Rora (10 page)

The aura around Pianessa was something Emmanuel had never sensed around the general before—a persona of defeat. "Do you doubt victory?" he asked cautiously.

Seconds passed before the Marquis de Pianessa rose and walked slowly back to the map. He leaned across it, shook his head. "I will kill them all, Savoy. I was only...musing."

Whatever comfort or even information Emmanuel had sought when he first entered the tent was completely trampled by Pianessa s grim mood. He backed away quietly and turned to leave.

"One thing, Savoy."

Reluctantly, Emmanuel turned back and waited.

Pianessa was grim. "What will you win if you take these mountains from Gianavel?"

Fear—actual fear—enveloped Emmanuel's heart. It was one thing for Father Simon to warn him that God might be against this war. It was
another for a pagan general to warn him that God himself might fight beside Gianavel.

Without a reply, or even thinking of a reply, Emmanuel moved to the stables.

***

Gianavel knelt and thirty-four men followed, listening closely.

"Our defense is as good as we can make it," he said quie
tly and calmly "But the hardest aspect of any battle is changing your defense to meet changes in the attack. The side that changes the fastest will have the advantage. More the reason to take out their commanders quickly. Make sure you're far enough down the slope to target them. They won't be at the front."

"I wouldn't be either," commented Hector.

"Have men with mirrors stationed on the slopes above your positions. If you have to retreat up the slopes, use quick flashes. What one side does, the other does as well."

"As Joab and Abishi did," grunted Bertino.

"Exactly," said Gianavel. "None of us have the advantage of a military education. We have only our experiences and the stories of our fathers. But we know what David, Joshua, and Gideon did when they fought against their enemies. Their tactics were sound. We will do the same things."

Hector laughed once, nodded.

Faces grim and resolved met Gianavel as he gazed at them all in turn. "You are men," he said, and the words strengthened them as no accolade ever could.

Gianavel nodded, lifted his rifle.

"Let's go," he said.

The last of the heavily armed battalion disappeared along the highest switchback that curled around the farthest height of El Combe as soldiers struggled to drag the reserve cannon over the narrow, rocky ledge. Dust cyclones swirled in their wake like a storm leaving tatters of itself on the mountain.

Pianessa suddenly erupted with a laugh, drawing the attention of a lieutenant who sat beside him on horseback. The merciless guffaw seemed to have nothing of human pleasure within it, but there was harsh pleasure, nonetheless.

The lieutenant studied Pianessa s barbaric countenance, asked, "Something you see, sire?"

Pianessa settled back into his saddle. His huge hands closed on the flat, wooden horn, reins held easily. "Nothing, Cassius," he commented. "I was simply wondering if the Vaudois have any idea what is going to befall them when that regiment descends on their village."

Cassius, tall and lean with an aquiline face that gave him an almost aristocratic air, shrugged. "I expect they've heard what befell the valley, sire— rape, murder, pillaging, burning." He paused. "It doesn't matter if the Waldenses renounce their faith. The Inquisitors have issued orders to kill them all."

"Indeed," Pianessa murmured and was silent for so long that the lieu-tenant was watching curiously when he spoke again. "But tell me, Lieutenant. Would you lead that battalion knowing that Gianavel and his people are waiting for you?"

Cassius took a deeper breath and leaned back, stiffening as he gazed upward at the slope. He said nothing, but a sudden, frozen paleness in his face answered for him.

Pianessa laughed loudly and spurred his stallion toward the field. "Neither would I."

Bertino spun as the runner, a scout, arrived at the camp breathless and sweating heavily. He staggered the final few steps, and Bertino caught him by the shoulders.

"What is it, boy?"

The boy gasped, "A battalion. At least a thousand! They're coming!"

"How long?"

"An hour!" the boy cried. "Less!"

Gianavel lifted his rifle and walked forward. His poise was calm. There was nothing about him that matched those who surged quickly and nervously to don weapons and equipment. His voice was cold as he spoke to Bertino. "Keep a close eye on signals. The more chaotic the battle, the more important are our communications."

"
Oui
!" Bertino nodded and turned to a small platoon often men. "You know what to do!"

