Giovanni had come alone, without any retinue.
He wore a simple gray robe and held a clay jar in his hand.
Jacopo froze on the spot, not knowing what to say.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in for a drink?” Giovanni smiled, speaking in the exact tone he used when they used to steal wine together as boys.
Jacopo snapped back to reality and hurriedly ushered him inside.
The room was cluttered, with slaughtering hooks and knives resting in the corner.
Jacopo felt embarrassed, thinking his filthy hovel was unfit for the Lord Abbot to set foot in.
Giovanni didn’t mind in the slightest.
He found a wooden stool, sat down, and set the clay jar on the greasy table.
“I got it from the monastery’s wine cellar,” Giovanni said.
“Taste it.
It’s better than the stuff we used to steal.” Jacopo fumbled around to find two wooden cups.
Feeling the cups were dirty too, he wiped them repeatedly with a cloth.
Giovanni personally filled both cups with wine.
In the dim light of the oil lamp, the red liquid looked like blood.
This was the first time Jacopo had ever sat so close to a “great man” to drink wine.
He was so nervous his tongue stumbled.
Giovanni kept talking.
He spoke of their childhood.
He recounted how they hid the old monk’s wig, forcing him to conduct Mass with a completely bald head.
He recalled how they molded mud into monsters to scare timid girls.
As he spoke, Jacopo gradually relaxed.
He felt that the person sitting across from him was no high-and-mighty Lord Abbot, but still the same Giovanni who splashed around in the river with him.
“Jacopo,” Giovanni downed a cup, his cheeks slightly flushed.
“You know, ever since I became abbot, wearing this robe every day and talking to the monks and villagers…
I have to put on airs and say what they want to hear.
Honestly, it’s exhausting.” “Only here with you,” Giovanni pointed to his chest, “do I feel like myself again.” Those words struck a deep chord in Jacopo’s heart.
The Lord Abbot considered him a friend.
A true friend.
He raised his cup, clinked it against Giovanni’s, and drained it in one gulp.
“Don’t you worry, Giovanni,” Jacopo said, emboldened by the wine.
“No matter who you are, you’ll always be my friend.” Giovanni smiled.
“Our friendship will last forever.” Giovanni’s words whirled in Jacopo’s mind.
*My friendship with the Abbot of the monastery will last forever?* *What does that mean?* *It means no one in the village will ever dare look down on him as a mere butcher again.* *It means his butcher shop has the monastery backing it.* Jacopo was overjoyed.
Seeing his delight, Giovanni poured him another cup.
“By the way,” Giovanni said as if suddenly remembering, “from now on, your butcher shop won’t have to pay the tithe anymore.
I’ll just speak to the monk in charge of the books.” Jacopo’s eyes lit up instantly.
No taxes!
The butcher shop’s tithes were steep.
Every quarter, men from the monastery would come to take a tenth of his income, or if they deemed the money insufficient, they’d lead away a whole pig.
Each time, his heart bled.
Now, with a single sentence from Giovanni, that expense was gone.
Jacopo was ecstatic.
He felt Giovanni wasn’t just his friend; he was practically his benefactor.
He felt that for this friendship, for this favor, he would do anything for Giovanni.
The wine was nearly finished.
Jacopo noticed that although Giovanni kept smiling, a hint of unavoidable gloom lingered between his brows.
That shadow looked a bit like the look he had as a boy when adults caught them stealing.
“Giovanni…
I mean, Lord Abbot,” Jacopo asked cautiously, “is something troubling you?” Giovanni sighed and set down his cup.
The smile faded from his face, replaced by helplessness and exhaustion.
“Ah, I fear my time as abbot is coming to an end.” Those words instantly snapped Jacopo out of his drunkenness.
*How could that be?* *If he stops being abbot, how can he be my backing?* *Wouldn’t the promised tax exemption become empty talk?* *And wouldn’t the “Abbot’s friendship” he just earned vanish into thin air?* *He, Jacopo, would turn back into that despised butcher reeking of pig blood.* Jacopo grew desperate.
“Lord Abbot, what happened?
Who dares take the abbacy from you?” Giovanni shook his head helplessly.
“Things aren’t going smoothly for me at the monastery.
As you know, I am too young.
Some of the elders there don’t respect me.
