Pianessa was an avid hunter and would often disappear for days, only to reappear with a huge stag or boar that he'd brought down in his unique, barbaric manner. And before he was hardly ten years old, Emmanuel had begun accompanying him. For a time he remained well shielded from the brutality and the blood, but eventually he was drawn into the ritual of the hunt, if only to be accepted by the others, and participated in the kill as thoroughly as all but Pianessa himself. But then no one was so thoroughly involved in the hunt as the marquis.
A true killer, Pianessa despised using a rifle on his favorite prey, the tuskheern—a particularly strong and evil-tempered boar more common to the Black Forest than Italy.
Roughly the equivalent weight of a man, tuskheern grew tusks six inches long that were easily capable of gutting a rider or horse. The animals were also incredibly dense with hard muscles perfectly designed for short bursts of speed. At close distances they could outrun or outmaneuver a horse, and if a rider dismounted he would barely land before he had to whirl into the attack of the beast, spear tight in his fists.
Most men preferred to take the notoriously temperamental creatures from the sanctity of a tree with a well-aimed rifle shot, but Pianessa preferred to use a spear.
Emmanuel had witnessed several of the marquis' legendary battles with the fearsome beasts, but he would not have believed the accounts otherwise.
After dogs ran the boar into a ravine or box canyon, Pianessa would advance upon it alone, spear in hand. Both he and the boar were amazingly quick, and though the boar could spin and strike within its own diameter, Pianessa had the advantage of cunning. He wisely used surrounding rocks to the advantage, stabbing deeply into the beast's side to withdraw just as quick, leaping to a new position as it attacked his last. Then, stabbing behind the neck, behind the shoulder, under the neck, the face, reducing it by blood loss, exhaustion, and fear he would savage it until it was dead on its feet. Then he would finish it—a plunging thrust that would pin it against rock or tree.
It was not pretty, or pretty to listen to, and Emmanuel had tired quickly of the rituals. He didn't remember when he had first deferred an invitation to the field, but he had never reconsidered. And he sensed that the marquis was instinctively aware of his disgust, but nothing had ever been intimated.
Emmanuel had never seen a man thrive on blood as did Pianessa. And it was not something that came with a season of boredom. Pianessa was addicted to the thrill of combat as some men were addicted to the thrill of wine or gambling or women. If the marquis was not on the battlefield, he was on the hunt. Emmanuel's last hunt also included his first fencing match with Pianessa.
After Pianessa had killed five boar in a single day and called for camp, his blood was still hot and he politely invited Emmanuel to a fencing match, all the known rules of practice—particularly "no blood"—and courtesy, to be honored. Although Emmanuel stood no chance against the marquis, he accepted. If he could not win the match, he would at least win respect.
Squaring off", Emmanuel circled slowly while Pianessa remained relatively in place, neither advancing nor retreating. Obviously, he was confident his extensive skill and experience, as well as his longer reach and superior strength, would be sufficient to nullify any youthful advantage of speed.
Unwilling to be patronized, Emmanuel struck with remarkable quickness. It was a smooth lunge and totally without warning, he thought, but Pianessa parried with casual unconcern before the blade was halfway to the target and they began to slowly circle.
Not to be intimidated, Emmanuel struck again, but the marquis was noticeably faster with the second parry, striking the blade powerfully aside to instantly return a riposte that caught Emmanuel flat-footed and shocked. Only at the last moment did Pianessa direct the saber so that it plunged harmlessly past his ribs, and Emmanuel knew he would have died then and there.
With a nod, the Duke of Savoy honorably acknowledged the point, as custom required, and Pianessa nodded, equally gracious. Onlookers applauded the noble restrain and respect indicated by the wordless exchange, but to Emmanuel it meant much more. It meant that he understood Pianessa was the true master, and he was only a boy-king—something that could never be said but with swords and in the training arena.
But the contest was not over. In a blinding series of parries, Pianessa repeatedly deflected Emmanuel's blade before lunging, but Emmanuel was prepared for the lionlike speed and parried to riposte.
Almost—almost—he caught Pianessa off-guard, but the marquis turned his torso just so and touched the saber with his bare hand to direct it perfectly past his shoulder. It was a delicate move executed with hairsbreadth precision and inhuman timing but Emmanuel could have come no closer in a real duel and would have probably died a second time as Pianessa's blade descended only to the crest of his unprotected forehead before the marquis stopped it in midair.
Although Pianessa was capable of startlingly swift attack—a storming largeness of attack when he surged inward with a bear's strength, his huge reach covering immense ground as his saber flashed up-down—and-plunging.
But Pianessa seldom resorted to such mocking displays of skill. Instead, he relied upon an uncanny ability to read the tiny, almost invisible gestures— a tiny shifting of weight, the blade raised or lowered a fraction of an inch, the straightening of one's back, the direction of an opponent's eyes, or the faintest bend of a leg or wrist—that signaled what an opponent was about to do.
In that discipline, indeed, Pianessa's ability was almost supernatural.
