Rora (30 page)

"I heard, Joshua."

Gianavel notched his belt and adjusted it so that his pistols were in convenient reach. When he did not reply, Hector continued, "Let me ask you something, Captain."

With a sigh, Gianavel raised his head. "What is it, Hector?"

"You ever heard the term 'dead reckoning'?"

Gianavel squinted. "A mariner’s term." He frowned, thinking. "Yes, I've heard it."

"Know what it means?"

"No."

"It's a term that navigators use," Hector said and nodded with a solemnity that caused Gianavel to pause. He watched carefully as Hector added, "When a man is lost at sea—when he ain't got no compass to steer by— when he can't see no stars, or sun, or even the sky—then that man's just about as lost as lost can be."

Unblinking, Gianavel held his gaze.

"When a man is in a situation like that," Hector spoke more firmly,
"the only thing he's got to find his way home is a 'dead reckoning.' Without the sun or the stars, he doesn't know north. But he knows he has to make a decision, so he  trusts what's inside him." The old white-haired man thumbed his chest. "What's in here. And so he lays a course by dead reckoning, not knowing if it's the right way, but trusting God that it is. He don't know if he's right, but he prays he's right ... and sets his course."

Gianavel didn't move.

Hector shook his head.

"Ain't no man that can tell you that you're right,
Joshua. All you got is what's inside of you—dead reckoning. You follow it, boy. Trust it. And see this thing to its end."

* * *

Chapter 16

No war enclave ever existed more terrible than the one gathered about Pianessa the night before what was certain to be the last battle for Rora, thought Emmanuel.

It was the third day of their encampment in the Plain of Giovanni—four days since the Puritan had departed Turin—and Pianessa was clearly growing impatient as he stalked through the gathering of warlords, each a rival to Pianessa's barbaric image, barking terse orders. Each of the mercenary commanders bore weapons f
rom a hundred years past and weapons of the current age, and the Duke of Savoy was almost amused that a Celtic battle-ax did not seem incongruous alongside a pewter long rifle or bandoleer of silver-plated pistols. Some also bore painted faces as warriors did in old days—black visages streaked with red or yellow—and some had braided their hair with occult symbols and human bones that went conveniently unnoticed by the Inquisitors. Emmanuel saw two others who wore bear skulls as helmets as well as necklaces of claws and fangs. One had red ribbons tied in his beard with black marks to indicate the number of dead he had left in his wake. Another had a belt ornamented with beads and paint—some kind of cultural medal of honor.

The Duke of Savoy had seen some on the bat
tlefield and knew the awesome fury of their slashing brand. He was also familiar with their animal cunning and their brutal philosophy of war—attack, attack, always attack. Others he knew by reputation alone but they held the scorched earth mentality of the long-vanished Vikings. They burned church and home alike, left no one alive.

Pianessa's warlords were not esteemed commanders in any sense, but conquerors without a continent to conquer. In another age they might have led marauding bands across the land, destroying village after village, sustained by pillaging and slavery. But times did not allow for such wanton savagery so they found sustenance on a more limited scale.
Still, it did not change the fact that they both thrived on war.

Though any single one might have given Pianessa a hard fight in single combat, they were reserved and quiet in his presence. Nor did Pianessa give any hint that it
could be otherwise. Emmanuel wondered what might happen if a coup were attempted for the marquis' position. Without bothering with details, he was certain enough how it would end—Pianessa would be victorious.

The marquis was far too dangerous to underestimate and those who, because of pride or spite or whatever foolish sentiment refused to accord respect where respect was due, did so at their peril. The Duke of Savoy had never deemed it wise to despise a dangerous foe
which is one reason, he supposed, why he was one of the few who did not underestimate Gianavel.

The
Vaudois had thrice proven himself Pianessa's equal in cunning and his superior in generalship causing this to become much more than a battle for a simple village. Pianessa intended to destroy the Waldenses with such brutality that every nation on the Continent would know how securely he held his land. No longer was this only Incomel's war against the heretics. This was Pianessa's war to convince every nation that he was not to be challenged.

Watching Pianessa detail exacting instructions, Emmanuel knew he was not needed or ever desired here. He turned in the direction of his tent and pondered whether he should examine the troops or horses or, perhaps, inspect the cannons and mortars. But his commanders were competent— any inspection would be mere theatrics.

