François was having a grand time in Florence.

As the de facto ruler of the vast empire of Calais, he possessed countless wealth, power spanning across the continent, and a noble status. This allowed him to obtain everything he desired with ease. Except for the years he had to lurk under his brother’s crown when he was young, he had never bowed to anyone’s orders—not even to the Pope, the spiritual leader of the continent.

The Pope… Humph, the Pope was merely something that needed to rely on the Calais royal family to survive, François thought contemptuously as he kissed the cheek of the young woman in his arms and listened to her laughter.

Florence boasted of its authority, claiming to have the faith of all the people, but it was the country and the royal family that truly owned these people. Since the fall of the Knights Templar, Florence’s influence had declined significantly. Although those ignorant lambs were still foolishly willing to donate all their wealth to the church, a large portion of this money was embezzled by the lords and royalty before it reached Florence.

Florence was, of course, aware of this dire situation and worked to change it. Pope Vitalian III had implemented a religious reform, and many of its measures had proven effective—measures that the royal families and lords were not very happy about. Fortunately, the unlucky Vitalian III was soon assassinated, and his successor was a complete fool. Till his death, he was still figuring out how to empty the papal palace of its wealth. The Holy Reforms, which had been halfway completed, was thus put on hold in a muddled manner.

François’s visit to Florence this time, in addition to celebrating the coronation of Sistine I, had another purpose: to confirm whether this new Pope would once again promote reforms that were unfavorable to the royal family.

They were quite satisfied with Florence’s current situation, so they were not stingy in giving Florence the title of a holy city and bestowing empty glory on the Pope—as long as he is obedient and content, without doing unnecessary things or having unnecessary thoughts.

However, he didn’t expect that before he could find out what he wanted to know, his target had already become so disgusted with him that they wanted to kick him back to Calais.

François was naked from the waist up, his white trousers hanging loosely around his hips. His muscular chest was smeared with a transparent, shiny oil, imitating the custom of ancient Roman gladiators. His gold armbands and necklaces were shining. The woman lying on the couch turned over and looked at his back with infatuated eyes.

François’s love for ancient Roman civilization was no secret. In the palace of Calais, he had imitated the customs of the Roman nobles, building a spacious arena, an open-air bathhouse, and an academic square. Those who entered had to wear ancient Roman attire, creating a retro atmosphere.

A girl dressed in a long gauze skirt and dressed as a slave was kneeling on the carpet, holding a goblet filled with crimson wine. She knelt on Francois’ side, raised the goblet high, and invited her brave master to relieve his fatigue.

François laughed, bent down, wrapped his arms around the slave’s waist, and lifted her from the ground. The slave screamed, the golden goblet in her hand shook twice, but she managed to steady it. François then took her hand, lowered his head and drank the glass of wine. Finally, he kissed the young girl hard on the lips.

Neither the woman on the couch nor the female slaves around showed the slightest surprise at such an absurd scene, as if they were accustomed to it. They happily enjoyed the fragrant and mellow wine and the endless delicacies. High and low tables were filled with abundant fresh fruits and food, which everyone could take as much as they wanted.

What was not lacking here were beautiful girls and handsome boys. They were of different ages, gathered in groups of three or five, sitting on the grass, talking in low voices or kissing each other, indulging in a degree of debauchery that was shocking. From time to time, someone would leave or join in, and whoever it was, they would greet the newcomer with a warm smile.

François was of course the most popular among them. Wherever he went, beautiful men and women would try to keep him from leaving. They were like the sweetest birds and the gentlest lambs, begging him to stay.

No one in Florence knew that François had built such a “paradise on earth” in his residence. The guards and servants around were all his confidants brought from Calais, and the men and women who entered it consciously kept their mouths shut about the chaotic scene here.

Besides the lovers who share François’s hobbies, the other beauties here are all scouted from the slums of Florence. All the outstanding men and women in the ‘Rose Garden’ and ‘Glass Workshop’ have been sold here, and some well-informed people have even come to recommend themselves, and the rewards they receive far exceed their expectations.

At least François is not a stingy person. He is generous to an excessive degree. He throws gold, silver and jewelry around as if they are free. After staying here for a long time, they will find that money is actually the least worth mentioning thing here.

Disappearances in the slums were so common that even the Portia family, whose tentacles reach all over Florence, were unaware of the abnormal changes here.

“Alright, my little birds,” François said gently to a girl who was tugging at his pants leg. Her female and male companions were sitting behind her, looking at him expectantly. Beside them was a tree with lush vines hanging down, obviously a silent invitation to pleasure. “I’m going out to do some serious business. When I come back, I hope you still have the energy to receive me.”

His refusal was gentle, but after hesitating, the girl obediently let go of his hand and didn’t act spoiled – the instinct of a child from the slums told her that this was not the time to be coquettish, and the other party was definitely not someone who would allow her to act like a spoiled child. Ꞧ

François left here, leaving the sweet sounds of birds and swallows behind him. His servants quickly put on proper clothes for him as he walked. When he stepped out of the door, the Duke of Calais, dressed in ornate clothing and covered in flashy jewelry, was once again revealed to Florence.

