Chapter 95 Hope Blue Diamond (XII)
◎Cauldron terrestris◎
When Ashur was brought into the Papal Palace again, she did not take the same secret passage as last time. Ferrante took her in openly through the main gate, along the Grand Gallery and through the reception hall. Since the relationship between the Pope and Ashur was disclosed, there were people waiting in the reception hall every moment to see His Majesty.
Most of them are envoys from weak small countries near the Papal States. They dare not miss any move of the Papal States and try to impose their own attitude on His Majesty - war or peace. Although they know very well that their views will not have any impact on the Pope at all, but, what if? It would be good to get even a little new information from the Papal Palace.
With this mentality, these envoys with important tasks sat in the reception hall all day long, drinking the fine tea provided by the Papal Palace - if requested, they could ask the waiters to replace the tea with red wine; when they were hungry, they would eat snacks. The snacks in the Papal Palace have always been generous. Even if they were used to entertain guests, they would put a lot of expensive honey in them. Some envoys could not use honey so luxuriously even in their own territory; when they were tired, they could ask the waiters to provide a room for temporary rest.
In short, they will stay here until the Pope receives them.
As for when the Pope will receive them? ■
This is a vague unknown.
Raphael wasn't short of that little bit of money anyway. He would rather keep them in the Papal Palace and provide them with good food and drink than let them go out and spread nonsense rumors.
When Ashur passed by them, these messengers were sitting comfortably in their armchairs, kicking their feet up, holding cigars in their hands, and discussing with each other the value of an antique pocket watch from the "ancient Roman period". A middle-aged gentleman had the bottom few buttons of his shirt undone. He had one hand in his shirt, and was composing a difficult fugue with his chest out and stomach in. Ashur swore that he did not hear the "H" sound in his fugue throughout the whole process, which made his fugue sound full of romantic flavor.
When Ashur was led through the reception hall, these seemingly idle messengers stopped what they were doing, like roe deer smelling the scent of a stranger, and observed the strange woman with what they thought was an indifferent perspective.
They soon discovered the identity of the visitor, after all, Ashur had been almost inseparable from Queen Amenra.
They were keenly aware that the appearance of Ashur must mean that something important was about to happen. Was this thing related to Assyria? Or is it related to Roman? However, just like countless times before, they were unable to pry any information out of the dumb waiters around them.
Led by Ferrante, Ashur deliberately walked around the reception hall and then walked out of the empty reception room. Ashur raised her eyebrows when she saw that there was no one in the reception room. When Ferrante seemed to be going through the reception room again, she couldn't help but secretly test this man who was covered in a black monk's robe and had a faint smell of blood: "It looks like I'm participating in a parade."
Ferrante didn't want to talk, but out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Ashur's hands folded into his wide sleeves. It looked as if they were going to start a Mortal Kombat if he couldn't give her a satisfactory answer.
Ferrante once again deepened his impression of the queen's lady-in-waiting. How to say it, from this we can see that the queen has an overly tough and aggressive character.
"The Holy Father is being treated by a doctor and is unable to get out of bed, so we are going to his bedroom," Ferrante stated bluntly.
Ashur was stunned for a moment, then asked anxiously: "What's wrong with him? Is he sick?"
Ferrante paused and said, "I'm sorry, I can't tell you about His Majesty's physical condition. This is confidential. You can ask him in person."
As he spoke, he suddenly had an idea, and his face showed some implicit struggles. Finally, he suggested: "But His Majesty's sleep is not very good. I think as the Queen's lady-in-waiting, maybe you can make him feel better?"
Ashur didn't know what she heard from these two sentences. She looked a little worried and didn't say a word for the second half of the journey. Ferrante took her to stop outside the Pope's bedroom. The two guards standing guard at the door nodded to him and moved the crossed spears in their hands.
"Come in, ma'am." Ferrante pushed open the door and turned sideways to motion Ashur to come in.
There was a fireplace in the bedroom, and a decorative archway separated the inside and outside. The smoke from the golden incense burner slowly rose, weaving unpredictable clouds in the air. Ashur could smell the hypnotic and calming herbal scent in the aroma.
After Ferrante brought her in, he ignored her and went into the inner room first. The ivory-carved four-poster bed curtain was only dropped on one side at the end of the bed, blocking out any noise outside. Ferrante leaned over the person on the bed and reported Ashur's arrival in a low voice.
