The journey back from Veroli was a quiet, introspective affair. The victory in the Bishop's court felt less like a triumph and more like the signing of a devil's bargain. Alessandro had won the battle, only to be conscripted into a war he did not want, on behalf of a master he did not trust.
"He has given us a license to make war on the Baron of Monte San Giovanni," Enzo observed, his voice a low grumble as they rode. It was a simple soldier's assessment.
"No," Bastiano corrected, his face pale with worry. "He has given the Baron a license to make war on us, and has promised to look the other way. We are the Bishop's hound, sent to savage his rival bear. It does not matter to the master if the hound is gored in the process."
Alessandro listened to them both. They were both right. "The Bishop has given us a shield and a sword," he said finally, his voice cutting through their debate. "The shield is his tacit approval. The sword is the legitimacy of his cause. But he has not commanded us to fight. He has commanded us to win. How we do so is up to us. We will not be his sacrificial hound."
He was no longer just a lord; he was a political instrument. It was a dangerous, compromising position, but for a man with his ambition, it was also a priceless opportunity.
Their arrival at Rocca Falcone was anything but quiet. News of the verdict had somehow preceded them, transforming from a complex political judgment into a simple, heroic tale. In the eyes of his people, their young lord had gone into the serpent's den, faced down two powerful barons and the great Bishop himself, and emerged completely victorious. He was met with a celebration that dwarfed all previous ones. He was their champion, their miracle worker, the lord who could not lose.
This new, fervent adoration was a potent tool, and Alessandro used it immediately to mobilize the entire fiefdom. The great harvest was upon them.
The valley, now a sea of rippling gold, became a scene of furious, joyous activity. Every man, woman, and child worked from dawn until dusk, their sickles flashing in the sun. The yield was beyond their wildest dreams. The old granary was filled to bursting within the first week. They had to hastily construct new storehouses to contain the staggering bounty. For the first time in its history, Rocca Falcone was not just surviving; it was drowning in wealth.
The day the water mill was finally completed was a holiday in itself. With the whole valley watching, Enzo released the sluice gate. Water rushed down the chute, striking the paddles of the great overshot wheel. With a deep groan of timbers, the massive wheel began to turn, and with it, the complex system of gears and axles inside the mill house. When the first sack of their new wheat was poured into the hopper, the great millstones spun, producing a steady stream of fine, white flour with an efficiency that seemed like pure magic.
Alessandro did not hoard his new wealth. His first priority was to pay his dues. He personally oversaw the measuring of the Bishop's double tithe. It was an immense quantity of grain and flour, enough to fill more than twenty wagons. He dispatched this great caravan to Veroli under the command of a trusted man, with a formal escort of ten Falcon Guards. It was more than a payment; it was a statement. It was a display of Rocca Falcone's incredible productivity and a clear signal to the entire region that Lord Alessandro de' Falchi was a man who honored his word.
With the tithe on its way and the granaries full, Alessandro turned his attention to the Bishop's darker command. That evening, he summoned Enzo and Marco to the tower.
"We must weaken the Baron of Monte San Giovanni," Alessandro stated. "But an open attack would be suicide and would give the Bishop cause to condemn us. A war is not won only on the battlefield. It is won by undermining an enemy's foundation."
He unrolled a crude map of the surrounding lands. "The Baron's power comes from his wealth and the loyalty of his vassals. We must find cracks in that foundation."
He looked at Marco, his young, disciplined Decanus. "I have a new mission for you. It is more dangerous than fighting bandits."
The next day, a lone traveler left Rocca Falcone, heading south. He was not dressed as a soldier, but as a simple merchant peddling iron tools and cooking pots from the now-famous forge of Master Lorenzo. It was Marco, his pouch filled with silver from the sale of their first surplus flour, and his mind filled with his lord's instructions. He was not to fight or to spy in the traditional sense. He was to travel the roads and villages of the Baron's lands, to listen in taverns and at market stalls, to identify which of the Baron's knights were disgruntled, which of his villages felt over-taxed, and which of his local rivals might be tempted by a new alliance.
The shadow war against the House of Monte San Giovanni had begun, not with the clash of steel, but with a quiet whisper and the jingle of a few silver coins.