When Rafael stepped into the Hall of Our Holy Lady, where the Consistory was being held, the Cardinals who had been waiting for so ti ceased their whispering in unison.
Once Rafael had taken his seat at the head of the table, the Cardinals—clad in scarlet robes with golden stoles draped over their shoulders—stood and bowed deeply to the Pope: “Holy Father.”
Rafael inclined his head. “Please be seated, my venerable Lords.”
There were twelve Cardinals in attendance. The eldest was old enough to be Rafael’s grandfather; his hair was so sparse he required a hat to cover his gleaming scalp, yet he possessed a snow-white beard so thick and neat it was braided into three strands weighted with jewels. Rafael could tell at a glance that the beard was supplented with fakes—this Cardinal clearly was quite particular of his own appearance.
This was Cardinal Materazzi. He had purchased his scarlet vestnts from Rafael using his imnse wealth. When Rafael first ascended the throne, he had put two red hats up for sale at a fixed price to strengthen his faction and replenish the treasury, which had been left hollow by the disastrous reign of Leo VI. Materazzi was the fortunate buyer of one, securing his place in the consistory, becoming a mber of the highest echelon beneath the Pope for the sum of 160,000 gold florins.
Because of this, Materazzi was consistently more deferential to the Pope than the others, which sparked resentnt among his peers. Such resentnt was never voiced openly, but they frequently excluded Materazzi and the other “Golden Robe” Cardinal from their circles. Materazzi, however, found these petty snubs inconsequential and paid them no mind.
Rafael rested his staff across his lap. A monk standing to the side asked as a matter of routine, “What matters do you bring before the Holy Father for his counsel or judgnt today?”
The Cardinals exchanged glances. One cleared his throat and spoke: “Regarding the recent conscription, the populace within the Papal States has been fully mobilized by the various churches. It is estimated that adult males between the ages of fourteen and thirty-five can form two legions. The fundraising campaign is also proceeding smoothly; the faithful are willing to open their purses generously to support the construction of the Earthly Kingdom of God…”
Information like this reached Rafael’s ears through Julius’s secretariat far faster and more comprehensively than the reports held by the Cardinals. Thus, he simply listened in silence, offering no opinion. When the Cardinal finished, Rafael rely nodded. “The Lord will bless His devout children.”
Another Cardinal added, “The nuns in the convents are spontaneously preparing clothing for the soldiers. They humbly request that the Holy See provide more fabric, which they will use to craft suitable robes, hats, and socks for the expeditionary force.”
Without much thought, Rafael gestured for the secretary beside him to take note. “The Secretariat will arrange this. The funds for the fabric shall co from the inner treasury of the Papal Palace. It would be best if we could provide every man with an outer coat before they depart—mobilize all the convents to help. Furthermore, increase propaganda among the people; distribute a portion of the fabric to the local churches so that any faithful willing to help can collect it for free.”
The secretary hesitated. “What if they take the fabric but don’t…”
Rafael glanced at him and said lightly, “Do you think I can’t afford such a small expense? But rember, the fabric should not be overly expensive or fine; it only needs to be sturdy.”
The wealthy would have no use for such plain cloth; only the poor would care about an extra garnt. And if it ended up providing relief to a person with barely any clothes, what did it matter if they took it under false pretenses?
The secretary hurriedly recorded the Pope’s instructions.
The latter half of the eting consisted of similarly trivial matters. These issues were technically beneath the dignity of the Consistory, yet no one raised an objection. It was like the deceptively gentle ripples before a great storm; everyone knew a thunderclap was coming, and every man was preoccupied with gathering his strength for it.
Finally, just as Rafael tily displayed a hint of impatience and glanced at the floor clock for the second ti, a Cardinal adjusted his posture. He cleared his throat like a matador about to charge into the arena, his entire being radiating a fearless valour. “Holy Father, regarding the Earthly Kingdom of God, the Consistory has so thoughts.”
“Oh?” Rafael thought to himself, Finally. He was truly tired of listening to more pointless nonsense. “My venerable lords, what suggestions do you have?”
“No, one could not call them suggestions,” the Cardinal replied with a respectful bow of his head. “rely a small, insignificant supplent to your great plan.”
“Hm, proceed.” Rafael propped his cheek on one hand, while the other idly brushed against the scepter on his lap. The cold jewels made his fingers itch.
