The journey back to Rocca Falcone was the reverse image of the one that had brought them to Ceprano. The tension was still there, a constant hum beneath the surface, but it was the tension of anticipation, not of fear. Lorenzo the Lame Bear rode beside the wagon on a sturdy mule purchased with the last of Alessandro's silver. His hulking, scarred presence was a more potent deterrent than any scarecrow army. Bandits and curious men-at-arms alike would see the giant smith and the determined look of the escort and decide to seek easier prey. The roads remained quiet.
Their arrival at Rocca Falcone was a momentous event. The entire population, from the youngest child to the oldest woman, gathered silently in the bailey as the procession entered. They stared in awe at the fearsome smith who had followed their lord home, and at the monstrous iron-and-wood beast that rested on the wagon, a trophy from a world they could not comprehend.
The heavy plow was unloaded with a reverence usually reserved for a holy relic. It was placed in the center of the bailey, and the peasants circled it, whispering, some even daring to touch the cold, sharp edge of the mouldboard.
The test was set for the following morning. The mood that evening was not one of celebration, but of breathless, collective suspense. The hopes of the entire valley were now focused on that single piece of iron and wood.
The next day, all of Rocca Falcone stood at the edge of the drained swamp. The vast, dark expanse of the new land, their black soil that had promised so much, stretched out before them. Enzo, his face a mask of concentration, stood ready at the head of the two strongest oxen in the fief, their horns decorated with small, hopeful ribbons by the women.
The great plow was hitched to the oxen's yoke. Lorenzo stood nearby, his massive arms crossed, his expression as hard and unreadable as stone. Alessandro stood apart, watching, his mind a whirl of calculations and anxieties.
"Begin," Alessandro's voice cut through the silence.
Enzo gave a soft command, and the oxen leaned into their yoke, straining forward. The heavy plow lurched. Its iron coulter bit deep into the black earth. Too deep. The plowshare snagged on the thick, clay-like soil, and the entire contraption dug in like an anchor. The oxen grunted, their muscles bunching, but they could not move it another inch. They stood, heaving, defeated.
A low groan of disappointment rippled through the watching crowd. All that work. All that hope. For nothing. Lorenzo cursed, a vile oath spat into the dirt. Enzo looked back at Alessandro, his face etched with failure.
But Alessandro did not panic. He walked forward calmly, his eyes not on the crowd or the straining oxen, but on the angle of the plow's beam relative to the yoke. He knelt in the dirt, sighting along the line of pull.
"It's not the soil," he said, his voice clear and steady. "It's the hitch. It's too low. It's forcing the point down instead of pulling it forward." He turned to Enzo. "Raise the hitch on the beam by one notch. And when you start, keep their pace steady. Don't let them surge."
The adjustment was small, almost insignificant. The peasants watched, their hope rekindling into a tiny, fragile flame. Enzo repositioned the heavy wooden pin on the plow's beam and took up the reins again, his hands trembling slightly.
"Again," Alessandro commanded.
Enzo clicked his tongue. The oxen leaned into the harness, their great heads low. The plow moved. This time, it did not dig down. It surged forward.
There was a sound unlike any the valley had ever heard. It was not the light scratching of their old plows. It was a deep, satisfying, tearing sound, the sound of the earth itself being opened.
The sharp coulter sliced a clean, straight line through the turf. The heavy plowshare followed, shearing the soil from its ancient bed. And then came the miracle. The great, curved mouldboard caught the thick slab of earth, lifted it, turned it, and folded it over in a continuous, perfect black ribbon.
It left behind a furrow so deep, dark, and straight it looked like a wound in the earth, a wound that promised life, not death.
The plow reached the end of the field. Enzo, in a daze, guided the oxen through the turn. They started back, laying a new furrow perfectly parallel to the first. The crowd was utterly silent, their minds struggling to comprehend what their eyes were seeing. This was not work. This was creation.
Enzo stopped the team and dropped the reins. He stumbled back to the first furrow and fell to his knees. He plunged his hands into the newly turned soil, letting the rich, dark, aerated earth run through his fingers. Tears streamed down his weathered face, carving clean paths through the grime.
The silence broke. A single woman began to sob with joy, and then the entire valley erupted into a triumphant, cathartic roar.
Lorenzo walked to stand beside Alessandro, the two of them watching the oxen, who were now placidly chewing their cud as if what they had just done was the most natural thing in the world. The big smith's face was a stony mask, but his eyes, fixed on the perfect lines in the field, blazed with the fierce, possessive pride of a master artist.
"It works," he rumbled, a statement of profound, astonished fact.
Alessandro did not take his eyes off the future unfolding before him, the vast, black canvas waiting to be painted with furrows.
"Good," he replied, his voice quiet but absolute. "Build nine more."