He crouches down and she opens her mouth to scream when he lifts the hem of her skirt, only to realize that he merely wants to examine the wound on her calf.
“No infection.” He readjusts her skirt but does not rise. “You’ll be able to travel if we need to leave, but for now, you and Don Simone will remain here with the band.” He stands, and when she tentatively looks up, his eyes are narrowed. “It will be necessary for you to wear the appropriate clothing,” he says, pausing to make a sweeping gesture with one hand, “for this kind of life.”
Gabriella blinks. At the sound of footsteps, she turns to the doorway, where a slight movement of the blanket makes her release her pent-up breath. Don Simone.
“Permesso?”
A female voice. Gruff, barely audible. Gabriella bites her lip, disappointed.
“Come in.” Galante waits for the brigantessa to shuffle forward and then he turns to the woman, who is holding a roughly folded pile of clothes and a pair of scuffed footwear. “Leave them with me,” he orders. “And get started for your uncle’s place. Take Gaetano’s mule. Fill one of the saddlebags with some of the remaining wild fennel, in case you’re stopped.” He pauses and Gabriella watches as Dorotea hands him the pile. He tosses the footwear on the ground near Gabriella’s feet. Dorotea’s arms drop and she continues to stand there, her lips parting as if she has something she wants to say.
“Well, what is it?” Galante says, his jaw flicking impatiently.
“You told me you wanted me to watch over the girl.” Her voice is so low Gabriella can barely make out what she is saying.
Galante’s jaw clenches. “You will do that when you return with the supplies. We’re running low. We’ll need whatever your uncle can spare.”
Dorotea continues to stand sullenly, her angular face appearing even more stark. Gabriella watches the rise and fall of her chest under the coarse linen shirt. In her oversized trousers, Dorotea could easily pass for a man.
“What is it?” Galante says pointedly.
“What will I offer my uncle?”
Galante nods and fishes inside one of his pockets. He hands the brigantessa a clump of assorted bracelets and gold rings decorated with precious stones. Gabriella gasps softly.
“I will expect you back tomorrow morning, once you meet with…” he glances sideways at Gabriella, “with our other associate.” He waits as Dorotea plunges the jewellery deep into a trouser pocket and then he turns back to hand Gabriella the pile of clothing, which, she can now plainly see, consists of a man’s trousers and shirt. She rises and takes them, standing awkwardly while Dorotea, her mouth twitching, glances from her to Galante with a gleam in her hooded eyes. Without responding, the brigantessa adjusts her bandana, turns sharply, and leaves the hut.
Gabriella’s eyes drop to the clothes in her hands. She feels her stomach clenching. How can I wear these? She looks frantically at the doorway, willing Don Simone to appear and somehow convince Galante to leave her be, but she knows her hope is futile.
The brigand chief lifts a hand to touch Gabriella’s hair and she stiffens, holding her breath. Where is Don Simone? I will use the knife if I have to, the consequences be damned.
She hears Galante’s deep intake of breath, and despite her earlier vows, begins to silently recite a Pater Noster. To her relief, Galante turns and leaves the hut.
Gabriella crosses herself, and with a heavy heart, begins to take off her clothes.
DON SIMONE IS SEATED ON A STUMP in the shade of a giant chestnut tree, where the brigand chief told him to sit. He has no intention of disobeying the chief’s orders. Although the spot offers him some respite from the burning sun, his cassock is soaked through in places; it feels like he has collected pools of sunlight in every fold. He wipes his brow and looks at the hut, biting on his lower lip. His wooden rosary is wrapped around one hand, but he is not reciting any Ave Marias or Pater Nosters. His mind is occupied with thoughts of Gabriella, and what the brigand chief is saying. Or doing. And now the brigantessa Dorotea has entered the hut with a pile of clothes.
A flash of green diverts his attention and he spends the next few moments watching a lizard skitter past his foot. It stops suddenly, frozen in position, and then darts away, its tapered tail the last thing Don Simone sees before it blends into the forest bracken.
