Giovanni raised his hand and made the sign of the cross in the air.
“The Lord’s punishment has begun, but this is also His warning.
He is reminding us that we must immediately drag out the black sheep bringing the plague from among the flock.” “Until the sinner is purified, this well has been claimed by the devil’s filth and can no longer be used for drinking.” “Every drop of water may carry a curse.
Every household in the village must immediately throw out the water stored from the well!
From today on, everyone can only fetch water from the Arno River.” Fetching water from the river meant walking a much longer distance, a heavy burden for the village women.
But right now, no one complained.
This was divine retribution.
Under divine retribution, any inconvenience could be endured.
Compared to plague and death, what were a few extra steps?
“This is the Lord’s first test for us,” Giovanni said, looking at the crowd.
“He is watching to see if we are willing to endure this small hardship for the purity of our souls.” “We are willing, Lord Rector!” someone shouted from the crowd.
“We are willing!” The shouts merged into a single voice.
Bartolo stood at a distance, leaning against the old oak tree.
He watched Giovanni.
This young rector was like a master snake charmer, using an invisible flute to make the whole village dance to his tune.
A wave of chill washed over Bartolo’s heart.
He knew that the basket of rotten fish and the contaminated well were aimed at him.
This was a war.
A war without swords, yet far more treacherous than steel.
Bartolo had run roughshod over this village his entire life, relying on land, money, and the visible whip.
While this fair-faced rector relied on invisible things.
Fear.
Faith.
And the human heart.
Bartolo sneered, turned, and walked away with his servant.
He believed that as long as he didn’t panic, as long as he remained the Bartolo who held absolute power over the tenant farmers’ lives, this young priest couldn’t do anything to him.
Rumors, in the end, were just wind.
Once the wind blew past, nothing remained.
But he was wrong.
Sometimes, the wind could kill.
*** Panic was like a seed.
Once planted, it would sprout, grow, and crawl all over the village by itself.
The incident at the well was merely the first seed.
On the second day, the second seed sprouted.
Giotto the baker—the fat man who had read a few books and read the notice aloud for everyone at the village entrance—ran into trouble.
His bread dough refused to rise.
Giotto was the best baker in the village.
His yeast starter was passed down from his ancestors, cultivated for nearly a hundred years.
The dough fermented with his yeast baked into soft, sweet bread filled with the clean fragrance of the wheat itself.
Even the nobles of Florence would occasionally send servants specifically to buy his bread.
This was what Giotto took the most pride in.
But today, the thing he was proudest of betrayed him.
He got up before dawn as usual.
He added the starter, kneaded the dough, placed the bowl near the warm stove, covered it with a damp cloth, and waited for it to ferment slowly.
Usually at this time, he would drink a small glass of wine and take a nap.
By the time he woke up, the dough would bulge high like a small white mountain.
But today, after his nap, he lifted the damp cloth to look.
The dough was still the same dough.
Lying there lifelessly.
Giotto froze.
He thought he hadn’t slept off his grogginess.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
It still hadn’t risen.
“What in the devil’s name…” he muttered, poking the dough with his finger.
It was cold and hard.
He assumed it was because the weather was too cold today.
He threw a few more logs into the stove, warming the room further.
Then, he threw away the dead dough and kneaded a fresh, large batch.
This time, he added double the yeast starter.
He guarded the stove without taking a single step away, staring at the dough as if watching a critically ill child.
An hour passed.
Two hours passed.
The dough remained completely motionless.
Sweat poured down Giotto’s face.
His wife came over, finding it strange to see him staring blankly at a lump of dead dough.
“What’s wrong?” “It won’t rise.” “How could it not rise?” His wife didn’t believe it and went over to check for herself.
The dough indeed hadn’t risen.
“Is there something wrong with the yeast?” Giotto hurriedly ran to inspect his precious starter—the large clay jar of starter he carefully tended every single day.
He scooped out a spoonful and smelled it.
It still had that familiar, sweet-and-sour aroma.
Nothing wrong with it.
“Try again!” Giotto grit his teeth.
He refused to believe in this madness.
He kneaded another batch of dough.
This time, he poured almost half the jar of yeast starter into it.
