Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  Never had Lockhart seen a man killed so efficiently. It was as if the night itself had reached out and struck the ruffian and with the silent sweep of darkness vanished again, leaving the viewer uncertain whether he had seen anything at all.

  ***

  Alone in his room, Lockhart cleaned his pistol and rifle, swabbing out the barrels with warm water while keeping a second set of pistols loaded and primed.

  In addition to cleaning them every night, he had long ago adopted the habit of firing them in the morning to insure they were continuously tested and freshly loaded. He'd seen men die dry-firing a pistol they'd loaded only two days before. He had no intention of making that his last mistake on earth.

  He turned his mind to more inevitable events and studied the street below his third-floor chamber. Only a few Parisians littered the walkway, not enough to accomplish some riotous stunt even if they wished. Yet he could not shake the—he hated to use the term—"creepy" sensation that clung to his back.

  Gazing across the street, he mentally ran through the rudimentary lessons of spying. Never alter your schedule, never do anything out of character, never look over your shoulder, never whisper in the presence of others, never confess to anything, for your accusers may be bluffing, never carry incriminating papers. It was best not to be seen, but if you are seen, then advertise your presence. And Lockhart had invented his own particular technique for deception—it was a measure of true genius to appear far too stupid to be dangerous.

  The mostly empty street made it far easier to detect surveillance. There were no elements of militia in sight other than random patrols and official guardsmen. The weather was fair, and the evening was coming apace. From what he could observe, all the basic advantages were present for a covert midnight run to reach the house of Cardinal Mazarin, which is what Cromwell specifically instructed him to do.

  He was not, by any means, to attempt to reach the cardinal during the day, because Mazarin was still much hated and feared by too many within his own government. Although Mazarin had defeated his enemies during the revolution, such men do not easily forget defeat. Even now they would execute swift vengeance, for whatever vague cause, if they had enough to call a tribunal. And the French had never been severe about evidence or testimony, which is why so many heads had rolled not five years ago.

  Now, at last, there was a sense of permanent government, but governments were comprised of people, and people were not permanent. King Louis, still a child, had the advantage of having survived the revolution, and when he came to manhood he would, doubtless, not forget the reign of lawless terror that almost drove him from the throne, nor those who caused it. Lockhart did not doubt that some battles would be finished only after Louis came into his own, so to speak.

  He lowered the curtain and turned into the chamber.

  It was opulent and spacious, as everything in Paris seemed to be. He'd decided that the French considered largeness synonymous with grandiosity. But, personally, he was a man of conscript taste and considered it somewhat capricious.

  His legs had ceased trembling from the deep fatigue of riding, but Lockhart was profoundly weary. He moved to the thick feather bed and was careful to once again ram the ball home in his pistol and recharge the pan with fresh powder before propping it upright on the dresser. His rifle, similarly charged, stood upright beside the headboard, and his saber and dagger hung from the post. He did not particularly anticipate an attack in the few hours he had to rest. But he was a professional, and there were rules. And once a man began to break the rules, either by complacency or laziness, he was doomed.

  As he lay down, Lockhart wondered about this Cardinal Mazarin. Wondered if the intrigue-shrouded priest would see the convoluted political benefits of interceding for the Waldenses, or perhaps do it simply because it was right. Or, then, perhaps the legendary Mazarin would order him shot as a spy.

  He decided not to dwell on that scenario. He was in this now, and returning to England with a confession of cowardice was not an option. So, as he had so often done in battle, he considered himself dead anyway. It was for peace of mind but also for survival. The conviction allowed him to sleep and behave without undue concern, which was as dangerous as too much concern.

  Sleep descended before he closed his eyes.

  ***

  It was a depressingly short journey to the outskirts of the valley of Rora, hardly more than an hour’s ride, and while they were yet miles away, Emmanuel had detected black plumes of smoke. He knew that the largest measure of the butchery had been completed days before, and that only those "above the Pelice," as it was called, remained. But he still feared what dreadful display of ruined creatures they might encounter by accident.

