Rora (25 page)

Gianavel nodded.

"Until the battle is won, my friend."

***

Pianessa strode up the steps of Emmanuel's palace in Turin and shoved the guards to either side before they even had an opportunity to salute. He
struck one of the huge doors with the palm of his hand so that it swung fully inward. Nor did he hesitate to close it as he stalked through the short entrance and into the magnificent hallway where the Duke of Savoy sat at the end of a banquet table.

As Pianessa entered the chamber, Incomel rose to his feet beside another, smaller table where some heavy tome lay open, the huge pages painted with colorful pictures and imprinted with large Latin text. His two papal guards, pikes in hand, stood to either side and reacted stiffly as Pianessa walked onward without another glance.

Incomel had reached his feet, stunned. He studied Pianessa only a moment before saying with a mixture of frustration and criticism, "Don't tell me you were defeated again!"

With a snarl Pianessa turned fully into the Inquisitor, teeth
gleaming in wrath, and Incomel's guards leaped forward to bar his way. Even as they came toward the barbaric image Pianessa lashed out and ripped away one of the iron pikes.

Emmanuel stood as Incomel staggered back and then Pianessa raised the pike over his head in both hands and roared as he bent it into the shape of a horseshoe in one continuous motion that had no pause to shift his grip or initiate a second effort. Then he flung the ruined weapon so that it rebounded wildly from the floor, narrowly missing the Inquisitor, who leaped sprightly to the side.

The marquis did not even cast the second guard a glance as he muttered, "Be careful what you put your faith in, Priest."

"Enough," said Emmanuel.

Smoldering, Pianessa turned from the Inquisitor and walked to the fireplace. When he reached the table, he poured himself a flagon of wine and drank all of it before lowering his head, not bothering to wipe the spilt redness from his face and beard. He leaned upon the table, his face deeply shadowed by the flames.

Emmanuel's voice was calm. "How many?"

In the distance, Incomel took a tentative step, but Emmanuel raised a hand. The priest retained his measure of separation. Finally the marquis said a single word in a chipped, brutal tone that Emmanuel had never heard from him before.

"All."

Emmanuel blinked, wondering if he had heard rightly, knowing at the same instant that he had. He searched the marquis' face and saw nothing there that hinted of a mistake or even anger now. Rather, Pianessa's usually unconquerable visage, or his eyes, rather—staring into the flames as they were—reflected some kind of inner contemplation that was not his nature.

"All?" Emmanuel repeated softly.

Pianessa's eyes turned from the flames and from contemplative to murderous. "I don't have enough men left to count the living," he muttered.

Stunned, Emmanuel said nothing. He knew that Pianessa had taken six regiments—fully six thousand men—to Giovanni. Some of them had been his most tempered troops, men who had seen pitched combat against the Spanish and Germans—men of professional scale who had fought valiantly when the battle was finally joined. Men who, even in the chaos of close combat, had retreated with discipline, holding their formation to reform again at a stronger position. But they had been
destroyed? By a handful of villagers?

"How?" Emmanuel heard himself ask, knowing at the same moment that he could not stop himself, and he truly had no idea what the answer might be.

Pianessa's face lightened abruptly. "An ambush," he muttered and shook his head again. "I have never seen a man like this man. He uses tactics I've never seen. Tactics no one has ever seen."

Silently and with hesitant steps Incomel had begun a slow approach. His guards were wisely wide behind him, lest their presence provoke Pianessa's wrath once more.

"What did he do?" Emmanuel asked, watching closely.

For a moment Pianessa only stared into the flames. "He ambushed them using torches hidden inside jars of clay. When they were directly below the summit, they broke the jars and set timbers on fire. They rolled them down over the men, then ... I don't know what happened next. I think they rolled a cannon over the edge with something wedged into the barrel. Whatever it was, it exploded like a volcano."

No one spoke or moved, and it seemed as though no one would. Finally Emmanuel rose and walked slowly across the room. He was star
tled when he saw Father Simon, silent and as inconsequential as a statue, standing at the very edge of the light.

At the look, the old priest walked slowly forward, hands covered in the sleeves of his frock, and nodded deeply to Savoy.

Emmanuel said nothing as Simon continued to where Pianessa stood before the flames, still motionless. He had not refilled his wine chalice, a true indication of how deep was his shock. As the marquis saw him, Pianessa muttered in a strange tone, "So what does your God reveal to you now, Priest?"

