Rora (23 page)

Gianavel hesitated a long time—long enough to know what he should say, despite how he felt. "I promise."

"And something else."

"Yes"

"If they capture me or the children, and they use us against you, do not surrender your faith." Her tone had a sense of urgency. "I have seen that this world is suffering through and through. There's no end to it. There never will be. Not while men live like this. And we both know death is not the end. Death is only a temporary change ... and a small price to pay for peace."

Gianavel was silent, and she sat forward and turned to him, placing a hand on his face.
"Your promise ..."

Gianavel bowed his head, and she wrapped it in her arms. He sighed, so tired now, so much more tired than before.

"I promise," he whispered.

***

It was over. As quickly as it began, it was over, and Sir Samuel Morland stood slowly, his cape billowing to a rising night wind that was closing cold about them. Frowning, he stared numbly over the mutilated man who had collapsed as they reached him, dying in the Puritan's arms.

If the man had had a tongue, he might have spoken of who had done this. If he had had eyes, he might have communicated his pain. But he had no means to reveal what only he knew, though it hardly mattered now.

With Emmanuel's soldiers standing in a passive circle and Morland's friends kneeling beside the dead man, the Duke of Savoy knew he was out of time. If they had not come across this travesty, he might have bought another month from the Puritan, pleading complications of the Inquisitors. But that was impossible now.

There would be no turning the fury of the Puritan, and Emmanuel anxiously braced for an onslaught, not certain how he would deal with it. Expecting an emotional outburst, he was struck even more powerfully when Sir Morland spoke in a voice somber and controlled and utterly void of weakness or pity or the kind of emotional impulse that leads to regret. Rather, it was a voice that communicated quite plainly that he had decided upon a course of action and would follow it through to the end, though it cost him his life.

His words were cold and bitter.

"If it is war you want," he said, "then you shall have war."

It was not that Blake had been particularly shocked by the atrocities he had witnessed while traversing this mountain that still had no name. He only knew that he had seen more than one display of human carnage, or relic, or warning, or whatever these madmen called them, at switchbacks in the trail and spread alongside streams.

No, he was not shocked, but he was moved beyond anything he could remember. He had seen wars uncounted, had seen entire nations destroyed by barbaric invasions that turned entire cities into open tombs. But he had
not yet witnessed cruelties so keen, deaths so meticulously executed, nor such passion for blood as he had seen today. In this war, not even the dead had any peace.

But, as distracting as the horror was—made all the more so because the visages were placed where a man afoot would encounter them fully and without warning—Blake couldn't let his acute attention to tactics dull. He forced himself to think of the bloody altars as animal and not human, not a creature like himself, so that he did not stumble deaf and blind into a hostile patrol.

He had rarely seen a mountain range, if that is what it was, so cut with streams. It seemed as though he could not travel more than five minutes without having to cross another stream, and the bulk of the mountain still loomed above him. Not that it was impossibly high, probably no more than a thousand feet, but it was so sheer that it might as well have been ten thousand. In some places he saw where a crack might be climbed to the summit, but he had no intention of hanging on that merciless face when darkness closed, which it would do in less than an hour.

Instead, he had moved toward the village of Rora from the southwest, stoically wading across one freezing stream after another, the price of remaining beneath the snow-striped mountain.
The incredible frustration was that he could see where he wanted to get. He just couldn't figure out how to get there.

He had moved probably less than a mile in the less sparsely covered slope to the east, and his feet were already twisted and aching from the monotony of walking at a slant. He half considered descending lower so he could at least walk like a man and not an ape, but he was afraid he might miss some obscure trail that cut up through the cliff—doub
tless there was some secret trail known only to the natives.

The sound of men approaching snapped Blake into action. Instantly descending, he moved for a cluster of trees that seemed impossible to reach before they were upon him. But he picked up speed quickly as he relaxed his knees and found himself fairly flying down the slope. He knew that one misstep at this rate of descent would mean catastrophic injury or worse, but he preferred a danger that was known to one unknown.

He reached out to snatch the first suitable tree, swinging like a door on a hinge before he fell to the ground, and even as he blinked to focus, he saw men walking along the trail. Utilizing what he considered to be the best means for determining friend or foe, Blake watched to see if they moved like criminals or magistrates.

