Rora

by James Byron Huggins

  "Go," she said to the girls and Jacob. "I need to talk to your papa for a minute." She silenced their remonstrations one by one, and in a few minutes they were alone.

  Gianavel softly touched her hair as she gazed at him. Neither of them hurried to speak and break the moment. They were alive and that seemed like everything.

  "How is it," Gianavel spoke quietly, almost reverently, "that you don't seem to age?"

  Angela's look was a portrait of innocence. "Hector came by. He said that I need a real man around the house, so he proposed."

  Gianavel chuckled and his eyes brightened.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said, 'of course.' So he said he'd come back tomorrow with a horse and buggy and that he'd take us to Geneva." She stared close; her smile faded. "But I told him I would stay beside my husband, no matter what."

  Gianavel touched her face, traced a line. Then he reached and pulled her close and held her as the burning logs crackled in the hearth. Finally he noticed the children collecting in the open doorway, staring, uncertain, and frightened. He stretched out his other arm, and they came forward slowly, sitting at his feet, beside him, holding him.

  More than at any moment in his entire life, he wished he had something to say. But there was nothing to say that could not be said better with silence.

  Emmanuel strolled across the Great Hall of his keep, arms folded across his chest, head bent, mouth turned in a frown, brow hard in concentration. He was not alone—he was never alone—but the few servants who stood close to attend to his needs were silent and still. And his personal bodyguards, who'd long ago learned to read his moods, were tactfully obscure.

  The fireplace, a relic from an age when fire itself was some unspoken means of protection against forces beyond man, was as long as a wagon. And, contrary to growing custom, had no hearth or mantel. It was simply a gigantic pit of roaring flame, a pronouncement of man's ability to control his destiny.

  Emmanuel knew something of that because his mother had lacked the insight, when she appointed him a tutor, to eliminate all those who disagreed, in even the smallest parcel, with the Church. Indeed, she had, in the end, appointed someone who was the complete antithesis to the cold, barbaric ruthlessness of Pianessa.

  Her choice, which she'd deemed so innocent, had been a man who prudently kept his own counsel yet had quietly exposed Emmanuel to the works of the pre-Socratics, to Plotinus, Augustine, Dun Scotus, Ockham, Bacon, and Descartes. He had taught Emmanuel the value of being modest in the demonstration of piety, so as not to insinuate moral superiority. He had taught him the wisdom of remaining austere in private observation and to keep his counsel and speak little, for offenses were unavoidable when one multiplied words. He also taught Emmanuel to lay his plans deeply and with great foresight, then to pursue them with strict secrecy and an inveteracy of purpose that allowed no rest or mercy until they were accomplished.

  It was advice Emmanuel had taken to heart because he had watched his father endure the patronizing and insensible Inquisitors who presented their ideological wares in terms that cost both soldiers and wealth. He had watched army after army destroyed for a cause that benefited no kingdom that he knew, and he had yet to discover what virtue was satisfied by blood. He was deeply into thoughts of it when he turned at an approach and saw the source of his pondering.

  Smiling mildly, Emmanuel said nothing as Marcelus Simon, his tutor, drew near and stopped, arms folded within the warm easement of his priestly sleeves. Simon had been discreetly scarce in past weeks, wisely avoiding conversation with the Inquisitors or their retinue as he studied and learned. His eyes, a shade strangely beyond blue, revealed little, nor did he speak.

  Quietly amused, Emmanuel expressed no surprise. Dull greetings were beneath them, and Simon was forever the teacher, waiting for Emmanuel to explain the situation. It was a tactic of Aristotle, which the Catholic monk revered for his ethics and poetics.

  "And so," the old man said at last, "what do you see?"

  "Only that there is nothing new under the sun," Emmanuel replied with a faint, and somewhat sad, smile. "Again the Church uses my house to make war against the Waldenses. Again the treasury of Savoy is spent in a doomed attempt to drive them from the land. And, again, the Church will fail as they have failed before."

