Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  "In time," the cardinal answered. "First, listen, and I will teach you wisdom. For wisdom, alone, will preserve you." He took a moment. "The most powerful player in this drama is Cardinal Guilio Raimondo Mazzarino of France. Only Mazarin can protect you when you do what must be done."

  "But Louis is King of France."

  Fabio Chigi laughed. "Louis is only a child, Savoy. Think of what you are saying."

  Emmanuel was only five years old when he became the Duke of Savoy, but his regent mother, the Duchess Christina, allowed him to participate in decision-making from the first. Still, he'd made no practical decisions until he was much older.

  "Yes, of course. But how much influence does Cardinal Mazarin have in Italy? The Italian cardinals have shut him out of the Vatican. Even his own parliament tried to overthrow him in France."

  Fabio Chigi shrugged. "Popular support is not as important as support of the nobles. And support of the nobles is not as important as the support of the military. Cardinal Mazarin has carefully built an extraordinary political machine that merges support from both factions. The common people might yet have dissident bones to pick, but they are not in a position to dictate political policy."

  If that was Fabio Chigi's conclusion, Emmanuel certainly had no inclination to debate. Chigi had survived numerous wars during his tenure as cardinal and was intimately familiar with overthrowing old regimes and establishing new ones.

  Leaning forward, the cardinal smiled. "Not the kind of games you prefer, Savoy?"

  "No, Holiness."

  "Nor I, but it is a game you must learn." He cupped his chin. "So, you wish to end the war against the Waldenses because they are under your sovereign and you would have mercy upon them."

  "Yes."

  "Yes, as I do. But this war will not end unless the Waldenses defeat the army of Piedmont, or the army of Piedmont is withdrawn from the field."

  "If the Inquisitors order me to send Pianessa into the field, I cannot disobey without risking my throne. And if I lose my throne I will be no good to anyone, including the Waldenses." Emmanuel paused, shook his head. "I don't know what to do."

  The cardinal nodded compassionately. "It is a complex affair, but let me put it simply: The Inquisitors control your army. But Cardinal Benedict controls the Inquisitors. If the Inquisitors, then Cardinal Benedict, can be silenced, the end is near."

  A stunned silence.

  "Are you suggesting I kill Cardinal Benedict?"

  "Of course not, Savoy."

  "Oh."

  "Competent assassins are far too difficult to find."

  Emmanuel blinked at the wall.

  "No," the cardinal reproved, "more subtle means must be used to abate Cardinal Benedict's appetite for war. Something beyond your power and which cannot be traced back to your intrigues. Something ... barbaric and uncontrollable. Something... English."

  "English!"

  Fabio Chigi's gaze was trained on the young prince. "Have you not heard recent reports from England, my son?"

  "No. Nothing useful."

  "Have you not heard that Oliver Cromwell, that great, imperious, and somewhat unhinged Lord Protector of England is gravely incited over this mistreatment of the Waldenses?" The cardinal appeared surprised. "What of your spies, Savoy? Do they do nothing?"

  Emmanuel grimaced. "Well, I have not yet designed a suitable network of reliable—"

  "Foolish boy!" Fabio Chigi rebuked sternly. "Have you learned nothing from Simon?" Emmanuel slouched as the old priest walked to his desk and lifted a parchment. "This is a copy of a letter that is to be sent to Louis of France. It passionately pleads the cause of the Waldenses and begs for you to end this war."

  Emmanuel could say nothing.

  The cardinal did not hesitate: "It is composed by England's most revered poet, John Milton, in defense of Gianavel and his people. I will quote his words; 'In regard to the people of Piedmont, after a barbarous slaughter of persons of both sexes, and of all ages, a treaty of peace was concluded, or rather secret acts of hostility were committed, the more securely under the name of pacification." Cardinal Fabio Chigi turned to Emmanuel. "You know, of course, to what Milton refers?"

  "Yes; the ancient treaty with the Waldenses which grants them freedom of faith."

