30 July 1492
I have not been allowed, these past days, to set even a single word upon these pages. My entire being has been bent toward one purpose alone: prayer. Prayer for the departed Pope, for his soul, for a world that seemed to tremble with his passing.
Day and night, with barely a moment's rest, I prayed from the depths of my heart and the wounds of my sorrow. I prayed not for a man I had known—for I had never met him—but for the bearer of the divine yoke, the pillar of the Church on earth. In my thoughts I saw him like an Atlas, crushed under the weight of the world.
At first, the villagers mocked me, as the weak of heart often do. But when they saw my grief—the way it almost shattered me—their faces darkened, and a heavy sadness seeped into their bones.
On such a day, an old woman approached me with warm eyes and hands shaped by a lifetime of work. In her palms rested a clay bowl filled with steaming bean soup.
"Come now, Father… You mustn't starve your soul and your body at the same time. Eat, so the Lord may give you strength."
The simple, comforting smell… the hunger of an entire day… they overcame my shame. I took the earthen bowl and ate greedily, tears running down my cheeks onto the cold stone floor of the church. The old woman stroked my hair as only a true grandmother knows how. And there, with the spoon still in my hand, a memory ripped open inside me—
My grandmother… Yes. She still lived, far away, in my native village.My mother, the one who bore me in pain and tears, had long abandoned me for some unknown man.My father? A shadow. A figure who once turned his back and never looked again.
I was left in my grandmother's care, alongside my aunt—a woman thick in body and heavy in anger, whose second nature was drink. She had an older son, and I, Antonio, was nothing but the burden nobody wanted.
In those dark years, my only refuge was the Church.
There, in the shadow of the altar, I found light.The old priest—bent by age but gentle as an angel fallen to earth—taught me song, devotion, and hope. He gave from his little, and I repaid him with all the quiet love a child could offer.
But my aunt… She knew no law but money, drink, and blows."Didn't bring money again, you useless brat?" She'd roar with a voice thick from alcohol.When I brought nothing, she beat me.When I brought coins, she tore them from my hands.
One summer evening, smelling of dust and sweat, she finally cast me out of the house that had come to her only because my mother had left.
"Get out of my house! Don't you ever come back!"
I collapsed on the church steps—beaten, crying, alone. Night draped itself over me like a heavy mantle, and I fell asleep there, in the Lord's courtyard, beneath the silent stars. Morning brought a miracle.
The villagers, seeing my state, began to weep. And then Julius—my childhood friend—came to me with his heart wide open.
"Antonio… My parents decided you should come live with us. You deserve better than pain. You deserve a new life. You're the smartest in our class, and they hope you'll help me study."
Ashamed of my misery, I went with him. I walked toward a manor large enough to contain every dream a poor child could ever imagine. And there, in that warm, foreign home, I lived for six years.
I studied. I grew. I learned affection.Until the day my path led to the Theological Academy—and from there, toward the destiny God had been weaving for me since that cold night beneath the stars.
Even now, as I look back with the eyes of my heart, it feels as though all of it happened yesterday, not nearly a decade ago. And that old sorrow, that gaping wound, now seems wrapped in a faint aura of light.
This time, though, I was no longer alone. Those who once saw me with fear or suspicion now called me brother. My tears and prayers had softened their hearts. Even the nobles, men hardened by power, drew near without asking anything—only offering their support.
That day, the Lord granted me a miracle. After a much-needed bath in the home of a nobleman, I stepped into our old church—and froze.
The villagers knelt upon the cold stones, their souls lifted toward Heaven.They prayed not only for the departed shepherd but also for me—the one who would soon be their comfort in days of hardship.
I fell to my knees, forehead pressed to the ground, and vowed before the Living Altar that I would give my entire life to these humble souls. I would be their shepherd, as Christ is ours.
The days slipped by like sand between fingers, and each evening I raised the Holy Mass for Pope Innocent, who had crossed the threshold of Eternity.
Last night, beneath the cold light of the full moon, I listened to the wind threading through the old church walls, and my thoughts wandered to the poor Pope—standing alone before the Just Judge.
