La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

  Don Simone nods in silent concession. Gabriella and Luciano are safe, he tells himself again. Don Filippo has given strict orders to keep the monastery secured and closed to all wanderers. Should the authorities arrive with inquiries about Don Simone and his wards, there will be ample time to usher the three of them in one of the monastery’s hidden rooms or cellars, while Don Filippo convinces the officers to pursue an alternate trajectory through the countryside.

  Don Simone starts as the bells chime the signal for morning prayers, and he rises, anxious to retire to his usual cell before the advancing shuffle of heavy-lidded monks. He has no desire or spirit to meet his confrères and endure their curious glances and queries. He murmurs words of gratitude to his friend for his hospitality and support, and after a warm embrace, he gulps down the last of the nocino, grabs his packsack, and proceeds through an arched passageway to his cell.

  THE WEIGHTS OVER HIS EYELIDS ARE GONE. The periphery of his eyes are crusty and gummy, but after several attempts, Alfonso manages to open them a slit. He has no sense of whether he is dreaming or awake. He stares groggily through the cracks and sees filaments of light and darkness. The sound of footsteps intensifies and from somewhere around him, a door opens. He does not have the strength to turn his head, and his eyelids close again, but the figure that has stopped to stand by him carries a scent that is familiar to him. He winces as he tries to will the fog away from his brain. “You’re going to live, little brother,” the voice murmurs, wavering, before placing his hand over Alfonso’s. “Grazie a Dio. Thanks be to God.”

  Alfonso’s eyes flutter. He groans, startling himself with the sound—a grating rattle that reminds him of a dying goat.

  “Don’t try to speak, Alfonso,” Claudio says, now at his side. “Squeeze my hand if you understand me.”

  Alfonso can smell Claudio’s cologne. Fresh, like pine forests. He breathes in deeply before squeezing the hand Claudio has placed under his. A stream of cool air brushes his face. He is near a window or perhaps the balcony. Is he in his own bed, in Don Simone’s rectory? He tilts his face toward the breeze. He feels his brother’s hand on his forehead.

  “You still have a fever, Alfonso. Lie still, and I will cool you down with some wet cloths.”

  Alfonso welcomes the feel of the cloths on his flaming face. His hand moves to his neck, but Claudio stops it and brings it back to his side. “You must not touch your wound,” he says firmly. “I imagine it hurts like the devil and probably itches, but I don’t want you to re-open the sutures. Understand?” Alfonso squeezes his hand harder than before.

  “Well, some of your strength is back,” Claudio murmurs. “Alfonso, we need to have a serious talk when you are better. I just want you to be aware of a few things, now that you are conscious.” He pauses, and Alfonso hears him let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “Where do I begin? First of all, you might be wondering how I discovered you…. When I returned to the rectory after my visit to Stilo, the house was empty. I thought it quite strange; usually Signorina Gabriella rushes to the door when I knock. I let myself in, and by the statue of San Nicola, I saw a note addressed to me. It was from Don Simone.”

  Alfonso’s stomach twists. He feels the urge to turn his face away or to cover it with his bed sheet, to avoid the look that certainly must be on Claudio’s face at this moment.

  “Don Simone came home and heard screams from the stables,” Claudio continues more softly. “He rushed in and saw Signor Lorenzo dead on the ground with Gabriella next to him, and you were lying on the floor of the loft, blood covering your neck. He surmised what had happened: that you had attempted to dishonour Gabriella, and that her father arrived inconveniently earlier than usual and tried to stop you. Don Simone couldn’t say for certain how Signor Lorenzo had died, but he guessed that Gabriella had tried to defend herself and in so doing, unwillingly caused your death.”

  Alfonso’s feels his face burn. The throbbing in his neck feels like a vice, squeezing and releasing. He gulps for air.

  “Don Simone knew he had to take Gabriella away. He knew I would be returning to the rectory.” Claudio’s voice is trembling. “He wanted to do the honourable thing and tell me what had happened.” He clears his throat. “He said he would be gone indefinitely with Gabriella and Luciano, and that he would make arrangements with another priest to take care of the funeral arrangements for both you and Signor Lorenzo. He was deeply sorry for the events that had transpired, and he would pray for both your souls, and, for your families.”

