Rora (11 page)

On the far side of the creek, commanders instantly began bellowing furious commands to attack, to attack, to overwhelm by sheer superiority of numbers. But no one wanted to be the first into that horrendous grapeshot that dismembered men like insects, leaving arms and legs scattered unrecognizable amid bodies split and torn.

Bertino raised his rifle in the air as those in the windows erupted in taunts and jeers, and Gianavel grabbed the big man's arm.

"We don't have enough cannon fire to hold them!" Gianavel shouted above the din. "We'll take them twelve at a time with rifles as they advance!"

Bertino nodded and grabbed men clos
e to him, repeating the instructions as Gianavel reached a stairway. In moments he was on the second floor, positioning men behind overturned furniture that strengthened the walls against muskets. He assigned them to specific angles because each man had only a limited view of the street.

"Each man has an angle, like a pipeline, on the street below! With all the angles together, we have the street covered. Each man must shoot only what is within his pipeline! Do not pursue a man if he gets past your pipe! Don't try for a man who hasn't reached you! Shoot only what's in front of you! Do you understand?"

They nodded together.

Gianavel turned to the window.

The battalion was advancing twelve abreast, but there was no space between rows. It was like a solid black snake flowing across the bridge. In the background, commanders had mounted horses for a better view of the conflict.

"Be ready," Gianavel said sternly. "Don't shoot until they're across the bridge."

They waited as the men neared.

Nervous eyes glanced at Gianavel.

"Wait," he whispered.

The drum of boots was muffled as the soldiers strode over the bodies of those who had fallen, and some of the bodies cried out painfully. Then they were over the worst and continued steadily.

"Fire!" Gianavel shouted, and every window and doorway hurled musket balls into the ranks, dropping those in front, who were replaced instantly by those behind. Then another volley was fired and another, and another, and still they came, shoulder to shoulder with rifles and pikes held high.

"Fire!" Gianavel shouted again and again, and musket balls were redoubled. But still, the army grew inexorably closer.

Then a single man, young and covered in soot, began to rise, and Gianavel grabbed him forcefully by the shoulder, pressing him back into position at the window. If one broke, they might all break. And a retreat was difficult to stop once it began.

Gianavel snatched a rifle against the wall and shoved it into the boy's hand. His words sliced through the tension, making all of them more afraid of him than their enemy.

"We hold them or we die! Look! Your wives and children are behind you! How will you take them with you?"

No one answered as Gianavel stalked across the window to see the column advancing against the death that plummeted the ranks like rain. But behind them, beyond those who, doubtless, already reckoned themselves dead, the troop thinned, hesitated.

Every window and door continued to erupt without pause to drop five, six, ten men at a time, and the column was shortened with each stride, rising higher on the bodies of the slain. Then a single man broke and ran, fleeing for the far side of the bridge. The fact that a sergeant killed him in stride should have affected the rest, but either they didn't see or didn't care. In a moment more they overwhelmed the sergeant as he struck fiercely with his sword to cut down all deserters. At the last it was a full rout with rifles tossed aside and pikes cast into the river like so much kindling. Amid shouts of victory, Gianavel raced to the bottom floor of the tavern.

Bertino turned to him, a smile creasing his face—a smile that instantly faded as he saw the black rage masking their captain's face. Bertino needed no words but snatched up his rifle and called out to the others, "It's not over! Come on!"

Gianavel paused only a moment, but it was necessary because the last, and most difficult, task would spread them over miles of forest, and it would be impossible for him to oversee their actions.

"They'll try for the ravine to Turin!" he shouted and slung three rifles over his shoulder. He paused for the briefest moment, staring over them. No one flinched.

"Come!" he shouted, and as they cleared the door, they broke in a long, loping run that took them at a right angle to the ravaged remains of the retreating battalion.

Bertino drew parallel to him, a flintlock in each square fist, arms swinging the stocks like a man thrashing wheat. In less than thirty seconds, his face was twisted with exhaustion. "What's the plan?"

Gianavel said nothing as he leaped a log and continued without a break in stride. Finally he yelled, "We catch them in the ravine and kill as many as we can!"

Bertino fell back and passed the word, and they closed quickly on the ravine.
They heard subdued shouts in the distance, the bellows of dying men who were afraid to die. Then they arrived at the ravine, staring down at the path below.

So completely was the ravine hedged by rock that an antelope could not have found a quick path to evade the destruction delivered the battalion from above—more men were killed by boulders than the hail of bullets that descended point blank.

As Gianavel lifted his rifle, they heard the shouts of men coming quickly, frantically, stumbling headlong with injured shouts, and they moved to the edge to see them streaming below, shoving one another aside to race for the front.

Gianavel twisted his head to Bertino and nodded.

"Now!" the big farmer shouted and set his shoulder against a boulder.

Almost instantly it broke from its mooring and rolled down the face with a cascading sound of granite crushing bush and stone alike. Only at the last, seconds before it crashed murderously into the ravine, did those beneath it understand. They had time for one howl of terror before they were crushed down.

And then there were more howls, more pleas for mercy as more boulders, rocks, and logs descended in a cascading avalanche of fury that drowned out all petitions for peace, and dust rose from the pit like a flood of steam unleashed within hell itself.

When it was over, Gianavel stood stoically at the lip of the cliff, dust rising past him in pillars and plumes, hiding what carnage lay beneath.

Bertino moved beside him, shook his head. "We killed them all."

Gianavel was implacable. His face was pale with fatigue, and his hands were open and relaxed. Only his eyes revealed the fierce fighting mind that had commanded the day.

"No," he said. "Not all."