Then, he knelt before the stove and began praying to God, the Virgin Mary, and every saint whose name he knew.
The result was the same.
The dough, spiked with a massive amount of starter, not only failed to rise, but turned even harder, like a stone.
Giotto collapsed into total despair.
He sat heavily on the floor, staring at the three failed batches of dough with a vacant gaze.
He had been a baker his whole life.
He had never imagined that one day, dough would fail to rise in his hands.
For him, this was worse than death.
It was a complete denial of his entire existence.
His wife began to cry.
“It’s a curse…
it must be a curse…” She wept while making the sign of the cross over her chest.
“The Lord Rector was right…
God’s punishment has come…” Giotto remained silent.
He was a “man of culture,” and he hadn’t really believed in gods and ghosts in the past.
But now, he believed.
Apart from a curse, he couldn’t find any other explanation.
The news spread through the entire village in no time.
Giotto’s bakery was surrounded so tightly that no one could slip through.
People hadn’t come to buy bread.
They had come to watch the show.
They looked at the hard lumps of dead dough, at the shattered Giotto, and at his wife weeping beside him.
On their faces, there was no sympathy.
Only fear.
“It’s true…
even Giotto’s bread won’t rise…” “Giotto is the best baker in our village…” “Terrifying…
whose turn will it be next?” “It’s all because of that blasphemer!
Who on earth did this!” The people’s fear fermented.
Far faster than Giotto’s dough ever could.
*** At night.
Jacopo’s butcher shop.
Giovanni had come again.
Still alone, holding a bottle of wine.
Jacopo secured the door and poured Giovanni a cup of wine.
“Nicely done,” Giovanni said, referring to the baker’s matter.
Jacopo grinned, showing a mouthful of white teeth.
“That fat fool almost used up all the yeast in his house,” he said.
“Last night, I slipped into his backyard, took his yeast jar, set it by the hearth to bake for an hour, and then put it back.” Giovanni nodded.
High heat could kill the yeast micro-organisms.
“What about the ox?” Giovanni asked again.
“Taken care of too,” Jacopo said.
“On the east side of the village, Martin’s ox—the strongest one.
I went to check during the day; it likes to eat a kind of weed growing in the wall corners.
I dusted the powdered poison mushrooms onto those leaves.
Once it eats them, within half an hour, it’ll be foaming at the mouth.
Not even a divine saint could save it.” “Was it done cleanly?” “Rest assured, Lord Rector,” Jacopo patted his chest.
“When I do a job, you can put your mind at ease.
That poison mushroom is colorless and odorless.
Even if you slice open the ox’s stomach, you won’t find a thing.” Giovanni was very pleased.
Jacopo was easy to use.
Sharp, obedient, and above all, he didn’t ask why.
“Tomorrow,” Giovanni took a sip of wine, “that ox will fall.” “These three things: the well, the bread, the ox.
They’re enough to make those villagers believe the end of the world is coming.” “Next, we should tell them who brought the end of the world upon them.” Jacopo listened quietly.
He knew the Lord Rector’s plan was locked together link by link.
He was merely the link responsible for executing the dirty work.
*** The third day.
The strongest ox belonging to Martin died.
Its death was exactly as Jacopo had described.
It suddenly collapsed, foamed at the mouth, and its limbs twitched violently.
The veterinarian came, looked at it for a long time, and walked away shaking his head.
He said he had never seen such a bizarre disease.
Now, the entire village of Santa Lucia was thoroughly shrouded in fear.
If the well being contaminated could be dismissed as a coincidence, and the bread failing to rise could be blamed on a flaw in Giotto’s technique, then the sudden death of the healthiest ox in the village was something coincidence could no longer explain.
Three incidents happened one after another.
They completely confirmed what the Lord Rector had said in the square.
The Lord’s punishment had descended.
A curse was spreading through the village.
People stopped going out.
They hid inside their homes, shutting their doors and windows tight.
They were terrified that they would be the next one.
The next person to be cursed.
They didn’t even dare to fetch water from the river.
They preferred to go thirsty.
The entire village was as silent as a graveyard.
Amidst this extreme terror, the people desperately needed an explanation.
An outlet to vent.
A scapegoat.
And Giovanni gave them one right at this moment.