Ferrante sat beneath the grape trellis on the colonnade. Lush green leaves, as large as an adult’s palm, hung down, and curling vines wrapped around the slender, plaster columns. Sunlight, dappled like shattered gold, filtered through the gaps and fell on Ferrante’s legs. The dark-haired youth tilted his head back slightly with the curve of his profile smooth and flowing, his high nose bridge and a delicate jaw. He looked like Narcissus, sitting by the lake in deep thought.

    He felt a little cold.

    It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in a long time, but thinking back, it was only a few months ago that he was wearing the thin robes of the church, gritting his teeth and enduring illness brought on by the cold wind, feeling the sensation of an ever-present chill eroding his skin.

    And now, the Papal Palace had provided him with warm clothes and delicious food, making him quickly forget those days of hunger and cold. He had mistakenly thought he had always lived in such a magnificent palace. What was this, a rubbish instinct for warmth?

    But reality would eventually wake him from his dream.

    He stripped off the uniform of the Papal Guard – a rather formal outfit, consisting of a white silk shirt, a double-breasted coat and trousers, a short white cape slung across his chest, and calf-length leather boots, all topped with a triangular hat adorned with white thorn and lily patterns, symbolizing the Holy See and the Pope. In the uniform of the Papal Guard, everyone could look tall and handsome; the uniform erased the barriers of wealth and origin. For a long time, Ferrante even forgot where he had grown up.

    He unconsciously touched the cold, smooth fabric of his sleeve. This expensive silk came from the distant East, a vast empire that produced spices and silk. Countless covetous eyes were fixed upon it, but due to the empire’s formidable military strength, no nation could cross the strait and set foot on that land flowing with gold and fragrance.

    In the past, Ferrante didn’t even know that such precious fabric existed. It was as soft as water and as light as moonlight, shimmering with a gem-like lustre under the sun.

    These were gifts that Franc?ois gave to the most beautiful boys and girls in the garden, and just like the diamond brooches, tiaras, and ivory that were given away in piles – they were trivial things in his eyes.No?v(el)B\\jnn

    Ferrante had become the most eye-catching boy in the garden at an astonishing speed. He was shy yet affectionate, never refusing anyone’s kiss, but he would also withdraw at the last moment. They laughed at him, calling him a ‘milk-fed baby who hadn’t grown up yet.’ Ferrante just smiled, and as they looked at his smile, they would, as they had countless times before, forgive his departure.

    Sometimes, even he himself would be amazed at how smoothly things went. He seemed to instinctively grasp the meaning behind everyone’s words and expressions, and he skillfully responded in different ways. A smile, or a timely hug, a proper refusal could make people even more infatuated with him. Distance and enthusiasm have never been opposites... These were things that even the top spies and lovers had to learn for several years, but he has been exposed to them since birth and had integrated them into his bones during the long period of his lonely life.

    He was a natural socialite and spy. Few people could keep their secrets from him, and when he put on different masks, his skilled and seamless performance was as if he had never had a personality of his own.

    So far, no one had discovered this terrifying talent of his. He himself had only vaguely used this ability to benefit himself. Even with Rafael... he had to admit that, when he was by the Pope’s side, for certain reasons, he had always presented himself as a positive, optimistic, innocently devout poor boy. The Pope favored him as he wished, and he got what he wanted, and he was willing to continue pretending to be a foolish and naive boy to gain such favor.

    Until he came here.

    In the warm garden wrapped in silk and spices, he keenly sensed the underlying reality. Everyone was doing their utmost to gain the affection of the masters, headed by Franc?ois. Ferrante’s instinct, like seedlings seeing rain and dew, madly broke through its shackles, like a wild beast reclaiming its territory. In just a few days, he had gained the right to wear silk clothes.

    A maggot is a maggot, something that crawled out of a filthy mud pit. No matter how much softness and tenderness it is wrapped in, it cannot change its deceptive nature.

    Ferrante thought about this absentmindedly, and for the first time he felt that he was truly hopeless.

    But he was clearly aware his own nature, yet he could never understand that person... His hand, hidden in his sleeve, clenched a piece of paper, soaked and blurred with sweat. There was only a short line on it, the handwriting sharp and elegant, like the tendrils of a flower winding gracefully. He had read that sentence countless times, until he could recite it backwards, but he just couldn’t understand.

    —Why did he ask him to leave? Did the Pope really intend to abandon these poor people to despair?

    —He couldn’t accept it.

    His mother, a piece of porcelain that was thrown to the ground and shattered by fate, a woman who was worn down by life, was a devout believer. Even at the end of her life, she would not forget to pray to the Lord, begging for forgiveness from her sins, praising with full hope the saint who bore the sins of the world for mankind.

    Saint Leah was born from God’s palm, coming into the world to redeem the sinful mankind. He bore the heavy burden of sin and walked the earth to free people from sin and enable them to be qualified to enter the Lord’s embrace.

    Actually, he didn’t know. His Papal Guard was already quite remarkable, after all, not everyone could fight eight people at once and still stand before him alive and kicking.

    “Alright, I understand. Go and rest,” Rafael said in a gentle tone, dismissing him. Ferrante didn’t move. His eyes, as deep and beautiful as the ocean, looked at the ruler of Florence. In the brief silence, the boy asked hoarsely, “Your Holiness, are you really not going to save them?”

    Rafael realized something from this sentence. He remembered that after seeing Jenny that day, Ferrante had asked him the same question repeatedly in a similar tone.

    “You hope I’ll save them,” Rafael said affirmatively.

    Ferrante remained silent before this statement.

    “Then what do you want me to do?” the young Pope asked. Their pale purple and deep blue eyes met, and Ferrante was startled to find that he couldn’t find any trace of tenderness or compassion in them—or perhaps there was, but those eyes were so clear and cold, he didn’t even dare to look at that vast, cold purple plain for too long.

    “I... I don’t know,” Ferrante felt like he had to say something, but what could he say? Could he use those sweet nothings he used to deal with Franc?ois’ lovers here?

    He then frantically tried to dissect his worthless self: “I don’t know...”

    Rafael looked at him indifferently. For the first time, the tall and straight young man bent his back slightly, as if a heavier burden than life was pressing on his shoulders, was pressing on his shoulders, forcing him to try to take this step.

    “I... I beg you...” The boy, who was good at sweet talk, seemed to have returned to his childhood, imitating his mother’s way of begging for the saint’s mercy, “I beg you to save us....”

    It was a devout plea that seemed to come from the very depths of his heart.

    Ferrante thought blankly, this matter actually had nothing to do with him, but he didn’t know why he cared so much, as if he had to prove something by doing this.

    The Pope, sitting in the shadows, sighed silently. He stood up, walked around the large desk, and placed his cold hand on top of Ferrante’s head. The chill passed through his hair and touched the boy’s hot skin, causing him to involuntarily shiver.

    Past pleas had always gone unanswered, and the lofty saint above had simply smiled in silence.

    “I heard you,” the Pope replied softly.

    Rafael found that no matter how determined he was, he couldn’t refuse this sincere plea.

    How could he ignore the cry of Florence? As he had said, he loved Florence deeply, including all of its ugliness and beauty, equally.

    Ferrante’s gaze rested on the hem of the Pope’s robe. A corner of the snow-white robe trailed on the luxurious long-pile carpet, like a pure white flower blooming on the ground.

    The devout believer had finally heard the saint’s answer.

    Author’s Note

    Rafael: Sometimes I feel a little soft-hearted.