"Yes, sir," was the quick reply.
"Then," the marquis continued, "you will simply enter the village proper and kill everything that walks or crawls." Pianessa seemed as if he were searching for something he might have missed. "Make no mistake, Sergeant, Gianavel is wise. If you consider a tactic, assume that Gianavel has also considered it. Nothing will cross your mind that has not already crossed his."
"Yes, sir."
"The Pass of Pelice gives us no advantage," Pianessa observed. "There is little cover, and the Waldenses will be heavily protected. Watch for ambushes and feints. Do not rush forward—especially if you see an opportunity."
"A tactic of the Moors," the sergeant muttered.
"Yes," Pianessa replied sullenly. "Gianavel knows all the tactics of the Crusaders, Sergeant. His ancestors fought in them. Just as he knows why the Crusaders failed."
The sergeant paused. "Why did they fail, My Lord?"
"The Crusaders knew how to take a city, Sergeant. They didn't know when to surrender one. If the cost of holding his position is too high, Gianavel will fall back in an orderly fashion. He will do nothing precipitous, so don't rush forward as though the battle is won. If you do, it will be the last attack you lead."
"May I ask what else you know about this man, My Lord?" The sergeant stared coldly.
"Nothing of consequence, Sergeant. But one thing is certain: Gianavel will make few mistakes."
The sergeant grunted. "I saw his kind in the valley. I will use every precaution."
"Do that," Pianessa said slowly, "but you have rarely, if ever, seen his kind, Sergeant."
"What do you mean, My Lord?"
"I mean"—Pianessa raised burning dark eyes—"this man does not fight like your mercenaries or even those Waldenses you slaughtered in the valley.
This man knows war as his purpose—his destiny—put upon him by God." Pianessa let his words settle into his listeners.
Incomel s frown was terrible, but the marquis did not seem to care. He added, "Gianavel does not fear death because he knows something greater than death." Pianessa bent his head, staring to the side. "My best advice, Sergeant: You attack a lion. He will not care for pain, or horror, or loss. He will ignore any wound that is less than mortal. He will kill more coldly than your coldest mercenary, and if you make the smallest, single mistake, he will kill you."
The sergeant shifted. "I see."
Pianessa looked back up. "This man believes God's purpose for his life is to defend his people. He has seen war and he has trained for war. He will maintain lines of communication. He does not need a map because he knows every footpath. He knows we're coming; he is prepared. The only hope we have is that we can overrun his cannon fire. If we can breach their line, if we can close on the Waldenses with hand blows, we can take Rora by overwhelming force. But to get close enough to accomplish that will be expensive."
Frowning now, the sergeant said nothing. Pianessa finished gazing around the hundreds of mercenaries assembled on the plain. "What of these Irish you mentioned?"
"Cromwell's criminals," the sergeant major answered, still staring at the map, and his mind seeming very far away, somewhere above the Castelluzo. "There was no room in English prisons, My Lord, so Cromwell banished them to the Continent."
"What are their crimes?"
"Murder, rape, thievery and whatnot."
Pianessa nodded. "Very well. Put Cromwell's criminals in the first wave. They can exhaust the bulk of cannon fire. And don't follow too closely with reinforcements."
"Why, My Lord?"
"Dead mercenaries cost nothing," Pianessa said without hesitation and fell more somber. "And there will be plenty of dead."
***
Staring down, Gianavel said nothing. He had returned to the stable to see if Abraham still prayed.
Yes, Abraham still prayed, his knees wet with wet ground and his head bent in eternal petition to God. Nor did he remove himself from his petition for a long time. But finally he lowered his hands, looked at the warlike Captain of Rora.
He smiled. "You are well, Gianavel?"
Gianavel was silent a moment. He nodded. "I am well, Abraham. I came only to see if you might have received any wisdom. If, perhaps, you knew another way."
The old man laughed quietly. "No, Gianavel. I have received no great wisdom. I have only faith and hope. Those things a man clings to in darkness and confusion."
