The tension in his shoulders abates and he lets his head slump forward and to each side, tentatively stretching the corded muscles in his back and neck. He could easily succumb to sleep, knowing that he can rely on his good mule to bring him to his secret haven, but he does not allow himself the indulgence. A few good hours will restore him once he reunites with his band.
He thanks God for the presence of a half-moon tonight. It occasionally illuminates the forest with shards that penetrate through the intertwined branches. As his mule steadfastly presses on, Stefano plays the events of the evening in his head, scrupulously going over every detail: the tip his informer gave him about the carriage and the identity of its two passengers, Colonel Michele Russo, appointed to his position to bring men like Stefano to justice—and a certain Signora Liliana.
Stefano feels his abdomen tighten in desire as he recalls the journey of his fingers under the Signora’s skirts and the soft curves of her legs. No woman even above the position of a peasant would be clad in such finery. Her brocaded dress, satin petticoat, exquisite boots, and her fine stockings alluded to a much higher status, perhaps as the wife of a baron.
Russo’s angular face invades his memory and he finds himself thinking with satisfaction that perhaps the Colonel, once he is rescued tonight, won’t have the fortitude to have his way with the Signora once they reach their destination. Fear, after all, has a way of suppressing physical desire.
And the look that flashed in the Colonel’s eyes when Stefano held the pistol against his temple, was one of pure, unadulterated fear. Even if it lasted only for a second.
Stefano urges Mastro through a thicket that conceals the path to his hiding place. Even the most discerning eye would fail to distinguish this spot as a potential nascondiglio for a brigand chief and his band, so densely intertwined are the trees. The mule always balks as Stefano leads him to a solid wall of green, and then concedes as his master noses him through a narrow gap that just barely accommodates his entry. At this point, Stefano nimbly dismounts and ensures that no mule tracks or other signs of human presence are visible. Satisfied that he has taken all necessary precautions, Stefano remounts and slaps Mastro’s rump before proceeding with the final stretch of the journey, his stomach coiling in pleasure at the thought of rejoining his band for some celebratory feasting.
Moments later, he is at the clearing, loosening Mastro’s reins and tethering him to a tree where he will spend the night. He digs into a pocket of his cape for an apple and some carrots to reward the mule for another faithful enterprise, and then he strides over to the gleaming embers, around which his band members are each sitting on a large stump, warming themselves. At his approach, all but one member of the band arise, nodding or voicing a quiet greeting. Stefano nods silently, his eyes narrowing, and bids them sit down again with a wave of his hand. One of the men, the youngest, moves back to allow Stefano room near the firepit, and they all shuffle to rearrange themselves to include him.
The young one, Tomaso Salino, is one month short of eighteen. Despite the fresh innocence in his countenance, Stefano has witnessed his fiery determination to be taken seriously by the rest of the band. Although he is reluctant to show favouritism to any particular member of the band, Stefano secretly considers Tomaso as a younger version of himself, and acknowledges that out of all his band members, Tomaso is the one he would most trust with his life. There are no shadows of deceit in the boy’s eyes, no glint of malevolence or cruelty; he accomplishes each mission efficiently and resolutely.
The two brothers, Roberto and Raffaele Pellegrini, are much more seasoned in the affairs of brigandage, both lean and dark as polished rifles, their angular faces set with black, impenetrable pools for eyes, and each centred with a cliff of a nose. The brothers, although only twenty-one and twenty-three respectively, both have a price on their head for the murder of their sister’s lover.
Upon hearing about the dishonour that a certain Ettore Nerina brought upon their fifteen-year-old sister Aurelia, the brothers stealthily followed him one night and cornered him in a dark alley, advising him to do the honourable act of marrying Aurelia or accept the gift of a serrated knife in the throat. Ettore was gallant enough to admit to having had “an adventure” with Aurelia, but nevertheless, he declared, why should he be the one to have to bring her to the altar when it was obvious that he was not the first to have known her?
