La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

  She wonders if Don Simone is awake, reciting prayers for the sorry lot they are in. There is no need for her to offer up any prayers. God has shown himself, if anything, to be soundly deaf as far as her family is concerned.

  Another rustle. This time she knows it is not of her own making. It is coming from directly outside the hut, though it is barely perceptible. A mole, perhaps, or a hedgehog. Then she sees a telling shadow cast by the moon against the blanket suspended in the doorway. The hair rises on her arms.

  The creature is, without a doubt, a woman.

  The brigand chief shifts position. Gabriella shoots a nervous glance at him. He continues to sleep soundly. When she gazes back at the shadow, it is not there. A wave of nausea hits her, followed by a niggling doubt. She must be imagining things, no doubt the result of the concoction the brigand chief forced her to drink. She closes her eyes….

  RUSSO HEARS GENTLE SPLASHING in the porcelain tub in the room next to his bedroom. He smiles, his quill pausing in mid-air. Liliana. There is nothing like the thought of a beautiful young woman to detract one from the task at hand. His letter to General Zanetti contains only the salutation. He is anxious to pen the rest of it, considering the nature of the information he is about to impart, but he allows himself pause to savour the anticipation of the evening he is to spend in the company of Liliana.

  His wife Gina will be away for two weeks in the distant town of Paola. While she is fulfilling her vow to St. Francis of Paola to participate in a spiritual retreat in the monastery bearing his name, he will be enjoying Liliana’s favours.

  The country home Liliana is renting is a mere two kilometres away, but he insists that she visit him in the villa that has been provided for him in his employ. It is located a fair distance off the main road and ensconced within a thick border of century-old oaks. Her coachman drives her to a designated, secluded sideroad, where his driver, Dattilio, then takes her the rest of the way into Villa Gelsomina. It has been so named for the jasmine growing all over the property. Liliana finds the villa and its gardens charming.

  Russo cannot abide the thought of the villagers knowing his private business. Dattilio is sworn to secrecy, and although his manner is off-putting at times, Russo finds him dependable in matters regarding his private life. Dattilio’s daughter Elvira, responsible for housekeeping duties at the villa, has also proven herself to be trustworthy.

  Elvira is paid a pretty wage for work that others, employed elsewhere, make much less, but like Dattilio, she understands that a portion of her salary pays for her silence. Russo suspects she is far more wily than her father, though. He has found her suddenly by his side on occasions when his wife was sleeping, or away, and while her father was running some errand. She has never uttered a word out of line, but a suggestive gleam in her eye on these occasions has made him aware of her silent invitation.

  She is not unattractive, with a shapely body that reminds him of Gina’s in the early days of their marriage, before the contentedness of domesticity added an unpleasant heaviness to her already robust frame. Elvira’s hair is dark and thick, and her skin looks healthy enough. It lacks the saffron tinge of peasants afflicted with malaria or malnutrition. She has no offensive scent, and her clothes, although simple, are clean and pressed. But unlike many of his associates, he has no interest in deflowering a servant, no matter how pleasing she is in appearance. He cannot bear to think of having relations with a peasant, even one who hasn’t already been contaminated with the seed of another.

  Since he has brought Liliana to Villa Gelsomina, the gleam in Elvira’s eyes has dulled.

  She still displays her usual deference to him, but any task relating to Liliana is done with little or no enthusiasm, and in the former case, Russo is sure it is feigned. As long as she is diligent in her duties, though, he will continue to keep her, but at the first indication of insolence to himself or to Liliana, she will be dismissed.

  Earlier, she shuffled out of his bathroom with the last empty cauldron of hot water, wisps of her hair damp and unfurled from her kerchief, her face ruddy from the exertion of hauling the cauldron countless times from the kitchen. She did not see him by the armoire in the shadowed hallway, but he saw her throwing a disdainful glance backwards at the door she had just closed before striding to the kitchen. He had stifled a chuckle, knowing full well that she wished she was the one about to leisurely soak in his tub. Ah, jealousy. Such an unpleasant vice in a woman.