Hector walked quickly past the Captain of Rora, his men close behind the elderly man, though he said nothing and didn't glance to insure they were following. When they were gone, Gianavel lifted two extra rifles that he slung across his back.

He, alone, had no one to reload for him. He would attack the most critical, and most heavily guarded, elements of the battalion, striking at the head to kill the body. To take out the general was a mission best suited for six coordinated men, but he would risk no one else in the attempt. So he would run the gauntlet himself. He had only to seize the opportunity when it was there and execute with precision, then retreat quickly without a single mistake.

It was possible, Gianavel knew, because it would be at close range, and everything at close range was chaotic. Shots fired from ten feet easily went wide. Men swiped wildly with sabers, afraid they would lose their own head if they struck a second too late. And their fear would be his advantage because he had no fear. No, he had no fear, for he knew what was awaiting him—death. And the victory he would claim would make all the rest seem as nothing.

With a last impulse, he slid two more poniards into his belt, which would be quickly discarded because he would be too close for rifle or pistol with no time to reload and no time to retreat. It was the only way to do it. For, if he failed, he would be the one to pay the cost.

When all were gone, Gianavel paused.
Though he revealed nothing, the fire was in his blood—the sunlight was bright, brighter, his blood fast, his hands tingling. Everything about him was white and dangerous, even the leaves that swayed beyond the camp. It was the mind he would keep until the killing was done.

With long strides he vanished into the trees.

* * *

Chapter 6

C
aptain Mario brushed a tree branch aside. glaring warily at the boulder-strewn slope Pass of Pelice. He saw only deep forest almost black beneath the overlapping crests of trees. There was no sign of Rora's defenders, nor was there any sound. He paused a long time, searching, but saw nothing in the distance, where the trail leveled across the valley. No, nothing...

It was as if Rora had been abandoned with uneaten meals still warm on tables, open doors swaying in haunting silence, open curtains at empty windows with dogs scurrying sideways on dust-devil trails utterly hedged by mountains ominous and silent as gravestones.

Mario looked to the side. "Sergeant!"

The red-bearded man turned his head. His face, also, reflected a sweating tension. His voice was quiet. "Yes, sir?"

"Why haven't they attacked?"

The sergeant major scanned the impenetrable forest once more.
"I can't say, sir. If they're lying in ambuscade, they have the patience of devils."

"You're certain that men march parallel on either flank? I don't want to walk into another trap."

"Twenty men march parallel on either slope, sir."

Mario glanced at the size of the regiment. "Is that enough to fight off an ambush?"

The sergeant, too, appeared to be moving at a pace convenient for passing. "Oh no, sir, the fools will be murdered without a survivor. But they'll still sound the alarm."

"If we're attacked, will you charge the slopes?"

The red beard moved almost imperceptibly. "It's foolish to charge uphill against a fortified position, sir. It's like being caught halfway across a river. You can't advance and you can't retreat. The Spaniards are wizards at it, but, then, they're adulterous devils." He continued, quite businesslike, "No, sir, if they hit us from the slope, we'll retreat and barrage their positions with cannons. Beat them down a bit before we charge into their rifles."

Mario slowed his pace even more. "These people are wise, Sergeant. If they see that battle is unavoidable, they'll strike without warning and strike to kill."

"I'm confident the flanks will provide a warning, sir, however abrupt. And a warning is all we need."

Mario's eyes lighted nervously from bush to bush. His voice was quieter than the leaves that rus
tled above him.

"Yes
... a warning."

***

As silent as a breeze, Gianavel ripped his poniard from the chest of a soldier that marched on the flank of the regiment. Strewn behind him, the soldiers' comrades, twenty in number, lay in a long scattered line.

The Captain of Rora raised burning eyes at Captain Mario, now so close.

No, there would be no warning.

As he'd anticipated, the first company was comprised of mercenaries and a rank sergeant. But it would do little good to kill expendable mercenaries and a low-level commander. He had to target a commander whose sudden death might throw them into confusion.

Just as with his own men, Gianavel knew that as long as they retained their discipline, they would be difficult to defeat. But when they lost their discipline, when they began fighting like individuals instead of a team, they were already half-defeated.

