“I understood he acted to avenge the assault of his sister.” Russo is genuinely puzzled. How could the old man be upset at his son for going after the man who raped his daughter?
Galante’s eyes cloud over. He wipes the beads of sweat on his upper lip with his shirt sleeve and rasps, “With that, I have no cause to be angry. I…I am enraged over the fact that he went into hiding like a coward, instead of attempting to defend himself. I could have had the parish priest speak on his behalf, ask for clemency…. But no, Stefano didn’t give me the chance; he chose instead to break his mother’s heart and my balls, leaving me to do all the work on the farm.” He laughs without humour, a harsh croak that stabs the air like a vulture’s cry.
“And these past two years, he’s managed to maintain himself quite well, from what I hear, living the life of a brigand.” Galante sneers. “Apparently, he enjoys collecting travellers these days. The fellow his band released after they got their ransom money said he has a young lady and a priest with him….”
Russo stiffens. “Well, well,” he murmurs. How very fitting that the girl I seek for attempting to kill Fantin is in the company of the very brigand I intend to destroy. He smiles, savouring the thought of a double victory.
Galante clears the phlegm in his throat again, and as Russo takes in the man’s hunched shoulders and grizzled head bobbing as another mucous-filled splatter is ejected, he is hard-pressed to see any similarity between the pathetic sight before him and the man’s brigand son.
“Colonel Russo!”
Russo swivels at the sharp tone of urgency. Silvio is striding over to him with his hand clasping a purple bundle. Russo’s eyes narrow as his officer hands him a half-dozen small bags of purple cloth, at the centre of which is embroidered the initial “G” in yellow thread. With a self-satisfied smile, Silvio extracts another such bag from his pocket and hands it to Russo, informing him that all were concealed under the hemp-filled pallet in the bedroom occupied by Galante and his wife. It is the only bag that is not empty.
Russo loosens the drawstrings and peers at the contents, his mouth pursing as he withdraws a thick gold necklace and two gold rings, and a silver brooch studded with an assortment of precious stones. The sunlight catches on the facets of emerald, ruby, and amethyst, and as Russo smiles at the significance of this discovery, Galante rasps, “What is this all about?”
Russo looks at him coldly. “You tell us, Signor Galante. You claim to know nothing of your son, to have had no contact with him, yet items that obviously bear his mark and the fruit of his chosen labour are found under your pallet.”
Galante’s face blanches. “Under my…?” His eyes dart wildly from Russo to Silvio. Russo watches as his lips clamp shut, then open to stammer, “My…my wife! This is her doing! I know nothing about this.” His cheeks begin to redden in uneven splotches, and although his surprise seems genuine enough, Russo is not completely convinced that he is as innocent as he implies of having any connection with Stefano. Or of benefitting from any of Stefano’s successes. Perhaps his outward disdain for his son is a deliberate act to protect himself. But why would he be so quick to heave the blame on his wife?
Russo looks down at him. Whether he is lying or not, it is obvious that Stefano has at least maintained contact with his mother, who has provided him with hand-stitched loot bags embroidered with his initial, and who has, in turn, been provided for with some of the spoils of his pillages. There are other things that are not so obvious, though. Many questions have yet to be answered….
Russo exchanges a glance with Silvio. He gives him a slight nod then moves aside. Silvio plants himself in front of Galante, forcing him to back up. Silvio thrusts out a beefy hand and with one solid push, he sends Galante hurtling backwards into the barn with a grunt. Russo’s mouth curves into a smile. Silvio has a knack of preparing people for questioning. Once he is done with the old man, Galante should be quite ready to provide Russo with the truth, and hopefully, the whereabouts of his son.
Ignoring the thuds and cries from the barn, Russo strolls a short distance away, admiring how the stones on the brooch glitter in the sun.
TONINO STARES FROM THE NOVICE TO LUCIANO, who is still holding Sister Renata’s hand tightly. He sees confusion flit across both their faces for a moment, and then he realizes that the boy hasn’t placed him yet. Luciano would recognize him in regular clothes, but here, in this bed, someone from Camini would probably be the last person he would expect to find. And even if Luciano did recognize him, he wouldn’t associate him with his sister. He doubted Gabriella would have divulged their exchange to him, their mutual promise of love. But why in heaven’s name is Luciano here?