It was a curious moment
. Then Simon responded, "Only that Gianavel's tactics have, indeed, been seen before, Monsieur Marquis."

Pianessa's gaze was dead. "I know all the tactics of Italy and Spain, Priest. I have never seen such a thing."

"Gianavel's tactics are far older than Italy and Spain, Pianessa." Simon walked between Pianessa and the flames, the shadow of a ghost passing over his face. "Indeed, they are far older ..."

His eyes never left the gray form as Pianessa growled, "You speak in riddles, old man."

Simon halted on the far side of the fireplace, positioned between Incomel and Pianessa. "Gianavel's tactics were taken from men far greater than the kings of Italy and Spain, Pianessa. Gianavel uses the Holy Scriptures to find the means of destroying your army."

"What
!" Pianessa snapped. "What are you talking about, Priest?"

"I speak of Gideon," Simon said plainly, certainly. "I speak of a king of Israel who ambushed a force ten times his size by having his men come upon them in the night with torches hidden within jars of clay. Men who then smashed the jars at once to give the impression that they were of far greater number and then watched as the army panicked, making them far easier to destroy."

Simon's smile was contained enough to not gloat before the marquis. "To defeat you, Pianessa, Gianavel uses what he knows best—the Holy Scriptures."

"You're a fool," Pianessa muttered. "What do the Scriptures have to do with military tactics?"

"The Old Testament is filled with military campaigns, Pianessa – those of David, Joshua, Gideon, all the kings of Israel, as well as their enemies. When Israel reached Zion, there were battles upon battles with the Sea Kings—the Moabites, the Amalekites, the Egyptians." Simon's gaze revealed no doubt. "Joshua and Gideon fought a hundred battles against forces of superior numbers and superior strength, and lost only a small number. And then there are the exploits of mighty David who rose above all those who came before him and all who would come after. David, who defeated the most powerful empires the world had ever known with a military precision and tactical genius that has never been equaled in the history of recorded time. Not Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan or Julius Caesar overcame the odds that David overcame—defeating so many with so few."

Pianessa was silent.

Emmanuel spoke, "So, since you understand this man so well, tell us; what will Gianavel do now?"

With a deep breath, Simon strolled along the table, passing once more between the marquis and the flames. "He will not let you encamp in his valley. He will use spies. In battle, he will retreat, forcing you to pursue. He will use the terrain to break your army and weapons. He will starve your men, terrify them. He knows that wars are fought in the spirit
, so he will strike at their spirit."

Incomel stepped forward. "Fool of a monk," he frowned, "your attempt to frighten us is useless. I don't believe this man is half so cunning as you believe!"

Simon bent his gaze with a smile. "Don't waste your words attacking me, Inquisitor. I am not the one who destroyed eight regiments with a trick of Gideon's."

"Foolishness!" Incomel came swiftly down the table to stand before Emmanuel. "Are you going to believe this madman?"

Emmanuel was stoic. "Is he wrong?"

"Of course he's wrong!" Incomel grated. "I will take him downstairs and make him speak the truth!" He took a single step toward Simon.

Emmanuel stood. "Incomel!"

The Inquisitor spun with a curse and Pianessa laughed loudly. The pause gave Emmanuel a moment to craft his words. "This is a council of war, Inquisitor. If you cannot control yourself, you will be dismissed."

Stung, Incomel stepped forward. "What do you mean?"

"It means that you will touch no one else without my spoken permission," Emmanuel said distinctly. "It means that your days in my kingdom have almost ended."

"You dare—"

"I do more than dare!" Emmanuel sharply slammed his hand on the table. "If you speak against me again I will see if two papal guards are enough to protect you
from the wrath of a monarch!"

Incomel was openly shocked. He glanced at Pianessa, who stared with his dangerous, dark stare that revealed neither mercy nor restraint, then again to the Duke of Savoy.

"My God," he whispered, "you will regret—"

"
Careful
," Emmanuel warned. "These halls have secrets, Priest."

Incomel took it for what it meant. His face twisted in anger; then he spun and walked swiftly past Simon. In another moment he was gone, and they stood in gloomy silence. Finally the aged priest lifted a hand, gesturing good-night.

