Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  For a moment Pianessa seemed to weigh whether that was a meaningful contribution. With tactical analysis he muttered, "Can you lead my forces to them?"

  "No, My Lord." Descombie noticed Bertino searching the corners of the hall. "They fled the valley in discord. We do not know where they are encamped."

  Pianessa was not utterly disappointed. "Good, then they are at the mercy of my patrols in the valley." He continued to nod with satisfaction, an overburdened commander brought back to the moment by concern for his people. "Ah, forgive me—the troubles of war. Were any of your people injured?"

  "No, My Lord. We suffered not a single man, wounded or killed."

  Pianessa's initial response was silence. "Not a single loss?" He stared longer. "Not owe?"

  "No, My Lord."

  Pianessa chewed a corner of his mustache—an uncommon act for nobility. "Tell me," he continued, with a certain craftiness, "how is it that your people managed to fight off these bandits when the entire valley of Piedmont lies in flames?"

  At that, the one named Bertino stepped forward. "There is no need for My Lord to worry himself. We are heavily armed with cannon and rifles and are prepared to repel any attack. We have food and water to endure a lengthy siege, and the will to last."

  Pianessa gazed brutally upon the big-bearded farmer.

  Frowning, Bertino held the gaze without blinking.

  Silence ...

  "Yes," the marquis muttered.

  Pianessa looked upon Descombie. "Which of you is in command? I would like for him to remain with me and discuss coordinated responses to this threat."

  "Neither of us," Bertino said loudly.

  Pianessa blinked, sullen or angry. "So who commands your militia, warrior?"

  Descombie broke the tense atmosphere between Bertino and Pianessa. "That would be our local marshal, My Lord! Captain Joshua Gianavel!"

  Brooding, Pianessa took a moment in thought. His brow hardened, recalling—remembering. "Gianavel ...Yes, I know this man." He took a moment longer. "Did this Gianavel not fight beside Savoy to repel the Spanish?"

  There was no reply, and Pianessa answered for himself, "Yes! I saw this man at Pinerola!" A moment passed, and Pianessa grew strangely still. "Is this the Gianavel you speak of?"

  "Yes, My Lord."

  The words that rumbled from Pianessa were subdued, as if spoken against his will. "This Gianavel ... he is a warrior."

  Descombie answered, "Gianavel is a great friend of the Church, My Lord. In battle he fights like a lion, it's true. But in domestic life he is humble as a lamb. He is merciful without weakness, and pious without excess."

  Raising his eyebrows, Pianessa commented, "It seems your merciful captain was not so merciful today, barbe."

  Bertino interjected, "Gianavel understands war, My Lord. He reveres all life and will not provoke a fight. But if the fight is forced upon him, he strikes quickly and ends it quickly. He does not strike to wound."

  Pianessa studied Bertino as if measuring the intent hidden beneath the words. Bertino did not blink as he grimly held the marquis' gaze, and within Pianessa’s somber malevolence surged like a black tide beneath a moonless sky—thunderous, deceptive, and dangerous.

  Finally Pianessa muttered, "My guards will see you safely to the pass."

  They spoke as one: "Your servant, My Lord."

  In a moment they disappeared through the glowing gateway of the hall, and then the guard quietly closed the massive doors. The huge iron rings struck once and fell silent.

  Pianessa did not need to turn his head to see the ghostly outline of the Inquisitor emerging from the corridor.

  With steps almost instinctively silent, Incomel approached and halted at the steps. For a moment he studied Pianessa s glowering visage, then spoke with uncommon friendliness. "Surely you understand Machiavellian subterfuge, Pianessa."

  Pianessa turned slowly to the priest. "What I understand, Priest, is that I have lost a hundred men."

  A dismissive wave. "They were soldiers, Pianessa."

  "Soldiers cost money, Priest – money to train and money to equip." Brooding, the Marquis de Pianessa stood. His entire form seemed to swell in his wrath. "If others follow the example of Gianavel, I will soon have nothing to rule."

  Incomel had not moved but spoke with obvious caution ."Rest assured, Pianessa, your throne is ruled by the Church. And the Church has declared war upon these heretics. You have no need to be troubled ... or wrathful."

