In the heart of sixteenth-century Venice, the Abbess of San Zaccaria, Mother Benedetta, leaves her convent for the cardinal's palace, crossing a city vibrant with life, smells, and sins. Her austere figure moves between the silence of her cells and the tumult of the streets, in a perfect balance between obedience and governance.
Within the monastic walls, order reigns: lush gardens, herb and perfume workshops, and embroidery for patrician brides. Outside, however, the Serenissima teems with rumors, commerce, and misery. When the abbess visits Cardinal Grimani, the meeting takes on the solemn tone of a summons that transcends devotion: a young woman, the daughter of an influential notary, is to be welcomed into the convent for a mysterious act of redemption. From the lines of the letter she receives, the abbess senses that the tranquility of her monastery is about to be disturbed by a fate greater than it seems.
Between the Calli of Venice and the Silences of the Convent, Mother Benedetta Crosses the Invisible Boundary Between Faith and Politics
Stories. 1572 — Carnival of Blood. Chapter 16. The Abbess of San Zaccaria and the Call of Power
The abbess left the convent accompanied by two sisters, her head covered by a white veil that fluttered lightly in the morning breeze. The air of Venice was clear, punctuated by the sound of bells and the cries of boatmen beginning their routes along the canals. She walked with measured steps, hands joined before her, while her worn leather sandals beat rhythmically on the damp stones of the cloister. The scent of incense from morning prayers mingled with the more earthly fragrance of beeswax and dried herbs that lingered throughout the monastery of San Zaccaria.
It had been a full morning, one like many others, yet it always left in her the quiet fatigue of duty and discipline. After vespers, she had received in her small audience room the elder sisters, who reported on the sewing work, the upkeep of the cells, and the needs of the younger novices. She listened silently, her gaze steady and her mind clear — the kind of clarity born of one who knows that every detail sustains the order of the convent. Nothing escaped her notice: not the wax reserves, nor the amount of linen left for the sickroom bandages.
Then, with the sure step of one accustomed to command, she had gone to the inner gardens.
There, the gardening sisters bowed as she passed, holding bunches of cabbages, aromatic herbs, and baskets of freshly picked quinces. The monastery’s orchard was a small miracle of geometry and devotion: flowerbeds arranged like embroidery, gravel paths, and vine pergolas offering shade in the hottest hours. Each morning, part of the harvest was sold under the portico facing the main street, where Venetian women stopped to buy fruit and vegetables blessed by the nuns’ labor.....
