Rora Read online

  Pianessa spun on his heel. "There are those above the Pelice, Captain! Those at Rora!"

  Mario scowled. "The sheepherders?"

  "Heretics!"

  "Heretics!" Mario erupted with laughter that continued for a long moment before he sobered. "You have lost your mind, Pianessa! Those fools at Rora are not heretics!"

  "The Inquisitors have promised fifty pieces of gold to the captain who leads the attack," Pianessa pronounced.

  Mario stared with confusion; it didn't last.

  "Really," he muttered and raised a single gold piece to examine it in the dim light. "Well, then, heretics they are."

  ***

  Dawn broke the color of silver, silhouetting Gianavel alone in the open doorway of the cottage. He stared over scattered rags of snow and tiny pebbles that cast long shadows like knives from the low, rising orb that looked like the head of an angry god gazing over a sea of shattered ships littered upon a reef.

  Frost gave white hair to the earth, then began to glow gold and crimson as the moment stretched. The cold wind was low, but no dust rose to its caress, and the planet was still and quiet before him. His eyes were crescents of ice around sad wells of black that fell into the depths of something unseen.

  Then a sound behind him.

  Small shuffling feet ...

  Gianavel smiled as he turned and saw a tiny figure standing alone in a nightshirt splashed with gold from the rising sun. He shut the door and walked forward, lifting small feet from the cold floor, warming the body with his own. Then he sat upon the couch, pulling Jacob's head into his chest.

  The fire was ablaze again, feeding on the chunks of dry wood Gianavel had cast upon the glowing red embers from the night before. The cold retreated at the color of flame, and the room was wrapped in walls that contained a combined safety.

  Jacob's voice was quieter than the harsh sound of vanishing wood, but it was heard. "I'm scared, Papa."

  Gianavel's hand settled on Jacob's neck, softly stroking his light brown hair. His voice was low and strong. "Don't be scared, son. I'm here with you, and your mother, and your sisters. We won't let anything happen to you."

  Jacob didn't remove his eyes from the hearth.

  "Soldiers," he said.

  Silently Gianavel wrapped both arms tightly around his child and rubbed the small back. He bent forward to kiss his forehead and whispered, "You're going be all right ... Things happen, sometimes. I don't understand it, either. But the Lord is Lord of all the Earth, boy. All things belong to Him, in the end."

  In stillness, the child asked, "Will you ever leave me?"

  Gianavel felt his throat tighten and kissed his little boy again before leaning his head back. "One day, yes, I will have to leave you—but only when the Lord decides. And you'll be stronger, then. The Lord will make certain of that. You won't need me so much." Gianavel laughed, hugged him again. "You'll probably have your own children, then, and you'll love them as much as I love you. But you will always be in my heart, my boy. And you will never be alone...."

  Closing his eyes, Gianavel shook his head—a hope, a prayer. "You will never be alone ..."

  Jacob said nothing, and in the silence that followed, Angela stood in the door of their room, smiling. She rubbed her shoulders as she walked forward and kissed Gianavel, then Jacob, and settled in close to them both. And together they were silent as the windows whitened with day, and Gianavel rose and walked quietly, solemnly, to the wall. He lifted his coat and heavy cloak and wide-brimmed, Puritan-style hat. Then he looked back to see them where they had been, watching his every movement. He smiled as he lifted his musket and weapons, winked at Jacob.

  "Remember what I promised we'd do today?"

  Jacob nodded eagerly. "Barrel slip."

  "That's right," Gianavel laughed.

  "Joshua ..."

  He waited.

  Angela's eyes spoke more eloquently than words ever could. "Be careful, my love."

  With a quiet nod, Gianavel walked out. He ignored the frost that crunched beneath his steps and the cold that lifted his cape as he bent into a long, loping run that he could hold for miles and miles. Trees grew nearer and nearer and passed, and the slope rose before him until a lonely, vigilant rock stood alone against the distant blue-rimmed cliffs—the Roc de Doc, where he could observe every approach into Rora.

