The Reversed Hierophant

‘In the year 1080, a great plague struck Florence. Pope Sistine I went to the lower city to comfort the people. During this epidemic, he displayed an extraordinary calmness, rationality, and compassion, conducting daily requiem masses and receiving devout believers… To pray to God, he insisted on eating only one meal a day, consisting mainly of water, black bread, and cabbage soup. He underwent a major purification every five days, during which any food was prohibited… His actions inspired more and more people, and the chaotic lower city had never loved a Florentine religious leader as much…’

‘… A month after the outbreak, Pope Sistine I issued a papal bull, ordering that all people and livestock that died from the plague, as well as related clothing and items, be burned to ashes, including those who had already been buried… The lower city experienced several successive riots, and some patients even began to attack the checkpoints guarded by the Knights Templar and were shot dead…’

‘Three days after the papal bull was issued, the Knights Templar, in accordance with the Pope’s orders, sent all of the plague-stricken dead and their related items in Florence to the pyre. Patients were sent to the Great Gospel Monastery for unified management…’

‘… A month after the papal bull was issued, the plague in Florence ended.’

‘Pope Sistine I was the first to adopt the method of quarantine and cremation to disinfect and eliminate the plague, which had a great impact on the prevailing theological idea in the Middle Ages. This practice effectively accelerated the elimination of infectious disease, and modern medicine thus emerged. As a theological leader and religious spokesperson, Pope Sistine I’s actions were controversial at the time, and the Holy Church also had many debates about it…‘

‘However, undoubtedly, as the leader who faced the Florentine plague head-on, compared to the Black Death, which had ravaged most of the continent for more than a decade and claimed tens of millions of lives, Florence under the rule of Pope Sistine I only had a little over 7,000 deaths ¹ during the disaster, which was a remarkable achievement…’

The record on paper only had a few lines. In the vast sea of files, this incident was just a moment in the long history of Florence. History does not listen to the cries of the dead, nor does it hear the complaints of the poor. The deaths of seven thousand people were reduced to cold numbers on paper, only four characters long, but behind it were the flames that never stopped burning day and night, the ashes that covered Florence’s sky, and the desperate screams and shouts.

The Great Gospel Monastery was built on the edge of the lower city of Florence. A few miles further out, one could see the ancient city walls of Florence. Some monks still lived in this monastery. They strictly adhered to the church rules and demanded the most austere and frugal lifestyle of themselves in order to draw closer to God.

After the outbreak of the plague, all the monks of the Great Gospel Monastery left here and participated in the management and care of the patients. The monastery gates were open, allowing anyone to enter or leave freely, and accepted all homeless people. Ferrante and Rafael jointly designated it as the final residence for the patients of this epidemic. Because this monastery had very thick walls, narrow windows, and was located far away from residential areas.

The patients were moved into the Great Gospel Monastery as quickly as possible. The Knights Templar blocked the streets and prohibited everyone from going out. Lines of stretchers converged into rivers on the roads. These rivers started from different places and eventually flowed into the remote Great Gospel Monastery.

The streets were filled with cries of anguish.

The Papal decree had been issued days ago, and everyone in the lower city knew what awaited the sick. The patients themselves also knew what their end would be. They wept helplessly and sorrowfully, begging for mercy from His Holiness the Pope or cursing him with words they themselves didn’t understand.

The closer one got to the Great Gospel Monastery, the louder the cries became. Some agitated patients even tried to leap from their stretchers and flee, only to be returned by the knights guarding on both sides. The monastery entrance was in chaos, and this turmoil continued until dusk.

The city guards and knights stationed at the exit of the lower city had already shot and killed the sixth person that day who had tried to escape the lower city blockade. The ground was wet with blood. They carried buckets, pouring clean water over the ground to wash away the stench of blood. There was no expression on anyone’s face.

Rafael had been standing on the bell tower of the Orange Blossom Church for the whole day. From the moment the first stretcher was carried out of the gate to the closing of the Great Gospel Monastery, he stood there motionless, like a cold statue.

The lower city was filled with cries, so many of them that they mixed into the ubiquitous sound of sobbing wind. All of the sounds were accusations against him.

‘He is an extremely cruel Pope,’ a minstrel wrote in his notebook. He had been fortunate enough not to enter the lower city before the plague arrived, but he had witnessed history at the place closest to this cruel fate.

‘I cannot imagine how he could issue such an order, forcing devout believers to accept the fact that they would be burned after death. This is a punishment comparable to being sentenced to hell. As Pope, he should have been tolerant and compassionate towards his believers, but now there is only fear of him left in Florence.’