Noisy, confident
... not fugitives.

Anyone trapped within Rora, outnumbered and outgunned, would doub
tless move like a criminal if they wished to avoid patrols, which he had been informed encircled the mountains. The patrols themselves would be moving with authority—bold, confident. But after watching this group for a few moments, Blake decided they didn't even move like trained soldiers. Rifles slung over shoulders like fishing poles and a lack of flanking patrols indicated a fatal tendency toward sloppiness. If they had gone up against the Waldenses already, they hadn't survived because of soldiering skills.

After they passed, he waited another half hour, until darkness had set
tled deeper over the mountains and only the daunting cliff above him loomed against the stars over an ocean of black. Only then did he emerge cautiously—much more cautiously than before—and begin a careful tack through the trees that carried him parallel to the trail. Although that had only been one patrol, there would be more, and reaching the Waldenses might be more difficult than he'd anticipated.

From what Blake had encountered, h
e knew this was unlike any religious war he'd ever seen. There were no uniformed papal patrols, no righteous stumps of holy men exhorting the minions to storm the summit for the honor and glory of God and Rome. No ... he'd seen vagabond patrols with a disturbing tendency for dismembering the dead and displaying body parts on makeshift wooden altars as the Druids supposedly did before Julius Caesar wiped them from the forests of northern England.

He heard nothing unnatural as he moved deeper through the woods, staying close to the trunks of trees to avoid the widely scattered sticks that could not be seen. And as he did he suddenly caught a glimpse of a low valley of sparse lights that cut into the mountain above. It was not far off, perhaps a half mile. And if it were what he suspected, he would be within the homeland of the Waldenses before midnight.

In an uncommon moment of hope, Blake wondered what manner of men these might be. Then, remembering the grisly row of heads, he wondered whether there would be any at all.

* * *

Chapter 12

The Plain of Giovanni—three miles distant from the stronghold of the Waldenses—was black and swarming with a blanket of mercenaries, cavalry, cannon, and the militia of Piedmont.

Over a mile in diameter, the field crawled with clusters of the five thousand troops that separated in regiments, battalions, platoons, and squads under the authority of generals, captains, and lieutenants. If France or Spain themselves had been threatening the borders of Piedmont, there could have not been a more thorough preparation for war.

Pianessa strode boldly onto the dais where warlords dressed in armor of chain mail and leather stood patiently. Each of the warriors was a formidable and threatening image, most having earned their position by the strength of their sword, as nepotism did not prolong a man's life or career once a conflict was joined. And yet, as fearsome as they appeared, they were but shades of the Marquis de Pianessa s awesome and powerful countenance.

His armor was solid black, a combination of chain mail and stained leather carefully fitted with straps to conform to his enormous form and to allow vast freedom of movement in the shoulders. It was not plate steel,
since no plate armor was reckoned reliable for stopping either a crossbow bolt or a musket round. Rather, it was armor built to withstand random longbow hits and heavy attacks by sword or dagger. Clearly, the marquis expected a vast amount of the fighting to be hand to hand, and he had caught the scent of blood.

Pianessa was one of the last marquis as they had been in days of old. He considered himself a true military leader and not a pawn of whatever reigning monarch chance had placed in command. After all, monarchs passed at a disturbing rate, but a marquis who could defend his borders and possessed the financial resources to compensate for external threats could remain in power for decades.

His new sword, half again as long as his arm, was sheathed across his back, but it would be switched to his belt when the time for battle drew near. Three flintlock pistols and two daggers completed Pianessa's armament and his horse bore two rifles. Six servants had reserve armor and weapons prepared. They would also reload his rifles if Pianessa himself engaged in musketry.

Dominating the dais, Pianessa leaned upon the map table. His face reflected an absolute concentration completely devoid of mercy or the cost of casualties for either side. He was in a warrior mode
, now, and men were as meaningless as chaff. To be concerned about conserving soldiers was an activity appropriate for a war conclave. Upon the field of battle the preeminent interest was victory. A conservation of men set to survive the battle was a base point if the battle was lost.

Nothing was said to interrupt Pianessa, and he continued to study the map, as though disturbed by something he could not understand. His countenance began to harden as if to discern whether there was a weakness to
his plans. But he gave no indication of doubt when he turned to Duncan, the sergeant major.

