The Prince

by Vito Bruschini

  “What’s this about, Montalto?” the mayor said with a scowl. The marshal approached the desk to address Costa.

  “We made a pact, long ago, when you were installed in that chair, concerning this young man,” he said, indicating Jano, indifferent to the latter’s reaction. “Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Not all that well, if I may say so. Because he was supposed to deal only with dissidents and individuals sent into political confinement.” Montalto took a breath. “Not criminal cases. For those there are the carabinieri. Otherwise dissolve the arma and do as you please!”

  “There’s no need to raise your voice,” the mayor said, keeping his anger in check. “You can’t win when you try to do someone a favor.” Then he started to explain in a conciliatory tone, “It was done because I didn’t want to involve the carabinieri in an awkward situation. You know what it means to arrest an aristocrat around here, don’t you?”

  “What are you saying?” The marshal didn’t understand what the mayor was getting at.

  “It means making an enemy of the landowners and other noblemen. Everyone would have seen you as an aggressor—someone unsympathetic toward power, toward maintaining the status quo. In short, I wanted to insure that the unpopularity of the action would fall on the combat league. And this is how you thank me?”

  “Much too kind, Mayor. But you shouldn’t have troubled yourself. Now we must see that things are put right, and I’ve come here to inform you that I will take the two prisoners into my custody.”

  “Not on your life!” Jano exploded, already tired of all the simpering. But a look from Costa stopped him.

  “I’m afraid that’s out of the question, Marshal,” Costa said, conveying the same message, though with honeyed words.

  “I’m sorry, Mayor, but I must insist. It’s important to reestablish the roles in this town.” He glanced at Michele Fardella, who continued to remain silent in the corner.

  “The decision has been made, Montalto. I have already arranged for their transfer to the district prison in Marsala the day after tomorrow.”

  “That was up to us to do.”

  “I’ve already told you: it’s a very unusual case.”

  “Don’t you trust the carabinieri, Mayor?”

  “I trust no one but myself. And now, Marshal, if you have nothing more to say, I have a lot to do.”

  Montalto knew he would not get his way, and he played his last card. “Then allow me to escort the prisoners.”

  “Are you serious?” Jano said, but the marshal didn’t deign to look at him.

  “Well?” Montalto insisted.

  “I can’t agree to that, Marshal. You already have too much to do here. And now, good afternoon.”

  With those words, he abruptly dismissed him. The marshal snapped to attention, turned on his heel, and left the office.

  “You see, these are your messes that I always have to clean up after,” the mayor burst out as soon as the door closed behind Montalto. “We must not make enemies of the carabinieri. Otherwise people will side with them, and that’s just what we don’t want,” Costa said irritably.

  “Everything should have been done with the utmost discretion,” Michele Fardella added.

  “When we take Ragusa and Losurdo away in shackles, people will realize who’s in command here!” Jano exclaimed. “Not with the utmost discretion, as Fardella says, but with the utmost fanfare. Everyone must see them with irons on their wrists, and everyone must know that it is the Black Shirts who are putting them in jail. That’s the only way we will win.”

  The Duce could not have said it better. Mayor Costa bowed his head, and, for once, he had to admit that Jano was right.

  “And now what you have to do, Mayor,” Jano continued, “is draft a nice writ of seizure confiscating the lands of Prince Licata and his gabellotto, Rosario Losurdo. For the time being, we’ll freeze them. They’ll no longer be able to profit from them until the trial is over. And we’ll be the ones to benefit from the taxes they receive from their tenants.”

  This time too, Costa and Fardella had to admit that the doggedly aggressive Jano was right.

  * * *

  History repeats itself because people never change. Marshal Mattia Montalto was an honorable, decent man. Injustice distressed him. However, with the abuse of power in those times, the law no longer served justice but, rather, the calculating individuals who had managed to secure the most profitable administrative posts.

  The scene in Costa’s office had a sense of déjà vu about it. Which was why he couldn’t stomach the presence of a murderer like Michele Fardella alongside the mayor, the town’s highest public official.

