“We could feel their uncertainty,” Massimo shakes his head. “And in here, too,” he pats his belly. “They gave us no baskets of bread or figs. No offers of shelter. No cheers or cries of ‘Viva Garibaldi!’” He spat to one side, as if trying to rid himself of the bitter taste in his mouth at the Calabrians’ lack of welcome.
“We kept marching until we got to the outskirts of the town,” he answers Tonino’s unspoken question. “We kept telling ourselves that King Victor Emmanuel didn’t mean what he said, and that he was secretly backing Garibaldi, as he had done in 1860, which had allowed Garibaldi to liberate the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies from Bourbon rule. And when we stopped, Garibaldi leapt on a boulder and looked down upon us, each one of us, I swear—it was as if he wanted to pierce the depths of our very souls with his eyes—and he might as well have been the great Moses himself, announcing the Ten Commandments. ‘If our noble King Victor was truly against us, my dear compatriots,’ he boomed, ‘he would have stopped us by now. The military authorities could have broken up the camp we set up in the Ficuzza forest after we landed in Sicily. Or in Marsala. Or in the port of Catania. But the authorities didn’t put up a fight, and I have no intention of fighting against the military authorities. They are our brothers in this United Italy, not our enemies. My sole purpose is to liberate Rome from the French troops, not to wage war with my countrymen. Ever.’”
Massimo shakes his head in wonder. “Complete silence for five seconds, then a burst of whistles and cheers. And when we finally stopped, the General slammed his right fist in the air high above him and shouted, ‘Long live Victor Emmanuel, King of our United Italy!”
A flurry of fresh goosebumps rise at the back of Tonino’s neck and rush down the length of his arms. Massimo describes how they felt invigorated after the General’s impassioned rhetoric and continued to march northward, but after thirty-six hours without food, some began losing their patriotic fervour. “Fortunately, we came across a potato field and feasted on raw potatoes.”
Massimo winks at Tonino. “One of our volunteers from Catania was an ex-soldier from the Royal Army who had chosen not to obey General Cugia’s orders to prevent Garibaldi and us from entering Catania. Sebastiano deserted and joined us on one of the packet ships. As he’s stuffing himself with potatoes, he says, ‘Oh, what I would give for my wife’s juicy roasted hen.’
“Another guy—Alberto—says, ‘I’d give anything for his wife’s juices, too.’ We’re killing ourselves laughing and Sebastiano’s still chewing away. Then he looks up and wants to know what’s so funny. Alberto tells him, ‘I said there were too many cocks around here and not enough hens.’”
Tonino watches Massimo explode into laughter again, and he waits, with some embarrassment, until Massimo wipes the tears from his eyes. “The next thing we know,” Massimo continues more seriously, “we get the news that the General’s envoy has come across a landowner with a substantial farm and crops, who is very receptive to providing hospitality to General Garibaldi and his men.”
Tonino hears how the volunteers sprinted eagerly to this farmhouse, where they were greeted with respect and geniality, given the opportunity to refresh themselves before feasting on heaping bowls of macaroni and roasted goat and lamb, slaughtered especially for their benefit. Pitchers of the local Greco wine flowed generously all evening, and when they were sated, some set about arranging their blankets in the soft wheat fields, some in the barn loft, while the General and several others were offered accommodation inside.
“But our respected leader—unbeknownst to us then—had no intention of sleeping,” Massimo grins. “The landowner, Signor Nicola Gentile, had dispatched a labourer shortly after our arrival to find a certain Pietro Aji in the nearby hamlet of Camini. This Pietro was to round up some of the local men for a secret meeting with the General in his cellar.”
“To recruit more volunteers.” Tonino nods slowly. “Like me.” His memory flashes to that feverish meeting, the hum, the smell of curing pork sausages mingling with the sweat of young men like him, bursting with the desire to be united in the cause, instinctively knowing that their strength lay in unity. And those chestnut eyes locking with his, drawing him in, ready to sacrifice all for his country. For Italy.