  He climbed to the crest and searched the valley but saw only orchards and empty roads. The land was without danger, the people were safe, and yes, he would remain here until nightfall—watching, always watching, until the people were safe for the night.

  Knowing it in his heart and soul—in what was deepest within him, the place where his deepest strength was born, Gianavel knew he would never move. No, as long as the Lord called upon him to stand upon this hill, he would never move.

  Nor would he be moved.

  *

  Chapter 2

  Night passed, and morning came again ... And Gianavel returned to his place, watching.

  He was weary as he gained the height once more, a fatigue greater than what was physical assailing his limbs because the strength to endure vigilance now was worn by worry and fear. He knew what was coming, and his hands were solid as they gripped the rocks as he climbed. But the grim-ness that marked his grip was also light with the touch of battle—battle dreaded but no longer denied.

  No more than sixty miles in circumference, the valley of Rora was thickly fielded with orchards and vineyards that prohibited view from the ground, but from the Roc de Doc, Gianavel could gaze over the verdure to view the entire valley.

  There were only two entrances through the encircling walls of sheer white cliffs that stretched thousands of feet into the sky. The first, and most difficult, was a deep ravine that broke through the mountains toward Turin. Climbing the ravine was not perilous, but descending in foul weather or in haste was a treacherous affair.

  The second entrance was the Pass of Piedmont itself, which cut across the summit of El Combe after rising from the valley of Lucerna. It began with a long climb from sea level, swung left past the jagged cliffs of the Castelluzo, then down and across the Pelice by way of a single, narrow bridge before rising again through the mountains that formed the wall of Rora. Only a four-hour walk for a strong man, it required a day's travel with oxcart or herd.

  As a consequence, the inhabitants of Rora had become almost entirely self-sufficient with cattle, sheep, crops, and an abundant water supply channeled past brownstone chalets that were exactingly maintained by craftsmen, farmers, and townspeople. Nor was the valley considered a poor slice of Charles Emmanuel s kingdom. Rather, because of its agricultural exports, it maintained widespread wealthier quarters.

  Rora was ruled by a civilian council, and disputes were settled by moral laws and codes founded upon precepts of the Lingua Romana, a translation of the New Testament written in Romaunt, the common dialect of Southern Europe. Although the Roman Catholic Church loudly proclaimed that any layman possessing the Scriptures was to be arrested and punished, the Waldenses had, with precise attention, patience, and dedication, translated the heavy, illustrated tombs of Latin text into small, plain, portable volumes that could be read and understood by all.

  Those who lived in Piedmont already declared that the Waldensian Church was older than Rome, and the Romaunt translation was theirs by preeminent right. Others said the book was the product of a rebel faction of faith that found criminal refuge in the mountains during the eleventh century. And, then, many deemed the matter to be of no importance; dead men alone knew the answer, and dead men would not speak. It existed, and none could dispute that it did.

  And so the Romaunt version stated that every man, woman, and child had a right to read and interpret the Bible themselves. And as the Vaudois—another name for the Waldenses—read the Old and New Testaments they had come to proclaim many beliefs that were contradictory to the official doctrine of Rome.

  They did not believe in the infallibility of the pope or the necessity of a priest to
mediate God's forgiveness. Even more disturbing to the Catholic Church, they declared that prayer offered in a barn was every bit as sacred as prayer in a church as long as it came from a sincere and contrite heart. But, most alarming, the Vaudois stated that the "bone relics" of Rome were most likely the bones of God-only-knows-who and had little or no value before the Lord.

  Such blasphemy could not be endured ...

  And at the heart of it, the Waldenses believed that the atoning death and justifying righteousness of Christ was the cardinal truth, and that only the Lord had the power to forgive sins. They believed in the Trinity, in the need for divine grace to do works of righteousness, in the resurrection of the body, in heaven and hell. And they believed that the Lord, and not man, was Judge of all the Earth.

  Yet because of the scarcity of the Romaunt Scriptures, both laymen and barbes were asked to memorize large sections so that the written books might be distributed outside the valley to people everywhere, that all might know what was written in God s Word and decide their own minds.