  Chapter 24

  – 1921 –

  Brigadier Mattia Montalto’s determined opposition made Captain Costa of the Royal Guard throw all caution to the wind. He had to get Michele Fardella out of hot water. He was afraid his trusted man might confess something compromising about the massacre at Borgo Guarine.

  So Costa decided to take action.

  The following day, he met with ten of his most intrepid hotheads, at the combat league’s base of operations.

  “It is absolutely imperative that any subversive activity be nipped in the bud,” he began in a stentorian tone. “I have heard from reliable sources that several groups of agitators here in Salemi are preparing to instigate an uprising against the Fasci. One of these groups is organized by Prince Licata.” The young men looked at one another, incredulous. The prince was highly respected by all; how could he side with subversives? “That’s exactly how it is,” the captain continued, satisfied that he had made an impression on his men. “Prince Licata is a ringleader, but he can’t be touched. We would end up making all his landowner friends our enemies, and that’s something we don’t want. So we’ll strike his operational arm instead: Rosario Losurdo, his gabellotto. He was the one responsible for the Borgo Guarine massacre. It’s time we made the bastard pay for it!”

  A battle cry rang through the room, and everyone rushed to the racks to grab his club and pennants. But the captain again claimed their attention. “Stop! Hold on. This is not a punitive expedition, like the others. Losurdo is a tough bird. We must act shrewdly, devise a plan. Remember that he too is well liked by his men, and many campieri are willing to risk their lives for him and the prince. So, here’s the plan I’ve come up with . . .”

  Chief Brigadier Montalto was nobody’s fool, and Captain Costa’s insistence that he free Fardella had made him realize that the former charcoal burner must know something. Moreover, he didn’t care for that dogged fury against the prince. He too was aware of Ferdinando Licata’s ideas, but they didn’t worry him. The prince was an honorable man. Lorenzo Costa, however, had targeted him, and seeing that the newspapers carried stories about fascist squads that went around attacking dwellings and local clubs, slaying civilians, Montalto decided to go to Licata and warn him.

  The prince received him in the Hall of Globes. “Why are you so worried, Chief Montalto?” he asked, showing him to a seat in one of the parlors.

  “Excellency, I don’t wish to alarm you, but you should know that Captain Costa considers you guilty of organizing a subversive cell here in your palazzo,” Montalto explained. Then he elaborated: “Actually, there are a lot of stories going around, and on the continent in recent months, a number of innocent people have been killed for much less. I wouldn’t want some hotheads to do anything foolish.”

  “Are you afraid the action squads may attack the palazzo?” Licata asked point-blank.

  “That’s exactly it, Excellency.”

  Licata relaxed and smiled. “Then don’t worry. I’ve taken my precautions, and I am well protected. In any case, thank you for your concern. Italy needs people like you: honest and loyal.”

  “We live in times of great upheaval. I hope this madness will end before long.” With that, Montalto rose. “I don’t wish to take up any more of your time, Prince.”

  “Tell me one las
t thing, Chief Montalto: Are you still investigating the massacre at Borgo Guarine?”

  “Of course. The investigation has just begun.”

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  “If an offender isn’t caught within the first forty-eight hours following a crime, it becomes more difficult to apprehend him afterward. But I’m a patient man. Still, I must admit that I haven’t yet been able to form a clear-cut idea of possible motives. In any case, an inquiry is under way, and there’s the segreto istruttorio: the obligation to maintain secrecy concerning a preliminary investigation.”

  That said, the chief brigadier took leave of the prince with a perfect military salute.

  * * *

  The infamous squad went into action in the dead of night. Led by Lorenzo Costa himself, it was made up of seven of the most violent bullies associated with Salemi’s fascist league: Abbate, Ioppolo, Amari, Busacca, Cotta, Garofano, and Modica, all gallows birds, destined to lord it over everyone in the territory of Salemi for many years to come. Four of them climbed onto an open wagon drawn by a handsome bay, and two others got on donkeys, while Lorenzo Costa and Antonio Ioppolo rode a pair of young black steeds. The grim band left Salemi at full speed for the long ride to Rosario Losurdo’s farmstead.