  He'd had the foresight to send patrols ahead of their carefully selected route, insuring that no ghastly displays would be encountered. But such precautions were only adequate for what was here when the patrols passed, not what happened to wander from the forests afterward. He felt slight relief that there had not yet been any events that would galvanize the Old Testament indignation of Sir Samuel Morland.

  He glimpsed Morland pointing once again toward the Castelluzo. "These mountains that I have observed for hours—they mark the perimeter of Rora?"

  Cantering beside the Puritan, Emmanuel replied, "It's their western boundary."

  "Is there a pass?"

  "A trail begins on the far side of the River Pelice." Emmanuel recalled the stiff angle of the climb and added, "It reaches the summit after a very difficult ascent, then descends rather comfortably into the valley beyond."

  The Puritan studied the mountain range. "Yes ... a natural fortress."

  Emmanuel admitted, "Their valley is quite inaccessible, particularly when they are defending the pass."

  "This pass is the only access to their land?"

  "No." Emmanuel pointed to the west. "A ravine, probably no more than four miles in length but exceedingly difficult to climb. It leads from El Torre and almost immediately enters the mountains. As I said, it's a difficult climb, but it presents a far more difficult descent. More men have been killed descending than climbing."

  "Interesting," the Puritan remarked with the gaze of a soldier. "Yes, God has provided them a great defense. I understand why your first two attacks against the village were repulsed."

  Emmanuel felt no impulse to defend Mario's stupidity, but neither did he think it prudent to slight Pianessa's capabilities. In this uncertain situation, the fact that Pianessa was indeed a brilliant general was more advantage than not.

  "Pianessa did not expect such a spirited defense," he said, attempting to sound offhand. "I believe he has summoned his finest officers to deal with the situation."

  It was then that what Emmanuel had dreaded finally occurred— occurred with a stunning white drama that caused his entire reality to change, as if a curtain were lifted on a stage, revealing a wasteland beyond burning with black slag and volcano-like plumes of fire. He heard the Puritan charge his horse, and Sir Morland was riding before him, his right hand descending to spur the stallion forward.

  The Puritan s black cloak swept up, blocking the ghastly image of whatever poor creature had stumbled from the forest. It was difficult to determine, exactly, what it was because Emmanuel caught only the briefest glance of a red, humanlike thing emerging from the forest gloom, covered in blood with hands outstretched to the sky, mouth silently screaming in what had once been a face that had once had eyes.

  ***

  When Gianavel entered Hectors house he found Angela dressing the wounds of a farmer Gianavel had known all of his life. The man's arms and face were heavily bandaged, and he was calm and silent. Only a slight rising of his chest gave evidence that he was still alive.

  Bending, Gianavel kissed Angela on the cheek, and she reached up to take his hand. But she didn't immediately turn to him. Instead, she said softly, "They killed his wife and children. He suffered his burns trying to save them." He gently placed a hand on the old man's forehead. "They
're the fortunate ones."

  Almost soundless, Gianavel sat on the bench behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her again, then she placed her hands on his, leaned her head back. He caught the scent of tears and sensed that she was close to collapse.

  Movements and sound were subdued within Hector's house, as if any disturbance would only further stress the wounded. Those attending the suffering, including an old woman long known for her expertise in herbal remedies, moved quietly from cot to cot. On the far side of the room a still body was carried into the day, no words spoken.

  "He would have been forty years old next month," she said, then looked across the room. "Pavel, there in the corner, was a carpenter. They cut off his hands and cauterized the wounds so he would not die before they could torture him to death. But he escaped and some others brought him here in a wagon."

  She sighed, looked over the entire room. "They are not casualties of war. They're people ... like us. They love and fear. They suffer pain like anyone else. I think men can only do these things when they no longer think of people as human beings."