  As the Captain of the Militia of Rora, Gianavel was responsible for confronting those who invaded the valley. His militia, if it could be so termed, was exceedingly small, unless war was declared, and then every man fought as they had fought in the past, father passing to son the heart and courage to stand in the gap, to defend the weak.

  None were perfect, but courage breeds courage. Some things, even the world cannot deny.

  Gianavel squinted against a wind sharp with cold. But he knew the cold would fade quickly as the sun was already above the cliffs, thickening shadows into a semblance of what cast them. He could still not discern every detail in the distance, but the pass and ravine were clear enough. And if anyone, whether alone or with an invading force, crossed the snowcapped Alps, he would see them. Nor was he defenseless, though he was reluctant to use weapons.

  His flintlock rifle, which had replaced his old cumbersome matchlock, was effective to more than a hundred meters, and he could discharge a second shot in twenty seconds. He also carried his saber, four feet in length with a full hand guard, a flintlock pistol, and a forthright poniard that was eighteen inches long and double-bladed for the entire length down to the oval-shaped hilt and spiked pommel.

  Altogether, the weapons had cost him forty doubloons, but Gianavel was practical. He was the marshal of a small valley surrounded by forces that sometimes seized Waldenses, even today, when they ventured outside Piedmont and tortured them to death without trial or even an accusation of wrongdoing. Many wars had been waged to destroy them completely, and though Gianavel prayed each day for peace, peace had never come, and he had no illusions.

  When Gianavel was only fifteen years old, Rome had executed the sentence of death on all the Waldenses because of their faith. The army of the Catholic king invaded and massacred the inhabitants of the valley from end to end, leaving forests of crucified skeletons in the trees and pyramids of skulls to witness their glory. Over half the population—sixteen thousand men, women, and children—were burned at the stake, drawn and quartered, hanged, crushed by stones, disemboweled, decapitated, thrown onto pitchforks, or fed to hungry dogs. They were set afire and extinguished only to be set afire again or hideously tortured in ways Gianavel still saw with bright red horror even when he shut his eyes in the dark.

  His father had been among the first to fall, fighting bravely but futilely to save his family. And although his mother and brothers and sisters had died, Gianavel managed to escape into the mountains, where he evaded the troops who scoured the snow-covered trails for those who had escaped the sword. And through the first frostbitten months, he learned quickly how to move without being seen or heard, how to pass through a forest without leaving a sign, how to forage food or steal what he needed to survive.

  Gianavel had watched over and over how the battalions maneuvered, deployed, attacked, and counterattacked. He studied how weapons and cannons were used, watched how men killed with dagger and sword. And when the war was finally over, he descended from the mountain to see who else had survived...and then came the plague.

  The Black Plague was brought from France by the Catholic soldiers themselves and reduced the valley of Rora to smoldering funeral pyres surrounded by starving survivors who had no strength to dig more graves. The black stench that rose and crowned Gianavel's brow for a year and a half held the blood and bodies of his father and friends. It soaked into his head, his ragged clothes, and his lungs as he worked from nightmarish dawn to dusk disposing of worm-eaten bodies until he finally understood the dark heart of war, the frailty of the flesh, and the terrible power of the sword. And somewhere in the long night, lying awake, watching the mounds and dunes of bodies burn beneath a cold, haggard moon that grinned like a skull, he knew that he could never again run from evil, for there was no place to run.

  And as Gianavel grew strong, he grew wise.

  With each year his skill increased with the rifle and sword, listening to old Descombie recount the fabled stories of David, the greatest king of Israel, as he defeated the enemies of the Lord. And, even in the old stories, Gianavel could see David's gift of attacking while retreating, of striking while avoiding, of stalling while confronting, to contest a grim battle of truth. When he was cold, he would build a shelter to weather the night like the squirrel built its home—leafy and small on the inside yet covered with bark to resist the dew and rain. And when he hunted, he hunted as the wolf, exhausting the prey until it simply fell to the ground, ultimately defeated by its own fear.