  Leaving their mounts about a quarter mile away from the farm, the eight-member action team approached on foot. Prospero Abbate, the most corpulent, carried with him a gourd shaped like a flask, which the poorest peasants used as a jug. The gourd contained ethyl alcohol. They reached the shed, and, at a sign from Captain Costa, Abbate poured some of the gourd’s contents on the buggy and some on the woodpile. Then he lit a match and threw it on the stacked wood.

  The fire’s glow filtered through the windows of Manfredi’s house. Used to always sleeping with his nerves on edge, Losurdo’s chief campiere opened his eyes at the first crackling and realized immediately that the storehouse was on fire. He leaped out of bed, waking his wife. Then he ran out of the house and saw the flames rising above the shed, beyond the walls of the farm. He reached the gate and opened it, joined at that moment by Rosario Losurdo, rifle in hand. The gabellotto glumly watched as the blaze quickly devoured the roof of the shed.

  “Gutless bastards,” he muttered to himself, quickly running through his head the list of enemies he and Prince Licata had. The inventory was not short and was certainly incomplete.

  Meanwhile, the peasants who worked the prince’s lands came running from the nearby shacks and cabins. Some carried shovels; others, buckets and hoes. Manfredi ordered them to dig a trench as a firebreak to protect the farm. Unfortunately, they couldn’t try to extinguish the fire with water, since, after a blistering summer, the cisterns were running low.

  From a distance, under the cover of dense brush, Costa and his seven henchmen watched the farmers’ rescue efforts as they belatedly tried to protect the farm from the flames. They saw Losurdo look around, searching among the night’s shadows. But darkness was in their favor. When they were absolutely sure that they had fulfilled their mission, they crept out of their hiding place and returned to Salemi.

  Prince Licata arrived at the scene of the fire early the following morning. With him were Chief Brigadier Montalto and two of his recruits. Manfredi and the other campieri who made up Prince Licata’s small army were sifting through the still smoldering rubble with Losurdo, looking for some trace, some clue. They paid no attention to the charred remains of a dried gourd, so they never managed to find evidence that the fire was arson.

  They were still rummaging among the ashes when the action squad’s picturesque group arrived: a cart drawn by a gray horse, two donkeys, and two young colts, carrying eight Black Shirts. Captain Costa dismounted, followed by his men, armed with clubs and bad intentions.

  “Captain. News here in Salemi travels more swiftly than the mistral,” the prince greeted him with bitter sarcasm.

  “News is as swift as vendetta, Prince Licata,” Costa was quick to retort. “I see that you do not lack enemies.”

  The chief brigadier joined in the ceremonial pleasantries: “Costa, are you on a mission?”

  “Brigadier, your friends are my friends. I respect Prince Licata. But not Rosario Losurdo, who welcomes godless subversives in his home,” he said, turning to the gabellotto, who at that moment was armed only with a shovel.

  “Captain, I remind you that you are on private land here!” Losurdo shouted at him.

  “And I remind you that I represent the law. As does the brigadier,” Captain Costa clarified. “In fact, we combat leagues directly represent the will of the people. You have a problem, Losurdo. Someone who’s out to get you—probably the same person who set this fire—wrote that besides protecting vile agitators, you’re hiding evidence from the Borgo Guarine massacre at your home. Is that true?”

  Rosario Losurdo smiled. “Tell your Mr. Anonymous to come and tell me to my face. It’s a joke, right?”

  “I never joke when I’m working, Losurdo. If you say you’re innocent, you won’t object to having me take a look inside your house.”

  “How dare you!” the prince intervened, but Losurdo stopped him.

  “It’s not a problem, Prince. Let him go ahead and search; I have nothing to hide.”

  “Fine, then. Shall we begin?” The captain was persistent.

  “On one condition, however—or, rather, two,” Ferdinando Licata interjected. “I wouldn’t want there to be any—how shall I put it?—sleight of hand. So before entering, you will be searched, and then each of you will be followed by my campieri.”