  Gianavel waited, but she said nothing more. He tightened his arms around her. "You're strong," he said quietly. "You can endure this."

  She didn't smile. "Can I?" There was a long pause filled with sorrow. "I wonder what kind of life we will have when this war ends, if it ever ends."

  "There will be an ending."

  "And how do you know that, my love?"

  "There is an end to all things," Gianavel said. "Even war." He took a deep breath, released it slowly, thoughtfully. "There is a price men are not willing to pay for hate."

  "I don't see that, Joshua," she said. "I only see these people tortured and killed by other people who have no pity or remorse. They're savages." She paused. "Is that what life is? Constantly fighting like savages to stay alive?"

  Gianavel shook his head, silent.

  "Promise me, Joshua."

  "Promise you what?"

  "Don't let them do this to me. Promise that you will not leave me like this." She collapsed back against him. "Death would be better than this. At least in death we will be with God and have peace. This world is not worth this suffering."

  Gianavel hesitated a long time—long enough to know what he should say, despite how he felt. "I promise."

  "And something else."

  "Yes"

  "If they capture me or the children, and they use us against you, do not surrender your faith." Her tone had a sense of urgency. "I have seen that this world is suffering through and through. There's no end to it. There never will be. Not while men live like this. And we both know death is not the end. Death is only a temporary change ... and a small price to pay for peace."

  Gianavel was silent, and she sat forward and turned to him, placing a hand on his face. "Your promise ..."

  Gianavel bowed his head, and she wrapped it in her arms. He sighed, so tired now, so much more tired than before.

  "I promise," he whispered.

  ***

  It was over. As quickly as it began, it was over, and Sir Samuel Morland stood slowly, his cape billowing to a rising night wind that was closing cold about them. Frowning, he stared numbly over the mutilated man who had collapsed as they reached him, dying in the Puritan's arms.

  If the man had had a tongue, he might have spoken of who had done this. If he had had eyes, he might have communicated his pain. But he had no means to reveal what only he knew, though it hardly mattered now.

  With Emmanuel's soldiers standing in a passive circle and Morland's friends kneeling beside the dead man, the Duke of Savoy knew he was out of time. If they had not come across this travesty, he might have bought another month from the Puritan, pleading complications of the Inquisitors. But that was impossible now.

  There would be no turning the fury of the Puritan, and Emmanuel anxiously braced for an onslaught, not certain how he would deal with it. Expecting an emotional outburst, he was struck even more powerfully when Sir Morland spoke in a voice somber and controlled and utterly void of weakness or pity or the kind of emotional impulse that leads to regret. Rather, it was a voice that communicated quite plainly that he had decided upon a course of action and would follow it through to the end, though it cost him his life.

  His words were cold and bitter.

  "If it is war you want," he said, "then you shall have war."

  It was not that Blake had been particularly shocked by the atrocities he had witnessed while traversing this mountain that still had no name. He only knew that he had seen more than one display of human carnage, or relic, or warning, or whatever these madmen called them, at switchbacks in the trail and spread alongside streams.

  No, he was not shocked, but he was moved beyond anything he could remember. He had seen wars uncounted, had seen entire nations destroyed by barbaric invasions that turned entire cities into open tombs. But he had not yet witnessed cruelties so keen, deaths so meticulously executed, nor such passion for blood as he had seen today. In this war, not even the dead had any peace.

  But, as distracting as the horror was—made all the more so because the visages were placed where a man afoot would encounter them fully and without warning—Blake couldn't let his acute attention to tactics dull. He forced himself to think of the bloody altars as animal and not human, not a creature like himself, so that he did not stumble deaf and blind into a hostile patrol.

  He had rarely seen a mountain range, if that is what it was, so cut with streams. It seemed as though he could not travel more than five minutes without having to cross another stream, and the bulk of the mountain still loomed above him. Not that it was impossibly high, probably no more than a thousand feet, but it was so sheer that it might as well have been ten thousand. In some places he saw where a crack might be climbed to the summit, but he had no intention of hanging on that merciless face when darkness closed, which it would do in less than an hour.

