When the bodies of Isabella and Anton were pulled from the well, they were already bloated, their faces swollen and distorted beyond recognition.
The villagers stood at a distance. No one dared to step closer. In their eyes, the two corpses still carried the lingering curse of sin.
In the end, a few young monks from the monastery, led by Luca, stepped forward. They wrapped the bodies in a worn blanket and placed them onto a handcart. Giovanni personally presided over their brief funeral.
There were no ornate scriptures and no elaborate rites. He simply stood before the newly dug grave and recited a passage from the Psalms.
"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me."
His voice was calm in the morning mist, yet it carried a quiet weight. The villagers knelt some distance away, listening to the prayer. They felt the abbot was truly merciful. Even toward the family of a sinner, even toward those who had taken their own lives, he still granted final dignity and peace.
Once again, they felt proud of their abbot and grateful that they were the Lord's lambs.
The two bodies were lowered into the grave, laid beside Bartolo, who had been hastily buried only days earlier. When the final shovel of earth covered the mound, the largest landowning family in St. Lucia Village vanished from the land.
All that remained was a modest grave, a looted estate, and a property donation contract written in clear and unmistakable terms.
* * *
That contract now lay flat on an oak table in Bartolo's house, one of the few pieces of furniture spared from destruction.
Giovanni sat at the head of the table, occupying the very seat Bartolo once held. Philip sat to his left, and Luca to his right. Ledgers and contracts salvaged from the treasure room were piled across the table.
Philip, an old man who had spent his entire life copying scriptures, now wore crystal glasses purchased in Florence. He carefully examined each document that recorded worldly wealth.
"Abbot… the registered land under Bartolo's name totals… totals five hundred staio¹…"
The moment the number was spoken, Luca's quill slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.
Five hundred staio.
What did that mean?
Before this, all the land owned by the monastery combined amounted to less than ten staio, most of it barren hillside. Bartolo alone had owned nearly all the richest land in the village.
"Besides the land," Philip paused, lifting another stack of parchment, "there are loan contracts with villagers… one hundred seventy-three in total. Principal and interest together amount to roughly three thousand three hundred florins…"
Three thousand three hundred florins.
Luca felt his breath catch in his chest. He had grown up in the monastery. In his entire life, he had not seen fifty gold coins combined. Now the figure before him was three thousand three hundred.
Giovanni, unlike Luca, did not find the amount shocking. Hiring a single knight for a year could cost five hundred florins. What mattered more to him were the debts themselves.
As long as those debts existed, the villagers were no longer free farmers. Every swing of the hoe, every harvest of wheat, even every breath they took would be labor for him.
And he had countless ways to adjust interest and endless reasons to impose penalties. If he wished, not only this generation, but the next and the one after would never repay what they owed.
Philip continued reading, "The manor house was damaged by the mob, but the main structure still stands. There are six fine horses in the stables, at least three hundred barrels of wine in the cellar, and large quantities of olive oil, wool, and cured meat still stored in the warehouses…"
With each item, the monks felt their hearts tighten. It was as if they had stumbled upon a mountain of gold.
They all looked toward Giovanni seated at the head of the table.
He was calm. There was no surprise and no joy on his face, as if those staggering figures were nothing more than ordinary symbols. That calm inspired an even deeper sense of awe among the monks.
They believed the abbot truly was a saint secretly cultivated by the bishop. Such worldly wealth could not shake his holy heart. Everything he did was not for money, but for the Lord's glory.
The inventory continued for the entire day. When the final contract was recorded, Philip removed his glasses and wiped the sweat from his brow before saying in a deep voice.
"Abbot, all of Bartolo's estate has been accounted for. From this moment on, St. Lucia Monastery is the largest landowner in this region."
The largest landowner.
Those words struck every monk present. Overnight, a poor monastery had transformed into the richest power for miles around.
How had this happened?
They remembered what Giovanni looked like when he first arrived. They remembered the confrontation in the wine cellar. They remembered the plan for the Firstfruits Thanksgiving. They remembered the basket of rotten fish, the polluted well, and the perfectly timed fire. They remembered Bartolo's death and his family's "suicide out of guilt."
Piece by piece, everything fit together.
Only now did they see it clearly.
All of it had been part of his plan.
They believed completely. Giovanni was a messenger sent by God. Only God could create such a miracle in so short a time.
* * *
Later, Giovanni stepped onto the second-floor terrace of the manor. This had once been Bartolo's favorite place, where he could look down over all his land.
Now Giovanni stood there instead.
Before him stretched endless, flat, fertile fields. Tenant farmers worked the soil below. They were no longer Bartolo's tenants. They were tenants of the monastery.
Most of the fields were planted with wheat and oats, the most basic food crops.
"Luca," Giovanni said without turning around.
"Yes, Abbot," Luca replied, standing respectfully behind him.
"Pass down my order. Starting tomorrow, convert the three hundred staio of the best land in the south of the village to olive trees."
Luca froze. "All of it to olives? Then this year's grain yield—"
"Grain?" Giovanni smiled faintly. "Do we still need to worry about grain? Bartolo's granary burned, but the other landowners' stores are full. More importantly, we hold one hundred seventy-three debts across the village. If we want grain, there are many ways."
"Olives are the golden hens."
"We will not only plant olives. We will build our own olive press on the estate and produce the purest and most expensive olive oil in all of Tuscany."
Luca felt his blood stir.
"And there," Giovanni continued, pointing toward land near the foothills, "the sunlight is strong and the drainage is good. Clear it and plant herbs. Rosemary, lavender, sage… in Florence's apothecaries, these sell for the price of gold."
"We will also build a dedicated drying house, processing fresh herbs quickly into goods that last."
He painted a future no monk had ever imagined. Not merely a monastery that owned land, but one that possessed its own industries. A commercial kingdom.
Luca looked at the abbot's profile and felt that Giovanni's mind was not filled with scripture or theology, but with a new world he could not comprehend.
As Giovanni continued planning, the young monk Antonio rushed up from below.
"Abbot!" Antonio said breathlessly, bowing. "The Firstfruits Thanksgiving grounds are fully prepared as you ordered. The villagers are already waiting for you in the square."
Giovanni turned. That familiar, compassionate smile appeared on his face.
The celebration delayed by "divine punishment" was finally about to begin.
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1: Staio was a Florentine unit of measurement in the 14th century. It was originally a unit of volume used for grain such as wheat. In agricultural practice, it was often used as a unit of land area, meaning land capable of producing one staio of grain.
Five hundred staio is roughly equal to two hundred hectares.
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