Purple Flame (3)
Isaac found his conversation with Vincenzio thoroughly enjoyable.
"Just as the nobles mystified magic, the church has rebranded it as divine authority, cloaking it in sanctity. Doesn't that obscure the true essence of magic?"
"So, do you believe magic is a pure discipline, entirely separate from God?" Vincenzio asked with a gentle smile.
"All magic is the interpretation and reconfiguration of nature's laws through the will. Attaching any greater meaning to it feels like excess."
"In my view, faith and magic aren't contradictory concepts. Faith is humanity's effort to comprehend God's will, while magic is our way of understanding the world. They're merely different paths to the same question."
"But faith closes off questions, while magic keeps posing them."
"I don't see it that way. Faith, at its core, is a journey toward God—a process of endless inquiry. It's just that at some point, the church decided to provide the answers. Much like how the nobles tried to monopolize magic through the ancient language."
Vincenzio's responses to Isaac's questions and propositions flowed without hesitation. They weren't rooted in religious dogma but in the personal perspective of the man himself. That alone made it captivating for Isaac. Few could devote a lifetime to study without being consumed by it, retaining their own essence intact.
"Doesn't the old church reject magic outright?"
"The church isn't trying to reject magic. It merely seeks to place it under its authority."
Isaac and Vincenzio spent a long while debating, supplementing, and refining each other's arguments. They lost track of time, immersed in talk of magic.
"It's strange. Looking at you feels like gazing upon a scholar who's secluded himself for years, devoted solely to magical studies."
"I feel the same. The difference is that Your Eminence is a scholar who attends cathedral on weekends."
"Hahaha, is that so?" Vincenzio burst into hearty laughter, a clear, unfeigned sound.
"Your Eminence, it's time for confession."
The elderly abbot entered the stone chamber himself to announce it.
"Has it been that long already?" Vincenzio rose to his feet. "I never imagined I'd have conversations like this. Whether by God's will or mere chance, I'm simply glad to have met you."
"The feeling is mutual."
Isaac stood as well, following Vincenzio's lead.
"You may not admit it, but you and I see the world in much the same way. Opportunities for equal discourse are rare in life. Baron, I hope our friendship endures."
Vincenzio's voice brimmed with paternal warmth.
"If that's what Your Eminence desires, I'll gladly be your sounding board anytime."
"Frater droh geil te mah." Smiling, Vincenzio offered a blessing before departing the chamber with the abbot. May the Lord's peace be with you—that was its meaning.
Another priest had been engulfed by the purple flame. This one was a womanizer with multiple concubines, a former scion of a wealthy noble house notorious for his philandering even before taking holy orders. He claimed the purple flame was not God's judgment but a heresy plot. Thus, he barricaded himself alone atop Lorenzzio Cathedral's bell tower, smashing the wooden ladder and spiral stairs to isolate himself. He handled meals and waste via baskets and ropes, aided by his lovers and followers.
"I will not be deceived by heretics! Behold! This wicked blaze can't even singe my robes!"
His antics had dragged on for over a month. With each passing day, his voice grew louder. While other corrupt clerics burned alive, he brazenly boasted of his sins yet survived.
"God will judge my love! Not this heretic flame! Brothers and sisters, see! The Lord knows true love!"
Lorenzzio Cathedral was chaos incarnate. From the bell tower, the lustful priest decried the purple flame as delusion, while the plaza before the cathedral teemed with penitents tearing their clothes, flogging themselves bloody in atonement.
But on the fifth night after a young priest burned to death at Count Farnese's banquet...
"I only loved! God has not condemned my love! That heretic flame is nothing compared to its heat—and the Lord's love burns infinitely hotter!"
Someone had sent up a basket of liquor. The drunken priest bellowed into the midnight hour from the tower top, then slurred an ancient hymn in garbled tones. Suddenly, he fell silent, but the plaza crowd, absorbed in their own penance, paid him no mind.
Then a scream shattered the night, forcing all eyes to the tower. Something atop it blazed brightly in purple flame—and plummeted.
Crack!
A grotesque sound echoed as hot ashes burst like sparks. The purple flame burned fiercely even after crashing below. Nothing remained but a pile of cinders. The priest was gone.
The penitents scattered or prayed even louder.
Days later, the Grand Inquisitor returned from seclusion at Sankta Monastery, having undergone confession and contemplation. He gathered the Inquisition's interrogators and resumed operations with a brief address.
"An inquisitor must examine himself before judging others, gazing not merely at human sin but upon Him."
