The wine cellar fell silent.
Several younger monks, Antonio among them, could not help lowering their heads. They felt ashamed. The abbot was so generous, so full of saintly grace, yet they had been plotting behind his back. Compared to his radiance, their own souls felt filthy and small.
Matteo watched the scene before him and felt a chill rise in his chest.
This man was terrifying.
He could turn the harshest accusations into praise for himself and twist a tense confrontation into a sermon.
No. He couldn't let everyone be fooled by this fraud.
"Easier said than done!" Matteo gritted his teeth. "Do you think we will believe you just because you say this? Smooth words are the devil's favorite trick!"
Giovanni did not get angry. He only sighed and shook his head.
"It seems Matteo's doubts still run deep. But that is fine. Since everyone is here, I won't need to speak to you one by one. Let us talk about the monastery's future."
The future?
The monks froze again. Just moments ago, they had been talking about removal and betrayal, and now it had jumped to the future. This new abbot's thinking leapt like a wild hare in the Tuscan hills, too fast to follow.
Giovanni ignored their confusion and continued, "Everyone knows that St. Lucia Monastery is poor."
That single word struck straight into their hearts.
Poor.
It was carved into every monk's bones.
Their robes were patched again and again. Their black bread was so hard it could kill a dog, and their soup was so thin you could see your reflection.
When the former abbot was alive, things were slightly better. He was greedy, but he knew how to get money and supplies from nearby nobles. He also had dealings with merchants in Florence. At least the monks could drink wine and eat cheese.
But after he fell to his death, those channels were cut off. The monastery's only steady income was the tithe from St. Lucia village.
"Being poor is not our fault."
"Living simply is a virtue. But spending more than we earn is our failure."
"As shepherds of this land, we must guide the Lord's lambs. Yet we can barely feed ourselves. How can we guide others? We cannot even fix the leaking roof of the church. How can we show the Lord's glory."
The monks remained silent.
Giovanni was speaking the truth.
A few nights ago, heavy rain had soaked the holy statues, and they had no choice but to place a wooden basin underneath. During prayers the next morning, drip by drip, it drove everyone mad.
"Why are we always short?"
Giovanni asked the question, then answered it himself.
"Because our tithe collection is deeply flawed."
At this, Matteo had the most to say. He had always been in charge of it.
The tithe was one tenth, a religious tax. Scripture made it clear: grain, wine, oil. One tenth belonged to the Lord.
It sounded simple. But in practice, it was a mess.
"The villagers of St. Lucia," Giovanni went on, "harvest their wheat at night so we cannot see how much they really have."
"They hide their sheep and cattle deep in the valleys, then bring them back once our men leave."
"The grain they hand over is moldy or mixed with sand. The sheep are lame or sick."
"They even argue for days over whether a few fish from a pond or some wild fruit from the forest counts as 'produce of the land.'"
Every word rang true.
When they collected taxes, villagers looked at them not like servants of the Lord, but like roadside thieves. They smiled. They begged. In the end, what they got was not enough to last half a month.
It was humiliating.
"When the former abbot was here," Giovanni glanced at Matteo, "he used the whip."
"If a household paid too little, men were dragged out and flogged in public. It worked in the short term. But in the long term?"
"In the long term, it only made them hate us more. They found new ways to cheat us and resist us. A whip strikes the body, but it cannot make the heart fear the Lord or the Church."
Matteo's face flushed red, then pale.
It was true.
Using the whip had been his idea. He believed force was the only way with peasants. He never expected it to be used against him like this.
"Then what do you suggest?" Matteo snapped. "Should we kneel and beg them for kindness?"
"Of course not."
Giovanni smiled. This was the line he had been waiting for. All the buildup led to this moment.
He did not just want to forgive the rebels.
He wanted to conquer them completely.
To make them admit, from the heart, that he was the one who could lead them out of poverty.
"Why do they dare cheat us? Because they think we don't know how much they harvest. They believe they can hide it perfectly."
"Why do they dare offer moldy grain and sick animals? Because they think once it reaches us, quality does not matter."
"The core problem is this. We are collecting taxes. That word alone puts us against them. We are the ones taking from them."
The monks looked lost.
If not collecting, then what? Wait for them to bring it themselves?
"We must change tax collection into offering."
"Offering?" Philip murmured.
"Yes. Offering."
