Giovanni raised his hand and traced a cross in the air.
"The Lord's punishment has begun, but this is also His warning. He is reminding us that we must immediately drag that black sheep who brought the plague out of the flock."
"Before the sinner is purified, this well has already been claimed by the devil's filth and can no longer be used. Every drop of water may carry a curse."
"All stored well water in every household must be poured out at once. From today on, everyone may only fetch water from the Arno River."
Fetching water from the river meant a long walk. For the village women, it was a heavy burden, yet no one complained. This was divine punishment. Under divine punishment, any inconvenience could be endured. Compared to plague and death, a few extra steps meant nothing.
"This is the Lord's first test," Giovanni said as his gaze swept over them. "He is watching to see whether we are willing to endure this small hardship for the purity of our souls."
"We are willing! Abbot!" someone shouted.
"We are willing!" the voices echoed together, merging into one.
Bartolo stood at a distance under a tree. He watched the young abbot like a skilled snake charmer, guiding the entire village with an invisible flute. A chill ran through him.
He knew the rotten fish and the poisoned well were aimed at him. This was war, a war without blades, yet far more dangerous. Bartolo had ruled the village his whole life with land, money, and visible whips. This pretty-faced abbot used invisible weapons: fear, faith, and human hearts.
Bartolo sneered and turned away with his servants. He believed that as long as he stayed calm, as long as he remained the Bartolo who controlled his tenants' lives, this young abbot could do nothing to him. Rumors were just wind. Wind passed and left nothing behind.
But he was wrong.
Sometimes, wind could kill.
* * *
Fear was like a seed. Once planted, it sprouted on its own, grew, and spread across the village. The well was only the first seed. The second sprouted the very next day.
Giotto the baker, the fat man who could read a little and had read the notice aloud at the village entrance, ran into trouble. His bread would not rise.
He was the best baker in the village. His yeast had been passed down through generations and carefully kept alive for nearly a hundred years. Bread made with it was soft and sweet, carrying the scent of wheat itself. Florentine nobles sometimes sent servants just to buy his bread. That was his greatest pride.
Today, that pride betrayed him.
As usual, he rose before dawn, added the yeast, kneaded the dough, then placed it beside the warm oven, covering it with a damp cloth to let it rise. Normally, he would drink a small cup of wine and take a short nap. When he woke, the dough would be puffed up like a white hill.
But today, when he lifted the cloth, the dough was still dough, lifeless and slumped.
He froze. Thinking he was not fully awake, he rubbed his eyes and looked again. Still flat.
"Damn it," he muttered, poking the dough. It was cold and hard.
He thought the weather might be too cold. He added more firewood and warmed the room, then threw away the failed dough and kneaded a new batch, this time doubling the yeast. He stayed by the oven, watching it like a sick child.
One hour passed. Then two. The dough did not move.
Sweat ran down his face. His wife came over, puzzled by the sight of him staring at dead dough.
"What's wrong?"
"It won't rise."
"How could it not rise?" She did not believe him and checked herself. It truly had not risen.
"Is the yeast bad?"
Giotto rushed to check the precious yeast kept in a clay jar and tended daily. Scooping some out, he smelled it. The familiar sour-sweet scent was still there.
No problem.
"Let's try again!" he said through clenched teeth.
He refused to believe it. He kneaded another batch, this time pouring in nearly half the jar of yeast. Then he knelt by the oven and prayed to God, to the Virgin Mary, to every saint whose name he knew.
The result was the same.
The dough, overloaded with yeast, not only failed to rise but hardened further, like stone.
Giotto collapsed, sitting on the floor and staring at the three failed lumps with empty eyes. He had been a baker his entire life and had never imagined dough refusing to rise in his hands. To him, this was worse than death. It denied everything he was.
His wife began to cry. "It's a curse… It must be a curse…" she sobbed, crossing herself. "The abbot was right… The Lord's punishment has come…"
Giotto said nothing. He had considered himself educated and had never fully believed in such things.
Now, he believed.
Other than a curse, there was no explanation.
* * *
The news spread quickly. Giotto's bakery was surrounded, not by customers but by onlookers. They stared at the hard, dead dough, at the broken baker and his weeping wife.
There was no sympathy in their eyes. Only fear.
"It's true… Even Giotto's bread won't rise…"
"Giotto is the best baker in our village…"
"This is terrifying… Who will be next?"
"It's the blasphemer fault! Who did this?!"
Fear was fermenting, far faster than dough ever could.
* * *
That night, at Jacob's butcher shop, Giovanni came again. Alone, carrying a bottle of wine.
Jacob closed the door and poured him a cup.
"Well done," Giovanni said, referring to the bread.
Jacob grinned. "The fat man nearly used up all his yeast. Last night, I slipped into his backyard, took the yeast jar, roasted it by the stove for an hour, then put it back."
Giovanni nodded. Heat killed yeast.
"And the cow?" he asked.
"Handled," Jacob replied. "The strongest one in the east, Martin's. I saw it liked a certain grass by the wall. I coated those leaves with powdered poisonous mushrooms. Once it ate them, it would foam at the mouth within half an hour. No one could save it."
"Clean?"
"Don't worry, Abbot." Jacob thumped his chest. "The poison has no color or taste. Even cutting open the cow would show nothing."
Giovanni was pleased. Jacob was useful, sharp, obedient, and never asked why.
"Tomorrow," Giovanni said as he sipped his wine, "that cow will fall."
"These three things, the well, the bread, the cow, will be enough to make the villagers believe the end is coming."
"Next, we tell them who brought the end."
Jacob listened quietly. He knew the plan was layered, step by step. He was only the one doing the dirty work.
* * *
On the third day, Martin's strongest cow died.
Exactly as described.
It collapsed, foaming at the mouth, its limbs twitching. The veterinarian came, examined it for a long time, then left shaking his head. He said he had never seen such a disease.
Now, St. Lucia village was fully engulfed by fear. If the well had been coincidence, if the bread had been a mistake, then the sudden death of the healthiest cow in the village could not be explained away.
Three events, one after another, confirmed everything the abbot had said in the square.
The Lord's punishment had arrived. The curse was spreading.
People stopped going outside and locked themselves indoors, fearing more deaths. They even dared not fetch water from the river, preferring thirst to risk. The village became deathly silent.
In this extreme fear, people desperately needed an explanation, an outlet, a scapegoat.
And at that moment, Giovanni gave them one.
**
**
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