The Reversed Hierophant

A group of knights clad in light armor galloped past a rural road. Their visors concealed their faces, and the armor, which enveloped their bodies tightly, reflected the golden sunlight. The road, of extremely poor quality, kicked up clouds of dust in their wake—despite the rain that had fallen the night before, the insignificant amount of precipitation had done nothing to prevent the omnipresent dust from rising.

They didn’t know how long they had been traveling day and night. The once-bright armor was now covered in a dull, yellowish layer of mud, and even the horses they rode were filthy.

The journey from Florence to the port had not been peaceful, but since they were all armored and clearly skilled in combat, no fool had been stupid enough to cross their path. After galloping for a while longer and climbing a gentle hill, the leading knight pulled the reins and stopped his horse.

The well-proportioned and strong white horse shook its head, panting heavily, and exhaled white mist from its nostrils. It slowly shuffled its feet in place.

The knights behind him quickly caught up and stopped beside him one after another.

“Captain!”

Several greetings of varying pitches rang out on the deserted hill.

The knight raised the visor of his armor slightly, revealing a pair of clear, emerald green eyes. After several days of travel, these eyes were filled with deep fatigue, but they remained as bright and peaceful as a newborn baby.

Leshert looked into the distance. From their vantage point, they could easily see the vast expanse of the ocean on the horizon. Birds were circling above the sparkling sea, and their clear chirping could be heard from afar.

Sails carried ships back and forth from the harbor, and the masts formed another forest of towering grandeur. The pier extended out for several miles, and countless densely packed crowds were shuttling back and forth. The smell of the sea mingled with the noisy clamor and rose up on the wind.

“It’s the port!” a knight shouted joyfully.

They had been sent by the Pope to receive a ship from Assyria, and had spent nine days on the road. Adhering to the Knightly Order’s precepts of being content in poverty and hardship, they had slept rough along the way, avoiding inns and the homes of believers. The wooden huts of forest rangers, caves, and abandoned houses had been their only options. Of course, before leaving, they would repair the dilapidated buildings to make it convenient for future travelers.

—God provided us with food, clothing, and shelter in times of need, and we should be content with the most basic necessities, rather than coveting warmth and delicious food. The cold tempers our will and hunger keeps us clear-headed and rational. We shall press on courageously and remain unwavering.

This is the commandment from the code of the Knights Templar, which they silently abide by.

But even with their unwavering determination, they couldn’t help but smile with joy and relief when they saw the shadow of the port in the distance.

Leshert estimated the distance and got off his horse: “Let’s rest for a while and set off again in the afternoon. We should be able to reach the port before nightfall.”

The knights dismounted and led their companions to graze. Leshert took the waterskin from his saddle, unscrewed the cap, and took a few sips. Then he pulled out an oat biscuit from his backpack, broke it in half, and gave the larger half to his horse. The considerate white horse came over, first nuzzling its master’s head affectionately before taking the oatcake and munching on it.

Leshert watched it eat the oat biscuit, removed his helmet and placed it on the ground, and sat down himself. His long golden hair, soaked with sweat, fell messily over his shoulders, and his face, which hadn’t been washed properly in days, was covered in a mixture of sweat and dust.

As he stroked the white horse’s forehead, he casually stuffed the other half of the oat biscuit into his own mouth. The biscuit was very dry and a bit scratchy, but he was clearly accustomed to such rough food and finished it off in a few bites. After resting for a while, he stood up and led his horse to drink.

The knights all had their own horses, and they had to take personal care of these lovely and loyal animals. Even the commander would not entrust the care of his horse to others. They did everything themselves, such as bathing their horses, and Leshert was no exception.

The Grand Master of the Knights Templar, with his glorious titles and honors, behaved no differently from an ordinary knight most of the time, and was even more humble, cautious, and gentle. The only thing that distinguished him from others was the unique temperament cultivated by his good upbringing and devout faith.

Of course, that face also added a lot of points to him.

After the horses had rested, the knights remounted and galloped towards their destination that was already in sight.

Port Celia was a medium-sized port in the Papal States. More than a hundred years ago, it had belonged to a noble family, all of whom were devout believers. When the family line died out, the last female heir, Lady Celia, donated all her property to the Papal States before her death, including this port. The Pope at the time thanked her for her contribution and named the port after her.

Port Celia was not large in scale, but its geographical location was quite advantageous. Before his death, Pope Leo VI had frantically plundered the private property of the Papal Palace, selling or giving away many of its assets. This port was bought by Cardinal Tondolo, but before he could even have his family crest hung on the port’s bell tower, his incompetent son had returned Port Celia back to the Pope.

So, after many twists and turns, Port Celia returned to the hands of the Pope.