The carriage waiting at the door was as clean as new, with a heavy and gorgeous frame inlaid with gold and gems, shining brightly in the sunlight, which was very similar to François’s outfit. Francois jumped into the carriage nimbly and grabbed a short sword from the servant. The white horse pulling the carriage shook its head and snorted. The coachman pulled hard on the reins, the mechanism at the bottom of the carriage seat began to operate, white steam was sprayed from the tail, and the huge carriage slowly moved and then drove briskly on the ancient road of the holy city.

Shortly after he left, a tall, dark-haired boy appeared near the mansion. He was very vigilant, watching the strict guards from a distance. He didn’t approach, but merely glanced at it before walking away nonchalantly. The guards glanced at him and, seeing that he was just a boy, didn’t pay any attention.

“…Are you sure Mary is in there?” the boy asked in a low voice.

The little girl he was holding tightly lowered her head, as if afraid of being seen. “I saw them take Mary in. If I hadn’t been sick, it would have been me who was sent in…”

She choked up as she spoke, tears falling to the ground: “The priest said that Mary has gone to live a good life, but there’s no way she wouldn’t have come back to see me. We’re good friends…”

The boy moved his lips, revealing a silent, sarcastic smile. How naive! He really wanted to say, if Mary currently had a good life, then what was the difficulty in forgetting a good friend?

But he still didn’t say those words. He heard Jenny sobbing and begging, “I… I secretly ran away. The priest said you’re a big shot now, very powerful, serving the Holy Father… Ferrante, can you help me? I’ll give you all my money, and I’ll work hard, I want to be with Mary…”

As Jenny spoke, tears welled up in her eyes again. Her golden hair was dirty, matted with sweat and tears. Ferrante, who had been told about this on a rare day off, stiffened. His first reaction was to refuse.

He wasn’t a naive child like Jenny. He knew very well what kind of big shot lived in that mansion. That was a real big shot. What was he? With a flick of a finger, the other party could crush him, and Mary… Ferrante, who came from the Rose Garden, could guess eight out of ten what role Mary was playing inside.

Some people like flamboyant and seductive women, some like delicate and weak women, and there are also some people who like young, undeveloped girls. Mary was nine years old, with light golden hair and clear blue eyes, like a little angel in a mural. She was the cutest girl in the Holy Grail Church. In the past, many people liked her. Ferrante wasn’t surprised that she was taken away.

He had told these young girls a long time ago that they should find a way to save money to leave the Holy Grail Church, even if they had to scratch their faces and become beggars, it would be better than staying here. There were always people with a preference for young girls, and when they grow up, they would have no choice but to end up in the Rose Garden, which is even worse than the church.

But his advice was too cruel. The young girls couldn’t understand the deep meaning of it, and they couldn’t accept the terrifying proposal of ‘scratching their own faces’, so the matter ended up being dropped, and Ferrante didn’t say anything more to them.

Kindness in the slums is precious and rare, and it’s enough to be able to give out just a little bit.

But perhaps it was because of this meager kindness that when Mary disappeared, Jenny’s first reaction was to come to this strange boy.

Ferrante’s gaze swept over Jenny’s tattered black robe. This familiar black robe had also accompanied him for several years until he left the Holy Grail Church.

Jenny was looking at him with full of expectation. She believed he was an ‘amazing person’, just as the priest said, who could serve by the side of the Holy Father, but how could he be so powerful? He didn’t even have the qualifications to meet the Holy Father.

“I can’t help you,” finally, Ferrante said this cruel sentence to the girl’s expectant and trusting eyes, “I can’t do it, I’m not as powerful as you think…”

Ferrante said expressionlessly, watching the hope in Jenny’s eyes gradually fade. Her tears welled up, growing larger and larger until they could no longer be contained, rolling silently down her cheeks.

“I…” The cold youth rolled his Adam’s apple, his voice a little hoarse, “I can’t.”

“…But,” Jenny trembled, loosening her grip on Ferrante’s collar, sobbing for breath, “Then, then can you go ask the Holy Father? The Holy Father… He loves us, he would be willing to help me, wouldn’t he?”

Ferrante moved his lips but said nothing.

Saints were born to redeem the sins of the world. Would his saint… be willing to extend a hand to these souls in the mud?

They were dirty and lowly, born in the quagmire of fate, stained with dust from birth. They were trampled and spit on, struggling to survive in the cracks. Such people… dared to hope to touch the clean hem of a saint’s robe?

Ferrante suddenly laughed, his tone strange. “Then I’ll go ask for you.”

However, before Ferrante could find a way to see the Pope, Mary’s body was sent back to the Holy Grail Church one morning.

Death in the slums was a speck of dust not worth mentioning. The matter was lightly brushed aside by the few gold florins sent to the church with the body. No one mentioned it again.

At the same time, far away in the Papal Palace, Rafael received François who came to visit according to etiquette. He used all his patience to deal with this arrogant cockerel. He took a deep breath, trying to resist the dizziness caused by the pungent and strong perfume on the other party, and said to himself: “I must kick this bastard back to Calais.”

Julius, standing behind him, chuckled softly and rubbed his temples, saying nothing.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by Aunomay Read