"Forgive me," he said, folding hands once more in his sleeves. "I will return to my duties."

Neither the Marquis de Pianessa nor the Duke of Savoy raised eyes as the old priest walked almost soundlessly around the table, and in another moment he, too, was gone in the shadows. They did not hear a door open or close, but they were alone.

Emmanuel sat again into his chair, leaning back to stare blankly at the cathedral ceiling. He did not know what to say; then Pianessa straightened from the table. He turned his head to gaze upon the Duke of Savoy with a look he had never held before—something like respect.

"He will not forget this," Pianessa said somberly. "I will have him killed tonight."

Staring after the Inquisitor, Emmanuel replied, "No, another would only take his place." He paused. "We must find a quick means to defeat the Waldenses."

"No," Pianessa said with a sigh. "It means that we must find a means of defeating this man who leads them. As long as Gianavel fights, Savoy, all the Waldenses will fight. But when Gianavel is destroyed, everything he stands for will be destroyed. Only then will we finish this war."

Emmanuel was silent a long time.

"One man," he said softly, "but his very life gives his people the faith and courage to fight even when all seems lost." He paused. "That
is a true prince."

Pianessa
’s eyes narrowed on the Duke of Savoy.

"True," he agreed. "He is to be admired, in a sense. But if Gianavel is not killed, Rome will give your kingdom to another. So we either defeat Gianavel or lose all that we hold." He glanced to where the Inquisitor exited. "Or worse."

Gazing back again, Pianessa muttered with respect, "You have come far, Prince."

Staring at nothing, Emmanuel sighed.

"Feels like far."

* * *

Chapter 13

Nothing atop the mountain appeared as it had appeared before the battle. Even the ground seemed whiter in the starlight, dusted with powder and trampled smooth by the thousands of steps that had raced across it in the fury of combat.

Gianavel stood where they had pushed the forty-pounder over the ledge, staring down into the narrow valley where fires burned in strange formation, consuming what little dry shrub had not been destroyed in the precipitous retreat. He was grateful that the spy's information had come in time for them to rig the elaborate trap.

Pascal, who had been the one to pose as a cook in the camp of Pianessa himself, had overheard the marquis discussing the attack with his captains. But it had been an entire day before sufficient opportunity presented itself so that he could slip out of the camp, and even then, his return to Rora had been dangerous and uncertain. But in the end he had reached the camp and the rest.. .well, Pianessa could count his dead. Rora had not lost a single defender in the siege.

Using ropes they had rigged at secret sections of the mountain range,
he had reached the crest of the Castelluzo in less than half an hour after he left Bertino in the field near Pianessa's camp. When he arrived, he was comforted to see Jahier and Laurentio thoroughly in charge of recovery. They had already regrouped the men and established new listening posts on the mountain and other places where Pianessa might gain entry into the valley. Watching the hectic activity—men moving quickly and methodically but not in panic—he knew all was well in hand.

Which was comforting, since he knew that this battle could not depend upon any man—not Jahier or Laurentio or Descombie. Not Hector, with all his experience, or Bertino, with all his great courage, or anyone else. Not even the barbes, with their prophetic declarations and resolution, could the entire nation rely on. And despite what some seemed to believe, this bat
tle did not depend on him, either.

He had done everything possible to insure that nothing depended upon him. But he was not naive and he knew that men looked to him for courage and strength. It was the way of things in bat
tle, and there was nothing wrong with it. God had made it so that one man sharpens another, as iron sharpens iron.

But no war should depend on one man because, sooner or later, that man would fall. Then those he had inspired would have to take his place and inspire others. So what he wanted to achieve, more than anything else, was a regiment of men who could easily assume his authority and do as he had done. And when he was certain of that, he could die in true peace.

Footsteps—Gianavel turned.

Jahier's blond beard was soaked as if he'd been totally immersed in water. His hair was plastered back from his forehead and dark with sweat. Steam rose from around his neck and sleeves. "Not a man was wounded or killed. We still have one hundred forty-seven."

Gianavel looked over the amazing devastation beneath the Castelluzo. "Incredible. What now?"

The blond captain pointed to the north side.
"I've got men stationed in twos and threes so that they can sleep in shifts." He paused to take a large swallow from a waterskin.

"Ah," he wiped his mouth, "anyway, I don't think Pianessa is going to be returning tonight. Not after that."