“Do you know each other?” Sister Renata says, her eyebrows peaking.
“Now I know!” Luciano tugs at her hand excitedly. “Tonino, the butcher’s son! I couldn’t tell at first with that bandage covering his face.”
Tonino lifts his hand to feel the linen cloth Sister Emilia reapplied the night before, after his wound had started to bleed again. She applied a thin salve of rosemary and honey and then a fresh cloth to cover it. “To stop the flies from landing on your face,” she said with a smile.
“You are both from Camini?” The nun’s voice is incredulous. “How strange.”
“What is Luciano doing here?” Tonino cannot keep the urgency out of his voice. “What has happened?”
Sister Renata looks flustered. She opens her mouth and then clamps it shut, her brows furrowing. “I…I am not at liberty to say, Signor Tonino.”
“Indeed you are not, Sister Renata,” Sister Emanuela says, appearing in the doorway. “Thank you for your discretion in this matter. You may bring the boy to the refectory for a bowl of pigeon soup. I wish to speak with Signor Tonino.”
“Sì, Badessa.” Sister Renata looks relieved as she curtsies and shuffles out, leading Luciano by the hand.
“Abbess, what has happened?” Tonino leans forward. “I need to know.”
He watches the abbess studying him for a moment, her hands clasped in front of her heart as if in prayer. “I’m sorry, Signor Tonino, but I cannot in good conscience divulge any matter relating to the boy to anyone but his immediate family. I hope you understand. I am the only one here at the Convent of St. Anna who is aware of the entire circumstances of Luciano’s arrival, and I cannot break confidence.” She nods and begins to walk away.
“Abbess, please. Gabriella and I.…” he says, pausing to wait until she has turned around to face him, “are promised to each other. I was intending to marry her once I returned from the mission with General Garibaldi.” Tonino searches her face for a sign that she will relent, but when it remains impassive, he adds, “Her father Lorenzo and mine are best friends. The first thing I plan to do when I get back to Camini is to ask him for his consent.”
The abbess’s head lowers and Tonino notices her mouth has settled into a grim line. Something terrible has happened to either Gabriella or her father. He grips the edge of the sheet. “Abbess Emanuela, please, what in God’s name has happened?” He feels a sudden heaviness, as if a giant hand is on his chest, trying to prevent him from taking a breath.
The abbess draws in a deep breath and then exhales slowly, while reaching into her habit pocket for her rosary. She sits down in a wicker chair near the side of the bed. “In view of the circumstances, it is perhaps best that I inform you of what has transpired.” She looks at him steadily. “Signorina Gabriella is safe. She is with Don Simone. I’m sorry to have to tell you, Signor Tonino, that her father is dead.”
Tonino’s heart plummets. Signor Lorenzo, dead. He shakes his head. “How? What happened?”
The abbess reaches over to place a comforting hand on his arm. “Signor Tonino, what I have to tell you is not pleasant, but please remember, Signorina Gabriella is safe at present….”
“At present? What danger was she in before?” Tonino feels the room closing in on him
, the scent of jasmine wafting in from the window ledge suddenly nauseating, his happiness at seeing Luciano shattered.
“The new owner of the church lands attempted to…to take advantage of Gabriella when she was alone. Her father returned from the fields and tried to stop him but he fell down the stairs of the barn loft and struck his head, dying instantly. Gabriella stabbed Signor Fantin.” She pauses momentarily as Tonino tries to take it all in, his eyes blinking rapidly.
He sits up, cringing at the pain that has begun to throb on one side of his head.
“Don Simone found her and they left Camini with Luciano, seeking refuge at Don Filippo’s monastery here in Gerace. A few days later, Don Filippo heard that Signor Fantin had survived and was seeking the support of the military forces under Colonel Russo to pursue and arrest Gabriella for her crime. Don Filippo thought it best that Luciano be brought here to our orphanage for safety, and that Don Simone find a place of hiding for Gabriella that nobody knows he is associated with.” She pauses, squeezing Tonino’s arm sympathetically. “I’m sorry. This is too much for anyone to digest….”
