Rafael tilted his head back, watching as water dripped from the sculptures atop the marble portico. The droplets refracted dazzling, prismatic light—staring at them too long induced a strange, dizzying sensation, like the floating euphoria of a drunken mind, as if the soul itself were about to take flight.
The Papal Palace was vast. As the de facto political center of the Papal States, it housed the training base for the Knights Templar, a sprawling Secretariat, and a large body of monks and nuns who come for study and spiritual refinement. Of course, the heart of the Papal Palace was naturally the Pope’s living quarters. His Holiness’s private area occupies only two-fifths of the entire Papal Palace. Knights guarded all access routes to this area, like impenetrable shields, protecting the crown.
On the sixth day of Florence’s great storm, the heavy rain ceased. The plans, after dozens of revisions, were finally dispatched to the city hall. Secretaries, clerks, engineers, and urban planners, who had been burning the midnight oil for days and nights without rest, swayed unsteadily, forming groups with huge dark circles under their eyes. Clutching large rolls of blueprints, they hurried to various locations throughout Florence.
The benevolent Pope sent his trusted personal guards to protect them. These guards were dressed as monks, their black, plain robes and hoods completely concealing their figures. They were as silent as statues, their hands tucked into their sleeves, following these physically weak and chattering scholars and secretaries like wolves circling a flock of sheep.
They remained silent, not answering the curious scholars’ questions. Thwarted, the scholars quickly lost interest in them and turned their attention to the poor road conditions after the rain, shaking their heads at the tumor-like sprawl of buildings in the lower city.
“Unbelievable… just one more rain, and the people living here will be buried alive!”
“My God, it’s incredible that there’s never been a fire here! If a single spark fell here, I bet it would burn all of Florence into a giant torch!”
The scholars lamented the terrible urban planning with heartfelt indignation. The faces of the people peering out from these dilapidated buildings bore a wary, fierce expression, like hedgehogs. However, this expression quickly melted like snow in sunlight when they encountered the Pope’s guard detail accompanying the scholars.
The group also included a few aloof-looking women. They wore robes similar to nuns, with white armbands on their sleeves adorned with the thorny double-winged totem of the Papal Palace. Underneath their robes were trousers cinched at the ankles, and each woman carried a heavy-looking wooden box. The woman leading them had closely cropped hair, sharp, bright blue eyes, and high cheekbones and a pointed chin that made her seem unapproachable.
The guide, also dressed in a monk’s black robe, was not as silent as his companions; he was surprisingly cheerful, smiling like a sparrow among black crows: “They’ve been set up already. According to your wishes, Madam, each tent has curtains.”
Astasinia nodded in satisfaction and repeated, “Today, we’re only seeing women and children.”
She emphasized, “All women, as long as they want to come.”
The person in charge paused, then noticed her gaze briefly sweep over the wooden sign of a nearby rose house, and immediately understood her meaning: “I understand. No one will stop them.”
For a long time, only men could be doctors. Even if women learned medicine, they could only practice as midwives. Only a few people could receive treatment, and prostitutes were at the bottom of this chain of contempt. No doctor was willing to treat prostitutes riddled with diseases, and many believed that receiving treatment alongside prostitutes would ruin their reputation. Therefore, once they fell ill, only death awaited these poor women.
But Astasinia didn’t care about any of that.
In her eyes, all women in the world were lovely and pure. They possessed noble souls bestowed by the Lord. God was born from a woman’s body and was born female, so why should men condescendingly dominate women?
She led her medical team into the tents. These tents were very crudely constructed – bamboo poles, oiled canvas, and hemp rope – but the builders’ skills must have been excellent, as they blocked out every gust of wind and were very sturdy. Astasinia nodded in satisfaction; this meant her patients could frankly expose their bodies here without fear of being spied upon.
She drew back the curtain. A notice for free diagnosis had already been posted outside, and clerks were loudly announcing it. “Free” had an irresistible pull for everyone in the lower city. Shabbily dressed men and women cautiously gathered, scrutinizing the suddenly erected, sealed tents. Their eyes held a mixture of doubt and expectation. When they saw only women entering and exiting, someone finally couldn’t help but ask, “Where are the doctors?”