As if he wanted someone to give him a reason for why he should not fight, Gianavel waited, head bowed. But every reason had been given, and they were not reason enough.
Abraham understood. "You and I are different, Gianavel," he said with a smile.
Gianavel raised a dark gaze.
"You think fighting is the means to defend your people," he continued.
"I believe that giving our lives as a living sacrifice to the Lord is our defense."
At that, all that could be said was said.
Gianavel's face hardened in a grief that had no answers. And now the questions had reached the backwater, where unrest overflowed familiar peace.
"I would be a fool," Gianavel said at last, "if I let Pianessa come into my home and murder my children, my wife, my friends. Perhaps you do know peace in laying down your life, and all the lives of those you love. But I can't do that. It defies everything I am. I must fight."
Abraham nodded his head sadly, as if at a sad truth. "Sometimes it is better to sacrifice a finger than to lose a whole hand."
Gianavel frowned more deeply. "Perhaps there is a greater truth," he answered. "Perhaps God, in His wisdom, appointed some to be priests, and some warriors, so that all the world might know that the end belongs only to God."
Abraham said nothing, nor did he move as Gianavel walked away.
***
Emmanuel was almost stunned when he walked into Pianessa s command post and saw the marquis reclining on his hunting chair, staring morosely at the distant mountains of Rora.
He waited, curious, until Pianessa spoke.
"Do you know what I think, Savoy?" he said mildly.
Cautiously, casually, Emmanuel continued forward. "You are the general of my army, Pianessa. I would like very much to know what you think on the eve of a great battle upon which the future of my kingdom hangs."
Pianessa sighed deeply. "I think ... that the Waldenses are not meant to depart from those mountains."
A solid silence.
"The will of God, Pianessa?"
The marquis shrugged, tired or depressed—a rare moment. "I know nothing of the will of God, Savoy. I am a soldier. I fight where I am sent to fight. I kill whom I am sent to kill. But the Waldenses have been attacked again and again. They have been dispersed, scattered to a dozen countries, massacred by the thousands, and still they return to these mountains, like Moses to Sinai."
At the young Duke of Savoy's silence, Pianessa looked over. "You think I have not read the Scriptures, Savoy?" His voice, even for a moment, lost its cold brutality. "Yes, the Waldenses remind me much of the Israelites. They are killed over and over, and still they return. This land, to them ... it is sacred ground."
The aura around Pianessa was something Emmanuel had never sensed around the general before—a persona of defeat. "Do you doubt victory?" he asked cautiously.
Seconds passed before the Marquis de Pianessa rose and walked slowly back to the map. He leaned across it, shook his head. "I will kill them all, Savoy. I was only...musing."
Whatever comfort or even information Emmanuel had sought when he first entered the tent was completely trampled by Pianessa s grim mood. He backed away quietly and turned to leave.
"One thing, Savoy."
Reluctantly, Emmanuel turned back and waited.
Pianessa was grim. "What will you win if you take these mountains from Gianavel?"
Fear—actual fear—enveloped Emmanuel's heart. It was one thing for Father Simon to warn him that God might be against this war. It was another for a pagan general to warn him that God himself might fig
ht beside Gianavel.
Without a reply, or even thinking of a reply, Emmanuel moved to the stables.
***
Gianavel knelt and thirty-four men followed, listening closely.
"Our defense is as good as we can make it," he said quietly and calmly "But the hardest aspect of any battle is changing your defense to meet changes in the attack. The side that changes the fastest will have the advantage. More the reason to take out their commanders quickly. Make sure you're far enough down the slope to target them. They won't be at the front."
"I wouldn't be either," commented Hector.
"Have men with mirrors stationed on the slopes above your positions. If you have to retreat up the slopes, use quick flashes. What one side does, the other does as well."
"As Joab and Abishi did," grunted Bertino.
"Exactly," said Gianavel. "None of us have the advantage of a military education. We have only our experiences and the stories of our fathers. But we know what David, Joshua, and Gideon did when they fought against their enemies. Their tactics were sound. We will do the same things."
