The Reversed Hierophant

Amandra leaned back on the satin-covered chaise lounge, allowing the sunlight to filter through the glass dome and bathe her face. Her honey-colored skin and misty blue eyelids shimmered with a pearlescent glow.

The round table next to the chaise lounge was cluttered with inkwells, parchment, and a teacup that was steaming slightly. When Sancha walked in, lifting her skirt, she saw her mother sleeping tiredly, the golden eagle pendant that never left her chest pressed beneath the lotus-like spread of her sleeve.

It was a rare sight. The Queen of Assyria always seemed full of energy. She steered the helm of the empire with an extraordinary acumen and a tenacity that surpassed that of men. She never revealed her feminine softness on any occasion – unless it would help her gain more benefits. Even the Roman nobles sometimes forgot that she was a woman.

Sancha rarely saw this side of her mother. She held a letter from Florence in her hand, its contents both unbelievable and undeniable. She wanted to ask her mother about it, but upon seeing this scene, she suddenly felt that perhaps there was no need to ask.

The ladies-in-waiting sat far away in the long corridor, maintaining a distance that allowed them to see this side and provide timely service to their mistress, without overhearing the private conversation between the queen and the princess. They either read or chatted idly. The queen was very tolerant of the ladies-in-waiting around her and noble ladies were all vying for the opportunity to serve the queen—of course, even if the queen were cruel and violent, they would still want to do so.

Who would refuse to be near a monarch?

Sancha was dressed in a rose-red riding suit without a complicated and cumbersome farthingale. Pearls and gems were embedded in her skirt that sparkled like sunlight with her every step. Her golden-brown hair and sapphire blue eyes inherited from her mother gave her a unique charm. The young princess, as light as a forest deer, trotted to her mother’s side, examining the queen’s sleeping face for a while, then casually sat down on the floor, leaning against the queen’s legs, waiting for her to wake up.

Her mother didn’t keep her waiting for long.

Amandra awoke from a short, sweet dream. As soon as she opened her eyes, she saw the head with golden-brown hair nestled against her knees. Her usually smooth hair was a bit disheveled from riding, scattered messily on the queen’s golden-red dress. Amandra’s expression still held a trace of the hazy tenderness from her dream. She raised a hand and gently placed it on the long hair, combing it bit by bit.

“Mother?” Sancha moved her neck and changed to a more comfortable leaning position against the queen’s legs. She rested her head on the queen’s thigh, hugging the queen’s waist with one hand, and squinted her eyes comfortably.

“My little angel,” Amandra’s voice was hoarse like fine wine, sounding sweet to the ear. Sancha closed her eyes and smiled. She hadn’t heard this nickname in many years. When she was a toddler, Amandra was in a difficult situation in the palace. To protect her daughter, the queen was almost inseparable from her child.

She fed her daughter with her own hands, sang the wild and long ballads of Assyria to coax her daughter to sleep, and told her daughter about the bits and pieces of her distant homeland. When her daughter was drowsy, she would gently call her ‘my little angel’ and leave her two goodnight kisses on her forehead.

Why two goodnight kisses?

Young Sancha asked her mother in a baby voice.

At that time, the queen, dressed in a corset, farthingale, and an ornate and gorgeous long skirt according to the rules of the Roman court, smiled slightly, her forehead against her daughter’s, as if telling a secret that only they could know, and said in a voice softer than the child’s, “Because two goodnight kisses are a double portion of love from Mommy, my little angel.”

Lav XI did not love his wife, even though his wife brought an Assyrian crown into the marriage with the Roman Empire.

This arrogant man didn’t love his only daughter with Amandra either. For a long time, there was almost no trace of this father in Sancha’s early childhood memories, but she still grew up to be as vibrant and proud as she is now, precisely because Amandra had diligently filled the gaps left by her father, raising her with genuine love.

However, when Sancha grew a few years older, this intimate and sweet address became less frequent. Amandra began to devote more energy to politics. Her teachings to Sancha became strict, even the font she learned had to be personally reviewed and refined stroke by stroke. Such days were not bad, but sometimes Sancha would miss the mother who gently pressed her forehead against hers, gave her two goodnight kisses, and called her ‘my little angel’.

Sancha coquettishly turned her face sideways, pressing her cheek against Amandra’s hand. As a princess, queen, and empress, Amandra’s hands were not as soft and smooth as those of ordinary noblewomen. There were rough calluses on her palms and her knuckles were rough. Although she had been carefully groomed, these marks could not be removed. It was precisely these marks that constantly reminded people of her title as the “Warrior Queen”, who was best at using the Assyrian long sword, cutting off the heads of her enemies on the back of a galloping horse and letting the blood soak into the soil.

Amandra gently stroked her daughter’s cheek, her eyes regaining clarity. The haziness and confusion from being immersed in a dream faded from her face like water. She lowered her head and asked softly, “My little sun, did you have a happy day?” ℟ãƝÓ₿Ɛ𐌔

Sancha’s name means ‘sun’ in the Roman language. She was obviously more accustomed to this nickname that had accompanied her for a long time. She rubbed her cheek against her mother’s hand with a smile, not caring about the rough texture at all. After a moment’s thought, she said, “I received a reply from Florence today.”