  “Agreed,” Costa consented.

  A few minutes later the captain’s Black Shirts, after being thoroughly frisked by the prince’s private guards, entered the area of the farm and began hunting for evidence of Losurdo’s guilt. They divided themselves up into three groups: Amari and Busacca searched the barn and Manfredi’s house; Cotta, Albanesi, and Garofano rummaged through Losurdo’s residence; while Ioppolo and Modica began poking around the small chapel, now converted into a storeroom for household goods and harnesses. Each group had two campieri sticking to it like shadows, watching to see that it did not perform some conjuring trick, as Prince Licata had made sure to emphasize.

  While some searched and others kept an eye on them, the families of Losurdo and Manfredi gathered in the center of the courtyard. Prince Licata, Captain Costa, and the brigadier, with his men, stood silent in another part of the yard, waiting for the search to be completed. A half hour, later a cry from the former chapel made all heads turn.

  “Captain, hurry!” The voice was that of Antonio Ioppolo.

  Captain Costa, followed by the prince and all the others, quickly rushed to the chapel door.

  They entered the little church that was no longer consecrated. There were chests stacked up in a corner, a confessional, a pile of leather harnesses, an old plow, and, in the back, what was left of the altar. Ioppolo, behind the altar, motioned for the captain to come over. Stepping around the obstacles, the group approached. Prince Licata immediately spotted what had drawn the man’s attention. Ioppolo had raised a stone slab from the floor, and under it, in a hiding place dug out of the earth, lay a cloth-wrapped bundle.

  Licata looked at Manfredi, who had been tailing Ioppolo and Modica in their search. With a look, he asked him if everything was on the up-and-up. Manfredi nodded glumly. Captain Costa made his way through the men and stooped to examine the concealed hollow.

  “There was a pile of crates and baskets over it. What made me suspicious was that the stone slab wasn’t lined up,” Antonio Ioppolo said, hoping for a pat on the head.

  And the captain did not fail to applaud him. “Good for you, Ioppolo. Maybe it’s what we were looking for.”

  He picked up the cloth bundle. He stood up so he could be seen by everyone, especially the prince and the chief brigadier, who, having been the last one in, was now trying to get close to Costa. “Give that to me, Captain.”

  The captain was all too happy to have Montalto make
the discovery. He placed the bundle in his hands and waited for him to show them what it contained. The chief realized that he was holding a gun and another object—possibly a knife. He unfolded the undershirt they were wrapped in, and a Glisenti 1911 revolver appeared before everyone’s eyes, along with a nasty-looking knife, its blade still specked with dried blood.

  Prince Licata went rigid. Only now did he realize that the whole production, the fire, the search and the discovery, were part of a trap that Captain Costa had staged. As he was following those thoughts, the brigadier’s voice called him back to reality.

  “Rosario Losurdo, what are these weapons doing on your farm?”

  Despite all he’d been through and the hard life he’d endured since he was a child, Losurdo too was left speechless. He could only stammer, “I swear I don’t know anything about it! That gun isn’t mine.”

  The prince’s thundering voice made everyone turn to him. “Chief Montalto, it’s clear that those weapons were planted here by some rotten bastard who, I swear to you, will not have a long life!”

  “Let’s all calm down!” Montalto cried. “Anyone could have hidden this gun here. Now, though, Losurdo, you’ve got to come with me to the station. I have to draft a report, and I need your testimony.”

  “Chief Montalto, I have nothing to say. I don’t know anything about those things.”

  “You can tell me in your statement.” He nodded to the two recruits, who took hold of Losurdo and pushed him out of the chapel, followed by Montalto, who had rewrapped the gun and knife in the cloth.

  Prince Licata drew close to Captain Costa. He towered above him, and now that he was angry, he was truly formidable. “Costa,” he whispered in his ear when no one could hear them, “pray to God that nothing happens to Losurdo, because otherwise you will be in my debt, and I have no compassion toward my debtors.” Without giving him time to respond, he strode out of the chapel.

  * * *