  Russo dips his quill again into the ornate brass inkwell, anxious to compose his letter, knowing that the hardness between his legs can only be appeased once he has fulfilled his job responsibilities for the evening. With any luck, he will be able to assist Liliana in her bathing ritual. He begins to write:

  Esteemed General,

  Please accept my most cordial regards to you and your wife. I pray that this latest communication finds you both in optimal health. Hopefully, your recent retreat in the Sila Mountains has restored your bronchial health. I was very pleased that you had seen fit to seek the restorative and healing atmosphere of the Sila Grande Range. I trust that further good feelings will be engendered by the news that I am about to impart to you.

  My continuing investigation into the identification and whereabouts of the countless brigands in this area has resulted in a fruitful discovery. As I have mentioned in previous reports, I utilize a variety of means to procure information, such as the occasional foray into a local tavern, where, as we both know, the flow of alcohol often leads to flow of new information from the locals.

  Shortly upon my entry into such a tavern—specifically, Da Matteo, in the neighbouring hamlet of Calvino, a fight broke out between two drunken peasants after a certain Luca Galante accused his neighbour Giacomo Pilone of stealing his goat. I instructed the officer accompanying me to break them up, after which he threatened them both with a severe fine if they didn’t leave and go their separate ways. Fortunately, they co-operated, and once they left, the tavern occupants began to talk.

  It seems that Galante is well-known for his alcohol-induced violence at anyone who is near him, mainly his family. But as seems to be the custom in these peasant communities, people do not get involved in the affairs of their neighbours. If a man deems it necessary to beat his wife or children, the villagers condone it, recognizing the unquestionable authority of the man of the house, whether drunk or not. On one particular occasion, however, the son reached his limit, and sought refuge in the outskirts of the village, hiding out in a labourer’s shack on Baron Saverio Contini’s estate. He knew of its whereabouts because his sister was housekeeper to the Baron.

  While in hiding, the son unfortunately witnessed the rape of his sister by the Baron after his wife left to visit her family in the outskirts of Rome. The labourers had all left for the evening as well, and only the girl remained. Galante’s son, blinded by rage, went after the Baron and throttled him with his bare hands, leaving him for dead, according to a goatherd passing by. The son used the Baron’s mule and cart to bring his sister to the doctor in the village, and then delivered her to the safety and comfort of her maternal grandmother, rather than risking the unpredictable reaction of their father, upon learning of his sister’s condition and his return.

  The young man then headed for the hills and presumedly found refuge deep within the Aspromonte mountain range. The Baron survived the vicious beating and posted a ransom notice for the fugitive’s capture, dead or alive. Galante’s son has spent the last two years surviving—thriving, rather, first as a mere bandit, and then as a notorious brigand chief. How he has managed to elevate himself to this position in a relatively short period of time is unbeknownst to me at present; however, I imagine that he must possess some of his father’s villainous attributes in order to be able to round up a willing band of outlaws that will subordinate themselves to his leadership.

  You can imagine, esteemed General, my anticipation of fulfilling my mission to hunt down th
is reprehensible villain and bring him to justice. The loose-lipped villagers, influenced by excessive drink, soon gave me the best information of the night, which was the fact that this outlaw, this brigand, was born with a brown eye and a green eye. Just like the devil that attacked my carriage. They are one and the same. His name: Stefano Galante!

  Russo sets down his quill, his hand shaking with the same excitement he felt upon first hearing the news. He hears a gentle splashing and hurries to finish the letter.

  I have all I need now to pursue my attacker. A face with a name. My men will find him, hunt him down, and as instructed, bring him back to me alive.

  His grip on the quill tightens. He will deliver Stefano Galante’s final judgment. Russo laughs when he recalls the nickname Galante acquired upon achieving the lofty position of Brigand Chief: “Il Galantuomo.” If it’s the last thing Russo does, it will be to topple “The Gentleman” from the top of his mountain lair, grinding him into the dirt at his feet where he belongs.

  Russo finishes his letter with the promise of a forthcoming detailed plan and signs it with a flourish. At dawn, he will have Dattilio send it on its way. He rises, feeling as charged as he did at twenty.

