Rora (8 page)

Corbis's face should have naturally reflected fatigue at the onerous work. Instead, it reflected only a rising pleasure. "More prisoners?" he spat, peering from hairless lids.

"No," Incomel responded placidly. "But Pianessa attacks again tomorrow."

"Good. These will not last the night." He waved roughly and guards dragged another prisoner from the crossed bars of a cell, strapping him to the chair.

"Have any renounced?"

Corbis looked across, as though in a daze. "What?"

Glancing at the guard as he stepped discreetly away from the chair, Incomel blinked at Corbis's flat stare. "Have any of the prisoners renounced their heresy and rejoined the Church?"

"Oh," Corbis grunted. "No ... they died."

Incomel paused. "I see."

His gaze passed over the dozens of prisoners huddled in small, motionless positions against the farthest wall, dark eyes gazing at him in various modes of defiance—some strong, some broken. Several of the adults still walked, tending to the wounds of those who had survived Corbis's interrogations. One child lay still in the corner, his eyes covered with a bloody bandage. He did not move.

"There were fifty," Incomel remarked.
"I count only thirteen. The rest?"

Corbis shrugged. "Were heretics."

Incomel stepped forward, his face flushed and glistening with perspiration.

"Hear me," he whispered, and at the tone Corbis s dull eyes froze, gazing at a distant wall. "I will not report to the cardinal that I have not a single reformed heretic to show for our labors! So you will satisfy your bestial pleasures elsewhere, Corbis. Not with every prisoner I bring to this palace!"

Corbis blinked but said nothing.

Incomel turned and walked away, hands folded plainly within his cloak. Moving almost too quickly for the dignity of his station, he had almost reached the door at the top of the stairway when the screams began again.

Long shadows stretched like pyramids across ground hairy with frost, and the scintillating white yielded with a slight crunching as the men of Rora prepared their weapons.

Gianavel had not slept but had moved throughout the camp during the night, encouraging and instructing. He did not wonder that he was still awake and alert when morning rose. He had never slept well in battle, had risen every day of every war to watch the sunrise, to meditate on the execution of grim action, and to accept the end of it before it began. And he had long ago come to peace with one thing.
The greatest tragedy was not fighting. It was not having anything worth fighting to keep—no faith, no freedom, no hope.

Gianavel had only to remember the faces of his children and Angela, the peace he knew in his heart when he served God, the freedom he possessed since he would not bow to a man. It was all he needed; he was ready.

Today he held an even newer rifle than the one he'd borne yesterday—a French-made flintlock with better accuracy. He'd cleaned it by pouring warm water down the barrel and swabbing it with a rod and rag. Then he'd cleaned his pistols, four in number, all the same caliber. He was perpetually armed now, and would remain so until this ended. Also, he carried flint, oilskin, a canteen, and other small items he'd need if they were overrun. The intention was to remain prepared to either fight or flee with a split-second's notice.

A line of twenty men stood approximately fifty paces from rock targets placed on a nearby slope.

"Load," Gianavel ordered and watched as they carefully measured and poured powder from the hollowed-out stag horns. They inserted a patch of paper beneath the ball and rammed it tight against the chamber with the rod. When they appeared ready, Gianavel walked slowly down the line, studying each man.

"The first thing you must understand," he explained, "is your weapon. The second thing is yourself. And the third is your enemy."

Gianavel knew that most of them were already accomplished marks-men. The older ones had been forced to defend the valley in more than one war against Germany. But shooting was a skill that dulled easily, and shooting men was never easy.

"There's only one way to learn," he said and angled past the far end of the line. "So pick your target, and see what you can do."

Gianavel did not watch the targets, but he watched the men to see which ones set the stock tight against their shoulder, which ones steadied their breathing and, consequently, the barrel. He also determined which ones jerked the trigger, moving the barrel so that they ineffectually hit the slope. After the smoke cleared, he determined that the oldest were the steadiest—no surprise.

"Reload!" he called out and studied to see how they had positioned their powder horn and ammunition pouch.

The older men carried the horns and pouches high and tight so they wouldn't waste energy searching or even reaching. Nor would the horns bounce when they moved, revealing their position in the dark. The younger carried them on long, fashionable leather straps that rested the horn on their hips, clattering across canteens.

