The next morning, in front of the monastery, the dawn fog had yet to fully lift.
Giovanni stood with the monks in a line, seeing Matteo off.
Matteo stood beside an old mule. He had barely slept, his mind replaying Giovanni's words from the wine cellar again and again, along with that sorrowful and compassionate face. The more he thought about it, the more he felt a devil was hiding behind that face.
The other monks felt differently.
What the abbot had described in the cellar the night before shone in their hearts like gold. A contest of honor. Public blessings and curses. These were things they had never even imagined. They now believed this new abbot was no ordinary man. He knew more, saw farther, and held thoughts far beyond those of simple villagers like them.
In their eyes, Matteo's insistence now felt outdated, even a little laughable.
Luca led the old mule forward and handed the reins to Giovanni. He truly admired him. To Luca, having the abbot personally arrange a mount and rations for this "journey of verification" showed immense generosity. It proved the abbot had nothing to hide. He was open and upright.
Giovanni took the reins, personally checked the saddle, then patted the two cloth bags hanging at its side. One held water. The other held food. He moved slowly and carefully, like an older brother checking a younger one's belongings before a long journey.
When he was done, he stepped in front of Matteo and placed the reins into his hands.
"Go quickly and return soon. The monastery still needs you."
The monks exchanged moved looks.
Look at the abbot. Even though Matteo insisted on going to the bishop to accuse him, the abbot still treated him as a brother, still cared for him, and still acknowledged his worth. Such grace. Such mercy. Who but a saint could have this.
They felt their souls had been cleansed.
Matteo took the reins.
'Hypocrisy.'
That was the only word left in his mind. But he said nothing. In a moment like this, anything he said would be wrong.
He mounted the mule in silence. The old animal swayed and carried him step by step onto the dirt road leading to Florence.
Giovanni stood at the gate, wearing that compassionate smile, watching Matteo's back until it became a small black dot and vanished into the fog and the bend in the road.
The crowd dispersed.
The monks returned to the monastery to begin morning prayer. They felt unusually calm, their faith firmer than ever, because they believed they had a good abbot.
* * *
Matteo rode the mule, his body rising and falling with its steps. The sun rose, the fog scattered, and olive leaves by the roadside glimmered in the light.
Yet his heart was anything but calm.
'He needs me? What does he need me for?'
To go to Florence, have the bishop prove him right, then crawl back in shame and become a living prop for his so-called mercy?
The more he thought, the angrier he became. Veins bulged on the back of his hand as he gripped the reins.
Hunger crept in. He reached for the food bag by the saddle.
His hand stopped midair.
He remembered a story told by a noblewoman in town.
Her husband had taken a lover and wanted to get rid of her. But he did not beat or scold her, instead, he cooked her the best stew every day. She was touched and thought he had changed.
She ate it for half a month, then fell ill.
Doctors could not find the cause. She grew weaker by the day.
Until an old servant secretly fed the stew to a dog.
Three days later, the dog died.
Her husband had added a tiny amount of poison extracted from a plant into the stew each day. Too little to kill at once, but enough to kill over time.
Matteo stared at the water skin and food bag.
To him, they no longer held water and bread. They held Giovanni's smile. A smile that could kill.
He untied the rope and threw both bags onto the roadside, only then did he feel a little at ease.
He reached into his robe and took out something wrapped in cloth. Inside was a piece of dry, rock-hard black bread. He had prepared it himself.
He brought it to his mouth and took a hard bite.
Crumbs fell onto his robe.
It was hard to swallow, but at least it was clean.
* * *
Several miles from St. Lucia village, at a bend in a mountain road, stood a small pine grove.
Jacob was crouched inside it.
He gripped a thick hemp rope. The other end was tightly tied to a pine trunk across the road. The rope itself lay hidden under loose soil and fallen leaves, stretched across the narrow path. With a hard pull, anyone riding a horse or mule would be sent flying.
Jacob was the butcher of St. Lucia village.
He was twenty years old, about the same age as Giovanni. His father was a butcher, and his grandfather too. He grew up amid pig squeals and the stench of blood.
He had large hands, thick with calluses and scars. He was strong enough to pin a three-hundred-pound pig to the slaughter rack by himself.
He was friends with Giovanni, or rather, with the Giovanni who once roamed the village as an orphan. They had stolen figs from orchards together, fished in the Arno together. Jacob had strength. Giovanni had brains. Together, no child their age dared mess with them.
Jacob always thought his friend would stay in St. Lucia forever. Or, if luckier, go to Florence to apprentice in some workshop.
Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that the boy who stole figs with him, covered in mud, would become the abbot of St. Lucia Monastery overnight.
When Giovanni appeared before the villagers, wearing that robe faded by washing yet heavy with authority, holding the appointment letter said to be written by the bishop himself, Jacob's mouth fell open.
He heard the whispers around him.
"So Giovanni was secretly trained by the bishop."
"They say he was born noble and pretended to be an orphan to understand common folk."
"That's the path of a saint."
None of it felt real.
He remembered the boasts Giovanni once made. One day, he said, everyone would respect him. Even the lords of Florence would invite him to dine.
Jacob had laughed then.
Now it seemed those were not dreams.
After his father died, Jacob naturally inherited the butcher shop. He became the village's only butcher.
It was neither good nor bad work. People needed meat, yet they always felt the scent of blood around him. Unlucky.
Giovanni became abbot.
He became a butcher.
One in the clouds. One in the mud.
Jacob felt their friendship was like morning dew. Once the sun rose, it vanished.
Several times he saw Giovanni from afar in the village, surrounded by monks and villagers, like a god.
He wanted to greet him, but his feet would not move. He felt the smell of pig blood on him would stain the abbot's holy robe.
That sense of loss lingered until last night.
The village slept. Even the dogs were quiet.
Behind Jacob's butcher shop was his home.
After preparing meat for the next day, he washed his hands and was about to sleep.
There was a knock.
A very light knock.
He was puzzled. Who would come at this hour?
He opened the door.
Someone stood there.
It was Giovanni. The abbot.
**
**
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