  He steps into the room where Liliana, immersed in the claw-footed enamel tub that is still emitting steam from its rose-scented depths, awaits with a flushed face and inviting smile.

  ALFONSO WAITS AS VALERIO MOUNTS his sorry-looking mule. He expressed his doubts as to the hardiness of the animal to the boy earlier, but Valerio just chuckled and told him that although Spirito might look half-dead, it was just an act so that he wouldn’t be overworked. “Mules aren’t as dumb as people think. They might act stubborn, but if you give them a little respect, they will do your bidding without causing you grief. Spirito will take me wherever I want; he is tireless.” He offers the mule a small apple then pats him and then urges him forward with a “Bravo, Spirito!”

  Alfonso nudges his mule with his heels and follows at a comfortable distance. His mule is robust, hired from the village blacksmith the evening before.

  “You will want a mule that is used to heavy loads,” the man advised. Alfonso was irritated at the man’s eyes swept over him, openly assessing his bulk as if he were a trunk awaiting passage on a ship. “Just give me an animal that is dependable,” Alfonso snapped. “You’ll be well-paid. Half now, and half when I return.”

  “Take Borbone then,” the blacksmith nodded, motioning at the animal in the largest stall. Satisfied, Alfonso paid the man and told him to have the mule ready at dawn. He returned to the rectory and found a large wedge of cheese, some cured salt pork, and a half-loaf of coarse bread for the journey.

  After helping himself to a liberal amount of Don Simone’s nocino, he decided against going to bed and instead went into Don Simone’s room, hoping to find a clue to the priest’s destination. Discovering nothing, he proceeded to Gabriella’s room. It was stifling, with her pallet against one wall and her brother’s on the other side, and a tiny shuttered window providing slivers of moonlight. It didn’t take long to thumb through Gabriella’s belongings in a recessed wall cupboard: a small pile of neatly folded skirts, shifts, aprons, and leggings. He tossed them back into the cupboard, pulled back the shutters to let in the moonlight, and then his gaze fell back on her pallet.

  A ripple in his loins made him shiver, and he gave in to the impulse to lie down. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, the slight scent of her still lingering on the blanket. He sprang up to remove his clothes. Sliding under the coverlet, he closed his eyes and allowed the soft fabric to smother his thoughts of revenge on Gabriella, replacing them with images of her body sprawled over his, her legs gleaming like alabaster in the moonlight. With the taste of the walnut liqueur still on his tongue, Alfonso let his wildest fantasies lull him to sleep.

  Alfonso now senses that Borbone wants to overtake Valerio’s mule. He tightens the reins and the mule relents. “You need a new name,” he says, patting the mule’s sturdy neck. “The Bourbon regime is finished. Perhaps I should call you Garibaldi. Or Victor Emmanuel, after our King.” The mule snorts and Alfonso laughs. He rides behind Valerio with a smile, his thoughts returning to Gabriella and anticipating the fantasies to come….

  A THUD OF HOOVES AWAKENS TONINO and the others encamped on a sparsely treed section of the mountainside. Their company commander, a ruddy-faced Sicilian of thirty-eight years, urges them to assemble immediately on the crest of the hill for the order of the day. Tonino’s sleep-swollen eyes widen when another flurry of hooves approach, the scarlet-clad figure on the white stallion looming over them, scanning the regiment line with an almost leonine ferocity. Tonino averts his face to avoid the spray of dust and debris, and catches a glimpse of the General’s stirrups, polished and filigreed.

  They stumble to their feet and proffer a salute of respect to their General, who pauses momentarily before passing them like a sudden swirl of the scirocco, the capricious desert wind from Africa. Tonino and his fellow infantrymen are left breathless, the flash of Garibaldi’s red shirt as blinding as the face of the sun rising over the mountains.

  While the dust is settling, Tonino gathers his haversack and the rifle that he was served with and clambers up the mountainside on the heels of his comrades. The clay deposits on the barren stretch of the slope make it hard to get a good grip, and a number of them find themselves slipping, sending down showers of loose stones. Except for the occasional muffled curse, they advance in silence. Tonino breathes in the thin mountain air and trudges upward. The clumps of rock rose are glistening with morning dew, their cactus-like clusters brightening the arid slopes with yellow and reddish blooms.

