Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  And he wondered why such peace forever escaped the living.

  ***

  Standing outside, watching snow falling in long waving clouds that blanketed every rock and patch of frozen ground in frosty silence, Blake wondered how he came to be here.

  He had once been an exceptional thief, a man who lived by his wits, by his lies, and by his gifts of subterfuge and illusion. He had never felt compelled to make a stand for what he believed. Indeed, he had never believed in much of anything at all and wondered if this—this fear, this sense of grief and pain, this hope—meant that he believed.

  He knew only that he was standing on a mountaintop, heedless of the snow the heavy, cold wind that smothered everything about him, knowing that it was warm in the valley below and that he no longer cared for that warmth.

  What was next?

  It was only a vague thought, and he knew the answer enough because it did not matter ... as long as he remained here.

  ***

  Strolling along the battlement of his palace, Emmanuel pondered that the land had been strangely silent since the execution of Gianavel's family two weeks past.

  Initially alarmed by Pianessa's evil foreboding, he had fully expected a full-scale invasion by England or France within days, but no word moved from the west, and envoys continued to be sent by Cardinal Mazarin, openly petitioning the Inquisitors to cease their persecution of the Waldenses. It was, on the whole, completely without effect. The Inquisitors had no intention of answering to the cardinal and prime minister of France. They were not subject to his authority, nor did they care to mend torn ecclesiastical ties. After all, Mazarin was despised and hated by the Italian cardinals, who fully supported the war.

  After Corbis had been discovered, his throat cut as cleanly as a sheep's, there had been an escalation of security around the Inquisitors, particularly Incomel, who rarely ventured outside his chambers now. But after the initial shock faded, the tension lessened to something tolerable, and the dead Inquisitor was not mourned.

  Only Pianessa, with a black aspect that seemed to laugh at all of them together, persisted to utter vague and incomprehensible comments of foreboding doom. He had ordered the entire Militia of Piedmont to the field and had not recalled them. And when Emmanuel cautiously questioned the marquis about what might be an overly pessimistic dispensation of the future, Pianessa only laughed, swallowed more wine, and "begged" the Duke of Savoy to have patience.

  "I am evil, Savoy; I am not a fool," he rumbled. "All good things come to those who wait."

  Incomel dismissed the cryptic words as the overt symptom of irreversible mental disease brought about by excessive wine and sexual disease. His kindly offer to hear Pianessa's confession was laughed to scorn and Pianessa had informed the Inquisitor that God would hear all their confessions soon enough.

  Glancing across the land, Emmanuel saw only peaceful merchants entering Turin as they had done for two weeks. He witnessed no foreboding army amassing on the plain, beheld no alien banners pronouncing a siege. There were not even rogue bands of Waldensian peasants resisting in the mountains.

  Nor had there been another terrifying visit by the Englishman and the dark man. In fact, it was if they had never visited Emmanuel during that night which now seemed so distant—a nightmare from another life.

  No other Inquisitor had been found with his throat cut. And Emmanuel did not think that the sickness that plagued them—the strange malady that had taken the lives of so many of Pianessa's military commanders and Inquisitors in the last two weeks—could be linked to violence. It was totally natural that, in a land ravaged by war, men inevitably became sick and died from all manner of scourge, even if it was an inexplicably high number of priests.

  He was so deeply involved in his reasonable dismissal of events that he did not see the lone rider approaching fast from the east.

  A commander of Pianessa's militia, bloodied and weaponless and riding a pale horse dying with exhaustion, pressed to the portico. But Emmanuel heard the cry at the gate and found himself leaning tensely over the wall to see the commander fall into the arms of guards. He did not hear what the man must have gasped before his death that came almost immediately but he did, indeed, see the guard as he staggered back in horror, turned, searched, and saw the Duke of Savoy clutching the wall.

  The guard’s face was more ghastly than his scream.

  "He's coming!"

