“And where is Anso now?”

I paced the busy scriptorium while questioning the Abbots immediate subordinate, Prior Sandro. Monks all around me were involved in creating volumes for the libraries and book markets of Florence. Three stout friars were setting up a new book press to replace the rickity apparatus that had been cobbled together from a wine press that must have dated from classical antiquity. It practically disintegrated as the pulled it apart. Most of the novices were at inclined desks, quills scratching away at parchment. The new machines had not replaced the need for scribes yet.

“Fra Sandro, is there anything more you can tell me?” The Prior wrung his hands.

“Only the ravings of Brother Salonius. He claims that Anso filled the room with lightning, and all of the men fell to the ground. Anso is gone now, his horse missing from the stable, his trunk that he kept locked at all times gone with him. And you’ve already seen the bodies of Ixius and Calpurnius. please, Condottiere, you must help us.”