  And ... he read the Lingua Romana until he could recite entire gospels and epistles by heart, searching every word for a deeper understanding of life and death—of living in peace, surviving in war, and honoring God throughout.

  And, in all this, Gianavel learned more than he ever expected. He found his mind retaining more, remembering more, so that memory became a vast repository of knowledge—of nature, science, philosophy, and cunning—that he could recall effortlessly.

  When he reached manhood and could take a respected seat in the synod, his growth had not escaped the attention of the elders of the barbes. At the request of his kinsmen, Gianavel had been called forth to be Captain of the Militia in a valley decimated by war after war, a valley surrounded by enemies—madmen and tyrants and fools that executed their ambitions upon a foreign land simply because the land was weak and thin with peasants. But Gianavel, head bowed, had solemnly accepted the responsibility, and since that day, now twenty years past, had maintained his lonely vigilance.

  Standing upon the sentinel's rock, Gianavel recalled untold encounters against bandits, against wandering bands of mercenaries and marauding deserters of the German or French kings. He was thankful that he had rarely been forced to violence. He had confronted, yes, had sometimes wounded men, when he had no choice. But he had only, with the greatest grief, executed that fatal action only when all other actions had failed. And the pain he had borne from the battle was far greater than the battle itself.

  Yet the drums of war had sounded again. Nothing was new, and men did not change even as slowly as the land. The heart of man was a lake broken by bladed crests lifted on dark winds hidden by whitewashed walls. Each man, alone, was aware of what secret winds moved behind the white veil. And each man, alone, could alter its course.

  He had no illusions.

  Gianavel had fled once from war, it's true, when he was a child—when he felt himself upon a precipice with so little strength left to fight—but he would never flee again, not after the Lord had so greatly delivered him. No, not now—not without the lives of his family, his neighbors, and his friends safely borne within his cloak where he could bear them over the mountains into Geneva.

  Death held no terror—the Lord was Lord of life and death and whatever was beyond ...

  Yes, he sometimes feared death, though much less than most men. And he pondered death much more than most men. But death, after intimate years, had become to him only a darkness he knew would end. It would come
to him, and he would pass through it to the other side, and whatever lay there would be his love.

  It was a twig of shadow rising upon the distant pass that caused him to return to the moment. His eyes had never stopped searching the valley, and he focused on the Pass of Pelice but did not move.

  Movements, he had learned by watching creatures of the forest, were what betrayed a man—what made him separate from the shadows and trees and stones. He had learned that when the trees moved, he could move. And when they stopped moving, he stood motionless until they began to move again, using the shadow, the sound, to mask his own.

  He bent his head forward only an inch so the wide brim of his hat shielded his eyes, and he saw an alien army emerging upon the ridge. Though still miles away, their number could be estimated, and it was great. And then there was no more time for thought.

  Gianavel dropped from his rock, hand on his sword and rifle raised for balance. And when he was in the trees, he began running, the grassy plain rolling away beneath him as his legs flashed dark, stretching and striking, devouring the ground.

  It was time.

  ***

  Gianavel threw open the door of the cottage and stood unmoving, framed by the whiteness of the morning.

  Angela took one glance at him and moved without a word. She threw her shawl over her shoulders and quickly turned to the children. "Shoes! Coats! All of you! Now!'

  Only little Jacob stared in wonder and surprise at what had interrupted his breakfast, and then Gianavel snatched him up, wrapping him in a warm wool blanket. They were quickly out the door and into the small two-wheeled wagon used for traveling the valley. Angela had the reins, and Gianavel placed his hand on her leg, staring up.

  Her face was vivid with fear, but she was doing what they had rehearsed a thousand times. Nevertheless, Gianavel heard himself say quietly and calmly, "You know what to do."

  She nodded and struck the reins. The wagon violently broke from the frost with a crunch, moving from the cottage toward a series of caves. She would alert every house on the way, and within minutes everyone would be afoot with whatever food and clothes they could carry.