La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

  The clouds hovering above him seem to shift with the erratic dance of the night breeze. Within a cleft of wooded hills, a mournful howl breaks off into an echo followed by the more guttural rumblings of thunder.

  He feels at ease astride his mule, affected neither by the storm that is gathering once again, nor by the presence of wolves or other night creatures. This is his territory, he acknowledges in silent contentment. He has crossed every hillock, ravine, torrent, and bluff by foot or horseback. He has sheltered in numerous caves and dugouts, trenches and fields. He has taken all this wild earth has had to give, both from animate and inanimate means. He has derived his sustenance from pigeons and blackbirds, ducks and partridges, wild hares and hedgehogs, and from foxes and wild boar. He has gathered chicory and chamomile, jasmine and rosemary. The blood-red juice of the abundant cactus pear has sustained him during times of lack; the crystalline waters of gushing springs have coursed through his parched throat and body during the unforgiving heat of summer.

  Stefano dismounts at the crest of a hill that has become his vantage point. The treacherous paths and ravines that have preceded him here would discourage even the most expert of horsemen. This particular hill, which he has named “Monte Galante,” has become his haven, its granite shoulders offering him a barrier to the forces that would want his capture, dead or alive; its densely wooded body providing all his life’s needs, like a breastfeeding mother.

  He pulls out a flask from within the folds of his cloak and takes a swig. The red wine warms his throat and radiates throughout his body. He reaches for a linen sack and retrieves a hunk of hardened goat’s cheese and bread. He hasn’t eaten since dawn, and although he is accustomed to long stretches between meals, especially when on the run or involved in a faccenda with the members of his band, he savours the richness of a simple meal such as this. It is not enough to satiate him of course, but it will allow him the necessary fortitude to complete his mission.

  His mule nuzzles against him, and Stefano chuckles. “No, I didn’t forget you, Mastro.” He pulls out a small apple from his sack. “You need your strength too.”

  From his position on the hill, Stefano can see the faint glow of Calvino, the hamlet nestled high on the mountainside beyond the dense valley that separates them. It is late, but not too late to accomplish the last task he deems necessary before retreating to his hideout. The others are far behind him still; by the time he returns from Calvino, they will have settled down in the camp, rewarding themselves with food and drink, and ruminating on the success of their latest pillage. He will share a celebratory drink with them, as usual, while strategizing tomorrow’s events.

  He pats the mule affectionately before mounting and sets off toward the muted light. Exhausted though he may be, he cannot compromise the vow he made on his life to the Blessed Virgin. He tenderly touches the scapular of the Madonna that hangs around his neck, then kisses his fingertips. Murmuring a prayer of thanks for the success of today’s pillage, he yanks Mastro’s reins and bolts down the hillside to the Church of the Madonna of the Poppies.

  RUSSO SCOWLS AT THE MEMORY OF THE BRIGAND with the unnatural eyes. He clenches his teeth, consumed by a heat that is raging under his skin like a wildfire. With impatient fingers, he claws at his cheeks and neck to relieve himself of the itch that invariably accompanies these episodes of inner fury and then slams his palm over the bell to summon his manservant.

  “Fetch me a clean cloth,” he brusquely orders as Dattilio enters the study. “And a bowl of cool water with sprigs of rosemary.” Liliana has mentioned more than once that he ought to try such an antiseptic remedy for his skin irritations.

  Dattilio nods and retreats. Russo grimaces. He has drawn blood from scratching so hard. He stifles a curse and sits up straight in his chair. The matter of the brigand chief need not reduce him to a thousand pieces; he is made of heartier stuff than that. Oh, the irony. There he was, travelling through the territory of Greater Calabria South as the leader of the forces of repression against brigandage, and what was his fate? To be outsmarted by a mere brigand, a filthy outlaw who handled him and Liliana as if they were below him.

  Well, the insidious bastard will be dust under his feet when he is finished with him. The brigand has won the first battle, perhaps; that much Russo will concede, but the real war hasn’t even begun yet. The devil will live to regret the day he was born.