Yes, there was nothing like experience to teach a man that strength in battle was an expensive commodity. Once spent, it was hard to regain; the best remedy was not to expend it.

Veterans had already prepared rucksacks that they kept close at all times. They also kept their weapons with them at all times, and they bore long poniards at their waist even when they slept because they knew a good knife was the indispensable implement for a soldier. If a man lost his rifle or food, he could always regain them with patience and a knife. But if he lost his rifle and his knife, he was as good as dead.

And there was the most important rule of all—always keep it simple. Always, always keep it simple—a simple means of foraging, of building a fire, of navigating. The less complicated it was, the less that could go wrong. The rule, alone, was simple to remember, and it applied to everything.

As Gianavel passed one young man, he pulled a red bandana from the boy's pocket and spoke sternly. "Wear nothing with color! Dress like the forest! And wear only leather! It makes no sound when you brush against branches and leaves! Remember the difference between cover and concealment! Concealment means you can't be seen! Cover means you can't be shot! Always use cover! Always! A man does not need to see you to kill you!"

Some eyes widened with fear as Gianavel walked the line. Then he focused on the youngest—a boy of perhaps fifteen who tigh
tly clutched his rifle, fingers white with tension. Gianavel paused before him, his voice loud enough to carry. "Put on your gloves!"

The boy started. "Sir?"

"Your gloves!" Gianavel said and waited while the boy struggled to pull gloves over each hand. Then, fingers stiff and insensitive, he trembled as Gianavel walked behind him. "Load and fire!"

Fumbling with the heavy stockings, the boy managed to uncap his horn, poured far too much powder into the barrel, needed twice as long to work the rod, and spilled even more powder charging the plate. He was fumbling awkwardly with his grip when he fired, and the shot went high and wide, completely missing the target.

The boy staggered, waving at the huge cloud of smoke that blocked his vision. Then, coughing, he stepped back in line. It took only a glance to know he was humiliated.

Gianavel firmly gripped his shoulder, no condemnation. "That's how you'll feel when you fire a shot in battle." He patted the boy on the back, then filed past the rest of them.

"In battle nothing will feel as it feels now. Your fingers will feel like sticks! Your feet will feel like blocks of wood! Everything will seem dull and thick! Like you are fighting underwater!" He paused, insuring they were listening closely. "It has nothing to do with fear! It is only your body preparing itself for battle! Don't fear it and it will fade! But if you fear it—if you think something terrible and strange is happening to you—then it won't go away! Your fear will keep it with you!" He looked at each man in turn. "I have seen a hundred battles, and I have felt the same every single time! Every time! But I know what it is and it does me no harm! Be strong! Remember what it is and it will fade!"

Gianavel glanced again at the hill, back at the boy. "It's a better shot than I made when my father made me do the same thing," he nodded.

The boy smiled, still uncertain, as Gianavel continued, "How do you fight a hundred men?" He waited until Bertino shouted from the far end, "One at a time!"

Gianavel gave a hearty laugh. "Exactly! One at a time. He walked on. "You think they are like the elephant! And they are! But even an elephant can be eaten one bite at a time!"

He spoke louder, watching them closely. "If ten men attack you at the same time, you must move quickly, hit fast and keep mo
ving! Make it so they can only come at you one at a time! If you're fighting outside, put the sun at your back! If that's not possible, keep the sun on your right! Make them retreat! Make them back up! And don't give them time to look around! Try to gain the highest piece of ground and shout when you strike! It frightens your enemy and encourages you!"

One man spoke, "What about fighting inside buildings? Going room to room?"

"In buildings," Gianavel answered, "always fight with the door to your back or to your right! Make sure there is nothing behind you and that there is free space to your left! Chase the enemy to your left and don't give him time to look around to see what's in the room! Make him trip! Make him fall! Use the entire room to your advantage!"

He could see their spirits rising. "What do you see coming against us? Siege engines? Cannons? Brooms and dragoons and cavalry? A dragon?"

No one answered.

Gianavel paused, his voice falling low and controlled. "Once you have had one or two clashes with the dragon, you will know that they are but men. They live like you. They bleed like you. What will hurt you will hurt them.
Yes, they have siege engines—mortars and cannons and cavalry. So do we! They have men with rifles! So do we! They have their cause! So do we! But they fight for money! We fight for our families and our freedom to believe! For a salvation no man can take from us!"