“We practically flew from that cellar,” Tonino continues, “stealing back to our homes like robbers in the night, filling a packsack and grabbing whatever weapon we could find—a rifle, a pitchfork, a dagger, anything—and the handful of us who could write left a note for our family. And those who couldn’t, didn’t have to worry, because the few who didn’t catch the fever that night would let the villagers know what had happened to their missing boys or men.” Tonino returns Massimo’s grin. “And those of us burning with fever returned to the cellar the following night and then followed the General and the farmer out of Camini and through the back country like a pack of eager hounds. After a while, we must have looked like a sad lot, dragging ourselves up and down the hillsides, the more robust novices tumbling or collapsing from the exertion. The General mercifully allowed us to rest briefly before trekking the last few kilometres back to the farm.”
“And that’s where you happened to set down your things next to mine, in the hayloft,” Massimo chuckles. “What a surprise, waking up in the middle of the night to find your ugly face in the space next to me.” He ducks away from Tonino’s good-natured swipe. “Okay, you’re not so ugly. I could have had the misfortune of having Sebastiano near me. Not only is he ugly, he snores as loud as the mighty Etna.” They burst out laughing.
“And then,” Massimo continues, “we slept a few more hours, then woke up to a magnificent breakfast prepared by the good landowners. Fresh eggs, zucchini fritters, asparagus, frittate.” He brings his fingers up to his lips and smacks them appreciatively as he draws back his hand.
Tonino chuckles and feels his mouth water at the memory.
After feasting, he and the others watched as the landowner bowed respectfully to General Garibaldi, followed by his more expressive wife, who pitched herself at the commander’s feet and planted a fervent kiss on his gloved hand. The General graciously thanked them for having granted him and his soldiers a place of refuge and repose, and for their generosity in sharing their crops and livestock. Signora Gentile jumped up and informed him that she had set aside a store of food in an adjacent barn to which he and his soldiers could help themselves for their arduous journey onward.
Flushed with pleasure at their effusive thanks after stuffing their packsacks with potatoes, pears, coarse bread, dried sausages, and hard cheeses, she watched them take their leave, crying out blessings and the occasional, “Viva Garibaldi!” In reply, General Garibaldi boomed, as he had done in Marsala, “O Roma o morte!” followed by the immediate chorus of “Either Rome or death!” by his fellow soldiers and volunteers. Tonino noticed Signor Nicola, who had placed a hand on his wife’s arm to curb her unrestrained patriotic fervour, dabbing at his own eyes when she loudly prayed for the successful mission and safe return of the “beati figli della Patria.”
Being called a “blessed son of the Fatherland” brought a twinge of unexpected tears to Tonino’s eyes. Squeezing them shut for a moment, reluctant to show any vulnerability in the face of his fellow soldiers, who seemed more stalwart than ever, he fell back, reluctant to talk.
His thoughts turned almost immediately to Gabriella, and he gulped at the magnitude of his decision to leave her. This was the biggest risk of his life. A tiny voice nudged a corner of his mind. You may never return to Camini. To Gabriella. “No!” he found himself responding, and clamping his mouth grimly, he picked up his pace to return to the line.
He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. Dark thoughts that would break his resolve to carry out this mission. His attention shifted to the path before him. Everything around him seemed to assume a malevolence he hadn’t noticed before. The forest floor, displaced by the boots of the men before him, released a dank,
rotting smell that reminded Tonino of a dead body awaiting burial after the customary two-day wake. The wild bracken tangled around his ankles as he made his way through the narrow path. The trees swayed and intertwined to block out the sun, creating eerie shadows that resembled death masks. And the sudden rustle near his feet brought to mind the venomous vipera aspis….
And then he caught up to Massimo, who, despite his questioning look, didn’t press him for an explanation. Instead, he began recounting the story of how he came to be in Garibaldi’s army….
Now here they are, both having left loved ones back home, both prepared to risk their lives along with the other men who have declared their allegiance to Giuseppe Garibaldi and to the cause of United Italy.
Taking a deep breath, Tonino gives Massimo a friendly slap on the back and picks up his pace.