  *

  Chapter 23

  War endless and merciless raged over the bloody plains of Piedmont and thousands were crushed by the army of Gianavel that rose from the borders, the mountains and the ground itself that seemed to release hordes of rebels who fought each battle as their last and to the last, refusing surrender.

  At the Battle of Crusol, Gianavel and three hundred men who returned with him from Geneva where the story of Angela had been told only to arouse the wrath of a sleeping lion, utterly destroyed the Royal Regiment of the Marquis de Pianessa, ten thousand strong, and delivered the storehouses of food and munitions to dwelling houses and prisons of Piedmont.

  Then, after taking the mountains pass by pass, Gianavel began reclaiming Piedmont village by village and town by town, sparing those who vowed to throw down arms forever and live in peace with the Waldenses and killing those who continued to fight.

  Entire battalions were destroyed and fortified cities and prisons reduced so that stone did not stand upon stone—Lucerna, St. Secondo, Cavors—all fell as Gianavel's army advanced and then camped openly in the field of St. Giovanni, sending a messenger to the Duke of Savoy.

  Accepting the challenge, the Marquis de Pianessa engaged the outnumbered Waldenses in a stunning, swirling battle that raged over the plains of Giovanni, where tactics and troops changed minute by minute as Pianessa and Gianavel battled each another on a titanic scale of hundreds and thousands.

  Pianessa's regiments took hill upon hill only to behold another fortified retreat of the Waldenses from which the cannons of Gianavel reduced the place where they stood, rock and flesh, to fragments.

  And on and on the battle spun in a maelstrom of constantly changing strategies and attacks of men and rifle and swords that beat down flesh and blood only to attack again until the sprawling, burning fields were littered with ten thousand of Pianessa's dead, conquered by Gianavel.

  Then Captain Jahier, surprised and caught in the open field with only forty-four men, was attacked upon the plain at Ossac. Unable to retreat and unable to improvise a defense, it was full combat without quarter and Jahier's platoon killed the attacking commander in chief, three captains, and fifty-seven infantry before they fell.

  After the battle, Jahier's severed head was sent to the Duke of Savoy at Turin, who said nothing at the grisly prize before he rewarded Captain Rodriguez with one hundred pieces of gold.

  Upon hearing of it, Gianavel took four hundred men and attacked the same battalion in the open field—no defense, no cover, no artillery or cannon fire or passages for retreat, but no retreat was needed. Before the day was done six thousand of Pianessa's soldiers were strewn across the field like butchered sheep and Gianavel took the head of the great Captain Rodriguez and returned it, along with the one hundred pieces of gold, to the Duke of Savoy.

  And then, the Battle of Angrogna ...

  ***

  Incomel raised his face as the Duke of Savoy halted in his doorway. It was not surprising that the young prince was visiting him so early in the day. Indeed, Incomel had come to expect such visits. He straightened from his battle maps and smiled pleasantly.

  Without returning the expression, the Duke of Savoy approached. He glanced at the maps, detailed with the scribblings of prelates and scribes and priests who truly commanded his army.

  "I understand that Gianavel is encamped at Angrogna," he said without inflection. "What are your plans?"

  Incomel's smile turned down as though he was weary of Emmanuel, and he reclined into his throne.

  Across the table was another priest—an emissary from E
mmanuel's old friend, Cardinal Fabio Chigi, now destined for the Throne of Rome. Though Emmanuel had never formally met the emissary before, the dark-haired priest seemed strangely familiar.

  "Gianavel is at Angrogna," said Incomel, "and commands less than three hundred men. Pianessa departs this afternoon with three thousand of his strongest troops. He intends to finish this war, at last." He sighed, smiled. "I foresee no difficulties."

  Emmanuel took a few slow steps forward and gazed down at the map. Angrogna was a lonely place, well isolated and suitable for a final battle to end this war that had already gone too long. If Pianessa descended on it without warning he would easily be able to take Gianavel's small detachment. There was no path for a retreat and no battlement fit to resist a siege. He looked again at the Inquisitor, silent with dark head bowed.

