Silence hung heavy in the wine cellar.
Several of the younger friars, such as Antonio, could not help but hang their heads.
They felt utterly petty.
The Abbot was so magnanimous, so saintly, while they had been hatching petty conspiracies behind his back.
Compared to the Abbot’s shining nobility, their own souls felt filthy and insignificant.
Matteo watched Giovanni’s performance, a cold chill running down his spine.
This man was terrifying.
He could twist the most malicious accusations into praise for himself.
He could turn a tense, deadly confrontation into a sermon.
*No!* *I can’t let him deceive everyone!* “Fine words!” Matteo gritted out.
“Do you think we’ll believe you just because you talk smoothly?
Glib tongues and hypocritical smiles are the devil’s tricks!” Giovanni did not take offense.
He merely sighed and shook his head.
“It seems Brother Matteo’s doubts run deep.” “Very well.” “Since everyone is gathered here, it saves me the trouble of seeking you out one by one.” “Let us discuss the future development of our monastery.” *Future development?* The friars froze again.
They were just talking about depositions and traitors—how had the conversation suddenly jumped to monastery development?
The new Abbot’s train of thought bounded like a wild hare in the Tuscan hills, far too fast for them to follow.
Giovanni ignored their bewilderment.
He simply pressed on.
“As you all know, our Santa Lucia Monastery is poor.” Those words hit home for everyone.
Poverty.
It was an experience carved into the very bones of every friar here.
Their robes were patched and mended over and over.
Their black bread was hard enough to kill a dog.
Their soup was so thin you could see your reflection in it.
When the former Abbot was alive, things had been somewhat better.
The old Abbot had been greedy, but he had ways of wringing money and supplies out of the local nobles.
He also had dealings with merchants in Florence.
Because of that, the friars could at least drink wine and eat cheese.
But after the old Abbot fell to his death, those connections were severed.
The monastery’s only steady source of income was the tithe from Santa Lucia Village.
“Poverty is not our fault.” “Embracing poverty is a monastic virtue.
However, living beyond our means and letting our coffers run dry is our failure.” “As the shepherds of this land, we have a duty to guide the Lord’s flock.
But if we can barely feed ourselves, how can we guide them?
If we cannot even afford to repair the leaky roof of our church, how can we manifest the glory of the Lord?” The friars remained silent.
Giovanni was speaking the truth.
A heavy rainstorm a few nights ago had soaked the sacred statues, and they had been forced to catch the leaks with wooden basins.
During morning prayers the next day, the constant *drip-drip-drip* had grated on everyone’s nerves.
“Why are we unable to make ends meet?” Giovanni posed the question, then answered it himself.
“Because there is a fundamental issue with how we collect our tithes.” When it came to this topic, Matteo had the most authority.
It had always been his responsibility in the past.
The tithe, as the name implied, was a religious tax set at one-tenth of one’s income or produce.
Scripture laid it out clearly: one-tenth of all the produce of the land, whether grain, new wine, or oil, belonged to the Lord.
It sounded simple enough.
In practice, however, it was a mess of messy accounts.
“The villagers of Santa Lucia,” Giovanni continued, “harvest their wheat at night so we cannot see how much they actually reap.” “They hide their sheep and cattle deep in the valleys, only driving them back after our men have left.” “The wheat they turn in is either moldy or mixed with sand.
The sheep they offer are either lame or diseased.” “They will even argue with our brothers for days over whether a few fish caught from a pond or wild berries fallen in the woods count as ‘produce of the land.'” The friars had experienced every single thing Giovanni described.
When they went to collect taxes, the villagers looked at them not as servants of God, but as highway bandits.
They would force smiles, exhaust every kind word, and end up with barely enough to cover the monastery’s expenses for half a month.
It was a humiliation.
“When the former Abbot was alive,” Giovanni glanced at Matteo.
“He used the whip.
Whoever failed to pay enough tax would have men sent to drag him out of his house and flog him in public.
That method worked in the short term.
But in the long run?” “In the long run, it only breeds deeper hatred.
They will devise even more ways to deceive and defy us.
A whip can strike their flesh, but it can never instill true fear and reverence for the Lord and the Church in their hearts.” Matteo’s face flushed red, then turned pale.
Giovanni was right again.
Using the whip had been his idea.
He believed that force was the only language those mud-footed peasants understood.
He never expected Giovanni to drag it out and slap him across the face with it in public.
“Then what do you propose we do?” Matteo couldn’t help snapping back.
“Should we get down on our knees and beg for their charity?” “Of course not.” Giovanni smiled.
That was the exact line he had been waiting for.
All this buildup, all this dramatic framing, was for this very moment.
He didn’t just want to forgive these “rebels.” He wanted to thoroughly conquer them.
He wanted them to admit from the depths of their souls that he, Giovanni, was the only one who could lead them out of hardship.
“Why do they dare to deceive us?
Because they believe we don’t know how much they harvest.
They think their tricks are flawless.” “Why do they dare to substitute moldy grain and sick livestock?
Because they feel that once these offerings reach our hands, good or bad makes no difference.” “The core problem lies in the fact that we are *collecting taxes*.
That word—*collecting*—places us on opposing sides.
We are the ones taking things away from them.” The friars listened, thoroughly bewildered.
If they didn’t collect taxes, what were they supposed to do?
Wait for the peasants to hand things over out of the goodness of their hearts?
“We will turn tax collection into an offering.” “An offering?” Brother Philip muttered under his breath.
“Precisely.
An offering.” “Starting next quarter, we will no longer send men door-to-door to collect tithes.