  Alfonso feels Claudio grip his hand suddenly. “I can’t possibly know what you’re feeling right now, Alfonso, and perhaps you don’t want me to know. But there is one thing you must realize. If Don Simone hadn’t left me this letter, I would not have rushed into the stables and found you lying there with barely a thread of a heartbeat. I may have sewn you up, and for that, you may be grateful, but the one you owe your life to is not me. It’s Don Simone.”

  Alfonso winces, though it is not at his brother’s words, but at the scene that has just returned to his memory–-the flash of Gabriella’s porcelain skin before that excruciating pain in his neck. Trembling with a rage that he is fighting to suppress, he squeezes Claudio’s hand hard, and forgetting his earlier promise to God to change, he silently vows to find Gabriella–-if it takes his last breath–-and make her pay for what she has done.

  TONINO AND MASSIMO MAKE UP THE REAR of the re-energized line of fifteen hundred volunteers. All are travelling by foot save the General, his commander-in-line, and a few others, including his son Menotti and his old surgeon, Dr. Ripari. They trudge along, the line of Redshirts flowing along like fresh blood through the artery that is the forest path. The blood of soldiers ready to sacrifice their lives for the cause of unity.

  A widening in the forest and the accompanying light in the clearing reveal a grove where it is decided they will rest until the midday heat has abated. They quench their thirst at a nearby stream. It gurgles over a bed of gleaming volcanic stones smoothed by the gentle but constant pressure of the water flowing over them.

  Unlike many of the lower-lying areas of the region, where gushing streams of past centuries have become little more than useless trickles, or worse still, dried-up beds showing their faces of deep lines and sun-bleached whiskers, this stream flows with a pulsating fertility, spraying the men’s faces as they bend down to taste its freshness. Laughing in delight as they feel their vigour renewed, the men set about feasting on the good farmers’ bounty, before spreading themselves on the soft flanks of the foothills and succumbing to a welcome slumber.

  Upon awakening, they await to hear what General Garibaldi has decided is the trajectory that would best take them northward through the Aspromonte, avoiding areas that will surely be heavily guarded with troops eager to suppress them. They will reassume their stealthy march at nightfall.

  For the next few hours, some chat, some play card games of briscola or scopa, some pace anxiously, some pray, some go back to sleep, some write. Massimo has wandered off, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Tonino watches him for a moment before stretching out, laying his head on a soft clump of moss. He closes his eyes, eager to delve into each and every memory he has of Gabriella. He smiles, recalling the soft blush of her cheeks and her sweet scent. The perfume of oleander blossoms by the river. Intoxicating….

  GABRIELLA BLINKS IN THE SUN-DAPPLED ROOM. The burst of light from a tiny arched window is so bright that it hurts her eyes. She shuts them immediately and instinctively knows that she is not in her own room but cannot seem to clear the fog from her head to distinguish her whereabouts. She prods her memory until a vision of a flask emerges, its contents poured into a cup by Don Simone, who is urging her to drink from it for its soothing and medicinal properties. She recalls that it had a slightly bitter taste, with tones of chestnut and fennel, and that after she swallowed the last drop, mere minutes passed, and she was sent to rest in a novice’s cell that had been readied
for her and her brother.

  Luciano. Papà. Alfonso Fantin. The journey by cart. The series of events that have brought her to this place march through her mind like the death knell rung in Camini, and as her eyes wedge open, she feels the pain of her loss pushing into her chest and stomach like a clenched fist. She gasps before bursting into quiet sobs. Luciano. She jerks upright on her pallet, her blurred eyes seeking her brother’s figure, and when she makes out nothing but a crumpled blanket on his cot, she wipes her eyes frantically, puts on her shoes, and dashes across the room to open the cell door.

  She immediately slams into a body, and mortified, she looks up into the surprised but kind eyes of the abbot, Don Filippo, who had greeted them at the door of the monastery upon their arrival. Don Simone is just a few paces behind him. Luciano is absent.

  “Scusatemi,” she apologizes, and glancing back and forth at them, wringing her hands, says hoarsely, “Where is Luciano?”