  Dattilio returns, carrying an earthenware bowl and a fresh linen towel.

  Russo grunts his approval as Dattilio sets them upon the desk, and at Russo’s nod, retreats once more. At the sound of the door clicking behind him, Russo takes a deep breath, dips his inflamed face into the rosemary water and holds it there, forcing himself to feel its full impact.

  Sighing at the temporary relief, Russo straightens in his chair as he dips his quill into the Murano inkwell. The ink splatters on the surface of his desk, but he is not particularly concerned, as the ingrained walnut and oak expanse is protected by a sheet of glass. He wipes it up with an ink cloth and proceeds to put words to paper in his latest communiqué to his superior officer:

  Esteemed General Zanetti,

  I pray that this latest report finds you in the most optimum health. With the aim of keeping you apprised of the state of operations in and around the districts of Gerace and Stilo, I wish to inform you of the ever-growing hostility of the peasants towards our soldiers and carabineers. They do not hesitate in attempting to provoke our men with cries of “Death to you and your leader! Shame to the cruel King Victor Emmanuel! Long live the brave and valiant volunteers of the hero King Francis, forever the head of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, forced to flee to Gaeta by the cursed forces of Unification!”

  Illustrious General, if anything is cursed, it is the land and people of this territory in which I find myself. Not one day goes by that the signs of physical and moral deterioration do not make themselves manifest in this dejected area, with peasants that utter a savage dialect and immerse themselves in savage and barbarous customs that truly illuminate the distinction of these peoples from their northern and civil compatriots. They are lacking everything that civilized peoples enjoy: schools, decent roads and adequate homes. They live with their animals in the most unsanitary of conditions, making our animal enclosures seem like palaces in comparison.

  Alas, I cannot refer to them as compatriots, as they themselves refuse to align themselves with the philosophy of Unification, and therefore, can be seen as proponents of civil dissent, perhaps even of civil war. In fact, their cries of “All’armi, all’armi!” would indicate that the possibility of civil revolution is steadily building.

  There are many who are plotting to re-establish a temporary government in the name of the ousted King Francis II, despite the presence of the National Guard. They were living in abject conditions before the Unification of the Two Sicilies, but somehow, they have determined that the new government under King Victor Emmanuel II is the cause of their perennial poverty. They have nurtured a common hate towards the wealthy, often absent landowners who have turned their face away from the pathetic living conditions of their employees to pursue more comfortable lifestyles in the North, and therefore, they resent anybody and anything that represents the distant and diffident attitude of the self-serving Northerners.

  The promises of Garibaldi and the government—to elevate the state of the peasants by selling off and subdividing church and other state properties to enable them to become small landowners—have backfired and only served to balloon the already vast properties of the wealthy. It is understandable, and regrettable, that the peasants, in their ignorance, did not have the knowledge or means to bid on available properties. As a consequence, the only thing left to the peasants was their hate and frustration against the rich for keeping them shackled to their poverty and desperation. And so, it is this hate that has manifested into the festering criminality that is brigandage.

  I myself have been th
e recent victim of a brigand attack. The villain escaped, but rest assured, General, that he and the hundreds of other outlaws in this territory will be pursued, captured, and punished to the greatest extent of the law.

  Esteemed General, as your servant in the role which you have bestowed me, I will continue to hold everyone in my district accountable in maintaining order and lawfulness, and, failing to do so, will be subjected to my most stringent and dire consequences.

  In our military division, with our two thousand plus members of the Cavalry, along with our three hundred members of the rifle regiment, we are beginning to feel the rewards of our efforts. In the permanent garrisons of Catanzaro, Crotone, Cosenza, Rossano, Reggio, Gerace, Caulonia and Stilo, the detachments are established and are making progress. As per your request, any brigands, whether known or unknown, are to be subjected to summary execution upon capture, and any of their supporters or those who have harboured them, will also be executed by one or more members of the rifle regiment. Homes harbouring brigands will be knocked down, torched if necessary, in order to draw out the villains.