"Please ask her to come over." An overly pale hand was placed on Ferrante's head, and the director of the Arbitration Bureau, who could not wash off the bloody smell, was gently and slowly pushed out.
Ferrante does not seem to
Not minding the Pope's slightly disrespectful action, he obeyed the other party's action, stood up straight, and cast his eyes on Ashur who was walking over.
The doctors tactfully left and gathered outside to discuss professional issues. The bearded old man who walked at the end frowned and muttered something, but held it back.
"Your Highness." Ashur lowered her head and knelt deeply. Her simple linen dress fell to the ground, and a small pale flame appeared on the carpet woven with gorgeous and luxurious peacock feathers.
She still insisted on calling Raphael "Your Highness". As an Assyrian who had never believed in the faith of the Syracuse Church, she valued his status as the Grand Duke of Assyria more than his status as the monarch of the Church.
Raphael had no objection to the title, being always overly tolerant of such innocuous details.
Rafael patted the back of Ferrante's hand. The man with black curly hair looked at Ashur coldly and silently made way for the bed.
"Please come here and let me see you." Raphael said softly.
Ashur raised his head and was stunned the moment he saw the Pope.
The last time she saw Raphael, the young man was thin but still looked healthy. However, not long after that, the young man lying on the bed looked unhealthy. Only his shining lavender eyes could prove that his will was as strong as ever.
The young man, wrapped in thick down and silk quilt, was leaning on a pile of soft pillows, his long light golden hair, which had not been trimmed for a long time, was casually tied behind his head. In his hand, he held a slender women's pipe, which was very popular in the aristocratic circles. It was made of expensive ivory or gold- and silver-plated fragrant wood, carved with various floral patterns, and decorated with gemstones. Rather than a pipe, it was more like some kind of artwork for appreciation.
Women's pipes are thinner than men's to ensure that ladies can hold it lightly in their palms. The slender and graceful curves of the pipe can lengthen the body lines, allowing ladies to fully show off their graceful and slender necks.
In short, unless one is truly addicted, it is simply an aesthetic tool, like a fan, for self-expression.
The pale and sickly Pope held such a pipe in his hand. The pipe had an ivory white base, as thick as a finger, with winding golden vines entwined around it and flowers inlaid with tiny diamonds and colored gems. Its style carried the luxury of the old century and it was obviously a treasure hidden in the Vatican's treasury.
When he pinched it, for a moment one could not tell which one was more like ivory, his hand or the pipe. The retro decadence, elegance and luxury pulled the Pope, who should have been pure and dignified, from the lofty clouds into the golden paradise of wine and meat. Alcohol corroded his healthy body, giving him pale skin and a blush at the corners of his eyes. People held him up on a throne of silk and petals, and prostrated themselves at his feet, praying for a casual glance from him.
This scene is even more terrifying than "Ashna with Fire". The witch Ashna accepted the devil's temptation, and when the Holy Lord led the poor people across the wilderness, she went forward to illuminate their way with torches. However, the torches in the witch's hands were made of death and plague. She bewitched everyone with her beauty and outstanding talent, and led them to death with poisonous torches, causing the Holy Lord to suffer the most tragic failure since his advent.
Painters of later generations liked to use this story as painting material. They all portrayed this notorious and vicious witch as slender and pale, as a symbol of her identity as the mother of plague. Ashna in all paintings has snow-white and soft skin, bright red lips, and a slender and graceful body. She is breathtakingly beautiful, and the people following her stare at her infatuatedly, as if they saw the bright sky of the promised land.
This extreme contrast subtly overlaps with the Pope at this moment.
Ashur couldn't help but shudder.
Raphael put down his hand that was looking at the pipe and motioned for her to sit on the four-corner stool beside the bed. The thick velvet cushion of the stool was hung with a circle of gem tassels. When Ashur sat down, they swayed and collided, making a crisp sound.
"My doctor suggested that I could use tobacco occasionally to relieve my mood." Seeing that Ashur cared a lot about the pipe, Raphael handed the pipe to her and explained.
"But I noticed that you didn't seem to be feeling well." Ashur hesitated, took the pipe and pointed out this fact.
As she said this, she noticed that the pipe was already filled with tobacco. Unlike the usual tobacco, the tobacco in the pipe was a green color that looked as if it was not fully finished. She frowned slightly and sniffed calmly, making sure that she smelled some kind of analgesic and sedative herb in it.