  Don Simone places a hand over hers. “Do not worry, Gabriella. Luciano woke up some time ago and is now in the chapel with the good brothers. He is safe. We are all safe here.”

  “Yes, but…” Don Filippo clears his throat and exchanges a glance with Don Simone, “but you must have something to eat. You will need your strength.” He gestures at an archway. “Brother Domenico has prepared a fine meal for all of you; he delights in displaying his culinary skills to visitors—”

  “I…I’m not hungry,” Gabriella murmurs. “My stomach—”

  “Do not worry, Signorina. Brother Domenico’s bread and garlic soup will replenish you in both body and spirit. Come.”

  Gabriella follows the abbot and Don Simone, anxious to reunite with Luciano. She has no interest in eating. And as far as she is concerned, her spirit is dead.

  THE OFFICER ON DUTY BURSTS UNCEREMONIOUSLY into Russo’s office, beads of sweat clinging to his flushed face. Russo sets down the latest letter from General Zanetti, and thin-lipped, hears the officer’s stuttering explanation for this most uncharacteristic of interruptions. The officer explains that there is a man—aggressive and insistent—who is here to see Russo about a personal matter. Not a little curious as to the identity of the man who would reduce a usually unflappable officer to such a state, Russo curtly orders his officer to allow the man entry. “Get another carabineer immediately and prepare to stand by, in case I need to have this lout thrown out of my office.” The officer nods and as quickly as he arrived, he is gone.

  Russo remains seated as the man strides into his office and stops at one of the chairs opposite his desk. Russo taps his fingers impatiently against his thigh, unobserved by his visitor.

  “You wished to see me?” he says brusquely. He fixes an unblinking gaze on the man, who, clearing his throat, removes his fedora and accords him the expected nod of deference. Russo inclines his head in acceptance. “Please sit down.”

  “Thank you, Colonel Russo.”

  Russo’s glance lingers on the linen cloth wrapped around the man’s neck. It is not a scarf, as he thought when the man entered; it is some sort of bandage, and a darkened area beneath it indicates a recent flow of blood. The man is not from these parts; his skin and hair are too fair. His ruddy countenance and build hint at a prosperous lifestyle, reinforced by his tailored jacket and trousers, the cut and colour of which allude to the styles favoured by the Milanese couturiers. His hands are large yet strangely delicate; Russo doubts that this man has had to use them for any strenuous labour. The heavy gold ring on the third finger of his right hand boasts the biggest emerald that Russo has ever seen. Here is a man with money, perhaps power, and if Russo’s hunch is correct and the man’s hawkish eyes are any indication, a good measure of ruthlessness.

  “Thank you,” the man continues, with a flourish of his ring hand, “for allowing me the opportunity to present my case to you.” The man twitches suddenly, and his hand flies to his neck. “Please forgive me. I am recovering from a knife wound that was perpetrated upon me by an assailant who has fled the village. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Alfonso Fantin, the new proprietor of the Church of Santa Maria Assunta in Camini and its associated properties. My brother Claudio and I have journeyed from Turin to take possession of the establishment and to evaluate the current staff and their viability in the future.”

  “Camini.” Russo nods. Since his appointment as Colonel in charge of the forces of repression in Greater Calabria South, he has tried to acquaint himself with the myriad tiny villages and hamlets scattered about the countryside. He has heard the name “Camini” in connection with the feast of San Nicola, but he has had no occasion to visit as yet. “Is it the crime to your person that you wish to report?”

  “Indeed. I—”

  “May I ask when this attack occurred?”

  “Three days ago.” At Russo’s arched eyebrows, he adds quickly, “I was not in any condition to move, let alone contact the authorities. My brother found me lying unconscious and proceeded to tend to my wounds. He is a physician.” He twitches again. “He tells me I am healing, but I continue to be tormented by stabs of pain, both in my neck and head. He also tells me it is a miracle that I am alive.”

  “Where are you staying? Were there no others about that could have alerted the carabinieri immediately?”

