He had time to twist in the air to see the dark water on fire beneath him and then he was descending through the rushing night. He did not feel it when he struck a lower ledge that broke his bones and crushed his organs into jelly, and then he saw the water on fire and watched its approach until he knew nothing more.
Nor would he remember riding the next day within a wagon bearing the wounded to Lucerna. Nor would his ravaged body remember its ride within another wagon three days later—a wagon that hauled those killed by defenders of Rora to a mass grave that, five hundred years later, would still not bear a single name of those buried there.
***
The outcry, like a huge wave building at sea and approaching the shore in the darkness of night, swept over the camp before the first stragglers arrived in groups of two or three, supporting each other with staffs and their own shoulders. Almost all had lost their rifles and weapons, and some were still smoldering in the cool evening, even their bare skin creating steam like rising frost.
Bloody wounds had white ghosts hovering over them, the blood warming the air above them into steam, and few spoke as they collapsed in a bivouac that was prepared. But the makeshift field hospital had been designed to handle only a small number of wounded, and in no time all the blankets were claimed. And still they shambled in from the night, sometimes in teams of twenty and thirty, and finally every cot, bedroll, wagon, and tent cover was lined with bodies like the cargo of a slave ship.
Pianessa stalked beside the telescope, ignoring it all. He spoke to no one, answered no questions. Then a ravaged figure, almost utterly black with his face scarred and a red beard half burned from his face, emerged from between torches. Seeing him, Pianessa lowered his arms, staring.
Sergeant Major Duncan was a travesty of the man he had appeared before the battle. His eyes were flat and dead like a man who had seen the depths of hell. He spoke directly to Pianessa. "My Lord?"
With a scowl, Pianessa stared. "Yes?"
"Have you fortified the camp?"
Pianessa cursed quietly and looked away. He voiced disdain born of contempt. "Gianavel wouldn't dare attack my camp."
"This man knows war," the sergeant countered sharply. He did not blink at Pianessa's angry gaze.
"Sergeant, you are wounded. I will deal with the security of the camp." When Duncan did not move, Pianessa regarded him as if he were mad. "Did you not hear me?"
"I heard "Duncan replied in a dead tone. He took several steps forward, his eyes no longer responsive to life. "This man knows war, Pianessa. I have never seen his equal. He ambushed us with torches hidden inside jars of clay."
Pianessa squinted. "What?"
"Jars of clay," Duncan said distinctly. "They were on the cliff the entire time that we were climbing. All of them, waiting with torches concealed within jars of clay. We could not see the flames, but the flames could burn. Then they broke the jars at the same time by some prearranged signal. They waited until we were in their very face, ignorant and exposed, before they struck. This man is wise."
Teeth gleamed as Pianessa muttered, "See to your wounds, Sergeant. That is an order."
For a moment it was not certain whether the sergeant was conspicuously disobeying an order or if he simply could not compel himself to move. Then he said, "Pianessa, use caution. We killed six thousand of these people in the valley and did not lose a single man. But this man has killed six thousand of us in a single night."
For a moment all was still, and it seemed the sergeant would say something more. Then with the same deadness with which he'd arrived, he departed.
Pianessa stared after him immobile, then glanced at a few of those standing nearby. His voice was bitter. "Insure that all those returning are stripped of weapons and arms."
A lieutenant hesitated. "But, sire ... why?"
"As potential spies, you fool!"
Pianessa stared after the outburst, as if inviting a challenge. But there was no challenge as the lieutenant spun instantly away.
Then an explosion from within the camp itself sent a shock wave to the edge of the great plain itself. The cold retreated at the mushrooming ball of fire that reached incredibly high—a tongue of fire almost instantly swallowed by night—and the distant mountains echoed the surge again and again and again.
"The powder store," Duncan muttered as he rose from a crouch. "This man is wise ..."
Pianessa staggered. "Gianavel attacks my camp?"