They feel I stole a position that belonged to them.” “There is a monk named Matteo, formerly a confidant of the old abbot.
He has been scheming to oust me.” “Tomorrow,” Giovanni stared into the oil lamp’s flame, flickers dancing in his pupils, “he leaves for Florence.
He rallied most of the monks and wrote a joint petition to report me to His Grace the Bishop, asking him to remove me.” Jacopo was no fool.
Though uneducated, dealing in meat had taught him a thing or two about the world and human nature.
He understood immediately.
Why had the Lord Abbot come secretly in the dead of night to visit a butcher?
Why speak of childhood friendship and grant him a tax exemption?
It was almost certainly because of this Brother Matteo heading for Florence.
Jacopo’s heart began to race.
He knew this was his chance to prove his loyalty.
And his chance to secure his future.
“Lord Abbot…
what do you need me to do?” Giovanni raised his head and locked eyes with Jacopo.
In an instant, his gaze reverted to the look Jacopo had seen in the village during the day.
Compassionate, holy, like a deity gazing upon suffering mortals.
“Jacopo, Brother Matteo is a good man.
But he has been tempted by the devil.
His heart is full of envy and resentment, which has led him astray from the Lord’s path.” “For the peace of the monastery, and for the well-being of all the faithful in Santa Lucia, he cannot go to Florence to spread lies and strife.” “He needs…
to go before God and repent for his sins in person.” Giovanni spoke every word slowly and clearly.
He did not say, “Kill him.” He said, “Go before God to repent.” Jacopo understood.
When pigs were slaughtered, a monk would often come and chant a few prayers over the doomed beast, claiming to purify its soul.
It was the same thing.
“Lord Abbot,” Jacopo stood up and bowed deeply to Giovanni, “I understand.” *** Jacopo spat on the ground and tightened his grip on the hemp rope.
He heard the clatter of mule hooves on the dirt road.
*Clop, clop, clop.* Drawing near.
Peering through the gaps in the pine needles, he saw a figure in a monk’s habit riding an old mule, ambling slowly toward the bend.
That was him.
Jacopo was remarkably calm, lacking the usual panic of a first-time killer.
He felt as though he weren’t waiting for a man, but for a pig in his own pen.
When the time comes, it gets slaughtered.
He calculated the distance.
Fifty paces.
Thirty paces.
Ten paces.
Now!
Jacopo yanked the hemp rope back with sudden force!
The rope, hidden beneath loose earth and fallen leaves, snapped taut from the ground in an instant!
Matteo had his head down, deep in thought, completely oblivious to the danger.
The old mule’s front legs caught hard on the rope.
With a piteous bray, the beast lost its footing and pitched heavily forward.
Matteo was thrown from its back.
His back slammed hard onto the dirt road.
He tried to scramble up, but his limbs refused to cooperate, and his ears rang violently.
Before he could even process what had happened, a dark silhouette towered over him.
Squinting, his vision was a blur.
He saw a pair of mud-caked boots and a blade gleaming cold.
It was a butcher’s sticking knife, meant for bleeding pigs.
Before Matteo could cry out for help or comprehend why a butcher’s blade was here, Jacopo leaned down, pinned Matteo’s shoulder with his left hand, and drove the sticking knife straight into his neck with his right.
Then he dragged it across.
Just as he usually bled a pig.
*Spurt—* Hot blood spurted out in torrents.
Matteo’s eyes bulged wide.
He tried to speak, but could only cough up mouthfuls of bloody froth.
His body twitched in spasms, quickly falling still.
Having finished Matteo, Jacopo walked over to the groaning old mule.
Meat couldn’t be wasted, after all.
Jacopo raised the knife and plunged it into the soft flesh of the mule’s neck.
The mule’s short groan turned into a long screech, its four legs twitching a few times before going limp.
The forest path fell silent, save for the rustle of wind through the pine needles.
Jacopo dragged the mule and Matteo into the woods and set to work.
Soon, Jacopo emerged from the trees pulling a flatbed cart.
*Creak—creak—* The wheels turned slowly.
He hauled the cart step by step back toward the village of Santa Lucia.
Yesterday, that cart carried fresh pork; today, it carried a monk and a mule.
To him, there didn’t seem to be much difference.