After seeing Matteo off, everyone quietly filed back into the church to begin the daily morning prayer.
The interior was dim and solemn. Only a few thin beams of light slipped through the tall stained glass windows, stretching across the cold stone floor like pale ribbons. The monks took their assigned places in silence, their movements practiced and restrained.
Giovanni stepped onto the altar at the front and faced the huge crucifix hanging on the wall. Jesus on the cross had His head lowered, His carved eyes seeming to rest on him, as if looking at someone He did not know.
Giovanni met His gaze and began to pray.
"O Lord, come quickly to save me."
The monks followed his lead. At first, their voices were uneven, some hesitant, some too loud, some trailing behind. But as the prayer continued, the sound slowly merged into a single rhythm. It became unified, steady, and solemn.
These voices were speaking to God.
Each person was speaking to God.
They praised His greatness, thanked Him for His grace, and begged for His forgiveness. Some closed their eyes in deep focus. Others stared at the cross ahead, unwilling to look away. Devotion showed clearly on their faces, not forced, but drawn from deep within.
This was not just prayer. It was a meeting of souls.
They believed that through these voices, their souls were reaching heaven and touching God Himself.
Giovanni recited along with them. His voice formed the core, binding all the others together. Yet he was not truly praying.
He was listening.
He listened to the voices behind him and sensed the changes hidden within them. Before, there had been doubt, fear, and quiet dissatisfaction. Today, all of that had vanished.
Only obedience remained.
And beneath it, a faint trace of fanatic belief.
They were like a flock of sheep that had finally found their shepherd. If the shepherd told them to walk east, they would walk east. If he told them to die, some of them might even obey.
Giovanni was satisfied.
One voice. One will.
His voice. His will.
The morning prayer ended soon, and the church slipped into a brief silence. Then came the Mass.
If prayer was speaking, then Mass was eating.
Eating God's food.
Giovanni stepped down from the altar and entered the small room beside it. Luca followed closely and helped him change into the vestments for Mass, carefully layering each piece.
First came the white robe, a symbol of purity.
Then the stole, draped like a long tie across his shoulder, a mark of divine authority.
Finally, the chasuble was placed over everything.
It was magnificent. Silk fabric, embroidered with grapes and wheat in gold thread. It had belonged to the former abbot and was the finest garment in the monastery.
Once he wore it, he was no longer Giovanni.
He was God's representative on earth.
Every step and gesture he now made stood for God.
He returned to the altar. The monks immediately knelt. At the back of the church, several dozen devout villagers had also arrived and knelt down. They lowered their heads, not daring to look directly at the light surrounding the altar.
The Mass began.
It was a performance.
A sacred play that had been repeated for a thousand years.
Giovanni was the only lead.
He recited scripture in a calm, steady voice. He raised his hands and bestowed blessings. He lifted the heavy Bible and pressed his lips to its cover. Every movement was precise and deliberate, filled with ritual.
It reminded Giovanni of the high-end parties he attended in the twenty-first century. How to hold a wine glass. How to cut a steak. How to smile at the right moment. How long to let silence linger before speaking.
All of it was skill.
All of it was performance.
And he performed flawlessly.
The audience below watched in complete absorption.
Then came the most critical moment.
The consecration of the Host.
Luca rang the bell.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The clear sound echoed through the church, lingering in the air. Everyone lowered their heads even further.
Giovanni picked up a round piece of unleavened bread and raised it slowly.
"This is my body."
He lifted the bread high and displayed it to all. In that instant, everyone believed it was no longer bread. It had become the body of Jesus.
Next came the wine.
He raised the chalice filled with dark red liquid and spoke again.
"This is my blood."
The chalice was held aloft. Once again, belief swept through the church. The wine was no longer wine. It was the blood of Jesus.
A miracle.
A miracle that happened every day, yet never lost its power to inspire awe.
Giovanni looked down at the bowed, devout heads below and found it a little amusing.
A piece of bread.
A cup of wine.
Enough to convince an entire crowd that a miracle had occurred. Humans were remarkably easy to understand.
He broke off a small piece of the consecrated bread and placed it into his mouth. It had no real flavor, no different from an ordinary biscuit.
Then he stepped down from the altar.
The monks lined up and knelt before him one by one. Each lifted their head and opened their mouth, obedient and silent, like hungry chicks waiting to be fed.
Giovanni placed a small piece of the Host into each mouth.
"The Body of Christ."
"Amen."
They held the bread carefully on their tongues, afraid to chew. They waited for it to dissolve slowly, believing they were becoming one with Christ.
Giovanni watched the happiness and satisfaction on their faces.
It reminded him of the past. Of handing out "original share" certificates to investors he had deceived. Just worthless pieces of paper, stamped and signed.
Yet when they received them, they wore the same expressions.
Exactly the same.
The Mass ended.
The believers left the church, convinced their souls had been cleansed. The monks dispersed as well and returned to their daily duties. Cleaning the floors. Copying scripture. Working in the vegetable garden. Life returned to its routine.
Giovanni, meanwhile, removed the splendid chasuble and changed back into his plain monk's robe. He did not return to his room.
Instead, he walked to a dark corner along one side of the church.
There was no wooden confessional booth like those invented centuries later. Here, there was only a heavy, high-backed oak chair carved with complex patterns, worn smooth by years of use.
It was a throne of power.
And a seat of judgment.
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