Pianessa laughed and swept out with his sword, flinging blood in a wide crescent. “Is this the man who defended Rora in their fight against persecution?” he cried.
Blake saw that Pianessa, too, had somehow been cut in the last exchange—blood flowed from his lip and cheek.
Pianessa frowned, circling slowly. “You certainly fight like a man, Captain. Let’s see if you die like a man.”
Gianavel’s eyes were dead. He said nothing. His concentration was complete.
Pianessa’s hate was as heavy as the heart of a star. “You should have watched your family burn as I did, Captain. Your children screamed for you but you did not come.”
At that, Gianavel’s mouth turned in the faintest frown. Minutely, his hand shifted on his blade. Then Pianessa’s hand tightened on his sword—he saw the signal of an attack. Blake wanted to break the moment, to warn the captain of Rora he was being goaded into a trap, forsaking his skill and cunning.
Gianavel lunged, fully committing himself to a line of attack, and Pianessa read every movement, every direction of the eye, every shift of weight however small, and his sword flew outward in a lunge that blasted Gianavel’s sword aside and plowed across Gianavel’s ribs, plunging out his back. They stood face-to-face…
Gianavel’s teeth were clenched in pain and … control!
Upon the face of Pianessa was shock—even surprise—and then blood erupted from his mouth. He caved inward—into his armor, it seemed— falling slowly, like an avalanche in black, to his knees. And then Blake saw Gianavel’s left hand—the hand he had not seen—release the hilt of a dagger buried deep in Pianessa’s heart.
On his knees, Pianessa stared at the blade as if his mind had not yet realized that he was defeated. He gazed dumbly at the dagger, then reached up slowly to grasp it. Then, even more slowly, he raised his face to the Captain of Rora.
Almost invisibly, Gianavel’s shook his head. And for the fraction of a second, Blake thought he beheld tragedy there, in his face – as if this war had been so much waste—as if even this … had been so much waste—and at such a precious, irreplaceable price.
Like a tree, the Marquis de le Pianessa fell forward, leaning against Gianavel’s stoic form. Then he slid off the Captain of Rora and to the side, landing face down in the mud.
Groaning, he curled into the posture of a man who was ultimately defeated—a man who was defeated in spirit even more than he was defeated in the flesh.
Across the compound, the marquis’ soldiers were dead or dying. Those who’d survived were fast disappearing into distant trees, unarmed and wounded. And the Waldenses, who seemed as numerous as when the battle began, had secured the gate.
Gazing across the compound, Gianavel’s eyes revealed neither victory nor defeat. With the end of this battle, as with the end of every battle, he would command the men to kneel. And then he would recite to them the fifteenth Psalm, and they would stand.
Frowning, Gianavel sheathed his sword.
Blake felt so much that he felt nothing at all.
It was finished.
Emmanuel raised his face as a terrified monk stood in the open front doorway of his Great Hall. The monk did not enter and would not unless the Duke of Savoy bid him come.
The Duke of Savoy waited, finding some manner of cryptic pleasure in the monk’s obvious terror. He glanced toward Father Simon, who revealed nothing at all.
“Come,” Emmanuel ordered at last.
The monk came quickly, as if he would be relieved to deliver the words and be as quickly gone. He halted before Emmanuel and bowed. “It is … Noble Incomel, My Lord.”
Emmanuel waited.
The monk whispered, “He is murdered!”
The monk stared as if expecting some kind of emotional reaction from the Duke of Savoy. After all, it was not often that an Inquisitor was killed inside the palace and never without some dangerous inquiry from the Citie del Vaticano.
With a gesture Emmanuel remarked, “And has this murderer been apprehended?”
Confusion flushed the monk’s face. “No, My Lord. Not yet. But the second Inquisitor is dead, also. The one from Pope Alexander.” His hands locked. “What will we do?”
Emmanuel laughed, shocking the monk. Then he stated with a smile, “Call out the Sergeant at Arms. See that everyone is detained and questioned. Have the Inquisitors record the answers. But advise them that they will touch no one else in my kingdom.”
