The triumphant roar of the valley had died, leaving a silence in its wake that was deeper and more terrible than the one that had come before. In the great hall, the reality of their situation settled like a shroud. They had conquered the earth itself, only to find they possessed nothing to plant in it.
"It was an oversight, my lord," Enzo said, his voice hollow, his earlier joy turned to ash. "We were so focused on the digging, the iron, the plows… no one thought beyond that. No one ever has."
Bastiano, ever the pragmatist, wrung his hands. "There is only one path," he said, his voice thin with reluctance. "We must throw ourselves on the mercy of the Bishop. We can explain our great works, show him the new fields. He will see the potential. Surely, he would grant us a loan of seed grain against the double tithe he is owed."
"No," Alessandro said, the word sharp and absolute. His two advisors stared at him, shocked.
"My lord, there is no other way!" Bastiano insisted.
"To beg for seed from the man we owe a fortune to is to hand him the keys to our house," Alessandro explained, his voice hard with the certainty of a 21st-century strategist. "It would prove we are incompetent, desperate fools. The moment we admit we cannot solve our own problems, we cease being a minor power he must respect, and we become a failing asset he can liquidate at his convenience. The 'Bishop's Shield' I used against Rinaldo is only effective if the Bishop believes we are strong. We must never show weakness to our creditors."
He dismissed them, the weight of their new, impossible problem settling squarely on his shoulders. He spent the night pacing the cold stone floor of the tower, a solitary candle burning low. He had overcome challenges of engineering, of labor, of politics. This was a challenge of pure economics. He had no capital, no assets to leverage, nothing to trade.
Or did he?
He pushed deep into the inherited memories once more, sorting through the local geography and political landscape. He needed a target. Not a rival lord, who would demand a political marriage or land in exchange for aid. Not a merchant, who would demand silver he didn't have. He needed someone with a surplus of grain and a currency that wasn't coin. He needed a monastery.
A memory surfaced. His father had once attended a church council near the Abbey of San Zaccaria, a day's ride east, nestled in a wide, fertile river valley. The Benedictine abbey was old, powerful, and famous for two things: the immense size of its grain harvests, and the scholarly, deeply ambitious nature of its current Abbot, a man named Father Paolo. The monks of San Zaccaria were master farmers, but Alessandro's memories also contained the common complaints of the region: the Abbey's lands were flat and rich, but the soil was a heavy, back-breaking clay that exhausted their oxen and wore down their plows.
The solution struck Alessandro with the force of a physical blow. It was a terrifying gamble, but it was the only path that did not involve begging.
The next morning, he gathered Lorenzo and Enzo. The fire of a new, audacious plan burned in his eyes.
"We have nothing to trade for the seed we need," he began. "Nothing except the future itself. So, that is what we will sell."
He laid out the plan. They were not going to ask for a loan. They were going to propose a trade. They would load the original prototype plow, Lorenzo's first masterpiece, back onto the wagon. The three of them—the Lord with the vision, the Master Smith who could create the impossible, and the Master Farmer who had seen it work—would form a trade delegation. Their destination: the Abbey of San Zaccaria.
"The monks of San Zaccaria have more grain than anyone in the region," Alessandro explained. "But their land is heavy clay. They wear out two plows for every one our neighbors do. We are going to offer their ambitious Abbot a miracle."
"You mean to trade my plow?" Lorenzo rumbled, a possessive glint in his eye. It was his finest work.
"I mean to trade the idea of your plow," Alessandro corrected. "We will give them one, in exchange for what we need. Once they see what it can do, they will want more. And we are the only ones in the world who can build them."
It was a staggering concept. To give away their single greatest technological advantage. But it was a key for a locked door.
Preparations began at once, but with a different energy. This was not a desperate scramble for survival; it was a calculated business venture. Enzo carefully selected the two strongest, most placid oxen. Bastiano packed provisions and polished the simple leather harnesses until they shone.
Lorenzo, for his part, went to work on the prototype plow. He cleaned it meticulously, oiling the oak frame and sharpening the iron plowshare until it gleamed. He packed a small, heavy bag with his finest hammers and tools. This was not just a delivery; it was a demonstration, and he would present his masterpiece with the fierce pride of its creator.
They stood ready at dawn, the magnificent, menacing plow lashed securely to the wagon. Their small scarecrow army reassembled, but this time they were not just guarding materials. They were guarding a revolution.
"They are men of God," Bastiano worried from the gate. "What if they do not care for earthly tools?"
"The ambitious ones always do," Alessandro replied, swinging himself onto his horse. He looked towards the eastern road. He was going to meet a powerful Abbot, not to beg for charity, but to make him an offer he hoped the man's ambition could not allow him to refuse.