Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  Staring at nothing, Emmanuel sighed.

  "Feels like far."

  *

  Chapter 13

  Nothing atop the mountain appeared as it had appeared before the battle. Even the ground seemed whiter in the starlight, dusted with powder and trampled smooth by the thousands of steps that had raced across it in the fury of combat.

  Gianavel stood where they had pushed the forty-pounder over the ledge, staring down into the narrow valley where fires burned in strange formation, consuming what little dry shrub had not been destroyed in the precipitous retreat. He was grateful that the spy's information had come in time for them to rig the elaborate trap.

  Pascal, who had been the one to pose as a cook in the camp of Pianessa himself, had overheard the marquis discussing the attack with his captains. But it had been an entire day before sufficient opportunity presented itself so that he could slip out of the camp, and even then, his return to Rora had been dangerous and uncertain. But in the end he had reached the camp and the rest.. .well, Pianessa could count his dead. Rora had not lost a single defender in the siege.

  Using ropes they had rigged at secret sections of the mountain range, he had reached the crest of the Castelluzo in less than half an hour after he left Bertino in the field near Pianessa's camp. When he arrived, he was comforted to see Jahier and Laurentio thoroughly in charge of recovery. They had already regrouped the men and established new listening posts on the mountain and other places where Pianessa might gain entry into the valley. Watching the hectic activity—men moving quickly and methodically but not in panic—he knew all was well in hand.

  Which was comforting, since he knew that this battle could not depend upon any man—not Jahier or Laurentio or Descombie. Not Hector, with all his experience, or Bertino, with all his great courage, or anyone else. Not even the barbes, with their prophetic declarations and resolution, could the entire nation rely on. And despite what some seemed to believe, this battle did not depend on him, either.

  He had done everything possible to insure that nothing depended upon him. But he was not naive and he knew that men looked to him for courage and strength. It was the way of things in battle, and there was nothing wrong with it. God had made it so that one man sharpens another, as iron sharpens iron.

  But no war should depend on one man because, sooner or later, that man would fall. Then those he had inspired would have to take his place and inspire others. So what he wanted to achieve, more than anything else, was a regiment of men who could easily assume his authority and do as he had done. And when he was certain of that, he could die in true peace.

  Footsteps—Gianavel turned.

  Jahier's blond beard was soaked as if he'd been totally immersed in water. His hair was plastered back from his forehead and dark with sweat. Steam rose from around his neck and sleeves. "Not a man was wounded or killed. We still have one hundred forty-seven."

  Gianavel looked over the amazing devastation beneath the Castelluzo. "Incredible. What now?"

  The blond captain pointed to the north side. "I've got men stationed in twos and threes so that they can sleep in shifts." He paused to take a large swallow from a waterskin.

  "Ah," he wiped his mouth, "anyway, I don't think Pianessa is going to be returning tonight. Not after that."

  Gianavel knew that any celebration of victory, however subdued, was dangerous because it broke the mentality of ongoing war. There were more battles to come, and each would be as viciously fought or more. But there was also a time to let men feel relief that their efforts were for something. They deserved to enjoy the joy of victory, however brief. Soon enough they would have to once more bolster their courage and will to make another stand. There was no need to remove what little reward had been won with this one.

  "No, they will not attack again tonight," Gianavel agreed, knowing that even Jahier needed some time to celebrate. "Make sure the men eat and drink well. They will need their strength."

  "Ola, Captain."

  They turned and beheld Hector approaching.

  Hector was making the last steps up the steep slope to the level summit. He was pushing up from a knee with his free hand, his right making use of his rifle as a staff. He seemed winded when he straightened, and they waited with faint smiles."Ayya ... I'm getting too old for this soldiering. It's a young man's game."

  Gianavel smiled. "How do you feel?"

  “I'm alive.”

  "What of the ordnance?"