Amandra paused her hand mid-stroke.

Of course, Sancha’s correspondence with the Pope couldn’t be hidden from the queen. Even the messengers between Rome and Florence were arranged by the queen on her behalf.

Sancha heard her mother’s unusually gentle voice, “Is that so? What did he say to you?”

Sancha hesitated for a moment before taking out the letter. “What he said is similar to what you told me. He’s obviously about the same age as me, but he’s incredibly wise. It’s just that he mentioned something in the letter that I’m not quite sure about…”

Amandra took the letter and studied it for a long time before reading it word for word. When she finished, she nodded thoughtfully, patted her daughter’s head and said, “Are you asking about the marriage negotiations with Calais?”

Sancha nodded hesitantly.

Amandra looked at her and calmly admitted, “I do have this idea. So, what do you think?”

Sancha replied the moment her mother finished speaking, “I’m willing to marry the Emperor of Calais, but… as Rafael said, this marriage involves Assyria, Rome, and Calais. Might it not upset some people?”

Her decisive answer made Amandra feel relieved. She smiled but also couldn’t help feeling a tinge of sadness. However, she quickly suppressed this complex emotion: “This is inevitable, but we don’t need to care about what they think.”

The queen’s gaze fell on the parchment in her hand as she looked at the long, flowing handwriting. “Assyria needs a powerful ally. The alliance with Rome was a failed attempt. My father failed to restore Assyria to its former peace and it also caused me to be confined to the Roman court. Although I have the crown of Assyria, my throne has always remained in Rome. This is a regret that I cannot let go of, and it is also a shame for Assyria.”

The displacement of the throne may have been an indirect cause of the repeated internal strife and division in Assyria. If even their monarch was not in this land, how could the people live here with peace of mind?

But Amandra had no choice.

Her marriage had been a blatant exchange of interests. The weakened Assyria could not offer her more help, and Rome agreed to send troops to help Assyria quell the rebellion – which they did. Their demand was that before the Assyrian emperor died, Amandra would remain in the Roman court as the Roman queen.

In this way, Assyria’s only heir thus came to Rome. Nominally, she was the queen of Rome and the mother of the people, but in terms of her own situation, she was more like a hostage of Assyria held by Rome.

The loveless marriage was mixed with too much interests, betrayal, shame and hatred. Lav XI held lavish banquets day and night in the palace, bringing his lovers to the king’s suite, which was only a corridor away from the queen’s suite. The women on the king’s bed changed like a revolving lantern, and the queen wasn’t allowed to have any opinions.

She was like a silent lamp, wearing the crown of the queen, sitting on the throne as a ‘symbol of friendship’ between Assyria and Rome.

It wasn’t until Lav XI fell seriously ill that the lurking hyenas saw the ruthless and decisive means beneath the shell of this paper queen. They belatedly remembered that before she came to Rome, she was a warrior princess who wielded a long sword and rode a fierce horse, who led her troops on the frontlines of the Assyrian plains.

But a series of upheavals had tied Amandra’s feet. For various reasons, she needed to control this land of Rome for her daughter. Lav XI’s illegitimate children were as numerous as lice on a bald head. No matter how hard Amandra tried, she couldn’t completely eliminate all those who coveted the throne. The Roman Senate would never agree to let an ‘Assyrian woman’ wear the Roman crown, so she could only suppress them here for a long time in the capacity of queen and regent, and compete with the Senate until they passed a law allowing female heirs to inherit the throne, so that Sancha could successfully take over the Roman crown from her.

To this end, she had to allow Assyria to fall into turmoil again. Obviously, a large part of this turmoil was caused by the Roman nobles. In order to maintain the purity of the Roman throne, they were trying to drive this foreign queen back to her turbulent homeland, along with her daughter.

“I will announce another grand assembly in the second half of the year, and Florence will also make a statement. This time I will promote the amendment of the succession law at all costs. I will invite the Emperor of Calais to come then. If Calais is put on the scale, those stubborn and foolish nobles may change their minds – as long as you and the Emperor of Calais have a child, that child, with the blood of three royal families, will undoubtedly become the sole monarch of the world’s largest empire. No one can resist such a temptation.” Amandra said firmly.

Listening to these arrangements about her marriage and even her future children, the young Sancha looked accustomed to it. Love, sex, and marriage were not things to be avoided or embarrassed about in the palace. Unmarried girls were very familiar with these kinds of talks. People living in the palace were accustomed to viewing love and marriage separately, and distinguishing between the body and the soul. Sancha was no exception. After seeing the marriage between Amandra and Lav XI, she was even more sober than most people.

“But they might not be willing to see Rome being merged..” Sancha thought for a while and raised a question.

Amandra sneered: “That’s a matter for later. Their greedy brains aren’t sophisticated enough to help them struggle out of this vortex. If this empire really takes shape, can you imagine how huge the benefits would be? Titles, wealth, land, power… everything will be reshuffled. They will go crazy for this, and then you will see that there is actually no difference between humans and beasts.”