  "Why so depressed, Savoy?" Incomel laughed and gestured as if these were the inconsequential matters of life. "Tomorrow we should be troubled no more by Gianavel and his rebels and you may resume the cavalier life of a prince."

  "I will never be prince of this land, Inquisitor." Emmanuel's words held an accusation, a condemnation, a sneer. "You slaughtered the Waldenses, its true. But they'll return, Inquisitor—they will always return. And they'll endure. They'll endure like these mountains that are their home. And you and I will be forgotten, and Gianavel will be remembered forever by his people, if not the entire world." He laughed tragically. "We were doomed from first blood, Inquisitor. You fought for money. I fought for fear. Pianessa fought for glory. Only Gianavel fought for God."

  Incomel's face tightened in hate.

  Emmanuel shook his head, "Whether Gianavel wins or lives or dies tomorrow doesn't matter. He will die victoriously, Priest, because Gianavel never dishonored his God. He never surrendered his faith, his freedom—not even his words."

  Emmanuel waited for the Inquisitor to reply but Incomel didn't. And Emmanuel knew that he wouldn't.

  With a slight bow to the dark priest, Emmanuel felt a distinct memory as if he had seen him, perhaps, in a dream. He had already walked toward the doorway when he remembered the face—a glimpse caught in darkness—the face of a phantom. Slowly Emmanuel turned, staring at the dark priest—yes, the phantom— who did not look at him.

  An open bottle of wine stood upon the table.

  Emmanuel knew; "Aren't you afraid of being poisoned, Inquisitor?"

  Incomel released a merry laugh and gestured to the mysterious priest whom Emmanuel remembered now. "But then the noble ambassador from Rome would die as well, Savoy! We have both shared the bottle that he brought from the archbishop!"

  The nameless priest did not blink, and Emmanuel nodded faintly. He did not look back as Incomel made an indistinct comment to the priest and they began to speak of loftier things than war.

  Yes, loftier things ...

  Such as judgment.

  ***

  Blake lifted his sword after teaching the newest, youngest recruits to parry and thrust. He checked it for notches, re-sheathed it.

  He had discovered, quite to his surprise, that he was an able teacher of both fencing and marksmanship, a quality that inspired Gianavel to muse that he might have found his true calling.

  During the past months, Blake made good use of his extensive nonpartisan experience in battle to become one of Gianavel's most trusted advisors. And he would be certain to put these boys far to the rear, so as not to shed innocent blood, another tendency he had absorbed from Gianavel.

  As he turned, Blake saw the silhouette of Gianavel standing upon the broken wall of the gate of St. Bartholomew. Gianavel stood with his back to the sunset—a classic profile of the man, rifle in his hand, sword at his waist, watching, always watching.

  Blake lifted two mugs of steaming broth from the fire where Bertino had filled them and walked slowly to the wall, lifting them with a smile. Seeing the approach, Gianavel had dropped to the ground, and together they rested side by side upon the wall, enjoying the heftiest meal they'd shared in several days.

  Their supplies were exhausted, but for a few bushels of wheat. Their ammunition was almost depleted, save for a few hundred cannonballs and grapeshot. And after taking so many villages in so short a time, even their musket balls and powder were running low.

  In a last-ditch effort to slow their advance the marquis was wisely leaving nothing for them to salvage. Even unused food and blankets had been put to the torch in what seemed a spiteful denial of the inevitable. For despite the fact that Pianessa's men still retained the ability to retreat, they no longer had the strength to advance.

  In battle after battle Gianavel had outplanned and outfought the main Militia of Piedmont and now they were defeating isolated battalions, steadily closing upon Turin. Although they were less than three hundred, Gianavel's hit-and-run tactics combined with his stalwart courage and tactical genius had enabled them to leave field after field heaped with the dead from battles that had already become legend.

  Stories abounded of Rocappiatta, Lucern, El Torre, and though Blake knew that some exaggerated the exploits of Gianavel, they were true in essence.

