La Brigantessa

by Rosanna Micelotta Battigelli

  “Don Simone,” he says, gesturing at the sack with a pair of trousers and a cloak still unclaimed, “perhaps you might wish to take those. If we are suddenly forced to leave the mountain to seek refuge elsewhere, you might find clambering up and down the mountain ledges rather unpractical in a cassock.”

  The priest looks startled as he considers this possibility and then reluctantly nods, crossing himself with his rosary before stooping to pick up the items. He tucks them under one arm and heads to his shelter, the fluttering hem of his cassock edged with a fine dusting of clay from the dry ground.

  Alone, Stefano walks to the edge of the clearing. He stands, one hand against the rough trunk of a giant ilex, and stares beyond the valley to the mist-covered hamlets in the distance. So, Russo is planning a visit to Calvino. His stomach clenches, and he inhales and exhales deeply, thanking Providence that his mother and sister will not be subject to Russo’s interrogation. His father, he has no concerns for; he knows nothing about Stefano, as his wife has kept their communications a secret. Stefano has no illusions as to what would happen to his mother if his father ever discovered her deception. It pains him deeply to know what his father is capable of—even as a child, he would notice the yellow and purple bruises on his mother’s face and arms when her sleeves were rolled up to wash the laundry at the river. It would make his insides tighten with revulsion and fear, fear that one day his father’s rage would get the better of him and he would kill her.

  After Argo died, it took everything Stefano had not to run away. He despised his father and could hardly bear to look at him. He daydreamed of ways he could make his father pay for what he had done to Argo, and for the way he treated his family. He hadn’t yet sunk to beating his daughters Patrizia and Marina, but if he didn’t take a belt to them, his tongue lashed them just as hard. He yelled at them for being too slow with the chores, for not preparing food properly, for not having his clothes mended.

  When his eldest daughter Patrizia told him she had sought work as a maid at the estate of Baron Saverio Contini, he flew into a rage, accusing her of flaunting herself, acting like a puttana for having offered her services to Contini. He grabbed her by the hair and tore open her bodice, demanding if she had let the Baron touch her there. And for what price? Patrizia managed to tear herself away from him, sobbing, and ran to the room she shared with her sister Marina. His father stormed about the kitchen, calming down only when his wife reassured him that Patrizia would turn over three quarters of her salary to him, and keep the rest for her dowry. Placated, he left to go work in the stables.

  The sight of him filled Stefano with revulsion daily, and it was all he could do to not show it. He dreamed of the day he could leave. Every time his father’s words invaded his thoughts—“You were born into dung and you’ll die into dung”— it hardened Stefano’s resolve to prove him wrong. To get himself away from the yoke of poverty and the even more painful yoke of his father’s domination. I deserve better, he told himself. He conjured up thoughts of how he could be free from his father, how they could all be free from his tyranny, but never did he imagine that the opportunity would arise from the tragic circumstances of Patrizia’s rape.

  Stefano grits his teeth at the memory of his father in the stable. The life he has adopted, the life of a capo brigante, is, in some ways, better than the life he had. And it was the price he gladly paid to avenge his sister’s ruin. He is free of his father, for one thing. Stefano turns away from the edge of the mountain and heads in the direction of his hut.

  He has every intention of keeping Signorina Gabriella from falling into the hands of either Russo or Fantin. It was destiny that brought her into his life, and although he cannot imagine as yet how either of their destinies will play out, he will, as brigand chief, do whatever he must to keep her safe. Even if it means killing.

  RUSSO LOOKS BACK AT THE HAMLET OF CALVINO. He has ordered his men to retreat and to return to their regular posts. Some of them left reluctantly, so consumed were they by their own inner fire. Russo watched, body arched forward as he straddled his mule, while some tossed their torches carelessly into the ditches flanking the main road as they left the hamlet, making the dry grass and shrubbery sizzle.

  Some came stumbling out of the houses with their uniforms in disarray, their eyes glazed with violent passion. He saw one of his men enter a house and pull his patrol partner off a girl of no more than fifteen or sixteen. From the street, Russo could see her cowering in a corner of the room, her skirts hiked above her trembling knees, her eyes two dark plums in a face the colour of ashes.