And, remembering the Inquisitors, he decided there were already quite enough theatrics.

***

Blake somehow found himself atop the barricade at the Pass of Pelice. He had not actually been assigned to it but no one had instructed him to go elsewhere, so he had stayed where he was.

Staring at the gap where six thousand men would be attacking within a day, he imagined wave after wave of Pianessa's soldiers charging this wall. He blew out a soft breath, shook his head—he could imagine the carnage that was to come but didn't care to.

An eruption of voices made Blake turn.

Gianavel was at the barricade and for the briefest moment, seeing the captain's bold visage, Blake did not deny the inspiration. The Waldensian, if he knew fear at all—and Blake was not certain that he did—never revealed it.

"Gather around," Gianavel called out.

Thirty men gathered quickly as he laid his rifle on a table. Blake descended and joined them. He didn't know what the captain was going to say or do, but there was no denying the courage his presence inspired
within everyone, including him. It was as if Gianavel's very presence diminished the threat of death. Not that it made death ultimately less likely, but that death no longer held its sting. No one spoke as Gianavel gazed.

"Remember what I'm about to tell you," he said with authority—like one who has done these things and not merely read of them. "If a man is confused, he is no good in battle. He'll be thinking about what the enemy is doing and not what he should be doing. So if you become confused, look for me and do exactly what you see me doing." He held up a finger. "Remember that one simple thing: If you become confused, look for me. Do exac
tly what I am doing. Do you understand?"

Heads nodded and Blake found himself joining.

Gianavel pointed to a secondary wall. "When we retreat to that wall, don't panic and don't make a show of it. Remember to hit the officers and not soldiers, and take an extra second to aim. Don't worry about being the last to pull the trigger, just shoot accurately."

The captain turned his attention noticeably to the younger men. "If you are
hit, get up. Do not lie there and think you are going to die, or you
will
die. I've seen a man shot in the hand and die. And I have seen a man shot three times in the chest, and that man lived." Gianavel leaned farther forward, speaking intensely. "If you are hit, you must make up your mind that you are going to live. Use your anger. Use your hate. Use your love. Use whatever you can find inside your heart to hold on to life. Don't let fear kill you."

A young man's voice was so hesitant the question was barely audible. "What does it feel like
... to get shot?"

One farmer, obviously a veteran, grumbled, "
It’s a lot like getting kicked by a mule."

"You won't feel nothin
’ for a bit," said Bertino.

"I didn't feel nothin
’ for three days," said another.

"Don't worry 'bout it, boy,"
yet another piped in. "It'll be your first chance to taste some whiskey."

They laughed, but the mood remained somber.

Gianavel waited, then stood. "Remember that they are only men. Don't think that they are stronger than you are—they're not. They're not braver. They're not smarter. They're only men, and they'll die like men. How do you fight a hundred men?"

"One man at a time," said a young man.

Gianavel smiled. "Right—one man at a time."

The implacable Vaudois hesitated for a long moment. "Do not fight because you're afraid of death. Fight because you do not fear it. Do as I do, and God will be with you."

Upon a nearby ridge an exuberant battle cry erupted. They turned their heads, staring. In the distance Jahier could be seen atop a barricade gesticulating wildly to his detachment of men.

Beside Blake, a man muttered, "It seems Jahier uses a more jubilant speech for his men, Captain."

Gianavel laughed again, lifted his rifle. "All right; they've been gathering men and arms for almost five days. We don't know exactly when the attack will come, but probably tomorrow or the next day. Stay alert. Man your position. Stick to your routine. Check your gear and recheck it."

They began to disperse and Blake found himself staring at Gianavel, who smiled when he saw the rifle with patchbox emblem.
"I thought it was a commander's rifle."

Blake studied the Waldensian carefully. "What makes you think I'm a commander?"

"You took a big risk bringing those rifles," Gianavel commented easily. "Maybe you were drafted for it, maybe not. All I know is that you're here, and these rifles give us a better chance."

"Still not much of a chance."

"That's not what matters, monsieur."

"What matters?"

"Whether our cause is just."

Staring a moment to see no trace of doubt in Gianavel's gray eyes, Blake said, "You really believe, don't you?"

