Lorenzo stared at the intricate drawing in the dirt, his mind, already stretched by the challenge of the plows, now grappling with a concept far more complex. Gears, axles, water chutes—it was a machine of a different order of magnitude.
"This is not a plow," the smith rumbled, his voice full of a craftsman's awe. "This is a beast of wood and iron that will chew stone. The gears… to make them mesh perfectly, to bear the force of the river… the precision required is beyond anything I have ever attempted."
"Then you will be the first to achieve it," Alessandro replied simply.
The construction of the gristmill became Rocca Falcone's great winter project. With the fields sown and dormant, Alessandro channeled the entire energy of his fiefdom into this new enterprise. He broke the monumental task into a series of smaller, manageable campaigns.
The first was the quarrying of the millstones. A team of men, led by Enzo, spent weeks at the quarry. Through their work, they prepared two large, round stones suitable for the mill. The task was a long one, and it took up much of the winter.
Meanwhile, a second team felled the largest, straightest timbers they could find, dragging them down to the stream bank where the mill house foundation was being laid under Alessandro's direct supervision. The centerpiece was the axle, a single, massive oak trunk that had to be perfectly straight and balanced.
The most difficult work, as Lorenzo had predicted, was the gear system. This fell to the smith himself. In the smoky warmth of the forge, Alessandro would draw the designs for the great gears, explaining the principles of transferring motion and force. He designed a series of wooden jigs and calipers, simple but precise tools that allowed Lorenzo to shape the hardwood gear teeth with a uniformity that would have been impossible by eye alone.
The work on the gears was a process of combining new designs with existing techniques. In the valley, life settled into a new rhythm focused on the winter tasks. The days were short and cold. The community's supplies were managed well, and the people's sense of shared purpose kept their spirits high.
To guard against the more immediate threat from the Baron, Alessandro established a permanent watch. The men of his "scarecrow army," now a source of immense pride, took turns patrolling the main valley entrance, their sharpened poles a symbol of their new responsibility.
One night, as a winter storm howled outside, Alessandro was in the forge, reviewing his drawings by the light of the fire. Lorenzo sat across from him, sharpening a chisel, the silence comfortable between them.
"No lord's son knows these things," the smith said suddenly, his voice a low rumble that was not an accusation, but a simple statement of fact. "The drainage. The hoist. The gears. You do not think like a nobleman who has only ever learned to fight and ride. You think like the men who built the Roman ruins." He looked up, his intelligent eyes boring into Alessandro. "Who are you, my lord?"
Alessandro met his gaze, his heart skipping a beat. He offered a partial truth. "I am a man who has read many books, Lorenzo. Books from far away that speak of forgotten things." He gave a wry smile. "And I am a man with a great deal to lose. Just like you."
The smith accepted the non-answer with a grunt, and the question was left to hang between them, a mark of a new, deeper level of trust.
Winter began to recede, its icy grip weakening with each passing day. The great water wheel, a masterpiece of carpentry and iron fittings, was assembled. The massive millstones were laboriously rolled into place within the nearly completed mill house. The entire fiefdom felt poised on the brink of a new season, a new era.
A young boy from the watch patrol was the first to bring the news. He came sprinting into the bailey, his face alight with a joy so pure it was contagious. "My lord! The fields!"
Alessandro, followed by half the village, hurried to the edge of the valley floor. He stopped, looking out at the valley floor.
As far as the eye could see, across the vast expanse of black earth, were endless, perfectly straight rows of tiny green shoots breaking through the soil. The systematic planting had been a complete success. It was a remarkable vista of new life. Enzo stood beside him, his expression one of deep emotion. "It is a wonder, my lord," he said quietly.
Alessandro nodded, a slow, grim smile touching his lips. He felt the joy, the immense pride in what they had accomplished. But as he looked upon the undeniable, visible proof of their success, a cold knot of dread formed in his stomach. A rumor of a strange plow was one thing. A valley transformed into a carpet of green, a harvest of impossible scale taking root, was another.
This was no longer a secret. It was a beacon. And it was now burning brightly enough for all the powers of the land—friend and foe alike—to see.