But because the handover had been so short, Raphael had no intention of claiming ownership for the time being. All matters of the port continued as before, and he merely lowered some taxes in an attempt to boost the port’s shipping and cargo flow, adding a little income to the Papal Palace’s meager coffers.

Another benefit was that the ship from Assyria finally had a suitable place to dock.

Like any other port, the docks here were dirty and chaotic, and the stench was overwhelming. Seafood caught by fishing boats was piled directly on the market opened up on the dock, and the rotting fish emitted a foul odor. The salty and fishy smell of the sea mixed with various unbearable smells, almost making one want to leave this world immediately.

Relying on the cargo and passenger flow at the dock, a small town had formed nearby. Merchants and sailors mingled among the narrow streets, where taverns, inns, guilds, and breweries were scattered haphazardly. With a wave of your hand, you could almost touch the shops on the opposite side of the street. Sailors, drunk even in broad daylight, sang loudly and searched frantically for amusement. The tavern proprietresses stood at the door soliciting customers, and Leshert received countless flirtatious glances along the way.

These tavern and inn proprietresses often moonlighted as prostitutes, providing services for the sailors. Leshert’s clear, deep green eyes swept over these smiling women. He traced half a thorned circle, a symbol of God, over his chest: “May God bless you.”

The knights finally chose a rather secluded and dilapidated inn. This place was located in a corner that few people would ever visit. The owners were an elderly couple, and the entire inn had only four rooms. Seven knights, two to a room, could just about fill the place, and Leshert could have a room to himself.

Leshert led his horse to an even simpler and more dilapidated stable, and asked the innkeeper to buy some fodder for the horses from the market. Then he returned to his room, took out a palm-sized leather-bound notebook from his bosom, turned to a new page, dipped his quill in ink, and briefly wrote down today’s diary entry.

This habit had formed in his childhood. He came from a strictly disciplined family. The family, which had once dominated the Syracuse Peninsula, was in its decline, but its members still prided themselves on the noble blood in their veins and their family genealogy. There were even dedicated scribes in the family who recorded the deeds of family members, but after the family’s decline, they had to do this work themselves.

The first word Leshert learned to write was his family name, and then his first name. His father gave him a leather-bound diary with a gold-embossed family crest as a gift, and his mother would regularly check his diary entries. If she found that he had missed a day, she would whip his calves with a thin vine—the pain was intense enough but wouldn’t leave any unsightly marks.

When he resolutely broke away from his family, he left the diary with the gold-embossed crest on his desk in his study, but he never changed his long-standing habit. At least, he found that writing a diary helped him organize his memories and clarify his recent to-do list.

He switched to a more portable notebook and continued to write in it regularly. The writing was much simpler, no longer in the elaborate ‘aristocratic’ style. More than a diary, it was perhaps closer to a notebook, mixed with a few feelings and thoughts.

“In the year of our Lord 1079… Arrived at Port Celia, awaiting the arrival of the Assyrian ship and seeking suitable sailors. As per the Pope’s order, we need to escort the ship to the lands of the Duke of Calais. Calais will receive the remaining cargo and exchange it for an equal amount of weapons… I have some concerns about this. Florence is not suited to intervene in the conflict between Calais and Assyria, but perhaps the Pope has his own reasons… May God bless His beloved son.”

He left this entry in his notebook, carefully closed it, and looked out the window. Through the uneven glass, he saw a wide expanse of azure as well as the vastness of the sky and earth, but the Grand Master of the Knights Templar’s deep green eyes did not show the joy of the beautiful scenery.

On the second day of their journey, a papal messenger caught up with them and delivered a new order from the Pope. They were required to meet the Assyrian ship at Port Celia and recruit enough sailors—the Assyrians would evacuate all their sailors upon arrival of the ship and present the ship and its contents to Sistine I, indicating that they would not pry into the destination of this cargo. The Pope ordered them to change the destination of the ship and go to the Duke of Calais’s territory, handing over the cargo to them. The Duke of Calais would then give them a batch of equivalent finished weapons. Their ultimate mission was to bring this batch of weapons, and of course, the two most important steam powered cores, back to Florence.

He didn’t quite understand what was going on and why His Holiness the Pope had suddenly reached a cooperation with the Duke of Calais. But it isn’t good for the weak Florence to wander recklessly between Assyria, Rome, and Calais.

Unlike hundreds of years ago, Florence had lost its most powerful protector. The once world-shaking Knights Templar were now in decline. Florence did not have a strong military force. Sistine I seemed to want to rebuild an armed force to defend Florence, but this was absolutely impossible compared to the powerful imperial armies of Calais and Rome.

Unless…

Fine rain drifted in through the window. Leshert reached out and closed the window. Long streaks of water quickly appeared on the dirty glass.

Unless… the Knights Templar, who once dominated Syracuse, returned to the world once again.

But that was absolutely impossible. Calais and Rome would cut off the lifeblood of the Holy City the moment Florence rebuilt the Knights Templar.

