The wine cellar was damp, water beads seeping through the stone walls.
More than a dozen monks were crammed into the dark, airless space.
A solitary tallow lamp sat atop a wooden barrel, faintly illuminating a sea of anxious faces.
“That’s how it is,” Matteo said, slamming his fist onto the barrel and sending the flame jumping.
“That letter is almost certainly a forgery!” The monks remained silent.
They clutched wooden cups filled with wine from the cellar.
“Think about it!
What kind of figure is His Grace the Bishop?
Why would he send a wet-behind-the-ears boy to be the abbot of our backwater monastery?” A young monk named Antonio whispered, “But…
but he has the bishop’s appointment letter, and the seal…” “The seal!” Matteo sneered.
“Seals can be forged too!
You country folk haven’t seen the world—you don’t know how brazen those city swindlers are!
They even dare to forge noble coats of arms!” “He is far too young,” another elderly monk, Filippo, chimed in.
His job was copying scriptures, so he possessed a bit more worldly knowledge.
“I have lived for sixty years, and I have never seen such a young abbot.
He looks barely older than my youngest grandson.” This drew a murmur of agreement from the crowd.
“Aye, the boy’s beard hasn’t even grown in.” “He spends his days hovering around the village widows and young wives, calling it ‘listening to confessions.'” “Ever since he arrived, our evening prayers have been cut short.
Where is the propriety in that?” Matteo looked at the crowd with satisfaction.
This was precisely the atmosphere he wanted.
“So we cannot afford to wait any longer!
If we wait, Santa Lucia Monastery will be ruined by this fraud!
We are protecting the Lord’s property!” He pulled a scroll of parchment from his robes.
“I have drafted a joint petition to His Grace the Bishop in Florence.
It details our concerns and begs him to thoroughly investigate this Giovanni’s true identity.” The monks’ eyes fixed on the scroll.
Appealing to Florence?
That was no small matter.
What if…
What if this Giovanni was legitimate?
Then all of them would be guilty of openly defying their superior and questioning the bishop’s authority.
The consequences would be dire.
At best, they would be expelled; at worst, branded as heretics and sent to the stake.
“Who will deliver the letter?” Antonio asked again.
This question was far more lethal than the letter itself.
The road from Santa Lucia to Florence was hardly peaceful, crawling with deserters and bandits.
More importantly, whoever delivered the letter would be putting their own neck on the line.
Matteo looked around, meeting a wall of shrinking, hesitant faces.
He cursed them as cowards in his heart, but kept his expression composed.
“The one who delivers this letter will be a hero of Santa Lucia Monastery.
We will all remember his service.” A hero?
No one wanted to be a hero.
After all, if the abbot turned out to be authentic, everyone would shift the blame onto the messenger.
Just as Matteo was about to stir them up further, the cellar door suddenly creaked open.
Two figures stood in the doorway.
One was the new abbot, Giovanni da Fiesole.
He held a glass wind lantern ten times brighter than their crude tallow lamp, its light washing over his handsome face until he looked like an angel.
A gentle, compassionate smile rested on his lips, as though he had just concluded a delightful sermon.
Beside him stood Luca.
The young monk Giovanni had promoted to his assistant.
Luca kept his head bowed low, not daring to meet anyone’s eyes.
A dead silence fell over the wine cellar.
The monks froze like mice caught in a granary, panicked and trapped with nowhere to run.
Matteo was the first to react.
Pointing an accusing finger at Luca, he barked, “Traitor!
You shameless traitor!
Did you bring him here?!” Luca flinched, shrinking behind Giovanni’s back.
Giovanni handed the glass lantern to Luca, then took a step forward into the warm halo of the tallow lamp.
“Brother Matteo, you misunderstand Luca.
He has not betrayed you.” “I forced him to bring me here.” Everyone stared in shock.
Giovanni affectionately patted Luca’s head.
“Luca is a good boy.
When he saw you all gathered here acting suspiciously, he feared you might be tempted by Satan and commit an unforgivable sin.
That is why he came to report to me.
He did not do it to sell you out, but to save your souls.
How could such an act be called ‘betrayal’?
It is loyalty—the deepest, most profound loyalty to the Lord, to the Church, and to his brothers.” Luca lifted his head at these words, his eyes glistening with tears.
The other monks exchanged bewildered glances.
Moments ago, they had viewed Luca as an informant and a Judas.
Yet under the abbot’s framing, Luca’s actions suddenly seemed noble and righteous.
Matteo trembled with rage.
He was turning black into white!
This Giovanni truly was a devil who played with human hearts!
“You…” Matteo pointed at Giovanni.
“Save your sweet talk!
You know full well why we are gathered here!” “Yes, I know.” Giovanni pulled over an empty wooden barrel and sat down smoothly.
“You are discussing how to depose me.” The moment those words left his mouth, the monks felt a wave of panic wash over them, their knees going soft.
They braced themselves for a storm.
They expected Giovanni to use his authority as abbot to mete out harsh punishment to these “rebels.” Yet nothing of the sort happened.
Giovanni offered a faint smile.
In that smile, there was no mockery, no anger—only the patience and forgiveness of an elder toward a wayward child.
“My brothers,” he said softly, “I understand how you feel.” “I arrived abruptly, and His Grace the Bishop did not notify you in advance.
It is only natural that you would harbor doubts about me and my origins.” He looked at Matteo, his gaze earnest.
“Brother Matteo, I am well aware of your devotion to this monastery.
You worried I might be an impostor who would ruin this place.
That concern is no sin.
On the contrary, it proves your piety to the Lord.” Matteo had prepared a barrage of insults, ready to burn every bridge.
Now, it felt as though his full-force punch had landed on soft cotton—leaving him stuck in an uncomfortable silence.
The rest of the monks were equally stunned.
They had imagined a hundred scenarios of being discovered, but not a single one like this.
The new abbot hadn’t scolded them.
He had even…
Praised them?
“The Lord tells us to test all things,” Giovanni continued.
“Doubt in itself is not frightening.
What is frightening is allowing doubt to blind your eyes, causing you to miss the grace bestowed by the Lord.” Giovanni stood up and walked over to Matteo.
He towered a head above the old monk.
Looking down at the angry old man, Giovanni’s eyes overflowed with pity for a lost sheep.
“You wish to depose me and send someone to Florence for verification.
That is good.” “It proves you are not numb.
It proves you still care about the future of this monastery.” “Therefore, I do not blame you.
Not a single one of you.” He opened his arms as if to embrace everyone present.
“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.” “As a servant of the Lord, how could I not love you?
You are all my brothers.
No matter what you have done or said, so long as your hearts still belong to the Lord, you will forever be my brothers.”