Rora (28 page)

He spoke slowly,
“It seems one of your people has betrayed you, Captain.”

Gianavel
’s face twisted, as if he’d suspected as much. His dark head bent in terrible regret and disappointment. He inhaled deeply, released slowly. His terse response was frighteningly quiet and restrained, but grievous. “Who?”

Blake reread the letter, insuring that he wasn
’t mistaken. Yes, it was a response written by an Inquisitor to what he assumed was a Waldensian. Apparently, the man had promised to provide the location of hidden trails and caves that the Waldenses were using to evade detection by Pianessa’s militia. He focused on the name.

“
Silas,” he muttered. “Someone named Silas has agreed to lead Pianessa’s troops into your valley by a network of secret trails, as long as the Inquisitors will spare the lives of him and his family.” Blake scanned the rest of the letter, looked up again. “That’s all.”

Muttered expletives rumbled from the men, and Blake was uncertain if they were directed at him or not. When he looked at Gianavel, the captain had shut his eyes, as if to avoid a blinding light or something else equally as painful. When he opened his eyes again, he looked at one called Damont.

The old man shook his head slowly, sadly, holding the captain’s gaze with an equal measure of grief.

Gianavel closed his eyes, nodded.

He picked up his rifle.

“
Let’s go,” he said.

The inhabitant of Rora named Silas must have known the purpose of the men as they cleared the wood line near his farmhouse. Before the band
was halfway across a field, a shot was fired from a window and, by Blake’s estimation, barely missed either himself or Gianavel, and then they were prone on the ground.

The ensuing fire fight was brief, and then men stormed through the rear door and cascaded through the windows of the farmhouse. Barely twenty seconds passed before Silas was dragged through the front door, his wife and children trailing close.

Immediately, three boys no older than six and seven ran to Gianavel. Together they pulled at his sleeves, his belt and rifle, begging him to not injure their father. And Blake would never forget what he beheld in the captain’s face.

Gazing down somberly, Gianavel s gray eyes were like liquid steel that possessed the capacity to be infinitely hard or infinitely soft, according to the fire of his will. The same hand Blake had seen snap a man
’s neck like a rotten branch gently held the smaller hands as if it could not, would not, harm a soul. But he remained silent and unyielding throughout, nor did he attempt to console the cacophony of voices that pleaded with him to let their father live.

Still without a word, Gianavel
’s eyes finally fell away and he turned from the house. He gave no signal as the men fell in behind him, towing the terrified Silas in their wake. But a handful somehow knew to remain at the farm, insuring that neither the woman nor her children followed them into the forest.

Though Silas would not stop pleading for an explanation or to know their intentions, the rest marched in terrible silence, ascending several steep hills and down again for another mile before Gianavel turned and motioned for them to stop.

Turning slowly, Gianavel stared upon the farmer who had not yet ceased to declare his innocence. He glared at them in turn, again to Gianavel. “W-W-What are you going to do?”

Gianavel stepped back.

“Please,” Silas cried. “Please! Listen to me! I had no choice! They’re going to kill us! They’re going to kill all of us!”

Blake raised his gaze to the side. Each man stood stoic and bitter. Clearly, they were not completely unaffected by Silas
’s pleas for mercy, but neither did they make any display of quarter. They exchanged narrow glances, none meeting the other’s eyes.

It was too much.

Not waiting for a response, Silas turned and attempted futilely to escape, but a handful effortlessly blocked his run.

“
Silas!” pronounced Gianavel as a judge pronounces doom.

Trembling, Silas slowly turned to face the Captain of Rora. His head shook back and forth as if refusing a confession that would only assure his death. He fell to his knees, and then, with agonizing, painful slowness, he began to weep, continuing to speak about his family, and Gianavel withdrew his pistol.

Even more frightening than the mask of merciless fury Gianavel had worn in combat was the inhumanly cold control.

No one spoke or moved.

