The first prong of Alessandro's shadow war was a quiet letter, carried by a single trusted messenger. The second was an army of twenty men armed not with spears, but with axes, shovels, and iron-tipped pry bars. Led by Enzo, they descended into the rugged hills south of their valley, their task to resurrect a road that had been dead for a century.
The work was brutal. The old path was a ghost, swallowed by thick undergrowth, blocked by ancient rockfalls, and washed out by decades of spring floods. The men toiled under the summer sun, their muscles aching, but their spirits were high. They were not just digging; they were fighting. Every cleared rock and felled tree was a blow against the arrogant Baron who threatened their home. They understood, with the simple clarity of practical men, that this road was a dagger aimed at their enemy's heart.
Back in Rocca Falcone, days after the work crew had departed, the messenger returned from the lands of Lord Orso of Castiglione. He delivered a small, sealed parchment into Alessandro's hands. The reply was written in a cramped, cautious hand. Lord Orso formally accepted the "generous offer of trade" from his "esteemed neighbor." He expressed his gratitude for the gesture of goodwill in these "troubled times" and proposed a meeting between their stewards at a neutral location to arrange the first shipment of flour.
Alessandro read the letter twice, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. The first crack in his enemy's foundation had appeared. Lord Orso, resentful and isolated, had taken the bait. A secret channel was now open.
Meanwhile, in the sun-dappled southern hills, Enzo's crew was about to receive visitors.
They were working in a narrow defile when the sound of shod hooves on stone echoed from down the path. Four horsemen, professional men-at-arms in leather and steel, rounded the bend. The lion crest of the Baron of Monte San Giovanni was emblazoned on their shields. They reined in their horses, their expressions a mixture of surprise and immediate suspicion at the sight of two dozen men working so far from their known lands.
Enzo's men instinctively froze, their hands tightening on the handles of their tools. The lead horseman, a sergeant with a grizzled beard and a hard, unforgiving face, trotted forward.
"You are a long way from home, farmers," the sergeant said, his voice rough. "These are not the lands of the Falcon. Explain yourselves."
Enzo had been drilled by Alessandro for this exact possibility. He stepped forward, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm, his posture that of a humble but weary foreman. He bowed his head respectfully.
"Forgive our intrusion, sir," Enzo began, his voice full of a simple, rustic piety. "We are but humble servants of our lord, Alessandro de' Falchi."
"I know whose men you are," the sergeant interrupted, unimpressed. "I am asking what you are doing here."
"Our lord, he is… exceptionally devout," Enzo explained, lowering his voice as if sharing a holy secret. "In his reading, he discovered that this old path was once a pilgrim's way, leading to a small, forgotten shrine to Saint Fortunatus deep in these hills. As an act of piety, to cleanse the soul of the valley and to ease the path for future pilgrims, he has ordered us to clear the way. A holy work, you see."
The sergeant stared at Enzo, his suspicious eyes narrowing. The story was… plausible. Annoyingly so. Interfering with men performing a pious act ordered by their lord was a messy business. It could invite complaints to the Church. Still, his instincts screamed that something was wrong. A strategic road being cleared under the guise of religion? It was too clever for a simple farmer.
"A 'holy work,'" the sergeant repeated slowly, letting the sarcasm drip from his words. He scanned the faces of the other workers, who were doing their best to look reverent and simple. "See that your piety does not lead you to stray. My master does not appreciate trespassers, holy or otherwise."
Without another word, he turned his horse, and the patrol trotted away, disappearing back down the path.
Enzo let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. The lie had worked, for now. But he was no fool. The sergeant had not been convinced, merely deterred. He looked at the nearly-completed road, then in the direction the patrol had gone.
He immediately called over a young, fast runner. "Go to the lord Alessandro," Enzo commanded. "Tell him two things. The road is almost finished. And the Baron knows we are here."
The shadow war was no longer in the shadows. It was now a race to see if the merchants would arrive before the Baron's army did.