  "Exactly." He renewed the letter: "'The conditions of the treaty were determined in your town of Pinerolo; hard conditions enough, but such as these poor people would gladly have agreed to after the horrible outrages to which they had been exposed, provided that they had been faithfully observed. But they were not observed; the meaning of the treaty is evaded and violated by putting a false interpretation upon some of the articles and by straining others. Many of the complainants have been deprived of their patrimonies and many have been forbidden the exercise of their religion. New payments have been exacted and a new fort has been built to keep them in check, from whence a disorderly soldiery makes frequent sallies and plunders or murders all it meets. In addition to these matters, fresh levies of troops are clandestinely preparing to march against them. And those among them who profess the Roman Catholic religion have been advised to retire in time so that everything threatens the speedy destruction of such as escaped the former massacres.'"

  The cardinal took a deep breath, resumed: "I do therefore beseech and conjure Your Majesty not to suffer such enormities and not to permit (I will not say any prince, for surely such barbarity never could enter into the heart of a prince, much less of one of the Duke s tender age, or into the mind of his mother) those accursed murderers to indulge in such savage ferocity, who, while they profess to be the servants and followers of Christ, who came into the world to save sinners, do blaspheme his name, and transgress his mild precepts by the slaughter of innocent men. Oh, that Your Majesty, who has the power, and who ought to be inclined to use it, may deliver so many supplicants from the hands of murderers, who are already drunk with blood, and thirst for it again, and who take pleasure in throwing the odium of their cruelty upon princes. I implore Your Majesty not to suffer the borders of your kingdom to be polluted by such monstrous wickedness.

  "'Remember that this very race of people threw itself upon the protection of your grandfather, King Henry IV, who was most friendly disposed towards the Protestants when the Duke of Lesdiguieres passed victoriously through their country, as affording the most commodious passage into Italy at the time, he pursued the Duke of Savoy in his retreat across the Alps. The act or instrument of that submission is still extant among the public records of your kingdom, in which it is provided that the Vaudois shall not be transferred to any other government, but upon the same condition that they were received under the protection of your invincible grandfather."

  Almost reverently, Fabio Chigi laid the parchment upon the desk. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and stood with head bowed.

  "Sublime loftiness," pronounced the cardinal. "John Milton sometimes falls to mere eloquence. But his casual nature is the magnificent. He can convince when conviction is needed, but it is his unique power to astonish."

  Emmanuel released a breath, unaware that he had withheld it for so long. He required a moment to recover from the soaring eloquence that had dominated the chamber.

  "Cardinal Mazarin is not unaware of your plight. You should receive an official transcript of this letter one week after it is accepted by Louis." Chigi paced again toward the hearth. "Your plan should be this; you must silence the most influential and powerful of the Inquisitors. Then you must—"

  "And how do I do that?" asked Emmanuel.

  The cardinal shook his head. "I don't have the answer to every dilemma, Savoy—use your imagination." As Emmanuel stared, Chigi continued, "Yes, you will silence the Inquisitors. Then you will note the extreme cost of this war to Cardinal Benedict and declare that you can no longer afford such foolishness. You will also reason that, should hostilities against the Waldenses continue, Cromwell will likely invade Piedmont and remove your kingdom from Italy's domain."

  In stillnes
s, Fabio Chigi measured the plan. "And so you will silence the Inquisitors and use the excuse of a depleted treasury and the threat of an invasion by Cromwell against Cardinal Benedict. Mazarin will protect you from Benedict. Even Rome cannot remove your kingdom with Cromwell involved, and the Waldenses will be preserved." He was studious. "Quite simple, really, as intrigues go."

  "How do you know I will be able to use Cromwell?"

  "Because you receive a visitor on the morrow."

  Emmanuel's voice was softer. "Who?"

  "His name is Sir Samuel Morland. He is an ambassador of Cromwell and, like Cromwell, a Puritan. Morland has recently passed through the territory of the Swiss. He also will bring a petition from Cromwell penned by Milton. But what it contains, exactly, I have not discovered."

  "I'm shocked."

  Cardinal Chigi lifted a hand. "Unfortunately, my operatives, while dedicated, are not ubiquitous."

  Only flames invaded the silence as Emmanuel gazed solemnly out the scarlet-draped window to the starless expanse beyond. It was odd that the sky was so devoid of light. But everything was dense and obscure, blending into inseparable gray.