  As if the Inquisitor were a strange insect that Pianessa had never seen, the marquis stared over him. "How curious that you declare war and cannot lift a finger in the fight."

  "It is not my place to fight, Monsieur, but to pray."

  "And so God gives you a cause for war, and yet He prevents you from risking your life to fight it?"

  Incomel held his words, as if contemplating. "My place is to pray, Pianessa. I am God's minister to insure that the war is fought for the proper cause."

  There was a dark interlude, and Pianessa shook his head. "Convenient, Priest, that God does not ask you to die for what you believe. My only question is...would you?"

  Incomel hesitated.

  "Die for what I believe?"

  A frown, and Pianessa leaned closer. "Yes..."

  The Inquisitor had stepped back. He recovered.

  "Of course, Pianessa...I die daily."

  "Indeed," Pianessa murmured, and the pause that followed was the longest yet. "Pardon me, Inquisitor, but I see a world of difference between you and this man ... this Gianavel."

  "Oh?" Incomel retorted. "How so, Pianessa?"

  The Marquis de Pianessa laughed. "I have a world of whores, Priest. There is a world between denying yourself whores and dying for what you believe." With a grim laugh, Pianessa turned away. "Perhaps I am too practical, but to watch a man drawn and quartered, his arms and legs torn from their sockets, and yet he still refuses to renounce his faith is a remarkable thing. For one thing, Inquisitor, though you have never experienced it, arms and legs do not break easily. Have you never attempted to twist a turkey's leg from its carcass? Yes ... it is difficult. You must break it, twist it over and over. You must tear it to shreds before it separates."

  Incomel snorted, half turned.

  Pianessa laughed. "Does leaving your whores trouble you more than that, Priest? What kind of spiritual pain would be so great that a man would even endure having his arms and legs torn apart before he renounced his faith?" The marquis seemed moved at the thought.

  Head bowed, he continued, "Make no mistake, Priest. Whether Gianavel is right or wrong makes no difference to me. But yes, I see a difference between the Vaudois and you. This Gianavel ... he is willing to fight and even die for what he believes. You are only willing to have others fight and die."

  Without another word, Pianessa stepped from his throne and strode quickly past the long red tapestries that hung between windows filled with darkness so thick that there seemed no stars in the moonless sky, no wind moving in the soundless night, and was gone.

  ***

  What happens after a battle is almost always as difficult as the battle itself, Gianavel remembered as he moved through the campfires of the pass, observing and encouraging.

  The men were understandably joyous at victory, but this was not the hour for joy. It was the hour for discipline, for cold thought, and even colder action. But such vigilance was difficult to maintain, so Gianavel only gently reminded his men that the battle was not yet finished. He urged them to remain prepared but let them rest as they could.

  None of Rora’s defenders had been wounded in the short but intense battle, mostly because veterans like Bertino had kept those with less experience close beside them. It was something done naturally and without a word from Gianavel. And he was grateful for it because, in the confusion of establishing a quick defense, it had not occurred to him.

  To have lost even a single man would have weakened them, but to strengthen them even further, thirty men had arrived from the valley. Ha
ving heard of the battle, they had come from their hiding places in the caves and forests of Piedmont. Wounded and starving, they pleaded for sanctuary. But there had been no need to plead. The defenders of Rora had outdone one another in bestowing blessings, taking each of them into their own homes where they were clothed and fed. And those who had the will and strength to fight were provided with new flintlock rifles, all the ordnance they could carry, thick coats, and boots from the slain soldiers of Pianessa.

  It was a hard choice; it had been made.

  In only a few hours, with hot meals, warm clothes, and fellowship, they had become different men, once again strong, encouraged, and willing to fight for the right to believe. And Gianavel knew they would be needed— this war had only begun.

  He passed another fire where women ladled out wide, deep wooden bowls of soup for the troops and approached a much older man. Bearing a cap of wild white hair, the man noticed his approach and grinned widely with amazingly strong teeth, teeth white as snow and evenly squared despite his seventy-something years.

