Over the years I had heard a number of stories about this city from José. He called it the most beautiful place in all the world, and from our vantage point I could see why. New buildings pressed in on ancient ruins while giant domes rose above the clatter of the chaos.
For thousands of years people had built Rome, stone by stone. How many beads of sweat and blood had soaked into its foundations?
To look upon Rome was to know that this city belonged to no one. Not the French. Not the church. Not even us. She was from this land, as natural as the mountains that rose in the north. We were only usurpers destined to be here for a short time. Long after we were gone this city would remain.
I finally understood. If José had to choose—his life or the freedom of Rome—he would choose Rome. As I rode forward with my contingent of medical aides, I knew too that I would make the same choice.
We took up residence in a nearby monastery. Once the home of a martyred saint, it was a simple structure that dated back to ancient Roman times. The monks begged and pleaded for us to go anywhere else. They were a church, not a hospital.
Stepping closer, I placed my hand on the hilt of my sword. “Do you mean to tell me that you would turn away dying people because they don’t bow down to your pope?”
The head monk’s beady eyes narrowed as he took in my baggy, worn-out red shirt tucked into my black pants. “I know who you are,” he whispered. “You’re the woman posing as Giuseppe Garibaldi’s wife. You can’t be here.”
He pulled against the soldiers who gripped his arms. “Please, she can’t be here. She is a blasphemer, a bigamist. The sanctity of this church is compromised by her presence.”
My second-in-command, Orgini, was a broad man who had been with the legion since Montevideo. “Lock the monks in the basement,” he ordered. “We’ll trade them for prisoners of war when this is all over. Oh, and bring up the wine and whatever else you can find. We have a long night ahead of us.”
The pleas of the monks echoed in the distance as they were hauled away. “To speak of the dust in another’s eye while ignoring the plank in your own,” Orgini said to no one in particular. “And they wonder why the new republic doesn’t embrace the church.”
“Come, we have work to do,” I said, leaving our new prisoners to their fates.
As rain poured down around us, we opened every window we could in a vain attempt to dissipate the thick humid air that clung to us. Throughout the night the war raged in the distance, and the bodies kept coming. By the break of dawn, all of my men were walking around with glazed eyes, trying not to trip over their own feet. “By the look of things, I would think that we are losing,” one of them grumbled.
“The battles are not over yet,” I corrected him, even though I shared his sentiment.
The morning sun had fully risen when José entered the sick tent, greeting the injured men who had not yet departed from this plane. I watched as he passed from bed to bed. He was blood-splattered and covered in mud. My insides clenched with fear. I couldn’t tell if he was putting on a brave front for the sake of morale.
I noticed the slight limp in his walk as he approached. “We won,” he whispered.
“You did? We have so many injured, I didn’t think—” José put a finger to my lips.
“They were vicious, but we proved to be the better force.”
I grabbed a rag and began to wipe the blood off him. “Are you wounded?”
“Nothing to concern yourself with.” His gaze passed over me to the injured that filled the sanctuary. “Take care of our men for now. I have business to attend to, but be ready to move. We are going to occupy a fortress.” His hand cupped my cheek. “Once we have settled in, we’ll have some time for ourselves.” He turned back to the men and clapped his hands. “Tonight we celebrate, for Rome is ours!”
Soldiers soon arrived to help my company move the patients and their things. Initially, I stayed close, supervising the course of action, but soon I became more of a hindrance than a help. I found my horse and made my way to the fortress.
I found José wiping his neck with a damp towel as he gave orders to the men around him, who were busy moving boxes onto carts.
“Tesoro mio, you have escaped!” he exclaimed with a broad smile. The blood that had covered his face was gone. He wore an old white shirt that hung loosely on his large frame. The bloody edge of a bandage poked out from underneath.
“José,” I scolded, pulling him to me and lifting up his shirt, “you are injured.”
“It’s merely a flesh wound.” His hands went to my belly. “Has he moved much lately?”
“Not really,” I said. “But I get a reassuring kick here and there. He lets me know he’s still with us.”
“Good.” José smiled. “Good.”
Fifty-Two
July 1849
In the months that we occupied Rome, José was in his prime. He gave orders as we all settled into our new roles. I was getting closer to my time and didn’t argue when José asked me to rest. Unlike with my other pregnancies, I felt an unending exhaustion. If it weren’t for the blasted maid waking me up at regular intervals to try to feed me, I would’ve slept for days. My sleep was troubled, littered with horrible dreams that kept getting worse.
I opened my eyes one unusually sunny afternoon to find someone standing there in the middle of the rays. As my eyes began to focus, I saw my father standing before me. “Olá, filha.”
“Papai?” He faded away as a cloud passed by. I suddenly felt cold and uneasy. I had to escape this room and get out for just a little while. It was a beautiful day, so I decided to take a walk around the garden. I made one turn before I found myself yawning uncontrollably. As I stepped into the doorway, I felt the room tilt. I grasped at the wall for support. When was the last time I ate? I couldn’t remember. Was it before my last nap? Or was it this morning? My head felt cloudy. I tried to focus on the wall opposite me, but it moved like ocean waves. I took in deep breaths, steadying myself. Once my vision cleared, I decided to make my way to José’s room. Perhaps we could enjoy a small meal together.