We will announce that the first Sunday of every quarter shall be designated as the ‘Firstfruits Thanksgiving.'” “On this day, the head of every household in Santa Lucia Village must bring the fattest, finest, best tenth of his harvest to the plaza in front of the monastery.” “They will line up these offerings—grain, livestock, fruit wine—neatly in the square.” “Then I, as the Abbot, will personally preside over a grand blessing ceremony.
I will individually bless every single offering dedicated to the Lord.” “Before the entire village, I will stroke the strongest ox, kiss the fullest sack of wheat, and praise the most devout believer.” “Think about it,” Giovanni said, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.
“In a setting like that, with everyone watching, who would dare bring out a bag of moldy wheat?” “Who would dare lead out a lame, dying sheep and present it in front of all his neighbors?” “When his neighbor, Andre, leads out a sleek, healthy calf, while he, Piero, brings out a scrawny chicken…
what will he think?
How will the villagers look at him?
How can his wife and children hold their heads up in the village?” “It will no longer be paying taxes.
It will be an opportunity for them to demonstrate their devotion and prosperity to the Lord and the entire village.
It will become a competition—a contest of honor.” Absolute silence reigned in the wine cellar.
Every friar stared blankly at Giovanni.
They had never…
…never considered the problem from this angle.
Taxes could be collected like *this*?
Turning a hated, miserable chore into a grand event where people competed for status and prestige?
This…
…this was a stroke of absolute genius!
“What…
what if someone simply has no shame?” Antonio asked stammeringly, completely stunned by Giovanni’s vision.
“A good question.” Giovanni gave him an approving look.
“As for those stubborn fools who insist on trying to cheat the Lord with inferior goods, I will, of course, give them a ‘blessing’ as well.” “I will walk up to him, lift his bag of moldy grain, and announce to everyone: ‘Behold, our brother is so humble!
He keeps the best for himself and gives the moldy wheat to the Lord.
The Lord is merciful and will accept this gift.
However, from this day forth, all harvests in this brother’s home shall, under the Lord’s ‘blessing,’ rot just as quickly as this grain.
Amen.'” As Giovanni spoke the word “Amen,” a holy, serene smile remained on his face.
Yet the friars in the cellar shuddered in unison.
They could already picture the unfortunate villager, deathly pale, kneeling on the ground and begging desperately for mercy.
In an era steeped in ignorance and superstition, a curse pronounced by a priest carried far more terror than any whip.
It was ruthless.
It calculated human dignity and fear down to the very bone.
Matteo stood there, frozen.
He had lost.
He had lost completely and utterly.
Faced with Giovanni’s airtight scheme, his own brute force with the whip looked like mere child’s play.
He had thought Giovanni was just an impostor who seized power with forged documents.
But now he understood.
Even without that letter, a man like this would sooner or later climb above them all.
He wasn’t an impostor.
He was…
…a born ruler.
The other friars looked at Giovanni with entirely changed eyes.
Their previous doubts, dissatisfaction, and fear vanished completely.
Instead, they seemed to see a golden highway opening before them.
Under the leadership of this new Abbot, Santa Lucia Monastery would no longer be a dirt-poor ruin.
They would never again have to endure the scowls of villagers, nor choke down sour wine.
They would gain respect.
They would gain wealth.
They would gain everything they desired.
Giovanni watched their expressions, sneering inwardly.
*A bunch of fools.* *Bought over by a plan that hasn’t even been put into action yet?* Still, this was precisely the effect he wanted.
He didn’t need subordinates who could think; he needed tools who could execute.
He had already turned everyone except Matteo into his tools.
Now it was time to handle the final nuisance.
Giovanni turned his eyes back to Matteo.
“Of course, truth will clarify itself, and falsehood will reveal its own stain.” “My ideas are solely for the future of our monastery.
Yet this alone cannot erase the doubts in your heart, Brother Matteo.
I know you are a meticulous man, one who feels a profound responsibility toward the Lord.” “Therefore, Brother Matteo, if doubts still linger in your heart, if you still believe I am a devil cloaked in holy robes…” He paused, an encouraging smile gracing his face.
“…why don’t you make the journey to Florence yourself?” “Take your petition letter and meet with His Grace the Bishop.
Tell him your concerns and your suspicions face-to-face.” “I will not stop you.
I can even have Luca prepare a mule and trail rations for your journey.” “Go.
Seek the truth.
The Lord will guide your path.” The moment those words left his mouth, everyone was stunned.
They had never expected Giovanni to be so…
…so open and magnanimous.
He was actively telling Matteo to go to Florence to report him!
What did that mean?
It could mean only one thing: he wasn’t afraid at all!
His identity, his letter of appointment—they were all genuine!
He had nothing to fear!
The friars’ glances toward Matteo began to shift subtly.
They felt Brother Matteo might truly be in the wrong this time.
And egregiously wrong at that—he was simply causing trouble out of nothing!
Matteo felt the weight of those gazes.
Giovanni’s move was utterly venomous.
He had blocked off every single escape route.
If Matteo didn’t go to Florence, it would be equivalent to admitting he was wrong, turning all his previous allegations into a farce.
Whatever authority he had left in the monastery would completely dissolve.
And if he did go…
He stared at Giovanni’s calm, compassionate face.
*Is he…* *…really not afraid of me going?* *Could that letter…* *…actually have been written by the Bishop himself?* *Could this young man truly be a genius secretly groomed by the Church?* Matteo’s heart wavered.
For the first time, he began to doubt his own judgment.
However, the arrow was nocked; it had to be shot.
He had backed himself into a cliff’s edge.
He glared at Giovanni and squeezed out a few words through gritted teeth.
“Fine.” “I will go.” He had to go.
This was no longer about the monastery.
This was about preserving the last shred of his dignity.
Even if a bottomless abyss lay ahead, he had to jump.
The smile on Giovanni’s face grew even brighter.
“May the Lord bless you, my brother.”