Roberto, infuriated by Ettore’s dirty insinuations, pulled out a dagger and lunged at Ettore. When Ettore pulled out a weapon of his own, a pistol, Raffaele intervened and stuck a knife into him from behind, while Roberto’s dagger found its target in front. As blood gushed out of Ettore’s body, the brothers dropped him and fled, but not before extracting their knives. As Raffaele turned his head back to the crumpled body, a flash in the alley confirmed his fears. Their act of revenge had been witnessed.
Knowing that a death sentence, or at the very best, life imprisonment awaited them, they wasted no time in taking to the hills. It was a matter of family honour, expected and just, Roberto explained, when intercepted by Stefano and his small band in a cleft of the Aspromonte mountains. Stefano had nodded curtly and allowed them to take shelter for the night in his encampment. While the brothers slept, uninhibited by guilt or remorse, Stefano had lain awake for hours, thinking about his own sister…. When he finally awoke after a troubled sleep, his first vision was of the sun crawling out from behind the distant hills, its rays streaking the sky blood-red.
A bottle of wine now passes from Roberto to Raffaele, who then offers it to Stefano. Stefano nods his thanks and takes a long swig, savouring the heat of the alcohol at the back of his throat. He sets the bottle down and proceeds to extract a piece of roasted hare from the dented pan sitting in the smouldering ashes. For a few moments, there is little conversation exchanged; the rest of the band members resume eating as well, for the feast of wild rabbits was deemed ready only minutes before Stefano’s arrival. As Stefano bites into a meaty hindquarter, he nods approval at Gaetano Silvestri, whom he knows is responsible for the catch.
Gaetano is a seasoned hunter, adept at trapping and catching the most elusive of woodland creatures, with the knowledge passed down to him by his father and nonno Arturo, who was kept in the Baron Santoro’s employ for his skills in keeping the larders full as well as the stomachs of the Baron’s guests, who rarely missed the opportunity to be present at one of the Santoro galas. Gaetano is the oldest in the band; at thirty-six years of age, his hair is slivered with grey and his gaunt face is marked with lines and hollows like a dried-up riverbed. He is happy to have been assigned by Stefano as the game-catcher; his task keeps him from the more unpleasant situations the others are faced with. The blood of animals doesn’t disturb him; he utilizes methods that are effective but not cruel. And in the manner of his beloved nonno Arturo, who was the most religious person Gaetano had ever known, he murmurs a prayer of gratitude to the beast or bird that he has killed for the sustenance of his family or of those who would partake of his forest bounty, and to the Creator for supplying humankind with the means of survival.
Stefano acknowledges Gaetano’s humble nod with a wink; of all his band members, Gaetano has his greatest respect. The man is like a bird or beast himself, fleeing through the forest like a nimble deer, delving in places that would unnerve even the young Tomaso, scampering up jagged rock faces to reach the egg-filled nest of an eagle, crouching motionless in a patch of bracken until the right moment presents itself for him to lunge at a wild boar and pierce its neck with his dagger before the beast can jab its horns into his chest. Yes, Gaetano lacks the youthful passion of Tomaso and the sang-froid of the brothers, but he has skills vital to any band, the skills of procuring food to keep them alive.
Stefano’s gaze rests briefly on the final member of his band, who is busy gnawing on the neck bones of one of the roasted hares. Dorotea Spinelli. Her husband Paolo was shot dead in their last mission, and she has stayed on, adamant
against returning to her coastal village. Sometimes, Stefano suspects that out of all the band members, she is the most dangerous of them all. He watches her for a few seconds more as she sucks out the meat from between the bones, and then turns to the men, raising the bottle. “Here’s to another successful mission,” he smiles. He passes the bottle to Gaetano and then withdraws a purple bag from inside his cloak. “I’ve done my duty for tonight in Calvino; now it’s time to share some of the gifts with you.”
RUSSO CAN FEEL HIS SKIN CRAWLING with an unbearable itch. He nods curtly to his officer and when he is finally alone, he rakes his hand across the back of his neck, not caring if he leaves scratches. He cringes when one of his sharp nails breaks the skin, but he continues to scratch until the itching subsides.
