Rora (9 page)

Gianavel continued to search the pass. "You must understand our enemy, old friend. Pianessa does not rely upon the grace of the Lord. He trusts only in the strength of his sword arm. He is wise in the ways of war, and the first rule of any war is to know your enemy—know his weaknesses and his strengths. Strengthen yourself to endure his strength, and prepare to strike his weaknesses. That is what he is doing."

With weary, unseeing eyes, Bertino stared down over the pass. "How many men will he bring next time?"

"More than he needs," Gianavel said simply. "Ten.. .perhaps fifteen thousand. They'll divide, attacking on two and maybe three fronts." Gianavel's quiet, steady words held no fear. "He will try to stretch our line, knowing we only need a few men to hold a pass."

"But they'll have to attack us through the pass."

Gianavel's widened eyes lined his forehead. "Why?"

"Because it's too hard to climb the cliffs."

"An army can attack anywhere a man can climb or walk," Gianavel frowned. "Expect nothing, old friend, and everything. If a man can climb a cliff, he can attack from a cliff. If he can climb a tree, he can attack from a tree. And if Pianessa stretches our line, we'll be too thin to resist his superior depth.

Yes
... depth is always preferable to length. We'll slow them, for certain—we have too much of an advantage not to—but they'll eventually swarm the walls."

Bertino growled, "Like locusts."

Listening, Hector said, "He might try to feint an attack, Captain. Just to see if we're prepared."

Gianavel shook his head. "We have the terrain, Hector, so Pianessa will trust in the depth of his line. He'll sacrifice his men like sheep, throwing them at us, so that we can't kill them fast enough. It will be a flood, dead men charging over dead men. He'll be trying to make us use all our ammunition because when a man's out of ammunition, he's out of options. And when they take one wall, they've taken them all."

Bertino was still displeased. "You say he will come with thousands. But he used only five hundred yesterday."

"Not so great a mistake, my friend. Pianessa was hedging that we might not be on guard. But now he knows we won't be caught by surprise." Gianavel pondered a moment more. "Also, he underestimated his mercenaries."

"How so?"

"Mercenaries will kill for a victory," Gianavel said. "They won't die for it. Come. There's much to do."

They proceeded down onto one of the ubiquitous ridges that combed the peaks surrounding El Combe. Every field and creek and orchard and field was barren of movement.

"There," Gianavel said, pointing, and the rest shielded their eyes from the glowing sun. "If we lose the pass, retreat through the Valhenza. Once you're inside, remember to maintain a rear guard of your most experienced men. Don't run. Don't reveal panic. If you do, Pianessa's troops will rush in and overrun us."

"What's the best defense while retreating?" one asked.

"Make them too frightened to pursue," Gianavel said as he descended. "Have men chop trees and tie them off with ropes. Drop them on those that are chasing you. Have your rear guard composed of marksmen and shoot back often. If Pianessa s men are moving cautiously, they'll be moving slowly."

"Is that so important?" asked one man.

Gianavel's mouth became a grim line. His eyes narrowed, utterly lacking in sympathy. "If the people panic, they'll lose formation. If they lose formation, they'll break into small groups, then smaller groups, and finally they'll be running without a weapon across an empty field. Their fear will have killed them. Never retreat with an indication of fear! Never! Retreat as if you dare anyone to pursue!"

Hector muttered, "Not as easy as it sounds, Captain. It's a bit unnatural to fall back with discipline."

"Many things in war are unnatural," Gianavel gently rebuked. "The ability to remain calm in the midst of exciting events will, alone, make you a great soldier."

As they carefully picked a path down from the ridge, they analyzed elements of resistance and withdrawal until they reached camp and dispersed, each man carefully instructing his squad for every conceivable complication, although they realized that every complication, by the time-tested rule of war, was inconceivable.

***

"Spies," Pianessa grumbled, staring at a small black snake he had lifted from a field. "I need ... spies."

Incomel frowned over the poisonous reptile. For whatever reason, he
seemed to have little tolerance for serpents. He roughly shouldered the other Inquisitors aside as he stepped forward.

"I don't understand why you don't simply march up the Pelice and kill these heretics," he demanded. "You act as if you are planning to invade France, Pianessa." He gestured with irritation. "Simply send a thousand men up the pass, kill all you meet, burn their homes, and send the children to El Torre."

Pianessa's face split in a smile of genuine amusement. "Why don't you lead them, Inquisitor?" He lifted his heavy arms toward the mountains and laughed. "You seem to understand these heretics far better than I."

Incomel's sullen pause was meant to affect Pianessa; it didn't. "God's calling on my life is not in the field, Pianessa. It is in my charge to rescue the Church from these heretics."

"Yes," Pianessa sneered. "A holy man, I almost forgot." With a tired sigh he stood and walked forward. He leaned on the table, studying the map. "How fortunate for the Waldenses that you have only their salvation in mind, Inquisitor."

As the Inquisitor began to retort, Pianessa spoke sharply to his sergeant major—a tall, red-bearded man who rivaled Pianessa himself in the appearance of primitive strength.

"Have pikemen and riflemen advance six abreast in the pass. At the first engagement, flank them and move up the cannon. Then reduce their battlements to ruin." He hesitated. "You should need no more than five hundred shot, I think."

"Yes, sir," was the quick reply.

"Then," the marquis continued, "you will simply enter the village proper and kill everything that walks or crawls." Pianessa seemed as if he were searching for something he might have missed. "Make no mistake, Sergeant, Gianavel is wise. If you consider a tactic, assume that Gianavel has also considered it. Nothing will cross your mind that has not already crossed his."

"Yes, sir."

"The Pass of Pelice gives us no advantage," Pianessa observed. "There is little cover, and the Waldenses will be heavily protected. Watch for ambushes and feints. Do not rush forward—especially if you see an opportunity."

