Normally, Russo would have enjoyed sampling the feast, but food was suddenly the farthest thing from his mind. He chanced another look at the unknown guest and found her looking back at the sea, which had now assumed an aura of indigo and periwinkle, with flaming streaks of red-orange above it that reminded him of the glossy skin of persimmons. And then, again, she turned and caught him looking intensely at her. This time, he saw her eyebrow lift before she looked away, and that tiny movement caused him to wonder, in tentative hope, that perhaps it was a sign.
For the next several minutes, they played their game of looking, turning away, looking longer, turning away, each initiating at one point, each feigning nonchalance. Despite his growing excitement, he sensed that something was slightly amiss. Yes, her gaze in his direction was calibrated, the slight tilt of her perfect eyebrows indicating guarded interest, but unlike other women in the past, she did not use her body in any way to arouse his senses. In fact, her stature demonstrated aloofness, and that aroused him even more.
Russo looked away and strode casually to a small group where Mayor Goldoni was in the middle of an animated discussion about rumours that Garibaldi was planning an attack on Venice, and that he was being paid by King Victor Emmanuel to attack the Austrians in the Balkans.
Russo waited until the mayor paused, then diverted his attention with a diplomatic but meaningful wink and tilt of his head. Goldoni, wiping his perspiring brow, stepped aside, blinking at Russo, as if expecting to hear some previously unrevealed political secret involving the recently established liberal government. He started when Russo inquired as to the identity of the woman at the terrace railing, and then his features smoothed out and he returned a conspiratorial wink.
“Heavens, Colonel,” he murmured, cupping Russo’s elbow as if they were intimate friends. “That is Signora Liliana.” He explained that she had been widowed for over a year, at which time she had left her villa in the Bay of Naples and moved to a villa in the sunny coastal town of Roccella. She had an ample estate and a number of holdings and had only recently begun appearing in public.
Goldoni must have seen the gleam of interest in his eyes, as he gushed, “Would you like an introduction?”
Russo smiles at the memory of her gaze when the mayor led him across the terrace to make the introduction. Her ebony eyes locked with his, and up close, he could marvel at the impossible perfection of her widow’s peak, and her flawless skin.
The hand Russo extended was accepted with not the usual limpness from women whose eyes hinted at lust but whose sweating hands indicated insecurity; rather, Signora Liliana’s clasp was cool, firm, and lingering. He caught her fleeting gaze on the ring finger of his left hand. He didn’t know if he imagined that she gave his hand a slight squeeze before releasing it, despite her observation of his marital status, but even the remote possibility sent his pulse into delirium, and for the first time since he had strayed from his wife, he felt flustered and almost inept, knowing that he could not employ his usual tactics of the hunt with this woman. This knowledge compelled him to leave the event early after a brief and polite exchange between them and the mayor. As he left Goldoni’s villa and returned to his carriage, where his driver Dattilio awaited, he could barely restrain his body from trembling with the almost desperate desire to find a way—any way—to have this woman.
Russo smiles indulgently as Liliana’s soft footsteps tread across the terracotta floor. She has been especially attentive since the attack on his carriage by the brigand chief, murmuring during the most intimate of moments how devastated she would have been if the cornuto Stefano Galante had maimed him, or worse.
Russo feels himself hardening now as he has done every time Liliana hastened to stroke him reassuringly after her husky declarations. She would render him almost delirious, squeezing and releasing, her supple body pressing into him like a contented kitten. The mere mention of the brigand chief made his insides roil, and combined with the deliberate pressure of Liliana’s fingers, Russo would have to restrain himself from screaming. He began to indulge himself in the fantasy of Galante being bound and gagged in a corner of the room while forced to watch him and Liliana in their passion.
