“Please discuss the follow-up matters with Ferrante,” Rafael said, reaching out to ring the golden bell beside him three tis, signaling the end of the eting. Without bothering to gauge anyone else’s reaction, he rose gracefully and left.
The Cardinals stood one after another, bowing to see the Pope off. Ferrante followed like the Pope’s shadow, vanishing with him through the doorway. The room was left with only the lavishly dressed crimson-robed cardinals. A few nodded politely to the rest and left; the remaining few exchanged glances. Though they remained silent, their faces were touched with smiles of smug satisfaction.
The risks of this move had been considerable, but the rewards were equally substantial. They had risked retaliation from Sistine I to snatch a piece of at from the lion’s claws. The distribution of the spoils would require further deliberation, but more importantly…
They were no fools, nor did they take Sistine I—who sat so securely upon the Throne of Saint Leah—for one. From any perspective, Rafael was not a man who would so easily be bullied. Yet, he had let go so easily, allowing them to seize such a bountiful harvest. Even in their state of extre euphoria, the Cardinals could not ignore the faint unease in their hearts.
He must have so hidden move waiting for them, or perhaps this succulent at was laced with a hook.
But no matter how deep the trap ahead might be, the Cardinals could not restrain their ambition to swallow the prize. Even if it was a trap, they were determined to take the risk.
Simultaneously, however, they heightened their vigilance toward Rafael once more.
At the sa ti, however, they grew even more wary of Rafael.
If only they could withdraw at the right mont, if only they didn’t get trapped, they could walk away safely with the spoils of victory—that was what each of them thought.
They saw the sa thing in each other’s eyes—a covetousness for wealth and power, and the ruthlessness of soone ready to push others onto the blade when faced with the dangers of flesh and blood.
The solidarity they had just shown seed to evaporate in an instant. With hypocritical, courteous smiles, they parted ways as soon as they left the Papal Palace, each heading down a different path.
Having left the Hall of Our Lady, Rafael had intended to walk for a while on his own. But as soon as he turned a corner, Ferrante half-guided, half-supported him into a wheelchair. Rafael frowned in displeasure. “I can walk on my own.”
“Dr. Polly said you shouldn’t walk too much.” Ferrante’s expression was firm. His deep blue eyes held a stubbornness that would not waver even if he were beaten or scolded.
Rafael was almost amused by his expression.
“To the Grand Gallery,” the Pope ordered, tilting his chin. His beautiful face carried a deliberately imperious air, as if he wanted to make things difficult for Ferrante. This touch of sharp petulance felt sowhat out of place on him; rather than instilling fear, it made him look like a cat perched atop its master’s head, looking down on the world.
Ferrante indulged Rafael’s petty displeasure, pushing the wheelchair toward the Grand Gallery. His attendants cleverly intercepted others and hung golden bells at the several arches of the Grand Gallery, symbolizing the Pope’s presence.
The Grand Gallery, with its crimson carpet, was as quiet as ever. The figures within the enormous gilded fras on the walls gazed out at the viewer in various poses. The lifelike brushstrokes made their eyes seem particularly vivid, as if following each person who walked past their canvas. Spending too long in this place gave one the sensation of being watched by countless eyes. The cold, eerie stares of the dead clung to one’s back like greedy tentacles, siphoning off the warmth and vitality of the living.
Ferrante pushed Rafael through the gaze of countless portraits. The wheelchair rolled soundlessly over the thick carpet. Through the arched stained-glass windows, a brilliant, cool golden sunlight stread in. They moved through the alternating patches of light and shadow, one mont bathed in golden rays, the next stepping into dim obscurity. This shifting play of light created an illusion of ti stretching endlessly, as if they were passing through infinite echoes and entering an interminable expanse of history.
In the corners of the fras, small pieces of parchnt noted the nas of the portraits and the artists. Most had yellowed, the ink blurring at the edges in fuzzy halos. Ferrante was not keen on these “arts,” despite each piece being a priceless treasure that outsiders would beg in vain just to glimpse.
“The Florentine Seminary proposed last year that they wanted to establish an Academy of Art. The primary goal was to train impoverished painters with artistic talent to serve the Holy See. While the Cathedral of Florence has masters in charge of its paintings, many ordinary small churches lack such talent, and the financial burden of studying art is too great. Noble families, anwhile, consider it a disgrace for their children to pursue the arts. The Seminary submitted a relevant application to the Palace, hoping for so support.”
Looking at the artistic treasures in the corridor, Rafael suddenly rembered this matter. It was indeed a minor affair to him, so much so that he had pushed it to the back of his mind for half a year. Had he not passed through the Grand Gallery today, he might not have rembered it until the Rector of the Seminary next ca for an audience.