  "I doubt that Cromwell will invade," Emmanuel said quietly. "He would risk war with the French, and he has not long finished his war against the Irish." He became studious. "No, Cromwell will not invade."

  "Perhaps," said Cardinal Chigi, bringing his fingers together in a pyramid, "perhaps not. But you miss the point, my boy."

  Emmanuel sighed. "What's the point?"

  "The strength of a threat is not in whether it will be executed. The strength of a threat is in whether your enemy believes it will be executed." Chigi smiled, letting that settle. "Cardinal Benedict’s ambitions reveal him, Emmanuel. He mercilessly exterminates the Waldenses, but for what reason? Never in history have these poor mountain people been a danger to anyone—not even to Rome. Indeed, left to themselves, they are peaceful, industrious, and almost utterly devoid of corruption. So what do they possess that others desire? Certainly not political influence. What else remains?"

  "Wealth." Emmanuel shrugged. "Everyone knows that the Waldenses, while they are not rich, are prosperous because of their agriculture. They work hard. Their valleys are fertile. They always have plenty to pay taxes."

  "So why doesn't Cardinal Benedict end this war for a large sum of gold coin?"

  Emmanuel stared back. "I don't know. Why doesn't he?"

  With a laugh, Fabio Chigi bent forward. "There are two means of satisfying a man's greed, Savoy. The first means—give him all the gold he desires. But, as you know, that becomes expensive. The second means is far easier to accomplish."

  "Which is?"

  "To threaten the loss of what gold he already possesses."

  Emmanuel considered it. "Threaten the loss of the gold he already possesses ... And how, exactly, do I accomplish that?"

  The aged cardinal became more sober. "You are not alone, Savoy. The Waldenses themselves must play a part in his drama. They must frustrate Pianessa’s army. They must make this war too expensive—even for you."

  Emmanuel seemed as if he'd aged ten years in aspect and tone. "So, even if I wisely play my part, it still comes down to the Waldenses."

  Grave, the cardinal nodded.

  "Yes," Emmanuel muttered. "And so this man, Gianavel—outnumbered a thousand to one—must hold Rora against Pianessa s army until Cromwell's invasion looms on the horizon. Then I must silence the Inquisitors and pray that Mazarin will protect me from Benedict. And this war shall have an ending."

  Fabio Chigi smiled with compassion.

  "Now you understand the game you play, Emmanuel.... I suggest you play it well."

  *

  Chapter 7

  Gianavel did not know from what decimated corners of Piedmont the people came, but they came in great numbers, bearing blankets and clothes and provisions—some with freshly killed cattle, sheep, or antelope, others with weapons.

  Watching from the second floor of Hector's home where Angela had moved their belongings to be out of the path of new arrivals, he estimated the refugees at two hundred men, women, and children. Most had fled with what little they could carry. Their pale, haggard faces and bloodied feet testified to what suffering they had endured to reach this place.

  The Alpine peaks, even in summer, were unforgiving. The calcite cliffs could easily slice through shoes and even boots. And the huge slopes allowed no place to bind the bleeding, which resulted in long bloody paths that ascended from view, the remains of those who struggled across the crest. The mountain had no allies, and past wars recorded more men killed by the cliffs themselves, caught in a sudden storm or darkness or avalanche, than by cannons and bullets.

  In 1554 an entire battalion of French pike-men, intent on destroying the Waldenses, became lost on the face of the Castelluzo and were almost entirely destroyed before daybreak. The story of the horror that befell them as men began to panic, precipitating avalanches of entire platoons, remained a cautionary lesson to all invaders. And since that event, army after army had avoided a direct onslaught against the cliffs, knowing prudence would allow a better occasion.

  Watching the arrivals, Gianavel was concerned about a report that criminals, and even select Vaudois, had been handsomely paid to lead a surprise attack upon Rora along the little-known trails. But he could detect nothing overtly suspicious or curious about the stragglers.

  Still, as a precaution, he had ordered all those who possessed the knowledge and ability to navigate the trails to serve as scouts. Sent out in pairs, they encircled the valley, each independent of the other. None knew the others movements, none could take authority over the other, and all were watching the next, insuring that no one betrayed their planned paths of retreat.