This worn notebook, well-preserved by the passage of time, was later placed in a museum in Florence. Page by page, the thin, brittle paper was carefully placed on a platform, illuminated by dim lights, allowing visitors to see the mental journey of an eyewitness to this disaster hundreds of years ago.

‘…Although as someone not affected by the disease, I am sincerely grateful to him for cutting off the source of the epidemic, I have also heard the rolling curses directed towards him. Perhaps people in the future will have a different evaluation. Will they praise him instead? I hope that there really will be such a day. After all, he really doesn’t look like a devil, even though he was so cold, decisive, and ruthless when issuing orders.’ ʀÂŊo͍ＢĚＳ

‘May God bless him.’

Rafael knew nothing of this bystander’s account. He ordered the Knights Templar to guard the Great Gospel Monastery strictly, allowing no one to enter or leave. Some family members of the patients, in an attempt to snatch away their loved ones ‘about to be burned at the stake,’ even made spears and other weapons, trying to break through the blockade and enter the monastery. To guard against these people, Rafael ordered the monastery gates to be sealed with mud and sand. All necessary supplies were transported through baskets tied to a rope and suspended from the monastery tower. The weapons of the Knights Templar were also changed from deterrent poles to lethal swords and spears.

In the first few days, there were people at the gates of the Great Gospel Monastery every day who failed to break through the gates groaning on the ground, but since the Knights Templar changed their equipment and put on their light combat armor, every inch of their skin was tightly covered under the cold armor, losing their human faces. They were like ruthless killing machines standing on marble pedestals. Faced with their blades and guns, everyone finally realized: the Pope was serious this time.

All acts of resistance and attempts to storm the monastery disappeared after that.

But Rafael did not feel any less pressure because of this. Not only in the lower city, but even people in the upper city had reservations about his actions—or rather, it was precisely because they were not directly threatened by the plague that they could speak more easily about ‘tolerance,’ ‘mercy,’ and ‘compassion for believers.’

But Rafael wasn’t someone who could be easily shaken by mere criticism.

When he is certain he is on the right path, no difficulty could shake him.

If it were a mountain, he would climb over it; if it were water, he would wade through it; if it were God Himself hindering his progress, he would renounce his faith and raise the banner of Hell.

Despite his confusion about his rebirth, which could only have been a miracle from God, granting him a second life, Rafael wondered what purpose God had in bestowing such a miracle upon him.

Rafael was not afraid to speculate about others with the greatest malice, even if that person might be the God who had given him a new life.

His new life was still full of thorns, blood, tears, and pain. He wasn’t happy, and if this was what God wanted to see, then this God was full of malice.

A month later, the gates of the Great Gospel Monastery were opened, or rather, smashed open by craftsmen from outside. They had observed that the incessant flames behind the monastery had ceased, ashes were slowly settling in the air, and there were no more baskets placed by the window in the tower to receive supplies. The daily notes that were handed out had disappeared.

The last note described the situation inside the monastery in a few words:

‘——All the patients have died and been cremated. Fellow brother monks who were sick had also voluntarily walked into the fire. They were all devout believers. Brother John and I saw them off. We also seem to have a slight fever. After inspecting and cleaning up all the items, we will light the final flame.’

‘——May those who have departed return peacefully to God’s embrace, and may God bless our Holy Father, who is most merciful.’

This note became the last voice sent out from the Great Gospel Monastery.

The next day, those watching from a high place saw flames rising from the Great Gospel Monastery. This fire burned from dawn to noon and then gradually extinguished. There was no further response from the monastery.

The craftsmen broke through the sandstone wall they had built and pushed open the heavy, iron-clad wooden door. The door, deprived of lubrication, creaked loudly. The knights filed in, pushing open every door and checking the situation inside. Surprisingly, every room seemed to be made out of the same mold. These rooms where the poor monks lived were so narrow that they could only fit a wooden board bed and a wooden table. The beds and tables were empty, the floor was swept clean, and there was no sign that plague patients had ever lived there. Everything that needed to be cleaned up had disappeared. Except for the thick layer of ash and dust in the backyard, no one could tell what had happened here.

The Great Gospel Monastery seemed to have returned to the time before everything began, waiting to welcome devout monks from all directions.

After a thorough inspection, the monastery was sealed once more. This time, it was estimated that it would remain unopened until Rafael’s death. Unless it were demolished and rebuilt, this monastery where countless people had perished, would only be reopened after this bloody chapter of history had been completely forgotten.

Two days after the plague had completely disappeared, the Papal Palace held a large-scale requiem mass in the Lower City.

