The Abbot's study, which had seemed intimidating the night before, now felt like a theater of opportunity. The air was charged with unspoken possibilities. Alessandro stood before the great oak table, flanked by his two key men: Lorenzo, the stoic creator, whose dirt-stained hands were proof of his genius, and Enzo, the farmer, whose tear-stained cheeks were a testament to the plow's miraculous power. They were no longer petitioners. They were a delegation with a proven product.
Abbot Paolo sat behind his desk, his fingertips steepled before him. He considered the device for a moment. "A remarkable tool, Lord Alessandro," he began, his voice a smooth, neutral tone. "It performs as you claimed it would. A true feat of engineering." He paused, letting the compliment settle. "Now, regarding your visit. Let us discuss what you propose as an exchange for this innovation."
Alessandro had rehearsed this moment in his mind a hundred times. "Father Abbot, you have a surplus of what I need most: seed. And I have a surplus of what you now need most: time. Your monks waste weeks fighting that clay. I offer you a permanent victory."
He laid out his proposal. "For a full complement of your highest quality seed grain—enough to plant my entire valley—and two of your finest oxen to improve my own stock, I will give you three things. First, you shall have this plow, my prototype, immediately. Second, my master smith, Lorenzo, will remain here at your Abbey for one full month to train your own smiths in the art of its construction and repair. And third," he added, "I will give your Abbey the option to acquire the next five plows we produce at an agreed-upon price, before we make them available to any other party."
Alessandro explained his idea, which involved leaving the tool and providing specialized training in exchange for a future understanding.
The Abbot listened to the details. "It is a generous thought," he said. "However, the tool itself has practical considerations. It is one item, and its use depends on a craftsman as skilled as Lorenzo. Your seed, in contrast, has a direct and immediate application."
He made his counter. "I will give you half the seed you request. A significant amount, enough to prove your theories on your new land. In exchange, I will take your plow and the services of your smith, as you offered."
Enzo's face fell. Half was not enough. It was still failure, just a slower one.
Alessandro did not flinch. He had expected this. "With respect, Father Abbot, half a planting is half a harvest. A half-measure will not satisfy my own obligations. My offer is for a complete solution, for both of us." He leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting from respectful merchant to a fellow man of vision. "This isn't about one plow. It is about a new era for the lands of San Zaccaria. With a team of these plows, the fields you now leave fallow could be brought into cultivation. Your surplus would not just double; it would quadruple. The wealth and prestige of this Abbey would become unrivaled. You would be able to feed every soul from here to Rome. Is that not a holy work worthy of investment?"
Lorenzo, silent until now, spoke, his voice a low rumble. "And your smiths will need my training. This mouldboard… the curve is precise. The hardening of the share is a secret. Without me, they will produce nothing but scrap."
The Abbot was silent, weighing the boy's grand vision against his own pragmatic caution. He looked at Alessandro's unwavering eyes, at the fierce pride of the smith, at the simple, honest conviction on Enzo's face. He was not just buying a tool; he was investing in this strange, potent combination of men.
"Very well," the Abbot declared finally, a decision made. "You shall have your full measure of seed, and the two oxen. In return, I accept your terms. The plow stays. The smith stays for one month. And a contract will be drawn up for three more plows, to be delivered after your harvest, at a price we will agree upon now."
He had reduced the future order from five to three, a final, shrewd negotiation to save face, but he had conceded the main point. Alessandro had won.
A scribe was summoned. A formal agreement was drafted in precise Latin, detailing the exchange of goods and services. The Abbot wrote his name on the document. Alessandro then wrote his own name and title. Lorenzo, being unable to write, dipped his thumb in the ink and put his thumbprint on the parchment. With these actions, their understanding was recorded.
Later that day, as the Abbey's lay brothers loaded sack after sack of the finest seed grain onto their wagon, Abbot Paolo walked with Alessandro to the gate. The two Abbey oxen, great white beasts far larger than anything at Rocca Falcone, were already tethered to the back of the cart.
"You have a fine mind, Lord Alessandro," the Abbot said quietly, his voice devoid of its earlier probing nature. "It is a gift from God. Be careful how you use it."
"I will, Father Abbot."
The Abbot's eyes drifted towards the road leading west, back towards Rocca Falcone's sphere of influence. "A word of caution," he added, his voice dropping slightly. "Miracles attract pilgrims. They also attract attention of a less holy nature. The Baron of Monte San Giovanni is a proud man, and his memory is long. And the Bishop of Veroli… a man like that does not appreciate surprises, even pleasant ones. He will soon hear that you are trading in miracles of your own."
Alessandro understood. His victory here had placed him squarely on the political map. His "Bishop's Shield" was a useful tool, but using it had sent ripples that would inevitably reach the Bishop's ears.
He nodded his thanks to the Abbot and gave the signal to depart. As their caravan pulled away from the Abbey, its wagon now laden with the seeds of their future, the path ahead seemed both clearer and infinitely more dangerous. He had solved the problem of the harvest, but in doing so, had planted the seeds of a whole new conflict.