Too much. Tonino shakes his head, stunned. The pain he felt slamming into the side of the mountain is nothing compared to what he feels now. He is disjointed, and his limbs are numb. He closes his eyes, his breathing shallow. He wants to scream, to pound the walls, to kill. Yes, he could easily kill the bastard Fantin for attempting to lay a hand on his sweet innocent Gabriella. He squeezes his eyes, trying to keep out the sordid thoughts of Gabriella being—
He hears the abbess telling him she will return with some chamomile and fennel tea to ease the shock he feels, and as her footsteps recede, his ears reverberate with silent screams. He collapses against his pillow, his bandage soaked with fresh blood from the gash that has reopened.
BY THE TIME DOROTEA APPEARS THROUGH THE THICKET, walking alongside Gaetano’s mule, Stefano and the rest of the band are sitting on the stumps around the fire pit. Stefano lights a cheroot and watches the brigantessa’s approach. The brothers, as usual, have taken their places next to each other. Although there is a two-year age difference between them, they are as close as fraternal twins, choosing to spend most of their time together. Roberto, the younger of the two, is surprisingly the more aggressive, though, and Stefano has witnessed on several occasions how Raffaele has tried to diffuse his brother’s fiery temper during a mission. As chief, Stefano has had to show his teeth a few times to keep Roberto subdued. Just like in a wolf pack.
Roberto’s face bears the signs of Stefano’s handiwork for accosting Gabriella. It is swollen and mottled with bruises. One eye is almost shut, and the other seems aflame, it is so bloodshot. His right ear has an open gash.
Gaetano, equipped with his assortment of knives and knapsacks for his daily trek to fetch game, is whittling away at a branch. His weathered face is impassive, almost bored, as he awaits the report from Dorotea. He rearranges his cap over his grey-flecked hair, his eyes regularly scanning the fringe of woods beyond the landing for any hint of animal presence.
And finally, at his side, the ever alert Tomaso Salino, his boyish enthusiasm tempered by his efforts to emulate the measured words and actions of his chief. Stefano smiles. Tomaso is what he imagines a younger brother would be like. And unlike most brigands, there is an air of innocence to him, a healthy lust for life, without the core of cynicism that hardens with every experience of social injustice that has led one to become a brigand in the first place.
The priest, Don Simone, has also joined them at their circle, sharing a chunk of coarse bread from a loaf that is being passed around along with a pan of fried onions and wild fennel gathered by Gaetano the day before. Don Simone murmurs his request to say grace, and he seems to glow with pleasure as he proceeds to recite the blessing, with the addition of an impassioned entreaty to God to keep everyone within the circle in His care.
Stefano is not surprised at Signorina Gabriella’s absence. This is all too much for her, as it would be for any young, innocent girl. He gazes at the advancing figure of Dorotea. Even she must have been innocent once. Long before he knew her….
As Dorotea enters the clearing, the brothers jump up to take the saddlebags off the mule and plop them inside the circle. She lifts the strap of her own bag off her shoulder and sets it on the ground beside her stump. She sits down with a sigh, and then looks up at Stefano expectantly. He holds up a hand for her to wait, and then nods at Roberto and Raffaele to empty the contents of the bags.
Stefano nods in satisfaction. Dorotea has done well. Her uncle and other supporters have demonstrated their generosity once again. The contents are jammed in the first bag: three coarse woollen blankets, two black cloaks, two pairs of faded trousers, six pairs of woollen socks, and six bandanas. Stuffed beneath the clothes are assorted cloths, various ropes, a jumble of tools, two pistols, a fistful of knives and daggers, a flask of alcohol, a large tobacco pouch, and several pipes made from the woody roots of erica shrubs on these Aspromonte slopes.
Stefano gestures to the members of his band and they advance, helping themselves to various items except the weapons; they know that he will distribute those among them personally.