"A tactic of the Moors," the sergeant muttered.

"Yes," Pianessa replied sullenly. "Gianavel knows all the tactics of the Crusaders, Sergeant. His ancestors fought in them. Just as he knows why the Crusaders failed."

The sergeant paused. "Why did they fail, My Lord?"

"The Crusaders knew how to take a city, Sergeant. They didn't know when to surrender one. If the cost of holding his position is too high, Gianavel will fall back in an orderly fashion. He will do nothing precipitous, so don't rush forward as though the battle is won. If you do, it will be the last attack you lead."

"May I ask what else you know about this man, My Lord?"
The sergeant stared coldly.

"Nothing of consequence, Sergeant. But one thing is certain: Gianavel will make few mistakes."

The sergeant grunted. "I saw his kind in the valley. I will use every precaution."

"Do that," Pianessa said slowly, "but you have rarely, if ever, seen his kind, Sergeant."

"What do you mean, My Lord?"

"I mean"—Pianessa raised burning dark eyes—"this man does not fight like your mercenaries or even those Waldenses you slaughtered in the valley.

This man knows war as his purpose—his destiny—put upon him by God." Pianessa let his words settle into his listeners.

Incomel s frown was terrible, but the marquis did not seem to care. He added, "Gianavel does not fear death because he knows something greater than death." Pianessa bent his head, staring to the side. "My best advice, Sergeant:
You attack a lion. He will not care for pain, or horror, or loss. He will ignore any wound that is less than mortal. He will kill more coldly than your coldest mercenary, and if you make the smallest, single mistake, he will kill you."

The sergeant shifted. "I see."

Pianessa looked back up. "This man believes God's purpose for his life is to defend his people. He has seen war and he has trained for war. He will maintain lines of communication. He does not need a map because he knows every footpath. He knows we're coming; he is prepared. The only hope we have is that we can overrun his cannon fire. If we can breach their line, if we can close on the Waldenses with hand blows, we can take Rora by overwhelming force. But to get close enough to accomplish that will be expensive."

Frowning now, the sergeant said nothing. Pianessa finished gazing around the hundreds of mercenaries assembled on the plain. "What of these Irish you mentioned?"

"Cromwell's criminals," the sergeant major answered, still staring at the map, and his mind seeming very far away, somewhere above the Castelluzo. "There was no room in English prisons, My Lord, so Cromwell banished them to the Continent."

"What are their crimes?"

"Murder, rape, thievery and whatnot."

Pianessa nodded. "Very well. Put Cromwell's criminals in the first wave. They can exhaust the bulk of cannon fire. And don't follow too closely with reinforcements."

"Why, My Lord?"

"Dead mercenaries cost nothing," Pianessa said without hesitation and fell more somber. "And there will be plenty of dead."

***

Staring down, Gianavel said nothing. He had returned to the stable to see if Abraham still prayed.

Yes, Abraham still prayed, his knees wet with wet ground and his head bent in eternal petition to God. Nor did he remove himself from his petition for a long time. But finally he lowered his hands, looked at the warlike Captain of Rora.

He smiled. "You are well, Gianavel?"

Gianavel was silent a moment. He nodded. "I am well, Abraham. I came only to see if you might have received any wisdom. If, perhaps, you knew another way."

The old man laughed quietly. "No, Gianavel. I have received no great wisdom. I have only faith and hope.
Those things a man clings to in darkness and confusion."

As if he wanted someone to give him a reason for why he should not fight, Gianavel waited, head bowed. But every reason had been given, and they were not reason enough.

Abraham understood. "You and I are different, Gianavel," he said with a smile.

Gianavel raised a dark gaze.

"You think fighting is the means to defend your people," he continued.

"I believe that giving our lives as a living sacrifice to the Lord is our defense."

At that, all that could be said was said.

Gianavel's face hardened in a grief that had no answers. And now the questions had reached the backwater, where unrest overflowed familiar peace.

"I would be a fool," Gianavel said at last, "if I let Pianessa come into my home and murder my children, my wife, my friends. Perhaps you do know peace in laying down your life, and all the lives of those you love. But I can't do that. It defies everything I am. I must fight."

Abraham nodded his head sadly, as if at a sad truth. "Sometimes it is better to sacrifice a finger than to lose a whole hand."

Gianavel frowned more deeply. "Perhaps there is a greater truth," he answered. "Perhaps God, in His wisdom, appointed some to be priests, and some warriors, so that all the world might know that the end belongs only to God."

Abraham said nothing, nor did he move as Gianavel walked away.

***

Emmanuel was almost stunned when he walked into Pianessa s command post and saw the marquis reclining on his hunting chair, staring morosely at the distant mountains of Rora.

He waited, curious, until Pianessa spoke.

"Do you know what I think, Savoy?" he said mildly.

Cautiously, casually, Emmanuel continued forward. "You are the general of my army, Pianessa. I would like very much to know what you think on the eve of a great battle upon which the future of my kingdom hangs."

Pianessa sighed deeply.
"I think ... that the Waldenses are not meant to depart from those mountains."

A solid silence.

"The will of God, Pianessa?"

The marquis shrugged, tired or depressed—a rare moment.
"I know nothing of the will of God, Savoy. I am a soldier. I fight where I am sent to fight. I kill whom I am sent to kill. But the Waldenses have been attacked again and again. They have been dispersed, scattered to a dozen countries, massacred by the thousands, and still they return to these mountains, like Moses to Sinai."

At the young Duke of Savoy's silence, Pianessa looked over. "You think I have not read the Scriptures, Savoy?" His voice, even for a moment, lost its cold brutality. "Yes, the
Waldenses remind me much of the Israelites. They are killed over and over, and still they return. This land, to them ... it is sacred ground."