He prays they’ll be in this together until the end….
DON SIMONE ARRANGES THE BRUSHWOOD to maintain a slow burn while avoiding the excess spiralling of smoke into the sky. He listens for any noises that might indicate that their hiding place has been discovered. But the only sounds he hears are those he has become familiar with during his travels back and forth to the Monastery of the Capuchins in Gerace. There is the scurrying of a dormouse through the foliage of the forest floor amidst the weightier shuffle of the pine and beech martens and the tentative leap of the deer. He utters a prayer of gratitude that the sound he fears—the call of the Apennine wolf, abundant in these Aspromonte mountains—has not materialized. The haunting call of an eagle-owl startles him, sending shivers down his spine.
He stands up to stretch his legs. Gabriella and Luciano have not even shifted in their positions; they seem petrified. He doesn’t have the heart to move them, though. After an interminable four hours, Don Simone kneels by Gabriella and with a gentle hand on her shoulder, murmurs her name and tells her it is time for them to move on.
Gabriella wakes up with a tortured groan. Her eyes open, lashes batting frantically like a butterfly in its first flight out of its cocoon. It reminds Don Simone of a time when, walking alongside his mule on the outskirts of the village, he noticed three of his young parishioners near a grove of milkwood. They were watching a butterfly emerge from its silky chrysalis, its spindly arms and legs working furiously. The boys took turns pulling each filament off the body, along with the brightly splotched wings.
Don Simone, usually slow to anger, felt the rage swirl up inside him. He leapt in front of the boys, his arms extended to prevent their escape.
“You should be ashamed of yourselves, you evil children. You come to Mass with your parents every Sunday, you listen to me preach about the ways of the Lord, and you…you…do this? Taking the life of an innocent creature, destroying it as it is beginning its life? God have mercy on your darkened souls, ragazzi, because this poor servant of Christ,” he said, pounding his chest with a clenched fist, “cannot find any mercy to forgive you at this moment for your wretched disregard for life. Every creature of God, no matter how small, deserves to live, not to be tortured and killed by your hands. Thou…shalt…not…kill,” he thundered, his eyes boring into each one of them.
“You, Leonardo.” He pointed, his finger inches away from the boy. “Shame on you, the eldest, for setting such a poor example. And you two, Enrico and Pepe, your actions are disgraceful. I expect the three of you to ponder your sinful acts and be prepared to make amends to God, not the least of which will be your appearance at Confession.” He wiped the spittle from the edge of his mouth. “Now get home, the lot of you. I’m sure you have some chores to do for your mother. And if you don’t, you will after I talk to her.”
The boys fled, and Don Simone’s eyes returned to the butterfly wings scattered on the road, brilliant against the dark ground. Glorious stained-glass windows. He sighed, bending on one knee to pick them up gently, not caring if his cassock got dirty. Eyes welling, he returned to his mule, exhausted, as usual, after battling the works of the devil.
Looking at Gabriella now, drawing her shawl tighter, he cannot help but think that she, too, is as vulnerable as a butterfly. He can only pray for the strength and the Lord’s help to protect her.
Wordlessly, she nods at his instructions to gather up the blankets so they can continue on to the monastery while it is still dark. Luciano is still in a deep sleep, and when Don Simone notices Gabriella’s frantic look, he kneels beside the boy and picks him up gently, waiting until Gabriella has arranged the blankets in the wagon before setting him into the soft nest. After Gabriella has covered his body with another blanket and has settled in beside him, Don Simone hitches up Vittorio and rewards him with a pear from a bag in one corner of the wagon.
To Gabriella, he offers a wedge of cheese and coarse bread, but she shakes her head, paling visibly as she puts her hand up over her mouth. Don Simone does not insist; they are close enough to the monastery, and his brothers in the Lord will provide her and Luciano with a broth to sustain them.