He wanted to relish each lingering thought of Galante squirming at the sight of Russo exploring Liliana’s ripe body. He wanted the brigand chief to see what was his as he proceeded to peel off each item of her clothing with painstaking slowness, until Liliana’s body was quivering with expectation at Russo’s imminent conquest. He imagined Galante’s eyes smouldering, his body writhing within the restraints as Liliana was completely exposed and shuddering from the release of her pent-up frenzy. And his complete satisfaction as he finally quenched his own passion, with Galante’s eyes at his backside.
“Vieni,” she is beckoning now, one hand outstretched. She is wearing something he has never seen before, a black, slightly transparent gown that clings to her body, its lacy designs emphasizing her most forbidden places. The breeze from the far window in her room wafts past her, causing ripples of movement all across the silk. He groans, and as he sets down his tumbler and strides to her, she laughs in that way that makes him want to rip the silk to shreds.
“Come, my lover,” she laughs again. “Come and tell me about your day. I want to hear about every brigand bastard you captured.”
GABRIELLA’S BREATH CATCHES IN HER THROAT. She’s not sure what to say, what to do. Should I go outside? she wonders. Or should I tell the woman to enter?
“Signorina?” The voice is low for a woman, raspy, reminding Gabriella of old Nicolina.
“Un momento,” she calls out, deciding it would be better to step outside the hut. She rises, and despite the day’s heat, feels a shiver run down her arms. When she steps outside, she is surprised to see the figure of a man about ten paces away, and then realizes it is a woman, a woman in a man’s clothes. She is slight, her pant legs baggy below a grey linen shirt, the seams of which hang midway between her shoulders and elbows. The shirt is tucked in, the sleeves rolled up, and the belt that encircles her willowy waist is buckled at the first hole, leaving a long leather strip that the woman has wrapped several times around yet still manages to hang down. Her footwear is the only part of her clothing that seems to fit correctly, laced snugly up her calves to enclose the bottoms of the trousers.
Gabriella’s gaze moves upwards, and she is startled to note that the woman’s features are ashen and made even more so in proximity to the grey shirt. Her face is angular, with unusual eyes of a colour Gabriella can only liken to the silver-grey underside of olive leaves. Her hair is concealed under a blue bandana, although a few light brown wisps have strayed. Gabriella gulps. Of all the perils she had imagined befalling her while journeying with Don Simone, encountering brigands, male and female, was not one of them.
This brigantessa is now smiling at her, a thin-lipped curve that makes her cheekbones jut out even more. She has stopped and is an arm’s-length away from Gabriella. Gabriella shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“The chief has asked me to come and talk to you,” the woman says in a voice that has little inflection. “He wants you to understand that it is safer to remain with the band than to continue on your own with the priest.” Her eyes flash, and her mouth collapses into a sliver. “The chief has punished the brothers; you can be sure that they will not be stepping foot anywhere near you or the priest.” She motions to the thicket leading to the clearing. “The chief wants me to stay close to you, while he is settling matters with some…misguided travellers. I am to see to your protection, in case other dangers should arise.”
Gabriella blinks. Other dangers?
The brigantessa’s eyes narrow. “I do not want to alarm you, Signorina, but we are in the Aspromonte mountains. There are natural dangers here, like wolves and wild boars, but even wilder are the rival bands of brigands. Consider yourself lucky to be with us. Palma’s band would have eaten you alive, and you would have
fared no better with Crocco and his criminals.”
Gabriella’s stomach twists. The woman before her is an outlaw herself, a criminal of God knows what crime. She shivers. How can she trust her or her chief?
“My name is Dorotea,” the woman rasps. “The chief told me your name.” Her gaze drops to Gabriella’s shifting feet. “He said you were injured. Go rest now. He will most likely want to move on at dusk, and you won’t be able to make much ground unless your wound has a chance to heal.”
Gabriella nods and retreats into the hut, realizing she hasn’t said a word to the brigantessa. She lies back on the pallet and despite the oppressive August heat, draws a blanket up around her. She listens to the receding shuffle of Dorotea’s feet and then closes her eyes, wishing that she would soon awake from this horrible dream of brigands and their women, of wild men and beasts, and find herself once again safe in Camini, waiting for her father to come back from the fields, and Tonino to embrace her with promises of a lifetime together.
