La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

  I feel sickened, my angel, for the pain I know you will feel when you receive my letter, and for the disappointment that I could not bid you farewell in person. Please try to understand, please forgive me, and know that there will never be anyone but you. I will hold you in my heart every day and night that I am away from you, and with God’s blessing, I will be back in Camini soon, with the rest of my life to devote to you. I will console myself in the meantime with the thought that you will recite an Ave Maria or two for me, and that the promise I first saw in those beautiful eyes of yours will remain bright and strong, awaiting my return. Tuo amore per sempre, Tonino.

  Tonino vows to pray every day until he and Gabriella are reunited. He knows that there are no promises in the life of a soldier, but he does not have the heart to inform Gabriella of the harsh realities of the mission that he has embarked upon. He recalls the look on his brother’s face when he handed him the sealed letter, making him promise on Tonino’s life and on his own that he would deliver it to Gabriella the day after he left. Ricardo was full of questions about Gabriella and also about Tonino’s imminent departure, but Tonino told him as little as possible and swore him to secrecy. “You’re a good little man,” he ruffled Ricardo’s hair before embracing him tightly. “One day, you’ll understand too.”

  Tonino forced himself not to look back as he sprinted away from Ricardo, away from the house that he had lived in since he was born. He didn’t want Ricardo’s pleading eyes to draw him back, to make him change his mind.

  Tonino shifts uncomfortably. Did he make the right decision? He clasps his hands behind his head. Although he cannot rid himself of the feeling of guilt for leaving Gabriella, he knows that staying behind would have eventually caused him to despise himself for letting others fight for a better Italy. And if he couldn’t face up to himself as a man, how could Gabriella?

  Between the grunts of the animals and snoring of the men, Tonino hears the wind whistling through the cracks in the barn walls. He sighs, closes his eyes, and begins to pray.

  GABRIELLA STARES AT THE KNIFE IN HER HANDS. Its blade is smeared with Alfonso’s blood. Did I pull it out of him? she wonders, dazed. Yes, of course she did. She had thrust it into the back of his neck.

  Gabriella jolts into an upright position so quickly that her eyes blur. She squeezes them shut to try to regain her equilibrium; when she opens them again, the knife is still in her hands, the blood on her fingers. She gasps and lets the knife clatter to the plank floor, where it lands near Alfonso’s crumpled body. She thrusts her hand in a nearby bale of straw, plunging it frantically back and forth to get the blood off, impervious to the pinching, scratching sensation. She cannot breathe. There is no light, no air. The musky, blood-tinged smell of Alfonso is making her nauseated. She picks up her skirts and steps around him to get to the stairs.

  Papà. His face is turned away from her. Her heart beating a deafening rhythm, she rushes down the stairs to kneel by his side. She recoils at the sight of his head cradled in a pool of blood. “Papà,” she whispers, laying a hand on his chest. His eyes are closed, and for an instant Gabriella feels a surge of hope and then a stab of recognition. She has handled enough animals to know the stiffness of death.

  Her head drops to her father’s chest, and she feels the hot rush of her tears soaking his work shirt. Around her, gusts of air have pushed their way through the gaps in the barn walls, making eerie moaning sounds. Tormented sounds, like a wounded animal.

  She gasps, realizing they are coming from her own mouth.

  PART III:

  THE COLONEL AND THE BRIGAND

  February-March 1862

  THE MULE TRACK IS NARROW, pitted, and alarmingly slippery. A foray into hell, Colonel Michele Russo is convinced, feeling his stomach lurch again as the carriage descends the mountainside. It is the only road available for miles. The one he is accustomed to has been washed out by a mountain gorge and will stay that way until the winter rains subside.

  The rains are far from over; winter has just barely begun. Russo is sick of the endless rainfall. The ashen sky hangs over the dreary countryside like a death pall. Sometimes, a soft, mournful spray douses the sullen landscape, and other times a sharp, vengeful pelting prevails, intent on punishing man and nature alike. A vendetta of nature, really. After all, there has been enough deforestation in these Aspromonte mountains in past centuries to incite the wrath of the Creator. Tonight’s rain falls in the vengeful category. Russo swears under his breath as it strikes the carriage, partnered by vicious winds that seem powerful enough to topple the carriage at any time.