  Four of his men had bound the wrists of a dozen men, young and old, and were prodding them on with the butt of their rifles through the piazza and on to the main road. In the glen just outside the limits of the hamlet, the officers would reclaim their horses and accompany the men, two leading in front, two in back, to the station, where they would be locked up for further questioning the following day.

  Russo took a deep breath and pressed the mule onward, trying to ignore the jarring sounds of the screaming children and the high-pitched wailing of the women, some of whom tried, in desperation, to approach Russo with hands linked as if in prayer, begging for the release of their husbands or sons. When one of the women came close enough to grab his trouser leg, hurling profanities at him, he flicked his crop at her hand and she fell back, screaming.

  Now, as Russo begins to ride past the Galante farm, he glances at the receding barn with contempt, grimacing with the recollection of the man’s rust-brown face, splattered with blood and dung, his body a misshapen heap in the fetid, urine-soaked straw. He wonders how Stefano will feel when he hears the news about his father’s death….

  When Silvio rushed out of the barn to let Russo know that the elder Galante had suddenly clasped at his chest and collapsed, Russo went back to check on the old man. There was nothing to be done; Galante’s face had already turned chalky, his mouth open and twisted in an agonized death mask. Russo had shaken his head and motioned for Silvio to leave him be; he would send the appropriate villagers to tend to him. After Silvio left to join Rodolfo, Russo grabbed the bottle of grappa on a bench, opened it, and lay it next to Galante’s body. He left the barn as the alcohol poured out….

  Stefano will surely want to attend the funeral. But then again, he must know that Russo will have his carabinieri posted in and around the hamlet in the next two days of official mourning and for the funeral and subsequent procession to the cemetery. Russo doesn’t imagine Galante would attempt such a move; he is experienced enough in matters involving the law. Perhaps he will send one of his band members in his place. Or come disguised. Russo knows Galante is not stupid, or he would have been apprehended a long time ago. No, the brigand chief will likely not risk showing his face anywhere near Calvino.

  But, Russo reasons to himself, Galante will surely try to make contact with his informers. Consequently, he will instruct his men to be watchful for any signs that might lead to a connection with Galante such as a farmer who strays a little too far from the field, or a youth who carries a sack out of the hamlet limits, or even a washerwoman who takes up at a different spot by the river…. Anybody could be a brigand informer, providing him with information about the forces of law, their position and presence in the area. Or they could simply be supporters, supplying an intermediary with foodstuff, blankets, supplies, and even weapons to deliver to brigands who are relatives or friends.

  If Russo could identify some of Galante’s supporters in Calvino, he could easily find out if they were hiding any of the brigands in their own home. As far as Russo is concerned, and he knows that General Zanetti shares this sentiment, anybody harbouring a brigand is just as culpable as the brigand and deserves to be treated as such.

  Russo jerks back the reins and his horse comes to a stop, panting heavily. He pats the horse’s glistening neck. They must stop soon to refresh all the horses before they collapse in the heat. Russo feels hi
s jaw tensing at the thought of the brigand chief. There is no resemblance between the old man and his son, at least not outwardly. The latter must have inherited his features from his mother’s side.

  Despite Galante’s different-coloured eyes, Russo has to admit that the brigand’s looks are striking. Even Liliana hinted as much, jesting during one of their lighter conversations that it was a pity that brigands as handsome as Galante were wanted by the law, when there were plenty of women who would want them even more. Russo stiffened, recalling the slow ascent of the brigand chief’s hands up Liliana’s legs. She must have seen the cold look in Russo’s eyes after her comment, because she immediately added, “Peasant women, that is. Women who are contented with rough men and their rough habits.” And then she had begun to stroke him. “Men who hardly ever wash,” she continued, her voice as silky as her touch. “Or change their clothes. Dirty men.” She led Russo into the room where her bath awaited and proceeded to help him remove his clothes before inviting him into the steamy tub. “I like my man clean.”

