by Mario Puzo
That was a thousand years ago, but Sicily still suffered in the same brutal landscape of olive groves and scorching plains, of roadside shrines built by the first followers of Christ, the countless crosses holding the crucified rebellious slaves led by Spartacus. And his godson would be another of these heroes, not understanding that for Sicily to change, there would have to be a moral volcano that would incinerate the land.
As Adonis watched them now, Pisciotta lounging on his back in the grass, Guiliano staring at him with dark brown eyes and with a smile that seemed to say he knew exactly what his godfather was thinking, a curious transformation of the scene took place. Adonis saw them as statues carved in marble, their bodies wrenched out of ordinary life. Pisciotta became a figure on a vase, the gecko in his hand an adder, all finely etched in the morning sunlight of the mountains. Pisciotta looked dangerous, a man who filled the world with poison and daggers.
Salvatore Guiliano, his godson Turi, was the other side of the vase. His had the beauty of some Greek Apollo, the features fully molded flesh, the eyes with whites so clear they gave almost the impression of blindness. His face was open and frank with the innocence of a legendary hero. Or rather, thought Adonis, rejecting his sentimentality, the resolution of a young man determined to be heroic. His body had the muscular fleshiness of those Mediterranean statues, the heavy thighs, the muscular back. His body was American, taller and broader than most Sicilians’.
Even when they were boys Pisciotta had showed a practical cunning. Guiliano had been the generous believer in the goodness of man, and proud of his own truthfulness. In those days Hector Adonis had often thought that Pisciotta would be the leader when they were men, Guiliano the follower. But he should have known better. A belief in one’s own virtue is far more dangerous than a belief in one’s cunning.
Pisciotta’s mocking voice broke into these daydreams of Hector Adonis. “Please say yes, Professor. I am the second in command of Guiliano’s band, but I have no one under me to give orders.” He was grinning. “I am willing to start small.”
Though Adonis was not provoked, Guiliano’s eyes flashed with anger. But he said quietly, “What is your answer?”
Hector Adonis said, “Yes.” What else could a godfather say?
Then Guiliano told him what he had to do when he returned to Montelepre and outlined his plans for the next day. Adonis was again appalled at the boldness and ferocity of this young man’s schemes. But when Guiliano lifted him onto his donkey he leaned over and kissed his godson.
Pisciotta and Guiliano watched Adonis riding down the trail toward Montelepre. “He’s such a little man,” Pisciotta said. “He would have fitted in much better when we were playing bandits as children.”
Guiliano turned to him and said gently, “And your jokes would have been better then. Be serious when we talk of serious things.” But that night before they went to sleep, they embraced each other. “You are my brother,” Guiliano said. “Remember that.” Then they wrapped themselves in their blankets and slept away the last night of their obscurity.
CHAPTER 9
TURI GUILIANO AND Aspanu Pisciotta were up before the dawn, before the first light, for though it was unlikely, the carabinieri might start in darkness to surprise them with the morning sun. They had seen the armored car from Palermo arrive in the Bellampo Barracks late the evening before with two jeeploads of reinforcements. During the night Guiliano made scouting patrols down the side of the mountain and listened for any sounds that would be made by anyone approaching their cliff—a precaution Pisciotta ridiculed. “When we were children we would have been such daredevils,” he told Guiliano, “but do you think those lazy carabinieri will risk their lives in darkness, or even miss a good night’s sleep in soft beds?”
“We have to train ourselves into good habits,” Turi Guiliano said. He knew that someday there would be better enemies.
Turi and Aspanu worked hard laying out guns on a blanket and checking them in every detail. Then they ate some of La Venera’s bread cake, washed down with a flask of wine Hector Adonis had left them. The cake, with its heat and spices, lay glowingly in their stomachs. It gave them the energy to construct a screen of saplings and boulders on the edge of the cliff. Behind this screen, they watched the town and the mountain paths with their binoculars. Guiliano loaded the guns and put boxes of ammunition into the pockets of his sheepskin jacket while Pisciotta kept watch. Guiliano did his job carefully and slowly. He even buried all the supplies and covered the ground with huge rocks himself. He was never to trust anyone to check these details. So it was Pisciotta who spotted the armored car leaving the Bellampo Barracks.
“You’re right,” Pisciotta said. “The car is going down the Castellammare plain away from us.”
They grinned at each other. Guiliano felt a quiet elation. Fighting the police would not be so difficult after all. It was a child’s game with a child’s cunning. The armored car would disappear around a curve of the road and then circle back and come into the mountains to the rear of their cliff. The authorities must know about the tunnel and expect them to use it to escape and run right into the armored car. And its machine guns.
In an hour the carabinieri would send a detachment up the sides to Monte d’Ora in a frontal attack to flush them out. It helped that the police thought of them as wild youths, simple outlaws. The scarlet and gold flag of Sicily that they flew from the cliff edge confirmed their careless impudence, or so the police would think.