Hector laughed once, nodded.
Faces grim and resolved met Gianavel as he gazed at them all in turn. "You are men," he said, and the words strengthened them as no accolade ever could.
Gianavel nodded, lifted his rifle.
"Let's go," he said.
The last of the heavily armed battalion disappeared along the highest switchback that curled around the farthest height of El Combe as soldiers struggled to drag the reserve cannon over the narrow, rocky ledge. Dust cyclones swirled in their wake like a storm leaving tatters of itself on the mountain.
Pianessa suddenly erupted with a laugh, drawing the attention of a lieutenant who sat beside him on horseback. The merciless guffaw seemed to have nothing of human pleasure within it, but there was harsh pleasure, nonetheless.
The lieutenant studied Pianessa s barbaric countenance, asked, "Something you see, sire?"
Pianessa settled back into his saddle. His huge hands closed on the flat, wooden horn, reins held easily. "Nothing, Cassius," he commented. "I was simply wondering if the Vaudois have any idea what is going to befall them when that regiment descends on their village."
Cassius, tall and lean with an aquiline face that gave him an almost aristocratic air, shrugged. "I expect they've heard what befell the valley, sire— rape, murder, pillaging, burning." He paused. "It doesn't matter if the Waldenses renounce their faith. The Inquisitors have issued orders to kill them all."
"Indeed," Pianessa murmured and was silent for so long that the lieutenant was watching curiously when he spoke again. "But tell me, Lieutenant. Would you lead that battalion knowing that Gianavel and his people are waiting for you?"
Cassius took a deeper breath and leaned back, stiffening as he gazed upward at the slope. He said nothing, but a sudden, frozen paleness in his face answered for him.
Pianessa laughed loudly and spurred his stallion toward the field. "Neither would I."
Bertino spun as the runner, a scout, arrived at the camp breathless and sweating heavily. He staggered the final few steps, and Bertino caught him by the shoulders.
"What is it, boy?"
The boy gasped, "A battalion. At least a thousand! They're coming!"
"How long?"
"An hour!" the boy cried. "Less!"
Gianavel lifted his rifle and walked forward. His poise was calm. There was nothing about him that matched those who surged quickly and nervously to don weapons and equipment. His voice was cold as he spoke to Bertino. "Keep a close eye on signals. The more chaotic the battle, the more important are our communications."
"Oui!" Bertino nodded and turned to a small platoon often men. "You know what to do!"
Hector walked quickly past the Captain of Rora, his men close behind the elderly man, though he said nothing and didn't glance to insure they were following. When they were gone, Gianavel lifted two extra rifles that he slung across his back.
He, alone, had no one to reload for him. He would attack the most critical, and most heavily guarded, elements of the battalion, striking at the head to kill the body. To take out the general was a mission best suited for six coordinated men, but he would risk no one else in the attempt. So he would run the gauntlet himself. He had only to seize the opportunity when it was there and execute with precision, then retreat quickly without a single mistake.
It was possible, Gianavel knew, because it would be at close range, and everything at close range was chaotic. Shots fired from ten feet easily went wide. Men swiped wildly with sabers, afraid they would lose their own head if they struck a second too late. And their fear would be his advantage because he had no fear. No, he had no fear, for he knew what was awaiting him—death. And the victory he would claim would make all the rest seem as nothing.
With a last impulse, he slid two more poniards into his belt, which would be quickly discarded because he would be too close for rifle or pistol with no time to reload and no time to retreat. It was the only way to do it. For, if he failed, he would be the one to pay the cost.
When all were gone, Gianavel paused. Though he revealed nothing, the fire was in his blood—the sunlight was bright, brighter, his blood fast, his hands tingling. Everything about him was white and dangerous, even the leaves that swayed beyond the camp. It was the mind he would keep until the killing was done.
With long strides he vanished into the trees.