Even as he spoke, a bullet fired from somewhere in the darkness hit a wagon. It was impossible to tell who had been the intended target but Pianessa wasn't waiting for the answer. He reached his horse in three strides and pulled the reins hard to bring it about as he shouted to his lieutenants. "Remove the camp to El Torre!"
"In the dark? But, sire—"
"Do it!" Pianessa roared and then thundered off in the night as another shot sailed from the darkness and struck down the lieutenant who had been foolish enough to show himself as someone in command.
***
Leading a band of men stealthily through the night, Gianavel crouched in the darkness. It had been easy enough to pursue the retreating troops from the Castelluzo, continuously reducing their number with sniper attacks from the shadows. They had not mainly targeted officers because it was impossible to determine who was in command, since everyone was shouting at once for retreat. But those with uniforms that displayed even the faintest semblance of authority had been the first to fall, nevertheless.
Reloading and firing, reloading and firing, thirty men from Rora shadowed the troops for the entire mile back to their camp, and the death toll continued to climb with every step. Finally, even when they reached the relative sanctity of their perimeter, some men had managed to crawl through the line to penetrate the camp and lay into the powder stores—wagons bearing gunpowder and mortar rounds—to destroy them before slipping out again in the confusion.
Bertino and two others came up behind Gianavel, who slid from around a tree where he'd killed another who was speaking to Pianessa. The bullet had been aimed for Pianessa himself, but it was impossible to focus clearly in the darkness because Gianavel could barely see the sights of the barrel.
"Gianavel!"
"Yes ..."
"They're retreating!"
Gianavel nodded. "Keep harassing them until they remove the camp from the edge of the Pelice."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going after Pianessa."
Bertino grabbed his shoulder. "No! If you die, we're lost! We will have no one to lead us! Think!"
Face glistening with sweat, Gianavel revealed nothing as he took several deep breaths, turning his head toward the camp. "Very well. Keep up the attack until they have withdrawn. Remember: If we let them make camp in the valley, we're lost. Make them retreat!"
"You will stay with us?" Bertino whispered, and fear, for the first time since Gianavel had known him, was unconcealed and pure in the big man's eyes.
Gianavel nodded.
"Until the battle is won, my friend."
***
Pianessa strode up the steps of Emmanuel's palace in Turin and shoved the guards to either side before they even had an opportunity to salute. He struck one of the huge doors with the palm of his hand so that it swung fully inward. Nor did he hesitate to close it as he stalked through the short entrance and into the magnificent hallway where the Duke of Savoy sat at the end of a banquet table.
As Pianessa entered the chamber, Incomel rose to his feet beside another, smaller table where some heavy tome lay open, the huge pages painted with colorful pictures and imprinted with large Latin text. His two papal guards, pikes in hand, stood to either side and reacted stiffly as Pianessa walked onward without another glance.
Incomel had reached his feet, stunned. He studied Pianessa only a moment before saying with a mixture of frustration and criticism, "Don't tell me you were defeated again!"
With a snarl Pianessa turned fully into the Inquisitor, teeth gleaming in wrath, and Inco
mel's guards leaped forward to bar his way. Even as they came toward the barbaric image Pianessa lashed out and ripped away one of the iron pikes.
Emmanuel stood as Incomel staggered back and then Pianessa raised the pike over his head in both hands and roared as he bent it into the shape of a horseshoe in one continuous motion that had no pause to shift his grip or initiate a second effort. Then he flung the ruined weapon so that it rebounded wildly from the floor, narrowly missing the Inquisitor, who leaped sprightly to the side.
The marquis did not even cast the second guard a glance as he muttered, "Be careful what you put your faith in, Priest."
"Enough," said Emmanuel.
Smoldering, Pianessa turned from the Inquisitor and walked to the fireplace. When he reached the table, he poured himself a flagon of wine and drank all of it before lowering his head, not bothering to wipe the spilt redness from his face and beard. He leaned upon the table, his face deeply shadowed by the flames.
Emmanuel's voice was calm. "How many?"
In the distance, Incomel took a tentative step, but Emmanuel raised a hand. The priest retained his measure of separation. Finally the marquis said a single word in a chipped, brutal tone that Emmanuel had never heard from him before.