Gianavel leveled his pistol at Silas’s forehead. His voice was cold and severe. “What have you told Pianessa?” he asked. “Speak now, man, if you will speak.”

Face contorted in tears, Silas could only shake his head.

“What have you told Pianessa?” Gianavel demanded in a louder voice.

Silas glared about as if trying to find his memory in surrounding foliage.
“I … I told him I would meet his men on the Bagnol tonight! I told him I would show him the secret trails through the valley! But I’ve shown him nothing!” He straightened. “I swear before …”

“
Do not!” Gianavel shouted. “You have already done evil to your neighbors. Do not do evil to God.”

“
Y-Y-You can’t just kill me!”

Gianavel
’s flashing eyes and fierce frown contained the storm within. “We have no place to keep you in chains! We have no men to guard you! You would betray us to Pianessa!”

“
But I’m a Waldensian! I’m one of you!”

“
Yes,” Gianavel grated, “you are one of us. You have also betrayed us! Only by divine providence, Silas, did we discover your treachery!”

Frantic, vivid hope glared about.

“This is murder!” Silas pleaded. “Look at yourselves! You’re committing murder!”

“
Only me,” said Gianavel. “It is my decision, and I will bear the burden of it as well as the judgment.” He shook his head. “Silas … if there were any other way…”

“
This is murder!”

“
It is justice!” exclaimed Gianavel. “Cursed is the man who withholds his hand from shedding blood when blood is required!” He gathered himself, aimed hard. His words came from gritted teeth. “You will feel no pain.”

“
But …” Silas began to weep tears of fear and anger, and his words sounded deep as the ocean in their sincerity,” … but my children! What will they do?”

“
You have my word,” Gianavel said and nodded long, as if to himself alone. “I will care for your family as I care for my own. Nor will I be alone. All the valley will work together to meet their needs.”

A terrified silence and stillness smothered the small group. Gianavel repeated softly,
“Pray to the Lord now, Silas, so that you will bear nothing with you to His throne. And worry for nothing in this world. All is cared for.”

Silas wept as he closed his eyes, and Blake could not help but watch Gianavel. Minutely, almost invisibly, the pistol began to tremble in his strong right hand. Then his jaw tightened and his teeth gleamed in a terrific grimace, and he pulled the trigger.

The shot hit Silas in the forehead and he tilted forward, not backward as Blake expected. He hit the ground with a surprisingly soft thud, and voluminous smoke from the pistol moved slowly across his utterly still body, spread, lifted, and dissipated like a ghost that slowly enshrouded them all.

Gianavel lowered the pistol to his side.

He bowed his head, and for the first time Blake saw fatigue and weariness in everything about him. Now the Vaudois no longer seemed the heroic, larger-than-life figure that overcame catastrophe after catastrophe with prophetic wisdom and courage and strength. Now he seemed only a man—a man who could be wounded like any other man, a man who knew grief like any other man, and who bled like any other man. His face, which Blake had known only to be hard and resolved to defend his people to the death, was no longer fixed with the stoic, inhuman control that characterized him.

The silence that followed was the most dreadful Blake had ever been forced to endure.

Gianavel stood, head bent, eyes tight. Then, slowly, he removed his powder horn and reloaded and recharged the pistol. He did it mechanically and dutifully like a man that, by force of will and discipline alone would not break the rules of war no matter how terrible the rules of war might injure him. Finally he rammed the ball home in the barrel, stoically reset the rod. Then, inexplicably, he stared at nothing as if expecting, or hoping, someone would speak to make what had happened easier to live with or even.. .right. But no one had any words and nothing was spoken, and with deep weariness Gianavel turned and walked softly into the mountain’s dark mossy silence and gloom.

Emmanuel entered the large chambers that Pianessa had secured for planning his next invasion. Maps of the entire valley drawn in the finest detail, though the Duke of Savoy knew no map could match the memories of the Waldenses, were carefully spread on a large oak table. At least twenty high-ranking members of the militia stood nearby, some joined in quiet conversation, others idly sharpening swords or daggers.