  Fantin grimaces. “We have been staying at the rectory of Don Simone in Camini. Unfortunately, I was stabbed in the barn, and my brother, upon finding me, feared for my life and therefore, did not attempt to move me into the house. Having his medical bag with him, he staunched the flow of blood and monitored me through the night, leaving only once to procure blankets, water, and spirits from the rectory. The following day, I was overcome with fever and occasional seizures, and Claudio was again afraid to leave me. He thought my chances for survival were better if I was kept still.”

  “Where was Don Simone? Was there no one in the household to assist your brother in getting help? A farmhand? A servant?”

  “There was nobody else in the rectory.” Fantin winces and presses his fingers to his right temple. He draws in a deep breath. “Don Simone had left to tend to a dying man in the nearby hamlet of Riace and was expected to return by late afternoon. The priest’s servant girl, Gabriella Falcone, was the only person present at the time that I was inspecting the property and livestock. She offered to show me around the premises. Inside the barn, she implored me to keep her hired. She had no other prospects, she said, and if I dismissed her and her father, the priest’s farmhand, they would surely be separated.

  “I don’t want to sound crass, Colonel Russo, but the girl, obviously desperate, began to divest herself of her bodice, and threw herself upon me. It was at this unfortunate moment that her father, returning from the fields, came upon us, and enraged, sprang at me with a pickaxe. I managed to side-step him and kicked the pickaxe out of his hands. He came charging at me again, and this time I defended myself with my fists. Regretfully, he stumbled and fell, hitting his head hard on the ground.” Fantin shudders. “He died instantly.”

  His eyes, which have been focused unblinkingly on the stark, whitewashed wall behind Russo’s desk, now shift to meet Russo’s gaze. “The girl started screaming and collapsed on the ground by her father. I turned away, intent on seeking help, but I had taken no more than a few steps when I felt a searing jab in my neck. I collapsed and the girl fled, leaving me to die, no doubt happy to have exacted revenge upon me.”

  Russo has watched Fantin closely as the story has unfolded. The latter’s cheeks have erupted in an angry flush; his eyes are blinking rapidly and a vein in his temple is swollen, the bluish filament pulsing under the skin.

  “And die I would have,” Fantin grounds out with teeth clenched, “had my brother not found me.”

  “Did Don Simone not return?” Russo’s eyes narrow and he straightens in his chair, his hands now entwined on the desk.

  “Oh yes, the good Father returned, took me for dead, a
nd must have decided that his servant needed protection. He left a note for my brother, stating that I had been killed and that he would be gone indefinitely, taking the girl and her young brother with him.” He gives a bitter laugh. “I suppose I ought to thank him for the letter. At least my brother knew where to find me.”

  Russo’s eyebrows lift. Fantin’s presence seems amplified in the modest space of his office, and from his movements, his bandage has shifted, allowing Russo to catch the scent of blood and disinfectant. Russo stifles the urge to rise and open the shuttered windows. “You wish to procure my aid in finding this young woman?” He takes his fountain pen and makes a notation in the book before him.

  “My wish exactly. Her father’s death was an unfortunate accident. I was merely protecting myself, but the crime she committed in revenge must surely warrant the involvement of the greatest forces of law and justice.” Fantin reaches within the folds of his overcoat and withdraws a bulky package. He sets it down on the desk and places his ring hand on it, fingers outstretched. “I expect you are extremely busy, Colonel Russo, in your efforts to maintain the law in this lawless territory. As a supporter of the strictest tenets of law and order, I am happy to make a donation to support you in your formidable but worthy mission here in Greater Calabria South.” He takes a deep breath and his eyes shut briefly as his head twitches. “Please understand that should my offering not be sufficient, I will be more than pleased to demonstrate continued support. It would be an honour to provide you and your forces sufficient resources to aid you in your many enterprises.”

  Including the one you have brought to my attention today. Russo cups his chin with one hand, his eyes never wavering from Fantin. He does not have to thumb through the billfold to know that it will exceed any expectation of worth on his part. He inclines his head slightly and at the gesture, Fantin rises, reaches for his hat and bows respectfully. “Viva Victor Emmanuel II, King of Italy.”

  Russo nods. “Long live the King.” He watches the large figure as it retreats. When the door has clicked shut, he slowly slides the billfold closer to him and smiles. A sharp knock makes his head snap up.