  Simon's august head bent thoughtfully. Although well into his sixties, the old monk revealed little physical weakness and had made his own contributions to Emmanuel's training in the arts of fighting, and more importantly, the art of not fighting. Some might be shocked that a monk would teach treachery to a young monarch, but young monarchs untrained in treachery did not become old monarchs—a lesson Simon had been no less astute in teaching than the poetics of Aristotle.

  The Master of Arms had taught Emmanuel to wear a sword of great quality at his waist. Simon had taught him to conceal a disposable ice pick in his sleeve. The Master at Arms may have taught Emmanuel to dramatically draw his sword as a bold warning, but Simon had taught him to hide his weapon until he struck. The Master at Arms instructed Emmanuel to terrify his enemy, but Simon had taught him to smile and strike with words of friendship. The Master of Arms had taught the Duke of Savoy the rules of war; Simon had taught him war has no rules.

  "Expect everything," Simon had said, "reveal nothing. Always be prepared to defend yourself against your family, your friends, your allies, even against your own bodyguards." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Especially against your bodyguards."

  When Emmanuel had protested that such vigilance would be tiring, Simon replied, "Does a man enjoy the warmth of a fire without also suffering the cold to fetch wood for it? If you lack the will to maintain your kingdom, you should become a monk."

  The old monk was far more than a teacher—he was guardian of Emmanuel, body and soul. And on more than one occasion rumored col-leagues of some subversive plot against Emmanuel's throne had mysteriously disappeared from the face of the Earth. The full intent of the conspiracies was never revealed. But when she who prepared meals for Emmanuel was found dead, killed with the same poison she intended to use on the prince, Simon dryly remarked, "The danger of not richly rewarding conspirators is that they betray you for so much less."

  And now Emmanuel was being tested, he knew, because the time had come for him to use all that he had learned. He glanced at the distant servants who were certainly listening—eavesdropping was an art in the palace, a means of maintaining not only one's career but their life. No, of course they did not appear to be listening, he noted, as Simon had taught, but neither were they speaking, which was more revealing. He gazed at his friend and mentor.

  "You taught me that I should become wise before I became old," he remarked quietly. "But, in this, I see little place for wisdom. I do not rule my kingdom."

  Simon pursed his lips as he bent his head slightly. He rarely spoke until he carefully considered his words. A man's folly, he often told Emmanuel, is that he answers a question before he truly understands it. "There are two means of ruling a kingdom, My Prince. Through your own hand or through the hand of another."

  "I do not see how I can rule through the Inquisitors."

  "Do you see how you can rule through others who, perhaps, rule the Inquisitors?" Simon gave Emmanuel a long, searching look. "Remember what you have learned, boy. You must appeal to a higher authority."

  Emmanuel was silent, then replied bitterly, "I lost my temper. They see a weakness."

  "Even a dog can see fear." When courage was the question, Simon had no mercy. "You are wiser than this."

  The young Duke of Savoy stood quietly for a moment, studying his hand. "Can you not help me?" He stared into the old man's eyes. "You are the closest thing to a father I have ever known."

  Simon's eyes lit with quick understanding. "I know, my son." He waited. "Yes, I will help you. By reminding you of how great is your own strength. By reminding you of what you already know."

  Emmanuel's entire body seemed to shrink and he shook his head. "It seems very lit
tle now, my friend. This is a contest of giants. I am the small monarch of a small land that is ruled, and you know this to be true, by another king of another land."

  The silence that followed disturbed Emmanuel because Simon almost always revealed to him what he did not see, unless ...

  Emmanuel looked again. "By another king ..."

  Simon smiled faintly.

  The Duke of Savoy smiled widely.

  "Be careful of your countenance," Simon said without inflection. "What is not said is—"

  "—more important that what is said," Emmanuel finished. "Yes, I remember." He turned his face to gaze into the flames of the hearth.

  As if speaking of ubiquitous scandals, Simon added, "I would hate to imagine what trouble this is causing Cardinal Chigi, who is currently in Pinerola to discuss trade with Cromwell's committee. We must be sure to include him in our prayers."

  As Emmanuel stared into the flames his eyes narrowed. "Oliver Cromwell has heard of our little unrest?"