  Hector placed a hand on his side. "We fired over a hundred shot at the slope." He made a horizontal movement. "We skipped the balls across the face so as to take out more men. No one working the cannons was hurt, though we had some close calls with the gunpowder. We need more training."

  "Tomorrow," Gianavel confirmed. "Tonight everyone must get whatever rest they can. There's plenty of time in the morning to do what has to be done."

  "Oui," Hector dismissed himself, "good enough."

  "Where are you going?" Jahier asked.

  "To get some rest!" the old man called back. "Before I start praying for one of those musket balls to put me out of my misery!"

  Gianavel gazed once more down into the valley. There was utter silence, but he wondered how many dead would litter that landscape in the morning. In the distance he could hear flintlocks firing, firing. They would occasionally pause to change positions and begin again. A slow, continuous decimation that would do far more damage to their spirit than numbers. He had ordered his men to keep it up until Pianessa had completely withdrawn from the valley.

  Gianavel searched his mind for everything he had ever learned, trying to determine if there was something he had not yet done. They had won the battle but this victory would mean nothing when they came to the next battle. No, each victory was an obstacle in itself and the gains of a hundred victories could be wiped out by a single defeat, which is why he never celebrated. He would celebrate only when the war was won and the fighting was finished. Then, if they were victorious, he would fall on his knees before the people and give the victory to the Lord because it is the Lord who decided victory, in the end.

  "What are you thinking?" he heard Jahier ask and turned to look at the captain.

  Gianavel was reluctant that he had been thinking of death after such a great victory. He paused. "Tomorrow—always tomorrow. But that's enough for now. I'll take first watch. Get some sleep."

  "I'll relieve you in four hours."

  "Take your time."

  Jahier descended the ridge, his knees braking hard to slow his momentum, and without much interruption from others soon vanished in a makeshift lean-to they'd raised earlier in the day. Not plush by any stretch, it was filled with cots and sheepskins and wrapped tight with canvas to block the wind and rain.

  As men approached him through the night, Gianavel dealt with issues at random. Many were almost inconsequential, but he was patient and attentive, knowing that it was not common sense that they sought, but a leader. And so he wandered up and down the ridge, checking weapons, encouraging and exhorting. He let his character display what simple lessons could not, so that his words had authority.

  He neither sat nor displayed any sign of the great fatigue that painfully eroded his patience and will. He ignored his feet that ached and his ears that rang painfully from the cannon. His fingers were swollen and his vision would blur, and he was forced to rub his eyes forcefully so he could see, and still he marshaled meager molecules of strength to continue with an air of unending vigilance, superior endurance, unconquerable will.

  When Jahier finally relieved him, fresh from sleep and empowered by a stout bottle of wine that he'd brought along, Gianavel could barely hear the cheerful words as he turned and walked to the hut. Every step was like a knife driven up from his feet to his spine, for few things were as agonizing as a familiar movement done a million times.

  He didn't undress or take off his boots as he saw an empty cot, and when he arose he did not even remember lying down.

  ***


  Contrary to caution, Blake had not slid into a nice, secure cave during the heated battle he had heard from the summit. Instead, knowing this was his chance to find the Waldenses, he had followed the sounds along ridge after ridge, constantly searching for a trail or crevice. The summit seemed much closer now—it certainly should be, he'd been walking most of the day—but every crack he found in the wall narrowed to nothing within a few feet, and he was forced to slip back to the ground.

  Finally he arrived at a box canyon. Not large, no, actually it was quite small. A waterfall descended to his right, cascading over a stony ledge eroded for centuries. And the slope before him seemed to rise almost smoothly to the crest. So, he mused, this was the end.

  At this distance he could even hear voices from the darkness beyond the thin strand of trees. It was an easy approach; it was also a good place for sentries. Because he'd moved silently, and sentries could certainly see no better than he could in this pitch, they wouldn't know he was close. But as soon as he began clambering up the slope, snapping sticks and trampling leaves, it would be impossible to conceal his position. In that case, they might simply shoot, or they could call out. Doubtless, there was some kind of password.

