The air before dawn at Rocca Falcone was thick with nervous tension. In the bailey, the rickety wagon sagged under the immense weight of the Roman iron pins, while the newly-built sledge was piled high with heavy oak logs. It was a hoard of wealth that represented their only future.
Alessandro stood before his chosen escort: Enzo and six of the strongest men from the quarrying team. Their faces, illuminated by a single torch, were grim. They understood the value of their cargo, and thus, the danger of their mission.
"We are slow, and we are rich," Alessandro stated, his voice cutting through the morning chill. "Every hungry man with a sword between here and Ceprano will see us as a prize. We cannot outrun them, and we cannot hope to outfight a determined band of brigands or another lord's men-at-arms."
A flicker of despair returned to the men's eyes. He let it sit for a moment before continuing.
"So, we will not look like a prize. We will look like a threat."
From a sack, Bastiano began handing out items that brought only confusion. First, simple armbands of burlap, all dyed the same muddy brown. Then, to each man, a newly-cut pole of ash wood, over two meters long, its tip sharpened to a wicked point.
"You are no longer peasants," Alessandro declared as the men awkwardly took the items. "You are the household guard of Rocca Falcone. The armbands are your uniform. These poles are not tools. They are pikes. You will carry them at all times."
Finally, he unrolled a crudely painted banner of grey wool. On it was a stark, black falcon, its wings spread. It was simple, but bold and unmistakable.
"This is our banner," he said, handing the pole to Enzo. "It will fly from the wagon. We will not look like merchants. We will look like a lord's retinue, escorting his property. We will look like a force that expects trouble, and is prepared for it."
For the next hour, as the sky slowly brightened, Alessandro drilled them in the bailey. He taught them to march in two disciplined columns on either side of the precious cargo. He taught them how to hold their pikes, not as walking sticks, but as weapons. He taught them how to turn and form a defensive circle on his command. They were clumsy, but the transformation was visible. They began to move as one.
The procession that left Rocca Falcone was a strange sight. It was a scarecrow army, a bluff made of wood, wool, and sheer audacity, guarding a king's ransom on a beggar's cart. The journey was a torment of slow, creaking progress. The men's hands sweated on the shafts of their pikes. Every rustle in the woods, every distant rider, sent a jolt of fear through the party. They were a snail carrying a shell of gold, and they felt nakedly exposed.
Around midday, on a lonely stretch of road that cut through a series of low, wooded hills, Enzo's sharp eyes caught the movement.
"Lord," he hissed, his voice low. "On the ridge. To the left."
Alessandro's head snapped up. Three men on horseback sat partially concealed by a stand of trees, watching them. They were too far away to see details, but the glint of sun on steel helmets was unmistakable. They were not simple travelers.
Panic, cold and electric, shot through the men. One of the younger ones stumbled, his pike wavering.
"Steady!" Alessandro's voice was a sharp crack of a whip, cutting through the fear. "Hold the line! Eyes forward! Keep marching!"
His heart was hammering against his ribs, but his face was a mask of bored indifference. He did not look towards the ridge. He stared straight ahead, the very picture of a commander who had noted the observers and dismissed them as irrelevant.
His men, drawing strength from his impossible calm, followed his lead. They tightened their formation, their sharpened poles forming a bristling, unified wall. They marched slowly, deliberately, as if they had every right to be on this road and feared no one.
Time seemed to stretch, each creak of the wagon wheel an eternity. Alessandro could feel the gaze of the horsemen on his back. He knew what they were seeing: a banner of a noble house, a disciplined escort of pikemen, a slow-moving but organized force. They were not seeing seven terrified peasants and a boy-lord. They were seeing a professional retinue. An unknown quantity. Challenging a noble's retinue could bring retribution from a powerful neighbor, a high price for a prize that, from a distance, was just iron and wood. The risk seemed too great.
After a minute that felt like a lifetime, Enzo spoke, his voice quiet with relief. "They're gone, lord. They've turned back into the woods."
The moment of peril passed. The men, seeing that their lord's clever plan had worked, felt a renewed sense of purpose. Their formation held as they continued their march, their heads held higher than before. With a new and quiet confidence, they moved forward as the afternoon sun began to dip towards the horizon, and the walls of Ceprano appeared in the distance. The next challenge was about to begin: navigating a city full of sharks while dragging a trail of blood in the water.