Standing before them, the Captain of Rora said slowly, "Only if a man fears
death ...can death conquer him."

Along the line there was silence, stillness.

Bertino's stout visage lifted slightly, watching Gianavel with hard eyes, a grim frown. The others, too, were solemn and unmoving, watching steadily.

Slowly Gianavel nodded. "Take a platoon into the pass," he spoke to Bertino. "You know what to do."

"
Oui
!" Bertino caught his rifle. "Come," he said to those around him. "We have work to do."

In a moment they dropped over the crest of El Combe, moving for the forest where they would drop trees and boulders into the pass itself, making it more difficult to climb. They had prepared avalanches and half-hewn trees that could be dropped on entire battalions as well as powder
-kegs that could destroy dozens at once.

Gianavel knew they would need every advantage when this battle was joined. He had overlooked nothing, he hoped, but there was no way to be certain. Nothing was so small that it could not be used to an advantage; a man needed only to keep searching. But all he could do for the moment was continue to search.

"Again," he said and stepped through the lines to stand behind them. "In battle you'll only shoot half as well as you shoot in practice, so practice must be perfect! Again and again and again!"

Steadily, they fired.

Steadily, targets fell.

* * *

Chapter 5

Roasted pheasant warmed before the hearth as Gianavel JLJ leaned his rifle beside the door and entered their cottage. He caught Jacob in his arms and lifted him high as the girls also rushed forward and embraced him. When he looked at Angela again, he was stunned to feel how her smile made this moment seem as though it was all there was in the world, and that the rest was only a bad dream from which he'd awakened.

Unaware of how tired his legs were until he sat, Gianavel wearily stretched out his arms and embraced the children again. Then, smiling, Angela walked forward and collapsed on the couch, crushing the girls against Gianavel's chest. Muffled screams and laughter lasted until Angela leaned back, feigning surprise.

"Go," she said to the girls and Jacob. "I need to talk to your papa for a minute." She silenced their remonstrations one by one, and in a few minutes they were alone.

Gianavel softly touched her hair as she gazed at him. Neither of them hurried to speak and break the moment. They were alive and that seemed like everything.

"How is it," Gianavel spoke quietly, almost reverently, "that you don't seem to age?"

Angela's look was a portrait of innocence. "Hector came by. He said that I need a real man around the house, so he proposed."

Gianavel chuckled and his eyes brightened.

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'of course.' So he said he'd come back tomorrow with a horse and buggy and that he'd take us to Geneva." She stared close; her smile faded. "But I told him I would stay beside my husband, no matter what."

Gianavel touched her face, traced a line. Then he reached and pulled her close and held her as the burning logs crackled in the hearth. Finally he noticed the children collecting in the open doorway, staring, uncertain, and frightened. He stretched out his other arm, and they came forward slowly, sitting at his feet, beside him, holding him.

More than at any moment in his entire life, he wished he had something to say. But there was nothing to say that could not be said better with silence.

Emmanuel strolled across the Great Hall of his keep, arms folded across his chest, head bent, mouth turned in a frown, brow hard in concentration. He was not alone—he was never alone—but the few servants who stood close to attend to his needs were silent and still. And his personal bodyguards, who'd long ago learned to read his moods, were tactfully obscure.

The fireplace, a relic from an age when fire itself was some unspoken means of protection against forces beyond man, was as long as a wagon. And, contrary to growing custom, had no hearth or mantel. It was simply a gigantic pit of roaring flame, a pronouncement of man's ability to control his destiny.

Emmanuel knew something of that because his mother had lacked the insight, when she appointed him a tutor, to eliminate all those who disagreed, in even the smallest parcel, with the Church. Indeed, she had, in the end, appointed someone who was the complete antithesis to the cold, barbaric ruthlessness of Pianessa.

Her choice, which she'd deemed so innocent, had been a man who prudently kept his own counsel yet had quietly exposed Emmanuel to the works of the pre-Socratics, to Plotinus, Augustine, Dun Scotus, Ockham, Bacon, and Descartes. He had taught Emmanuel the value of being modest in the demonstration of piety, so as not to insinuate moral superiority. He had taught him the wisdom of remaining austere in private observation and to keep his counsel and speak little, for offenses were unavoidable when one multiplied words. He also taught Emmanuel to lay his plans deeply and with great foresight, then to pursue them with strict secrecy and an inveteracy of purpose that allowed no rest or mercy until they were accomplished.

