Giovanni soon learned of Bartolo’s remarks.
Luca was the one who told him.
Luca was furious.
“Lord Abbot, that Bartolo is insufferable!
He actually dares to publicly incite the villagers against us!” “We should send men to arrest him and give him a good whipping!” Luca felt that dealing with someone like this called for Brother Matteo’s old methods.
Giovanni felt no anger upon hearing this.
His face still wore that same compassionate, merciful smile.
“Luca, anger is the whisper of the devil.
It blinds our eyes.” “Bartolo isn’t opposing us.
He is helping us.” Luca froze.
“Helping us?” He couldn’t fathom what the abbot meant at all.
“Yes,” Giovanni said.
“He is helping us separate the wavering from the truly devout.” “Whether a sheep is a good sheep cannot be judged merely by how well-behaved it is in the fold.
You must see whether it runs with the shepherd or bolts with the flock when the wolf comes.” “Bartolo is the alpha wolf.
Now he has howled.
We need only wait and see how many sheep run after him.” Luca nodded, half-understanding.
He always found the abbot’s words so profound.
“Then…
what should we do now?” “Nothing at all,” Giovanni said.
“Let us take a walk.” A walk?
Luca was even more bewildered.
With a crisis looming right under their noses, the abbot was in the mood for a stroll?
Giovanni offered no further explanation.
Leading Luca, he stepped out of the monastery.
It was already afternoon.
The sun felt pleasantly warm on their bodies.
They strolled slowly along the dirt paths of the village.
The scenery of a fourteenth-century European village was dismal at best.
The roads were dirt, uneven and full of ruts.
It had rained a few days prior, leaving puddles of foul water scattered across the ground, emitting a repulsive stench.
On either side of the path stood the villagers’ homes.
Most were constructed from stone and mud plaster, thatched with straw.
Piles of garbage sat stacked before every doorway.
Pigs and chickens rooted through the rubbish for food.
A few half-naked children tumbled around in the mud.
The air was thick with a pungent stench of manure, rotting filth, and livestock.
Giovanni wore his simple sandals as he walked through this dirty mess.
His expression remained utterly calm.
There was even a hint of relish in it.
He enjoyed this contrast.
The more holy and pure he appeared, and the filthier his surroundings were, the more his uniqueness stood out.
Luca followed behind him carefully, trying his best to keep his monastic robes out of the mud.
To him, the abbot looked like a pure white lotus blooming atop a dunghill.
They reached the other end of the village.
Jacopo’s butcher shop was located right here.
Business appeared to be booming.
Several freshly slaughtered carcasses hung outside the shop.
Deep red in color, the meat looked very fresh.
A wooden board by the storefront bore the words: Fresh Venison.
A few men who looked like servants from petty gentry households were haggling with Jacopo.
Jacopo swung his cleaver, chopping the venison into small cuts, while chatting with them.
His face bore a newfound confidence.
Giovanni witnessed this scene.
He knew Jacopo had handled his task well.
Jacopo spotted Giovanni as well.
His hand paused briefly, but he quickly recovered his composure.
He flashed a humble, knowing smile toward Giovanni.
Giovanni gave him a subtle nod in return.
An exchange of glances.
Everything was understood without a word.
Giovanni continued walking forward.
Before long, he saw the man he was looking for.
Bartolo.
Bartolo stood by the edge of his largest wheat field.
Hands on his hips, he watched his tenant farmers at work.
Giovanni quickened his pace and approached Bartolo with an expression of pleasant surprise.
“Ah!
If it isn’t Master Bartolo!
Good day, and may the Lord bless you.” Bartolo turned to see the new fair-faced abbot.
He paused for a moment.
He hadn’t expected to bump into him here.
He had assumed Giovanni would send people to trouble him.
Instead, the man had delivered himself right to his door.
And his attitude was…
so humble?
Bartolo’s spine straightened instantly.
“Ah, Lord Abbot,” he said lazily.
“You flatter me, you flatter me,” Giovanni waved his hands hastily.
“Before a respected elder like yourself, I am merely a youth.” Bartolo narrowed his eyes.
He tried to fathom Giovanni’s intentions.
What game was this kid playing?
“Master Bartolo, I actually came today to ask a favor of you.” “Oh?” Bartolo’s interest was piqued.
“What kind of favor?” “Alas,” Giovanni sighed.
“As you know, I have only recently taken office as abbot and am still quite unfamiliar with the task of ‘shepherding the flock.'” “My intention behind creating the ‘Firstfruits Thanksgiving’ was to manifest the Lord’s glory and unite the villagers’ faith.
But…
it seems many people do not quite understand it.” “I heard that you, too, have some thoughts regarding this plan.” Giovanni looked at Bartolo like a humble student seeking guidance.
“Master Bartolo, you are the wisest and most respected man in this village.
You understand these villagers far better than I do.” “Could you teach me?” “What exactly should I do to better manage these sheep of the Lord?
How can I better serve the village?” Giovanni’s words made Bartolo feel as if he had downed a glass of fine wine.
Warm and thoroughly comfortable.
He had always felt that he was the uncrowned king of this village.
Now, even the monastery’s abbot was coming to ask his advice in person.
What did this prove?
It proved this pretty-boy abbot had no real talent.
His little tricks to fool children weren’t working anymore, so he had no choice but to beg him for help.
Bartolo’s vanity was immensely satisfied.
He felt he was entirely in control of the situation.
He cleared his throat and began lecturing Giovanni like an elder.
