Amandra leaned back on the satin-covered chaise lounge, allowing the sunlight to filter through the glass dome and bathe her face. Her honey-colored skin and misty blue eyelids shimmered with a pearlescent glow.

    The round table next to the chaise lounge was cluttered with inkwells, parchment, and a teacup that was steaming slightly. When Sancha walked in, lifting her skirt, she saw her mother sleeping tiredly, the golden eagle pendant that never left her chest pressed beneath the lotus-like spread of her sleeve.

    It was a rare sight. The Queen of Assyria always seemed full of energy. She steered the helm of the empire with an extraordinary acumen and a tenacity that surpassed that of men. She never revealed her feminine softness on any occasion – unless it would help her gain more benefits. Even the Roman nobles sometimes forgot that she was a woman.

    Sancha rarely saw this side of her mother. She held a letter from Florence in her hand, its contents both unbelievable and undeniable. She wanted to ask her mother about it, but upon seeing this scene, she suddenly felt that perhaps there was no need to ask.

    The ladies-in-waiting sat far away in the long corridor, maintaining a distance that allowed them to see this side and provide timely service to their mistress, without overhearing the private conversation between the queen and the princess. They either read or chatted idly. The queen was very tolerant of the ladies-in-waiting around her and noble ladies were all vying for the opportunity to serve the queen—of course, even if the queen were cruel and violent, they would still want to do so.

    Who would refuse to be near a monarch?

    Sancha was dressed in a rose-red riding suit without a complicated and cumbersome farthingale. Pearls and gems were embedded in her skirt that sparkled like sunlight with her every step. Her golden-brown hair and sapphire blue eyes inherited from her mother gave her a unique charm. The young princess, as light as a forest deer, trotted to her mother’s side, examining the queen’s sleeping face for a while, then casually sat down on the floor, leaning against the queen’s legs, waiting for her to wake up.

    Her mother didn’t keep her waiting for long.

    Amandra awoke from a short, sweet dream. As soon as she opened her eyes, she saw the head with golden-brown hair nestled against her knees. Her usually smooth hair was a bit disheveled from riding, scattered messily on the queen’s golden-red dress. Amandra’s expression still held a trace of the hazy tenderness from her dream. She raised a hand and gently placed it on the long hair, combing it bit by bit.

    “Mother?” Sancha moved her neck and changed to a more comfortable leaning position against the queen’s legs. She rested her head on the queen’s thigh, hugging the queen’s waist with one hand, and squinted her eyes comfortably.

    “My little angel,” Amandra’s voice was hoarse like fine wine, sounding sweet to the ear. Sancha closed her eyes and smiled. She hadn’t heard this nickname in many years. When she was a toddler, Amandra was in a difficult situation in the palace. To protect her daughter, the queen was almost inseparable from her child.

    She fed her daughter with her own hands, sang the wild and long ballads of Assyria to coax her daughter to sleep, and told her daughter about the bits and pieces of her distant homeland. When her daughter was drowsy, she would gently call her ‘my little angel’ and leave her two goodnight kisses on her forehead.

    Why two goodnight kisses?

    Young Sancha asked her mother in a baby voice.

    At that time, the queen, dressed in a corset, farthingale, and an ornate and gorgeous long skirt according to the rules of the Roman court, smiled slightly, her forehead against her daughter’s, as if telling a secret that only they could know, and said in a voice softer than the child’s, “Because two goodnight kisses are a double portion of love from Mommy, my little angel.”

    Lav XI did not love his wife, even though his wife brought an Assyrian crown into the marriage with the Roman Empire.

    This arrogant man didn’t love his only daughter with Amandra either. For a long time, there was almost no trace of this father in Sancha’s early childhood memories, but she still grew up to be as vibrant and proud as she is now, precisely because Amandra had diligently filled the gaps left by her father, raising her with genuine love.

    However, when Sancha grew a few years older, this intimate and sweet address became less frequent. Amandra began to devote more energy to politics. Her teachings to Sancha became strict, even the font she learned had to be personally reviewed and refined stroke by stroke. Such days were not bad, but sometimes Sancha would miss the mother who gently pressed her forehead against hers, gave her two goodnight kisses, and called her ‘my little angel’.

    Sancha coquettishly turned her face sideways, pressing her cheek against Amandra’s hand. As a princess, queen, and empress, Amandra’s hands were not as soft and smooth as those of ordinary noblewomen. There were rough calluses on her palms and her knuckles were rough. Although she had been carefully groomed, these marks could not be removed. It was precisely these marks that constantly reminded people of her title as the “Warrior Queen”, who was best at using the Assyrian long sword, cutting off the heads of her enemies on the back of a galloping horse and letting the blood soak into the soil.