He urges his mule on, anxious to complete the last stretch of the journey. It is no accident that this path is barely discernible; the monastery’s location has always been intended as a haven of respite and meditation, its dense walls and unforgiving location a deterrent for any but the most devoted followers. For centuries it has been a centre for Franciscan teachings, its Capuchin brotherhood a cohesive union of local youth sent there by their families in the hope of ultimately bettering their family prospects by sacrificing one of their sons to undertake the Lord’s work.
Despite its elusive location, the monastery has always kept its doors open to the stray wanderer and the poor with its tradition of providing a hearty meal of soup or beans. And now, the need seems even greater, Don Filippo has mentioned, in the aftermath of Unification. The line of peasants waiting at the monastery doors has doubled.
At the first light of dawn, the sky is wreathed in sashes of pink and violet. Don Simone feels a rush of awe mingled with relief. He commands Vittorio to stop while he takes in the golden countryside from the expansive outcrop that overlooks the winding track they have navigated since leaving the cave.
Don Simone wants to shout victoriously when the dense thicket on either side of the mule path opens up suddenly and the Monastery of the Capuchins appears, nestled within the craggy folds of the mountain as if the hand of God Himself had carved out a space expressly for a glorious shrine in His honour. The mountainsides are granite curtains, hanging motionlessly like an ancient tapestry, catching the dawn’s illumination in a masterpiece of chiaroscuro.
Don Simone prompts Vittorio into a trot and breathes in the fresh mountain air with joy and relief. The rose window of the portal above the heavy chestnut doors suddenly catches the burgeoning rays of the sun, and Don Simone bows in silent reverence, acknowledging the Chapel of the Madonna of the Rosary that claims that space above the main floor of the monastery. It is his favourite place of prayer within the monastery walls. Murmuring an Ave Maria in gratitude for their safe arrival, he brings Vittorio to a halt.
He has done the right thing, he tells himself as the heavy door opens and the familiar face of Don Filippo appears. Gabriella and Luciano will be safe here. For now.
THE BIRDS ARE PECKING OUT HIS BRAINS, their sharp beaks foraging into the grey mash that is left inside the cracked walls of his skull. Alfonso tries to scream, but his throat feels like someone has inserted a pulpy leaf from the prickly pear bush in it, its stubby thorns catching into the tender muscles and tissues of his esophagus, tearing it further with his every effort to call out. His eyes attempt to open, but a weight on each eyelid keeps them sealed. This is hell. He feels terror flattening him like an olive press, crushing his bones and reducing him to an oily pulp. God in heaven, deliver me from this inferno. I beg you, I will change. Save me! Save me!
Suddenly, the pecking subsides, and for a few seconds, Alfonso hears nothing but the erratic drone of his heartbeat, pulsing at the side of his neck. And t
hen, when he dares to formulate the thought that God has indeed miraculously saved him from the bloodthirsty feasting of the birds, a white-hot iron rams into what’s left of his brain and he feels himself crumpling into blackness.
“HOW DREADFUL,” DON FILIPPO MURMURS after Don Simone has recounted the events leading up to his return. “That poor girl….” He slides the amber bottle at Simone. “Have another drink, my friend. This has been most unsettling for you as well.”
Don Simone nods, well aware of the restorative properties of the walnut liqueur before him. He fills his earthenware cup more generously than usual, hoping the nocino will steady his erratic heart and quell the demonic pulsing in his stomach. He savours the alcohol as it sears a path through his tightened windpipe, and he expels a long sigh, allowing his head and shoulders to slump in relaxation. He lifts drooping eyes apologetically to the abbot, who is the closest he has to a best friend in the brotherhood, and to his relief, he sees a gleam of understanding and compassion in Don Filippo’s eyes. “I must protect Gabriella from the injustice that awaits her in Camini. And Luciano as well. But I cannot seem to clear this muddled head of mine and think of a way to….” His hand bats at the air in frustration.
“Simone,” the abbot brings his hand back to the table and pats it gently. “You have done enough thinking for now. You must get some rest yourself, or your head will remain as thick as Brother Domenico’s bread and garlic soup. Cast your worries aside for the moment. In a few hours, the answers will come to you much quicker once you have given your brain and body some rest.”
La Brigantessa Page 15