  Earlier, he had the choice of either turning back in the direction of Gerace or continuing the journey by the alternate road suggested by his driver Dattilio, who knows this rugged, backwood country like a confident mountain goat. Russo wishes he hadn’t followed Dattilio’s suggestion; the inconsequential drizzle at the start of their diverted journey has now turned into a deluge.

  Cursed driver! Russo grits his teeth. Does Dattilio have to be told to slow down and find shelter somewhere, anywhere? Ignorant peasant!

  Russo realizes the carriage is slowing down. His arm around the young woman sitting next to him relaxes slightly. She looks at him with no evidence of fear. He would wager she is finding the whole experience rather exciting from the glint in her dark brown eyes. But has she sensed that he is jittery? Is she silently mocking him for his unmanly fears?

  He must stop poisoning his thoughts with unfounded suspicions. Signora Liliana has shown nothing less than respect up to now. He wills his facial muscles to relax and return her smile. Ah, the elasticity of youth, he muses, his fingers caressing Liliana’s flawless cheek, hesitating briefly at the corner of her lip before tracing its outlines.

  When Liliana opens her mouth to offer the briefest flick of her tongue against his hand, Russo can’t help stiffening. Her smile widens. She knows what she is doing to him…and for all his years of experience, his maturity, she always has the power to render him a pubescent giovanotto ready for his trembling initiation into manhood.

  The carriage jolting to a stop makes Russo catapult off the seat and land hard on his knees at Liliana’s feet. He feels like an awkward schoolboy. “Blasted servant! I ought to send him packing. He’s put me through hell on this journey.”

  A rumble of thunder reverberates around them, and the rain pelting down doubles in intensity, muffling the rest of his curses. He gets up awkwardly and reaches for his overcoat and sable-trimmed hat, reassuring Liliana that he will order Dattilio to seek shelter immediately.

  His servant has dismounted and is holding the reins tightly against him, trying to calm the horses, whose eyes and teeth are a white blur. They snort and stamp the ground, their heated breath fogging the crisp February air. Dattilio is a mess. His hat is long gone and rivulets are pushing his scraggly grey hair over his eyes and ears. His moustache and beard are dripping, and the rain is pouring off his drooped shoulders. His sodden, long, black coat shrouds him like the glistening wings of a raven.

  The lightning that splinters the sky stills them all for a moment. Dattilio waits with his ever sullen expression, his hand stroking the horses alternately to calm them.

  “Can’t you find us some kind of refuge? A farmhouse, or even a cave? This is madness. Only a jackass would continue driving under these conditions!”

  Dattilio looks away slowly, and Russo silently curses his servant’s asinine nature. He wonders if Dattilio is purposefully slow, out of spite. There is something in Dattilio’s yellow-tinged eyes that makes him shudder. Everything about him reminds Russo of decay: his rotted teeth, his foul breath, and his sagging, ashen skin. Dattilio’s unusually prominent cheekbones, spindly limbs, and uneven gait resemble those of emaciated war prisoners. Even Liliana has mentioned pointedly that she finds that “ghastly creature” disconcerting, his yellow eyes and skin reminding her of a scaly lizard.

  Dattilio turns to face him
again and says gruffly, “There’s a deserted farmhouse nearby. Fifteen minutes. We could wait out the storm there.”

  Russo nods and bids Dattilio remount, now that the horses have calmed down. Without a further word, Russo jumps back into the carriage, apologizing to Liliana for the accompanying spray of rain.

  Liliana eyes his drenched hat and overcoat. As the carriage lurches forward, Russo tells her of their imminent destination. She leans into him, takes off his hat and smiles coyly. “Fifteen minutes? I think we should try to dry your clothes before then, Michele….” She pulls on his lapel meaningfully and he chuckles.

  What a bewitching creature Liliana is. Not buxom, like his wife Gina, whose ample body he ravished in the early years with the insatiable appetite of youth and inexperience. Liliana is as taut and refined as a Stradivarius, with no excess at all—just a pure, rich patina and silky, mysterious hollows and curves that he can’t seem to get enough of.