Gianavel knew that any celebration of victory, however subdued, was dangerous because it broke the mentality of ongoing war. There were more battles to come, and each would be as viciously fought or more. But there was also a time to let men feel relief that their efforts were for something. They deserved to enjoy the joy of victory, however brief. Soon enough they would have to once more bolster their courage and will to make another stand. There was no need to remove what little reward had been won with this one.

"No, they will not attack again tonight," Gianavel agreed, knowing that even Jahier needed some time to celebrate. "Make sure the men eat and drink well. They will need their strength."

"
Ola
, Captain."

They turned and beheld Hector approaching.

Hector was making the last steps up the steep slope to the level summit. He was pushing up from a knee with his free hand, his right making use of his rifle as a staff. He seemed winded when he straightened, and they waited with faint smiles."Ayya ... I'm getting too old for this soldiering. It's a young man's game."

Gianavel smiled. "How do you feel?"

“I'm alive.”

"What of the ordnance?"

Hector placed a hand on his side. "We fired over a hundred shot at the slope." He made a horizontal movement. "We skipped the balls across the face so as to take out more men. No one working the cannons was hurt, though we had some close calls with the gunpowder. We need more training."

"Tomorrow," Gianavel confirmed. "Tonight everyone must get whatever rest they can. There's plenty of time in the morning to do what has to be done."

"
Oui
," Hector dismissed himself, "good enough."

"Where are you going?"
Jahier asked.

"To get some rest!" the old man called back. "Before I start praying for one of those musket balls to put me out of my misery!"

Gianavel gazed once more down into the valley. There was utter silence, but he wondered how many dead would litter that landscape in the morning. In the distance he could hear flintlocks firing, firing. They would occasionally pause to change positions and begin again. A slow, continuous decimation that would do far more damage to their spirit than numbers. He had ordered his men to keep it up until Pianessa had completely withdrawn from the valley.

Gianavel searched his mind for everything he had ever learned, trying to determine if there was something he had not yet done. They had won the battle but this victory would mean nothing when they came to the next battle. No, each victory was an obstacle in itself and the gains of a hundred victories could be wiped out by a single defeat
, which is why he never celebrated. He would celebrate only when the war was won and the fighting was finished. Then, if they were victorious, he would fall on his knees before the people and give the victory to the Lord because it is the Lord who decided victory, in the end.

"What are you thinking?" he heard Jahier ask and turned to look at the captain.

Gianavel was reluctant that he had been thinking of death after such a great victory. He paused. "Tomorrow—always tomorrow. But that's enough for now. I'll take first watch. Get some sleep."

"I'll relieve you in four hours."

"Take your time."

Jahier descended the ridge, his knees braking hard to slow his momentum, and without much interruption from others soon vanished in a makeshift lean-to they'd raised earlier in the day. Not plush by any stretch, it was filled with cots and sheepskins and wrapped tight with canvas to block the wind and rain.

As men approached him through the night, Gianavel dealt with issues at random. Many were almost inconsequential, but he was patient and attentive, knowing that it was not common sense that they sought, but a leader. And so he wandered up and down the ridge, checking weapons, encouraging and exhorting. He let his character display what simple lessons could not, so that his words had authority.

He neither sat nor displayed any sign of the great fatigue that painfully eroded his patience and will. He ignored his feet that ached and his ears that rang painfully from the cannon. His fingers were swollen and his vision would blur, and he was forced to rub his eyes forcefully so he could see, and still he marshaled meager molecules of strength to continue with an air of unending vigilance, superior endurance, unconquerable will.

When Jahier finally relieved him, fresh from sleep and empowered by a stout bottle of wine that he'd brought along, Gianavel could barely hear the cheerful words as he turned and walked to the hut. Every step was like a knife driven up from his feet to his spine, for few things were as agonizing as a familiar movement done a million times.

He didn't undress or take off
his boots as he saw an empty cot, and when he arose he did not even remember lying down.

***

Contrary to caution, Blake had not slid into a nice, secure cave during the heated battle he had heard from the summit. Instead, knowing this was his chance to find the Waldenses, he had followed the sounds along ridge after ridge, constantly searching for a trail or crevice. The summit seemed much closer now—it certainly should be, he'd been walking most of the day—but every crack he found in the wall narrowed to nothing within a few feet, and he was forced to slip back to the ground.