How terrible it must be, Lord, to tremble before Him, burdened with fear and the longing for forgiveness...
This morning, news arrived: Pope Innocent would be buried. The time between his death and his final journey had slipped away like a long, solemn sigh. Word came from the local nobles that Prince Gabriel, light of our land, had reached Rome to honor the shepherd of the world.
The villagers wept anew.And I knew, then, that I had to be for them what they had been for me in those days of darkness.
I stepped down from the altar. I no longer spoke from the height of the pulpit but walked among them—as the Lord Himself once walked among men.
"O beloved souls, death is not the end of our path," I said, raising my voice. "Death wounds us, breaks us, makes us tremble. And yet beyond it rises true life. Cast away the garments of mourning. Clothe yourselves in hope. Let us live in love, honor God, and embrace our sorrows as steps toward Heaven. Courage! God is with us… and I am with you!"
Silence shattered. Their grieving faces softened into timid smiles. Heads bowed—not in despair, but in understanding and renewed faith.
Thus our community, once scattered by grief, became one living body again—a body of hope, of love.And I finally knew I could fulfill the vocation sealed upon me the day the Archbishop of Paris, Louis de Beaumont de la Forêt, together with Bishop Ignatius Pop and a third bishop whose name I have forgotten, laid their hands upon me.
31 July 1492
Time—that unseen river—rushed forward, and I scarcely noticed how July's end rose before my eyes. Far away in the great city of Rome, the Conclave prepared to give the world a new Pope, while over our small Wallachian village lay a blessed hush, like a veil of gentle fog.
Life began to pulse again.Men gathered once more in the tavern, speaking loudly, clinking cups of wine, and attempting in awkward laughter to chase away the unease lingering in their homes.
Then I understood: it was time to descend deeper into their hearts.To be not only a shepherd at the altar but also a brother at their table, a companion in their joys and worries.
At their calling, I entered the tavern. The scent of red wine—brought by old Marin all the way from the capital—hung thick in the air.
"Father Antonio, come sit! Drink with us for these new times! Even the nobles buy this wine!"
At first I refused, humbly. But their warmth—that burning brotherhood—overwhelmed me. They placed a full cup before me, and when I raised it, my first thought rose toward Heaven for the soul of the late Pope. After that, our hearts spoke freely.
"Father… this famine is heavy on us," they sighed."The harvest is better than last year, but still not enough. We are afraid for our children, for our old ones…"
I stood among them and vowed—with the voice of a knight of the Altar—that they would not be alone.
"I will go to the Great Church, to the cathedral lords, and I will plead for help. I promise you!"
Their weary eyes lit up like candles in the night. They remembered then their former shepherd—the man of God who, during a winter famine, carried sacks of grain on his own shoulders through deep snow to bring them bread.
I remained among them like an older brother, listening.Some of the young women, half in jest and half in temptation, tried to persuade me to break my vow of chastity.I gently refused, though even my heart flickered for a moment.
"I remain as God has called me: yours, but not one woman's. I belong to the Lord—and to every soul in need."
They laughed, they understood, and their eyes shone with respect and tenderness. The village was changing—and joy bloomed in me like a living fire.
"Father, the village is starting to love you. Some still look at you with cold eyes, but time softens even the hardest hearts. Come, let's toast again—for you!"
I declined with a smile, knowing that soon I had to ascend the holy steps of the Altar. I could not serve wine more than I served Christ. They understood, fell silent, and blessed me with their eyes.
An hour later, the church overflowed with souls. Even old Marin had closed the tavern and come at the head of his people, head bowed, heart open. I put on my sacred vestments, and the liturgical chant of our village thundered sweetly beneath the stone vaults.
I raised the Holy Mass, hands lifted toward Heaven.
"Pray also for me," I told them, "as I pray for you without ceasing. I am your shepherd, and you are the Lord's flock—and I will go with you wherever Providence leads."
After the liturgy, I remained among them, speaking, listening, and walking as one of their own.Late into the night I returned to my room, to rest—so that tomorrow I might again have strength for those around me,just as they, unknowingly, give strength to me.