Smothering a sob in her palm, she squeezes her eyes shut to block the dream she knows is a reality, but in spite of her efforts, Dorotea’s silver-grey eyes won’t disappear.
RUSSO DIPS HIS QUILL INTO THE INKWELL, anxious to share his latest news with General Zanetti.…
Esteemed General,
It is my sincere hope that this letter finds you in optimum health and spirits, and that you are continuing to recover from your recent illness. It is not without a little envy that I think of your extended stay in the Sila mountains under its verdant canopies. From my singular visit to that area in 1852, I have fond recollections of treks to the heights of Sila Grande, from where the heavens seemed an arm’s-length away, and whose wooded flanks plunged into a valley quilted with a patchwork of green, yellow, and brown. I can still picture the ripple of the smaller crags with their clay façades baking in the haze originating from the African scirocco. From where I stood with my colleagues, three seas were visible: the Ionian to the east, the Tyrrhenian to the west, and the Mediterranean to the south. It made one feel like an eagle, so majestic were the earth and seas spread out before us.
I am hoping you have found this poetic preface to your liking, dear General, aware that I am of your fondness for the romantic works of Alessandro Manzoni and the like, but I will proceed forthwith to inform you of the matters upon which I have been commissioned to report. By the time this correspondence reaches you, the remains—or more specifically, the head of the brigand chief Agostino Pizzelli—will be transported to the military station in Naples, from where it will then be turned over to the appropriate forensic specialists for examination.
Allow me to expound on some details. The brigand Agostino was smoked out of his mountain cave, captured, and, as justice dictates, has been summarily executed for his exceedingly long list of crimes. After his hanging, he was decapitated and exposed at the town entrance in the usual way—on a pike. However, due to our order to send the head to Naples for forensic study, the head did not remain long in exposition before being crated and duly forwarded to the Neapolitan officials.
Two of the chief’s band members were with Pizzelli and met with the same demise, thus joining their chief in this most symbolic exhibition, one on either side. I am certain that this display has resulted in the temporary paralysis of the rest of Pizzelli’s band. It is my hope that this will deter the brigands permanently; however, being under no illusions, I will continue to direct my forces to maintain a high level of vigilance, ensuring their readiness to respond to bands that are determined to persist.
As for the members of Pizzelli’s band, six out of the twelve brigands were captured soon afterwards, and as a consequence, the band has collapsed. The four who remain at large have been spotted by our informers in an area that we have reinforced with additional surveillance, and I am quite confident that by the time you receive my subsequent correspondence, they will have been apprehended. For the present, I have ordered the six captives to be imprisoned and questioned under duress of potential hanging or shooting. I have no doubt that some, if not all, will capitulate and enlighten us in tracking down both remaining brigands and the band’s supporters and informers, most likely relatives of the same.
Every battle won in this war on brigandage is significant, and in the wake of this successful mission, it is my fervent desire to forthwith deliver similar information to you about the brigand chief Stefano Galante, whose capture and arrest will continue to be on my list of priorities, along with those in his company. Although he leads one of the smallest bands in the territory, he has been most successful in his nefarious undertakings, eluding the forces of law for much too long. This can only be credited to a chain of informers that are masterful in covering their tracks and their connections to Galante.
Although the latter may not have the same dark history as Pizzelli, who, by all accounts, fully merited the nickname “Assassino,” Galante has been credited with at least a dozen kidnappings and subsequent extortions in the past year alone. My sources tell me that he and his band members are concentrated within the Aspromonte mountain range near Gerace. The Aspromonte is notorious for brigand activity, its dense woodlands and ubiquitous caves and hollows providing perfect hiding places for such villains. Hamlets are scattered about this territory, with homes clustered atop many a vertiginous summit like a multi-layered nest. The peasants who venture along the mule tracks and narrow roads have little to fear; the brigands prey mainly on visitors, especially those travelling by horse and carriage, many of whom are foreigners or gentry.
