The journey east was a passage into a different world. The roads were better maintained, the fields they passed were tidier, and the villages seemed less haunted by the specter of hunger. This was the sphere of influence of the great abbeys and the more established baronies, a land where order, however harsh, held a stronger grip. Alessandro's small group of followers traveled with a quiet purpose. Their mission now felt less like an uncertain venture and more like a proper diplomatic visit.
Late on the second day, they crested a low hill, and Enzo let out a soft gasp. Below them, nestled in a sweeping river valley, lay the Abbey of San Zaccaria. It was a place of peace, yet it commanded great respect throughout the region. A high, immaculate stone wall enclosed a vast compound from which the spire of a magnificent church reached towards heaven. Surrounding the walls on all sides were endless, neatly gridded fields, a testament to centuries of disciplined labor. The place radiated wealth, order, and unshakeable authority. Rocca Falcone was a hovel in comparison.
When they arrived at the Abbey, they were met by Brother Michael, the abbey's cellarer. He was a monk in a black Benedictine habit, responsible for the institution's properties and supplies, and he held a record book. He took note of their dusty falcon banner and the object on the wagon.
"The Abbey does not grant alms without a formal petition to the almoner," he said, his tone dismissive, clearly mistaking them for high-class beggars.
Alessandro dismounted, meeting the monk's gaze respectfully but without deference. "We have not come for alms, Brother Michael. I am Lord Alessandro de' Falchi. I have come on a matter of great importance, to speak with the Abbot Paolo himself."
"The Abbot is a very busy man," the cellarer replied coolly. "His time is spent in prayer and administration, not in entertaining every minor lord who arrives at his gate."
Just as Brother Michael was about to signal for the gate to be closed, a calm, authoritative voice stopped him. "And sometimes, Brother, administration requires a willingness to be entertained."
A new figure had emerged from the gatehouse. He was a man in his fifties, wearing the same simple black habit as the others, but the air of command around him was unmistakable. He had a scholar's high forehead and the posture of a man born to rule. But it was his eyes that were most arresting—they were dark, piercing, and missed nothing. This was Abbot Paolo.
The Abbot had seen their approach from a window in the scriptorium and his curiosity had been piqued by their strange cargo. He silenced the flustered Brother Michael with a single, subtle glance.
He circled the wagon slowly, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the heavy plow. He noted the revolutionary curve of the mouldboard, the solid iron of the share, the robust oak frame. He saw not a crude tool, but a thoughtful and powerful design. He finally came to a stop before Alessandro.
"A bold entrance for a boy-lord from a forgotten fief," the Abbot said, his voice a smooth, educated baritone. "You speak of 'great importance.' What does a falcon, a creature of the air, know of tilling the earth that my monks, who have worked this land for five hundred years, do not?"
It was a test, a verbal trap laid with surgical precision.
Alessandro met the challenge without hesitation. "An eagle sees the whole field, Father Abbot, not just a single furrow. Your monks are master farmers, it is known. But they fight a battle with this heavy soil every spring. They expend vast energy for a harvest that, while great, is less than the land is capable of giving." He paused. "God gave man dominion over the earth, and the wisdom to ease his own labor. I have come to offer a new wisdom."
The Abbot raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You are young to be a prophet, my lord. Your words are as grand as your machine. My monks trust in prayer, hard work, and the tools that have served their fathers."
"And I trust that a man of your great learning knows that even the most sacred script can be copied more efficiently with a well-designed pen," Alessandro countered smoothly. "I do not offer a replacement for prayer or hard work. I offer a better tool, so that more work may be done in the same time, for the greater glory of God and his Abbey."
A slow, thin smile touched Abbot Paolo's lips. He was impressed. This was no fool. The boy did not bluster or beg. He argued with logic, metaphor, and a confidence that was deeply unsettling. He was either a madman or a genius, and either one was worth a moment of the Abbot's time.
"Words are wind, Lord Alessandro," the Abbot said, his smile vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. "The Lord, and his humble servant, prefer to see faith demonstrated through works."
He turned and pointed a long, elegant finger towards a fallow field just outside the Abbey walls. Its surface was a dry, cracked sheet of reddish clay, baked hard by the sun.
"That is the Devil's Anvil," the Abbot said. "The toughest soil on our lands. My best ox teams, with our strongest plows, can barely scratch it. It breaks their backs and our tools."
He turned his piercing gaze back to Alessandro. "Tomorrow, after the morning prayers, we will see your… 'proposal'… in action. Show me a miracle, my lord." His eyes gleamed with a complex mixture of skepticism and hope.
"Or show me a folly."