The lead merchant of the first caravan, a stout man from Ceprano named Tito, was the bravest man Alessandro had met in months. He approached Rocca Falcone with his two wagons and six hired guards, his eyes constantly scanning the hills for any sign of the Baron's patrols. He was a man gambling his livelihood, and possibly his life, on the rumor of a good deal.
Alessandro met him personally at the edge of the newly established fairground, flanked by ten of his Falcon Guards in their full equipment. The display of disciplined force was the first part of the reassurance.
"Welcome to Rocca Falcone, Master Tito," Alessandro said, his voice calm and welcoming. "You have traveled a long road. I trust your journey was a peaceful one?"
"It was, my lord," Tito admitted, surprise in his voice. "Your men at the pass were most courteous."
The second part of the reassurance was the product itself. The flour was as white and fine as anything from the best mills in the south, and the price was, as advertised, so low it was almost scandalous. Tito, his merchant's greed overwhelming his fear, bought as much as his wagons could hold. As he departed, his coin pouch significantly lighter and his wagons heavy with profit, Marco's men escorted him to the edge of the valley's influence.
The entire transaction was a success. The honey pot was open for business.
When Tito's caravan returned to Ceprano a few days later, the effect was like a dam breaking. The merchants, who had been watching and waiting, saw that the path was safe and the profits were real. The trickle became a flood.
Within a week, the forgotten road to Rocca Falcone was a bustling artery of commerce. A steady stream of wagons and mules made its way to Alessandro's valley, bringing with them merchants eager to buy his cheap, high-quality flour. In return, they brought the one thing Rocca Falcone had never possessed: silver. For the first time, a heavy chest in the keep began to fill with coins from across the Italian peninsula. The fiefdom was no longer a self-sufficient island; it was a burgeoning economic power.
This new river of silver flowing into Rocca Falcone meant another river—the river of tolls on the San Giorgio bridge—was beginning to run dry.
In the cold, stone hall of his fortress, the Baron of Monte San Giovanni stared at the ledger presented by his chief toll collector. The man was sweating, despite the chill in the room.
"The receipts from the bridge are down by more than half, my lord," the collector stammered. "And they fall further each day. The merchants… they are using the new southern road."
The Baron's face, which had been a mask of irritation, hardened into one of cold fury. He finally understood. The 'pious' clearing of a pilgrim's path. The 'coincidental' harvest fair. The toll-free passage. It was not a series of fortunate events for a lucky upstart. It was a calculated, brilliant, and devastating economic attack that had been planned from the start. This boy, this Falcon, had not just insulted him by dealing with Lorenzo; he had openly challenged his authority and was now siphoning the very lifeblood from his treasury.
"He is attempting to beggar me," the Baron whispered, his voice dangerously quiet.
His steward, Rinaldo, stepped forward. "My lord, this cannot stand. It is an act of war."
"No," the Baron corrected, his eyes glinting. "It is an act of trade. And to attack him openly would make me the aggressor in the eyes of the Bishop. This requires a different touch."
He dismissed the terrified toll collector. That evening, a new visitor was granted a private audience in the Baron's study. He was not a nobleman or a cleric. He was a man named Corrado, a mercenary captain with a scarred face and dead eyes, a man known for his brutal efficiency and, more importantly, his discretion.
The Baron of Monte San Giovanni tossed a heavy purse of gold onto the table between them. It landed with a satisfying thud.
"I have a task for you, Captain," the Baron said, his voice a low snarl. "A new road has become… popular. It runs through the southern hills to the valley of Rocca Falcone."
Corrado scooped up the purse, testing its weight. "And you wish for it to become… unpopular?"
"I want it to become a legend," the Baron hissed, his hands clenching into fists. "A ghost story that merchants tell their children. I want it to run with blood and be synonymous with fear. No one who travels that road is to reach their destination. Their wagons are to be burned, their goods scattered. Leave no witnesses."
He leaned closer, his eyes locking with the mercenary's. "But my banner is not to be seen. My name is not to be mentioned. It is the work of common, greedy bandits. Do you understand?"
The mercenary captain gave a slow, cruel smile. "For this price, my lord," he said, hefting the purse, "that road will be haunted by morning."
The shadow war was over. The real war was about to begin.