Chapter 65: Golden Ouroboros (XV)
◎Heavy rain◎
The storm swept across the entire Port of Doga. Thick lead-like clouds pressed down on the sky. The rain was heavy and cold, like soft, cold molten iron smashing into all the places it could invade. Everyone in Port of Doga was fleeing in panic, trying to find a hiding place in the shortest time possible to keep out this evil gift from heaven.
The owner of the Anchor Tavern slammed the heavy oak door shut. The dull brass noose creaked and groaned. The bearded owner spat on the ground, cursing the bad weather and the damn brass noose. He jumped away from the crack in the door where rain had leaked in, went to the window, and looked at the dark dock.
The dock is lined with magnificent ships, they are like giants standing tall, sitting safely on the water in such a storm, as if the rough sea is just a mother's gentle cradle, and they are the lazy babies in the cradle. ┆┆
The ships, which seemed to have no end in sight, had all their huge sails furled. Heavy anchors and hinges secured the hulls. Sailors were running wildly on the slippery decks, shouting at the top of their lungs at a short distance from each other, using all the ropes they could grab to secure things that were shaking violently in the storm. It was not an easy job, as every shake of the huge ships was a fatal blow to them. Just the slightest slip would sweep them into the waves of the sea, ending their unfortunate and short lives.
Most of the sailors were shirtless, wearing only tweed trousers with their trouser legs tucked into uniform leather boots, which finally made them look like soldiers. The Roman royal flag had been lowered before the storm came. The vanguard of the expedition was temporarily blocked in the port of Doga by the storm and was waiting for a sunny day to come.
The commander of the vanguard army was also on board. The leading ship was larger than the other ships and looked more stable, but this could not completely prevent the ship from shaking. Everything in the cabin was fixed to the ground and walls with nails or ropes. Even in the most spacious and luxurious cabin, there were no fragile objects to be admired, even though the Queen Mother of Rome, Her Majesty the Queen of Assyria, lived here.
But Amenla didn't care about this.
The Queen changed out of her cumbersome and gorgeous long skirt and wore military-style tight tweed trousers and a short jacket. Her trouser legs were neatly tucked into long leather boots, and her shirt was fastened with a belt. There was no extra jewelry on her body, only a circle of gold stripes on the collar and cuffs of her clothes to prove her noble status.
She was sitting at the desk, the slightly shaking ground prevented her from writing steadily. In fact, she was not in the mood to write at the moment. The continuous heavy rain hit the narrow window, and the noisy sound made the queen very irritable. This irritability even made her not notice someone walked into the room at the first time.
"Your Majesty." The woman who walked in had similar facial features to Amenla, but compared to Amenla's bright and wild appearance, her face was much duller.
"Ashur." Yamanla called out the name of her most trusted female official, her blood-related cousin.
"The experienced old sailor said that this storm will be over before tomorrow afternoon. We can pull the sails fuller and make up for the time we've been stranded in the port for the past few days." Ashur comforted her cousin with clever words.
"Yes, yes, I know. This is not something that can be changed by human power." Amenla did not comment on the female officer's comfort.
"Amen-ra," Ashur, who had accompanied her cousin from Assyria to Rome, softly called out this name that had been covered by various noble titles for a long time. Her voice was soft and hoarse, with unspoken sorrow, "You have done well enough."
Amenla, when the queen heard this familiar yet unfamiliar name, she was in a trance for a moment.
Ever since she left Assyria, no one has called her so intimately and tenderly for so many years. "Amen-ra" is dead, and in her place is the "Queen" in the mouth of Lav XI, the "Your Majesty the Queen" of the Roman subjects, the "Your Majesty the Queen" of the Assyrians, and the "Mother" of Sancha. She is the Majesty of everyone, the crowned one, but not the Amen-ra running on the Assyrian plains.
"My God, how long have I not heard this name?" The queen tried to smile, but the smile disappeared before it could even begin. "No one has called me this since the day I left Assyria."
