“They say a saint has arrived from Acereto.”
“Shh! He isn’t a saint yet! The Holy See hasn’t officially canonized him. Watch your tongue.”
“But still, rumors are flying that he’s an apostle from Acereto! They say he’s such a virtuous scholar that he knows everything!”
Acereto was a principality and a massive island located south of the Etruscan Kingdom. Though they shared the same race, language, weights, measures, and currency, their accents, national character, and customs differed slightly from those of the Etruscan Kingdom. The ‘Apostle of Acereto’ was a priest who had gained significant notoriety through his sermons in the Principality of Acereto.
The core of his preaching was that the ‘Gon of Yesak’ was not the son of God, but the son of man—and that ordinary human beings could become as great as the Gon of Yesak if only they applied themselves. This had evolved into a distinct school of thought, and his followers had since grown into a massive crowd.
It was an undesirable phenomenon for the establishment. Those who followed Pope Ludovico, asserting the traditional doctrines of the Father and the Trinity, called for the Council of Trevero to hold a final debate and reach a definitive conclusion on whether the Gon of Yesak was indeed the son of God or merely the son of man.
– “We must definitively establish the theological identity of the Gon of Yesak.”
– “If we let the discussion flow naturally, the Acereto region will end up believing in a religion different from that of the continental mainland.”
– “This is an opportunity to let the central continent know the true reality!”
Everyone was approaching the Council of Trevero with different agendas.
In principle, all clergy of the rank of bishop and above throughout the continent were required to gather in Trevero, the territory directly under the Holy See in the north, to attend the Council of Trevero.
However, Cardinal Del Mare was not a member of Pope Ludovico’s faction. To secure a stable number of votes, the Pope had invented all sorts of excuses to prevent those outside his faction from traveling to Trevero. Cardinal Del Mare, too, was left behind in San Carlo under the pretense of ‘who will tend the cattle.’
The apostle of Acereto, the very center of this controversy, had not been invited to the council either. Because he was a common priest, not a bishop, he had no standing to attend the Council of Trevero.
Instead, through the arrangements of Pope Ludovico, he had been sent to San Carlo—the capital of the Etruscan Kingdom and the heart of the civilized secular world—to be paired with Cardinal Del Mare, the Pope’s thorn in the side. He was to deliver the sermon at the High Mass in the Cardinal’s place. That was the long and short of it.
* * *
At the hour when the commoners were gathering in droves at the plaza in front of the Great Basilica of San Ercole, fueled by the expectation of meeting the apostle of Acereto, the household of Cardinal Del Mare was busy grooming themselves for the High Mass.
“Pull it tighter! Tighten the elastic!”
Isabella had recently begun using an item called a ‘breast pouch.’ It was a contraption designed to mimic her mother’s full décolleté, as Isabella’s own chest was rather flat. The moment a peddler arrived at the house with the product, claiming it was manufactured in the Moor Kingdom, Isabella had snatched it up without even asking the price; it had since become her most beloved item.
Since the breast pouch alone wasn’t enough to create cleavage, Isabella stuffed cotton bundles inside, then wrapped her chest tightly once more with a wide piece of calico. Only after putting on an Etruscan-style dress with a deep décolleté over that, did she create a perfect optical illusion, as if she possessed what she did not.
“My lady! You look so beautiful!”
Maletta, who had been clinging to Isabella and risking her life to flatter her ever since she left Ariadne’s side, raised her voice to praise Isabella’s beauty.
“How shall I do your makeup?”
“Use the pearl powder from Taranto. And for the rouge and lip stain, use the rose water from Gaeta.”
In San Carlo, makeup was a taboo, yet everyone wore it. A woman with a beautiful bare face was considered the ideal, but in San Carlo, who would ever dream of competing fairly? Without exception, noblewomen applied subtle enhancements, meticulously masking their artifice to maintain the pretense of natural beauty.
“You’re a genius, my lady. Everyone else uses rose water only to bathe; no one has ever thought to stain their lips with it.”
Isabella smiled, a radiant, practiced thing.
If one were to name the most accomplished master of grooming in all of San Carlo, it was undeniably Isabella De Mare.
One could hardly fault Isabella for her lackluster progress in Latin or court etiquette. She wasn’t a slow or dull student; rather, she was incredibly clever, the sort who prioritized the studies she deemed efficient.
It was simply that she spent her days peering into the mirror, agonizing over which rouge best complemented her violet eyes or how to pluck her eyebrows to achieve that perfectly arched, effortless look. That left her no time for Latin, theology, history, or the rigid formalities of the court.
Time, after all, is meant to be spent.
“Let’s go with the dress we had tailored last month.”
The collar of the sky-blue silk dress was adorned with gold-thread lace, and over her deep décolleté hung a long, thick strand of pearls. A palm-sized golden cross pendant dangled from the necklace.
The tip of the cross rested, with calculated precision, against the swell of her cleavage.
Isabella knew exactly what she was doing. Every man within eyesight would be unable to tear his gaze away whenever the pendant swayed. As she headed down to the first floor where her family waited, she pondered how to feign innocence when those predatory glares inevitably locked onto her.
‘Should I turn my head away? Talk to the person next to me? Who, though? Ariadne?’
Her thoughts spiraled as she assessed her half-sister, who waited demurely in the foyer.
‘Why does she insist on looking like that? Her features are decent enough; with just a little effort, she’d be far more presentable.’