“Art,” Ferrante muttered. He understood nothing of it. All his skills were related to intelligence gathering, interrogation, and protection. The only ability he possessed that even slightly bordered on art was judging the value of confiscated items—undeniably, he was exceptionally gifted in this regard. This “artistic” scope included not only paintings but also various jewelry and raw gemstones.
To put it plainly, Ferrante was a walking appraiser of financial value.
Hearing his ambiguous remark, Rafael knew exactly what he was thinking. “Much of art’s value does not lie only in the present. Send a letter of my approval to the Rector this afternoon and have him prepare for enrollnt. For the first three years, the Papal Palace will cover eighty percent of the students’ tuition and the cost of basic art supplies. Have them submit a clear application list. As for the rest… the students can coordinate with the various churches.”
Just as Ferrante was about to comply, Rafael added: “Tell him that although the Academy of Art is established within the Seminary and created for the Holy See, students must not be prohibited from creating works on other subjects.”
Ferrante paused. Thinking of the character of that exceptionally devout and old-fashioned Rector, he hesitated. “…If he sees a student painting genre scenes of daily life, he might faint from anger.”
Rafael’s thoughts aligned with his; the corners of his lips quirked slightly as he said nonchalantly: “Tell him it is my command. If there is any objection, I will consider revoking his right to bring students to the Great Gallery for observation.”
Well then. To that old-fashioned believer, the Holy Father’s command was more important than anything.
The two quickly put the matter aside. At this mont, neither of them imagined that this whim of the Pope would lead to the birth of the world’s finest art institution in Florence—an insurmountable monunt in the art world. Countless artists would graduate from here, and the nas on the alumni register, when strung together, would form the outline of world art history. Every artist would yearn to co to this sacred site to pay homage. And every student, before graduation, would choose a religious painting as their final project; without exception, the the would always be related to Pope Sistine I.
In 1780, democratic ideals would begin to sweep across the continent. The art academy allowed students to freely nominate respected scholars as deans. The unconventional artists, with an overwhelming majority of 123 votes, propelled the long-deceased Pope Sistine I to the position. Thus, Sistine I dramatically beca the honorary dean of the art academy, a role that would remain unchanged for centuries.
Even during the most authoritarian eras, the Academy of Art held fast to the command left by the Holy Father, never prohibiting students from creating works on any subject. They walked their own paths freely and firmly, leaving behind the most precious works for posterity. In such an environnt, the graduation works dedicated by the students to the “Best Rector” were stored in the vaults of the Papal Palace—their creators’ nas either unknown or world-shaking, though at this mont, Rafael knew nothing of it.
The two finally stopped beneath the wall at the end of the Grand Gallery. On the wall, draped with dark red velvet curtains, hung only a single, massive portrait. The crowned Pope sat upon Saint Leah’s Throne, his snow-white vestnts trailing down, the scarlet and gold patterns on his chasuble intertwined. The young Pope wore a compassionate and holy smile; he had long golden hair and pale violet eyes. The painter had depicted him like an angel descending to the mortal realm, his gaze toward the viewer gentle yet majestic, filled with a divinity that transcended common n.
Looking at his own portrait from such an angle was truly a bit strange. Rafael tilted his head back, thinking with a hint of confusion: Was I really like that then? Clearly, only a few years had passed, yet it felt as distant as a lifeti. Had I really appeared so radiant and spirited?
Rafael struggled to recall. At that ti, he had just escaped from a dream of near-death; the claws of terror had gripped his soul. He had been anxious, paranoid, fearful, and wary of everyone around him. He thought he had looked terrible at the ti—how could a neurotic ntal patient, a ghost filled with vengeful fury, look good? Yet in the eyes of others, he apparently looked quite well.
Rafael laughed mockingly in his heart. Ferrante was also looking up, though his mood was clearly the polar opposite of Rafael’s.
“I snuck off to see it back then,” he said suddenly. “The procession passed through the Lower District. All the orphans from the churches were required to do volunteer work. I left the line and mingled with the crowd, waiting until your carriage passed by.”
Ferrante gazed at the magnificent portrait on the wall. He would forever rember that glimpse: the Pope’s golden carriage slowly departing amidst a throng of ten thousand. Attendants scattered perfud flower petals and ribbons. He had slipped away from the church group, aggressively pushing his way through the crowd, stretching his arms to grab the black bread and dried at distributed by the attendants. Amidst the countless jostling heads, he saw the Pope, seated upon the golden carriage, turn his face and cast a hollow, vacant look toward the crowd.
He had been panting from the exhaustion of running, chasing that gaze. Perhaps the Pope had only glanced over unintentionally; perhaps he didn’t even rember what he had seen. But Ferrante, foolishly and stubbornly, kept chasing, kept replaying that look in his mind—
He had never seen such an expression.