  "Oh, certainly." Simon folded his hands behind his back. "I understand England's great Lord Protector has sent petitions to Cardinal Mazarin, the mentor of King Louis, enjoining him to intercede on behalf of the Waldenses. One of England's poets, John Milton, I believe, has written a very moving letter in an attempt to usher in a peaceable settlement. But Cromwell has not excluded a forthright invasion of your kingdom, if hostilities are not suspended."

  If Simon's words were overheard and repeated, they were crafted to only reflect the nervous concerns of a poor priest for his life—a purely selfish interest the Inquisitors would well understand. Of course he was concerned for the outcome of the war, Simon would declare! It was an old man's right to be concerned with his diminishing health and security, especially an aged priest too enfeebled to relocate to some desolate missionary outpost. Yes, Simon would declare, he hoped the war ended quickly and successfully and that all the Waldenses should be utterly destroyed from the land, including their cattle and sheep, and then the bodies must be burned and the ashes scattered so that not even their memory remained.

  In a loud, droning monotone that could lull even the most attentive spy to sleep, Simon hoped the details of the increasingly fierce war did not reach the revered Cardinal Fabio Chigi for the cardinal would certainly want to know what great victories had been won by the Inquisitors for the sake of both God and man, yes, yes ...

  Emmanuel suppressed a smile, but it took little effort. He was already formulating a plan carefully and silently, as he had been taught. It was the first lesson—plan your victory in secret, execute your enemy in darkness, and take no credit for the victory. But, rather, give thanks only to the omnipotent hand of God who has obviously chosen you to lead this kingdom. Then wipe your dagger clean, hone the edge, and sheath it for another day when God will preserve you once more.

  "Well," Simon said with some fatigue, as if the dull conversation had been nothing but worrisome, "I have selfishly hoarded your presence once more, My Prince." He stepped back, bowed humbly. "I must return to my administrations."

  Emmanuel did not move or acknowledge the comment or stare after the harmless priest as he departed. There was no reason to stare after him, much less thank him, for, after all, nothing of importance had been said.

  Upon a high white ridge crested by wisps of cloud and blue and sun, Gianavel stared over the mountains. His face was peaceful, and he seemed to see something, though no others saw anything upon the winding trails beneath them. A moment more he scanned the snow-slivered crags and ravines of the Alps as a cold wind lifted his long black hair; then he tilted his head to Bertino.

  "Everything is prepared?" he asked.

  "Oui," Bertino nodded. "You expect them to come today?"

  "I expect nothing and everything."

  Bertino squinted at the Pass of Pelice. He shook his head, as if denying some kind of physical pain. "Why not tomorrow? A delay of a day or two might lull us into complacency."

  "No," said the Captain of Rora. "Pianessa knows I will not be deceived by his words. And to delay an attack only strengthens me. He will come quickly to measure our resolve."

  The words provoked Bertino to a worried countenance. "Pianessa will not expect to finish us with the next battle?"

  Gianavel continued to search the pass. "You must understand our enemy, old friend. Pianessa does not rely upon the grace of the Lord. He trusts only in the strength of his sword arm. He is wise in the ways of war, and the first rule of any war is to know your enemy—know his weaknesses and his strengths. Strengthen yourself to endure his strength, and prepare to strike his weaknesses. That is what he is doing."

  With weary, unseeing eyes, Bertino stared down over the pass. "How many men will he bring next time?"

  "More than he needs," Gianavel said simply. "Ten.. .perhaps fifteen thousand. They'll divide, attacking on two and maybe three fronts." Gianavel's quiet, steady words held no fear. "He will try to stretch our line, knowing we only need a few men to hold a pass."

  "But they'll have to attack us through the pass."

  Gianavel's widened eyes lined his forehead. "Why?"

  "Because it's too hard to climb the cliffs."

  "An army can attack anywhere a man can climb or walk," Gianavel frowned. "Expect nothing, old friend, and everything. If a man can climb a cliff, he can attack from a cliff. If he can climb a tree, he can attack from a tree. And if Pianessa stretches our line, we'll be too thin to resist his superior depth.

  Yes ... depth is always preferable to length. We'll slow them, for certain—we have too much of an advantage not to—but they'll eventually swarm the walls."