“In the end, the only people who would refuse this reshuffling are those who are not qualified to be at the table. Those who are sitting at the table, holding their cards… they can’t wait to join this new gamble.”

The queen’s full red lips curved into a sarcastic smile.

Sancha skipped over this question: “Then, the other question Rafael mentioned, will you go to the front line in person?”

Genuine sorrow appeared in the princess’s eyes, which made her bright and beautiful face look more fragile like dew. The queen stroked her hair and did not answer the question, but carefully folded the letter in her hand, “Have you written your reply? What trouble has he encountered?”

“Oh,” Sancha saw her mother avoiding her question and her heart began to sink slowly, but she knew she could never shake her mother’s decision, so she temporarily put the question aside. After all, her mother was still half a year away from setting out. She would never leave here while Rome was unstable. “There has been an epidemic in Florence, and it seems to be related to some people who oppose Rafael. The epidemic has stabilized, and he is tracking down those people.”

Amandra’s pupils contracted sharply when she heard the word ‘epidemic’, and her face turned frighteningly cold in an instant. Sancha didn’t notice this change and continued talking on her own. Amandra quickly suppressed her emotions, but her eyes were still icy cold, “Using a disease? What a scum! Even the carrion-eating vultures on the grasslands are nobler and purer than them.”

“It seems that we have to care about our ally,” Amandra smiled at her daughter, “He… Rafael seems like a good person. It’s hard to have a friend. My little sun, you have to learn to take good care of your friends.”

The queen with long golden-brown hair leaned back on the chaise lounge and was silent for a moment, then said, “I heard… he seems to have an old injury on his leg due to some experience in his early years. You can send him some suitable spices and herbs. The pain-relieving drugs sent from Assyria have not been used much in the warehouse. Your friend might need them.”

Sancha opened her eyes wide in surprise. “Old injury? I didn’t notice at all! No one has ever mentioned it to me…”

Amandra looked at her helplessly, “How could such a thing be known to everyone? One of the major requirements for becoming the Pope is to be healthy and without defects. I only learned about it through some channels.”

She glossed over the subject.

Sancha kept this in mind and began to prepare gifts and replies to be sent to Florence.

While the atmosphere in Rome was warm, there was panic in Florence.

As Ferrante’s investigation deepened, more and more lords began to tremble in fear. They retreated to their manors, pacing anxiously day and night, cursing the damned Rafael in their hearts – that crazy Pope! How dare he venture into the plague-ridden area and stay with those lowly commoners? No sane person would do such a thing! The actions of this madman completely shattered their wishful thinking. Not only had they failed to escape Florence, but they were now under strict surveillance. They could almost hear the footsteps of death approaching –

They dared not utter these curses aloud, for they didn’t know which of their servants might be a spy for Sistine I.

That madman had somehow gained a wolfhound and used despicable means to extract information from servants, attendants, and even laundrywomen. How could they have ever considered these people worthy of their attention? Yet, these very people, whom they had disregarded, actually knew so much!

The lords were filled with hatred, but they could only struggle like cornered beasts. Ferrante’s intelligence was still steadily delivered to Rafael’s desk every day. As time passed, strange rumors began to circulate among the lords. More and more of them became restless. Carriages discreetly left their manors and arrived at the side gate of the papal palace, where they were ushered in by waiting black-robed deacons and confessed all their secrets in an attempt to save their own lives.

The Pope behind his desk listened silently with a smile. The lord, prostrate on the floor, trembled, his face smeared with snot and tears. He trembled as he betrayed all his co-conspirators, swearing to heaven and earth of his innocence and his helplessness of being coerced.

Sistine I, who looked like a saint in a painting, finally smiled.

This unexpected reaction gave the lord a glimmer of hope. “I am willing to expose their evil deeds for you!”

“And what are you willing to give in exchange for your precious life?” Sistine I asked gently.

“You don’t have to answer now.” The Pope raised a hand. From the shadows behind him emerged a monk with black curly hair. The young man had an overly delicate face but was as cold as a knife drawn from the night. He tossed a stack of paper, quill and ink before the lord.

“Please leave a price sufficient for God to forgive your sins.” The Pope smiled.

“This is your only chance. Please consider it carefully. This is not a negotiation, nor is it a business deal. Remember, God is always watching us. He sees our piety as well as our sins.”

The young Pope left this meaningful statement behind and left the reception room, leaving the lord staring at the blank sheet of paper, trembling.

“How many was that?” Rafael asked Ferrante, who was standing beside him.

“The fifth,” Ferrante replied.

Rafael smiled unchanged. “Then let’s wait a few more days, until they can no longer sit still, until… they are more fearful, panicked, and desperate to survive than ever before.”

Ferrante bowed. “I will continue to spread the relevant news.”

Rafael looked at him and gently stroked his hair. The ‘wolfhound’ rubbed against his hand docilely.

“Good boy.”

Rafael said softly.

Author’s Note

Sistine I’s Diary: Watch how I squeeze these scum dry.

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