  “I don’t think I classify as a prude, generally, Lili, but I don’t think.…”

  “Don’t think at all,” Liliana murmurs, tugging at his lapel. In a second, his overcoat is off. He is slipping hers off her shoulders when a deafening thunderclap wedges them apart and the carriage sways. Russo clenches his teeth. Goddammit, they must stop, shelter or no shelter, before they all topple over the precipice. If the weather wasn’t so merciless, he would have bolted outside again to give the old bastard the verbal thrashing he deserved. Again, he vows to replace Dattilio.

  He needs a younger, more stalwart driver now that he is travelling throughout the Aspromonte region in his new position overseeing the operations of the National Guard in the repression of brigandage. And he could use another armed horseman in his company. One is presently trailing the carriage, and ordinarily, one would suffice for the road Russo is accustomed to taking, as it has regular carabineer postings along the way. But travelling on this mule track, with its serpentine twists and ruts and sheer drops into fathomless ravines, he feels his stomach knotting.

  Russo remembers the pistol he keeps beneath his jacket, and he feels some of his anxiety dissipate. Besides, infested though this country is with brigands, nobody with any sense at all would be wandering about in this storm. No, they would all be clustered in their mountain caves or hovels like cockroaches—the black bastards—until the storm abated and they could go about their nefarious schemes unhindered by nature.

  Claps of thunder echo around them. “What the devil?” Gunshots. He wrenches himself from Liliana to reach for his pistol.

  The carriage door flies open and before Russo can make a move, a masked figure in a black cloak flattens him against the seat and holds a pistol to his head. “Disarm,” the intruder barks, his face obscured behind an ebony kerchief.

  Russo’s jaws clench. Liliana’s face blanches. God help us. As he reaches into his holster, the brigand’s pistol presses into his temple.

  “Throw it outside the carriage,” the brigand commands.

  Russo complies. The carriage is likely surrounded by more just like him, ready to riddle him with bullets or daggers.

  “Put your hands behind your back.”

  Russo grimaces as the brigand deftly twists a thick cord around his wrists in a blood-draining vice. He gags uncontrollably at the ill-smelling strip of cloth wedged across his open mouth and tied securely behind his head, leaving his face stretched grotesquely, his jawbone feeling about to crack.

  The brigand pulls off Russo’s boots and flings them outside the carriage. “It seems I have interrupted a tryst,” he chuckles, glancing from Russo to Liliana. “Unless I’m wrong and this juicy young morsel is your wife. Ah, a wedding ring. How lovely.”

  He seizes her hand and his fingers close around the thick gold band. He examines the intricate filigree, and then yanks the ring off. He drops it into a pocket inside his cloak, and when his hand reappears, it is holding another rope.

  Russo feels his blood flare. Liliana’s eyes are wide; her back is ramrod straight in her seat. The brigand binds her hands behind her back. He cuts off the excess rope with a knife retrieved from within his cloak, allowing Russo a quick view of daggers and pistols gleaming like studded soldiers. The brigand drops down to bind Liliana’s feet, and then puts the rope back within the folds of his cloak. “A lady’s feet and legs are better left unbound,” he laughs, running one hand slowly up Liliana’s stockinged leg. “Except for occasions such as this. Let’s see what gifts you have for me.”

  Liliana twists and recoils as the brigand’s hands probe higher beneath her skirts. Russo feels rage pound through the blood vessels in his brain, and his chest constricts. The brigand laughs with a grunt of triumph. Russo knows he has found the pouch strapped around Liliana’s thigh. He was the one who told her to conceal her valuables this way when travelling. His stomach contracts violently as the brigand, trying to remove the pouch, growls and swipes at the interfering layers of skirts. In one swift motion, he retrieves a stiletto from his cloak and slashes away at her dress and frilly underclothes. Liliana’s mouth opens in a silent scream, her eyes blinking rapidly, her body jerking with every tear of satin and lace.

  The brigand stops, breathing hard, and runs his gaze along Liliana’s black lace stockings, held in place by garters. He reaches for the cream silk pouch attached to one garter and deftly removes it, and although the second pouch on the other thigh is just as visible, he begins to skim her leg.

  The rain has stopped. The pelting against Russo’s eardrums is the drumming of his heart. He feels spittle dribbling down the corners of his mouth. His loins tighten as the brigand’s fingers slide upward to feel the swell of Liliana’s calves and the delicate bones in her knees before splaying over each shapely thigh. The brigand squeezes, then his fingers stretch upwards to the clasps on the garters. With two tugs, the stockings are released. He retrieves the second pouch and drops it into the recesses of his cloak.