  "Ca vais, Gianavel?" he asked as he stacked another rifle on a table heaped with rifles and pistols and powder horns—enough weapons for a hundred men.

  "It is well," Gianavel said as he studied the ordnance. "What's the count?"

  "It must be easier to retreat without a rifle," Hector surmised, looking over the bounty. "We gathered one hundred thirty-five muskets and scavenged four demi-cannon and six four-pounders. Small, of course, but deadly effective if you're using grapeshot."

  Gianavel placed a hand on the cannon and looked into Hector's clear brown eyes. "Prepare grapeshot for the demi-cannon, too. We're bringing down men, not a wall. And remember; never fire grapeshot at a target more than a hundred feet away—it scatters too much to be effective."

  "I'll man one myself. Bertino will take the other." Hector hesitated, more solemn. "Do you think they'll return, Joshua?"

  Gianavel paused, gazed away. "They'll return. But not until they prepare a little better." He twisted his neck, as if the earlier action had left sore muscles. "They didn't expect a fight, but they won't make the same mistake twice. Next time, they'll bring more men, more cannon. Maybe even cavalry."

  Scanning the men and women of the camp, Hector revealed neither dismay nor confidence. "Brave souls to a man, but they don't have any experience. Most of them have never seen a battle, much less fought in one."

  Gianavel selected three flintlock pistols to replace the ones he'd lost. His tone was somber. "There are things more important than experience, but make sure that the younger ones are teamed with a veteran. How many are resolved to fight?"

  "Forty-seven men and enough re-loaders to charge ten rifles per minute for each man. We can keep up a well-directed fire without interruption." "Good. We'll train in the morning." "You don't expect Pianessa to attack tonight?"

  Gianavel turned to gaze over the pass, a river of black beneath over-arching trees white with moonlight.

  "I expect nothing, and everything. But we've got men watching the ravine to Turin and the pass, so we can't be surprised. We'll hope for the best, take every precaution against the worst."

  “C’ais azzez.”

  Gianavel stared over the heap of confiscated rifles with a sudden, faint disturbance. Then he turned and walked back toward the steadily rising battlements.

  "We have weapons," Hector said after him, and Gianavel turned, staring back." But they have more weapons, Joshua. They will always have more weapons."

  Gianavel frowned, shook his head.

  "Our strength does not lie in weapons."

  And was gone.

  *

  Chapter 4

  The bearded image of Henry IV, one eye slightly larger than the other, gazed ponderously from its rest above the mantel.

  Dressed in pantaloons and bloused shirt, the king stood slightly off-center, a huge pit of darkness carefully positioned over his right shoulder beyond his peacock-feathered hat.

  The Duchess Elizabeth looked over the countenance of her boorish relative and wondered if he ever realized the open contempt with which the artist immortalized him. Then she turned her head as a distant panel on the wall swung silently open. There was the glimpse of a torch-lit corridor beyond, and then the light vanished as a huge form emerged from the hidden passageway.

  Pianessa walked forward without a smile or sound, and Elizabeth lifted a glass of wine that he accepted stoically before collapsing in a cushioned chair. The gray ash that lay upon his armor was as heavy as the gloom that surrounded him. He said nothing as the duchess walked to where she could observe his face more clearly.

  Releasing a deep breath, Pianessa shook his head. "It seems my late wife's reward grows further away by the moment," he muttered. "I knew the Vaudois might be difficult to kill, but nothing like this."

  The duchess dipped her finger into her chalice and spoke over her shoulder. "The Marchioness de Pianessa knew how to stir your strength, my love. But the treasure she bequeathed cannot be claimed until you've killed every Waldensian in the valley."

  "Yes," the marquis muttered. "Even in death she molests me."

  Elizabeth chuckled. "But she is dead now, my dear, and the valley is yours to rule."

  "Beneath your cousin, of course."

  With only the slightest clink of glass, the duchess refilled her chalice. "France supports the kingdom of the House of Savoy in order to prevent war with the Spanish, so Emmanuel must rule."

  "True," Pianessa replied, "but Emmanuel is too young to deal with the Waldenses."

  "Really? How so?"