This herb is very common in Assyria. Injured animals will eat it to relieve pain. Assyrian shamans even use it as the main medicinal ingredient to treat diseases. However, in addition to its strong analgesic effect, it is also highly addictive and hallucinogenic. People who use this drug excessively will become emaciated, suffer memory loss, and even become drowsy, immersed in their own dreams and unable to wake up.
Ashur's expression turned serious.
"Don't worry." Raphael seemed to have seen through her thoughts. Before she could give him advice, he deftly took the pipe back from her hand. "My doctor is more worried about these problems than you are. This is something I will use when I have no other options."
Ashur watched him casually hand the pipe to Ferrante. The man in the monk's robe took it silently and stood in the corner of the room without saying a word. If no one had seen him stand there with their own eyes, no one would have noticed that there was a person in the shadow of the curtain.
"Let's go back to our last topic. I think you have some secrets to tell me."
Raphael folded his hands on the quilt, turned his face to the side, and looked at Ashur with his clear, gem-like lavender eyes, looking surprisingly obedient.
Like a cat waiting to be fed by its owner, Ashur thought vaguely.
This strange sense of déjà vu made the woman relax a little after recognizing the drug. Now was not the time to discuss the herb. She would wait until later...
She thought so and said, "Your Majesty does have something else to give you besides the crown of Assyria."
"Originally, these things should have been handed over to you two years ago. At that time, His Majesty led the army to Assyria. On the way, she mentioned this matter to me, but then the war was urgent and His Majesty had no time to explain the cause and effect, so it was shelved."
Ashur glanced at Raphael and noticed that he was listening to her attentively, which made her relax a little again. She said in a gentler tone: "...This matter dates back to when you were born."
"According to the custom of the Assyrian royal family, when a royal family member is born, he will be given guards personally selected and trained by his elders. You can think of them as death warriors, more...desperate than your knights. They have no family burdens, and don't care about money, wealth, or reputation. The only thing they care about is their master. Assyria learned this system from the distant East. Before you were born, His Majesty also prepared such guards for you."
"In the royal court, they are called caltrops."
Raphael nodded slightly to show that he understood. He didn't have any idea like "this is inhumane". In this dark age when the lives of the poor were worthless, he had heard of similar things more than once. Even in Florence, there were similar things - there were also people among his archbishops who secretly wanted to train their own death squads. If he hadn't chosen Ferrante back then, perhaps Ferrante would have stayed with Cardinal Lombardi and become a dog that the cardinal could call and dismiss at will.
"Where are your Majesty's guards?" Raphael asked an irrelevant question.
Ashur was stunned for a moment. She thought that his first concern should be for her guards, but she still answered: "They accompanied Your Majesty from Assyria to Rome, and they died one after another during their time in Rome."
There was a glimmer of sadness in her eyes.
None of those loyal ladies lived up to their oath, and they all sacrificed their lives for Queen Amenra. When the struggle between the Queen and Raf XI was most intense, the guards around the Queen were killed every day. These secret assassinations were blocked by the iron-clad protection. If not for the loss of so many guards that year, how could the Queen be successfully assassinated on the battlefield?
"Your Majesty originally planned to send them to you after training them, but due to the disappearance of Your Highness, this plan was stopped. Later, Your Highness was found in Florence, and Your Majesty began to reconsider this issue. Due to time constraints, it is impossible to train enough qualified caltrops, so Your Majesty chose more people and a shorter time to send you a small-scale guard."
"But this was rejected by Saint Vitalian III. He did not want you to have such power when you had not yet received a complete education. So they agreed to send them to Florence when you came of age."
Ashur paused here.
Obviously, plans could not keep up with changes. St. Vitalian III died before Raphael turned eighteen, and the queen at the time was trapped in the Roman court and had no time to take care of herself, so the plan was shelved again.
"No, Your Majesty never intended to listen to the advice of Saint Vitalian III." Ashur saw what Raphael was thinking and simply denied it. "These people came to Florence one after another in 1073 of the Catholic calendar. Before you came of age, they were controlled by Saint Vitalian III, but they did not accept his orders, and only occasionally assisted him in some affairs - their master was always you. But then the Pope was murdered and you were exiled. At that time, as the Pope's former secretary, you were the target of public criticism in Florence. Your Majesty ordered them to enter a dormant period until they received the awakening order."
