Having sent Matteo on his way, the group entered the church to begin their daily morning prayer.
The church was dim, lit only by a few shafts of light piercing the tall stained-glass windows and falling onto the flagstone floor.
The monks took their positions.
Giovanni walked up to the altar at the front, facing the large crucifix hanging on the wall.
Jesus on the cross lowered His head, gazing down at him.
Looking at him as if he were a complete stranger.
Giovanni began to pray.
“O God, come to my assistance…” The monks chanted along.
At first, their voices were somewhat uneven, but gradually they synchronized into a single, unified sound.
This sound was speaking to God.
Every man was speaking to God.
They praised God’s greatness, gave thanks for His grace, and begged for His forgiveness.
Some had their eyes closed; others stared at the crucifix ahead.
Their faces wore expressions of devotion—piety from the very depths of their hearts.
It was a communion of souls.
They felt their spirits connecting with God in heaven through this shared voice.
Giovanni was chanting as well.
His voice was the backbone of all the rest.
Yet he wasn’t speaking to God.
He was listening.
He listened to the voices behind him, catching every subtle shift in tone.
Before, those voices had contained doubt, fear, and discontent.
Today, those were gone.
All that remained was obedience.
And a spark of fanaticism.
Like a flock of sheep that had finally found its shepherd.
If the shepherd told them to go east, they went east.
If he told them to march to their deaths, they just might obey.
Giovanni was deeply satisfied.
One voice, one will.
His voice, his will.
Morning prayer ended.
Next came the Mass.
If prayer was speaking, then Mass was dining—eating at God’s table.
Giovanni stepped down from the altar and walked into the side room.
Luca followed him inside to help him put on the liturgical vestments for the Mass.
Layer after layer.
First, the white alb, symbolizing purity.
Then the sash-like stole, draped diagonally over his shoulders, symbolizing divine authority.
Finally, the outermost garment: a splendid chasuble.
Made of silk, embroidered with gold thread in patterns of grapes and ears of wheat.
It was the finest vestment in the abbey, left behind by the former abbot.
Draped in these garments, Giovanni was no longer just Giovanni.
He was God’s representative on earth.
His every gesture carried divine authority.
Giovanni returned to the altar.
The monks knelt.
Dozens of devout believers from the village were also present, kneeling at the very back of the nave.
They kept their heads bowed, not daring to look directly at the light on the altar.
The Mass began.
It was a performance—a sacred play performed for a thousand years.
Giovanni was the sole protagonist.
He recited the scriptures.
He raised his hands in blessing.
He lifted the heavy Bible and kissed it.
Every movement was precise, flawless, and steeped in ritual.
It reminded him of high-end cocktail parties he had attended in the twenty-first century.
How to hold a wine glass, how to cut a steak, how to smile at someone—it was all a science.
It was all an act.
And he played his part brilliantly.
The audience below watched in total spellbound fascination.
Then came the climax.
The Consecration of the Host.
Luca rang the altar bell.
*Ring, ring, ring.* The crisp bell notes echoed through the church.
Everyone lowered their heads even further.
Giovanni picked up a round piece of unleavened bread.
He held it high and spoke the pivotal words: “This is my body.” With that, he raised the bread high to display it to the congregation.
In that moment, everyone believed this wafer was no longer mere bread.
It had become the body of Jesus.
Next came the wine.
Giovanni picked up the chalice filled with red wine.
Again, he recited: “This is my blood…” He lifted the chalice high.
Everyone believed this cup of wine had become the blood of Jesus.
It was a miracle.
A miracle that happened every single day, yet inspired awe every time.
Giovanni looked at the devoutly bowed heads below and found it slightly ridiculous.
A piece of bread, a cup of wine.
That was all it took to make a group of people believe in miracles.
Humans really were simple, easy-to-understand creatures.
He broke off a small piece of the consecrated host and placed it in his mouth.
Tasted like nothing.
Much like an ordinary cracker.
Then he stepped down from the altar.
The monks queued up, kneeling before him.
One by one, they raised their heads and opened their mouths like hungry fledglings waiting to be fed.
Giovanni placed small pieces of the Host into their mouths.
“The Body of Christ.” “Amen.” Each monk carefully held the tiny wafer on his tongue, not daring to chew it for fear of profaning the Host.
They waited for it to dissolve slowly in their mouths, feeling as though they were becoming one with Christ.
Giovanni observed the blissful, contented expressions on their faces and recalled how he used to hand out stock certificates for “pre-IPO shares” to gullible investors.
A worthless piece of paper.
Yet when those investors held it in their hands, they wore the exact same expression.
Identical.
No difference at all.
The Mass concluded.
The faithful left the church with purified souls.
The monks dispersed to begin their daily duties—sweeping, copying scriptures, working in the vegetable garden.
Giovanni stripped off the grand chasuble and changed back into his simple monk’s habit.
He didn’t return to his room.
Instead, he walked to a shadowy corner on one side of the church.
There was no wooden confessional box here like those designed in later centuries to protect privacy and grant a sense of security—that was an invention still hundreds of years away.
Here, there was only a heavy, high-backed oak chair carved with intricate patterns.
It was both a throne of power and a seat of judgment.