  The intermittent splashes of colour make him think of Gabriella: the oleander-pink of her cheeks, the gleam of her chestnut eyes, and her rose-petal mouth. Something twists in his gut, and for the first time since he joined the Redshirts, he is gripped with the fear of dying. Of never reuniting with Gabriella. A touch at his elbow makes him jerk around, and when he sees that it is Massimo, he smiles apologetically. Massimo gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder while taking a deep drag of his cigarette. When he exhales, the smoke catches Tonino full in the face, making him cough and wipe his eyes, a welcome excuse to hide the real reason for his stinging eyes.

  When his vision clears, Tonino continues with his company to a grassy plateau with a bird’s eye view of the valley where a number of hamlets dot the landscape like clumps of mushrooms. The company commander informs them that the Royalist troops are advancing up the mountain, intent on stopping them from marching on the French garrison in Rome. General Garibaldi has spotted them through his telescope.

  A murmur rustles the group and grows into agitated cries of disbelief.

  “But they are our countrymen!”

  “How is it possible that King Victor Emmanuel is condoning civil war?”

  “It’s all a ruse, just like the mission in 1860. The King has to put forth a show of protest at our forces overtaking Rome, but he secretly supports us.”

  “General Cialdini’s troops will back off, just like the Neapolitan army did in Sicily.”

  Tonino hears it repeated countless times: King Victor is making it look like he’s opposing Garibaldi’s attack on the French garrison in order to preserve the appearance of his alliance with Napoleon III. He doesn’t want to jeopardize his relationship with the Emperor….

  The cries and protests come to a halt as General Garibaldi—his cheeks flushed and eyes as piercing as ever—arrives on his stallion. His full, thick moustache is trimmed neatly, as is his white-tinged beard. A black bandana is tied neatly around his neck. Despite the dust and clay, he is immaculate in his full military regalia and looks like he is about to attend a royal court function.

  With a voice that is rich and brooks no argument, he booms: “I order you to resist fire. I repeat, do not initiate or respond to fire. General Cialdini’s men are our countrymen. We wil
l not open fire on our brothers. That is not why we are here. We will not be responsible for the bloodshed of our kin.” He fixes those nearest him with an intense scrutiny, then shouts, “Long live Italy! Viva Victor Emmanuel!” before thrusting his way around the group to repeat his message.

  Tonino feels the hair rise on his arms. He listens to the reverberations of the General’s voice on the mountain, the inflections, the passion, the fire. He feels a warmth at the pit of his stomach that rises to fill his chest and then radiates to his neck and face. The heat snuffs out his earlier fear of dying and replaces it with a fervour that makes his every nerve tingle. “Viva l’Italia!” he hears himself shouting suddenly. Others repeat the cry and scurry to position themselves on the flanks of the mountain. Tonino is not sure what to expect when the Royalist troops appear. He hopes that their mighty leader will, as he did in Palermo in 1860, convince them to offer no resistance and allow him to carry out his mission to unify Rome with the rest of Italy.

  A flurry of reports below them creates a sudden commotion as the Royalist soldiers advance up the slope, and Garibaldi’s voice breaks through the silence between shots, urging his men not to return the fire. A bugler blows the “Cease Fire.” Tonino’s stomach twists. He tries to convince himself that Cialdini’s soldiers are simply announcing themselves, that they are carrying out this charade as a political strategy, but when the blue-clad troops appear at the rim of the plateau, their rifles and bayonets pointed systematically at the Redshirts, the gunfire that ensues leaves him with no illusions.

  With their backs to a dense stand of pine trees, his companions react in confusion. Some are frozen, incapacitated as they hear their General’s voice ring out again: “Do not return the fire! Do not shoot! Non fate fuoco!” Some are retreating to the edge of the forest, some are flattening to the ground. The first rifle shot reaches its target, and Tonino watches as one of his comrades-in-arms flounders and drops to the ground. And then another. The royal troops begin pressing in.