    Amandra gently stroked her daughter’s cheek, her eyes regaining clarity. The haziness and confusion from being immersed in a dream faded from her face like water. She lowered her head and asked softly, “My little sun, did you have a happy day?”

    Sancha’s name means ‘sun’ in the Roman language. She was obviously more accustomed to this nickname that had accompanied her for a long time. She rubbed her cheek against her mother’s hand with a smile, not caring about the rough texture at all. After a moment’s thought, she said, “I received a reply from Florence today.”

    Amandra paused her hand mid-stroke.

    Of course, Sancha’s correspondence with the Pope couldn’t be hidden from the queen. Even the messengers between Rome and Florence were arranged by the queen on her behalf.

    Sancha heard her mother’s unusually gentle voice, “Is that so? What did he say to you?”

    Sancha hesitated for a moment before taking out the letter. “What he said is similar to what you told me. He’s obviously about the same age as me, but he’s incredibly wise. It’s just that he mentioned something in the letter that I’m not quite sure about...”

    Amandra took the letter and studied it for a long time before reading it word for word. When she finished, she nodded thoughtfully, patted her daughter’s head and said, “Are you asking about the marriage negotiations with Calais?”

    Sancha opened her eyes wide in surprise. “Old injury? I didn’t notice at all! No one has ever mentioned it to me...”

    Amandra looked at her helplessly, “How could such a thing be known to everyone? One of the major requirements for becoming the Pope is to be healthy and without defects. I only learned about it through some channels.”

    She glossed over the subject.

    Sancha kept this in mind and began to prepare gifts and replies to be sent to Florence.

    While the atmosphere in Rome was warm, there was panic in Florence.

    As Ferrante’s investigation deepened, more and more lords began to tremble in fear. They retreated to their manors, pacing anxiously day and night, cursing the damned Rafael in their hearts – that crazy Pope! How dare he venture into the plague-ridden area and stay with those lowly commoners? No sane person would do such a thing! The actions of this madman completely shattered their wishful thinking. Not only had they failed to escape Florence, but they were now under strict surveillance. They could almost hear the footsteps of death approaching –

    They dared not utter these curses aloud, for they didn’t know which of their servants might be a spy for Sistine I.

    That madman had somehow gained a wolfhound and used despicable means to extract information from servants, attendants, and even laundrywomen. How could they have ever considered these people worthy of their attention? Yet, these very people, whom they had disregarded, actually knew so much!

    The lords were filled with hatred, but they could only struggle like cornered beasts. Ferrante’s intelligence was still steadily delivered to Rafael’s desk every day. As time passed, strange rumors began to circulate among the lords. More and more of them became restless. Carriages discreetly left their manors and arrived at the side gate of the papal palace, where they were ushered in by waiting black-robed deacons and confessed all their secrets in an attempt to save their own lives.

    The Pope behind his desk listened silently with a smile. The lord, prostrate on the floor, trembled, his face smeared with snot and tears. He trembled as he betrayed all his co-conspirators, swearing to heaven and earth of his innocence and his helplessness of being coerced.

    Sistine I, who looked like a saint in a painting, finally smiled.

    This unexpected reaction gave the lord a glimmer of hope. “I am willing to expose their evil deeds for you!”

    “And what are you willing to give in exchange for your precious life?” Sistine I asked gently.

    “You don’t have to answer now.” The Pope raised a hand. From the shadows behind him emerged a monk with black curly hair. The young man had an overly delicate face but was as cold as a knife drawn from the night. He tossed a stack of paper, quill and ink before the lord.

    “Please leave a price sufficient for God to forgive your sins.” The Pope smiled.

    “This is your only chance. Please consider it carefully. This is not a negotiation, nor is it a business deal. Remember, God is always watching us. He sees our piety as well as our sins.”

    The young Pope left this meaningful statement behind and left the reception room, leaving the lord staring at the blank sheet of paper, trembling.

    “How many was that?” Rafael asked Ferrante, who was standing beside him.

    “The fifth,” Ferrante replied.

    Rafael smiled unchanged. “Then let’s wait a few more days, until they can no longer sit still, until... they are more fearful, panicked, and desperate to survive than ever before.”

    Ferrante bowed. “I will continue to spread the relevant news.”

    Rafael looked at him and gently stroked his hair. The ‘wolfhound’ rubbed against his hand docilely.

    “Good boy.”

    Rafael said softly.

    Author’s Note

    Sistine I’s Diary: Watch how I squeeze these scum dry.