  Bertino growled, "Like locusts."

  Listening, Hector said, "He might try to feint an attack, Captain. Just to see if we're prepared."

  Gianavel shook his head. "We have the terrain, Hector, so Pianessa will trust in the depth of his line. He'll sacrifice his men like sheep, throwing them at us, so that we can't kill them fast enough. It will be a flood, dead men charging over dead men. He'll be trying to make us use all our ammunition because when a man's out of ammunition, he's out of options. And when they take one wall, they've taken them all."

  Bertino was still displeased. "You say he will come with thousands. But he used only five hundred yesterday."

  "Not so great a mistake, my friend. Pianessa was hedging that we might not be on guard. But now he knows we won't be caught by surprise." Gianavel pondered a moment more. "Also, he underestimated his mercenaries."

  "How so?"

  "Mercenaries will kill for a victory," Gianavel said. "They won't die for it. Come. There's much to do."

  They proceeded down onto one of the ubiquitous ridges that combed the peaks surrounding El Combe. Every field and creek and orchard and field was barren of movement.

  "There," Gianavel said, pointing, and the rest shielded their eyes from the glowing sun. "If we lose the pass, retreat through the Valhenza. Once you're inside, remember to maintain a rear guard of your most experienced men. Don't run. Don't reveal panic. If you do, Pianessa's troops will rush in and overrun us."

  "What's the best defense while retreating?" one asked.

  "Make them too frightened to pursue," Gianavel said as he descended. "Have men chop trees and tie them off with ropes. Drop them on those that are chasing you. Have your rear guard composed of marksmen and shoot back often. If Pianessa s men are moving cautiously, they'll be moving slowly."

  "Is that so important?" asked one man.

  Gianavel's mouth became a grim line. His eyes narrowed, utterly lacking in sympathy. "If the people panic, they'll lose formation. If they lose formation, they'll break into small groups, then smaller groups, and finally they'll be running without a weapon across an empty field. Their fear will have killed them. Never retreat with an indication of fear! Never! Retreat as if you dare anyone to pursue!"

  Hector muttered, "Not as easy as it sounds, Captain. It's a bit unnatural to fall back with discipline."

  "Many things in war are unna
tural," Gianavel gently rebuked. "The ability to remain calm in the midst of exciting events will, alone, make you a great soldier."

  As they carefully picked a path down from the ridge, they analyzed elements of resistance and withdrawal until they reached camp and dispersed, each man carefully instructing his squad for every conceivable complication, although they realized that every complication, by the time-tested rule of war, was inconceivable.

  ***

  "Spies," Pianessa grumbled, staring at a small black snake he had lifted from a field. "I need ... spies."

  Incomel frowned over the poisonous reptile. For whatever reason, he seemed to have little tolerance for serpents. He roughly shouldered the other Inquisitors aside as he stepped forward.

  "I don't understand why you don't simply march up the Pelice and kill these heretics," he demanded. "You act as if you are planning to invade France, Pianessa." He gestured with irritation. "Simply send a thousand men up the pass, kill all you meet, burn their homes, and send the children to El Torre."

  Pianessa's face split in a smile of genuine amusement. "Why don't you lead them, Inquisitor?" He lifted his heavy arms toward the mountains and laughed. "You seem to understand these heretics far better than I."

  Incomel's sullen pause was meant to affect Pianessa; it didn't. "God's calling on my life is not in the field, Pianessa. It is in my charge to rescue the Church from these heretics."

  "Yes," Pianessa sneered. "A holy man, I almost forgot." With a tired sigh he stood and walked forward. He leaned on the table, studying the map. "How fortunate for the Waldenses that you have only their salvation in mind, Inquisitor."

  As the Inquisitor began to retort, Pianessa spoke sharply to his sergeant major—a tall, red-bearded man who rivaled Pianessa himself in the appearance of primitive strength.

  "Have pikemen and riflemen advance six abreast in the pass. At the first engagement, flank them and move up the cannon. Then reduce their battlements to ruin." He hesitated. "You should need no more than five hundred shot, I think."