As you well know, dear General, my own carriage was apprehended by the brigand chief Galante, who was far from a “gentleman” in his treatment of myself and my companion. “Galantuomo” indeed! Had his band members not alerted him with their gunshots, forcing him to flee, I harbour no illusions as to what might have happened next. As it were, his mission was partially successful, having robbed my companion of articles of the finest gold, some of which were treasured heirlooms.
But now I have some treasures of my own…the discovery of Galante’s identity and his village. My men are on tight patrol in Gerace and the surrounding area, ready to pounce on anyone who offers the slightest clue as to Galante’s hiding place in the Aspromonte. If the villagers cannot or are not willing to provide any information with reasonable means on the part of my forces, then I will give the order for my officers to proceed in ways that are more…effective. If these peasants do not have the mental capacity to understand reason, I must employ any measures I have at my disposal to make them capitulate. Brigands like Galante cannot survive on their own without the occasional support of their friends or relatives who find ways to sustain them with food, supplies, and even weapons. In fact, these manutengoli are just as guilty as the brigands themselves.
It is my hope that the next several days will be fruitful in this regard, as I send my forces into Galante’s village of Calvino to interrogate every last villager as to their knowledge of Galante’s whereabouts, or their possible collaboration with him. We will employ all means available to us in order to gain the villagers’ co-operation. Our first stop will be the home of Galante, and his immediate family.
As has occurred in previous undertakings of this kind, I anticipate success, as my team has become quite skilled in extracting information from peasants with their convincing methods of interrogation. I cannot resist wondering, dear General, if Galante, upon his capture, will show himself to be the “galantuomo” that he is reputed to be.
I will, nevertheless, demonstrate some restraint in my enthusiasm for now; I look forward to sharing my celebratory news with you in the very near future. Rest assured, esteemed General, that my intent is to destroy this scourge that has afflicted this territory. As always, I wish to express my gratitude for your faith in my leadership in the repression of brigandage, and I vow to persist in my mission until the scores of brigands poisoning this region with their abject lawlessness
are brought to justice. Long live King Victor Emmanuel II! Long live united Italy!
As I complete this present communication, I send my regards to your dear wife, along with my best wishes for her health as well. And, I remain, as always, ready at your command, with the highest regard and respect, on this, the 17th day of August in the year 1862.
Your devoted comrade in the battle against brigandage,
Lieutenant Colonel Michele Russo
GABRIELLA EMERGES FROM A THICK ARC OF BUSHES. The edge of her skirt catches on some brambles, and as she tries to pull it away, it tears. She bends to extricate the material with her fingers and pulls back in pain as a thorn pricks her thumb. Almost immediately, she feels a throbbing sensation, like tiny needles shooting paralyzing stingers throughout her flesh. She stifles the urge to cry out, lest the brigand chief or one of his band members appear, and hobbles back to the hut. Don Simone is pacing with his head down, his lips moving noiselessly. He looks up, alerted by her shadow on the ground, and holds up his beads. His smile freezes and his eyebrows thatch together in a furrow. “What’s the matter, my child? What has happened?”
As Gabriella shows him the ripped hem of her skirt, she realizes that her thumb has started to bleed. At Don Simone’s worried look, she feels her eyes welling. She lets them spill over unchecked, until Don Simone’s face is a blur in front of her.
“Figlia mia, don’t despair. Come, sit down on this stump. Let me take a close look at your thumb.”
Gabriella wipes her eyes with the backs of both hands. “I’m not crying about my skirt or my thumb. I’m upset about…about….”
“I know, child,” Don Simone murmurs. “You’ve been dealt a hard blow, first losing your mother, and now your father.” He bends down on one knee, retrieves a handkerchief from within his cassock, and wipes the blood from her thumb. “And now this business of going into hiding….” He shakes his head. “Thank God we have come this far in safety.”
La Brigantessa Page 24