In April, the Tuscan sun was already scorching.
In past years, this was the time when Pietro felt most at ease. The wheat in the fields had already headed. Green stalks stood straight and tall, and when the wind passed through them, they rolled like a living sea, rustling softly. That sound was the sound of grain, the promise that the whole family would not go hungry.
Pietro was an old tenant farmer. He cared for crops more carefully than he cared for his own father. Every day, he walked the fields three times, pulling out every weed and crushing every insect he found.
But today, Pietro knelt on the ridge between the fields, gripping a hoe while his entire body trembled.
Behind him knelt his wife, his three sons, and his two daughters-in-law. The family lined up like prisoners awaiting execution, heads lowered, not daring to look at the man standing before them.
That man was Antonio. He wore a clean black robe and held a rolled parchment in his hand.
"Pietro," he asked coldly, "did you hear the abbot's order clearly?"
Pietro slammed his forehead into the dirt. "I… I heard it clearly. But… but this wheat… this wheat will be ready to harvest in two months! How can we… how can we hoe it up now?"
This was something that would bring divine punishment.
In a farmer's eyes, destroying crops before they matured was a greater sin than killing a man. God would strike such a person down with thunder and fire.
Antonio frowned. Looking at the ignorant family, he spoke impatiently. "Pietro, are you questioning the abbot's decision?"
"No! I wouldn't dare!" Pietro knocked his head against the ground again and again. "I just… I can't bear it!"
"Can't bear it?" Antonio sneered. "You feel pity for wheat, but not for your soul?"
"The abbot has already inspected this sunny slope. It is land chosen by the Lord, meant for planting olive trees."
"These wheat stalks may grow well, but they are still worldly things. Removing them is not destruction. It is purification. It is preparation for a greater blessing."
He emphasized the word "blessing."
Pietro did not understand blessings or worldly things. He only knew that when the hoe came down, it cut wheat roots and tore out his own life's labor.
"But… if we hoe the wheat, we will starve…" his wife cried from behind him.
"Starve?" Antonio laughed. "When has the monastery ever let the Lord's lambs starve?"
"As long as you obey and follow the abbot's instructions, clear the land and plant olive trees, your livelihood will not be a problem."
"The monastery is merciful. We will advance grain to help your family get through this time. When the olive trees are heavy with fruit and golden oil begins to flow, do you know how many coins you will earn? By then, repaying that small advance will be easy."
"And besides, that grain comes from the monastery. It is blessed. It is a hundred times better than wheat grown in your own fields!"
At the mention of blessed grain advanced by the monastery, Pietro swallowed hard.
Still, he did not move. The green wheat shoots filled the field like living children, staring up at him.
Antonio's expression darkened. He no longer wished to waste words.
"Pietro, think of Bartolo. To disobey the abbot is to disobey the Lord."
Pietro's body shook violently. Fear crushed his pity for the crops in an instant. He raised his head, tears streaming down his deeply wrinkled face.
"I… I'll hoe it. I'll hoe it now."
He stood up and raised the hoe. His eyes fell on the strongest stalk at his feet, the one with the greenest leaves.
'What a sin…' he wailed in his heart.
Closing his eyes, he swung the hoe down with all his strength.
Thud.
The wheat fell. Green sap seeped from the broken stem.
"Hoe it! Hoe all of it!" Pietro shouted at his family, his eyes bloodshot. "If you don't want to die, start working!"
The family cried and shouted as they raised their hoes.
In moments, the fine field was ruined, as if wild boars had torn through it. The green wheat shoots were ripped out by the roots and buried back into the soil.
What had once been a smooth green sea became piles of broken green corpses.
* * *
On a distant hillside, Giovanni stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching in silence. He watched the farmers cry as they destroyed their own hope with their own hands.
"Abbot," Luca said softly behind him, unable to bear it, "isn't this… too much of a waste? There were only two months left."
"Luca," Giovanni replied calmly, "if you want to build a new house, you must first tear down the old one."
"If these cheap wheat crops are not cut down, their minds will always be fixed on a few mouthfuls of food."
"I want them to understand that grain grown from the land alone will never be enough. Only by relying on the monastery, by relying on me, can they live."
"This is not destruction."
"This is called… primitive capital accumulation."
He spoke the last words very softly, meant only for himself.
* * *
The work continued until afternoon.
Pietro's sunny hillside plot had become a stretch of bare yellow earth. All the wheat had been buried as fertilizer.
Pietro sat on the field ridge, staring at the dead land with empty eyes. His palms were covered in blisters, and the handle of the hoe was stained red with blood.
"That's enough," Antonio said as he walked over and nudged Pietro with his foot. "The work is done well. Come back to the monastery. The abbot wants to see you."
Pietro shuddered.
The abbot wanted to see him?
Had he done something wrong? Was punishment waiting for him?
He did not dare ask. He scrambled to his feet and followed Antonio, trembling, without even looking back at his family.
* * *
Inside the monastery, Pietro was taken into the room used for handling worldly affairs. The light was dim, with only two candles burning.
A sheet of parchment lay on the table, covered in dense Latin writing that Pietro could not understand.
Philip sat behind the table, writing. When Antonio led Pietro into the room, Philip paused and pointed to the stool opposite him.
"Sit."
Pietro did not dare. He dropped to his knees instead.
After a while, the door opened.
Giovanni walked in.
"Pietro, get up. Come, get up."
He stepped forward personally and helped him to his feet. His gaze fell on Pietro's hands, thick with calluses and blistered with blood, and he sighed.
"You've worked hard, my child."
That single sigh shattered everything Pietro had been holding back.
"Abbot," Pietro choked, "the wheat… it's all gone…"
"I know. I know," Giovanni gently patted the back of his hand. "I know it hurts. But Pietro, you must believe this. When the old does not leave, the new cannot come."
He took Pietro by the arm and led him to the table.
"Come. Look at this."
He pointed to the parchment.
"This is a blessing. A blessing the Lord has specially granted to you. We call it the 'Divine Grace Planting Contract.'"
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