The path through the mountains was a barely-there track, a treacherous route known only to shepherds and forgotten by soldiers. For two days, Decanus Valerio led his fifty men through it. The journey was a grueling ordeal of steep climbs and narrow, crumbling ledges. The thirty armed peasants, their bodies accustomed to the toil of the farm and quarry, endured it with grim stamina. But it was the twenty men of the Falcon Guard who set the pace. They moved with a soldier's economy of motion, their heavy gear no longer a burden but a part of them, their discipline a silent force that pulled the entire company forward.
Valerio followed Alessandro's hand-drawn map, attended to his men's needs, and maintained a sense of order with his own quiet focus. He was a good choice for the task.
Back at Castiglione, life settled into a daily routine. The initial positive outcome was now followed by a period of waiting. Provisions were managed with care, and the men showed great self-control. Outside the walls, the Baron's large group of followers remained settled at a distance. During the day, their great warhorses would be paraded to remind the defenders of their weakness in an open field. At random hours, their catapult would fling a heavy stone to smash against the walls, not with any real strategic purpose, but simply to keep them on edge.
Alessandro spent every waking hour on the battlements, his eyes scanning the eastern hills. He had placed his faith, and the lives of every person in the castle, on the hope that a hunter's son could slip through an army and that a Decanus could command one. Beside him, Lord Orso fretted, his newfound courage fraying with each passing day.
"They are too many, my lord," Orso would mutter, looking at the sprawling camp.
"We cannot match them in numbers," Alessandro would reply calmly, his gaze on the horizon. "Our success will come from changing the situation to our advantage. Be patient."
On the morning of the third day, Valerio's group reached their destination. From a high, wooded ridge, they looked down upon the main road used for the Baron's supplies. Valerio chose his ambush point carefully: a sharp bend in the road, surrounded by dense forest on both sides.
He briefed his men one last time. "The lord's orders are clear," he said, his voice low. "We are not here to win a battle. We are here to burn wagons. The Guard will be the spearhead. You will punch through their escort and go directly for the carts. Kill the oxen. Break the wheels. The rest of you," he said, turning to the thirty armed peasants, "your job is to make the noise of a thousand men. Swarm the front and rear of their column. Scream, yell, make them think they are being attacked by a great army. Create chaos. In chaos, we will find our victory."
They lay in wait. An hour later, they heard the tell-tale rumble of heavy wagons.
The Baron's supply caravan was a long, lazy serpent of a dozen heavy carts laden with food, wine, and arrows, pulled by teams of plodding oxen. The escort was comprised of about fifty men-at-arms, but they were spread thin along the length of the column, complacent and bored, deep within what they considered secure territory.
As the center of the caravan entered the wooded bend, Valerio rose from his concealment. "For the Falcon!" he roared.
The forest erupted.
The twenty men of the Falcon Guard, moving as a single, disciplined wedge, smashed into the side of the caravan's escort. The surprise was absolute. The Baron's men, expecting a peaceful march, were overwhelmed by the sudden, ferocious assault. The Guard did not stop to fight; they were a blade that sliced through the thin line of guards and fell upon the helpless wagons.
At the same time, the thirty armed peasants swarmed the road at the front and back of the column, screaming bloody murder, their cries echoing through the trees to sound like a much larger force.
Chaos, as Valerio had predicted, was total. The guards at the head and tail of the column, believing they were being swarmed by a huge army, began to fall back in disarray. The guards in the center, attacked by the disciplined Falcon Guard, were cut down where they stood.
Valerio's men were ruthless in their objective. They did not stop to loot. They hamstrung the oxen, used their axes to shatter the wagon wheels, and hurled the torches they had prepared onto the canvas covers of the carts.
Miles away, on the walls of Castiglione, a lookout shouted, his voice cracking with excitement. "A signal! My lord, a signal!"
Alessandro's head snapped to the east. There, rising from behind the distant hills, was a thick, unmistakable pillar of black smoke, climbing straight into the clear blue sky.
A slow, grim, triumphant smile spread across Alessandro's face. The hammer had fallen. The diversion had begun.
He turned to Marco, who stood at attention beside him, his eyes also fixed on the smoke. "The Baron's attention is now divided," Alessandro said, his voice cold and clear. "Get the men ready. All of them."
The siege of Castiglione was about to be broken.