It was advice Emmanuel had taken to heart because he had watched his father endure the patronizing and insensible Inquisitors who presented their ideological wares in terms that cost both soldiers and wealth. He had watched army after army destroyed for a cause that benefited no kingdom that he knew, and he had yet to discover what virtue was satisfied by blood. He was deeply into thoughts of it when he turned at an approach and saw the source of his pondering.

Smiling mildly, Emmanuel said nothing as Marcelus Simon, his tutor, drew near and stopped, arms folded within the warm easement of his priestly sleeves. Simon had been discreetly scarce in past weeks, wisely avoiding conversation with the Inquisitors or their retinue as he studied and learned. His eyes, a shade strangely beyond blue, revealed little, nor did he speak.

Quie
tly amused, Emmanuel expressed no surprise. Dull greetings were beneath them, and Simon was forever the teacher, waiting for Emmanuel to explain the situation. It was a tactic of Aristotle, which the Catholic monk revered for his ethics and poetics.

"And so," the old man said at last, "what do you see?"

"Only that there is nothing new under the sun," Emmanuel replied with a faint, and somewhat sad, smile. "Again the Church uses my house to make war against the Waldenses. Again the treasury of Savoy is spent in a doomed attempt to drive them from the land. And, again, the Church will fail as they have failed before."

Simon's august head bent thoughtfully. Although well into his sixties, the old monk revealed lit
tle physical weakness and had made his own contributions to Emmanuel's training in the arts of fighting, and more importantly, the art of not fighting. Some might be shocked that a monk would teach treachery to a young monarch, but young monarchs untrained in treachery did not become old monarchs—a lesson Simon had been no less astute in teaching than the poetics of Aristotle.

The Master of Arms had taught Emmanuel to wear a sword of great quality at his waist. Simon had taught him to conceal a disposable ice pick in his sleeve. The Master at Arms may have taught Emmanuel to dramatically draw his sword as a bold warning, but Simon had taught him to hide his weapon until he struck. The Master at Arms instructed Emmanuel to terrify his enemy, but Simon had taught him to smile and strike with words of friendship. The Master of Arms had taught the Duke of Savoy the rules of war; Simon had taught him war has no rules.

"Expect everything," Simon had said, "reveal nothing. Always be prepared to defend yourself against your family, your friends, your allies, even against your own bodyguards." His eyes narrowed slightly. "
Especially
against your bodyguards."

When Emmanuel had protested that such vigilance would be tiring, Simon replied, "Does a man enjoy the warmth of a fire without also suffering the cold to fetch wood for it? If you lack the will to maintain your kingdom, you should become a monk."

The old monk was far more than a teacher—he was guardian of Emmanuel, body and soul. And on more than one occasion rumored col-leagues of some subversive plot against Emmanuel's throne had mysteriously disappeared from the face of the Earth. The full intent of the conspiracies was never revealed. But when she who prepared meals for Emmanuel was found dead, killed with the same poison she intended to use on the prince, Simon dryly remarked, "The danger of not richly rewarding conspirators is that they betray you for so much less."

And now Emmanuel was being tested, he knew, because the time had come for him to use all that he had learned. He glanced at the distant servants who were certainly listening—eavesdropping was an art in the palace, a means of maintaining not only one's career but their life. No, of course they did not appear to be listening, he noted, as Simon had taught, but neither were they speaking, which was more revealing. He gazed at his friend and mentor.

"You taught me that I should become wise before I became old," he remarked quietly. "But, in this, I see little place for wisdom. I do not rule my kingdom."

Simon pursed his lips as he bent his head slightly. He rarely spoke until he carefully considered his words. A man's folly, he often told Emmanuel, is that he answers a question before he truly understands it. "There are two
means of ruling a kingdom, My Prince. Through your own hand or through the hand of another."

"I do not see how I can rule through the Inquisitors."

"Do you see how you can rule through others who, perhaps, rule the Inquisitors?" Simon gave Emmanuel a long, searching look. "Remember what you have learned, boy. You must appeal to a higher authority."

Emmanuel was silent, then replied bitterly, "I lost my temper. They see a weakness."

