Chapter 80: Golden Ouroboros (Part 28)
◎Visitors from afar◎
Raphael pulled a book from the bookshelf and flipped through two pages while standing on the ladder. Various patterns were drawn on the yellowed pages with black ink extracted from the ink sacs of octopuses. This was an atlas recording rare flowers and plants. It was very interesting as an entertainment and popular science reading, and it was also an enlightenment textbook for aristocrats to teach their children how to identify poisons.
Raphael did not really grow up in an aristocratic family, so he lacked these systematic aristocratic education. After being taken back by Delacroix, they had urgently tutored him in such courses. He was able to master basically all the courses in a very short time, except for some projects that required physical coordination. For example, until now, his equestrian courses are still teetering on the edge of failing.
At such times he was thankful that the Pope's job was just to stand - or sit - and act as a perfect idol, rather than to hold hunting parties to promote personal prowess like a king.
He placed the book in the small basket at hand and reached for the next book again.
The book was very heavy. When he pulled it out by grasping its spine, he had to lean his body toward the side. His legs, which had just recovered from a serious illness, and his delicate knees protested unexpectedly. Before Raphael could let go, he fell off the ladder with the book, and the pile of books stacked on one side fell to the ground with a crash.
Fortunately, the room was covered with soft and thick carpets, so this height would not cause any harm. Raphael sat on the ground, quietly waiting for the needle-like pain to pass, and his eyes met with a box in the corner.
He remembered.
This is what Cardinal Tandoler left behind. The notebook records the greatest sin of the dead man's life, as well as the written evidence of Pope Delacroix's murder by Pope Laf XI.
Raphael suddenly blinked, and he remembered that there seemed to be something in the box that he didn't open last time.
It was a very leisurely afternoon. The young Pope sat casually on the carpet with a laziness that was not in keeping with his status. He reached out from under the table, pulled out the small wooden box, and opened it.
Lying quietly inside was the cowhide notebook he had read, two old letters, and a parchment scroll at the bottom.
This parchment scroll is only as long as an adult woman's palm. It is thin and as thick as a finger, and is tied with a castor rope soaked in medicine.
When tying the things, the potion on the hemp rope may not have completely dried up, and the green potion left irregular marks on the parchment. The two were tightly stuck together. Raphael used extraordinary patience and meticulousness to peel off the inseparable rope and paper bit by bit. The dry hemp rope made a rustling crisp sound when it was peeled off, and the fine drug powder fell on his fingers like a thin layer of sparkling diamonds.
The hemp rope that had been doing its job fell to the ground.
Raphael carefully opened the parchment scroll. The words on it were a little blurred and the handwriting was flowing. One could tell at a glance that the person who wrote them was at a very energetic age.
The Pope's lavender eyes paused on the words, and his casual look slowly solidified.
Some people have praised Pope Sistine I's eyes as the most precious treasure of the Holy Lord. Legend has it that the purest aquamarine will emit a dazzling lavender glow under a certain kind of light and special cross-section. The color is extremely gorgeous and dreamy. Even the most demanding painters cannot resist this top color. It is this rare and precious color that constitutes the main color of the Pope's pupils.
His eyes were a sea of fog that no one had ever set foot on. Only at dawn and dusk would a purple halo appear in their eyes. They were more transparent and clear than the purest gems. No one had ever seen them shattered, just as their owner possessed the strongest soul in the world. So when they completely collapsed, the scene was like the eternally glorious heaven falling from the sky, the high towers of glass and crystal crumbling into dust, and the virgins holding torches guided the world-destroying flood to engulf the earth. The ultimate brilliance and glory ushered in the ultimate destruction.
He fell apart in a deserted place, mocked and ridiculed by fate.
The handwriting on the parchment was both familiar and unfamiliar. It was familiar because he had seen the queen's handwriting more than once in the official documents exchanged with Roman. It was unfamiliar because after being tempered by a long period of time, the words on the paper were still bold.
This is a will that has never been made public. It comes from an ordinary day twenty-five years ago, and it seems to carry the breath of the Assyrian freedom wind.
"I, Amenra Sargon, daughter of King Zhenga and Queen Hush, Princess Gonda, made this will in the year 460 of the Assyrian calendar. If I die unexpectedly without any other will, my personal property and all titles will be inherited by Raphael, the eldest son (daughter) of me and Delacroix..."