  Russo thoughts are interrupted by a raspy throat-clearing, and glancing behind him, he realizes that Dattilio is trailing him, followed by Russo’s two armed horsemen, Silvio and Rodolfo. Dattilio confirms that they will shortly be arriving at the public fountain between Calvino and Gerace, where they will be able to stop to refresh themselves and the horses. Russo nods, relieved, and moves on.

  Russo is anxious to get to the station in Caulonia and plan his strategy for the next three days. Now that he knows Galante has his clutches on Gabriella, he is all the more hungry to see the brigand chief captured and punished. And there is also the question of the boy and the priest….

  He sighs in relief when he spots the fountain set a short distance from the side of the road. Some of his men are already there, refreshing themselves and their horses. He dismounts, waits for them to move off, then leads his horse to the trough below the running stream of water. While he is filling his flask, he notices a youth atop a grizzled mule approaching the fountain. The lad, riding shirtless, is no more than sixteen, with a shock of hair that almost covers his eyes. Russo watches in amusement as the mule comes to an abrupt stop, refusing to budge, to the consternation of the boy. No amount of prodding incites the animal to move, and the youth finally jumps off his back with a string of curses and pulls an apple out of the saddlebag. He begins to cajole the animal in a gentler tone, and the beast, unmoved, snorts and looks away, ignoring the apple.

  “Dai, Spirito, muoviti! Move, you stubborn son of a bitch!”

  Russo laughs outright, and the boy, aware of being watched, lets out another mouthful of curses that precipitate guffaws from the rest of the men. The boy slaps the mule’s rear in resignation and walks to the fountain sheepishly, nodding respectfully to the men in uniform. “What else can you expect from an ass?” he says to nobody in particular, before bending to drink noisily at the fountain. “He’ll come around eventually. Spirito knows who’s really the boss.” He splashes water over his sweat-beaded face and chest, before plopping down in the shade of a giant chestnut tree.

  “Where are you from?” one of Russo’s men asks him.

  “Camini, sir.”

  “That’s a fair distance from here. What brings you to these parts?”

  The youth hesitates. “I…I’m helping someone who is searching for a young lady in Gerace.”

  “And are there no young ladies in Camini? Or do the young ladies in Gerace have some special quality that we are not aware of?” The group around him burst into fresh laughter and Russo watches with amusement as the youth’s cheeks redden.

  Another carabineer pipes up, “And what are you doing to help this ‘someone’ find a lady? Are you hoping to carry her back to him on your ass?”

  The youth jumps up, his face reddening. “Signor Alfonso is not looking for a lady. I mean, he is, but not for…” he stops, floundering at the amused faces, then spits out, “…for that!”

  Russo’s eyes narrow. “Enough with the teasing, officers.” He motions for his men to move on. They remount, and still chuckling, set off. Dattilio stays behind, along with the two armed horsemen.

  “Signor who?” Russo walks over to the boy.

  “Signor Alfonso Fantin, sir.” He bows his head respectfully at the sight of Russo’s medals.

  “And your name?”

  “Valerio, sir. Signor Alfonso hired me as a guide to search for a girl who has run away from Camini. She is travelling with our parocco, Don Simone. And her brother Luciano.”

  Russo purses his lips. “And this would be the Signorina Gabriella Falcone.”

  Valerio’s eyes widen. “How do you know? Has the news spread this far already?”

  Russo gives a wry smile. “Signor Alfonso appealed to me to join in the search for the young lady. I have been somewhat occupied with matters of a most urgent nature, but I have informed my men to be watchful as they conduct their usual rounds in the area.”

  Valerio gazes at him in wonder. “Ohh…would you be…?”

  “Colonel Michele Russo, yes.” Russo looks down at the boy who is nodding, his eyes wide with something akin to awe or disbelief.

  “Well,” Valerio says, “I will have to tell Signor Alfonso that I met up with you. I’m sure he will be very pleased.”

  “Indeed,” Russo cannot help smirking, wondering at Alfonso’s obsession in finding the girl. He obviously had no wish to leave the matter entirely in Russo’s hands. There must be something more to the story that he hasn’t revealed to Valerio. Or to him. Why else would he go so far as to hire a guide to search the area? Does he hope to find the girl first? And if so, why?