"All."
Emmanuel blinked, wondering if he had heard rightly, knowing at the same instant that he had. He searched the marquis' face and saw nothing there that hinted of a mistake or even anger now. Rather, Pianessa's usually unconquerable visage, or his eyes, rather—staring into the flames as they were—reflected some kind of inner contemplation that was not his nature.
"All?" Emmanuel repeated softly.
Pianessa's eyes turned from the flames and from contemplative to murderous. "I don't have enough men left to count the living," he muttered.
Stunned, Emmanuel said nothing. He knew that Pianessa had taken six regiments—fully six thousand men—to Giovanni. Some of them had been his most tempered troops, men who had seen pitched combat against the Spanish and Germans—men of professional scale who had fought valiantly when the battle was finally joined. Men who, even in the chaos of close combat, had retreated with discipline, holding their formation to reform again at a stronger position. But they had been destroyed? By a handful of villagers?
"How?" Emmanuel heard himself ask, knowing at the same moment that he could not stop himself, and he truly had no idea what the answer might be.
Pianessa's face lightened abruptly. "An ambush," he muttered and shook his head again. "I have never seen a man like this man. He uses tactics I've never seen. Tactics no one has ever seen."
Silently and with hesitant steps Incomel had begun a slow approach. His guards were wisely wide behind him, lest their presence provoke Pianessa's wrath once more.
"What did he do?" Emmanuel asked, watching closely.
For a moment Pianessa only stared into the flames. "He ambushed them using torches hidden inside jars of clay. When they were directly below the summit, they broke the jars and set timbers on fire. They rolled them down over the men, then ... I don't know what happened next. I think they rolled a cannon over the edge with something wedged into the barrel. Whatever it was, it exploded like a volcano."
No one spoke or moved, and it seemed as though no one would. Finally Emmanuel rose and walked slowly across the room. He was startled when he saw Father Simon, silent and as inconsequential as a statue, standing at the very edge of the light.
At the look, the old priest walked slowly forward, hands covered in the sleeves of his frock, and nodded deeply to Savoy.
Emmanuel said nothing as Simon continued to where Pianessa stood before the flames, still motionless. He had not refilled his wine chalice, a true indication of how deep was his shock. As the marquis saw him, Pianessa muttered in a strange tone, "So what does your God reveal to you now, Priest?"
It was a curious moment. Then Simon responded, "Only that Gianavel's tactics have, indeed, been seen before, Monsieur Marquis."
Pianessa's gaze was dead. "I know all the tactics of Italy and Spain, Priest. I have never seen such a thing."
"Gianavel's tactics are far older than Italy and Spain, Pianessa." Simon walked between Pianessa and the flames, the shadow of a ghost passing over his face. "Indeed, they are far older ..."
His eyes never left the gray form as Pianessa growled, "You speak in riddles, old man."
Simon halted on the far side of the fireplace, positioned between Incomel and Pianessa. "Gianavel's tactics were taken from men far greater than the kings of Italy and Spain, Pianessa. Gianavel uses the Holy Scriptures to find the means of destroying your army."
"What!" Pianessa snapped. "What are you talking about, Priest?"
"I speak of Gideon," Simon said plainly, certainly. "I speak of a king of Israel who ambushed a force ten times his size by having his men come upon them in the night with torches hidden within jars of clay. Men who then smashed the jars at once to give the impression that they were of far greater number and then watched as the army panicked, making them far easier to destroy."
Simon's smile was contained enough to not gloat before the marquis. "To defeat you, Pianessa, Gianavel uses what he knows best—the Holy Scriptures."
"You're a fool," Pianessa muttered. "What do the Scriptures have to do with military tactics?"
