Rora (21 page)

Bertino shrugged. "I'm not inclined to be saving toothpicks when my house is on fire, Silas. Right or wrong, you lay hands on that old man, I'll break your arm."

Silas looked at his man, who was already sauntering back to the wall. There had been no growling threat in Bertino's words, just a quiet, unnerving resolve to do exactly what he had said. Men who struck without emotion were to be regarded much quicker and closer than men who struck in anger and fear.

Silas turned to the lofts. "We are fools to throw away our lives like this! What is a promise to their Church? Empty words that mean nothing! Can a man not speak one thing to the devil and believe another thing in his heart? And is the heart not more important? Is not what a man believes in his heart worth more than empty words? Of course it is! So why die for words? Is it not a small compromise to deceive them for the sake of peace?" He turned in every direction.

None answered.

Gianavel watched.

"Well?" Silas demanded. "Is it not worth a vain promise to make peace with these men who will kill us if we don't renounce? What benefit is there in fighting them?"

Aventius turned with an angry scowl. "What does it ever benefit a man to defend himself against evil? It preserves his soul
!"

"Six thousand souls are dead because they resisted!"

"There is a death beyond death!" Aventius pointed with his staff. "Do not fear the One who can only destroy the body! Fear the One who can destroy the soul!"

"So you will throw away your life?" Silas dared to approach the older man. "Did God not make this body? Is this body to be thrown aside for a principle?" He advanced. "How will you minister to others if you're
dead? Is it not better to lie and continue to live and carry on the work of God in hiding?"

"You do not speak of compromise
!” Aventius thundered. "You speak of renouncing God! Bread, clothes, home, and possessions may be renounced! A man cannot renounce the Lord!"

Silas spun. "God judges the heart!"

"Yes!" Aventius declared with equal anger." God judges the heart! But God judges the heart by what man is required to know! There are many things man does not know! Why is there suffering? Why do the innocent perish when the wicked prosper? But we do know this: A man cannot renounce God with his words and preserve God in his heart!"

"You say!" retorted Silas. "Who are you to declare the judgment of God?"

Aventius stood in smoldering wrath. Then his mouth closed, as if in restraint, before he spoke. His tone was iron resounding on iron. "It is written; whoever believes in his heart and professes with his mouth that Jesus is Lord shall be saved.'"

"You cannot profess to be the last word on wisdom, Aventius!" Silas's frown was bitter. "And there is more than one way to serve God!"

Aventius calmed and spoke with a far more grave tone. "Is serving God your desire? Or is it preserving your skin?"

Silas gazed sullenly upon the barbe, th
en raised his gaze to the multitude. Finally he shook his head; his anger was dulled. "Then you sentence us to death."

Every head turned down.

Aventius looked to Gianavel. When the silence lengthened and no one spoke, Gianavel raised his head. He looked across those lining the stalls, those seated in the loft. He saw Bertino, stoic and immovable, and Hector and Jahier. They were waiting.

"The question," Gianavel began, "is whether we should fight, or not." He stepped out into the middle of the stable. "Before a man raises his hand to fight, he must know this: Does God require a man to fight this fight?"

Everyone watched, listening.

"It is not a choice to obey the laws of the Lord," he continued. "God has commanded us to obey His Word so that we may live. So how does fighting honor God? That is the question. And I will tell you the answer." He stared. "By establishing justice in the land
."

"Justice?" Silas challenged.

"Yes," said Gianavel. "We fight to establish justice in the land. Because without justice ... there will be no peace. And God has instructed us to establish peace on the earth."

"How so?"

Gianavel met the eyes of all those staring upon him. "Peace has never been the reward of men who tried to make peace with violent men. Our brothers in the valley tried to make peace. They were murdered, because these men have no reason to desire peace. We have a duty to administer justice to those who break the law—a duty to instill a desire for peace in those who would not desire peace."

"An eye for an eye?" the man muttered.

"'It is written,'" Gianavel began slowly, "tooth for tooth, eye for eye, piece for piece, life for life.'" He paused a long time. "It is also written: ‘If a man strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other, also.' And it is written: 'When I was with you, you did not need a sword. But now I am going to be with the Father, and if you do not have a sword, sell your cloak and buy one.'

"It is not easily that men shed the blood of men, and God will hold each man accountable for every thought and every action. Yet there is a time to establish peace in the land. And if that involves confronting those who crush down the weak—those would destroy the poor, the widows and orphans and anyone else in their path, we have a responsibility to take courage and stop them."

Gianavel continued, "Those who take up the sword do not take it in vain, and every government is established by God. But men who murder are not representatives of any government. They are murderers, not soldiers." He raised a finger. "And the law says that a man shall not murder. Nor shall a murderer go unpunished. To not punish a murderer for his crime is also against the law. Yes, men must be punished for murder or there will be no justice in the land. And if there is no justice, there will be no peace."

Gianavel became more severe. "This is the darkest hour a man may face. We have been sentenced to death for obeying the laws of God and breaking the laws of man. But what are we to do? Disobey the laws of God to obey the laws of men? Renounce God to preserve our own lives?" He
waited a long time, and then longer. No one spoke; many bowed their heads or looked away.

"Each man here must make a decision," he said at last.
"I do not expect, nor will I ask, any man to do anything that stands against his conscience, for God speaks to a man through the spirit, and the spirit knows things the mind will never know. But each man must search his heart before God and ask God what is the right thing to do in this valley of death. Should we refuse to defend ourselves against murderers and rapists and thieves?"