He looks back at the hut. Dorotea is walking out, her mouth a thin line, her reed-thin body as stiff as the canna stalks Gabriella uses to entwine garlands of drying figs. She strides past him without a glance, disappearing through a thicket, and while Don Simone shakes his head, bemoaning her lack of respect for a man of the cloth, the brigand chief emerges as well. His face, darkened by its stubble, is marred by a deep frown. Don Simone shifts uncomfortably on the stump, and the movement catches Galante’s eye.
He advances and is soon standing next to Don Simone, his conical hat casting his face in shadows as he looks down. Despite the fact that he is wearing a substantial black cloak, no doubt weighted down by any number of weapons concealed within its folds, his face gives no indication of discomfort. Wiping a rivulet of perspiration trickling from one side of his own face, Don Simone hopes that the thick gold chain and crucifix around Galante’s neck is a genuine sign of the man’s sympathy and respect for their shared religion. He wonders if he dare question the chief.
He reciprocates Galante’s nod and attempts to rise, but he steps on the hem of his cassock and throws himself off balance. The brigand chief’s arm shoots out to steady him, and after regaining his composure, he decides he must make an appeal to Galante. “Signor Galante, may I broach some matters to you—some matters that concern Signorina Gabriella and myself, and our unfortunate predicament?”
The brigand chief raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, oh, not this predicament,” Don Simone hurries to explain. “I meant the—the situation that compelled us to leave our hamlet, and why we must continue along our way.”
Galante glances at the hut and then back at Don Simone. “Come, we can have this discussion in the hut with Signorina Gabriella.”
“No! I mean, I’m sorry, Signor Galante, but I fear this may be too much for my ward, in light of her injuries and disposition. Could we not discuss this privately, at least for the moment?” He watches the flicker of emotions on Galante’s face while moving his fingers up and down his rosary beads.
“Very well,” the brigand chief rasps, gesturing to a circle of stumps several yards away.
When they are both seated, Don Simone feels Galante’s expectant gaze on him. “The Signorina was forced to leave Camini. She stabbed a landowner who was staying at the rectory.” He fingers his rosary nervously. He pauses for a moment, wondering how much he should divulge. The news about the sale of the church lands? The arrival of Alfonso Fantin and his brother?
Don Simone proceeds with this, his tone measured and his voice steady. When he gets to the part about his discovery of Gabriella in the barn, he can hear his voice quaver, and as he attempts to regain his composure, he sees Galante glance sharply at the hut several times. Don Simone swallows and continues with his account of the sight of Gabriella’s father at the foot of the stairs with his head smashed and bleeding, Gabriella sobbing hysterically, and the prone body of Alfonso in the hayloft, his neck slit and slimy with blood after Gabriella attacked him to defend herself.
At Galante’s intake of breath, Don Simone pauses, takes a deep breath himself, then continues telling him about Gabriella collapsing in the rectory, the return of Luciano, the preparations to leave Camini to find a sanctuary for Gabriella and prevent her certain arrest, their flight out of Camini and stay at Don Filippo’s monastery, their decision to relinquish Luciano into the hands of the Sisters, their discovery that Fantin survived and that the forces of law were searching for them, and their entry into the Aspromonte mountain range.
At this point, Don Simone hesitates; Galante knows everything that has transpired
since then. He feels the brigand chief’s eyes fixed upon him unblinkingly. Perhaps he just imagined Galante’s reaction at the news of Alfonso’s attack upon Gabriella. In his chosen way of life, an assault upon someone, whether man or woman, would be considered an ordinary circumstance, he thinks.
However, he did rescue Gabriella from being assaulted by one of his own band members, he tended her wound, and he administered some medicine to bring down her fever. But why?
Don Simone shakes his head, wanting to rid himself of any supposition as to why a brigand chief would curry favour on Gabriella. He must convince Galante to let them go on their way to the Augustinian monastery suggested by Don Filippo. The sooner they are out of the Aspromonte, the better. “So you see, Signor Galante, how essential it is for me to find refuge for Signorina Gabriella. She is truly an orphan, and she will need to be taken care of in a safe place, where she might, God willing, eventually regain her strength.”
“And her brother?” Galante’s eyes narrow. “Where is he?”