An hour later, a troop van and a jeep carrying the Maresciallo Roccofino left through the gates of the Bellampo Barracks. The two vehicles traveled leisurely to the foot of Monte d’Ora and stopped to unload. Twelve carabinieri armed with rifles deployed on the tiny paths that led up the slope. Maresciallo Roccofino took off his braided cap and pointed it toward the scarlet and gold flag flying over the cliff above them.
Turi Guiliano was watching through the binoculars from behind the screen of saplings. For a moment he worried about the armored car on the other side of the mountain. Would they have sent some men up the opposite slope? But those men would take hours to climb, they could not be close. He put them out of his mind and said to Pisciotta, “Aspanu, if we’re not as clever as we think, we won’t be going home to our mothers and a plate of spaghetti this night, as we used to do when we were children.”
Pisciotta laughed. “We always hated going home, remember? But I have to admit, this is more fun. Shall we kill a few of them?”
“No,” Guiliano said. “Fire over their heads.” He thought about how Pisciotta disobeyed him two nights before. He said, “Aspanu, obey me. There’s no point in killing them. It can’t serve any purpose this time.”
They waited patiently for an hour. Then Guiliano pushed his shotgun through the screen of saplings and fired twice. It was amazing how that straight confident line of men scattered so quickly, like darting ants disappearing into the grass. Pisciotta fired his rifle four times. Smoke puffs appeared in different parts of the slope as the carabinieri fired back.
Guiliano put down his shotgun and took up the binoculars. He could see the Maresciallo and his Sergeant working a radio communications set. They would be contacting the armored car on the other side of the mountain, warning them that the outlaws would be on their way. He picked up his shotgun again and fired twice, then said to Pisciotta, “It’s time to leave.”
The two of them crawled to the far side of the cliff out of view of the advancing carabinieri, then slid down the boulder-strewn slope, rolling for fifty yards before they came to their feet, weapons ready. Crouched low, they ran down the hill stopping only for Guiliano to observe the attackers through his binoculars.
The carabinieri were still firing up at the cliff, not realizing the two outlaws were now on their flanks. Guiliano led the way down a tiny, hidden path through massive boulders and entered a little forest. They rested for a few minutes and then they both started running down the path swiftly and silently. In less than an hour they emerged onto the plain that
separated the mountains from the town of Montelepre, but they had circled around to the far side of the town; it lay between them and the troop-carrying van. They hid their weapons under their jackets and walked across the plain, looking like two peasants on their way to work in the fields. They entered Montelepre at the top of the Via Bella, only a hundred yards from the Bellampo Barracks.
At that same moment the Maresciallo Roccofino ordered his men to continue climbing the slopes toward the flag on the edge of the cliff. There had been no answering fire for the last hour and he was sure the two outlaws had fled through their tunnel and were now going down the other side of the mountain toward the armored car. He wanted to close the trap. It took his men another hour to reach the cliff edge and tear down the flag. Maresciallo Roccofino went into the cave and had the boulders pushed aside to open up the tunnel. He sent his men down that stone corridor and down the other side of the mountain to rendezvous with the armored car. He was astounded when he found that his quarry had escaped him. He broke up his men into searching and scouting parties, sure they would flush the fugitives from their holes.
Hector Adonis had followed Guiliano’s instructions perfectly. At the top of the Via Bella was a painted cart, the ancient legends covering every inch, inside and out. Even the spokes of the wheels and the rims were painted with tiny armored figures so that when the wheels rolled they cleverly gave the illusion of men whirling in combat. The shafts, too, were colored in bright red curlicues with silver dots.
The cart looked like a man with tattoos that covered every inch of his body. Between the shafts stood a sleepy white mule. Guiliano jumped into the empty driver’s seat and looked into the cart. It was packed with huge jugs of wine cradled into bamboo baskets. There were at least twenty of them. Guiliano slipped his shotgun behind a row of jugs. He gave a quick look toward the mountains; there was nothing to be seen, except the flag still flying. He grinned down at Pisciotta. “Everything is in place,” he said. “Go and do your little dance.”
Pisciotta gave a little salute, serious yet mocking, buttoned his jacket over his pistol, and started walking toward the gates of the Bellampo Barracks. As he walked he glanced down the road that led to Castellammare, just to make sure there was no armored car on its way back from the mountains.
High up on the cart seat, Turi Guiliano watched Pisciotta walk slowly across the open field and onto the stone path that led to the gate. Then he looked down the Via Bella. He could see his house, but there was nobody standing in front of it. He had hoped he might catch a glimpse of his mother. Some men were sitting in front of one of the houses, their table and wine bottles shaded by an overhanging balcony. Suddenly he remembered the binoculars around his neck and he unclipped the strap and threw them into the back of the cart.