“…The matter of Assyria’s faith will be an unavoidable obstacle. We cannot deny that Assyria is a land thoroughly corrupted by heathens. The people living there are primitive and foolish, worshipping backward and barbaric pagan gods. If we wish to rebuild the Lord’s Kingdom there, they will be the Holy See’s greatest hindrance.” The Cardinal stated the obvious, and every man around the long table nodded solemnly as if hearing it for the first ti.
Rafael looked at the man pushed forward to speak. This cardinal likely knew exactly what he was doing, but clearly, so private agreent had made him willing to serve as the spearhead.
“And what are your wise views on the matter?” Rafael asked courteously.
“We may need more forceful asures,” the cardinal said diplomatically.
Rafael looked at him thoughtfully for a mont, suddenly grasping his aning. His gaze swept subtly over the Cardinals—noting the surprised, confused, or impassive faces—and he nodded. “Please, elaborate.”
Simultaneously, Rafael shifted the hand resting on his scepter slightly backward. It seed like a mundane gesture, but a second later, a cup of steaming tea was gently placed into his palm, adjusted to the most comfortable angle.
Only then did the Cardinals realize that a man shrouded in a black monk’s robe had been standing behind the Pope all along. He looked no different from any other monk, yet everyone knew exactly who he was.
The Pope’s watchdog.
The insulting title flickered through their minds almost in unison. In a way, it was precisely because they feared him that they sought to win petty verbal victories in their thoughts.
Ferrante didn’t care what they called him anyway. He even took a secret, obscure pride in the title—especially at… certain monts.
Rafael would occasionally scold him, calling him a dog in the heat of the mont. Far from being angry, Ferrante would shalessly lean in, hoping to hear more unfiltered emotion from the usually unshakable Pope. Those emotions were for his eyes only, and they only ever surfaced because of him.
Ferrante excelled at staying hidden. If Rafael hadn’t deliberately drawn attention to him, no one would have noticed. This sudden reminder made everyone aware of his presence. The speaking cardinal’s focus wavered for a mont; he stumbled slightly before Rafael’s prompting gaze reminded him of what he was saying. “…Regarding the current chaos in Assyria, soft diplomacy will be ineffective. The expeditionary force already shoulders heavy combat duties; we cannot burden them further with the complex task of ideological supervision…”
Hearing this, Rafael was certain of their goal.
The Cardinals, as expected, were not satisfied with future promises. Vague future benefits were tempting, but tangible, imdiate interests were far more attractive. Rather than waiting for power and status after the war was won, they wanted a real piece of the pie right now.
To legally extend their influence into Assyria—that was what they wanted.
Still, they had enough sense to know that ddling with Leshert’s knights was impossible. That was the Pope’s domain, unless they wanted an outright confrontation.
So they “wisely” chose another direction—one that was, in fact, part of the Holy See’s own duties.
Supervising and guiding people’s thoughts, spreading doctrine, and converting heretics.
“So…” Rafael deliberately paused.
The Cardinal spoke up eagerly: “We could restore the Holy See’s forr oversight bodies. Grant them the power of supervision and judgnt to identify heretics who can be converted. During the Church’s most glorious era, the Inquisition was the most important blade in the Holy Father’s hand. Had Florence not been invaded by that shaless Allied Army, and had the Holy Father’s glory not been reduced to ashes, how could the Church have ever dissolved the Inquisition and fallen into a century of decline?”
He grew more impassioned as he spoke, gesturing wildly and denouncing the Allied Army that had long since vanished into history. During the Papacy’s peak, the monarchs of all nations knelt at the Pope’s feet; their crowns were held in his hands. Naturally, the Cardinals of that ti possessed power rivaling that of kings.
In the records of the Church, it was a ti of such brilliance that it filled every devout reader with longing, to say nothing of these ambitious Cardinals.
Rafael remained unmoved by the impassioned speech, looking on like a cold observer. When the theatrical performance ended, he said calmly, “I noticed you ntioned the Inquisition.”
The Pope then said softly, “In the Treaty of the Holy City, we swore never to rebuild the Inquisition.”
“We were also required to never expand the size of the Knights Templar; the number of knights must forever remain below two hundred,” said a cardinal who had been sitting silently all along, his voice low. “And yet, the current order is already capable of waging war in Assyria.”
“Mind your words, Your Eminence.” Rafael said calmly, “That is an expeditionary force spontaneously organized by the populace, who begged the Knights for military guidance. It is not the Knights itself—we have always honored our promises, regardless of whether the treaty was signed under duress.”