Even in his absence, the purple flame's victims had mounted. Conservative and pro-imperial cardinals could no longer solely suspect him. The Papal Court's priority was stabilizing the Papal Domain—be it by theologically justifying the purple flame, uncovering its cause to prevent further deaths and stripping away its false sanctity, or finding some way before the church tore itself apart in chaos.
"That's the situation." Raphael relayed the Papal Domain's news flatly, draining his wineglass.
"Quite the commotion."
"……."
Raphael glared at Isaac's nonchalant reply. His mouth worked silently before he refilled his glass from the jug without a word.
"Aren't you drinking a bit much?"
"Temperance is a necessary virtue. But no doctrine forbids wine. Grape juice is even used in the Eucharist."
Raphael emptied another glass. His face flushed, but his eyes remained sharp—fierce, rebellious, conflicted, a tumult of emotions flickering through. The gaze of a man deep in his cups seemed far from that of an inquisitor steeped in faith.
"In two days, there'll be a relic-bestowal ceremony at Lorenzzio Cathedral. His Eminence will preside personally. It's the light of atonement you wanted, Baron—the legacy of a fallen saint."
"Good."
Isaac nodded as if it were only natural. Silence stretched between them after that, heavy and uncomfortable. Both men confronted a truth defying easy judgment, yet bound by seals that forbade voicing it.
Isaac knew why Raphael had come to his quarters to share wine but feigned ignorance. If history unfolded as written, Raphael would come to regret it. By the time he stabbed the cardinal's heart, the religious wars had already erupted; the hellgates flung open by the new and old faiths couldn't be shut by one death.
Of course, I won't let it play out that way this time.
Isaac wet his mouth with a sip of wine. Still bitter.
"His Eminence wasn't born a noble." As Isaac closed the window against the chill night breeze, Raphael spoke up. It was Vincenzio's life story.
Abandoned as an infant at the monastery gates, Vincenzio grew under the monks' guidance, mastering ancient tongue, theology, philosophy, and canon law, revealing prodigious intellect. Ordained young, he served as scribe and theologian. His striking looks and talent drew employment as a household priest from a powerful family, complete with patronage. Though courted by the family's daughter, he refused and entered the Papal Court as a scribe.
"And caught Cardinal Montalto's eye."
Montalto was then the preeminent powerbroker in the Papal Court, close to the pope himself. He coveted Vincenzio's beauty and intellect, taking him as a lover—a forced relation Vincenzio never sought.
"His Eminence realized there was purpose in his trials: a mission of purification. The suffering he endured was proof."
Vincenzio learned to wield Montalto's lust to his advantage. In his shadow, he built his position within the Papal Court, ultimately ascending to cardinal—the youngest ever—on the recommendation of Montalto and his faction.
"What happened to Cardinal Montalto?"
"He passed away. Shortly after His Eminence became cardinal."
"……."
Isaac could guess how Montalto had died without further detail.
"A common tale."
"Is such a life common?"
"Lives more tormented than His Eminence's litter the world."
"……Is that so? Perhaps."
Raphael scowled at Isaac's words.
"Baron, I have one question."
Raphael steadied his swaying frame to ask. His pronunciation remained crisp.
"What is it?"
"Two paths diverge: one you judge right, the other you believe right. Which would you choose, Baron?"
"You're asking me?"
"Yes."
"Hm." Isaac scratched his cheek. Raphael's eyes were bloodshot red. Meeting them, Isaac shrugged. "How should I know?"
"I see."
Raphael's lip twisted in a clear sneer, though its target was unclear.
"Get out."
Clink. A hefty pouch of silver coins thudded onto the table.
"Don't tell me your destination. Hire a carriage with this if you have to spend it all."
"Pardon?"
"His Eminence and Viscount Botmer have long been acquaintances. Granting your request was merely a deferral of war, coordinated with Botmer."
"……."
"Viscount Botmer will prove his innocence in the religious trials, and you'll outlive your usefulness only to be consumed by the purple flame—bearing the viscount's sins."
"But Bishop Alquin and Inquisitor's testimonies..."
"You're underestimating the symbolism of the purple flame, Baron."
"……Ha."
Isaac grasped Raphael's meaning a beat late and let out genuine admiration, a sigh of true awe. His interventions had twisted history considerably. Raphael remained Vincenzio's loyal retainer. But he was no longer an ally for the future—just fuel to be burned for the cardinal's vision.
It had been that way since tangling with Isaac.
"When did you figure it out?"
"……The wine's gone."
Raphael ignored the question, merely shaking the empty jug. He had known all along. The cardinal intended to feed not just Isaac, but even Bishop Alquin and Inquisitor Raphael himself, into the purple flame's pyre.
"This just got interesting." Isaac drained his remaining glass. Still bitter.