The friar on night watch was named Paolo, an honest man who had spent ten years at the monastery.
“Father Abbot, this…
this is the work of the devil!” This was not merely an insult to the new abbot.
It was an insult to the monastery.
It was an insult to the Lord.
Giovanni said nothing.
The night wind blew chill, fluttering the hem of his nightgown.
The stench grew even stronger.
He looked down at the rotting fish inside the wicker basket at the bottom of the steps.
No anger.
No panic.
He was calm—so calm it seemed almost inhuman.
Looking at the abbot, Paolo assumed he had been frightened senseless, or perhaps so enraged he was left speechless.
He wanted to offer a few words of comfort, but didn’t know what to say.
After a long pause, expression finally returned to Giovanni’s face.
Not anger, but sorrow.
His eyes—blue eyes—misted over with moisture.
He looked at Paolo and shook his head.
“Paolo,” he said, his voice raspy and weary, “you are mistaken.” “This was not done by the devil.” Paolo froze.
Not the devil?
Then who else could it be?
“Satan is proud.
He would not resort to such sneaky, cowardly tactics.” “If he wished to attack the Lord’s fold, he would unleash a plague or summon a pack of vicious wolves.” Giovanni’s gaze passed over Paolo’s shoulder, looking into the distant darkness, toward the sleeping village of Santa Lucia.
“This was done by human hands.” “Servants of Satan.
Wolves in sheep’s clothing walking among us.” Servants of Satan.
Here in Santa Lucia.
Paolo’s legs began to go weak.
He felt that something far more terrifying than a basket of rotting fish had just occurred.
“I feel it,” Giovanni whispered, closing his eyes and pressing a hand to his heart.
“I feel the Lord’s grief.” “He is watching us.
Watching this village.” “He sees that a filthy sheep has infiltrated His flock.” “He is weeping.” Giovanni’s body began to tremble slightly, as if he were enduring immense agony—or receiving some divine message from heaven.
He entered a state—one Paolo could not comprehend, yet found overwhelmingly sacred.
*Divine revelation.* The word popped into Paolo’s mind.
He had only ever read it in hagiographies of saints.
He had never dreamed he would witness it with his own eyes.
Holding his breath, he stared at Giovanni.
He felt that the person standing before him was no mere young abbot, but a prophet—a prophet in direct communion with the Lord.
“Enough…” Giovanni suddenly opened his eyes and gasped in anguish.
As though forcibly dragged back from that holy state, he grabbed the doorframe to steady himself, panting heavily.
“Father Abbot, what’s wrong?” Paolo rushed forward to support him.
“I saw…
I saw…
the Lord’s wrath.” “He is watching us.
He is looking at that basket of fish.” “Those are not fish.
That is sin.” “It is the sin of this village.
The sin of us all.” “Cracks have formed in our faith.
A film of dust covers our devotion.” “That is why Satan’s servant dares to be so brazen—dares to hurl his filth before the Lord’s door.” Giovanni pushed Paolo aside and stepped down the stairs, one deliberate step at a time, until he reached the wicker basket.
He didn’t cover his nose.
He simply stood there, gazing down at the basket of rotting fish as if looking upon a dead child.
“Paolo.” “Yes, Father Abbot.” “Carry this basket into the church.” Paolo gasped.
“The church?
Father Abbot, this…
this thing is too filthy!
How can we bring it into the house of the Lord?” “Precisely so that the Lord may see it.” Strength returned to Giovanni’s voice.
“This is evidence—evidence that Satan has declared war upon us.” “Take the slip of paper as well.
Place it in a box and seal it.” “Yes, Father Abbot.” Paolo dared not question him further.
He felt that every command from the abbot held a profound meaning beyond his comprehension.
Finding a cloth to drape over the wicker basket, he heaved it up with effort.
It was heavy, and foul-smelling.
He carried it across the quiet courtyard toward the church, his footsteps heavy.
He felt as though he were carrying not a basket of rotten fish, but an impending catastrophe.
Giovanni stood where he was, watching Paolo’s back vanish into the shadows of the church.
The grief on his face vanished in an instant—as simple and swift as shedding a coat.
He looked up at the moon.
The bright moonlight cast a pale sheen over his handsome face.
…
Early the next morning, before the dawn fully broke, the monastery bell did not ring.
The friars found it strange.
At this hour every day, the bell rang promptly to summon them to morning prayer.
What was wrong today?
Had the bell-ringer fallen ill?
Leaving their quarters, they walked toward the church in groups of two and three, expecting to find an empty hall.
But they were wrong.
Abbot Giovanni stood before the altar in a simple habit.
Behind him loomed the massive crucifix.
Before him stood all the friars.
They all stood in silence.
The atmosphere inside the church was suffocatingly tense.
Beneath the altar, the friars noticed an object—a wicker basket covered with a cloth.
A faint, foul stench drifted through the church.
It was bizarre, and deeply ominous.
“My brothers.” “Today, we shall not recite morning prayers.” The friars were stunned.
No morning prayer?
Such a thing had never happened in the monastery’s history—unless an abbot died, or Florence was fallen to an enemy.
“Today, we repent.” As he spoke, Giovanni bent down and whipped off the cloth covering the basket.
With a rustle, a basket of rotting fish was exposed before everyone’s eyes.
In the dim light of the church, beneath the sacred halo of the altar, the basket of decaying, reeking dead fish crawling with flies delivered a grotesque, almost sacrilegious visual shock.
A few young friars standing in the front row couldn’t help dry-heaving.
They couldn’t understand why the Father Abbot would place such a revolting thing beneath the Lord’s holy altar.