Don Simone shakes his head. “My dear associate Don Filippo felt he would be safe in the care of the Sisters at the Convent of St. Anna in Gerace. Once the situation was resolved, we would return to the monastery for Luciano. And then we would all return to Camini,” he ends wistfully.
“And how do you suppose the situation will be resolved?” There is a bitter twist to Galante’s lips. “A peasant girl stabs a landowner who is attempting to rape her and flees, leaving him for dead. He survives and engages the forces of law to find her and bring her to justice.” His eyes bore into Don Simone. “As far as I can see, the resolution you seek would require a miracle.”
Don Simone searches the brigand chief’s face for signs of mockery but sees none. His eyes drop to the heavy crucifix hanging at the apex of Galante’s throat and he sighs. “Yes, my son, I suppose we do need a miracle. And I will have to leave that in God’s hands. The only thing I can do is to get Gabriella to a safe place.”
“She’s safe here.”
Don Simone swallows. “But…but we’re in the wilderness. There are dangers….”
“Danger will not befall her while she’s with me,” the brigand chief drawls. “You have nothing to fear.”
“But she—we—can’t live like brigands,” Don Simone gasps.
Galante gives Don Simone a measured look. “Letting you go would not only put you in more danger, it would put me and my band in danger. You could be intercepted and questioned by the carabineers, who have their ways to make you talk, or you might fall into the path of other bands of brigands. Bands whose chief would be the first to pitch you into a ravine before feasting on Signorina Gabriella and then tossing her to his men for the crumbs.”
Don Simone winces. Is Galante truly concerned, or is he attempting to conceal his real motives toward Gabriella by making the other bands in the area seem like savages?
“I don’t imagine you and the girl will be here forever,” Galante says wryly. He glances again at the hut. “But we don’t think of more than one day at one time. We survive on the hare we catch today, not on the wild boar we hope we will catch in one week’s time. For now, you and the Signorina will remain under my protection.” He stands up, the set to his jaw brooking no argument, and Don Simone’s stomach churns with the realization that he and Gabriella are as helpless as newborn chicks nesting in the shadow of an eagle.
“Before I forget,” Galante says, fishing into a pocket, “I believe this belongs to you.”
Don Simone gasps softly as the brigand chief holds out his ring. He nods, speechless and puts it back on his finger. As Galante strides away, his dark cloak flapping at his sides, Don Simone hears a shuffle from the hut. The brigand chief stops to look as well.
The blanket is drawn aside, and as Gabriella emerges, Don Simone inhales sharply. This is not the child in his care, the girl he knows. His gaze travels from the brown linen shirt to the well-worn trousers tapering to below her knees. And to her calves, emphasized by light stockings and laced–up leather footwear. No, this is not Gabriella; this is a brigantessa. Their eyes lock, and his heart constricts. Oh, my poor child, what in God’s name is to become of us now?
THE FIRST CROWING FROM THE COURTYARD below his window makes him stir, but it isn’t until the rooster’s raucous cries have incited the warbling of the hens and pigeons that Tonino awakes. He tentatively brings his fingers up to his face and remembers that his bandages have been taken away by Sister Emilia, with assistance from Sister Caterina. Tonino sits up cautiously, not wanting to send his head in a spin with a quick movement, and then notes with pleasure that his shirt and trousers have been washed, ironed, and placed on his chair. He dresses and shuffles over to the window overlooking the courtyard.
The convent is awakening. Sister Anna is rustling about the glazed terracotta herb pots squatting on the low walls of the courtyard, collecting basil, rosemary, parsley, and sage for the day’s meals. Sister Nora is whisking the bird droppings from the earthen floor with her enormous straw broom before scattering grain to the clustering hens. Tonino turns away at the sound of the soft shuffle of the sisters’ feet on their way to the chapel; the officious clearing of the throat belongs to the abbess, whose confident, staccato-like tread on the slate floors of the convent is also easily identifiable.
When he looks out the window again, Sister Nora has gone, leaving the bolder hens to squawk at each other, trying to get to the last morsels of grain. Sister Anna, her basket spilling over with herbs, has caught his movement in the window, and has shyly looked down and scurried out of the courtyard.