  Now he had only to organize and train the army God had given him and fight what battle came. Brooding, he turned from the window to Angela and said nothing as he walked to the bed and collapsed onto his back, arms outstretched.

  Resting a hand upon his chest, Angela lay beside him. Her voice was subdued. "Are you afraid?"

  Eyes narrowing at the ceiling, Gianavel sighed. "Yes ... I'm afraid."

  "No one believes that you know fear," she added. "They call you the 'Lion of God.'"

  Gianavel pulled her closer. "If a commander is afraid, his men sense his fear and lose heart. If a leader fights boldly and without fear, his men take courage from his courage."

  "I wonder, sometimes," she whispered, "why it has to be you? Why does the man I love, the father of my children, have to be the one to stand against this ... this darkness."

  Gently, Gianavel tightened his arm around her shoulders.

  "It isn't fair," she said.

  Silence lengthened.

  "No," Gianavel said quietly. "It isn't."

  "I wish I had some answer to all my questions."

  He shook his head minutely. "There's no answer to any of this—not that I can see." He paused. "The cause of suffering ... If men do not suffer, then they don't know hope. If they don't know hope, then they don't know faith. And without faith they don't come to know God. But the Earth is sufficient for hardship. It doesn't need the assistance of man. So I say that suffering caused by man is evil, because it has no higher purpose than man himself."

  A knock at the door.

  Gianavel arose. "Come."

  The door swung open and Aunt Felice stood with hands at her sides. She smiled. "Boin matin, signore. Captains Laurentio and Jahnier have arrived."

  Gianavel nodded. "Tell them I'll be down in a moment."

  "Oui." The old woman quietly closed the door. As her footsteps descended on the stairway, Gianavel donned his saber, two flintlock pistols, a dagger and ammunition pouch. He slid a long poniard into each knee-high boot and a belly pistol into a leather harness inside his left sleeve. Last he lifted his necklace—a golden cross suspended on a leather strap— around his neck.

  With Angela, Gianavel knelt beside the bed, firmly holding her hand. Eyes closed, he pray
ed, "Lord, give me lucidity of thought to do rightly. Guard me from snares laid by my enemies so that I will not dishonor you. Protect my dear Angela and our children from our enemies. And if it be Thy will, bring an end to this fighting. Amen."

  "Amen," said Angela and then she hugged Gianavel fiercely and longer than usual. "I love you," she whispered.

  Gianavel held her for as long as he could allow and then gently pulled her arms from his neck, cupping her face close with both palms. "I'll always come back to you."

  Angela closed her eyes as Gianavel stood and pulled her up, and together they walked from the room and into the rising cacophony of the room below.

  ***

  The chorus of colliding voices quieted immediately as Gianavel appeared on the balcony. All eyes fixed on the captain. Gianavel took his time to gaze over them, seeming to measure the voices and aspects. Then without a word or gesture he moved down the bannister and stepped onto the floor where he boldly extended his hand to a man with long blond hair and thick barrel chest.

  The man wore the old-fashioned heavy plate armor of a crusader on his chest—armor slightly scarred but well maintained—and stood a half-head taller than the Captain of Rora.

  Gianavel smiled. "It's good to see you, Jahier."

  Jahier's beard lifted in a hearty smile. "Good to see you too, Joshua." The smile slowly faded. "I heard of yesterday. I am sorry. I suppose there's no need telling you that Pianessa has encircled you from Turin to Carboneri, ten thousand strong. We barely slid through ourselves—not a stunt I'd try twice."

  Gianavel didn't even glance at those surrounding them, listening to every word. "It's a long ride from Campignola. Eat first, then we'll talk. How many men came with you?"

  "Forty with the will to take part in the suggestion of war and who don't fear the blood," Jahier muttered as they reached the door. "Half have experience with cannon and musket. The others are young, but no younger than you and I when we first wielded a sword."

  Their dark silhouettes blocked out the cube of white that filled the doorway, lightened their outlines as if they were stepping beyond the earth—a single step, two, and they were gone.