They were self-aware; anyone who would come here to treat them certainly wouldn’t be someone important, perhaps just apprentices. But even apprentices were a rare find for them, and they hadn’t seen any male apprentices here.
“We are.”
Astasinia, holding a basin of water, turned and glanced at him, then said, “Men, come back tomorrow.”
“Women…?” Some had already hesitated and stopped, and more people began to whisper about Astasinia and the others, their gazes constantly flitting to her unusually short hair.
“Why are they all women?”
“For women’s diseases? Then what are we doing here…”
A few burly men in the group showed expressions of displeasure.
One female doctor frowned and corrected them, “We are general practitioners.”
The men exchanged glances, then burst into laughter, putting their hands in their crotches and making a vulgar gesture: “Then will you check here too? Hahaha!”
“…And they all have curtains. Who knows what they’re doing inside, a bunch of women…”
The atmosphere around them quickly became strange. Many men meaningfully exchanged glances, snickering. Such vulgar jokes were very popular in the lower city and quickly spread. The women who had been standing in line also awkwardly stood still; they didn’t endorse these crude jokes, but it was clear that if they entered the tents for treatment, they would quickly become part of the joke.
“That woman over there is the best-looking, I want to choose her—” A man was whispering and snickering with his companion. Before he could finish his sentence, he suddenly heard gasps around him, and then felt a chill by his temple. A delayed sense of danger made his scalp tingle. He fearfully turned his face, seeing his hair rustling down in his peripheral vision. He touched it with his hand and found a bald spot on one side of his scalp.
The leading female doctor stood beside him, watching him coldly, holding a surgical knife that looked exceptionally sharp. There were a few of his short hairs on the blade.
The man, like a fish pulled ashore, stared at this fierce woman with bulging eyes. His throat gurgled a few times, and then his crotch suddenly became wet.
The surrounding people drew out a long “Eugh!” and silently stepped back a few paces. Astasinia’s expression didn’t change in the slightest. She slowly looked around, and every man who met her gaze instinctively avoided her stare.
The female doctor calmly announced again, “We are doctors. Today we are seeing women and children. Men, please come back tomorrow.”
She didn’t utter any more threats, but she stood there holding that blade, and everyone inexplicably fell silent.
This incident quickly reached the Pope’s ears. Rafael sighed and dispatched more guards to the lower city to protect the doctors and scholars, without any suggestion of recalling them. This era was simply unfair to women; if Astasinia insisted on this path, this was what they would inevitably face.
Count Tondolo led another group of surveyors to the outskirts of Florence to plan land for new residential areas, as ordered by the Pope. Florence’s population was constantly increasing, and the existing city planning could no longer meet the demand. Since he had acquired vast wealth after confiscating the lords’ properties, he decided to seize this opportunity to boldly expand the city and renovate outdated facilities.
Rafael tucked old Tondolo’s box back into the cabinet, determined not to see it again for a while.
Even though the dried bloodstains lay exposed before him, he had no intention of acting on them.
The individuals involved in the conspiracy had long since perished. Should he extend his hatred to the next generation, who knew nothing? Rafael simply felt weary; blood, death, and betrayal surrounded him constantly, like venomous snakes coiling around his neck, hissing and flicking their tongues. The feeling of being embroiled in it all was complex, and he could only forget it temporarily.
However, occasionally, he would recall visiting old Tondolo that year. The old man’s clouded eyes were filled with complex emotions. He lay on a soft bed, doors and windows tightly shut, the heavy scent of frankincense and myrrh lingering in the air. This aroma, mixed with the old man’s imminent death, became a strange and unpleasant smell. The emaciated old Tondolo looked at him, disease having destroyed the old man’s spirit. The dying man, semi-conscious between dreams and reality, opened his tired eyes, and upon seeing Rafael, suddenly burst into tears.
He had mistaken Rafael for Delacroix.
The decaying old man called out the name of his deceased dearest friend, repeatedly asking the same question:
“Have you forgiven me?”
This question was destined to echo eternally through empty history; the one qualified to answer it had died years ago in the dead of night. Sёarᴄh the NovelZone.fun website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.