The monk hesitated and then turned and ran down the long hall and out the guarded portal. Leaning against the mantel, the Duke of Savoy looked upon the old priest. “You knew?”
Somber, Simon nodded. “He was … my friend.”
That was a curiously tragic note to mark a victory.
Emmanuel cast his wine into the fire, turned, and walked silently across the hall, past his throne and to the open courtyard. Slowly he mounted the stairway of the battlement and searched the city and forest that surrounded his palace that was finally his in truth.
So much death …
Though ravaged by war, he knew greatness would return to Turin, and then the people, though it might require years and years for them to rise up and repopulate the land. But they would bear more children. They would rebuild what had been destroyed. They would plant new crops. They would pray together and work together. And he hoped that both tyrant and hero would be remembered by the world, because what had happened here was too great to not be remembered.
Here, one of the mightiest military machines the world had ever known had been defeated by the power of faith and courage—by the faith and courage of a man who had inspired that same faith and courage in his friends. And, gazing over the war-torn land, Emmanuel knew that Simon, from the very beginning, had been right.
“Slaughter the Waldenses until the hills are bleached by their bones, Savoy. Slaughter them till your hand freezes to your sword and you cannot let it go, and the Waldenses will number like locusts. Because you cannot destroy their faith, Savoy, and their faith is their life …For what is created by the spirit cannot be destroyed by the flesh.”
Emmanuel nodded. “Yes…”
Wisdom learned too late.
He wondered if the world would remember.
*
EPILOGUE
Quietly, Lockhart closed the door and entered the room where the old poet worked—even now worked on what would be his masterpiece.
Paradise Lost, he called it.
Lockhart knew the old man had heard him though the pen did not hesitate, nor did John Milton raise his head. With a faint smile, the Scotsman walked forward, staring down.
It had been years.
Cromwell, whose stout courage and spirit had helped still the massacre of the Waldenses, was dead. And Cardinal Mazarin, whose faith and love for all people of all faith, was also gone. There were few now who knew what had happened in Piedmont. But the poet would not let it go; he would make the world remember.
To always remember...
As Lockhart smiled, John Milton tilted his head. He gazed at the pages as if he could see them. "They believe I am a foolish old man," he said and then laughed. "Perhaps they are right.... I write in darkness. I cannot even see...what I say."
Still smiling, Lockhart pulled a chair and sat. "The world would be fortunate to be so foolish, old man."
Though Lockhart was gray now, he had become what he had been destined to become—a noble Englishman.
For a moment John Milton shut his eyes, as if in earnest prayer, then spoke. "Who will ever believe that the Waldenses secured their future in a manner more worthy than kings?" He laughed gently. "Who will believe that Gianavel, that great Patriarch of the Waldenses, defeated the mightiest army in Europe with only a handful of poor peasants and children? Perhaps no one...? But so that men will never forget the power of his faith and courage and his own resolute will, I have written these words."
The old man needed no eyes to read what he had written with his own hand and his own passion. As he spoke, his v
oice grew strong.
"'Avenge, O Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold. In Thy book record their groans, who were Thy sheep, and in their silent fold slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled mother and infant down the rocks. Their moans, the vales redoubled on the hills, and they to Heaven....'"
John Milton took a heavier breath and smiled faintly. "I pray those days will be remembered when men must once again choose whether they will stand for what they believe. I pray that Joshua Gianavel and those great heroes of the faith who stood beside him will be taken for example ... And the saints of the Lord will know that any battle can be won ... if they believe."
"I believe," Lockhart said quietly as he leaned forward, placing a hand on the old man's arm. "Tell me the rest."
As his eyes saw something that was not yet before them, John Milton leaned back. "Pardoned by the Duke of Savoy, Joshua Gianavel was henceforth exiled to Geneva where he and his son lived the rest of their long years in peace and prosperity. But yet another great massacre was to follow, a massacre that left virtually no Waldenses alive in their valley."
