The Decameron 2.0

Day 2.7 Betrayal - THE ABBOT RobShapiro

For centuries, the streets of Europe were overwhelmed by churches and cathedrals, skylines pocked with golden crosses. Most evenings were spent rocking by the fire in solemn prayer with loved ones. No matter one's despair, solace could be found in an unwavering belief in a kind Lord that saw man as his child and would continue to bestow him with land and livestock. Love was sung in every hymn, joy exchanged in every encounter. The Lord replied to the devout with utter grace and even held an open heart to his doubters, or so most believed.

A substantial number of tales will be told in the coming years of the horror that befell Europe, but this tale will most certainly be lost. If you are curious why, it is because it will feel small and be thought of as spiritual fluff in a world that will grow less and less in touch with our Lord.

Most believe that all that pertains to the Black Death can be traced back to a foggy night, unusual for this part of Italy, typically kissed by a gentle breeze and the calming sun. That night, the Black Death had indiscriminately washed upon the shores of Naples, then stepped down the plank of the merchant ship that smelled of the spices of the Orient, full of malice and with a design to grapple with the Abbot's betrayal.

He was a severe and awful looking man, as the loiterers of the ports would recall. Evidence of his purpose would mount in the coming months in the rashes and boils, in the piles of corpses, in sumptuous fields that gave way to charnel houses and in the rosaries that hung from Christians, sometimes two per person, one around the neck and the other dangling from a pocket that was filled to the brim with posies to mask the smell of rot.

In actuality, his arrival happened weeks earlier in St. Anthony, a quaint, austere monastery near the rolling hills and not far from supple vineyards. Allow me to explain, one night, the monks gathered in the courtyard to meet Abbot Matteo, who the Cardinal had sent from Rome after Abbot Niccolo had committed the egregious sin of taking his own life. All that remained of Abbot Niccolo's presence was his wooden crucifix, which had always hung in his quarters above his bed.

A couple of the monks helped Abbot Matteo to his room in the dormitory, placing his few items by the foot of the bed. Abbot Matteo was older than Abbot Niccolo, and his appearance suited a man who was on death's door. His skin hung from his face and his sunken eyes were vacant. The other monks spoke of his posture, which was impressive for a man his age. One even noted that it was as if a younger man lived inside his body.

It was Brother Frederico who noticed the top nail of the crucifix had come out a bit. He promised to fetch a mallet and fix it at once. Later that night after service, Frederico knocked on the Abbot's door and with a few hearty pounds, he pushed the nailed back into the wooden beam.

Then there was the incident told at dinner by Brother Augustine to Brother Luigi. This particular incident ended with four monks abandoning their calling in the middle of the night. Augustine was a pleasant man, albeit a bit sullen, who was admired for his wisdom. He had lived in the monastery since the day he turned thirteen. His father, a tapestry weaver from Verona, left his son in the care of the Abbot, a childhood friend. The Abbot was taken with the red-cheeked young man, immediately convinced that Augustine was imbued with good Christian stock. Augustine held strict to his vows and led much of the prayer with his boisterous voice, which could be heard belting the Lord's hymns through the vast halls of the monastery.

The story went that as Augustine was marching to the chapel to prepare for service, Frederico ran passed him, a mallet in his hand and a look of annoyance on his face. Augustine found this strikingly odd since Frederico was a hefty man whose girth kept him from long walks on the soft ground of the woods, let alone a sprint across hard stone. It was always a sight to witness any monk in a state other than tranquil.