Heavier footsteps approaching his room draw his attention to the doorway, where Sister Caterina is entering with a tray of steaming goat’s milk and freshly baked sage and lemon biscotti, a dusting of ash still visible on their lightly charred edges. She sets the tray down on the table by the window, and leaves him to enjoy his breakfast alone, reassuring him that she will be back shortly. He nods and sits down, biting into his milk-dipped biscuit while allowing the events of the previous evening to flood his memory.
The abbess had received some extraordinary news from Don Filippo, abbot at the Monastery of the Capuchins, and she in turn relayed the news immediately to Tonino, while Sister Emilia removed the rest of the bandages from his head. The room suddenly tilted around him, the bodies of Abbess Emanuela, Sister Emilia and Sister Caterina closing in on him like a murder of crows, their habits a black blur. He remembers being made to drink some kind of spirits, the liquid burning his throat but helping to clear his vision, and he listened to the abbess’s news while Sister Emilia wiped the beads of sweat from his temples.
Garibaldi. Wounded at Aspromonte. His son Menotti injured as well. Defeated by General Emilio Pallavicini and the Royal troops. Transported by stretcher from the mountains to the coastal town of Scilla, where he rested overnight in a shepherd’s tent, and was placed the next morning on a man-of-war, the Duca di Genova, along with Menotti, ten officials, and the three doctors. Seven garibaldini dead, five from the Royal army. Dozens wounded. Some of the regular riflemen, who in the ten-minute skirmish had left their positions to join up with Garibaldi’s volunteers, were rounded up, arrested, and shot as traitors. When Garibaldi’s men realized that their General had fallen, some retreated into the forest.
Tonino suddenly envisions the wave of volunteers rushing back from the Royal Army’s attack, a wall of bodies and arms swinging into him, pushing him to the forest’s edge. There, his foot caught on a tangled root, precipitating him over a ridge and miraculously, onto a ledge padded with overgrown shrubbery instead of into the endless depths of the ravine….
Tonino sets down his cup of milk, his stomach lurching with the renewed acknowledgement that their mission has failed. Rome is not ours. The realization sits hard in his stomach like a granite boulder.
But Garibaldi is alive. And he is alive. His head slumps forward into his hands as a new memory surfaces, t
hose precious seconds before slipping over the edge: Massimo, reaching forward to grab him but failing as his own back suddenly stiffens and his body crumples, his face ashen with the realization that he has been shot. Tonino feels his throat constrict. Massimo’s face will haunt him forever. Why did Massimo have to be one of the seven? His poor family. Tonino’s stomach lurches. Massimo will never have a family of his own. He will never meet a girl, experience love….
Gabriella! My girl. Tonino lets the memories swarm him. Her embrace by the river. Her treasured handkerchief, her skin the scent of oleander blossoms. Camini….
Tonino looks down at the lemon sage biscuit crushed between his fingers. He brushes the crumbs away and breathes deeply in the attempt to calm the pounding of his heart. I must get back to Gabriella. He feels his eyes misting, and when he hears someone re-entering, he blinks rapidly.
“My name is Sister Renata,” the nun is saying. She is holding a young child by the hand. Tonino wipes his eyes. A boy. He is not a vision. He is the one Tonino mistook for an angel.
“Luciano,” Tonino hears himself croak. “Luciano!”
ALFONSO NODS DISMISSIVELY AT THE MOON-FACED innkeeper and promptly shuts the door. He glances about the room. It is furnished with two single beds and nightstands, each on opposite whitewashed walls. The room itself is small, but the higher-than-usual ceiling makes it feel bigger, although the cobwebs suspended in each corner are somewhat disconcerting, swaying gently with the slightest flow of air. Otherwise, the room is fairly clean, the wide floor planks obviously swept and oiled. As in the room in Naples, chamber pots have been supplied, tucked under each bed, but there is also a more private water closet at the end of the hall outside their room, pointed out to them with an air of pride by the innkeeper himself moments earlier, as if, Alfonso thinks scornfully, he were displaying a room of distinction. Yes, it is certainly a step up from that hovel in Naples, but only a step.
La Brigantessa Page 26