Those who had survived ventured out of their homes, timidly basking in the sunlight. The Pope’s ornate carriage traveled along specially cleaned and decorated roads, flanked by the fully armed knights of the Templar Order. People, holding white wax candles distributed by the Papal Palace, crowded the streets on either side. Compared to the desolate and empty streets during the plague, one couldn’t help but be surprised that so many people still lived in the lower city.

Unlike a year ago when they had cheered the arrival of the Pope’s carriage, they stood there numbly with tears in their eyes, coldly watching the Pope’s carriage pass in front of them. They knelt in accordance with etiquette, but this time they no longer shouted the name of Sistine I with such joy. Instead, they mumbled indistinctly, their lips moving in a prayer that they themselves did not fully understand.

Through the thin gauze curtains, Rafael saw some people’s eyes filled with hatred and hostility.

These are the people he wanted to protect.

Rafael silently turned his head and looked indifferently at the road ahead.

A large copper basin was erected, and bundles of spices were thrown into it. The fragrant aroma spread throughout the Lower City for the first time, and people greedily inhaled the scent that had previously only been found in the homes of the nobility and in great cathedrals. Their eyes were filled with tears from the smoke, and the Pope, dressed in a magnificent jeweled crown, held the double-winged scepter that symbolized God. He stepped onto the marble-paved platform.

He completed the complicated and lengthy requiem ceremony according to procedure. As he lit the parchment, the thin ashes were carried away by the wind, as if there really were souls rising with it, soaring into the heavens and into the embrace of the Supreme Being. Everyone’s heart was greatly soothed. The hatred, pain, sorrow, and oppression were brushed away by an invisible hand amid the heavy fragrance, the steady and gentle voice, the clear and ethereal singing of the choir, and the devout chanting of the clergy.

Rafael looked at the countless faces, both clear and blurred, below him. He saw the intense emotions in their eyes gradually subside and turn into something heavier and more hidden. These lingering feelings could only be erased by time.

The Pope looked at his believers, and the believers of Florence looked at their protector.

They heard the young Pope, who was as beautiful as a painted angel, say, “… God’s trial is over. He has taken away His suffering children, leaving you as His servants on earth. You have proven your devotion and faith…”

The Pope’s golden hair shone with a holy glow in the sunlight, firm, beautiful, and determined, just as he had been when he had defied all opposition and entered the dangerous Lower City.

“Brothers and sisters, the plague is finally over. I am glad. The Lower City of Florence will soon begin to usher in a new day.”

“For now, let us weep for the dead and the living.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the square remained silent, but tears gradually gathered in people’s eyes, and low sobs could be heard. Someone started crying loudly, and the mournful wailing spread throughout the square.

Amidst the weeping, Rafael slowly descended from the platform. An old woman standing near the steps suddenly reached out, trying to break through the line of knights, which caught Rafael’s attention. The Pope looked at her. The hunchbacked, ragged, wrinkled old woman had tears on her face. She opened her almost toothless mouth and said, “…My four children and three granddaughters died of the plague. They were all burned by your order.”

Rafael froze. He forced himself not to look away, ready to accept any rebuke, interrogation, or scolding.

“Why did you do this?”

The old woman tried hard to control her emotions and prevent her tears from affecting her words.

Rafael looked at her silently. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t even say a light ‘sorry.’ In the face of seven lives, any apology would be an insult.

“But…” The old woman let out a mournful cry like a mother who had lost her cub. She took a deep breath, “But… please don’t blame yourself, Holy Father. We all know that you’ve done your best. I thank you. You saved my last two children. I… Holy Father…”

She cried and said, “Holy Father, we will always be your most devout and faithful children.”

Rafael stared at her dazedly. He had been expecting a blade, but they had offered him flowers instead.

Could life be so kind to him?

The crowd pushed forward, carrying the old woman away from Rafael’s sight. The Pope boarded his carriage and left the Lower City, surrounded by a crowd of people. This scene was later recorded and placed under the lights of a museum, with only a short sentence:

‘Florence has never loved its father so deeply.’

Translator’s Note

Just for clarification, Rafael basically ordered all sick patients to be gathered and quarantined in the monastery. Once they died, they would then be cremated and buried in the monastery’s cemetery. He didn’t order the sick to be burned alive.

¹ This death toll was pretty mild for its time. During the Black Death in the 13th century, an estimated 60,000 people or 3 out of every 5 people died in Florence. The infected died within 3 days, people were infected by the smallest contact, even with the clothes or other objects handled by the ill. A historian witnessed dead bodies being thrown out upon the streets, after which, the animals who started to touch it fell down dead.

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