The poet's voice was no less than prophetic. "And as the castaways were fleeing toward Geneva—naked, starving, and hunted—word reached Gianavel, who yet lived. And the Prince of the Waldenses gathered with him six strong men as in times of old to meet the refugees in the wilderness.
"Pursued by ten thousand soldiers of the Duke of Savoy, the wounded Waldenses reached the border at last. Their strength was as nothing. Hope was a ghostly veil before their graves. And, caught only moments before they would have reached safety, they would die as the rest had died. And then ..."
Lockhart didn't move. "And then?"
John Milton's eyes opened even farther, seeing what no one else had yet seen. "And then seven men appeared on the horizon." He stretched out a hand. "Only seven men, child. But the entire army of Piedmont saw the man who stood in the center of the crescent. He was old, white-haired, and surely his strength had diminished though his greatness had not. And as Gianavel stared upon the beast, ten thousand strong ... the beast stayed his hand from killing. And those who had been persecuted ... were set free."
Lockhart stared upon the old man, whose face shone with such light.
"And then the commander of the army of Piedmont looked upon the low hill where Gianavel had stood. Looked once more to see the silhouette of that great warrior whom God had used to defend His people. Yes, looked for the man who by faith and courage defeated what no one believed could be defeated."
Rapt, Lockhart whispered, "And then?"
With a smile, the poet bowed his head.
"And then ... Gianavel was gone."
***
Old and gray, now, Blake turned and watched the children playing, free and happy. It was a simple thing, he knew, but such a price had been paid for this freedom. He watched them arguing over a piece of coal, over who had actually won it. He laughed.
As an Elder of the Waldenses, Blake could have stood and settled the matter without dispute. But life was not so simple, and children must learn. Yes ... they must learn that the world is a place forever filled with conflict and confusion. But it can also be filled with courage and wisdom and faith and love—and victory—if they seek the Lord with all their heart.
He raised his face and closed his eyes and remembered all that had passed as he often did now with the weight of his age settling heavier upon him. For more than half a century had passed, and Gianavel, his great friend, old and full of years, was dead.
Shoulder to shoulder and against the tide they had stood and won a victory greater than any one of them could know, though he often prayed that the world might understand one day. For what had been won was far greater than villages or valleys or kingdoms or even the now silent bones of heroes lost to time.
With a sad smile Blake remembered the words of Gianavel—words spoken in that dark night so long ago as Gianavel's wife and children, cruelly bound by chains, were sacrificed to flames. For, from the very beginning, Gianavel had been right.
What chains can hold belongs to man.
The rest is God's.
James Byron Huggins emerged from the cobwebs of Alabama in 1993 and literally stunned both the American East Coast and West Coast with multiple million-dollar movie and book deals to create some of the most admired story lines and characters in recent fiction.
After creating his allegorical first novel, “A Wolf Story,” Huggins switched to the counterintelligence genre with the ground-breaking, “The Reckoning.” Long hailed as the first true thriller with the backdrop of a profoundly religious plot, “The Reckoning” remains a favorite of actions fans. Then Huggins wrote “Leviathan” – the story of a Komodo Dragon transformed into the biblical Leviathan and the havoc it wreaks upon those who must destroy it before it destroys the world.
Million dollar deals were immediately signed for “Cain,” and “Hunter,” before Huggins could even finish the books and overseas rights were sold before the novels were even released in the United States. Even now Huggins remains one of the most sought-after action screen writers in Hollywood.
Raised in a small Alabama town Huggins grew up to become involved in fantastic adventures that took him to the far side of the world and so very far from his beginnings. After spending several years in Europe smuggling people and materials in and out of the Iron Curtain to assist those suffering religious and political persecution in nations doomed to war, Huggins became a decorated police officer in Huntsville, Ala. But he resigned from police work in 1993 after publication of his first novel.
Huggins continues to write and to speak and frequently holds writing seminars for libraries, book clubs, colleges, high schools and churches. Anyone wishing to have Huggins visit your group or edit your work before publication or theatrical production need only contact him through this site.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
EPILOGUE
Rora Page 38
