At dawn the next day, Luca set out with more than a dozen men.
Jacob was among them. He carried his hunting bow on his back, with a butcher's knife hanging at his waist, and walked at the front like a lead hound guiding the pack. Together, they followed the dirt road toward Florence. The road stretched on endlessly, with woods and thick brush hemming it in on both sides.
As they walked, they called out again and again.
"Brother Matteo!"
"Brother Matteo!"
Their voices echoed through the valley, startling a few crows into flight. They searched for most of the day but found nothing. By afternoon, exhaustion set in, and everyone sat down by the roadside to rest.
Luca grew anxious. If they returned empty-handed, how could he explain it to the abbot?
Just then, Jacob suddenly stood up. He sniffed the air, his expression sharpening, and pointed down a steep slope beside the road.
"Over there," he said. "There's a smell."
Everyone froze.
What smell? They could sense nothing at all. But Jacob was a hunter and a butcher. He knew the scent of blood and rot better than a dog.
They followed him down the slope, stumbling over loose stones as they went. Below lay a field of gravel tangled with thorny bushes. Jacob drew his knife, cut through the thorns, and pushed inside.
After a moment, his voice rang out.
"Here."
Luca hurried over. What he saw almost made him vomit.
Behind a large rock lay scattered objects. A torn black monk's robe, ripped into strips and stained with dried, dark blood. Beside it was a chewed leather waterskin, the very one Matteo had taken with him.
But there was no body.
Not even bones.
Only messy claw marks gouged into the ground, and a few tufts of gray fur caught among the stones.
"Wolves," Jacob said as he squatted down and picked up some fur, rubbing them between his fingers. "And a whole pack of them."
"It looks like Brother Matteo reached this place and ran into wolves. The mule panicked and threw him off. And then…"
He did not continue.
No one needed him to. Once surrounded by wolves, death was certain. Even the body would be eaten clean, leaving nothing behind.
Luca stared at the bloodstained robe and suddenly collapsed to his knees.
"Matteo…"
He burst into tears, wailing openly. The villagers crossed themselves and whispered prayers.
No one doubted it.
There were wolves in this area. Matteo rode an old mule and carried no weapon. This was fate.
Or the will of God.
Someone whispered quietly, "See? This is what happens when you go against the abbot. Bartolo's whole family died. Brother Matteo was eaten by wolves. This is divine punishment."
Once spoken aloud, it felt even more convincing. Even wolves obeyed God.
Nearby, Jacob squatted with a blank expression. No one knew the robe had been brought here by him days earlier. No one knew the blood came from pigs he had slaughtered. And no one knew the claw marks had been pressed one by one using a dried wolf's paw.
* * *
Luca returned to the monastery holding the bloodstained robe.
When Giovanni saw it, his body swayed, and he nearly lost his balance. His hands trembled as he took the robe and pressed it to his chest, closing his eyes. Two clear tears slid down his cheeks.
"My brother…" he whispered. "How could you…"
His grief filled the room. The monks present began to cry as well.
At last, Giovanni spoke, his voice hoarse. "Prepare the funeral. Even without a body, we cannot let him become a wandering soul."
"Use this robe to raise a memorial grave. I will personally say Mass for him."
* * *
The funeral was solemn, far more solemn than Bartolo's.
The church was filled with candles. The torn, bloodstained robe lay inside a brand-new cypress coffin, its lid covered with white lilies. Giovanni stood at the altar and delivered the eulogy.
"Matteo was a devout servant of the Lord."
"His entire life was devoted to God."
"He was stubborn by nature, yet his heart always sought the truth. For the monastery, he did not hesitate to travel far, even knowing the road was dangerous."
"His death was for us. He died as a martyr for the Lord."
With only a few words, Giovanni transformed Matteo from a 'traitor' into a 'martyr.' It gave Matteo an honorable ending and made the abbot appear even more forgiving and kind.
The monks wept openly, their admiration for Giovanni deepening.
Only one man did not cry.
Philip sat in the corner, watching Giovanni at the altar, then the coffin. He felt cold, cold to the bone, despite the countless candles burning.
He was a scribe, and his mind was trained to connect details.
Bartolo opposed the new abbot. Bartolo's entire family died.
Matteo opposed the new abbot. Matteo was eaten by wolves.
It was too neat. So neat it felt as though someone had written it all in advance.
Philip adjusted his crystal glasses. He thought of the property ledger after Bartolo's death. He thought of the white bread and wine they ate now, the new robe on his back, the fine quill in his hand.
All of it existed because of the new abbot.
If Matteo had returned and exposed him, would all of this vanish? Would they go back to black bread, thin soup, and the villagers' cold stares?
Philip shuddered.
He did not want the truth.
He wanted white bread. He wanted respect.
He looked at the sorrowful, holy figure at the altar. That figure might be a saint, or a devil. But did it matter?
As long as he could lead them to a better life, who he truly was did not matter.
Philip lowered his head. He closed his mouth. He buried every doubt and fear deep inside, then crossed himself like everyone else.
"Amen."
In his heart, he told himself:
'This is the truth. Matteo was eaten by wolves. Bartolo died by divine punishment. Our abbot is a saint. This is the only truth.'
* * *
The funeral ended. The coffin was carried to the hillside cemetery, and Matteo's name was carved into stone.
His story ended there.
But the story of St. Lucia Monastery was only beginning.
Under Giovanni's guidance, the once poor and broken monastery grew wildly, like a beast fed on blood and flesh.
No one could stop it.
Because anyone who stood in its way was already buried in the ground.
**
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