Rafael pushed these heavy thoughts aside. A new letter had arrived from Rome, stating that Sancha had successfully been crowned Crown Princess in Perigo a few days prior, inheriting the Roman throne. Rafael replied with a letter of congratulations, attaching appropriate gifts.
It could be said that through the Roman Empire as a bridge, Calais, the Papal States, Rome, and Assyria had entered a stable honeymoon period. Aside from Assyria’s ongoing civil war, the relationships between the major countries were harmonious and friendly, as if world peace were just around the corner.
Calais also began sending regular gifts to the Papal States. Valuable gifts were transported from Dudley to Florence, presented to the Pope under the guise of diocesan tribute and a secular monarch’s homage. Alongside these gifts came the increasingly scandalous rumors about the Emperor of Calais.
Of course, there were falsehoods in these rumors, but no one could deny that he was almost madly favoring on a male favorite of humble origin. Everyone eagerly awaited Sancha’s reaction, but to their disappointment, the relationship between Rome and Calais remained unchanged.
The Emperor of Calais still retained a shred of sanity; he sent a large number of valuable gifts to his fiancée in Perigo, enough to astound anyone who saw the procession. If a man’s love could be measured by wealth, then the Crown Princess of Perigo was undoubtedly the Emperor of Calais’s true love.
Perhaps it was this clear declaration that made Sancha turn a deaf ear to the Emperor’s ill rumors. And in fact…
“…I couldn’t care less who he fancies. Thank the Lord—this lets me stay in Rome another two years. At least I have to wait until my mother’s war in Assyria ends, otherwise Rome will also fall into turmoil. Every day I pray before the Lord, hoping the wedding can be postponed further. As long as François IV doesn’t sire any bastards, I can generously give the other half of his bed to that man…”
Even as crown princess, Sancha’s letters still carried the lively tone of a young girl, leaving Rafael both amused and exasperated.
But this was good too, at least she wouldn’t be saddened by it.
Rafael folded the letter, thinking to himself.
Lucrezia walked over with a book, her small steps light. She had been sitting by the bay window, where there was a fluffy rug and warm milk tea. The little girl was naturally perceptive and loved to cling to His Holiness the Pope. Rafael was exceedingly indulgent with the child he raised, and besides, Lucrezia was a very clever girl. Teaching her to read gave Rafael a great sense of accomplishment—it had become his recent leisure activity for relaxation.
And… Rafael took the thick book from Lucretia’s hands, his gaze subtly flitting towards the door. Of course, he couldn’t see the doorway through all the arches and decorations, but he knew that Redrick was surely standing guard outside.
Yes, that unruly brother who disliked Rafael and always opposed him, ever since that trip to Rome, had inexplicably become much more obedient. Although he still looked unconvinced and talked back to Rafael, he had never refused any task assigned to him and even seemed to enjoy it.
Rafael interpreted this as a long-idle and carefree spendthrift finding a sense of accomplishment in work. As for Redrick’s psychological changes… he didn’t have the leisure to investigate.
Redrick hadn’t expressed a desire to leave the Knights Templar, and Rafael was too lazy to bother with him. As long as Leshert wasn’t annoyed, what did it matter to him?
And the Knight Commander was famously good-tempered and tolerant; Redrick was hardly a bother in his eyes.
However, Rafael wondered if it was his imagination, but Redrick seemed to be very caring towards Lucrezia. He had felt this way during their journey to Rome; Redrick even showed a brotherly sense of responsibility towards Lucrezia.
Rafael had no desire to understand his neurotic brother’s thought processes; dealing with the greetings from the Emperor of Calais was already enough to trouble him.
The gifts from Dudley were still piled in his storeroom. Not to mention the jewels, but the irises sent with their soil were simply too ambiguous. Not only could Rafael not return them, but he also had to find ways to conceal them from Julius and Ferrante—though he didn’t know why he had to hide them. Rafael believed it was because it concerned the friendly relations between the Papal States and Calais. François IV didn’t care about scandals, but he did!
Author’s Note
Redrick doesn’t have that kind of idea about Lucrezia! He sees her purely as a little sister – don’t overthink it!