It was like a dead man climbing out of the fires of hell catching sight of a sweet spring. Beyond the euphoria and disbelief, there was also a twisted pain and resentnt. He was both the happiest person and most miserable in the world, to the point that the sense of fracture and resentnt emanating from his very soul deeply captivated Ferrante, who was himself equally incomplete.
He wanted to chase him, to see that broken soul clearly, to ask him: How did you shatter into such a state, and how did you piece yourself back together?
Even before they had t, Ferrante had already been drawn by that fateful, inscrutable mystery. It was the phantom in his dreams, the salvation promised in the Holy Books, and the Saint to whom he prayed day and night.
However, the question he once wanted to ask was one he no longer dared to pose after truly drawing close to Rafael. It was a baseless cowardice; Ferrante was unwilling to investigate the things that caused Rafael such pain. He only hoped that he would be the one to accompany Rafael and help him heal.
His deep blue eyes moved from the portrait, gazing intently at Rafael’s back as he had done countless tis before.
Rafael, puzzled by why he was lingering here so long, turned his head slightly and t Ferrante’s overly focused gaze. There were no others present, so Ferrante’s eyes were filled to the brim with an overflowing, ardent love.
He looked at him with a devotion more profound than a believer gazing upon a saint, a faithfulness more faithful than a lover’s longing for their partner.
Rafael was taken aback.
For the first ti, the Pope, who had always been a master strategist and scher, felt a faint trace of regret. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let Ferrante follow him. He could give Ferrante power, wealth, fa, anything he desired—anything except squeeze a single drop of sweet love in return from his own empty, barren heart.
Thoughts churned in the Pope’s mind. He raised his hand. Ferrante imdiately lowered his head and brought his face close—a gesture that, given his current position, was sowhat deaning. Yet he showed no sign of displeasure.
Rafael paused, then pushed his face away with neither gentleness nor harshness, saying coldly, “You are the head of the Arbitration Bureau. Mind your position.”
Ferrante laughed softly, and with persistent determination, pressed his face against Rafael’s hand again. This ti, he caught Rafael’s hand in his own, preventing him from pulling away. “I am always mindful of my status. Compared to those useless titles and honors, is my primary identity not the Holy Father’s dog?”
He smiled and blinked, his lips moving as he mouthed a word silently.
Rafael was instantly transported back to the shock of the day he had faced Ferrante barking like a dog. Even after all this ti, the impact of that mont hadn’t been eroded by the passage of ti; the young Pope’s entire body stiffened involuntarily.
Ferrante seed quite pleased with his little trick. A “good dog,” of course, still possessed a belly full of sches. When it ca to competing for a master’s attention and favor, a dog was no more innocent than any other animal. These creatures, dosticated from wolves, still carried the ancestral wildness and possessiveness in their bones—they were simply better at disguising and hiding it.
Ferrante lowered his eyelids, using his long lashes to cautiously veil the terrifying emotions swirling in his pupils. He turned his face slightly and piously kissed the center of Rafael’s palm.
“Holy Father, I beg you, look at ,” he murmured, burying the word he most wanted to say deep within his heart.
Rafael was the supre Pope, the incarnation of the Divine Lord on earth. How could a lowly human dare to hope for his love? Even causing his heart to stir was a sin. A Pope could not contract a marriage, and the Holy Scriptures condemned sa-sex love. As the Pope, Rafael knew this fact better than Ferrante, yet he never spoke of it.
Thus, every kiss was a painful yet sweet for Ferrante.
He indulged in this love, yet feared the ethereal notion of sin. He wanted to draw closer, yet also wanted to stay away.
He didn’t know what Rafael was thinking. As for Ferrante, he had long prepared himself for the possibility that Rafael might one day withdraw. It was just that, within this limited ti, he had fallen madly infatuated, unable to extricate himself.
Rafael calmly watched Ferrante’s profile. The tingling numbness in his palm spread to his brain as the moist kisses moved from his palm to the inside of his wrist. Rafael contemplated him for a mont, then curled his fingers and seized a handful of Ferrante’s curly hair. The man, having his hair roughly seized, obediently allowed himself to be bullied. He followed the force of Rafael’s grip, lifting his head to et a kiss that carried a faint chill and the scent of myrrh.
They kissed at the end of the Grand Gallery, beneath the gaze of countless Popes and Saints, embracing secretly and briefly. Outside the window, the white doves in the great square took flight at their appointed ti, the flapping of their wings cutting through the path of sunlight, splattering its fractured rays generously upon them through the glass.
A drifting white dove feather fluttered down, caught by a hand with distinct knuckles. The fingers pinched the soft feather, twirled it twice, and casually tossed it into the garden outside the window.
Author’s Note:
Today is a victory for the puppy! But victory is temporary; war is eternal! Will the next contestant please step onto the track!
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