  He stood in the dark a long time. No scenario that he considered appealed to him. He did not fancy being shot dead without a warning, nor did he fancy being captured and hung as a spy because he did not know the password. Decisions, decisions...

  Well, there was only one thing to do.

  He climbed a small section of the rise that allowed fairly quiet movement and paused ...

  Make a decision!

  Collecting what courage he still had, Blake cupped both hands around his mouth and shouted, trying his best to sound like someone who did not want to get shot.

  "Hello!"

  He waited—nothing.

  Blake didn't seriously expect a confrontation so low from the summit. But he didn't intend to proceed very quickly, nor did he attempt to make any effort to silence his steps before he called out again.

  Strangely the thought occurred to him that this was Cromwell's diabolical plan all along—give him an impossible mission, and if Blake were killed, well, surely the Almighty would have mercy on this scoundrel for the heroism of his utterly doomed last act amen and amen, let's eat—

  He did not think any tears would be shed.

  ***

  It was solid dark when Lockhart finished preparations for the evening. He examined the room to insure he had done everything possible to make the staff believe he had turned in for the night. Some might think the embassy staff would be the only ones to trust; he knew they were the last ones to trust. Indeed, he would rather trust his life to some poor beggar he encountered by chance on the street, someone who had nothing to gain from a betrayal. Such practical men were bought cheaply enough and were far safer than one whose profession provided ample opportunities to form discreet and profitable alliances.

  Dressed in the black garb of a Puritan, Lockhart slipped over the balcony and descended on a rope he had looped so that he could pull and untie it from the ground. He had hidden a grappling hook in a nearby alley that he would use upon his return, gaining one balcony at a time until he reached his room. It was not a plan that would work indefinitely, but he only needed to keep his mission secret long enough to persuade Mazarin to intercede for the Waldenses, or until he resolutely refused. Yet there was another danger, one more subtle and ultimately harder to anticipate— betrayal from within the cardinal s camp.

  The powerful prime minister had a legion of enemies in Paris—most of whom he recently defeated in the Revolution—that had, at first, driven him into hiding, along with the boy-king, Louis. But when the last shot was fired, Mazarin arose victorious. His return to Paris was heralded with unprecedented authority; nor was he slow to dispatch those whose crimes were too great to be forgiven.

  King Louis XIV was, of course, the rightful monarch, but he was only ten years old and had not yet assumed full authority and command. So Mazarin, his mentor and surrogate father, was for all practical purposes king and prime minister and pope, tri-scepters he was careful not to publicly display but power he could exercise with inveterate purpose and deeply laid design when provoked.

  Lockhart had long thought that the primary weakness of a monarch was a lack of vigilance. It was the curse of a king that he must constantly distrust those who seemed most worthy of trust. But Mazarin was, by all accounts, perpetually alert to betrayal and had crafted such a complex system of spies and informants that not even shambling, nameless lepers encountered by chance in a random field could be considered harmless. In keeping everyone in suspicion, the priest made alliances virtually impossible to initiate and nerve-wracking to maintain. Lockhart glanced across adjoining streets. No one was visible

  In a light run, careful to avoid limbs and leaves, Lockhart finally reached a nearby street where he began walking quickly but not so quickly as to attract notice. He had brought his cane with a twenty-eight-inch straight saber concealed within the sheath as well as two flintlock pistols beneath his cloak. He also had a number of keys hidden within the folds of his cloak and pants that would supposedly open ninety percent of the world's locks. But his greatest threat was not constables or even French military. The greatest danger was being identified by a mob of citizens who would not wait for a constable or commander to determine his fate.

  It took him two hours to make his way to the palace of Mazarin, and it was nearly midnight when he arrived. He studied the sentries at the eastern gate, watching for any sign of betrayal, but there were no extra troops, no wagon nearby. Streetlights were conspicuously subdued, and a long stretch of grass to the palace itself was unlighted. All of it together made this an opportune place to enter unknown, or an opportune place to be murdered without witnesses.