Ashur looked at her cousin sadly, she knelt down beside Amenla's chair and gently clasped her hands on Amenla's knees, touching the protruding bones under her palms - from the outside, Amenla had a well-proportioned and tall figure, and there was no sign of her thinness under her clothes. A woman who carried two empires on her shoulders was not as easy as she looked. The huge country and the long time almost crushed her, but when she stood in front of people, no one could see her fatigue.
Amenra left Assyria and married to Rome at the age of eighteen. The Assyrian royal bloodline was dying out, so Amenra could only marry with her maternal cousin Ashur. During the long time in Rome, the loyal ladies-in-waiting who had accompanied her to Rome died or dispersed, and only Ashur remained silently by her side.
"I always think of that incident, Ashur, every time it rains." Only when she is with her cousin will Amenra occasionally return to the girl who once rode a horse on the Assyrian plains. "The biggest mistake in my life made me taste the taste of betrayal and loss."
Ashur rubbed her cousin's knees sadly, trying to warm her with the warmth of her palms, but her hands were cold.
No one can warm you.
"It's not your fault," Ashur was like the shadow of Amenra. She seldom spoke in front of others, even to Sangxia. She had little contact with her mother's loyal lady-in-waiting. Only when she accompanied the queen in private would she be like a lively person injected with popularity. "We all know that it's not your fault, and you have made him pay the price."
Yamenla looked at the pouring rain outside the window in silence, and placed his hand on his cousin's hand with an indifferent look: "But that is far from enough. Death cannot make him pay for the crimes he committed, and mistakes... can never be made up for."
Ashur shuddered. The queen's hands were colder than hers, like solid ice that had never melted.
"...Find a suitable opportunity to give the Florence personnel to Raphael. Delacroix probably didn't tell him when he died." Yamenla said.
"Well... it's true that Raphael was still in Florence when Vitalian III was assassinated, but this group of people were following Vitalian III at the time. Maybe Julius Portia also noticed it. He is a very perceptive man." Ashur said softly.
Yamenla sneered silently: "He may know, but he will never say it out. He is a rational and cold-blooded power animal. How could he do something that can increase bargaining chips for the enemy? Trading and negotiation are what we are familiar with."
Ashur didn't say anything, and Amenla also fell silent. The middle-aged sisters looked out the window at the wind and rain. At the end of the ocean was their long-lost hometown, that vast continent, a God-given land with snow-capped mountains, lakes and bonfires that never went out at night.
Similar to the port of Doga thousands of miles away, Florence is also experiencing a rainstorm.
Every dog and rat was fleeing in the heavy rain, trying to find a roof to shelter under. The sewers were backing up, bringing up a strong stench. Suspicious solid objects were floating in the water. Water was entering the pipes transporting gas. Half of the city had returned to the era of lighting with wood and candles a century ago. Of course, the upper city where the nobles lived would never encounter such a situation.
The lights in the Florence Theater were still bright. The heavy rain and cold wind could not invade the magnificent palace. Every two steps on the wall, there were exquisitely carved gas lamps working diligently, decorating the entire theater dazzlingly.
The nobles who arrived here from all directions in carriages stepped in with dignity. Their towering wigs and gorgeous long dresses inlaid with jewels sparkled under the light of the crystal chandeliers. They talked and laughed loudly, exchanging gossip about other people. But someone with sharp eyes saw the back of a figure walking on the corridor on the second floor, covering the lower half of his face with a feather fan: "Is that Lord Portia?"
Her companion looked in the direction of the fan, only to see a shadow disappearing behind the archway. However, seeing the iconic iron-gray hair and tall figure, she nodded without hesitation: "It's Monsignor Portia - why is he here today? His Majesty went back to Florence a few days ago, and he has been staying in the Papal Palace."
"Maybe... His Majesty is here too." The person who spoke was just saying it casually and jokingly. After all, everyone knew that His Majesty seldom went out and never went to crowded places. However, to their surprise, Raphael was sitting in a box on the second floor of the theater at this moment.