When I slipped inside, he looked up from his papers, a smile spreading across his face, making everything brighter. “Tesoro mio, you are my good luck charm.” I laughed as he pulled me to him, nuzzling my neck.
“Husband, have you been drinking?”
“I needn’t drink wine when I have you.” He led me to the sofa. “How is my child today?” He chuckled as he leaned down and kissed my stomach.
“Tired. We both have been.”
He looked up at me, concern plain on his face. “Is that normal?”
“Yes.” I shrugged, trying to cover my lie. “Every pregnancy is different.”
I stood firm under his scrutinizing stare. “You will tell me if something is wrong, won’t you?” he asked.
“Of course,” I lied. My husband had enough problems. We had taken Rome, but at a price, losing nearly half our men. Our new objective was to find a way to keep the city.
José continued to watch me for a moment but didn’t challenge me. “It feels like a boy,” I whispered, trying to change the subject.
“Really? How do you know?”
I kissed his nose. “A mother knows these things.”
Just then Paolo burst into the room. “The French have returned! We have to evacuate. Now!”
José stood at attention. “If the French have returned, then we will defeat them like we did last time.”
“Not this time, Peppino,” Paolo replied. “They have sent twenty thousand troops, and they will retake Rome.”
Fifty-Three
August 1849
Retreats are hardly ever organized. They are sloppy; they are chaos in its purest form. Before we made our way into Rome so many months ago, José had made a point of showing me the lone house on the northernmost point of Janiculum Hill.
“If we are separated, we will meet here,” he’d said, motioning toward the abandoned villa. Birds made nests in the windows as
ivy climbed up the side over the exposed brick. The house had clearly been neglected for decades.
“How would we be separated?”
He just shook his head. “Always prepare for the worst, tesoro mio. It may not happen, but we will survive even if it does.”
Now as I stood on that crumbling embankment watching José lead a group of men toward us, I began to feel sick. Nothing was going as planned and I could feel a pain, sharp like a knife, cutting through my right temple. I winced, placing my hand to the side of my head. Closing my eyes, I could see a multitude of stars burst before my lids.
The men had abandoned the horses and swiftly marched toward us. When all fifteen hundred of us had gathered on the property José climbed upon the nearest ledge and called out to them. “Soldiers, I release you from your duty to follow me, and leave you free to return to your homes. But remember that although the Roman war for independence has ended, Italy remains in shameful slavery.” He waited, but none of the men left. “Very well. We stay in the woods, north of the road. We make no noise unless you want to be a special guest of the French.” Without further warning he moved forward, expecting the rest of us to follow. Silently we walked as the orange rays of the sun filtered through the leaves. Only after we had traveled for miles and the deep blackness of night had set in around us did we stop. I curled up next to a tree and slept. I didn’t wait for José. I couldn’t.
I awoke to José shaking me gently. When I turned to look at him, he put a finger to his lips and beckoned for me to follow him. We stood well within the tree line as we gazed down to the road below. It was infested by the French. Silently we gathered up our small group and crept away, finding our way to the river. I was relieved when our soldiers suggested they would take the boats from a nearby house so that we could sail instead of walk. My limbs ached with exhaustion and my headache had expanded. The pain had spread behind my eyes, stretching from temple to temple. My vision crackled around the edges.
As our boat sliced through the calm water, I could feel the blackness attempting to creep into my sight. “Sir, we are going to need to go ashore,” one of the weathered soldiers said. “There are shallows ahead; we won’t be able to make it through.”
“Very well.” José gave the signal and the men diverted the boats to the shore. Once we reached dry land I stepped out and felt my legs begin to shake. The world swam in front of me. Reaching for a large rock, I tried to steady myself. “Anita!” José rushed to my side. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I just need the earth to sustain me.” My knees buckled and I felt José’s sturdy arms wrap around me before I hit the ground. I could only hear snippets of conversation as I faded in and out of consciousness.
“I’ll carry her.”
“The scouts caught up with us.”
“We’ve got to keep moving. Peppino, there is a price on your head.”
“They can’t be getting that close.”
“They are close enough to smell our cologne.”
I couldn’t make out who was talking. I was placed in a boat with no control over what was happening. I looked around at the legs surrounding me, unable to see any faces. None of them was my José. None were wearing his clothes. He was gone. He left me. I struggled to sit up. “José? José? Where is my husband? I can’t leave him. I can’t.”
José pressed my hand to his face. “Tesoro mio. I am right here.” He kissed my palm. I closed my eyes, and recalled wishing when I was a young girl that I could have a husband who would kiss me like that. And now I had him. “Rest now,” José whispered.
“She’s getting worse,” I heard him say. “Her fever can’t be quenched.”
“We’ll do what we can for her.” Was that Paolo? I couldn’t tell anymore as I felt the comfort in the cool rag that was placed against my forehead.
I watched the sky as our boat sailed forward. The full moon moved from cloud to cloud as it followed us, lighting our way. It was so large and bright; I was sure that I could skim the bottom edge with my fingertips. José grasped my outstretched hand.