  It is with extreme measures that we must combat this scourge upon the territory of Calabria. I am deeply honoured by your trust in me to lead the operations of repression, with my headquarters at the Caulonia garrison, and to know that I have your unfailing support.

  Yours in the continuing battle to bring civilization to this dark part of our nation, on this, the 18th day of February in the year 1862,

  I remain, your loyal subject,

  Lieutenant Colonel Michele Russo

  AFTER WHAT SEEMS LIKE A LONGER DESCENT than usual, Stefano dismounts and leads Mastro to a familiar grove where he knows the mule will be safe while he continues on alone. He offers the creature another apple, and drawing his cape tightly around him, disappears into the labyrinthine passageway through the grove to the cluster of houses marking the northwest limits of the village.

  This is the most abject part of the area. The huts crouch together in communal squalor, some with rickety enclosures for the emaciated fowl and other creatures that keep the families from the brink of starvation.

  A scuttling nearby alerts Stefano to the presence of a robust guinea pig that, sensing danger, has frozen in the shadows near him. He hesitates for an instant, raising his foot in deliberation, then shrugs and moves on. He has more important things to do besides procuring food for himself or his band. Reassuring himself with the feel of his dagger beneath his cloak, he continues along the periphery of the village, skirting from tree to bush with the fluidity of a hare, until he nears the hut he is seeking.

  In the charcoal shadows between the bushy undergrowth, Stefano stops and searches for signs of human movement. His ears, accustomed to the bevy of sounds in the stillness of the night, picks up a faint wail. As he attempts to identify it, a faint light flickers within the shack he is watching.

  It is Peppina Monaco’s baby, the twin who survived its tumultuous birth during the earthquake on All Soul’s Day. Stefano had heard that Peppina had gone into the throes of labour when suddenly the earth around her house had started to grumble, and as the midwife was trying to extricate the baby, the walls began to vibrate and crumble. Clay pots and pitchers shattered around them and Peppina, in a spasm of pain and fear, fainted.

  Seconds later, the tremor had subsided and the midwife was staring at a blue-faced baby streaked with blood. No sooner had she laid the dead infant within the folds of a blanket, Peppina awoke from her faint with a series of spasms, followed by more screams before pushing out the second baby. However, her joy at the safe delivery of a baby girl dissipated when she discovered that she had already given birth to a stillborn child, a boy.

  Stefano recalls watching the grim funeral procession two days later from a hiding spot up in the hills, barely making out the tiny coffin in the hands of Dante, the child’s father. He cannot forget the mournful cries of Peppina and her relatives reverberating throughout the valley.

  He felt genuine sorrow for Dante, a hard-working man liked by all his neighbours for his good works. Dante was especially kind to the children of the area, as he was to his own daughters, though he longed to be a father to sons. Sons to help him get out of the squalor that they were all in, working until their hands bled as day labourers on the lands of the barons and the gentry. Sons that—God bless them—would find a way out of the miserable life of a bracciante, a thankless existence that barely provided enough to keep themselves fed, let alone their wives and children.

  And now Dante has lost the son he had so wanted. Dante’s newborn daughter, Rosa, is too small and fragile to bring him solace just yet. And his other four daughters, two of whom already wear the yellow pallor of malaria, are destined to a hard, bitter life like their parents and their grandparents.

  Stefano knows that Dante and Peppina’s family will surely feel the lack of Providence in these bitter times, and for this reason, he is determined to help them. The children will benefit from a handout, from the looks of their scrawny limbs and sunken eyes. A surge of anger suffuses his innards as he thinks of all the other peasants suffering in the same way, unable to shake the yoke that is the burden of taxes imposed by the new government in power. Unification! He curses under his breath. If it has united anyone, it must be the wealthy, certainly not his countrymen, who have been breaking their backs and practically starving themselves to keep their families fed.

  He realizes that the baby is no longer crying. He slips a hand inside his cloak and pulls out a small purple sack with the initial “G” embroidered in the centre with yellow thread. He holds it tightly, impeding the coins from jingling. Satisfied that there is no sign of human presence, he crouches along the side of the hut and a final leap brings him around to the front door, in front of which he places the bag before retracing his steps and crouching behind a prickly pear cactus.