"Starting next quarter, we will no longer go door to door. Instead, the first Sunday of each quarter will be declared 'Firstfruits Thanksgiving.'"
"On that day, every household head in St. Lucia village must bring the fattest, finest, and best one tenth of their harvest to the square before the monastery."
"Grain, livestock, wine. All neatly laid out."
"Then I, as abbot, will personally hold a grand blessing ceremony. Each offering will be blessed individually."
"I will stroke the strongest ox, kiss the fullest sheaf of wheat, and praise the most devout believer before the whole village."
"Think about it." Giovanni's gaze swept the room. "In front of everyone, who would dare bring out moldy grain?"
"Who would dare lead a dying, lame sheep and place it before all eyes?"
"When his neighbor Andre brings out a sleek young calf, and he, Piero, brings only a scrawny chicken, what will he think? What will the villagers think? Can his wife and children still hold their heads high?"
"This is no longer paying a tax. This is a chance to show devotion and prosperity to the Lord and the village. It becomes a contest. A contest of honor."
The cellar was utterly silent.
Every monk stared at Giovanni.
They had never thought of it this way.
Tax collection could be done like this? Turning a hated duty into a public competition?
This was brilliant.
"Then… what if someone truly has no shame?" Antonio stammered. He was completely overwhelmed.
"Good question."
Giovanni looked at him with approval.
"For those who stubbornly insist on offering poor goods to fool the Lord, I will still 'bless' them."
"I will walk up, pick up their moldy grain, and say before all, 'Look. Our brother is so humble. He keeps the good for himself and offers the spoiled to the Lord.'"
"The Lord is merciful. He will accept this intention. But from this day on, all harvests from this brother's home will, under the Lord's blessing, rot as quickly as this grain. Amen."
When Giovanni spoke the word "Amen," the smile on his face remained holy. But every monk in the cellar shuddered. They could already see the unlucky villager, face ashen, kneeling and begging.
In an age of ignorance and superstition, a priest's curse was stronger than any whip.
It was ruthless.
It calculated fear and dignity down to the bone.
Matteo stood there in a daze.
He had lost. Lost completely. Compared to this flawless plan, his methods with the whip were childish.
He had thought the abbot was just a fraud who rose through forged papers, but now he understood. Even without that letter, this man would have risen above them all.
He was not a fraud.
He was a born ruler.
The other monks' gazes had completely changed. Doubt, resentment, fear, all gone.
They saw a golden road ahead.
Under this new abbot, St. Lucia would never be poor again. They would no longer bow in peasant homes. They would no longer drink sour wine.
They would gain respect. They would gain wealth. They would gain everything they wanted.
Giovanni watched their expressions and sneered inside.
A bunch of fools.
A plan not even started had already bought them.
But this was exactly what he wanted. He did not need thinkers, only tools. And everyone except Matteo was already his tool.
Now, the final problem remained.
He turned his gaze back to the old monk.
"Of course, truth stands clear."
"These ideas serve the monastery's future, but they do not erase your doubts. I know you are strict and deeply responsible to the Lord."
"So Matteo, if you still doubt me. If you still believe I am a devil wearing holy robes."
Giovanni paused and smiled with encouragement.
"Then go to Florence yourself. Take your joint letter and meet the bishop. Tell him your worries and suspicions face to face."
"I will not stop you. I will even have Luca prepare a mule and travel rations for you."
"Go. Seek the truth. The Lord will guide your path."
The cellar erupted in shock.
They never expected this. The abbot was so open… he was inviting accusation.
What did that mean? It meant he was not afraid. His identity and his letter had to be real. He was confident.
The monks looked at Matteo differently now.
Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he was making trouble for nothing.
Matteo felt those gazes.
This move was vicious, sealing every path.
If he did not go, it meant admitting fault. His accusations would become a joke, and his last shred of authority would vanish.
If he went…
He stared at the calm and compassionate face before him.
He really isn't afraid?
Could that letter truly be written by the bishop?
Could this young man really be a secret genius raised by the Church?
Matteo's confidence wavered. For the first time, he doubted himself.
But there was no retreat. He had pushed himself to the edge.
He looked at the abbot and forced out the words.
"Fine. I will go."
He had to. Not for the monastery, but for the last bit of his own dignity. Even if it was a bottomless abyss, he had to jump.
The smile on Giovanni's face grew even brighter.
"The Lord will bless you, my brother."
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