"The Old Testament is filled with military campaigns, Pianessa – those of David, Joshua, Gideon, all the kings of Israel, as well as their enemies. When Israel reached Zion, there were battles upon battles with the Sea Kings—the Moabites, the Amalekites, the Egyptians." Simon's gaze revealed no doubt. "Joshua and Gideon fought a hundred battles against forces of superior numbers and superior strength, and lost only a small number. And then there are the exploits of mighty David who rose above all those who came before him and all who would come after. David, who defeated the most powerful empires the world had ever known with a military precision and tactical genius that has never been equaled in the history of recorded time. Not Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan or Julius Caesar overcame the odds that David overcame—defeating so many with so few."
Pianessa was silent.
Emmanuel spoke, "So, since you understand this man so well, tell us; what will Gianavel do now?"
With a deep breath, Simon strolled along the table, passing once more between the marquis and the flames. "He will not let you encamp in his valley. He will use spies. In battle, he will retreat, forcing you to pursue. He will use the terrain to break your army and weapons. He will starve your men, terrify them. He knows that wars are fought in the spirit, so he will strike at their spirit."
Incomel stepped forward. "Fool of a monk," he frowned, "your attempt to frighten us is useless. I don't believe this man is half so cunning as you believe!"
Simon bent his gaze with a smile. "Don't waste your words attacking me, Inquisitor. I am not the one who destroyed eight regiments with a trick of Gideon's."
"Foolishness!" Incomel came swiftly down the table to stand before Emmanuel. "Are you going to believe this madman?"
Emmanuel was stoic. "Is he wrong?"
"Of course he's wrong!" Incomel grated. "I will take him downstairs and make him speak the truth!" He took a single step toward Simon.
Emmanuel stood. "Incomel!"
The Inquisitor spun with a curse and Pianessa laughed loudly. The pause gave Emmanuel a moment to craft his words. "This is a council of war, Inquisitor. If you cannot control yourself, you will be dismissed."
Stung, Incomel stepped forward. "What do you mean?"
"It means that you will touch no one else without my spoken permission," Emmanuel said distinctly. "It means that your days in my kingdom have almost ended."
"You dare—"
"I do more than dare!" Emmanuel sharply slammed his hand on the table. "If you speak against me again I will see if two papal guards are enough to protect you from the wrath of a monarch!"
Incomel was openly shocked. He glanced at Pianessa, who stared with his dangerous, dark stare that reveal
ed neither mercy nor restraint, then again to the Duke of Savoy.
"My God," he whispered, "you will regret—"
"Careful," Emmanuel warned. "These halls have secrets, Priest."
Incomel took it for what it meant. His face twisted in anger; then he spun and walked swiftly past Simon. In another moment he was gone, and they stood in gloomy silence. Finally the aged priest lifted a hand, gesturing good-night.
"Forgive me," he said, folding hands once more in his sleeves. "I will return to my duties."
Neither the Marquis de Pianessa nor the Duke of Savoy raised eyes as the old priest walked almost soundlessly around the table, and in another moment he, too, was gone in the shadows. They did not hear a door open or close, but they were alone.
Emmanuel sat again into his chair, leaning back to stare blankly at the cathedral ceiling. He did not know what to say; then Pianessa straightened from the table. He turned his head to gaze upon the Duke of Savoy with a look he had never held before—something like respect.
"He will not forget this," Pianessa said somberly. "I will have him killed tonight."
Staring after the Inquisitor, Emmanuel replied, "No, another would only take his place." He paused. "We must find a quick means to defeat the Waldenses."
"No," Pianessa said with a sigh. "It means that we must find a means of defeating this man who leads them. As long as Gianavel fights, Savoy, all the Waldenses will fight. But when Gianavel is destroyed, everything he stands for will be destroyed. Only then will we finish this war."
Emmanuel was silent a long time.
"One man," he said softly, "but his very life gives his people the faith and courage to fight even when all seems lost." He paused. "That is a true prince."
Pianessa’s eyes narrowed on the Duke of Savoy.
"True," he agreed. "He is to be admired, in a sense. But if Gianavel is not killed, Rome will give your kingdom to another. So we either defeat Gianavel or lose all that we hold." He glanced to where the Inquisitor exited. "Or worse."
Gazing back again, Pianessa muttered with respect, "You have come far, Prince."
Rora Page 22