“Don’t leave me. Please,” I begged.
“Tesoro mio, I will not leave behind my greatest treasure. Ever.”
Paolo said, “There is an abandoned farm up ahead. Let’s take shelter there. Talk this through.”
“I won’t leave. I won’t leave,” I murmured.
The next thing I knew I was being carried up a hill into a house. “Anita, stay with me, love. Don’t go.”
I turned my head, trying to see José. I smiled. “Leave you? I crossed a continent for you. You can’t lose me, we still have work to do. I…” A fluttering caught my eye; a little black bird with a bright red belly and white brows sat on the windowsill, and she bobbed, watching me. I knew who she was. Who she had been all along. Destiny. She waited for me. All these years we had played our games, fought with each other, and now it was time for us to meet, woman to woman.
José pulled me in close to him. The smell of sandalwood enveloped me. “Tesoro mio.”
I reached up, stroking his beard. I snuggled into his neck, grasping the collar of his shirt.
“I love you,” he whispered.
I closed my eyes, listening to the thumping of his heart. The rhythm lulled my eyes closed. He was speaking to someone in the distance. I couldn’t understand his words anymore, just the vibrations from his throat as my face pressed into him.
It amazed me in that moment how two people could fit together so well. We never stop to think that it is not just the heart or the soul that is a match to our other. It is the body as well. José and I fit together. We always had. We always will. The world around me fell away and all that was left was me, my husband, and the bird in the window.
There was only one request. One thing left that I needed from her, then she could have me. I gathered what was left of my strength, forming the words in my mouth. “Take care of the children.”
Epilogue
October 26, 1860
José
The wood creaks under my grip as I brace myself for another wave of memories, my fingers digging into the aging dresser. Faces of the people who went before me swim through my mind’s eye. The tang of gunpowder fills my nostrils. Not again, I pray as I feel myself being pulled back to the fierce battles long since past. I press down on the dresser, resting my forehead against the cool mirror, bringing myself back to this tiny room.
Opening my eyes, I stare at the man looking back at me. I hate what I see. The graying beard, the eyes that have dulled, the vitality of youth faded from battle. When did I become so old?
Today should be a happy day. Victor Emmanuel and his entourage are waiting for me. I will walk down those stairs and sign a treaty that will create the Kingdom of Italy. This is the culmination of everything I have ever worked for. Everything that I sacrificed. I look toward the ceiling, pockmarked with mold, trying to avoid the old man in the mirror. The man who outlived them all, who casts a judgment that I am not ready to face.
“Anita.” Her name escapes my lips like a prayer to my patron saint. I lurch forward as another wave of images catches me in the gut. That night at the dairy farm. The impromptu burial during a hasty retreat. The— Oh God, I can’t even let myself think of what the dogs did after we left. Our unborn child. Guilt making my knees buckle.
And all at once I feel her beside me, like a warm Brazilian breeze. She is stroking my arm, like she did before. “I can’t do this,” I say to the presence.
“Yes, you can.” I turn to find Anita perched on the bed, her hands neatly folded in her lap. That smirk, the one that lights her eyes, tells me she is set for mischief. “You will walk out this door and sign the treaty that will create a unified Italy.”
My shoulders sag as I relent. “I have sacrificed so much to get here, for this moment.” I look into her dark eyes. “I should never have let you leave Brazil with me. If you had stayed…”
My wife scoffs. “You couldn’t keep me in Brazil even if you tried. You know very well
I would have followed you to the end of the earth and back.”
“I was selfish in the pursuit of my dream. I cost so many lives.” I stare down at my boots, too ashamed to meet her gaze.
“You are only selfish if you think that the dream of a free, unified Italy was yours and yours alone.” She rises from the bed and moves toward me.
“I can’t do this without you,” I finally admit.
“Who says I’ve left?”
My wife fades as a soft knock interrupts us. “Father?” Menotti enters, his dark eyes, his mother’s eyes, full of concern, looking me over. “Are you ready? They are waiting for you.”
He’s wearing his new uniform, his cap tucked under his arm. His wavy black hair is neatly combed away from his face, revealing the scar that runs along the side of his forehead. He’s a young man now. The future is for him and his comrades.
“Almost.” I pick up the old red shirt from the bed. It’s more of a rag now, faded from the years of use. I pass it through my fingers, letting the warm memories of my wife move through me. I tie it around me. “Now I’m ready,” I say as I follow my son out the door.
Anita’s last words hang in the air as I leave. “Take care of the children.”
Author’s Note
It would be nice if life moved in the arch of a perfect plot, wouldn’t it? Our story begins, we have the central conflict, and all comes to a glorifying end with a perfectly wrapped bow. Only, life is not that simple, especially for Anita Garibaldi.
When I set out to tell this story I did all that I could to remain as close to her truth as possible, relying heavily on her memoirs as she told them to her friend, Feliciana—a woman that we should all be eternally grateful for. But certain things had to be changed: Battles were compressed in order to tell a coherent narrative. Birthdates of her children, particularly Ricciotti’s, were adjusted, as were the births and deaths of her two brothers.
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