"...She hopes that you will grow up to be a qualified monarch. Otherwise, they will not appear in front of you and will only protect you secretly. Sometimes, having this power is not a completely lucky thing. She is afraid that what she encountered in the Roman Palace will happen to you again."
Ashur said softly: "She was very hesitant. After you ascended the throne of the Pope, if you became a puppet Pope like Ryan VI, this power would only kill you."
Raphael's fingers twitched.
Is this why he didn't get any news about these people in his previous life?
Indeed, he was once a puppet pope protected by Julius in a glass case. He naively practiced his own teachings and acted as a bright, knowledgeable and compassionate pope. To outsiders, perhaps he was just a stupid puppet, a character pushed to the front by Julius. Rather than holding this sharp knife in his own hands, it might be better for him to be protected in ignorance.
But he was not protected either.
As soon as the queen died, he was brutally murdered. The murderer might have known the secret relationship between them. After losing the protection of the mother, the weak cub's neck was also broken.
What a reasonable explanation.
"Besides you, who else knows of their existence?" Raphael asked.
Ashur thought for a moment and said, "It's hard to say. We haven't had much communication with Vitalian III. Maybe he has revealed something to the people around him—"
At this point, she suddenly stopped, and after a while, she slowly uttered a name: "Julius Portia."
Raphael suddenly raised his eyelashes.
"...If I have to choose someone who knows the truth, I would choose him. His cousin who has been with Vitalian III from beginning to end, a smart and cruel man. He also accompanied the Pope on the way to the assassination of the Pope - maybe he can detect some signs."
Ashur's voice was like a whisper.
Raphael listened silently, and calmly put his hand under the quilt to hide the purple marks on his palm.
Julius, what a reasonable
guess.
Could it be him?
No, that's still not right. Raphael denied this answer. Maybe he might know something, but he couldn't be the mastermind behind everything. Raphael's death would not do him any good.
"There are seventy-three caltrops in Florence now. Some of them work in the Papal Palace, and some serve as mobile personnel outside. I will give you their list," Ashur added.
"Please don't blame His Majesty for neglecting you over the years," the lady-in-waiting hesitated, then said, "She really has tried her best."
Raphael lowered his eyelids, raised his head after a while, and smiled at Ashur: "I understand, I never blamed her."
After Ashur left, Ferrante, who was hiding in the shadows, walked to the Pope's bedside. Raphael had already sorted out his mood and his expression was flawless. He reached out to him for the pipe and said as usual: "Dr. Polly, have you come to a conclusion? I hope the operation can start as soon as possible - we still have a lot of important things to do."
Ferrante bent down, but this posture was inconvenient for his tall stature, so he simply knelt on the carpet beside the bed, carefully held Raphael's hand, and gently pressed his cheek against his palm.
Raphael was stunned.
This action is very subtle, and only pampered pets, young children, and affectionate couples would make such a move towards their owners, mothers, or lovers.
The relationship between Ferrante and Raphael is not any of the above.
The warm face pressed against his palm, the body temperature of a living person made Raphael feel uncomfortable involuntarily, as if there were fluffy hairs running through his blood vessels, scratching his whole body, but he didn't know where the itch was.
"I swear, I will never betray you." Ferrante said this without thinking.
Raphael looked at him with his eyes downcast. Because of his selfish desire to survive, Ferrante became a man avoided by most people and nobles in the Papal Palace. People secretly called him the Pope's dog. As long as the Pope needed him, he would bite anyone to death. The prison he was in charge of was filled with the smell of blood that could never be washed away. People feared him like a snake or a scorpion, but as he had promised, he always followed Raphael almost devoutly and was willing to show him his red heart anytime and anywhere.
No matter why, no matter whether it is good or evil.
Obviously, he had once most determinedly wanted to find a pure white saint.
At this moment, time seemed to freeze between the two of them. Raphael moved, but did not withdraw his hand. Instead, he gently pinched Ferrante's face with a faint smile in his eyes: "Well, if you don't care if they say you are my dog."
Ferrante narrowed his deep blue eyes slightly and winked at him slyly, a deep voice rolling out of his throat.
"Woof."
The author has something to say:
Am I getting old? My waist hurts so much that I have to twist into a weird position to feel a little more comfortable. My dears, you must protect your waist. [crying cat head]
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