The single trumpet blast that had signaled the assault was a sound of hot-blooded fury. The new calls echoing across the valley were different. They were the cold, methodical notes of an army settling in for a long and patient kill. The elation of the defenders on the walls of Castiglione evaporated, replaced by the grim understanding of their new reality. They were trapped.
From the battlements, they watched as the Baron's great army transformed the landscape. Hundreds of tents bloomed like foul mushrooms. Trenches were dug, supply lines established, and picket lines of soldiers formed a tight, unbreakable ring around the small castle. The message was clear: there would be no escape.
Alessandro's first action was not military, but administrative. He summoned Lord Orso and his steward. "A full and honest accounting," he ordered. "Every sack of grain, every barrel of wine and salted fish, every drop of water in the cisterns. I need to know exactly how long we can survive."
The numbers, presented an hour later, were sobering. With sixty-five soldiers and a handful of servants to feed, their stores were pitifully inadequate. With strict rationing, they had perhaps a month. Maybe five weeks if they slaughtered the horses. The clock was ticking.
His second action was to manage morale. He knew that in a siege, despair was as deadly as any catapult stone. He kept the men busy. Damaged sections of the wall were repaired. More rocks were carried to the battlements. He had Marco drill the off-duty soldiers in the courtyard, their shouts and the clash of their training swords a constant, defiant noise. He made a point of walking the walls every few hours, speaking to Orso's men and his own, projecting an aura of unshakable confidence. His calm was a fortress in itself, and the men drew strength from it.
The Baron began his own psychological war. He would parade his fifty knights in their full, polished armor just out of bowshot, a dazzling display of power meant to awe and intimidate. One afternoon, a catapult, constructed with surprising speed, lobbed the bloated carcass of a dead horse over the walls, a crude attempt to spread disease and fear.
Alessandro countered with his own quiet defiance. He ordered the Falcon banner to be flown from the highest point of the keep, ensuring it was the first thing the Baron saw each morning. He did not allow his men to shout insults or waste arrows on the parading knights. Instead, they stood their posts with a silent, unnerving discipline, as if they were watching a mildly interesting theatrical performance. This unnerving lack of reaction seemed to frustrate the Baron more than any shouted taunt could.
But Alessandro was not a fool. He knew that discipline and defiance could not defeat starvation.
In a secret council with Lord Orso, Enzo, and Marco, he laid out the stark truth. "We cannot win a war of attrition. The Baron can be resupplied. We cannot. Our only hope is to break the siege, and we cannot do it from within." He looked at them, his eyes intense. "The attack must come from the outside. From Rocca Falcone."
The plan was desperate. He would need to get a message through the siege lines to Lorenzo and Bastiano. A message with specific, vital instructions.
"I need a messenger," Alessandro said, his gaze sweeping over his lieutenants. "A volunteer. The mission is likely a death sentence. He will need to slip through hundreds of enemy soldiers in the dark."
Before Enzo or Marco could speak, a new voice piped up. It was a young soldier, one of Lord Orso's own men, but one who had been watching Alessandro with worshipful eyes since the first battle. "My name is Matteo, my lord," he said, his voice nervous but firm. "I was a hunter before I was a guard. I know every rock and ravine in these hills for ten leagues. I can do it."
Alessandro studied the young man. He was wiry and small, but his eyes were sharp and held no fear. "You understand what will happen if you are caught?"
"Yes, my lord," Matteo replied simply.
That night, under the sliver of a new moon, the fate of Castiglione was entrusted to the young hunter. Alessandro gave him the message, a small piece of parchment with a coded set of instructions for Lorenzo, detailing the size of the relief force to be assembled, the route they should take, and the signal they should look for.
Matteo tucked the message into his boot. At the quietest section of the castle wall, far from the main siege camp, his fellow soldiers lowered him on a rope. He landed silently on the ground below, a ghost in the darkness. For a moment, he looked back up at the stone walls of the castle, a tiny island of defiance in a sea of enemies.
Then, he melted into the shadows, beginning the perilous journey that would decide all their fates.