“Look upon it,” Giovanni said, pointing at the basket.
“This is how we, the Santa Lucia Monastery, appear before the Lord.” “Rotten, foul, and stomach-churning.” The friars exchanged bewildered glances, unsure of what he meant.
“Late last night,” Giovanni said, his voice beginning to quiver slightly, “someone threw this ‘offering’ at the monastery doors.” Reaching into his robe, he produced the slip of paper Paolo had sealed in a box and held it aloft.
“It reads: ‘This is the offering for you.'” “An offering for me?
No.” Giovanni shook his head.
“It was not offered to me.
It was offered to us.
To the Lord.” “This is a servant of Satan mocking us all, trampling upon our faith!” His voice swelled, and the friars’ hearts trembled in tandem.
Finally, they understood.
Something so vile had occurred—someone was declaring war on the monastery!
Young friars like Luca and Antonio flushed deep red.
They saw this as an intolerable humiliation.
They wanted to charge out, drag the damned scoundrel forth, and hang him from an oak tree.
However, Giovanni gave them no such chance.
Shifting his tone, he said, “Yet, my brothers, we should not burn with anger.
We should not hunt down the culprit.” “We must ask ourselves: why?” “Why did Satan’s servant dare to do this?” “Why today?
Why just as we prepare to hold the Firstfruits Thanksgiving?” “Have you thought about that?” The friars stood stunned.
Indeed.
Why?
“Because our fold has sprung a breach!” “Because our faith is no longer pure!” “Because among us, there are those who question the Lord’s will!
Who resist the Lord’s grace!” He placed the insulting note side by side with the announcement for the Firstfruits Thanksgiving.
“I proclaimed the Firstfruits Thanksgiving to reshape our bond with the Lord, to pull us out of poverty and shame, and to let His glory shine upon Santa Lucia once more.” “This is the Lord’s divine will, delivered to you through me, His humble servant.” “Yet some did not believe.” “Some whispered behind my back that it was a scam, a trick I concocted to steal their money.” “Some incited the villagers to boycott this holy celebration.” “They believed they were opposing me, Giovanni.” “No!” “They were opposing the Lord!” “They were opening the doors of our fold to the devil!” “With their own hands, they handed the knife to Satan’s servant!” “That is why we have this basket of rotten fish!
That is why we suffer this humiliation!” “This fish is not merely the sin of the man who threw it.
It is the sin of us all!” “It is the sin of our faltering faith!
The sin of our disloyalty to the Lord!” “It is we who gave the devil the chance to mock us!” Giovanni’s words burned into the heart of every friar.
Their anger instantly transformed into fear and shame.
Indeed, some of them had secretly harbored doubts about the Firstfruits Thanksgiving.
They had also heard that a faction in the village, led by Bartolo, was openly boycotting it.
At the time, they had merely thought the Father Abbot’s plan might face some resistance.
Never had they imagined—never in their wildest dreams—that it was connected to the devil, Satan, and fractures in their faith.
Nor had they thought it would bring about such direct, sacrilegious retaliation.
Now, listening to the Father Abbot, everything made sense.
The logic was seamless; the cause and effect were crystal clear.
*We lost our piety, and so the devil came.* Especially Brother Philip—the old friar appointed by Giovanni as the keeper of the Roll of Honor.
For days, he had been so excited over compiling the ledger that he could barely sleep, viewing it as the most sacred calling of his twilight years.
Hearing now that people were resisting and sabotaging it felt to him like someone gouging out his heart.
Looking at the basket of rotting fish and smelling the foul stench, his eyes turned red.
He was the first to fall to his knees.
“Father Abbot…
we were wrong…” he wept bitterly.
“We…
we have failed the Lord’s grace…
We are sinners…” When he knelt, the other friars followed suit, dropping to their knees in a heavy rustle.
They were entirely swayed by Giovanni’s sermon, terrified by the basket of rotting fish and the “sacred crisis” it represented.
They no longer viewed this as a simple provocation.
They saw it as a harbinger of the end times, and felt themselves to be true sinners.
Anyone who had ever harbored a sliver of doubt about the Father Abbot’s plan was a sinner.
Anyone who opposed the Father Abbot was an accomplice to the devil.
The church echoed with weeping and lamentations of repentance.
Giovanni stood upon the altar, looking down coldly at the men kneeling at his feet—at these so-called “servants of the Lord” whom he twirled around his finger.
In his heart, there was no pity, only the thrill of success.
Very good.
Step one was complete.
A unified, fanatical will had been forged within the monastery.
Next, it was time for those on the outside—the ignorant, superstitious lambs of Santa Lucia Village.
He raised a hand, signaling for silence.
The weeping and repentance gradually subsided.
Everyone raised their heads, looking at him with eyes full of terror and expectation, waiting for him to pronounce the next divine decree.
“Luca.” “Here, Father Abbot!” “Go and ring the alarm bell.” Luca froze.
*The alarm bell?* The monastery’s alarm bell was not struck lightly.
Only in dire emergencies—such as bandits raiding the village or an outbreak of plague—did it sound.
When the alarm bell rang, it meant disaster was at hand.
“Now is the direst of moments,” Giovanni declared.
“Our souls are about to be tainted.
The Lord’s punishment is about to fall.” “Go, ring it.
Gather everyone in the village—man and woman, young and old, noble and poor—to the square outside the monastery doors.” “I shall judge this sin before all.” “Yes, Father Abbot!” Luca hesitated no longer.
Rising to his feet, he wiped his tears with his sleeve and sprinted off toward the bell tower.