The box that belonged exclusively to Julius was very private, with an excellent view, enough to have a panoramic view of the whole audience without being noticed. Raphael sat on the soft chair, staring at the stage in a daze, his mind quickly turning over the reconstruction of the municipal drainage system. Florence's drainage system can be traced back to the Roman period, and it is old enough to be sent to a museum as a treasure, but it is still running with difficulty, which is enough to show how solid the Roman engineering is, and how lazy... and poor the successive rulers of Florence are.
Raphael did not intend to push this mess onto the next pope. While Florence was stable and peaceful, he simply dug up the ground and took good care of the pipes that were about to rot and break. He was able to do this largely because of the rich wealth he had seized from the lords' homes and Julius's strong ability to do things, not to mention that he now had enough manpower.
Speaking of manpower, why not just put Dondole under Julius to help him dig the ground. Even a useless person can do this kind of work. I hope Dondole will not let him down.
Thinking of this, Raphael's thoughts turned to the conversation with Count Dondole that day. On the first day he returned, he was taken to the Dondole Palace by Dondole. The Count did hand him a small box. The seal on it was signed with the name of old Dondole and a wax seal, and also with the name of Vitalian III. The box was very small and had an iron lock on it. It did not look like it had ever been opened.
Tang Doler handed the box to Raphael, but Raphael was very busy these days and had no desire to explore his father's affairs. He threw the box aside without having time to open it.
How about going back and taking a look tonight?
Raphael thought casually and took a sip of the warm wine on the table. The hot wine with cloves, nutmeg and pepper tasted spicy, but it could dispel the coldness in his body caused by the rain. However, Raphael was not used to the overly stimulating taste. After taking a sip, he asked the servants to take the wine away and replace it with a mellower mead.
The door of the box opened, and the person who came in with mead was not a servant, but Julius in a cloak.
The corners of the Secretary-General's cloak were dripping with water, and it was obvious that he had just come in from outside.
He placed the mead on the table next to Raphael, took off his cloak and threw it on the embroidered carpet. The ends of his long iron-gray hair were also wet with moisture, sticking to his skin. He ignored the messy hair, raised his hand to take off his glasses, wiped the water droplets on them with a handkerchief, put the silver-rimmed glasses back on his nose, and sat down on the soft chair.
The movements were natural and smooth, and when he raised his head, a cup of steaming mead was placed in front of him.
Raphael was putting down the wine jug in his hand and leaning back in his chair: "How is the situation in the downtown area?"
Julius didn’t keep the secret and said simply, “It’s terrible.”
He didn't explain in detail what was wrong, but Raphael, who had lived there for a long time, already had a general idea.
"Let Dondoler lead the team to block the sewer first. At least, don't let the lower city be flooded. Clear out the drowned livestock and try to delay the weather until it clears up. Start the construction immediately, and then ask Astasiania to pay attention to the follow-up treatment of the disease. Funds will be drawn from the Pope's Palace first, and then the municipal government will allocate funds..."
Seeing that Raphael was completely immersed in government affairs, Julius' eyes flashed with helplessness: "Raphael, we don't lack this little time, let the actors finish this scene."
Raphael was stunned for a moment, but he finally smiled and visibly relaxed a lot: "Okay."
The young Pope turned his gaze towards the stage where the curtain was slowly opening, and did not see Julius looking at him with complicated eyes.
Emotions surged in those deep purple eyes like the tide of the sea. Even the most brilliant psychologist would not be able to tell what Julius was feeling at the moment.
He just stared at Raphael's profile quietly, just like he did long ago.
The play being performed at the Florence Theater today is still "The Birth of Bacchus". This drama, which has become popular in Florence, is centered in Florence and is sweeping all the cities of the Papal States with its unstoppable momentum. In the city where it was born, the Florence Theater will perform it in its entirety every Thursday night.
Julius didn't know that he would happen to run into its release by chance - he just wanted to pull Raphael out to take a break on a whim.
The Secretary General smiled bitterly.
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