As Pianessa spied the young duke, his face lifted brightly. “Enter, Savoy. We were just finishing preparations for the next, and last, attack on this valley.” Pianessa s smile twisted sardonically. “Perhaps you can find a weakness in our plans.”

Emmanuel shook his head politely as he stared down at the table and almost instan
tly understood the flags and wooden markers strategically placed beside the Castelluzo, the Bagnol, and the Vellaro. It was a three-pronged attack with a crafty sense of design by Pianessa. Clearly, he valued depth of length of line and was pouring heavy troops reinforced by artillery into the three weakest points of defense. Emmanuel studied the notes but saw no indication of how many men would be required for the attack. He had not forgotten the pardon for prisoners he had signed at Incomel s request.

“
I suppose you found quality soldiers in my prisons?” he asked mildly.

Pianessa laughed gustily as he sliced a huge red slab from a roast. He sheathed his dagger without cleaning it, wiped his fingers on his chest.

“Indeed, Savoy. We have almost twenty thousand eager recruits ready to storm the bastions of Rora. A full pardon from the dungeons of El Torre can inspire amazing loyalty in even the most miserable and wretched of murderers, rapists, thieves, and traitors.” He raised a hand for indulgence. “Worry not, Duke—a special regiment of the very worst are assembled to charge the cannons. I doubt you will be troubled by their lives when the battle is done.”

Studying the map another moment, Emmanuel saw the details of the attack. Approximately ten thousand would cross the forests from Bagnol and climb the mountain range on the east of Rora. Another three thousand would once again try to force the Pass of the Pelice, where they had been twice repelled.
The last eight thousand troops would climb the trail that led upward from Lucerna, a deep-cut ravine with a steady enough path for ascent but bordered with bluffs high enough to cripple or even kill if a desperate last handhold was not gained.

Three distinctly separate attacks—the Pass, the Bagnol, and the Lucerna. Almost twenty thousand soldiers trying to take a valley more than fifty miles in circumference defended by less than two hundred men.
The aspect of what manner of battle this would be was horrifying.

The Waldenses would not surrender, neither would Pianessa
’s troops give them the opportunity. Once the battle was joined in that jagged chessboard of hills, it would be dagger or sword to the death, no quarter asked, none given. Neither side would know how well the battle was faring because no man would be able to see more than a few feet; so none would fight less fiercely even if their forces were already defeated.

Emmanuel had a vague vision of blood running the depth of that valley as high as a horse
’s bridle, covering the Earth. His expression must have caught the eye of the Marquis de Pianessa.

“
Savoy!” He slapped Emmanuel on the back. “Is this not what you wanted? Victory?”

Emmanuel heard the sound of cavalry in the courtyard beyond and turned to behold hundreds of dragoons. Clearly, Pianessa intended to overrun Rora
’s perimeter with a mass of bodies, hurling men into that hell until they were simply too innumerable to kill.

Pianessa pointed to the map.
“This is the Pass where Gianavel has defeated us on two occasions. I am certain I don’t need to remind you.” A smile. “But I think I have discovered a weakness in our earlier attack. Although it appears sturdy enough, it will be far less defensible if we crawl over the ridges in groups of three or four. That will force them to disperse their cannon shot, and several of the teams should be able to slip through.” He stared down, pondering. “We should lose no more than a third of our forces to storm their bastions. After that we will be inside the valley, and they have no stronghold to retreat to. We’ll go farm to farm and village to village until we’ve killed them all.”

Incomel appeared in the doorway, always with the facility of appearing when Pianessa
’s gusto reached a peak. But he had taken to not appearing without a cadre of minor Inquisitors, as if to make a show of force. It revealed weakness, but Incomel obviously saw the changing tide. It was lasting too long and becoming too expensive in terms of both men and money. It was one thing to endorse the inexpensive destruction of a small village. It was another to provoke a war that depleted Savoy’s sizable treasury.