Gianavel smiled faintly, nodded.

"Yes, monsieur
... I believe."

"And you're willing to stake your life on that," Blake said; it wasn't a question.

"A man stakes his life on it, anyway, Monsieur Blake. You are welcome to the Militia of Rora. Or you are free to leave, and no man will bar your way." Gianavel paused, staring keenly. "But if you fight, Monsieur Blake, fight for the right reason. Or don't fight at all."

Simple as that.

Blake didn't move as Gianavel had walked past him to the barricades. Not missing a beat, the captain began encouraging and instructing. In another moment he was teaching a young soldier how to tie a tourniquet above his knee.

Gazing across the valley, Blake saw fortress
-like bonfires and smoke rising, much like their own bonfire was sending spidery wisps of flame into the cobalt sky. And though orders had been given for each man to claim whatever meager sleep he could claim, Blake knew with absolutely certainty that he wouldn't sleep.

He wondered how someone who had worked so assiduously all his life to avoid conflicts like this could have become locked in the most colossal conflict of them all.

Along with everything else, he thought, God almost certainly had a rich sense of humor.

***

Sir Samuel Morland had ridden hard in the four nights and five days since he departed Turin. He had killed three horses and left his fellow Puritans in villages far from Paris, aghast and amazed at the merciless pace demanded by the loyal aide of Lord Oliver Cromwell.

By prearranged agreement Morland arrived in Paris and barely took a moment to discard his dust-caked riding clothes and don similar apparel before storming into Lockhart's private chamber, quickly and unceremoniously spreading maps on the table.

After truncated introductions—they were already familiar with each other by reputation—Lockhart bent over the papers. Detailed passes and plains and critical ravines and villages were all drawn with exacting precision. Clearly, anything relevant to troop maneuvers had been painstakingly recorded.

Lockhart required little time to determine that an invasion of Piedmont by English garrisons was certainly possible, even unstoppable. But the same terrain that made the Waldenses so formidable an enemy also made them a difficult ally to support.

While an army could attack any place that a soldier could march, it was far easier to coordinate men on an open plain than the side of a mountain. And mountains completely surrounded the Vaudois.

"So," Lockhart pondered out loud, "you're saying that the Waldenses could hold off Pianessa s forces indefinitely if they had fresh arms and provisions?"

Sir Morland was silent, then responded with a distracted air, "With suitable arms they could hold out as long as their food stores were restocked. But there are not enough of them to survive more than three or four major battles. Even if the Vaudois kill five times their number, they will be defeated."

"But this man—this Gianavel—you say that he has already defeated Pianessa three times?"

"Yes," Morland nodded. "But they were not battles on the open plain."

"They were fought in the hills?"

"Fought in a pass that leads to Rora."

Lockhart considered it carefully.
Yes, he could imagine that. But, still, it had been no mean feat. "This man, Gianavel—he must have been highly trained by Savoy."

"I don't believe he is trained at all."

"Really?" Lockhart raised his face. "Then how does he know to do all these things? To fight so brilliantly?"

Morland stared at the map. "I don't know
... 'Tis strange, for certain. I only know that he is gifted in arts of war. He has never been taken by surprise. He is eternally vigilant. He never wastes his men or resources. He always kills commanders, channels his artillery into ravines and narrow passes for maximum effect, retreats brilliantly." He paused. "He possesses a more brilliant understanding of war than any man I have ever seen, including My Lord Cromwell."

Lockhart raised a gaze. "Could Gianavel conceivably win this war, Sir Morland?"

"No." The reply was chipped. "Never in the history of the world have so few stood against so many and won."

"Then what are you going to suggest to Lord Cromwell?"

Sir Morland sighed heavily. "I suppose that will depend on Cardinal Mazarin. I do not want to suggest that we invade through Switzerland, which the Swiss would certainly allow. It would provoke a reaction from France, and we are already at war with Spain. My Lord does not wish another."

Lockhart waited patiently.

Suddenly the Puritan's right hand tightened in a fist. "There is no good option," he said with frustration. "If we invade, we plunge the entire continent into religious war. But if we do not invade, the Waldenses will be murdered like dogs." He grew angrier—fiercer. "But if men do not fight for the right to believe and honor God, then what else do men have worth fighting to keep?"