Yet by forcefully mixing feints into thrusts, Emmanuel slowly began to force Pianessa to greater speed. Once he even came close to a legitimate hit, but at the last moment Pianessa reacted with a blinding parry that almost tore Emmanuel's saber from his hand. And in that moment, alone, the prince had felt the mountainous might that struck behind that unbending blade, and he had known true fear. It was as if, in the blink of an eye, the Pianessa he had known was replaced by a monstrous force of nature that would destroy whatever stood before it.
In the end Emmanuel was soaked in sweat and had come no closer to touching Pianessa than touching the surface of the moon. The marquis had made sport for him—a lion playing with a kitten. Indeed, he had never expected to even appear to be Pianessa's equal with a blade. No man who ever lived was Pianessa's equal with a blade.
Pianessa's renown for hand-to-hand combat, pistol or sword, was recognized far beyond the borders of Piedmont. Indeed, he was feared throughout France and Spain and Germany for his mastery of fencing, his uncanny marksmanship, and prodigious strength. It was common gossip that he routinely entertained others as a youth by bending iron bars with his bare hands or by taking on all comers in Savate, a savage form of fighting invented by the French.
Taken together, Pianessa's legendary skills and superhuman strength were disturbing. But even more disturbing was Pianessa's inhuman indifference to life or death—including his own.
Perhaps that had something to do with his dreams ...
The sun was much higher when Emmanuel noticed it again, and he realized it was time to reluctantly prepare for the day.
His schedule contained a tour of the "pacified" villages with Sir Morland—an expedition Emmanuel had rigidly avoided until now. He had seen butchered bodies before; he did not need to see the Waldenses to know their flesh was red like any other man or that their bones glistened pink like any other man. He only worried what manner of righteous indignation the Puritans would dare to voice and how he would have to respond.
There was a point, of course, where he could not submit to criticism. He was a sovereign and he was not required, nor did he have any compulsion, to satisfy the moral tenants of England's Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell. But he was also a vulnerable sovereign who possessed neither the militia nor the resources to resist an attack by Cromwell's garrisons. They outnumbered his militia a hundred to one and would doubtless bring heavy cannon and mortar capable of reducing Turin to the ground.
The day had whi
tened from an orange tint to white, and the sun was blinding, almost painful. He didn't know when Sir Morland and his col-leagues would emerge, but he knew Puritans were not known for sleeping late. With a sigh he turned from the day and walked to his wardrobe. His knee-high riding boots and wool trousers and shirt were already selected.
Today he would dress as a hunter, as if he had the desire to ever hunt or kill anything ever again.
***
There was no dispute.
They would fight because they were doomed to die if they surrendered. But the fact that everyone was in agreement with the assessment did little to settle the angry and even violent attitudes of those gathered in the stable.
There were less than seven barbes remaining. The rest had been caught in their villages or on the roads of Piedmont and murdered outright or tortured to death. And the few who'd managed to crawl through enemy lines seemed angry for having survived the initial conflict. They were not so foolish as to wish that they had also been killed, but their guilt found expression in suicidal plans for revenge.
Seated on a wooden gate, Gianavel listened for more than an hour, waiting while every man spoke, including the most revered of the barbes, Aventius Solomai, who gave an inspiring monologue intended to boost spirits. And he waited until impulsive plans for assaults upon Turin were presented and rejected.
Then a voice erupted near the open door.
"We stand no chance of winning this war!"
Gianavel glanced at the prosperous, black-haired man; his name was Silas. He was a nobleman, one of Rora's largest landowners. Easily, he had enough gold to buy his life from the Inquisitors.
"Gentlemen!" Silas raised both hands. "Think about what you're saying! Fight them? Are you insane? They outnumber us a thousand to one! They have unlimited cannon and cavalry! What good does it do to continue a doomed fight?"
Aventius turned. "And so you will disobey God to obey men?"
"I will plead for mercy!"
"You will die without mercy!"
"And how do you know that?" Silas retorted, stepping forward as if to physically fight.
Aventius stretched out his staff toward the valley. "Six thousand souls slain by the sword tell me that I know!" He pointed at Silas. "Cowardice is a greater sin than violence!"
"Avaunt!" Silas shouted. "You are fool enough to call me coward?"
"I call any man coward who does not defend his family because he fears for his own life!"
One of Silas's men took a single step forward, and then Bertino’s low tone cut through the uproar. "Touch him not."
At the quiet words, the man stared.
Silas, surprised that his unspoken wrath was not executed, turned with unconcealed contempt to the big farmer. "First you would insult me and now you threaten me with base violence? You are twice as wrong as the others!"
Bertino shrugged. "I'm not inclined to be saving toothpicks when my house is on fire, Silas. Right or wrong, you lay hands on that old man, I'll break your arm."
Silas looked at his man, who was already sauntering back to the wall. There had been no growling threat in Bertino's words, just a quiet, unnerving resolve to do exactly what he had said. Men who struck without emotion were to be regarded much quicker and closer than men who struck in anger and fear.
Silas turned to the lofts. "We are fools to throw away our lives like this! What is a promise to their Church? Empty words that mean nothing! Can a man not speak one thing to the devil and believe another thing in his heart? And is the heart not more important? Is not what a man believes in his heart worth more than empty words? Of course it is! So why die for words? Is it not a small compromise to deceive them for the sake of peace?" He turned in every direction.