"This is our last attack on these people." Pianessa looked back at the map, and Duncan stepped forward. "This time we will destroy everything. Every child, every babe, every man and woman and old man and woman. Everything."

"Yes, My Lord."

Pianessa lifted his face so that those who dared could look into his eyes. "We climb the cliff of the Castelluzo in absolute silence. We will attack in the morning when all are in position. And if any man reveals our position I will take his head myself."

"Understood, sir."

Without a shadow of pleasure Pianessa concentrated once more. It was one of his strongest faculties that he never displayed any sign of satisfaction until a battle was absolutely settled. Until then his every word and gesture and glance would communicate only cold will and ruthless determination.

"With night, proceed across the river and begin the climb," he said at last, straightening. "I will ride up the pass with a contingent after the battle begins and their bastions are destroyed. Make certain their bastions are quickly destroyed." He paused, added, "I do not fancy riding into a hail of this man's musketeers. He has trained them well."

"Absolutely, My Lord. I will personally see to the bastions guarding the pass."

With a long look over the warlords assembled on the dais, Pianessa turned away and descended the steps.

No one thought twice about the overworked cook who slipped into the forest to gather herbs for the feast of slaughtered cows cast over bonfires on heavy iron stakes. His every nuance declared that he was in no mood for trifles, and impatient men hungered.

***

No one noticed when they saw him rooting along the far side of the Plain of Giovanni, searching with a dagger for some unintelligible root that he claimed would cure the stomach ailments of the men and provide long-lasting strength on the steady climb. After all, he had already made massive heaps of the most digestible curry—a meat paste mixed with raw root and assorted leaves—for Pianessa's Royal Guard. And each soldier had a sackful tied to his waist.

No one even noticed when darkness fell, and he could only be glimpsed as he rose and scraped beneath distant, pitch-black heaps of foliage, refusing to return until he had obtained what he sought. But men noticed when, after an hour, he had still not returned. And they took special notice when the patrol sent for him returned shaking their heads, declaring that he had vanished.

Gianavel exited the hut to the fervent activity of the makeshift camp high on the Castelluzo. Men were scurrying in every direction to execute his orders and the orders of Jahier. Another captain, Laurentio, had not joined them and was commanding a squad rushing fallen logs to quickly selected ridges.

It would take some work to prepare for the coming event, but there was no time to worry about time. It was a common mistake of men to glance at the sun when they were desperately attempting to beat the sunset. All a man's energy should be focused on what he needed to accomplish,
not on what he needed to defeat. All the desperation in the world would not slow the sun's descent, but every extra iota of skill and concentration would hasten the completion of the task.

A man in charge of marksmen rushed forward. Gianavel turned to him as he began speaking, somewhat breathless. "Do we stagger the men up and down the cliff, or do we make a line across the ridge?"

"A single line," answered Gianavel confidently. "No man is to be in front of another."

The man turned as another rushed forward, grabbing Gianavel's arm. "How far down the cliff do we position men with torches?"

"I will position them when I arrive," Gianavel said, and that man also rushed off, almost in the steps of the other.

It was not that the questions were difficult or that the men themselves could not have answered them with common sense.
That was not what they needed or truly sought. But with each terse, simple answer, Gianavel provided for each by making himself a strong and fearless general whose strength would flow through the rest, even more contagious than their fear because men would choose courage over fear just as life over death.

It was admirable to make a defiant stand against overwhelming odds— even fearful men could be compelled do such a thing to save their lives. But they would fight like fearful men and flee like fearful men if the battle seemed lost. It was the mark of strong leadership and daunting courage to inspire men to choose for themselves to make such a stand because of a purpose greater than themselves—the only thing that would give a man the ultimate resolve to defend a doomed position with his life.

Yet, even beyond that, he felt a responsibility for the souls of his men that would surpass this battle in either victory or defeat. If his men were to die, he prayed that they might know even a small measure of the confidence he possessed that death itself had been defeated.

Only if a man fears death can death conquer him.