The second bag consists of food offerings that will keep the band comfortable for at least a week, even without Gaetano’s success: a burlap bag filled with onions, garlic, and potatoes; another brimming with kale, wild fennel, dandelion, sprigs of rosemary and sage, chamomile, and bay laurel; two small wheels of sheep’s cheese, a string of peppered sausages, a bag of cracked, oven-baked olives, and a string of tiny red peppers, each run through with a needle and thread, and joined in the form of a necklace. And in a separate bag, within giant fig leaves bound tightly with twine, are freshly butchered segments of goat.
Stefano nods with pleasure at Dorotea. “Well done. With your gifts and the goat Roberto also brought back, we’ll be feasting for a week.” He gestures to the brothers to refill the food sack and what’s left from the first bag, and once this is done, they all turn to Dorotea expectantly. The supplies are necessary, but her report even more so, the information vital for their next move. “You may begin, Dorotea,” he says, crossing his arms.
She looks at him steadily. “Colonel Russo has been in the outskirts of Gerace, not only in search of brigands, but for a girl who has gone missing.” She darts a glance at the priest, whose eyes have widened at the news. “The talk at the tavern is that she was travelling with her brother and parish priest.”
“Where exactly was Russo seen?” Stefano’s eyes narrow.
“He has been seen in Locri and Roccella; now he is in Gerace. His men have been riding about, combing those areas as well.”
“Where are they heading? What have you found out?”
Dorotea’s eyes shift to Don Simone and then back at him. “He and his men plan to remain in the Gerace area for a day or two before heading deeper into the Aspromonte mountains. Russo has given the order to his men to employ any necessary means to locate Il Galantuomo and his band.” She slips a hand into her trouser pocket and extracts a folded piece of paper. Stefano takes it, his brows furrowing as he reads the notice.
“I’m worth that little,” he jokes wryly at the bounty Russo has set for his capture. His eyes harden and swoop over to Dorotea. “What else did you learn from our informer? Are we in any immediate danger?”
Dorotea shakes her head. “He says Russo is planning a surprise ‘visit’ to Calvino. He wants to squeeze any information he can out of the villagers. Get some of them to bend under pressure and reveal what they know about you or where you may be. He plans to start with your family.”
“Did you make contact with my family?”
“I inquired at the tavern. Your mother left for Gioiosa Ionica with your younger sister; your cousin Rita has gone into labour. They left this morning, an hour before sunrise.” She coughs to clear her throat. “Your mother left this for you with my uncle.” She reaches int
o her left apron pocket and pulls out a half-dozen purple pouches with the letter G embroidered in the centre with yellow thread. “She sends her love and prays for your safety,” Dorotea tells him gruffly, avoiding his eyes while holding them out to him.
Stefano feels a tightness around his heart. His mother has always been with him in spirit. Since leaving home, he has found ways and people to get messages to her, knowing that above all, she needs to know he is safe, and she, in turn, has supplied him not only with unfaltering messages of love and support but also with an occasional coin or two that she has managed to conceal from her husband, and the cloth pouches for Stefano to use to deliver his gifts to the Madonna of the Poppies or to those in dire need.
He nods his appreciation and turns brusquely to the others, making sure to look at everyone individually. “Be vigilant. There may be more activity in these parts since Russo’s postings have been distributed. Trust no one outside our usual supporters. In these times, anybody might feel compelled to pass information to the carabinieri if it means feeding their family. Gaetano, you may go. Take something with you.” He gestures to the bag and Gaetano approaches to cut himself a wedge of cheese and a sausage link before turning and sprinting into the forest. “Roberto and Raffaele, you can venture down the mountain. Watch for any sign of Russo’s men, with or without their horses. Dorotea, you can tend to the food storage, and then check up on Signorina Gabriella.” He pins her with an intense gaze. “See if her leg wound has healed. And bring her something to eat.” Dorotea nods stiffly before heaving the food bag over her back and disappearing through the thicket.
Stefano nods in satisfaction and turns to the youngest brigand. “Tomaso, take the weapons.” He sees Tomaso’s eyebrows rise. “Yes, I’m leaving this responsibility up to you. You are ready.” He waits until Tomaso has gathered up the items and then murmurs so that only he can hear, “There is no one I trust more than you.” He gives the brigand a pat on the shoulder and then turns to the priest.
La Brigantessa Page 29