  Time after time the Waldenses had been outnumbered and outflanked, only to turn the tide of battle by an unexpected tactical maneuver, a well-fought retreat or an ambush that caught Pianessa unaware. In more than one battle, Blake had deemed victory all but impossible and yet Gianavel had found a way, sometimes by something so simple as building a bullet-stop for his men to advance beneath and take a town room by room until the day was won.

  Most military leaders, Blake knew from experience, did not possess the ultimately practical and even brilliant understanding of tactics that Gianavel brought to battle. Most military commanders saw a large battle in a large sense—entire hectares defended or lost, an entire border possessed or surrendered. Yet Gianavel saw battles in both the large and the small scale. He did not think of a village as won or lost. He thought of a single room in a house as won or lost, or a single house in a village. And he would fight inexorably to take that room and then the house, then the next house and the next until the village was won, careful to secure one room and one village at a time while not forgetting the larger perspective.

  It was the matter of small victories—room upon room, house by house, village upon village—that comprised the molten core of Gianavel's philosophy and tactics. And that was a way of thought that Pianessa could not understand. He saw no defeat in losing a single field or house or village. But these small, inconsequential victories, which had no value alone, had great value when combined.

  "Do not despise the day of small things," Gianavel told Blake once. "Great things are made with them."

  "Which means?" Blake asked.

  "Which means that any fortress can be taken if you take it one piece at a time. Go slow and steady and secure what you gain. Then move to another street, another room, another building. In time you will take the city."

  Blake studied the field before them now and said, "Well, can't say I'm thrilled about your choice of campsites. It's comfortable enough, but retreating will be difficult."

  "Yes," Gianavel agreed. "The problem now is that there will be few retreats. We can't hold the ground we've already taken unless we keep advancing."

  "Why’s that?"

  "Because time is not on our side," the captain said. "If we give Pianessa time to fall back and regroup, he'll eventually gather as many men as he had at the beginning of this, or more." He gazed in the direction of Turin. "We've got one chance to take Turin and end this war. Then we will give Savoy a final choice."

  "What choice?"

  "To make peace with us," Gianavel answered without emotion. "Or die."

  Blake didn't care to ponder the political consequences of destroying Pianessa and then the Duke of Savoy. It was clear enough what would be the fate of the Inquisitors. Those that lacked the good, God-given common sense to run when they saw Gianavel approaching were too stupid to live anyway.

  Still, Blake felt that this war would be over
soon. It was simply not possible that the Duke of Savoy and his forces could fight with the tenacity and passion that motivated these Vaudois.

  Savoy's soldiers fought in the day and complained at a lack of food. Gianavel's men fought day and night and subsisted on grub.

  What Gianavel had said at the beginning had proven true; wars are won in the spirit.

  True, superior numbers and armaments were an advantage, but only for a while. Artillery could not hit what it could not find. And continuous, nagging attacks that sometimes did no more that create inconveniences eventually destroyed the moral of those who fought for money and not principle.

  The mistake of everyone from Pope Innocent to the Inquisitors to Pianessa was that they thought overwhelming numbers would win their war. They had placed their hope in guns, and not men, and they were wrong.

  From the very first, in every word, in every battle, in everything he had done, Gianavel had remembered the value of small things.

  How does one man defeat a hundred?

  One at a time.

  ***

  Emmanuel sensed that it might be the last time he would see Pianessa, but as he sauntered into the command area beside the palace, the marquis barely acknowledged his presence.

  Fitted with a brand-new set of chain mail and leather armor, the Marquis de Pianessa looked every inch the warrior. His black and gray Goliath-form was imposing enough to win a battle by appearance alone. His sword, which had slaked itself on enough Waldensian blood in the past two months to float a ship, was strapped across his back.

  His horse was heavily armored against musket balls and even sword attacks. It was also equipped with two rifles and a bandoleer of flintlock pistols that Pianessa would use one after the other in the heat of close conflict, not troubling himself with recharging. Despite the fact that the great army of the marquis had been reduced one platoon at a time, Pianessa had accounted well of himself in combat. He'd killed every man he had encountered with the wrath of an angry god.