  Liliana makes a strangled sound like a young goat being slaughtered. The brigand, unperturbed, watches as she writhes and strains to loosen herself, her abdomen heaving. Russo’s eyes blur, and he blinks rapidly. The brigand’s hands are roaming over Liliana’s bare legs now, and he glances over at Russo while one of his hands disappears behind the remaining shreds of her skirts. Something about his eyes sends a chill through Russo.

  Liliana’s gasps and ragged breathing are unbearable. Russo’s jaw is on fire, his brain an engorged mass ready to burst.

  The brigand’s free hand moves to Liliana’s breasts. He squeezes each one and unclasps the buttons of her bodice with exaggerated delicacy before exposing her. Russo stiffens as Liliana begins to sob, her tears spilling onto her bared breasts.

  The brigand glances sideways at Russo. “Perhaps you can imagine how helpless peasants feel when they are taken advantage of, and then made to suffer even more when the law has no interest in defending them. Perhaps you should re-examine the law books, Colonel Russo. And change them before—”

  Two gunshots fire off. The brigand plunges his hand within his cloak and retrieves a pistol. He kicks the door open. As he looks back at Russo and Liliana, his eyes are now clearly visible. Russo blinks, and the brigand is gone with a swirl of his cape.

  His stomach clenches at the sound of approaching footsteps. Could it be my armed horseman? he wonders. Or another brigand sent to finish me off?

  A figure appears at the door. Dattilio!

  His servant unbinds him, explaining that another brigand restrained him while the chief entered the carriage, but then, at the sound of gunshots, shoved him into some lentisk bushes before fleeing. He saw no sign of Russo’s armed horseman.

  Russo attempts to thank Dattilio but manages only a scratchy croak. He motions to Dattilio to retrieve his boots and to procure a flask of water. Dattilio hands him the knife, lowers his gaze discreetly and descends the carriage. Russo releases Liliana from her strappings. Her face is still pale, but her eyes are
blinking now. He helps her readjust what is left of her clothing and eases her trembling body into her overcoat.

  At the sound of Dattilio’s footsteps, Russo lunges at the door and accepts the boots and the flask. He urges Liliana to drink first. It hurts when he swallows the water. His voice cracked and hoarse, he orders Dattilio to proceed homeward.

  The sooner he can get to the station, the sooner he can devise a plan to pursue his assailant. To find the bastard who did this to him and Liliana. As Dattilio urges the horses forward, Russo’s jaw clenches as he recalls the brigand’s tell-tale features when he kicked open the carriage door. One brown eye, one green.

  Liliana presses her head against his chest. Russo strokes her hair gently, murmuring reassurances. He will see that justice is done. The bastard will pay, along with the informer who tipped him off as to Russo’s presence and identity.

  As the carriage rumbles along, Russo ponders the brigand chief’s earlier words. He is harbouring a grudge and bent on revenge, obviously. Russo’s stomach tightens. He will not rest until he has this devil bound and gagged, his pride in tatters like Liliana’s skirts, his diabolical eyes begging for mercy. It will give Russo the greatest of pleasure to give him a taste of hell.

  Despite his cracked lips and throbbing jaw, he smiles as he contemplates some of the methods of torture he can look forward to. Cutting off the brigand’s ear with a slice of his dagger. Smashing every bone in his hands with a hunk of granite. Poking him in the testicles with a sizzling fire iron. Something to make him pay for laying his filthy hands on Liliana. Russo’s hand trembles as he brushes Liliana’s cheek softly with his fingertips.

  Oh yes. The brigand chief will pay.

  THE SKY IS KNUCKLED WITH BRUISES in the fading twilight. Stefano Galante scans the lifelike forms of vermilion and indigo intertwining like desperate lovers within the inky recesses of sky and feels the hair on his arms rise in reverent acknowledgement of the Creator’s presence. The successful pillage of a carriage transporting Colonel Michele Russo to his villa has lifted his spirits, and he fingers the pillaged items in the pocket of his cape with a renewed sense of satisfaction.