The scout's frantic words descended like a death shroud over the hopeful celebration in Castiglione's courtyard. Lord Orso's face, which had been flushed with the righteous fury of his new allegiance, turned the color of ash. His men began to mutter in panic, their eyes darting towards the gates as if the Baron's army might materialize from the very air. They had defied a lion, and now it was coming to devour them.
"To the walls! Bar the gates! Now!" Alessandro's voice sliced through the rising panic, sharp and absolute. The authority in his tone was so total that even Lord Orso's men moved to obey without thinking. The great gates groaned shut, the heavy bar falling into place with a sound of finality.
The immediate action had a calming effect, replacing fear with purpose. Alessandro pulled Lord Orso, Enzo, and Marco into the keep's small great hall.
"What is the strength of your garrison?" Alessandro asked Orso directly.
"Twenty-five men, my lord," Orso stammered. "But they are household guards, not soldiers like yours."
"They have arms and they can follow orders," Alessandro said dismissively. "That makes them soldiers today. Our total force is sixty-five men. The castle walls are stone, and high. A direct assault is costly. The Baron will not expect a real fight. He expects a frightened old man to beg for mercy."
"He will not find one!" Orso declared, a flicker of his earlier defiance returning.
"No," Alessandro agreed. "He will find an engineer."
What followed was a night of frantic, desperate, and brilliantly organized labor. Alessandro, his mind a whirlwind of historical and scientific knowledge, transformed the sleepy castle into a death trap. He did not have the time or resources for major renovations, so he implemented a series of simple, brutally effective force-multipliers.
First, he had teams gather every drop of oil—cooking oil, lamp oil, anything flammable—and every chunk of pitch and resin they could find. These were mixed in large clay pots, creating crude but effective incendiaries.
Second, he had Orso's carpenters, guided by his own chalk drawings on the stone floor, hastily construct wooden hoardings—covered wooden galleries—that extended out from the top of the walls, particularly over the main gate. These simple structures would allow their defenders to drop rocks, hot sand, and the new incendiaries directly onto the heads of any attackers at the base of the wall, nullifying the wall's protection.
Third, every woman and boy was put to work boiling water and heating sand over massive bonfires in the courtyard.
Finally, he integrated the two garrisons. He placed his own forty Falcon Guards at the most critical defensive points: the gatehouse and the sections of wall most vulnerable to siege ladders. Lord Orso's men were placed between them, bolstering the line and serving as runners and suppliers, all under the command of Marco, who moved along the walls with a calm efficiency, positioning the men and explaining their tasks.
Lord Orso observed the efficient preparations. He saw his own worried men being organized into a functioning defensive arrangement. He recognized that the young lord was not just a commander, but an exceptionally skilled organizer. Understanding that Alessandro's plan offered the best path forward, Orso agreed to place all defensive operations under his command.
Dawn broke on a transformed castle. The defenders, exhausted, stood at their posts, pots of boiling water and oil beside them, piles of rocks at their feet. A grim, determined silence had replaced the earlier panic. They had a plan. They had a chance.
Alessandro stood on the main parapet next to a nervous Lord Orso as the sun crested the horizon. And then they saw them.
The army of the Baron of Monte San Giovanni was a serpent of steel and color uncoiling across the valley floor. There were at least three hundred men: a core of fifty mounted knights in full armor, their lances a forest of deadly points; two hundred men-at-arms on foot, marching in disciplined blocks; and a rabble of archers and support staff. They were dragging siege ladders and a heavy, iron-tipped battering ram.
The sheer scale of the force was breathtaking and demoralizing. It was an army of annihilation, sent to make an example of a rebellious vassal.
The army halted just out of bowshot, deploying with terrifying professionalism. From the ranks of the knights, a single figure rode forward on a massive black warhorse. Even at this distance, they could see the sunlight glinting off his polished plate armor and the great lion crest on his banner. The Baron of Monte San Giovanni had come to oversee the execution personally.
A trumpet blew from the Baron's line, a long, arrogant blast that echoed off the castle walls. It was not a call for parley.
It was the signal for the assault to begin.