“Lord Abbot, you are still young and don’t understand how things work around here.” “Dealing with these mud-legged bumpkins requires practical methods, not grand platitudes.
Honor, blessings—they don’t understand any of that.” “You must make them fear you.
Just like they fear me.” “Look at me.
I never waste breath on nonsense with them.
If anyone dares withhold rent, I take his land.
If anyone dares owe me money without paying back, I smash his cooking pots.” “Then they all behave.” Spittle flew from Bartolo’s mouth as he spoke.
Giovanni stood beside him, nodding repeatedly.
“Yes, yes!
You make so much sense.” “Then…
regarding this ‘Firstfruits Thanksgiving,’ how do you think I should modify it?” Bartolo thought for a moment and said: “If you ask me, it should be canceled altogether.
It’s useless.” “However, since the notices have already been posted, canceling it now would make you lose face.” “Tell you what,” Bartolo magnanimously offered a few suggestions.
“You can make that ‘Roll of Honor’ look a bit fancier.
Paint a few flowers on it, embed some colored glass.” “Also, on the day of the celebration, have the monks sing a few more hymns.
Tell them to sing louder.” “And prepare some cheap wine to hand out to the attendees.
Just a small cup per person.” These suggestions were entirely superficial and trivial.
They didn’t touch upon the core issue at all.
Yet Giovanni listened as if he had discovered a priceless treasure.
He bowed deeply to Bartolo.
“Master Bartolo, you truly are my guiding light!” “Rest assured, once I return, I will certainly modify my plan according to your guidance.” “Thank you so much.
Another day, I will surely bring the monastery’s finest wine to thank you at your doorstep.” Bartolo waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing away a servant.
“Think nothing of it, think nothing of it.” Giovanni showered him with another barrage of thanks before reluctantly departing with Luca.
Watching Giovanni’s receding back, a contemptuous smile appeared on Bartolo’s face.
He thought this new abbot was nothing more than an embroidered pillow—pretty on the outside, useless on the inside.
A few words from him had completely intimidated the boy.
He had already begun plotting how he would mock him once the Firstfruits Thanksgiving flopped, and how he could further seize the monastery’s tax-collecting authority for himself.
…
On the way back, Luca finally couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Lord Abbot, why…
why were you so polite to him?” “That Bartolo harbors nothing but ill intent!” “The suggestions he gave were complete nonsense!” Luca’s face flushed red with anger.
He felt that the abbot’s behavior just now was practically bowing down before that villain.
It was a disgrace.
Giovanni stopped in his tracks and turned to look at him.
“Luca,” he said with a smile, “have you ever seen how a hunter catches a bear?” Luca shook his head.
“A hunter doesn’t charge right in to fight the bear.
That would be foolish.” “He digs a trap along the path the bear frequents, covering it with branches and fallen leaves.” “Then, at the other end of the trap, he places a beehive.” “Smelling the sweetness of the honey, the bear loses its mind and rushes toward the beehive.” “And then, it falls right into the pit.” Giovanni patted Luca on the shoulder.
“Bartolo is that bear.” “What I gave him just now wasn’t humility—it was honey.” “He has tasted the sweetness now.
He believes he is smarter and stronger than me.
He will grow increasingly arrogant, holding me in less and less regard.” “He will think he can do whatever he pleases.” “And then, he will charge straight into the trap I’ve prepared for him.” Luca listened, dumbfounded.
Only now did he understand.
So that “chance encounter” and “seeking guidance” just now…
It was all an act.
A trap laid by the abbot.
He looked at the familiar, compassionate smile on Giovanni’s face.
For some reason, a sudden chill ran down his spine.
He felt that the abbot was far more terrifying than any bear.
…
That night.
In the dead of night.
Inside the monastery, all the monks were asleep.
Only the watchman monk, carrying a lantern, patrolled the courtyard.
Suddenly, he heard a loud clang from the monastery’s main gate.
Startled, the night watchman hurried toward the gate with his lantern.
He opened the heavy wooden door and poked his head out.
The entrance was empty.
Only moonlight illuminated the cold flagstones.
He sighed in relief, thinking he had misheard.
Just as he was about to close the door…
A potent, rotten stench rushed into his nostrils.
He looked down.
At the foot of the steps outside the monastery gate sat a wicker basket.
The foul odor emanated directly from that basket.
Curious, he stepped down the stairs and shone his lantern on the basket.
It was packed with stinking, rotting fish.
The fishes’ eyes were glazed over white.
Most of their scales had fallen off.
A swarm of flies buzzed noisily above them.
The night watchman nearly vomited.
Who did this?
How utterly vile!
Just as he was about to fly into a rage, he noticed a slip of paper stuck atop the rotten fish.
He picked up the paper and held it close to the light.
Written in crude, crooked charcoal strokes was a line of text: “This is the offering for you.” Below it was drawn a crude, offensive symbol.
The night watchman’s face drained of color in an instant.
This was a provocation!
A blatant, shameless provocation against the entire monastery!
Dreading the consequences, he clutched the note and ran frantically toward Giovanni’s room.
“Knock, knock, knock!” “Lord Abbot!
It’s terrible!
Something terrible has happened!” The door opened.
Giovanni stood at the doorway wearing a nightgown.
There was not a single trace of sleepiness on his face.
It was as if he had been waiting for something all along.
“What is it?
Why such panic?” The watchman monk held out the foul-smelling note.
“Lord Abbot, look!” Giovanni took the slip of paper and glanced at it.
Then, he walked to the door and looked down at the basket full of rotten fish at the bottom of the steps.