None answered.
Gianavel watched.
"Well?" Silas demanded. "Is it not worth a vain promise to make peace with these men who will kill us if we don't renounce? What benefit is there in fighting them?"
Aventius turned with an angry scowl. "What does it ever benefit a man to defend himself against evil? It preserves his soul!"
"Six thousand souls are dead because they resisted!"
"There is a death beyond death!" Aventius pointed with his staff. "Do not fear the One who can only destroy the body! Fear the One who can destroy the soul!"
"So you will throw away your life?" Silas dared to approach the older man. "Did God not make this body? Is this body to be thrown aside for a principle?" He advanced. "How will you minister to others if you're dead? Is it not better to lie and continue to live and carry on the work of God in hiding?"
"You do not speak of compromise!” Aventius thundered. "You speak of renouncing God! Bread, clothes, home, and possessions may be renounced! A man cannot renounce the Lord!"
Silas spun. "God judges the heart!"
"Yes!" Aventius declared with equal anger." God judges the heart! But God judges the heart by what man is required to know! There are many things man does not know! Why is there suffering? Why do the innocent perish when the wicked prosper? But we do know this: A man cannot renounce God with his words and preserve God in his heart!"
"You say!" retorted Silas. "Who are you to declare the judgment of God?"
Aventius stood in smoldering wrath. Then his mouth closed, as if in restraint, before he spoke. His tone was iron resounding on iron. "It is written; whoever believes in his heart and professes with his mouth that Jesus is Lord shall be saved.'"
"You cannot profess to be the last word on wisdom, Aventius!" Silas's frown was bitter. "And there is more than one way to serve God!"
Aventius calmed and spoke with a far more grave tone. "Is serving God your desire? Or is it preserving your skin?"
Silas gazed sullenly upon the barbe, then raised his gaze to the multitude. Finally he shook his head; his anger was dulled. "Then you sentence us to death."
Every head turned down.
Aventius looked to Gianavel. When the silence lengthened and no one spoke, Gianavel raised his head. He looked across those lining the stalls, those seated in the loft. He saw Bertino, stoic and immovable, and Hector and Jahier. They were waiting.
"The question," Gianavel began, "is whether we should fight, or not." He stepped out into the middle of the stable. "Before a man raises his hand to fight, he must know this: Does God require a man to fight this fight?"
Everyone watched, listening.
"It is not a choice to obey the laws of the Lord," he continued. "God has commanded us to obey His Word so that we may live. So how does fighting honor God? That is the question. And I will tell you the answer." He stared. "By establishing justice in the land."
"Justice?" Silas challenged.
"Yes," said Gianavel. "We fight to establish justice in the land. Because without justice ... there will be no peace. And God has instructed us to establish peace on the earth."
"How so?"
Gianavel met the eyes of all those staring upon him. "Peace has never been the reward of men who tried to make peace with violent men. Our brothers in the valley tried to make peace. They were murdered, because these men have no reason to desire peace. We have a duty to administer justice to those who break the law—a duty to instill a desire for peace in those who would not desire peace."
"An eye for an eye?" the man muttered.
"'It is written,'" Gianavel began slowly, "tooth for tooth, eye for eye, piece for piece, life for life.'" He paused a long time. "It is also written: ‘If a man strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other, also.' And it is written: 'When I was with you, you did not need a sword. But now I am going to be with the Father, and if you do not have a sword, sell your cloak and buy one.'
"It is not easily that men shed the blood of men, and God will hold each man accountable for every thought and every action. Yet there is a time to establish peace in the land. And if that involves confronting those who crush down the weak—those would destroy the poor, the widows and orphans and anyone else in their path, we have a responsibility to take courage and s
top them."
Gianavel continued, "Those who take up the sword do not take it in vain, and every government is established by God. But men who murder are not representatives of any government. They are murderers, not soldiers." He raised a finger. "And the law says that a man shall not murder. Nor shall a murderer go unpunished. To not punish a murderer for his crime is also against the law. Yes, men must be punished for murder or there will be no justice in the land. And if there is no justice, there will be no peace."
Gianavel became more severe. "This is the darkest hour a man may face. We have been sentenced to death for obeying the laws of God and breaking the laws of man. But what are we to do? Disobey the laws of God to obey the laws of men? Renounce God to preserve our own lives?" He waited a long time, and then longer. No one spoke; many bowed their heads or looked away.
"Each man here must make a decision," he said at last. "I do not expect, nor will I ask, any man to do anything that stands against his conscience, for God speaks to a man through the spirit, and the spirit knows things the mind will never know. But each man must search his heart before God and ask God what is the right thing to do in this valley of death. Should we refuse to defend ourselves against murderers and rapists and thieves?"
Gianavel shook his head. "I do not fight for vengeance. I do not fight to save this flesh that will die soon enough. I fight because God has ordered men to defend the poor, the weak, and the sick from those who would destroy them. I fight because I know that without justice there will never be peace for our children or our children's children. And if I should die fighting to establish justice, what is my loss?"
He took a stance so that all could see him. He spoke so that all could hear him.
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