When the Lombards came to the gates of San Lorenzo di Travese, they expected the monastery to fling open the doors and surrender. They expected the little brothers, portly and fussy in their habits, to give up their riches in exchange for their lives. They expected an easy ride. As happens all to often, their expectations were overly optimistic.
****
Master Octavius met the farmer’s gaze.
“Father, I cannot go below that for the eggs. The summer has been poor and wet. My hens have not been laying. I need to feed my family.”
Octavius’ stare passed through the farmer, giving the startling impression that he were reading the old farmer’s mind. Eventually, just as the farmer was about to speak again, the Abbot nodded. and gestured to a novice to take the eggs and pay the man. The farmer was waved away.
Another stepped up, with a basket of onions. “I have a cart of these, all of quality. Good crops, not the sad rubbish you so often see today.” He lifted a large onion out of the basket, and tossed it with a spin, catching it again. “Five siliqua. No less.”
Again, Master Octavius met the man’s eyes. His stare was unblinking and hypnotic.
“Look, my farm’s to the south of here. These come from the good fields, but much of the lower land was flooded by the Travese. I need to be able to shore up the levees against it happening next year. I’m bringing you the cream of my crop.”
Master Octavius reached out for the onion, and the farmer flinched back. Octavius smiled, speaking for the first time.
“Two siliqua. No more. And a novice will glance over the crop in the wagon. If the wagon is good quality, I’ll throw in another siliqua if we can keep it.”
The farmer nodded nervously, and backed away, followed by a silent novice.
The third farmer stood forward, with an urn about the size of his head.
“I have honey, Master.”
Octavius smiled gently. “No accolades? No sad stories?”
“None, Master. The honey should speak for itself.” He offered the urn to the abbot, who took it with great solemnity, and lifted the lid to peer inside. He nodded, replacing the lid.
“What state the land to the north?”
“”We escaped the worst of the floods. But they say the Lombards are raiding farther and farther south with each coming week. Winter drives the dogs from their mountain strongholds.”
The abbot met the farmer’s eyes. The farmer nodded once.
“One solidus.”
The quartermaster gasped audibly, hurrying forward to interject. “Master, the pot is small. One solidus could buy us hives of honey.”
“What can I say, dear Gratianus? I am partial to the honey of the bees to the north. Perhaps it’s the heather. One Solidus.” There was a note of finality in the abbot’s voice.
“One solidus… Sir…” The quartermaster sounded strained.
With that, the abbot rose to his feet. He nodded, and took his leave of the storerooms.
Later, when a novice was tidying away the detritus of the day’s haggling, he came across a jar, about the size of a man’s head. Lifting it, he felt the characteristic lightness of an empty pot. Opening it, he found that all it contained were three dead bees.
He shrugged, dusted it out, and put it to service in the pantry for cream.