Finally he arrived at a box canyon. Not large, no, actually it was quite small. A waterfall descended to his right, cascading over a stony ledge eroded for centuries. And the slope before him seemed to rise almost smoothly to the crest. So, he mused, this was the end.

At this distance he could even hear voices from the darkness beyond the thin strand of trees. It was an easy approach; it was also a good place for sentries. Because he'd moved silently, and sentries could certainly see no better than he could in this pitch, they wouldn't know he was close. But as soon as he began clambering up the slope, snapping sticks and trampling leaves, it would be impossible to conceal his position. In that case, they might simply shoot, or they could call out. Doubtless, there was some kind of password.

He stood in the dark a long time. No scenario that he considered appealed to him. He did not fancy being shot dead without a warning, nor did he fancy being captured and hung as a spy because he did not know the password. Decisions, decisions...

Well, there was only one thing to do.

He climbed a small section of the rise that allowed fairly quiet mo
vement and paused ...

Make a decision
!

Collecting what courage he still had, Blake cupped both hands around his mouth and shouted, trying his best to sound like someone who did not want to get shot.

"Hello!"

He waited—nothing.

Blake didn't seriously expect a confrontation so low from the summit. But he didn't intend to proceed very quickly, nor did he attempt to make any effort to silence his steps before he called out again.

Strangely the thought occurred to h
im that this was Cromwell's diabolical plan all along—give him an impossible mission, and if Blake were killed, well, surely the Almighty would have mercy on this scoundrel for the heroism of his utterly doomed last act amen and amen, let's eat—

He did not think any tears would be shed.

***

It was solid dark when Lockhart finished preparations for the evening. He examined the room to insure he had done everything possible to make the staff believe he had turned in for the night. Some might think the embassy staff would be the only ones to trust; he knew they were the last ones to trust. Indeed, he would rather trust his life to some poor beggar he encountered by chance on the street, someone who had nothing to gain from a betrayal. Such practical men were bought cheaply enough and were far safer than one whose profession provided ample opportunities to form discreet and profitable alliances.

Dressed in the black garb of a Puritan, Lockhart slipped over the balcony and descended on a rope he had looped so that he could pull and untie it from the ground. He had hidden a grappling hook in a nearby alley that he would use upon his return, gaining one balcony at a time until he reached his room. It was not a plan that would work indefinitely, but he only needed to keep his mission secret long enough to persuade Mazarin to intercede for the Waldenses, or until he resolutely refused. Yet there was another danger, one more subtle and ultimately harder to anticipate— betrayal from within the cardinal s camp.

The powerful prime minister had a legion of enemies in Paris—most of whom he recently defeated in the Revolution—that had, at first, driven him into hiding, along with the boy-king, Louis. But when the last shot was fired, Mazarin arose victorious. His return to Paris was heralded with unprecedented authority; nor was he slow to dispatch those whose crimes were too great to be forgiven.

King Louis XIV was, of course, the rightful monarch, but he was only ten years old and had not yet assumed full authority and command. So Mazarin, his mentor and surrogate father, was for all practical purposes king and prime minister and pope, tri-scepters he was careful not to publicly display but power he could exercise with inveterate purpose and deeply laid design when provoked.

Lockhart had long thought that the primary weakness of a monarch was a lack of vigilance. It was the curse of a king that he must constan
tly distrust those who seemed most worthy of trust. But Mazarin was, by all accounts, perpetually alert to betrayal and had crafted such a complex system of spies and informants that not even shambling, nameless lepers encountered by chance in a random field could be considered harmless. In keeping everyone in suspicion, the priest made alliances virtually impossible to initiate and nerve-wracking to maintain. Lockhart glanced across adjoining streets. No one was visible

In a light run, careful to avoid limbs and leaves, Lockhart finally reached a nearby street where he began walking quickly but not so quickly as to attract notice. He had brought his cane with a twenty-eight-inch straight saber concealed within the sheath as well as two flintlock pistols beneath his cloak. He also had a number of keys hidden within the folds of his cloak and pants that would supposedly open ninety percent of the world's locks. But his greatest threat was not constables or even French military. The greatest danger was being identified by a mob of citizens who would not wait for a constable or commander to determine his fate.