The kings could intrigue amongst themselves, but they could never accept a pope with a powerful armed force who was above them.

Raphael didn’t know that the leader of his knights had thought so far ahead. He was still patiently waiting for news from Port Celia.

François had been particularly well-behaved recently. Since the Pope left his official residence that day, he has submitted several requests to meet the Pope, and was finally approved on the last occasion.

The meeting was arranged in a small reception room, with only the Duke of Calais and Sistine I participating. The topic, of course, revolved around compensation—what else could it be? Raphael suddenly realized that the shipload of ore he had obtained from Assyria had a destination. Florence did not have a suitable smelting plant, but the wealthy Francois of Calais certainly did.

This request was nothing to the Duke of Calais. He readily agreed to this additional condition and ‘promised’ to provide weapons and armor for the Papal Guard and the Florence City Guard, as well as a batch of no less than 500 adult horses, and at the same time hand over Calais’ spies in the Papal Palace.

The last item was just a trivial addition. Every noble had their own little thoughts, and the bishops and cardinals had their own ideas as well. They had more or less the names of different countries or families behind them. Raphael was well aware of this. He raised this point merely to hint to Francois that Calais’ hand should be more restrained in the Papal Palace. Those bishops or cardinals who had enjoyed themselves in his residence should also be prepared to be neglected by the Pope for some time afterwards.

François readily accepted his hint, and it was foreseeable that Calais would no longer stir up trouble on any issue in the Papal Palace for a while.

Raphael was very satisfied with the outcome of the negotiation.

He had obtained a lot of weapons, armor, and horses for Florence. These were tangible assets, and Florence now had at least some degree of protection, and would no longer have to patrol or fight with outdated or even rotten spears.

A few days after the end of the negotiation, François began to prepare to return to Calais. Upon hearing this news, Raphael sneered and handed the invitation to the farewell banquet to Julius beside him.

The secretary general opened the invitation and shook his head with a noncommittal expression: “I thought he would wait a few more days. The letters from Calais are already on the way. It seems that all his plans in Florence have been disrupted.”

This was expected. François was able to successfully control the vast empire of Calais not only because the Emperor of Calais was still young— though said to be young, he was already eighteen years old, about the same age as Raphael. François was by no means a simple arrogant fool. He had stayed in Florence for so long, secretly communicating and colluding with the nobles and bishops of the Papal States, it was clear that he had some ulterior motives.

No matter what he wanted to do, at least for now, he had not succeeded.

Raphael looked at him: “What did you do?”

Julius closed the invitation, placed it on the table, and replied lightly: “I asked the Portia Bank to slightly slow down the transfer of funds to the Calais Royal Bank. The young emperor, who has no real power, can only rely on his uncle for most of his expenses… I think, no matter how wealthy he is, the Duke’s current financial reserves should be bottoming out.”

Having no money is a huge problem.

Julius was indeed earnestly helping Raphael figure out a way to drive the annoying François out of Florence.

It was a foregone conclusion that François would leave Florence in disgrace. They soon put the Duke aside and tuned to another group of big troublemakers who were still stationed in Florence.

“Do the lords have no objections to not being able to leave Florence?”

Raphael asked softly.

Julius had tricked the lords into Florence under the pretext of the Feast of Divine Grace, but he and Raphael had already reached a consensus that, barring any unforeseen circumstances, these lords would never be able to leave Florence in their lifetimes.

House arrest.

A very old but highly effective method. Without the leadership of their family heads, these lords’ families would inevitably fall into a period of chaos, making it easier for Raphael and Julius to defeat them one by one.

Unless the lords immediately rebelled and attacked Florence…

But as long as they had any sense at all, they wouldn’t dare do something as terrifying as attacking the Holy City.

There were countless people eyeing their lands, eager to seize them. As long as the Pope issues an excommunication decree against them, everyone would have a legitimate reason to seize their wealth.

Raphael wasn’t afraid of their rebellion. This was a great opportunity to issue an excommunication decree. Ordinary crimes wouldn’t allow him to punish them in one go.

However, he needed to take a little risk… Well, perhaps a big risk, but what gamble is there without a wager?

Moreover, on this issue, the Portias would stand by him as a staunch ally of Florence.

“Obviously they’re very dissatisfied. Their contacts and gatherings have become more and more frequent lately,” said Julius.

“Really?” Raphael smiled indifferently. “Then they have to be prepared. Days like these will last a long time.”

He picked up the invitation on the table and casually tossed it into the roaring fireplace. The gold-embossed words quickly carbonized into curly black patterns.

Author’s Note

Da da da, the leader of the knights who has been offline for a long time is online!

The timeskip is about to start. The basic groundwork has been laid, and Rafa is about to ride the wind and waves, defending his throne in the storm!

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