  Stefano feels the ground for a stone or a hardened clump of earth. When he finds it, he flings it at the door and waits. He is rewarded moments later by the sight of Dante opening the door cautiously, hastily dressed and clasping a shovel. As he moves forward, his foot bumps into the lump on the doorstep.

  Stefano watches in silent satisfaction as Dante picks up the sack and loosens the drawstring. He is close enough to see the play of emotions on Dante’s gaunt face under the moonlight, to hear the gasp of wonder. He watches as Dante peers out into the darkness, makes the sign of the cross, and re-enters the shack without the frown that marked his features when he first came out.

  Stefano stares at the house for a moment, swallows hard and slips away. He is happy that he carried out his good deed, but he won’t be fully content until he fulfills the promise he made to his protector, the blessed Madonna. Clasping the scapular, Stefano leaps into the darkness of the thicket and proceeds through a deserted path that will bring him to the rear courtyard of the church. He steps gingerly through the damp bracken, breathing in the visceral scent of fallen and decaying oak leaves.

  His eyes narrow as he reaches the courtyard, at one side of which is ensconced a stone shrine dedicated to the Madonna. The statue within is reputedly hundreds of years old, found in a bed of scarlet poppies by shepherds who had been diverted from their usual path by a lost sheep. The peasants, awestruck by the sight of the shiny alabaster statue lying amidst the blood-red blooms, took it as a sign that a church should be erected at that very site in veneration of the Holy Mother, and after word reached the bishop about the miraculous discovery, the villagers combined their skills and resources to construct a small chapel with an adjacent shrine.

  After three hundred years, the statue had lost its lustre, and the original chapel had been destroyed by an earthquake, and then rebuilt, only to be levelled once again by an even stronger quake in 1783. For some strange reason, however, the statue had never fallen or crumbled in the wake of either earthquake, and the poppies around it had always flourished, leaving the villagers to marvel at the po
wer and intention of God, which was obviously to show the people of Calvino that they needed to pay attention to the Madonna, that they needed to rebuild the church beside her, and that they needed to rebuild their faith, which, Don Damiano addressed in sermon after sermon, was crumbling as far as he could ascertain.

  Stefano looks into the face of the Madonna now, illuminated by an oil lamp sitting on a slab of granite at the statue’s feet. Parts of her face and shoulders are speckled from the droppings of pigeons, a source of perpetual grief for Don Damiano, whom Stefano has seen scrubbing fervently at the statue from time to time.

  Stefano smiles at the memory of the bowl of soup he shared with the priest after one of his nocturnal visits to the shrine. While Don Damiano was bemoaning the tendency of the pigeons to perch upon the Madonna’s head and shoulders, he was smacking his lips as he ladled the steaming pigeon broth into glazed clay bowls.

  Stefano’s mouth waters at the thought of the flavourful soup accompanied with generous chunks of pigeon meat. He looks up at the window of the rectory for signs of Don Damiano and sees that the candle has been snuffed out for the night.

  This will be a quick visit then. Stefano withdraws a pouch from the folds of his cape, identical to the one he deposited at Dante and Peppina’s door, and places it behind the statue in a hollow dug out in the ground. He scatters leaves and ferns over the spot and then turns around to face the Madonna. Kneeling on the ground with his head bowed, he recites an Ave Maria. Rising, he murmurs his gratitude for a successful mission and vows to continue to carry out further assignments under her protection.

  He makes the sign of the cross, leans forward to snip off a poppy, and then plunges back into the darkness to where Mastro awaits.

  STEFANO FILLS HIS LUNGS WITH THE CRISP NIGHT AIR. He relaxes his hold on the reins as he enters a serpentine path that will weave through a long stretch of dense woodland while ascending the mountainside where his band awaits him. He feels the change of air almost immediately as the sturdy pines and ilex, beeches and chestnut trees swallow up the track behind him. The pines are especially pungent, and again, he breathes in deeply, feeling comforted from the environment that keeps him buffered from his enemies.