One day twenty-five years ago, Amenra, who was still a princess, made all the necessary preparations for this unpredictable birth. She wrote this will and sent it to Delacroix in Florence, making all the arrangements for her unborn child.
If she died in childbirth, Raphael would be her only child and inherit everything she had in Assyria, with the child's father as his support.
At the end of the scroll, Raphael saw Delacroix's yellowed signature and the signature of Cardinal Tandollet, the notary.
The young Pope grasped the parchment and for the first time felt the sense of loss and despair.
His mother... the rumored prostitute who cruelly abandoned him, is Queen Amenra? !
But how is this possible? !
Raphael's emotions were trying their best to deny this fact that was enough to destroy his cognition, but his reason, which was calmer than his emotions, had already begun to think about the truth of it.
The mother whom he hated, missed and cared about, the one who left surging seas and Assyrian nursery rhymes in his memory... was Queen Amenra?
Raphael tried hard to dig out his memory of his time with Amenra - this was easy because they had met so few times. No matter how hard he tried to recall, it was only that one time in the Roman Palace. As for their previous life, they had never met at all.
Does she know he is her child?
This is an undoubted question.
But so what?
Raphael stared at the sharp and flowing handwriting on the parchment, thinking bitterly in his heart, even if she knew... all their interactions so far were only that one meeting.
Raphael has no experience of getting along with his mother. All his longing and concept of his mother comes from the long-dead Leah. That woman fills the gap between Amenra and his mother.
The void in his life gave him all the perceptions of older women at the beginning of his life: warm, soft, without any edges, plump and fragile, like full fruits filled with sweet juice, silently providing the most appropriate care.
But Yamanla is a completely different being.
Raphael dug up his memories of the Queen from the several times they met.
She was a person completely different from the universal concept of "mother" in the world's mind. She was not soft or fragile at all. She was harder and more resolute than most men. Her azure blue eyes were like gems condensed from the ocean. They were filled not with flowers and feathers, but with whistling winds and raging rainstorms. She walked on the road of moving forward, splitting the road that spanned the sky and the earth, digging her roots deep into the soil, and embracing the vast territory.
If she were a mother, her child would be the happiest and most miserable person in the world.
But he had never imagined for a day that she would be his mother.
This is impossible. How could this be possible?
Raphael sat on the ground in a daze under this huge impact, and did not even hear the hurried footsteps coming from outside the door.
Ferrante hurried through the corridors of the Papal Palace, his billowing black robe like the spread wings of a raven. The head of the Arbitration Bureau was rarely so serious. The nuns and monks nodded slightly to him from a distance, retreated to the sides of the road, and watched this great man sweep through the corridors like a gust of wind and rush into the Pope's private area.
The two guards guarding the door looked at him in surprise. Ferrante strode past them and said, "Your Majesty is in there? No one is allowed to come in."
The heavy and gorgeous door was closed tightly, blocking out all sounds and sights from the outside world.
“Holy Father,” Ferrante found the pope in the reading room.
The other person was sitting in a mess, with books scattered around him and a ladder leaning against the bookcase at an angle. Ferrante understood what had happened at a glance, and immediately threw away the things that had been weighing on his mind and rushed over in a panic.
"How are you? Where did you fall? Are you hurt? Let me see--" He helped the Pope up from the ground, placed him on a chair, lifted his clothes to check his legs, and gently pressed Raphael's chest, abdomen, waist and back to check for any hidden injuries. After a series of actions, he realized belatedly that the Pope's mind was not focused at the moment.
There was no trace of him in those lavender eyes.
Ferrante realized something and turned his gaze to the parchment that the Holy See was holding tightly in his hand.
But before he could see the words on it, the Pope seemed to finally wake up from his dream, and his first reaction was to lower his hand, covering the entire contents of the parchment.
"...Is there something wrong?" Raphael tried to raise his voice, trying to make himself look no different from usual, but his efforts were obviously in vain.
Ferrante looked at him for two seconds, with a hint of worry in his eyes, but in response to the Pope's question, he still told him the news he had just received.
"The Assyrian queen's lady-in-waiting has come to Florence secretly and wants to see you."