He pointed at distant figures, astonishingly few in number, staggering across the rolling plain of wheat that led to Turin. They were wounded, weaponless, and easy prey should Gianavel decide to overtake them.

"Should we finish them?" Bertino rumbled.

"No. It's enough."

"Enough for what?"

Hesitating, Gianavel seemed to carefully weigh his response, as if he knew it would be laid on a scale where God would judge the violence of his hand against a measure unknown. "Enough to establish justice," he said and then signed, holding it a long time before raising his face to the sky, eyes closed.

Now, indeed, a fatigue greater than the mere physical was visible. The pure fighting fury so inspiring only moments earlier was banked—something he shut down at once to leave only a white pallor, a sickness of the soul. He was no longer a deliverer of justice in a land besieged by evil men but simply a man—a father, husband, friend.

"Let's go," he said somberly and turned away. "We've killed enough men for the day."

***

Cloaked in the habitual black suit that he wore even in private, the man stood with a single arm folded across his chest, staring pensively out the towering window of his private chamber. Uncommonly, he was alone and unguarded. Not even a servant stood in the arched entrances that gaped on the far side of the utterly silent chamber. Nor were there the distant sounds of cavalry, guardsmen, carriage, or the din of transit.

His face was decidedly militaristic—stern, disciplined, deeply lined by pain and determination. His physiognomy was half a head less than six feet, but he was solidly, though not heavily, built. A carefully maintained goatee and mustache framed his frown, and his eyes were like heated stones with the thinnest sheaths of ice. And not much was required, it was well known, for the eruption of volcanic heat that would blast the ice into shards with fearsome rage and imperious will.

He turned as boots thudded on the far side of his chamber. His face revealed nothing but calculated assessment as the man walked forward; then he dropped his arm and extended his gloved hand.

"We have much to discuss," he spoke, as if there had been no question of the man's arrival. "Please pardon me if I proceed quickly past pleasantries."

Oliver Cromwell, the Lord Protector of England, walked to the hearth
and the man followed thoughtfully. As formal in private as in public, Cromwell began, "Understand that I have prayed a great deal over this mission. It is quite dangerous and ... important in a manner that is difficult to describe."

"I'm humbled," Sir William Lockhart said to the uncrowned King of England.

Lord Cromwell's mind, both in war and diplomacy, was difficult to anticipate and even more difficult to endure, though the old man had mellowed considerably over the years. His greatest strength was his sincere conviction that God created him to fight a truly righteous war.

His greatest flaw was searching for it.

Lord Cromwell stared over Lockhart as if he could somehow divine his thoughts. "Tell me, my son, if you are fearful. My final mind will be established by your words."

As England's greatest monarch, Cromwell's native genius and imperial will had saved the island in a dozen desperate battles. His daring night-march to win the battle of Dunbar—outnumbered ten to one with no chance of retreat if the tide had turned—was already the rubric of legend. As well as his cataclysmic rage, which had once dissolved Parliament in a single memorable confrontation.

It occurred not so long ago when Cromwell suspected betrayal by select members of the body. Still wearing his nightclothes, he stormed into the midnight meeting of England's ambassadors and seized command to send a hundred horrified and appalled emissaries fleeing for their lives. The next morning, a quick-witted secretary hung a sign in the front window: "Building empty, open for Lett."

And thus was born yet another epic tale to be told and retold in the chronicles of Oliver Cromwell. How much was truth and how much was
enhanced by enemies was impossible to divine, but safe to say that the Lord Protector had, almost single-handedly, altered the course of England. And, as ever, his rage was born from his most deep-seated commitment—a commitment even greater than his patriotism. For even as Cromwell's devotion to England was titanic, his devotion to God was equally so. And for years, it was well known, the great Lord Protector had sought a final war so that he might die as he'd lived, fighting for a righteous cause in the name of God.

None of Cromwell's exploits or convictions
was unknown to the Scotsman as he shifted the Spanish sword at his waist. He rested his hands on the cushioned scarlet arms of the chair and measured the wrath that boiled not far beneath the surface of the great commander.

"I would only like to know why you requested my services and not those of another," Lockhart asked calmly. "I am primarily a soldier, not a man of intrigue."

Cromwell paused to light a cigar—despite judgments of those outside their religion, Puritans relished their tobacco and port—and dismissed a long stream. He held the ember delicately, more like a priest than a soldier. Then he leaned back, seeming to form his entire dialogue before he spoke the first word.

"Sir Lockhart, you were taken into my protectoral family through your marriage to my niece, Robina. But make no mistake—many are within that circle. I choose you because you have proven your courage and fidelity and worthiness on the bat
tlefield. You are a Scot of an honorable house and respected by both commoner and nobility for your wisdom and physical courage. You are also a man of great native intellect and gifted with powers of intuition that I consider invaluable. And, most importantly, you have earned my trust."

Sir Lockhart nodded. "Honored, My Lord."

"Three weeks ago," Cromwell continued as if that were obvious, "I received alarming rumors of war in the valley of Piedmont. Are you familiar with these people—the Waldenses?"

"Yes, My Lord. I know of the
Vaudois, as the French call them. They are an ancient people and, despite persecutions within Italy, well respected and received by our Church."

With a satisfied nod, Cromwell explained, "I do not know what grim tragedy may have befallen these people, whose only offense is refusing to renounce the Christian faith that they have held for centuries, but my best reports indicate severe massacres and slaughters of almost biblical proportions."

Lockhart did not mask his concern. "For centuries the Catholic Church has striven to destroy the Vaudois, My Lord, because they do not accept the regency of the pope."