The runner from Enzo's road crew arrived at dusk, his clothes torn and his body slick with sweat. He delivered the message to Alessandro with breathless urgency in the torchlit bailey. The words—"The Baron knows we are here"—were a death knell for their covert operation.
Alessandro's face remained a calm mask, but his mind raced. The flimsy excuse of a pilgrim's path was a bandage, not a shield. It would hold for a week at most before the Baron, a man not known for his piety or his foolishness, investigated the matter more closely. When he discovered the road led directly to the valley that was fast becoming the source of unsettling rumors, he would see it not as a path for pilgrims, but as a highway for a rival army or a channel for diverted trade. He would see it as a threat.
That night, in the tower, Alessandro laid out the new reality to Bastiano and Lorenzo.
"The game of shadows is over," Alessandro stated, his voice devoid of alarm. "Enzo's lie has bought us time, but it has also started a clock. We can no longer wait for merchants to find our road by chance. We must force their hand. We must make the reward so great that they cannot ignore it, regardless of the Baron's displeasure."
"You mean to start a trade war?" Bastiano asked, his voice trembling.
"A war suggests a fight between equals," Alessandro corrected. "We are a mouse trying to steal cheese from a lion's den. We cannot fight. We must lure." He leaned over the map on the table. "We will not just open a road. We will give them a reason to travel it. We will host a harvest fair."
The idea was audacious. Fairs were for established towns with charters, not for isolated, insignificant fiefdoms.
"We have the greatest surplus of grain and flour this region has seen in a lifetime," Alessandro continued, his eyes gleaming with strategic fire. "The mill can produce more flour in a day than our neighbors produce in a month. We will set a price so low it is irresistible. We will create a honey pot, and to get to it, the bees will have to use our new road."
The propaganda campaign began the next morning. Alessandro dictated the text of a proclamation to Bastiano, who, with his neat, scholarly hand, transcribed it onto several pieces of parchment. The announcements were a masterpiece of subtle aggression. They declared the first "Great Harvest Fair of Rocca Falcone," inviting all merchants to purchase the finest quality flour at a price that would guarantee them a massive profit. And at the bottom, a note mentioned that for their convenience, the "ancient and newly restored Pilgrim's Way of St. Fortunatus" was now open, offering a safe and, most importantly, a toll-free passage from the south.
Riders were dispatched immediately, carrying the proclamations to the market squares of Ceprano and other nearby towns, their primary targets being the grain merchants and bakers who chafed under the Baron of Monte San Giovanni's heavy tolls.
Simultaneously, a swift messenger rode to Pietra Secca with new orders for Centurion Marco and the Falcon Guard garrison. Their mission was no longer simply to guard the village. They were to move to the southern entrance of the newly-cleared road, establish a visible and disciplined presence, and act as guides and protectors for any merchant caravans wishing to travel the "Pilgrim's Way." They were to be the friendly, official face of this new economic artery.
The valley was busy with preparations for the upcoming fair. A large, flat field near the main tower was designated as the fairground, and stalls were constructed. The mill operated continuously, producing a large quantity of flour that was packed into sacks marked with the falcon crest. The mood in the valley was a mix of anticipation and nervousness.
Days passed. The road was finished. The proclamations had been posted. The stage was set. And nothing happened.
A nervous silence settled over the valley. Had they miscalculated? Were the merchants too afraid of the Baron's retribution? Had their grand economic gambit failed before it even began?
On the fourth day, just as a pall of doubt began to fall, a horn blew from the watchtower. It was a single, sustained, questioning blast.
Alessandro, Enzo—who had returned with his crew the day before—and the entire village rushed to the parapets and the edge of the valley. They stared south, towards the entrance of their new road.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the empty, winding path. Then, a small dust cloud appeared on the horizon. It grew larger, resolving itself into a slow-moving procession. It was not a column of soldiers. It was a caravan. Three large merchant wagons, pulled by heavy oxen, flanked by a half-dozen hired guards.
They had taken the bait.
A cautious cheer started among the people, but Alessandro held his breath. His eyes were fixed on the hills beyond the caravan. The first merchants had been brave enough to try his road. The question that now hung in the air, heavy and unspoken, was whether the Baron of Monte San Giovanni would be foolish enough to let them pass unmolested.