The journey home from San Zaccaria was fraught with a new kind of anxiety. Before, they had guarded potential. Now, their wagon was heavy with a tangible, irreplaceable treasure. Every sack of high-quality seed grain was a promise, and the two great white oxen that plodded patiently behind the cart were a visible, walking symbol of their newfound prosperity. They were a smaller party now, with Lorenzo remaining at the Abbey, and the sense of vulnerability was acute. Yet, the roads remained clear, as if the story of their successful bluff had granted them a brief, unearned reputation for strength.
Their return to Rocca Falcone was met with a joyous, near-reverent reception. The sight of the wagon piled high with sacks, more seed than the valley had seen in a generation, was a more potent symbol of hope than even the great plow had been.
There was no time for rest. The planting season was drawing to a close, and every day was precious. Alessandro gathered the entire fiefdom at the edge of the newly plowed fields.
"You see the seed," he called out, his voice carrying in the crisp autumn air. "It is the fruit of our labors. But it is a precious resource, and we will not waste a single grain." He held up a hand to forestall the usual method. "We will not be broadcasting. We will not throw our future to the wind and the birds."
He laid out his new system. It was simple, tedious, and revolutionary. The men would walk the furrows, carrying the sacks. Behind them, the women and older children would follow, taking seeds one by one and planting them at a specific depth and spacing, measured by the length of their own hands.
There was some grumbling at the slow, back-breaking nature of the task, but the people's faith in their young lord had been forged into something solid. His 'miracles' had earned him their trust, even when his methods seemed strange.
What followed was the great planting of Rocca Falcone. It was a communal act of faith on an unprecedented scale. The entire population moved as one across the vast black expanse, a human machine planting the seeds of their new destiny. They worked from sunrise to sunset, their movements creating a slow, rhythmic dance across the valley floor. Songs rose in the air, old tunes of the harvest now filled with a new and powerful hope. They were no longer serfs toiling for a meager existence. They were partners in a great enterprise, their hands personally sowing the future they had all worked to create.
A month passed. The last of the seeds were sown just as the first true bite of winter entered the air. A quiet, expectant peace settled over the valley. The people survived on their carefully managed stores and the fruits of Alessandro's foraging techniques, their eyes constantly turning to the dormant fields, where their future now slept beneath a thin blanket of frost.
At the end of the month, Lorenzo returned. He rode one of the Abbey's mules, and wore a new, warm woolen cloak, a gift from the Abbot, but his face was the same hard mask of stone. He came with a report and a warning.
That night, over a rare meal of roasted rabbit, he spoke to Alessandro. "The monks are diligent," he rumbled. "Their smiths can now mend the plow, and perhaps, in a year, build a clumsy copy. But the art of it… that remains ours." He paused, chewing thoughtfully. "They also talk. The name of Rocca Falcone is being whispered in the halls of Veroli. The Bishop is said to be… curious about the lord who pays his tithes with promises of miracles." He leaned forward. "And Rinaldo, the Baron's dog, has not been idle. I heard from a traveling merchant that he has been seen at the Baron's castle, speaking with knights. They know something has changed here. They are watching."
Alessandro absorbed the news, the familiar weight of external threats settling back onto his shoulders. He had bought time, but that time was running out, and his every success only made him a more noticeable target.
The following day, he led Lorenzo away from the village, down to the banks of the swift-flowing stream he had created from the ancient swamp. The water ran clear and fast, a source of power that was being wasted.
"The planting is done," Alessandro said, staring at the current. "But a mountain of grain is still just a mountain of grain. To be valuable to the outside world, it must become flour. Enough flour to sell, to trade, to build a treasury."
He knelt in the damp earth beside the stream, picking up a stick. As the master smith watched, Alessandro began to sketch. He drew a circle with paddles. He drew a long axle, connecting it to two large, grooved stones, one sitting atop the other. He drew a building to house it all, with a chute to direct the water and a hopper to hold the grain. It was the unmistakable design of an overshot water wheel and a gristmill.
Lorenzo stared at the drawing, his mind already seeing the iron braces, the perfectly balanced axle, the immense power of the water.
"Now, my friend," Alessandro said, looking up at the smith, his eyes burning with the light of the next creation. "We build the engine that will turn our harvest into wealth."