"Even a dog can see fear." When courage was the question, Simon had no mercy. "You are wiser than this."

The young Duke of Savoy stood quie
tly for a moment, studying his hand. "Can you not help me?" He stared into the old man's eyes. "You are the closest thing to a father I have ever known."

Simon's eyes lit with quick understanding. "I know, my son." He waited. "Yes, I will help you. By reminding you of how great is your own strength. By reminding you of what you already know."

Emmanuel's entire body seemed to shrink and he shook his head. "It seems very little now, my friend. This is a contest of giants. I am the small monarch of a small land that is ruled, and you know this to be true, by another king of another land."

The silence that followed disturbed Emmanuel because Simon almost always revealed to him what he did not see, unless
...

Emmanuel looked again.
"By another king ..."

Simon smiled fain
tly.

The Duke of Savoy smiled widely.

"Be careful of your countenance," Simon said without inflection. "What is not said is—"

"—more important that what is said," Emmanuel finished. "Yes, I remember." He turned his face to gaze into the flames of the hearth.

As if speaking of ubiquitous scandals, Simon added, "I would hate to imagine what trouble this is causing Cardinal Chigi, who is currently in Pinerola to discuss trade with Cromwell's committee. We must be sure to include him in our prayers."

As Emmanuel stared into the flames his eyes narrowed. "Oliver Cromwell has heard of our little unrest?"

"Oh, certainly." Simon folded his hands behind his back. "I understand England's great Lord Protector has sent petitions to Cardinal Mazarin, the mentor of King Louis, enjoining him to intercede on behalf of the Waldenses. One of England's poets, John Milton, I believe, has written a very moving letter in an attempt to usher in a peaceable settlement. But Cromwell has not excluded a forthright invasion of your kingdom, if hostilities are not suspended."

If Simon's words were overheard and repeated, they were crafted to only reflect the nervous concerns of a poor priest for his life—a purely selfish interest the Inquisitors would well understand. Of course he was concerned for the outcome of the war, Simon would declare! It was an old man's right to be concerned with his diminishing health and security, especially an aged priest too enfeebled to relocate to some desolate missionary outpost. Yes, Simon would declare, he hoped the war ended quickly and successfully and that all the Waldenses should be utterly destroyed from the land, including their cattle and sheep, and then the bodies must be burned and the ashes scattered so that not even their memory remained.

In a loud, droning monotone that could lull even the most attentive spy to sleep, Simon hoped the details of the increasingly fierce war did not reach the revered Cardinal Fabio Chigi for the cardinal would certainly want to know what great victories had been won by the Inquisitors for the sake of both God and man, yes, yes ...

Emmanuel suppressed a smile, but it took little effort. He was already formulating a plan carefully
and silently, as he had been taught. It was the first lesson—plan your victory in secret, execute your enemy in darkness, and take no credit for the victory. But, rather, give thanks only to the omnipotent hand of God who has obviously chosen you to lead this kingdom. Then wipe your dagger clean, hone the edge, and sheath it for another day when God will preserve you once more.

"Well," Simon said with some fatigue, as if the dull conversation had been nothing but worrisome, "I have selfishly hoarded your presence once more, My Prince." He stepped back, bowed humbly. "I must return to my administrations."

Emmanuel did not move or acknowledge the comment or stare after the harmless priest as he departed. There was no reason to stare after him, much less thank him, for, after all, nothing of importance had been said.

Upon a high white ridge crested by wisps of cloud and blue and sun, Gianavel stared over the mountains. His face was peaceful, and he seemed to see something, though no others saw anything upon the winding trails beneath them. A moment more he scanned the snow-slivered crags and ravines of the Alps as a cold wind lifted his long black hair; then he tilted his head to Bertino.

"Everything is prepared?" he asked.

"
Oui
," Bertino nodded. "You expect them to come today?"

"I expect nothing
and everything."

Bertino squinted at the Pass of Pelice. He shook his head, as if denying some kind of physical pain. "Why not tomorrow? A delay of a day or two might lull us into complacency."

"No," said the Captain of Rora. "Pianessa knows I will not be deceived by his words. And to delay an attack only strengthens me. He will come quickly to measure our resolve."

The words provoked Bertino to a worried countenance. "Pianessa will not expect to finish us with the next battle?"