Gianavel shook his head. "I do not fight for vengeance. I do not fight to save this flesh that will die soon enough. I fight because God has ordered men to defend the poor, the weak, and the sick from those who would destroy them. I fight because I know that without justice there will never be peace for our children or our children's children. And if I should die fighting to establish justice, what is my loss?"

He took a stance so that all could see him. He spoke so that all could hear him.

"It is far worse to save your life for the sake of life than lose your life for the sake of Christ."

They were words spoken quietly, though all heard easily enough. And no one spoke nor moved, until finally a shuffling was heard in the loft— someone out of sight moving for the ladder. Then more shuffling, once the moment ended, and then more began filing from the barn. Finally all had departed, leaving only Bertino, Jahier, Hector, and Aventius.

Gianavel searched the old man's face; he was simply weary. But there would be no respite from labors now; he would have to persevere. "Aventius, I want you to see to the wounded—all those who need spiritual assistance. Let them know they are not alone—strengthen them."

"Aye," he nodded, too fatigued for further words.

With a laugh, Jahier slapped the old barbe on the back, then looked at Gianavel.
"Good speech, Joshua. But how do you think they're going to fare when we're attacked again?"

"The same as any man," Gianavel answered. "Each according to his abilities. Any word from our spies?"

Jahier shook his head. "We're blind as a bat and deaf as a stone."

Together they studied the map.
Then Gianavel spoke, almost to himself. "Pianessa is no fool. He won't try a direct assault on the pass again." To Hector: "What do you think?"

Hector sniffed, stepped forward. "Pianessa is cold-blooded, sure enough. But it's not practical to lose men. I'd say he's planning some sort of surprise attack. Probably on three or four fronts at the same time."

Frustration hardened Gianavel's forehead. "Yes ... that's what I'm thinking. But from where?" No one spoke, and then Gianavel picked up his rifle. "All right. Let's just keep the guards in position while we wait for one of our spies to return. I don't expect we'll be getting much sleep from now on."

Jahier forced a tired smile. "Like we were?"

***

When the wagon could climb no farther, Blake pulled it far off the trail and cut branches to conceal it from view. He worked furiously for two hours to conceal every sign of his passing, then used a branch to sweep the wheel tracks and footprints.

He'd paid off his two "priests" long before he reached this high point in the Alps, not trusting them to know the location of his merchandise. Now he had the final responsibility of locating the Waldenses and delivering his cache of rifles.

He was entirely justified, in consideration of the risks he had already undertaken, in heading cross country and reporting to Cromwell that the rifles had been delivered into the grateful arms of partisans that would send emissaries in gratitude for his munificence. Of course, if the "partisans" arrived at Cromwell's door—not unlikely enough—and appealed for an explanation as to why the Lord Protector had not lifted a finger in their defense, Blake's flourishing trade in England would suffer the harshest of blows, along with his neck.

He glanced at the sky. The sun was high, but within these towering cliffs, darkness came several hours before sunset. He reflexively checked his pack for a blanket and provisions, having no intention of returning to the wagon tonight—or ever, for that matter. No, indeed, he planned to simply lead these valiant people to their arms, point, and make a stealthy exit. This wasn't his war and he had no intention of joining it.

As he climbed higher he thought he heard voices in the darkness and crouched beside the trail, listening for a long time. Patience was something he had in abundance, since he was not adept at violence. Of course, he was handy with a cutlass or flintlock when genuine desperation required, but he greatly preferred deception and stealth. Not that he was a coward. He simply thought it foolish for a man to answer every offense with a sword.

Of course, he believed in God. He absolutely believed in God. But he also believed that God was not so easily understood, nor was God disposed to limitations or rituals or walls or organizations or conventional recipes for spirituality. He had met paupers with greater hearts than kings and priests, and he did not think heaven would be rich without them.

Sliding through the forest gloom, Blake mused on his life as he often did in these quiet moments.
True, he was a thief. That could not be denied. But he never stole from the poor. He did have a sense of honor, after all. Nor had he planned on a life of crime. It had simply happened, so to speak. When war had taken away his home, he had adapted to his new environment. And it was to his surprise as much as anyone else's that he even found himself remarkably accomplished for the task. Much like men became great soldiers or even kings—fate, destiny, luck, whatever—but he was simply a great thief.

He had already determined that this war between the Marquis de Pianessa and the Waldenses would be more of the same—another religious war over the Ultimately Unknowable with both sides condemning the other for their colossal stupidity amid accusations of heresy and blasphemy hurled like cow dung until everyone appeared very much the same color. One side would be as vicious as the other, all thoughts of nobility and righteousness flung to the wind as soon as the first bullet was thrown.

Finally convinced of the forest s emptiness, Blake crept from concealment and stepped soundlessly in the open. He searched everything that could be seen, but the trail was winding and narrow. Though he could not see far enough ahead to inspire any confidence, nothing was without risk. Cautiously, he began to work his way up the path, acutely alert to both wildlife and sounds alien to the forest.

He had learned a long time ago that bird and fowl were the best means of determining the presence of others in the forest. A man might not be able to see another man, might not be able to hear him. But fowl had the predictable tendency to chatter and create a general racket when a possible threat was beneath them. By watching the trees, he felt fairly confident that the only threat they observed was him.

That was when he rounded the corner and saw the heads ... heads from children no more than twelve years old, all hung from the branches of trees.

Strolling before the table, upon which sat an exactingly detailed map of the Pelice, Pianessa seemed particularly buoyed. He nodded his head steadily as he studied a ridge of mountains that crested the border of the valley of Rora. He pointed to a particularly steep encirclement on the map.