***

Mario twisted his face to stare into the crystal clear sky, then grimaced toward the private who was hanging so tenuously on the cliff beside him. Together they led the first company of Irish up the sheer face of the Castelluzo, which appeared, at a distance, un
-climbable. But at arm's length, a number of narrow hand and footholds could be discerned that would carry a man to the crest. Still, if a man lost his grip and balance, there would be no long, sliding, bruising descent so that he crashed broken and gasping in the river below. No, if a man came loose from this cursed rock, his return to the earth would be non-injurious and, perhaps, reflective, until he reached that sudden stop at the base.

The first company had climbed to nearly five hundred feet—not cloud-crested but high enough when there was nothing between you and the ground but air.
The second company was just beginning the ascent, and the third company would follow. Pianessa had issued clear instructions that all companies should not be simultaneously on the face, lest some fool in the leading platoon precipitate a plunge that would tear men from the cliff like ivy from a fence.

Mario, face glistening with sweat, spoke to the private. "When we reach the top
, we attack at once!"

The private froze. "What?"

"I said we attack at once!"

The private's trembling said what his words did not. "But the marquis said that we have to wait for the other companies!"

Mario didn't respond.

"Sir!"

"I know what he said!" Mario's words were a hiss, as if it were possible someone might overhear. "But I will not wait for the others!"

"But why?"

"Because no one else will get the glory for this victory!" Mario was grinning now. "I will have Gianavel's head on a pike! And then I'll take it to Savoy! He'll be forced to make me a general!"

Frozen again, the private carefully turned his head to stare out over the valley, as if Pianessa might be spying upon them to understand their words. As if he weren't certain whether to continue or not, he finally said, "Yes, sir. Whatever you say."

"Worry for nothing!" Mario laughed. "I will show Pianessa what a real soldier is!"

***

Hands behind his back, Pianessa turned toward a sergeant bent over a Galileo-vintage telescope. Although it had been expressly designed for studying the stars and planets, it served well enough to keep the company in sight as they scaled the cliff. Pianessa s face reflected an uncertainty that had been completely absent when he'd detailed instructions of attack to the men.

"Well?" he asked impatiently.

The sergeant hesitated, peering. "Ah ... I see nothing, My Lord."

Pianessa didn't move. "Nothing?"

"No, sire." He shifted the telescope a fraction that probably moved its scope two hundred feet on the cliff. "There's nothing at the summit—no movement, nothing."

"No torches?" Pianessa said with a step forward.

"I see nothing, sire." He pressed his eye tight against the optical gold cylinder. "I believe it is deserted."

With a grunt Pianessa resumed pacing, black-gloved hands clasped firmly behind his back. There was energy in his steps, as if hectic emotion could not be contained within subdued movement. As he returned he raised a hand, his mouth opening. Then he shut it as quickly and turned away yet again, bent and concentrated.

"AYYA!"

"What!" Pianessa shouted as he spun.

"My Lord! Fire!"

Pianessa spun to stare at the Castelluzo, where a long line of fire had erupted along the rim, as if a sleeping volcano had suddenly come to life, awakening to angrily search for whatever foolish thing had disturbed its peaceful slumber.

Mario heard the "whoosh" not so high above but somehow he couldn't place it until the private shouted in alarm and Mario followed the wide gaze to see the crest of the cliff ablaze with hundreds of torches. Seconds later, pieces of clay descended over them like dust, harmless and annoying, but gone quickly.

Craning his head back, Mario thought he could observe distinct shapes in the waving light of torches and at first opened his mouth to shout before thinking better. He continued to stare as one of the men walked to the crest, peering down with torch in hand.

The man was tall, middle-aged, and wore a loose-sleeved white shirt beneath a heavy black cloak, and then Mario remembered the face—the face he had seen across the bridge at Rora.

Gianavel.

Then, to Mario's utter horror, he saw that the Captain of Rora was smiling.

***

Pianessa had not moved. His eyes were fixed on the crest of the mountain as he grated, "What's happening?"

The sergeant shifted, swinging the telescope left to right, an eye pressed hard to the lens. "I don't know, My Lord! They're just standing there! But they
... Oh no!"

With three rushing strides Pianessa was at the telescope and flung the sergeant aside like an empty rucksack. He pressed his face against the telescope and froze. After a moment he muttered, "What are they doing? Why don't they shoot?"

The answer came a second later as a huge bonfire erupted with a roar that thundered over the mountain and valley itself, and the sky above the cliff was domed in a hellish glow.

***