*
Chapter 6
Captain Mario brushed a tree branch aside. glaring warily at the boulder-strewn slope Pass of Pelice. He saw only deep forest almost black beneath the overlapping crests of trees. There was no sign of Rora's defenders, nor was there any sound. He paused a long time, searching, but saw nothing in the distance, where the trail leveled across the valley. No, nothing...
It was as if Rora had been abandoned with uneaten meals still warm on tables, open doors swaying in haunting silence, open curtains at empty windows with dogs scurrying sideways on dust-devil trails utterly hedged by mountains ominous and silent as gravestones.
Mario looked to the side. "Sergeant!"
The red-bearded man turned his head. His face, also, reflected a sweating tension. His voice was quiet. "Yes, sir?"
"Why haven't they attacked?"
The sergeant major scanned the impenetrable forest once more. "I can't say, sir. If they're lying in ambuscade, they have the patience of devils."
"You're certain that men march parallel on either flank? I don't want to walk into another trap."
"Twenty men march parallel on either slope, sir."
Mario glanced at the size of the regiment. "Is that enough to fight off an ambush?"
The sergeant, too, appeared to be moving at a pace convenient for passing. "Oh no, sir, the fools will be murdered without a survivor. But they'll still sound the alarm."
"If we're attacked, will you charge the slopes?"
The red beard moved almost imperceptibly. "It's foolish to charge uphill against a fortified position, sir. It's like being caught halfway across a river. You can't advance and you can't retreat. The Spaniards are wizards at it, but, then, they're adulterous devils." He continued, quite businesslike, "No, sir, if they hit us from the slope, we'll retreat and barrage their positions with cannons. Beat them down a bit before we charge into their rifles."
Mario slowed his pace even more. "These people are wise, Sergeant. If they see that battle is unavoidable, they'll strike without warning and strike to kill."
"I'm confident the flanks will provide a warning, sir, however abrupt. And a warning is all we need."
Mario's eyes lighted nervously from bush to bush. His voice was quieter than the leaves that rustled above him.
"Yes ... a warning."
***
As silent as a breeze, Gianavel ripped his poniard from the chest of a soldier that marched on the flank of the regiment. Strewn behind him, the soldiers' comrades, twenty in number, lay in a long scattered line.
The Captain of Rora raised burning eyes at Captain Mario, now so close.
No, there would be no warning.
As he'd anticipated, the first company was comprised of mercenaries and a rank sergeant. But it would do little good to kill expendable mercenaries and a low-level commander. He had to target a commander whose sudden death might throw them into confusion.
Just as with his own men, Gianavel knew that as long as they retained their discipline, they would be difficult to defeat. But when they lost their discipline, when they began fighting like individuals instead of a team, they were already half-defeated.
Silently sheathing the poniard, Gianavel angled through the thick stand of poplar until he moved parallel with the standard-bearer, who traditionally stood beside the commander in chief. After Gianavel killed the sergeant, who truly controlled the riflemen, Captain Mario would be next, and then the standard-bearer. He turned his head, gazing across the narrow ravine.
Within one hundred feet, Bertino would open the first volley. Then events would move quickly, and there was no way to predict the enemy's reaction. To charge uphill was certain doom, but to dig into a bad position was little better.
Bent and silent, Gianavel moved alongside the center battalion, his eyes darting from the detachment to the path before him with each step. He avoided twigs and stones and only lightly moved branches that brushed silently over his wool shirt and pants.
He heard the first volley.
Plumes of white smoke erupted on the slope as men began shouting in terror and confusion, and Gianavel's musket rose as he fell into a crouch, searching over the sights for the first man who dared to shout a command and die.
Mario drew his sword as the sergeant major spun and thundered for the men to—
With the sound of a meat cleaver smashing through ribs and flesh, the sergeant staggered.
Mario stared for what seemed an amazingly long moment as the sergeant's face relaxed, eyes glassy with redness flooding over his face through a white portal of brain and bone where his forehead had been. Strangely, his sword seemed to make no sound as it clattered on the stones, bouncing soundlessly beyond a boulder.
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