The Cardinals around the long table exchanged knowing smiles, understanding perfectly well what was left unsaid
The Cardinals were no fools. Rafael had placed Leshert in a position of high trust to rebuild the Knights and kept Ferrante close by his side; how could they not know what the Pope intended? The Treaty of the Holy City had severed the Pope’s arms, a lingering knot of resentnt in the heart of the Holy See. The Church dread of restoring its century-old glory, and the Knights and the Inquisition were indispensable to that existence.
Thus, they had turned a blind eye, watching as the n under Leshert’s command grew in number, and watching as the “Holy Crows” under Ferrante’s banner spread throughout the Papal States before taking flight toward Calais, Ro, and other nations.
But this was the first ti they had brought the issue to the table for discussion.
They did not dare ddle with Leshert’s Knights, but as for Ferrante’s Arbitration Bureau… they hoped to insert a bit of their own power into it.
Surely Sistine I did not truly intend to be an autocratic monarch? The Cardinals believed they had been sufficiently cooperative with all the Pope’s actions; as a reciprocal reward, the Pope ought to share a bit of the profit.
Rafael pinched the smooth porcelain handle of his cup, gently swirling it. The tea, crystalline like rubies, ford regular ripples, breaking his reflection on the surface into a blurred halo of light.
The Pope was deliberating. Beneath him, the cardinals unconsciously held their breath, waiting anxiously.
The longer Rafael’s silence stretched, the more the cardinals’ hearts rose into their throats. The deeds Sistine I had committed began to play through their minds in succession—from the funeral pyres that had burned for over half a month during the Great Plague, to the Trial of June that had stained the square red with blood, to the spies who had been dragged into the Arbitration Bureau’s interrogation rooms and never heard from again… Sohow, without their noticing, the puppet pope whom the Portia family had bought onto the Holy See with gold had beco completely shrouded in the shadows of authority and bloodshed.
They began to exchange uneasy glances.
Had their demands been too excessive? Absolutely not! The Holy See’s Inquisition had never been a one-man show; it had always been jointly governed by the cardinals and the Pope. This was nothing more than an utterly ordinary request.
Could Sistine I truly be so greedy and tyrannical?
A faint surge of indignation began to override their unease. If this vast, razor-sharp power could not be shared with them, they wouldn’t mind destroying it entirely—after all, who wouldn’t fear those ubiquitous, prying eyes?
Rafael left them hanging for a while. Judging the timing to be right, he finally took a sip of tea, a gentle smile appearing on his face. He did not look back; instead, with lowered eyelids fixed on his cup, he asked nonchalantly: “Ferrante, you heard the suggestion of the Cardinals. You are the head of the Arbitration Bureau—what are your thoughts?”
Without a mont’s hesitation, Ferrante bowed his head and dropped to one knee, submissively exposing the nape of his neck to the Pope. “I follow your every instruction, Holy Father.”
In front of the Pope, he was as obedient as a dog.
The cardinals made this venomous judgnt privately—though it was hard to say how much of that judgnt was driven by jealousy of Rafael.
“Then let it be so,” Rafael said, reaching out lazily to stroke Ferrante’s head in passing. The gesture truly differed little from petting a ta dog, showing no trace of respect for the powerful head of the Arbitration Bureau.
“Sotis, we truly need impartial and objective oversight from others. It helps us remain rational.”
“Yes. I shall obey your will,” Ferrante answered obediently, showing no displeasure at having his authority diluted.
Rafael caught the sudden, barely suppressed delight that broke across the cardinals’ faces. He couldn’t help but smile faintly. How wonderful. They thought they had gained sothing. And he—he had gained a flock of foolish lambs he could use as scapegoats after the war.
The scale of the Holy Crows had reached terrifying proportions. During warti, no one would delve too deeply at its horrors, that institution would beco like the Inquisition of a century past—hounded and reviled by all. He hadn’t originally planned to make this a top priority. But since they were so eager to claim a share of the spoils, they could bear the burden of responsibility as well.
Trying to take sothing from him? How greedy, how naive.
With that thought, he gently pinched the back of Ferrante’s neck. Their eyes t, and a genuine glint of amusent passed through Rafael’s pale violet eyes.
“Don’t worry,” the Pope said, his voice so soft that only Ferrante could hear. “No one can ever take your place. Ever.”
Author’s Note
Rafael: My thanks to the Consistory for solving a little problem for .
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