Silen
tly sheathing the poniard, Gianavel angled through the thick stand of poplar until he moved parallel with the standard-bearer, who traditionally stood beside the commander in chief. After Gianavel killed the sergeant, who truly controlled the riflemen, Captain Mario would be next, and then the standard-bearer. He turned his head, gazing across the narrow ravine.

Within one hundred feet, Bertino would open the first volley. Then events would move quickly, and there was no way to predict the enemy's reaction.
To charge uphill was certain doom, but to dig into a bad position was little better.

Bent and silent, Gianavel moved alongside the center battalion, his eyes darting from the detachment to the path before him with each step. He avoided twigs and stones and only lightly moved branches that brushed silently over his wool shirt and pants.

He heard the first volley.

Plumes of white smoke erupted on the slope as men began shouting in terror and confusion, and Gianavel's musket rose as he fell into a crouch, searching over the sights for the first man who dared to shout a command and die.

Mario drew his sword as the sergeant major spun and thundered for the men to—

With the sound of a meat cleaver smashing through ribs and flesh, the sergeant staggered.

Mario stared for what seemed an amazingly long moment as the sergeant's face relaxed, eyes glassy with redness flooding over his face through a white portal of brain and bone where his forehead had been. Strangely, his sword seemed to make no sound as it clattered on the stones, bouncing soundlessly beyond a boulder.

Dead?

In shock Mario searched the slope and saw for the most fleeting fraction of a second a shadow racing high through the woodline. He shouted and pointed frantically for those around him to do something, but they were firing in every other direction. When Mario looked again, the shadow was gone and another shot—a lot of them—erupted from the ridge to drop men by platoons.

Pointing with his sword, he cried,
"There, you fools!"

Uncoordinated, they fired high and low and wide, strafing the forest with a blistering barrage that tore limbs from trees and vaporized leprous white rocks of the slope while the slope above them still thundered with rifle fire—they had hit little or nothing.

"Devils!" Mario shouted and found himself retreating with others who had thrown their rifles aside for the advantage of speed. He raised his saber to—

The bullet that struck his saber snapped the thin blade in half and sent it spinning end over end.

Mario was not even aware he'd dropped the jagged grip as he staggered back in shock.

If Gianavel's concentration had been one iota less, he would have been amazed that the commander
’s sword deflected his bullet before it reached his forehead, but there was no time for thoughts of anything but action. Moving deliberately but quickly, Gianavel recharged his first rifle and didn't waste a second to replace the rod.

Captain Mario, eyes wide and wild, had cast the broken sword aside and held pistols in both hands.

In the same breath that Gianavel sighted, he fired. Mario shouted as he fell back, disappearing behind a boulder. The Captain of Rora ducked back as others saw him and opened up.

The bullets that struck the tree could be felt to the other side, and Gianavel waited to let the second volley pass harmlessly through the woods about him. Then he dropped his second rifle and launched himself forward, running toward the front of the battalion. He had killed the captain and sergeant major, but there would be others who might rally the force.

Everything was fully alive—every leaf was distinct with its own shade and motion, every branch was skeletal and clear before him, outlined to the faintest twig as he ran. His breath was without effort or thought, and he was aware that everything was vivid to his eyes. He knew how many steps he would need to reach his destination, how much strength it would require, how he would drop, where his hands would be reaching—powder and ammunition and patch.

It was the kind of mind speed that comes only when the mind instinctively shuts out all emotion and worries, forcing everything not vital for survival to the sides, dominating with a power that only emerges in dreams or death.

Gianavel felt sixteen—sixteen, his mind counted—shots tear through the trees about him, most missing widely but one sailing inches behind his back—no threat. Then he dropped beside another oak, uncorked his powder horn, scanning. In seconds he reloaded and saw a man carrying a sword. He aimed, waiting to see if the man was in charge. He was.

Gianavel fired.

Another down, and then Bertino's thick form was visible on the distant ridge, not so far by the yard but a long path if one climbed up from the ravine. The huge farmer threw a small barrel.

Burning fuse!

Gianavel dove behind the tree and opened his mouth to the tremendous concussion of the powder keg, and then smoke billowed like a wheat field afire with oil. Huge plumes of black blotted out the sun in seconds, night beneath day.