He picks up the report that his officer has left him. Another victory for the brigands. The brigand chief Agostino Pizzelli and his dozen goons entered the village of San Luca shortly after dawn, and with the cry of “Viva Francis II! Viva Maria Sophie!” proceeded to storm into the piazza, steps away from the Church of Sant’Antonio, where a small gathering of parishioners were partaking in the morning service. The faithful spilled out of the church, wondering at the commotion, and catching sight of Agostino, one of their own, began singing along to the Te Deum with Agostino’s brigands. By this time, other peasants began appearing, awoken by the unusual din. Emboldened by the spirited cries of support for the fallen Bourbon regime, the outlaws stormed into City Hall, tearing the national flag to shreds, smashing the portrait of King Victor Emmanuel, setting fire to the archives, and trampling to death the one townsperson who attempted to stop them.
The victim, Mario Romano, was left on the tiled floor of City Hall with a stream of blood trickling from his mouth, while the majority of the villagers followed Agostino and his band out of the piazza and down the main road out of the village to the holding cell. There, the latest agitators or brigands waited to be transferred to the prison in Locri where they faced either the death penalty or life imprisonment.
Arriving at the holding cell, the brigands used their assortment of weapons to break down the thick wooden doors. They promptly shot the guard and proceeded to free the inmates, while others, stirred up by the chaos, delighted in snatching any flag or sign of the Piedmontese monarch and set about pointing a stream of urine at it. Their final act before fleeing was to set the building aflame.
Russo feels a familiar rage spreading within him. It is precisely these brainless creatures he is after. Brigands who roam the countryside with the delusional idea of restoring the Bourbon order. And if the rumours are true, the deposed Francis and his staunchest supporter, His Holiness Pope Pius IX, are supporting and organizing bands of brigands to spread and infect the peasant masses with their preposterous ideas, inflaming them with treasonous intentions. Intentions that are being carried out with alarming frequency throughout the south.
Russo continues to read, his breathing growing more shallow. When he has read the last word, he sets the page down on one side of his desk, and with a trembling hand, takes out a fresh piece of vellum. He dips his quill into the inkwell, and, watching each drop spill as he taps the quill against the bottle’s edge, he vows he will capture every black heart beating in Agostino’s band and in the villagers who joined in the uprising, and he will make them pay for their treasonous ways.
He begins writing furiously. Tomorrow, he will set out with his rifle regiment to the village of San Luca. There, he will post a notice to the public and conduct a thorough investigation in the village. No villager will be excluded. By daylight’s end, he should have some of those black hearts in the palm of his hand.
Russo smiles in satisfaction as his carefully chosen words fly across the page. When he sets down his quill, his breathing has steadied, along with his hand, and he feels the usual fluttering of anticipation stirring in his abdomen. It will be a good fight, he tells himself, glancing out the window at the setting sun. He watches its amber halo stretching across the forested mountains, illuminating the dark tips. It almost looks like a path of fire that has spread across the ridge. Anxious now to leave the station, he quickly rereads the page before him.
PUBLIC NOTICE
Having been placed in charge of the repression of brigandage in the territory of Greater Calabria South, the undersigned attests that anyone found to have proffered assistance, sustenance, or shelter to any known brigand, will be immediately shot. Anyone labouring on outlying farms will take measures to abandon their post until further notice. Any farmhouse or shelter that is not being used by the forces of law must be abandoned within three days and boarded up so as not to be used to harbour a wanted outlaw. All the bales of straw must be burned. Every proprietor is expected to withdraw all his workers, shepherds, goatherds, existing cattle, sheep, goats, etcetera, from the woodlands around Stilo, Pazzano, Bivongi, Caulonia, Monasterace, Riace, Camini, Gioiosa Ionica, Calvino, Locri, Gerace and Roccella Ionica.
Anyone found wandering the outskirts of his village with food or supplies will be treated as an accomplice in brigand activities, and therefore shot. Hunting will be against the law for the time being; shooting is prohibited, unless it is a warning of the presence or escape of brigands. Those providing refuge, or knowing of the whereabouts of brigands, and not advising the civil, military, or legal authorities, will be shot. Those in contravention of any of the above specified orders will be treated, without exception, as brigands, and immediately shot. As head of the forces of repression in this territory, the undersigned is authorized to commission a bounty for the death or capture of any brigand chief and his band.
