor gates with their other hands, and politely gave the same invitation to those who answered the door.
"By order of the glorious Holy Father, the glorious God's spokesman on earth, His Holiness Saint Sistine I, I come to invite you to participate in the opening of the Grand Tribunal's trial on the Florence plague case."
Countless people boarded the simple carriage with anxiety and joy. Of course, there were also a few people who were half-carried and half-dragged onto the carriage with their limp bodies.
As the carriage was on its way to its destination, the largest bronze bell in Florence atop the bell tower of the Papal Palace rang loudly. Members of the security team shook their small hand bells and traveled through the streets and alleys, spreading the news that the Grand Court was about to open to every corner. Just like the ceremony of the Pope's coronation that year, countless people began to pour into the streets, but the difference was that most people had no smiles on their faces.
The Grand Tribunal of Florence was built on the side of the Cathedral of the Holy Thorn. Although this institution in charge of law and justice nominally possessed the highest judicial power, it had never been taken seriously in Florence because divine authority transcended everything here, and even worldly laws had to give way to the glory of God.
So when everyone learned that the Pope was determined to have the plague case tried in the Grand Court, many people began to have doubts in their hearts.
Leshet led the members of the Knights Templar to escort the Pope's carriage to the Grand Court. In front of the solemn building that imitated the ancient Roman style, a dense crowd of people had gathered. Most of them were ragged, with depressed and gloomy expressions. They stared at the passing carriages, as if they wanted to see through the walls of the carriages to see the nobles inside.
Only when they saw the golden carriage belonging to the Pope, hope appeared on their faces, and they raised their hands and cheered towards it.
The carriage did not stop in front of the crowd, but drove along the driveway into the iron gate and finally stopped in front of the marble steps. Leshert got off the horse and raised his hand to help the young Pope get out of the car. As soon as those hands touched his palms, a vague thought flashed through the knight's mind: It's so cold, is there any disease in His Majesty's body?
The Pope stepped down from the carriage, put one hand on the knight's forearm, and followed the knight's strength. When he passed the aisle specially enclosed by velvet curtains for the Pope to walk, he heard the knight ask softly: "Your Majesty, why do you want to hold the trial in the Grand Court?"
Raphael walked without looking around. The shadows on the wall caused by years of oil lamps were covered with velvet curtains. The gas lamps illuminated this expensive road, and the gold threads pressed on the cloth refracted a faint light. The deacons were far behind them.
"Are you curious why I don't use the Pope's power of adjudication?" Raphael said.
Lesherte hesitated for a moment, but finally admitted: "Yes, as the Pope of Florence..."
"As Pope, I should always put my identity as God's spokesperson on earth first, and judge and arbitrate as God." Raphael said what Leshert wanted to express.
The upright and reserved knight was stunned for a moment, sensing that His Majesty seemed to be in a bad mood. He didn't understand what was going on, but the tolerance and gentleness that he had learned from following the chivalric code for a long time still made him apologize instinctively: "I'm sorry that my question offended you."
"No, you didn't offend me." Raphael looked even worse. The corners of his mouth slightly turned down, like a beautiful long-haired cat with a bad temper. For the Pope who always had to smile, this change in expression already represented the extent of his bad mood. "I just thought that if even you think so, then Florence probably has the same idea."
He paused, then said: "I hope that the judgment they receive comes from those who have truly suffered devastating damage in the disaster. The law represents the will of the people. They must know that they are judged because they have committed crimes that need to be repented, not because God has sentenced them to be guilty."
Leshert was stunned for a moment.
The leader of the Knights Templar, who served God devoutly, was distracted for a moment.
The will of the people?
This is an incredible word.
Just like the philosophers in ancient Rome who discussed ideas loudly in the scholastics, they initiated the earliest sprouts of human civilization. They talked about the relationship between monarchs and the people, and the path of history and art. They created words such as "the will of the people" and "divine authority", defined them, and finally let these rich things be passed on to this era.
Of course, Leshert had read those obscure works, and he knew very well what Raphael meant. Because of this, he felt a shock rising from the depths of his soul, mixed with unfamiliar doubts, explorations and vigilance.
He suddenly found it very interesting.
Inside the Grand Court was a wide circular space, with seats arranged in tiers all around, modeled after the layout of the ancient Roman Colosseum, so that every distinguished guest could see the people on the bench clearly. Of course, there would be a special seat above all others for the most honorable. The courtroom was now as lively as a May Day fair, with dignitaries talking and conversing loudly with the inferiors they despised the most, or making gestures through the guards who were there to maintain order.
Judges holding the scales of justice and the gavel symbolizing fairness entered one after another from the side door. They were all wearing loose black robes, silver wigs, and golden holy emblems of Florence on their chests. They had long been excluded from the Florence trial system, but their faces were flushed with joy, and even their hunched backs were straightened with pride. They walked up to the bench in an arrogant manner and looked around.
Those who were immersed in the power field of Florence and had been on the margins for many years knew very well that this trial was not just a simple trial, but might also mean a redistribution of power among the various institutions under the Pope. The judiciary would once again have a little status under the thorny staff of theocracy, which would be a huge change like a storm for Florence, which had a single power system.
Not to mention the sheer scope of the trial, the high profile of the criminals, the sheer number of victims – this will be a historic trial that will go down in history.
A few clear bells rang out, and the bailiff in court uniform stood at the door and shouted loudly: "Ladies and gentlemen, the court is about to begin. Please keep quiet!"
The noisy meeting place gradually quieted down. People found their seats and sat down close to each other, craning their necks to stare at the center of the courtroom.
The side door opened and a group of twelve people walked into the court. They were twelve long-term citizens of Florence selected arbitrarily by the Pope. The citizen jury composed of them would have the power to question any procedure of the court and to affirm or deny the final verdict.
Most of them were ragged and haggard, obviously from the lower town. Led by the bailiffs, they sat in the jury seats silently and numbly, like a group of solid and silent sculptures.
"Why are there so many poor people from the downtown area..." someone in the audience muttered.
A low and long horn sounded, and the side door on the other side opened again. "Saint Sistine I has arrived!" The bailiff's high-pitched voice sounded again.
There was a rustling sound in the hall, people's clothes rustled, and everyone stood up and looked at the open side door.
The blond-haired and blue-eyed knight appeared at the door first. After looking around the hall, he turned sideways and bent slightly. The young and handsome Pope arrived as expected. He was still wearing a light golden surplice, his snow-white robe dragging on the marble floor, his long hair tied behind his head, and a simple ring-shaped crown on his head.
People bowed to the Pope, the women's long skirts swept across the ground, and the men's sleeves rubbed against their clothes, making rustling sounds like spring silkworms.
The Pope calmly accepted the ceremony, then nodded to them, and under the gaze of the people, he walked through the crowd and sat down on the seat specially set up for him. A half-rolled curtain fell in front of him, blocking the view of him from the people below, and then people sat down one after another.
The Florentine Chancellor was the only one standing.
He cleared his throat, picked up a long roll of parchment, bowed to the Pope again, and began to read the lengthy opening remarks.
While the Chief Justice was reading these boring sentences, the door of the courtroom was closed and the square in front of the door was filled with people who were eagerly waiting to hear a few words.
Several members of the security team came over carrying huge logs and started hammering on them.
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