The sunlight was a little harsh, so Giovanni raised a hand to his forehead and blocked the glare. He then moved into the shade of the balcony, sat down on a soft leather lounge chair, and leaned back, sinking into it as his eyes slowly fell half closed.
Two young women who had been standing nearby stepped forward at once and knelt beside him, their skirts spreading softly across the wooden floor. One was named Maria, the other Anna. Both were daughters of tenant farmers.
Maria had light brown hair and eyes the same gentle color, like stones resting at the bottom of a clear stream. Anna's hair was blonde, catching the sunlight and gleaming faintly. They were both very young, with full cheeks and lips naturally tinted pink.
Maria knelt behind him and placed her fingers gently on his temples. Her fingertips were always cool, her strength steady, neither too light nor too heavy, moving slowly in small, careful circles.
Anna knelt near the foot of the chair, her head lowered, her face burning red all the way to her ears. She lifted Giovanni's feet with care and pressed her fingers into his calves, kneading the muscles one slow motion at a time.
Neither of them spoke. Their eyes stayed lowered, focused only on their work. When their gazes met by accident, they quickly looked away.
Giovanni did not care about their shyness, nor about the quiet affection hidden in their movements. His hand rested on the small table beside the chair, fingers pressing lightly on a stack of parchment.
They were freshly signed Divine Grace Planting Contracts.
At the lower right corner of every page was a bright red fingerprint.
Giovanni picked up the top sheet and held it up to the light. Sunlight filled every line of text, especially the line marked as Party A.
(There was no such term back then. This is only for clarity.)
That line did not read "St. Lucia Monastery." There was no monastery seal either. Instead, written in the most elegant and ornate Latin script, was a single name.
Giovanni da Fiesole.
His name. Or rather, the name he used in this world.
When Maria noticed him lifting the parchment, her hands paused for just a moment. Giovanni waved lightly, signaling her to continue, and she immediately resumed her work.
Why not sign as the monastery?
Giovanni had never forgotten that his position as abbot was built on lies. If the contracts were signed under the monastery's name, then these hundreds of agreements would belong to the monastery itself. If the worst happened one day and a new abbot took over, that man could sit back and collect money without lifting a finger.
That would mean working for someone else's benefit.
Giovanni would never do something so stupid.
He was a liar, and a gambler. He knew that without chips in hand, one could only be carved up by others.
Faith looked holy, but it was the emptiest thing of all. Today people believed in this. Tomorrow they believed in that. Whoever gave them bread, they believed in him.
Debt was different.
Debt was real. Harder than iron. Heavier than stone.
If the contracts were with the monastery, then a new abbot could simply take over. The tenant farmers would keep planting, keep repaying, and life would go on.
But if the contracts were with Giovanni himself, everything changed.
On the surface, he wore the monastery's cloak and waved God's banner. But in the Republic of Florence, a land built on trade and contracts, the law would recognize him as the creditor.
Only while he lived would the contracts remain valid. Only while he remained in power would the chain connecting saplings, fertilizer, purchase, and sales continue to turn.
He wanted to make himself the heart of the system.
As long as the heart beat, blood would flow to the limbs. Once the heart stopped, or was cut out, the entire economic cycle of St. Lucia Village would collapse instantly.
Everyone who had signed would be buried with it.
This was personal dependence, a hundred times stronger than a feudal oath of loyalty.
Giovanni remembered that morning at breakfast. Philip had been holding the draft contract, frowning deeply.
"Abbot, this… this isn't proper," Philip had said. "If this is monastery business, why is Party A your personal name?"
The dining room had gone cold at once. Luca stopped eating. Antonio did too. Everyone looked at Giovanni.
They did not understand law, but they all felt that something was wrong.
Giovanni had set down his bread and sighed, a deep sigh heavy with sorrow. He had put on the expression of a man ready to sacrifice himself and looked at Philip, then at everyone else.
"Philip, my brother. You are too honest," he had said softly.
"You must understand what we are doing right now. Forcing wheat to be uprooted, replacing it with cash crops, even issuing loans for saplings that border on usury. In the bishop's eyes, in the eyes of those rigid church elders, what are these things?"
"They are heresy. They are speculation. They might even be called… blasphemy."
"If we sign in the name of the monastery and something goes wrong, the entire St. Lucia Monastery will suffer. The bishop will confiscate our property and strip you of your robes. You will all be left homeless because of my mad plan."
Then he had suddenly stood up and struck his chest.
"But I sign my own name. That means all the risk, all the guilt, all the blame falls on me alone."
"If someone must burn at the stake, let it be me. If someone must go to hell, I will go alone."
"As long as you live well, as long as the monastery prospers, what does my personal safety matter?"
When he finished speaking, the room had been so quiet that a pin dropping could be heard.
Then came the crying.
Luca cried. Antonio cried. Even old Philip's eyes had turned red.
They were deeply moved. Ashamed. The abbot, to protect them and leave the monastery a way out, was willing to bear such "illegal" risks alone, even to face punishment by himself. And they had doubted his motives.
From that moment on, the entire monastery became Giovanni's accomplice. Not just accomplices, but accomplices willing to die for him.
They were relieved they did not have to bear the blame. They were grateful to the one who carried it for them.
Thinking of this, Giovanni could not help but smile.
His hand moved unconsciously and brushed Anna's cheek as she massaged his legs. Smooth. Warm.
Anna startled and shrank back slightly, but she did not dodge. Instead, she pressed her face closer to his palm, her eyes shining with moisture.
Giovanni withdrew his hand almost at once.
His attention was not on women.
The tenant farmers were settled. As long as he controlled land and debt, those people were his most loyal slaves.
Next, who would it be?
Giovanni's gaze passed over the balcony railing toward the scattered red-roofed houses in the distance. Those belonged to self-owning farmers and small landholders.
They were different from tenant farmers like Pietro. They owned their land. Not much, but it was their lifeline. They paid no rent and lived off themselves.
"Rent exemption" would not tempt them. Forcing them with power would also be troublesome. There were many of them, and they had assets. If pushed too hard, they might band together and complain to Florence.
That would be annoying.
A different method was needed.
They had to walk into the cage on their own.
The village had been lively these past few days because of that "righteous" plunder. Bartolo was dead, and his property had been divided. Those who took part, small landlords and free farmers alike, suddenly held unexpected wealth.
Gold coins. Silver coins. Jewelry.
What do people do when they get rich overnight?
Save it? Hoard it?
No.
Human nature is greedy. Once you taste sweetness, you want more. Coins under the bed do not give birth to new coins.
Now they believed Giovanni was a god. A saint who could make them rich.
If that was the case…
Giovanni's eyes lit up.
He thought of his old trade. Before coming to this world, this had been what he was best at.
He would pull those scattered coins, stolen from Bartolo's estate, back into his own hands. And he would make them beg him to take them.
"Antonio," Giovanni called out.
Antonio, who had been standing by the balcony door, stepped forward immediately.
"Yes, Abbot."
Giovanni straightened and waved for the two girls to leave.
"Go and call Luca and Philip."
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