  Instead, he had moved toward the village of Rora from the southwest, stoically wading across one freezing stream after another, the price of remaining beneath the snow-striped mountain. The incredible frustration was that he could see where he wanted to get. He just couldn't figure out how to get there.

  He had moved probably less than a mile in the less sparsely covered slope to the east, and his feet were already twisted and aching from the monotony of walking at a slant. He half considered descending lower so he could at least walk like a man and not an ape, but he was afraid he might miss some obscure trail that cut up through the cliff—doubtless there was some secret trail known only to the natives.

  The sound of men approaching snapped Blake into action. Instantly descending, he moved for a cluster of trees that seemed impossible to reach before they were upon him. But he picked up speed quickly as he relaxed his knees and found himself fairly flying down the slope. He knew that one misstep at this rate of descent would mean catastrophic injury or worse, but he preferred a danger that was known to one unknown.

  He reached out to snatch the first suitable tree, swinging like a door on a hinge before he fell to the ground, and even as he blinked to focus, he saw men walking along the trail. Utilizing what he considered to be the best means for determining friend or foe, Blake watched to see if they moved like criminals or magistrates.

  Noisy, confident ... not fugitives.

  Anyone trapped within Rora, outnumbered and outgunned, would doubtless move like a criminal if they wished to avoid patrols, which he had been informed encircled the mountains. The patrols themselves would be moving with authority—bold, confident. But after watching this group for a few moments, Blake decided they didn't even move like trained soldiers. Rifles slung over shoulders like fishing poles and a lack of flanking patrols indicated a fatal tendency toward sloppiness. If they had gone up against the Waldenses already, they hadn't survived because of soldiering skills.

  After they passed, he waited another half hour, until darkness had settled deeper over the mountains and only the daunti
ng cliff above him loomed against the stars over an ocean of black. Only then did he emerge cautiously—much more cautiously than before—and begin a careful tack through the trees that carried him parallel to the trail. Although that had only been one patrol, there would be more, and reaching the Waldenses might be more difficult than he'd anticipated.

  From what Blake had encountered, he knew this was unlike any religious war he'd ever seen. There were no uniformed papal patrols, no righteous stumps of holy men exhorting the minions to storm the summit for the honor and glory of God and Rome. No ... he'd seen vagabond patrols with a disturbing tendency for dismembering the dead and displaying body parts on makeshift wooden altars as the Druids supposedly did before Julius Caesar wiped them from the forests of northern England.

  He heard nothing unnatural as he moved deeper through the woods, staying close to the trunks of trees to avoid the widely scattered sticks that could not be seen. And as he did he suddenly caught a glimpse of a low valley of sparse lights that cut into the mountain above. It was not far off, perhaps a half mile. And if it were what he suspected, he would be within the homeland of the Waldenses before midnight.

  In an uncommon moment of hope, Blake wondered what manner of men these might be. Then, remembering the grisly row of heads, he wondered whether there would be any at all.

  *

  Chapter 12

  The Plain of Giovanni—three miles distant from the stronghold of the Waldenses—was black and swarming with a blanket of mercenaries, cavalry, cannon, and the militia of Piedmont.

  Over a mile in diameter, the field crawled with clusters of the five thousand troops that separated in regiments, battalions, platoons, and squads under the authority of generals, captains, and lieutenants. If France or Spain themselves had been threatening the borders of Piedmont, there could have not been a more thorough preparation for war.

  Pianessa strode boldly onto the dais where warlords dressed in armor of chain mail and leather stood patiently. Each of the warriors was a formidable and threatening image, most having earned their position by the strength of their sword, as nepotism did not prolong a man's life or career once a conflict was joined. And yet, as fearsome as they appeared, they were but shades of the Marquis de Pianessa s awesome and powerful countenance.