  “Where would Signor Alfonso be at present?” He looks at Valerio intently.

  “We’re staying at Giacomo’s Tavern on the outskirts of Gerace, but Signor Alfonso is not there at the moment. He went in search of a pharmacist to get some medicine for his headaches. He asked me to ride about, inquiring as to the appearance of Signorina Gabriella, Luciano, and Don Simone.” He shakes his head ruefully. “Nobody has seen any sign of them.”

  “Mmm.” Russo casts a glance at the darkening sky. He would like to confront Alfonso as to why he isn’t leaving the matter in the hands of the carabinieri, but his first priority is meeting with his men to discuss the strategic plan for Calvino. “How long will you be staying at the tavern?”

  “At least two days. Signor Alfonso wanted to make inquiries at the monastery. He thinks perhaps the abbot there may know something….”

  Russo smiles. He has no intention of revealing that Gabriella and the priest are in the hands of brigands. The less information Fantin knows, the better. Valerio has provided Russo with everything he needs for now. As soon as he gets back to the military station in Caulonia, he will assign an officer to track Alfonso’s movements. He looks back to where Dattilio is standing, waiting for his order to move on.

  “I think Spirito has regained his spirit to travel,” he says, nodding at the mule, who is slowly approaching. “I bid you farewell. And please tell Signor Alfonso that I will make it a point to seek him out before he leaves Gerace.” He responds to Valerio’s nod of respect and remounts. Turning the horse in the direction of Caulonia, he sets off, sending the dry earth of the road scattering behind him.

  GABRIELLA STRETCHES HER LEGS TENTATIVELY on the pallet. The discomfort has subsided from her calf wound. Her thumb is still tender, but she decides to remove the linen cloth binding it to let it breathe. The worst ache, though, is one she can never imagine subsiding: the ache of sadness and longing. Papà. Luciano. Tonino. At least Luciano is in a safe place, cared for by the nuns. Papà is gone forever. Did I even embrace him before he left for the fields that morning? Show him, at least, how much he meant to me?

  He was not a man to be free with his words of affection, and even less so when his Elisabetta died, but Gabriella and Luciano had always sensed his devotion. He was
like the craggy limestone hills around Camini—hard, weather-beaten, marked with the shadows of a hard life—but with a face and eyes that reflected his love, just as the white rock-faces reflected the rays of the sun. Gabriella tries to console herself that he has joined his wife in heaven, but then finds herself wishing selfishly that he were alive for her and Luciano instead.

  Thinking about Tonino only causes her despair. She can hardly bear to think about the feel of his lips on hers, the way his strong arms embraced her by the oleanders, the heady perfume of the pink blossoms gently wafting over them by the river. Gabriella does not even attempt to console herself. With what? The hope that Tonino will still be alive when—if—I ever return to Camini? Why would God grant me this favour, this act of mercy? There is little mercy in this world, she thinks bitterly, rising from the pallet. At least for the Falcone family.

  Gabriella feels her stomach contract with hunger. She declined the portion of goat offered to her last night around the fire. Gaetano had cooked it over kindling gathered from juniper shrubs; she had heard him explain to Don Simone that it made the meat sweet and spicy. But she could not bring herself to taste anything that had been killed at the hands of Roberto, and when he appeared with the others after Gaetano had finished roasting it, she murmured to Don Simone that her stomach was unsettled, and that she just wanted to rest. He insisted she take a wedge of the coarse dark bread with her, and she complied before retreating, aware of Galante’s dark eyes following her up to the hut. She lay down on her pallet without touching the bread. It is still where she left it, on top of her skirts at the foot of the pallet, a fly working industriously on one corner.

  She stiffens at the tread of footsteps outside the tent.

  “Signorina?”

  Dorotea. Gabriella pushes aside the curtain and steps out. She squints at the brightness of the day. She must have slept much longer than usual. The brigantessa is holding out a bundle containing a wedge of cheese, coarse bread, and several black figs. “The chief said you needed to eat. You must maintain your strength. I brought back a good supply.”