The gates of Ceprano loomed before them, a maw of stone and shadow. The weary bravado of the road dissolved into a new, more complex tension. Outside, they were a unified force in an open wilderness. Inside, they would be a clumsy, slow-moving anomaly in a crowded, watchful den of thieves and merchants.
The town guards, bearing the colors of the local count, straightened as the strange procession approached. They noted the banner of the black falcon, the grim-faced men with their long poles, and the heavily laden wagon. They were a question mark, and it was a guard's job to find the answer.
Alessandro rode forward, his posture straight, his expression calm. "Lord Alessandro de' Falchi," he announced, his voice clear and carrying. "I am here on business with a craftsman of your town and claim passage for myself and my retinue."
The guard captain, a man with a thick neck and suspicious eyes, assessed Alessandro's threadbare but clean tunic, the determined look of his men, and the official bearing of the banner. This was not a band of vagrants. He gave a curt nod.
"There is a toll for the wagon, my lord. Two denari."
Alessandro had anticipated this. He tossed the coin to the guard without ceremony, an act of casual nobility that suggested the fee was a trifle. The gates were opened to them.
Once inside, the noise and stench of the city descended upon them. Alessandro immediately signaled a halt in a small alcove just inside the walls.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice low and urgent. "We cannot bluff our way through here by looking strong. We will do it by looking important. Bastiano, you will walk ten paces ahead of the wagon. You are my herald. Shout 'Make way for Lord de' Falchi!' until you are hoarse. Enzo, you and the men are my honor guard. Flank the cargo. Look neither left nor right. If someone gets in the way, push them aside. We do not stop. Not for a merchant, not for a beggar, not for a brawl. We move directly to the tanner's district. Speed is our stealth. Understood?"
The men nodded, their faces set with grim understanding.
The procession began. It was like plunging a stick into an anthill. Bastiano, finding a new purpose, bellowed with surprising force, "MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY FOR THE LORD OF ROCCA FALCONE!"
The crowd of shoppers, merchants, and street urchins parted before them, some in deference, others in sheer surprise. The six 'pikemen' marched with a rigid purpose, their eyes fixed forward, their long poles an effective deterrent to any who might have gotten too close. The wagon rumbled over the cobblestones, its strange cargo of rusted iron and oak logs drawing stares from every window and doorway.
From the steps of a wealthy cloth merchant's house, a man in a fine velvet tunic watched the commotion. A small, embroidered lion, the crest of the Baron of Monte San Giovanni, was visible on his collar. His name was Rinaldo, the Baron's chief steward and a man whose business was knowing the business of others. He noted the unfamiliar falcon banner, the determined escort, and the strange cargo. It was a curiosity. But then he noted their direction—south, towards the river, towards the stinking tanneries. There was only one person of any consequence in that foul district. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he gave a subtle signal to two of his own armed servants lingering nearby.
Unaware they were now being followed, Alessandro's small caravan finally reached the dilapidated smithy. The reek of the tanneries and the river was a profound relief. They had made it.
The sound of the wagon and the shouting brought Lorenzo to the door of his forge. He emerged, his massive frame filling the doorway, a scowl etched on his face. The scowl vanished as he saw the wagon piled high with heavy, rust-colored Roman pins and the sledge loaded with prime oak.
His disbelief was total. This threadbare boy-lord had actually done it.
Lorenzo limped forward, silent. He reached the wagon and picked up one of the iron pins. It was heavier than it looked. He ran a thumb over the pitted surface, his expert eye judging the quality of the ancient metal beneath the rust. He looked from the iron in his hand to Alessandro, and for the first time, the boy saw something other than anger or contempt in the smith's eyes. It was a flicker of grudging, profound respect.
The Lame Bear gave a single, sharp nod. The price had been paid. The deal was sealed.
"Unload it," he grunted, turning back to his forge.
A wave of joyous relief washed over the men. Enzo clapped one of his comrades on the back. Their impossible quest was complete. They set to work, the clanging of ancient iron being dumped onto the dusty ground a triumphant song of victory.
They were so focused on their work that they didn't notice the new arrivals until they were already trapped.
The steward, Rinaldo, now stood at the head of the narrow street, flanked by four guards in the full livery of Monte San Giovanni. They were professional soldiers, their swords and helmets polished, their faces hard.
Rinaldo's cold, calculating gaze ignored Alessandro completely, fixing instead on the smith.
"Lorenzo," he said, his voice dripping with condescending menace. "Still breathing, I see. My lord Baron will be so disappointed."
He then turned his sharp eyes to Alessandro, taking in the boy's youth and the poverty of his retinue.
"I do not know the falcons of Rocca Falcone," Rinaldo sneered, his hand resting on the pommel of his own sword. "But I know the Baron of Monte San Giovanni will be very interested to learn why a nobleman, however minor, is doing business with the disgraced dog who crippled his kinsman."