At present, the undersigned offers five thousand lire for the death or capture of the brigand chief Agostino Pizzelli and two thousand lire for the death or capture of any of the members in his band. Under the command of the undersigned, there are but two parties: brigands and those against brigands. A reward will be proffered for any brigand not above mentioned, whether rendered dead or alive. The same reward will be given to the brigand who kills a member in his band, with the further recompense of having his life spared. Of special interest to the undersigned is the brigand responsible for the attack upon my carriage in the previous month, and for whose capture the sum of eight thousand lire will be granted, as well as two thousand lire for each and every member of his band. The undersigned advises that this ordinance will take effect immediately, on this, the 11th day of March in the year 1862.
Lieutenant Colonel Michele Russo
Russo nods, satisfied. He can’t wait to relay this latest development to Liliana. He feels a corner of his mouth lifting. She will want him to describe his every move in advance. That’s what he loves about her; she always knows what will excite him.
STEFANO IS AWARE THAT THE LAST MEMBER to join his band is staring at him intensely, but he does not reciprocate her gaze. He extracts a side of roast hare, savouring the partially charred meat with satisfaction. After taking another generous swallow of the musky wine, one he recognizes as the local Greco, he sets down the bottle and meets the woman’s gaze.
Dorotea. In the dim glow of firelight, her eyes appear inky black like the smouldering coals, but Stefano knows that in the light of day, they are a pale, silver-green, like the foliage of olive trees. Below them, permanent shadows hang like scythes. Although she is but twenty-seven, thin strands of grey have started to appear through her hair, which she usually binds in a single braid. She tends to wear a bandana, and the colourful strip of cloth, tied in a knot at the side, gives her the aspect of a gypsy, revealing her angular features: prominent cheekbones, a curved, jutting nose, and thin, pale lips. Her heritage is grecanico, her Greek ancestors having settled in the Ionian coastal village of Bova around the time of the millennium. The language of her people is a guttural exhalation that has been proudly preserved from generation to generation. Hers is the only southern dialect of which Stefano has no grasp.
Besides the burst of colour of he
r bandana, Dorotea’s clothes are otherwise drab. A grey woollen vest under a loose waistcoat drapes over a boyish figure, and the trousers she dons are ill fitting as well, all previously belonging to her late husband, Paolo.
Stefano has occasionally wondered what drew Paolo to this woman. At first sight, she is unattractive and sullen. Her uncanny ability to disappear or appear out of nowhere reminds Stefano of a skittering salamander. Although young in age, her outlook and demeanour appear jaded and old. Stefano has come to realize that allowing Dorotea to join his band with her husband has turned out to be more of a detriment than an advantage….
After taking another swallow of the wine, Stefano turns and nods at Dorotea. In the firelight, her olive skin looks flushed; perhaps she has imbibed more than usual. A gleam at the top of her boots reveals a dagger with an alabaster handle. Paolo’s.
Paolo was proud of his collection of daggers and pistols. His mother had sewn special pockets within his vest to enable him to carry them with him at all times. Paolo had recounted laughingly to the band how his mother had sent one of his brothers up the slopes of the Aspromonte mountains one Sunday, dressed as a shepherd, pretending to look for a lost sheep. She had instructed the boy, Carlo, to wear the vest she had made for Paolo under his garments until he met up with an old friend of Paolo’s–-a withered old man who tended the horses and stables for one of the signori.
The man could be found in his hut about a quarter of a mile up the slope, near the Black Gorge, so named for its intimidating depths. The hut would be easily recognizable, not for the structure itself, which looked like any other shepherd’s hut, but for the huge, enclosed garden flanking it. The old man tended to it every moment that he could, and it provided him with an abundance of bounty, some of which he shared with the peasants of the area, or on some occasions, with any brigands who might be passing through and in need of a little sustenance. He had an understanding with them, providing for their needs in exchange for some coins, or occasionally, a gold trinket. Once in a while, the old man would venture further up the slopes, knowing that it would be dangerous for the brigands to approach his hut, as the carabinieri would be combing the area after a tip or a roadside robbery.
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