When Ferrante thought of the woman waiting outside, he couldn't help but frown slightly, and a trace of worry flashed through his heart.
To his surprise, Raphael did not ask any more questions. It seemed that when he heard the word "Queen of Assyria", he had already recognized the strange woman he had never met.
"Let her in, alone."
Ferrante looked at Raphael in surprise and wanted to say something, but the Pope had already lowered his head, and his long light blond hair covered the side of his face, making it difficult for Ferrante to see his face clearly.
The arrival of the Assyrian queen's personal attendant at this time was a very sensitive matter. She tried her best to hide her identity and whereabouts along the way, and no one knew she had come to the Papal States. Ferrante brought her from the secret passage, and after making sure that she had no weapons, he obeyed the Pope's order and stood guard outside the door.
Ashur took off the wide hood of her cloak. After the long journey day and night, the woman's cheeks were deeply sunken, her skin was dark yellow and showed fatigue, her hair was full of dust, and the hem of her long skirt, which was convenient for movement, was covered with traces of mud and dried by wind.
The weary traveler stood on the Pope's luxurious carpet, standing in the place of his dead mistress, gazing at her child.
She was going to bring bad news to this child who had never had a mother's care. Thinking of this, even Ashur, who was always cold, couldn't help feeling melancholy and sad.
But she soon discovered that perhaps she didn't need to say anything at all, because blood and soul had already told the other party everything.
The monarch of the kingdom of God on earth was sitting on a chair behind the table, holding a roll of old parchment in his hand. He looked familiar. He had been looking at her quietly since she came in. His unique and beautiful lavender eyes were brighter than gems. The shape of his eyes was very similar to Amenra's. When he was staring at her like this, Ashur almost felt as if her monarch was looking at her like he had done countless times before.
"Ah... come here," Raphael murmured softly, "You came here, what do you want to tell me?"
Ashur didn't say anything, and Raphael didn't ask any more questions.
At that moment, they all understood the extreme sorrow that could not be expressed in words.
At this moment, no one seemed to wonder why the Assyrian Queen's lady-in-waiting came to Florence in the first place. Ashur suddenly remembered why the parchment in the Pope's hand looked so familiar... Twenty-five years ago, she witnessed her sister writing the will with her own eyes, and she even personally handed the parchment to the messenger to send it to Florence.
So you know that, right?
"She..." Raphael moved his lips and looked at Ashur calmly.
The visitor was covered in dust, and her skirt was covered with traces of travel. When she lifted her cloak, she saw dried black bloodstains on her sleeves and chest.
Whose blood is that? Why did she abandon her master and come here?
Raphael didn't say anything else. Ashur looked at the eyes that looked like her mother's and tears slowly and quietly fell from them.
A transparent teardrop fell from the corner of the eye, like a gem shattering in mid-air.
Raphael lowered his eyes blankly, as if he didn't understand why he suddenly started crying. His emotions took control of his body before his reason. His doubts at this moment were almost childish, like an innocent child surprised at his uncontrollable emotions. He slowly touched his eyes, stroking the wet marks on his fingertips, and tilted his head in confusion.
"What?" he said to himself.
However, in Ashur's eyes, this young man who seemed to have suddenly returned to his ignorant childhood had a heavy rain of grief in his eyes. The surging tears broke through the shackles of his crumbling reason and rushed out of his eyes. There was still a confused expression on his face. This extreme contrast had a breathtaking power, and Ashur, who had been expressionless since he saw the queen's body, trembled all over.
What she saw was not the Pope crying, but the crying of a child after knowing that he had lost his mother forever.
Ashur lowered her head, but she still needed to complete her mission.
"Your Majesty, your mother, Her Majesty Queen Amenra of Assyria, was pursued by the enemy and attacked from behind by an assassin on June 14th, and died in battle one hundred miles north of Saint Sandin Manor in the Assyrian Plain." The woman's voice was dry and cold, like ice and snow.
"In accordance with her instructions before her death, I have come to inform you of her will."
The author has something to say:
Raphael's crying now is not because he loves Amenra so much, but simply because a child without a mother suddenly finds out that he has a mother and then his mother is gone... This is too much of a shock, especially for Raphael who has always cared about this matter, it is simply a series of critical blows.
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