Unlike Isabella, who resembled a bright, sky-blue bouquet, Ariadne stood in a plain black dress. Her hair was pulled back into a neat, severe braid, her face was devoid of color, and she wore no jewelry save for a tiny silver cross on a thin chain.
By no measure could this half-sister ever threaten her position.
Isabella, feeling a sudden, condescending surge of generosity, couldn’t help but address Lucrezia.
“Mother, look at her. We’re going to High Mass; if she appears like that, people will talk.”
Lucrezia’s eyebrows twitched, but she had always been soft where her eldest daughter was concerned.
“Giada. Bring my gold earrings for her. The ones in the bottom row of the second box.”
At the mention of gold, Ariadne’s eyes flickered.
Reluctantly, Lucrezia had the head maid fetch the earrings and, with a rough, irritated hand, forced them onto Ariadne’s ears. She then hurried her two children and their charge toward the waiting carriage.
“Come now, get in! We’ll be in grave trouble if we’re late!”
Riding in a carriage embellished with pure silver, pushing through the throngs of impoverished souls that choked the plaza to enter the Great Basilica of San Ercole, was always a thrill.
“Move! Move aside, unless you want to be trampled by the horses!”
“Good heavens, whose carriage is that!”
“It’s the Cardinal’s carriage, you fool!”
As the coachman whipped the beggars to clear a path, watching the bewildered, desperate expressions on their faces through the transparent curtains remained one of Isabella’s favorite pastimes.
‘Look at them scrambling only once they’re about to be struck; they should have moved sooner. Such lazy, wretched things.’
1.
It was much like chasing pigeons in a square, though pursuing people was far more exhilarating. In her otherwise empty, dull existence, these events provided the only jolts of clarity that made Isabella feel truly alive.
The situation upon entering the Great Basilica of San Ercole always suited her tastes.
– Clang!
The central doors at the nave swung open with a resounding boom.
While the congregation filed in through the side entrances, they made their entrance through the massive main gate at the front, marching triumphantly along the central aisle to the very foot of the altar—much like a bride walking down the aisle at a wedding.
Only upon reaching the altar did they turn left, ascend to the second floor, and take their seats in the balcony. Aside from their family, the only others permitted in the balcony were the royal family, Count Cesare, and Countess Rubina.
– “She’s here. It’s Isabella De Mare!”
– “She’s wearing a blue dress today.”
– “That gold cross, didn’t she have it custom-made at Luca’s?”
Today was no different. As she walked lightly across the central aisle, the women scanned her from head to toe, their eyes a volatile mix of envy and jealousy, dissecting every detail of her attire and makeup. As for the men in the pews, nine out of ten craned their necks to catch a glimpse of Isabella, regardless of whether their wives sat beside them.
– “Dear! Maintain your dignity!”
– “Ahem!”
From the corner of her eye, she caught men in the far aisles leaning forward, straining for a better view. Isabella found it so amusing she had to suppress the urge to laugh aloud.
Count Cesare had arrived early and was already seated in the balcony on the right, the side reserved for the royal family. Among the men who gazed at Isabella as if to devour her during the High Mass, he was the ringleader.
His gaze was something she both liked and despised.
‘I want him to keep staring so others will desire me as he does. Yet, I have no intention of being with Count Cesare. I want Prince Alfonso to be jealous when he sees Cesare clinging to me. I want Prince Alfonso to take an interest in me.’
It was a perfectly self-centered desire.
As she reached the end of the nave, her eyes met Count Cesare’s. Isabella offered him her most radiant, eye-smiling look, intending to convey that while she wouldn’t date him, she expected his continued favor.
* * *
Ariadne followed one step behind Isabella, watching the lustful gazes directed her way.
In all her life, she had never received such attention. In her youth, men had ignored her because she was plain; after she grew up, she belonged to Count Cesare, so no one dared look at her with such open hunger.
Women had only ever pitied or ignored her; never had she faced such hate-filled eyes.
With a heart churning in disgust and envy, she followed Isabella, the focal point of every gaze in the room. Then, it happened. Her eyes met the gaze of the person she could never forget, even in death.
A handsome man in his early twenties, standing at the threshold of his prime, stood on the lower balcony to the right. With his arms crossed and a cold, marble-like expression, he looked down with haughty detachment.
He held himself as if he truly believed he ruled everything on the ground from his superior vantage point.
Unlike Alfonso, who possessed bold, rugged features, this man had delicate, refined facial contours and a slender jawline. He was tall, but his physique was lean and willow-thin.
His hair, a dark brown bordering on black, caught the light of the candles filling the Great Basilica, glinting with a faint, reddish hue. His eyes—those two blue orbs where Ariadne had once desperately searched for a spark of warmth—were fixed, unblinking, upon the radiant, amethyst-eyed Isabella walking just ahead of her.
Ariadne’s dark green eyes clouded with a volatile mix of pain, regret, and lingering resentment. Despite her vow to never again cross paths with that man, the sight of him still stung. The accumulation of fourteen years of devotion could not be easily severed, regardless of how firmly she gripped her logic.
But today was far too important. She could not allow this mission to crumble because of the likes of Count Cesare.
‘Please,’ she prayed, ‘let everything unfold exactly as it did in my past life. Let the plan succeed.’
Ariadne gripped the fabric of her dress until her knuckles turned white.