  Lockhart made no appearance of stealth, except perhaps for a slightly rapid stride, as he approached the gate. And before he had even crossed the street, a guard turned and unlocked the gate and stepped back, looking quickly down both ends of the street. Lockhart said nothing as he entered, almost at a slight run, and did not stop at the entrance. He let the guard catch up on his own, and they moved steadily through the dark until they came to another door, also unlit.

  No guards were visible, and Lockhart entered, feeling the thrill of covert activity, wondering why he had been out of it for so long. He was in his place, here—secret rendezvous in the night, betrayals and conspiracies and plans to topple nations, all executed by men whose wisdom and courage was the rubric of legend. And it was so radically different—and to him, superior—to the battlefield where men displayed such great courage and skill, only to be cut down by a stray bullet.

  No, indeed, in this world of shadows and assassins, where the quick-witted and quick were separated from the dead by the most finite edge of intelligence and instinct, a man could change the course of a war if he possessed keen skills and the grace of God. But not even God protected a man from his own stupidity. After all, a man could not blame God if he were shot climbing out a window in broad daylight.

  The guard locked the door, causing Lockhart to quickly scan the open doors around him. By reflex, his hand settled on the flintlock at his waist. Then a short, stout woman with quick, busy eyes half emerged and signaled, and Lockhart was led up the stairway to the door of a very small chamber that he suddenly realized was part of some hidden passageway. With an assuring pat on his arm, the woman closed a door that blended perfectly with the wall beyond.

  He was alone.

  It was one of the moments that came frequently in the life of a spy— alone and in unfamiliar territory, not certain what to do next but knowing every gesture and word would be severely judged. If he appeared inept, they might assume he had little intelligence and thus little bargaining power. If he appeared overly cautious, he would display insufficient character to be considered an equal. Then again, if he did not take precautions, it was far too easy to come to quick death.

 
He determined it was best to be fairly cavalier about life or death; at least that would establish courage. But he would remain cautious—no reason to tempt fate. And as for appearing inept, he would simply speak little and attentively follow the cardinal.

  Holding the cane in his right hand, he boldly opened the door and stepped without hesitation into a gigantic chamber opulently furnished with luxurious scarlet arrangements. The blood-hued satin covered the walls to the height of a man’s chest, and above it they glowed white from immense candelabra positioned throughout.

  He saw the figure of a man, royal red robe descending to brush the floor, golden crucifix displayed prominently on his chest, his long dark hair immaculately combed. His eyes, even darker and somewhat amused, beamed as he turned. He graciously raised a glass of red wine.

  "Sir Lockhart," smiled Cardinal Guilio Raimondo Mazarin, Prime Minister of France and perhaps the most powerful man in Europe. "I was hoping that you would join me."

  ***

  Although his hands were tied behind his back, a noose was tight around his neck, and his two Waldensian captors were not slow to use their bayonets on his buttocks, Blake wasn't dead yet.

  They had asked no questions, and Blake had not yet communicated his intent. Nor had he revealed that he could speak the curious French-German dialect of theirs. Best, he thought, to play no hand at all until he could play one that was decisive.

  He raised his face as a tall, heavily armored man with blond beard and long blond hair arrived. With a faintly hostile air, the man—Captain Jahier, they called him—said nothing as Blake's young guards repeated the adventure of capturing this fool who came shambling through the forest like a blind man.

  Captain Jahier did not seem persuaded. After studying Blake closely for another moment, he quietly commended the young sentries for their diligence before dismissing them. Then he called for two much older guards to take charge of the prisoner. One of the guards, thick shouldered with a neck like an ox, laughed as he gazed down at Blake. The other, at least sixty with a white beard and soapy eyes, placed a foot on Blake's bench and spat tobacco juice. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, grinned maliciously.