He didn't need to look to know that the third company, largely untouched by the battle and led by at least two captains and a half-dozen sergeants, was stampeding up the pass, fiercely determined now to charge the slopes. And although they would certainly incur heavy losses, they would more than likely reach the ridge.

Gianavel saw Bertino's thick form on the opposite slope and hailed him, dangerously exposing his position. But Bertino was unaware that the third company was charging.

Dropping to a knee, Gianavel aimed carefully and fired, hitting a tree trunk. The big man shouted at the impact and then bellowed to those around him. But even as they aimed, Bertino recognized Gianavel and shouted for them to hold fire.

Gianavel gave the sign to retreat.

Bertino obeyed without question. With only a terse word to the others, he turned and vanished into the trees.

Gianavel raced down the slopes, ignoring the dead and the wounded and the smoke and the flame, knowing they had to prepare a secondary defense to hold the village against these last three hundred who would be upon them in seconds.

***

Mario glared about angrily, his hand reflexively grasping his upper arm where the bullet had struck. He didn't remember being hit, only falling back. When he finally reached his feet, the entire ravine was black with smoke, and the company was racing forward with pikes lowered.

He staggered into the wave not because of courage but because he was less a target among many than alone. They didn't slow as they passed the remains of the first company, nor did anyone offer aid. Then they were rushing down the slope toward the village that loomed beyond, riflemen already firing.

Chaos was visible as the third company climbed a slope that seemed stunningly difficult to Mario, and then they reached the farthest outskirts of Rora—scattered clusters of huts that were being quickly evacuated but not quickly enough.

The greater portion of Rora stood within reach, if they could quickly make their way through this poorer section of the township and take the bridge. Victory was within his grasp.

Mario saw his men killing everyone not quick enough to gain the bridge—young, old, women, children, babies, strong men. All fell alike under sword or rifle or bayonet, but he wished for the company to move forward far more quickly. He bellowed orders to leave the dead where they lay and to continue the assault.

Obviously, these people, perhaps two hundred, would not abandon the village unless all hope was lost. Which was wise; they stood far less chance of reaching one of the caves than of holding a fortified position, and many were too old and feeble to even make the attempt.
Yes, they would retreat only when they had no more chance of holding this ground—their very homes.

They neared a bridge that led into the better-built section of the township when suddenly Mario felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck and saw the same shadow—the same man he had seen on the slopes—the man who almost killed him.

Alone, sword in hand, the man boldly stood on the far end of the bridge. His countenance and his stance made it clear that he would not let them pass. He stood, watching.

Waiting.

Gianavel did not even blink as the three hundred men charged through the already burning remnant of the village, closing quickly on the bridge. He looked at Bertino, concealed within a doorway, and nodded once. Bertino also nodded. They were ready.

With no time to devise an elaborate defense, Gianavel and those with him had reached the bridge only seconds ahead of their attackers. Unable to reinforce the poorer section of the village, they had been unable to stay that massacre. But all was not yet lost. If they could stop them here, then the larger portion of Rora—including all the field hospitals—would be saved.

Unmoving, Gianavel watched as the infantrymen narrowed like sand through an hourglass, crossing the bridge. When they were less than one hundred feet away, he raised his sword, and windows above him erupted with rifle fire.

Pikemen sprawled face first across cobblestones, but those in the rear did not hesitate. Trampling down the bloody bodies, obviously electing speed as the greatest element of safety, they threw themselves into a frantic charge.

Gianavel leaped to the side as they rushed toward him, and baskets stacked behind him were cast aside. The Captain of Rora could only imagine what the attackers beheld in that instant.

Grinning and holding a torch in one hand, Hector was bent over a demi-cannon. On his flanks, two forty-pounders were aimed dead into the heart of the regiment.

What Gianavel did see were twenty men dropping pikes and turning to retreat, only to be pushed backward, since those behind them were slower to arrive at the sight.

Then the street exploded with the force of a volcano, and entire buildings vanished behind roiling clouds that reached almost to the face of their disappearing attackers. Gianavel gazed out to see heaps of bloodied corpses strewn across the entire length of the street and bridge rails.