With Rinaldo's threat still lingering in the air like a bad smell, Alessandro's men finished unloading the cargo, their movements now hurried and quiet. He tasked Bastiano with finding them lodging at a modest inn, well away from the Boar's Tusk, and gave him one of the precious silver coins for bread and wine. "Rest," he commanded them. "You have earned it."
As his small retinue departed, an unspoken accord settled between the two who remained. The world outside the smithy—the politics, the barons, the bishops—vanished, replaced by the immediate, tangible reality of the task before them. The pile of ancient iron and oak was no longer just a payment; it was a pact.
Lorenzo limped over to the stack of oak logs, running a hand over the rough bark. "Good, solid hardwood," he grunted. "But if we just burn it in the forge, most of its strength will go up in smoke and ash. We'll never get a fire hot enough to properly purify this old Roman iron. It will be riddled with impurities."
It was the opening Alessandro had been waiting for, a problem only his knowledge could solve.
"We will not burn it," Alessandro stated simply. "We will bake it."
The smith turned, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Bake wood? Boy, your victory against that popinjay steward has gone to your head."
Alessandro ignored the jibe and once again knelt, sketching a new design in the ever-present soot on the floor. It was a diagram of a large, circular mound with vents at the top and bottom. "We build a kiln," he explained, pointing to the drawing. "We stack the logs tightly, cover the mound with turf and earth, and set a small fire inside. By controlling the air, we don't burn the wood to ash. We cook the water and sap out of it, leaving behind pure carbon. Charcoal."
Lorenzo stared at the diagram, his lifetime of experience at war with the boy's insane logic. Everything he knew about fire involved feeding it more air, not less. Yet… the drainage trench, the hoist, the Bishop's shield… this boy's madness had a disturbing habit of working.
"Fine," the smith grunted, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "We will try your wood-baking magic. But if I waste this oak, the deal is off."
While Enzo and two other men were recruited to help build the earthen kiln just outside the smithy—a slow, smoldering process that would take days—Alessandro and Lorenzo turned their attention to the iron. Here, in the heart of the forge, their partnership was truly born.
Alessandro, using his knowledge of metallurgy, explained how to identify the best of the Roman iron pins. Lorenzo, with his master's skill, went to work. The roar of the bellows filled the air as he heated the ancient metal to a blinding orange-white. With thunderous, rhythmic blows, he began the long process of forging the metal, hammering out the impurities of a thousand years, folding the steel back on itself time and again to strengthen it.
Alessandro watched, learned, and assisted, working the bellows and quenching the steel at his direction. He made small suggestions—a slight change to the angle of the bellows' nozzle, the tuyere, to concentrate the heat; a recommendation to use a brine solution for a harder quench—ideas that made Lorenzo stare at him with suspicion, then try them and grunt in surprised approval.
Days later, the kiln was opened. Inside was not ash, but a hoard of black, unnaturally light charcoal. When Lorenzo threw the first batch into his forge, the result was immediate. The fire burned with a clean, intense, almost white-hot flame, far hotter than any wood fire he had ever managed.
"God's blood," the smith whispered, shielding his eyes from the glare.
With the superior fuel and the purified metal, the real work began. They were a study in contrasts: the massive, scarred smith, all instinct and practiced muscle, and the slender, thoughtful lord, all theory and quiet observation. Lorenzo would hammer a piece into shape, his body a symphony of controlled power. Alessandro would check the angle against a wooden template he had made, suggesting a minute adjustment. They barely spoke, communicating in grunts, nods, and the shared language of creation.
The coulter was forged first, a simple, sharp blade of hardened steel. The plowshare came next, its spade-like shape crafted for durability. The final and most difficult piece was the mouldboard. Its complex, revolutionary curve was a nightmare to create, requiring Lorenzo to draw on every ounce of his legendary skill. He heated, hammered, and curved the steel over a custom-made anvil horn, his frustration mounting with each failed attempt to get the precise, flowing shape Alessandro insisted upon.
On the third try, it was perfect. He quenched the glowing metal, and a great hiss of steam filled the smithy. The piece emerged from the water, dark and flawless.
After a week of relentless, smoke-filled labor, the components lay on the dusty floor. They were dark, functional, and imbued with a sense of immense power. With Enzo's help, they began the final assembly, bolting the iron pieces to a heavy oak frame.
When it was done, they stood back. The heavy plow was a beast. It was larger, heavier, and more alien than any tool the men had ever seen. It looked less like a farmer's implement and more like an engine of war designed to attack the earth itself.
Lorenzo wiped a grimy forearm across his brow, his chest heaving. He looked at their creation with the exhausted, critical pride of a father. He ran a hand over the smooth, deadly curve of the mouldboard, a feature born from another world.
He turned his intense gaze on Alessandro. "It is done," he said, his voice a low rumble. "It is the strongest, most perfect tool I have ever made in my life." He took a step closer, his eyes boring into Alessandro's.
"Now," the smith declared, "we go to your valley of mud. We will see if your dream can actually break the ground."