  Pianessa gestured wearily. "Too many wars against the Waldenses have made them wise. If I attack, they will retreat along the trails and caves—their rope bridges and secret lifts. And the mountains provide a strong defense—narrow approaches where men must be bunched together with no good means of retreat. Once it begins, retreating will be ten times more difficult than advancing."

  He paused, mumbled, "I once saw an entire battalion caught on the Castelluzo after dark. I was with them, but I secured myself to a crag with my belt, remained awake, and weathered the night. But almost a thousand men perished in falls before sunrise. In truth, the mountain has killed more men in this valley than all the wars combined."

  "Do I sense fear, my dear?"

  With a grunt, Pianessa continued, "It’s not like the old days, Elizabeth, when the Vaudois only threw rocks and stones or shot arrows at us from trees. Now they have cannon and muskets. And ten good men with cannon can defy a thousand in one of those ravines." He became grim. "In many ways they have the advantage."

  "My love, you have never been defeated. How could the Waldenses possibly withstand your siege?"

  "Sieges are won by thirst and starvation, my dear, and the Waldenses have plenty of food and water." Pianessa debated. "Yes, if they are in a strong position, this captain of theirs—Gianavel—can hold off ten times his number for months. Even years."

  He leaned back into the couch, more pensive. "A hundred years ago, cannons could reduce any wall. But then the Italians, and then the Spaniards, learned how to build angled bastions with walls forty feet thick that can resist ten thousand shots. And the Waldenses have walls of solid stone hundreds of feet thick. They have the mountain itself." He took another sip, stared into the flames. "No ... brute force will not conquer the Waldenses. Especially not with this man to lead them."

  There was a long silence as Elizabeth read the marquis' face. Her eyebrows rose slightly. "You know this man?"

  Silence lasted for a moment, and Pianessa frowned. "I encountered him three years ago at the Battle of Pinerola."

  "Emmanuel said you commanded brilliantly in that battle."

  "For a time, yes. But the Huns finally broke our line. We were too scattered, and they had depth—depth is always preferable to length." He sighed. "They crushed a single section of our line and cut us into two armies. In truth, we might have lost the day if the Waldensian reinforcements had not arrived when they did."r />
  "My cousin also said that you gave the Waldenses credit for turning the tide of battle," Elizabeth said, watching the marquis carefully. It was seldom that the feared monarch shared credit for his victories.

  "Yes," Pianessa muttered. "The Huns attacked through the Monte del Cuerpo—twenty thousand dragoons on horseback. All our positions were overrun. I myself was almost killed." Pianessa's brow hardened. "And then a man came over the barricade with only a dagger and sword but I knew from his coat of arms that he was a Vaudois."

  For a long time, Pianessa was silent. He sighed, shook his head once. "Never have I seen a man fight as he fought. He killed Huns like dogs, dropping them where they stood, one after the next, and somehow retook our demi-cannon. Then he swung them around to fire into our own position."

  His eyes opened wide. "I thought he was either a traitor or a fool until I realized it was our only hope. The battle was lost. We were going to die anyway, if events didn't change. So I joined him, and we fired blast after blast into their rear guard."

  "Why would you do that?"

  "A basic rule of war, my dear. If your enemy outnumbers you, separate them and fight one piece at a time." He nodded. "Yes, the Vaudois are wise. And even in the chaos of battle he does not forget wisdom. He is a worthy adversary."

  Elizabeth was listening intently. "This is the same man who defeated your troops today?" "Yes."

  The duchess waited a moment more, then strolled with flowing, aristocratic poise across her bedroom.

  "Can this man be bought?"

  Pianessa shook his head. "Doubtful." The Waldenses refuse to betray their neighbors even when we torture them. They have been raised to endure persecution. They prepare for it their entire lives. So when one is captured and.. .questioned.. .they are fully resolved to die with their secrets. I've seen it time and again. Today we burned six hundred of them at the stake and not a single one renounced." He seemed truly stunned as he took a deep breath. "Incredible ..."

  The duchess cradled her wine in both hands. "But, surely, even Rora has criminals imprisoned at El Torre. If you promised them full pardons, they might prove beneficial as spies ... or, even, as assassins ... for the right price."