A young carabiniere stood guard at the gate, a boy no more than eighteen. His rosy cheeks and hairless face proclaimed his birth in the northern provinces of Italy; his black uniform with white piping, baggy and untailored, and his braided fiercely military cap gave him the look of some puppet or clown. Against regulations he had a cigarette in his adolescent, cupid’s bow mouth. Approaching on foot, Pisciotta felt a surge of amused contempt. Even after what had happened in the last few days the man did not have his rifle ready.
The guard only saw a scruffy peasant who dared to grow a mustache more elegant than he deserved. He said roughly, “You there, you lump, where do you think you’re going?” He did not unsling his rifle. Pisciotta could have cut his throat in a second.
Instead he tried to look obsequious, tried to suppress his mirth at this child’s arrogance. He said, “If you please, I wish to see the Maresciallo. I have some valuable information.”
“You can give it to me,” the guard said.
Pisciotta could not help himself. He said scornfully, “And can you pay me too?”
The guard was astounded by this impudence. Then he said contemptuously but a little warily, “I wouldn’t pay you a lira if you told me Jesus had come again.”
Pisciotta grinned. “Better than that. I know where Turi Guiliano has come again, the man who bloodied your noses.”
The guard said suspiciously, “Since when does a Sicilian help the law in this damned country?”
Pisciotta moved a little closer. “But I have ambitions,” he said. “I’ve put in an application to become a carabiniere. Next month I go to Palermo for my examination. Who knows, both of us might soon be wearing the same uniform.”
The guard looked at Pisciotta with a more friendly interest. It was true that many Sicilians became policemen. It was a road out of poverty, it was a small piece of power. It was a well-known national joke that Sicilians became either criminals or policemen and that they did equal damage on both sides. Meanwhile Pisciotta was laughing inwardly at the thought that he would ever become a carabiniere. Pisciotta was a dandy; he owned a silk shirt made in Palermo. Only a fool would preen in that white-piped black uniform and that ridiculous braided stiff-billed cap.
“You’d better think twice,” the guard said, not wanting everybody to be in on a good thing. “The pay is small and we’d all starve if we didn’t take bribes from smugglers. And just this week two of the men of our barracks, good friends of mine, were killed by that damned Guiliano. And every day the insolence of your peasants who won’t even give you directions to the barber in town.”
Pisciotta said gaily, “We’ll teach them some manners with the bastinado.” Then, with a confidential air, as if they were already brothers in arms, he said, “Have you a cigarette for me?”
To Pisciotta’s delight, the moment of good will fled. The guard was outraged. “A cigarette for you?” he said incredulously. “Why in Christ’s name should I give a piece of Sicilian dung a cigarette?” And now finally the guard unslung his rifle.
For a moment Pisciotta felt the savage urge to throw himself forward and slit the guard’s throat. “Because I can tell you where to find Guiliano,” Pisciotta said. “Your comrades searching the mountains are too stupid to find even a gecko.”
The guard looked bewildered. The insolence had him confused; the information offered made him realize he had better consult his superior. He had a feeling that this man was too slippery and could get him into trouble of some kind. He opened the gate and motioned Pisciotta with his rifle to enter the grounds of the Bellampo Barracks. His back was to the street. At that moment, Guiliano, a hundred yards away, kicked the mule awake and started his cart onto the stone pathway to the gate.
The grounds of the Bellampo Barracks consisted of four acres. On the land was the large administration building with an L-shaped wing that held the jail cells. Behind it was the living barracks for the carabinieri themselves, large enough to hold a hundred men with a specially partitioned section that served as a private apartment for the Maresciallo. Off to the right side was a garage for vehicles that was really a barn and still served partially as such since the detachment supported a troop of mules and donkeys for mountain travel where mechanical vehicles were useless.
Far in the rear were a munitions shed and a supply shed, both made of corrugated steel. Surrounding the whole area was a seven-foot barbed wire fence with two high towers for sentries, but these had not been used for many months. The barracks had been built by the Mussolini regime and then enlarged during the war on the Mafia.
When Pisciotta went through the gate he checked for danger signals. The towers were empty, there were no roaming armed guards. It looked like some peaceful deserted farm. There were no vehicles in the garage; in fact there were no vehicles in sight anywhere, which surprised him, and made him worry that one would be returning soon. He could not conceive of the Maresciallo being so stupid as to leave his garrison without a vehicle. He would have to warn Turi that they might get unexpected visitors.
Shepherded by the young guard, Pisciotta entered the wide doors of the administration building. This was a huge room with ceiling fans which did little to dispel the heat. There was a large raised desk dominating the room,
and on the sides were railings which enclosed smaller desks for clerks; around the room were wooden benches. These were all empty except for the raised desk. Seated at this was a carabinieri corporal who was an altogether different proposition from the young guard. An ornate gold nameplate on the desk read CORPORAL CANIO SILVESTRO. The upper part of his body was massive—great shoulders and thick columnar neck crowned by a huge boulder of a head. A pink scar, a slab of shiny dead tissue, seemed pasted from his ear down to the end of his rocklike jaw. A long bushy handlebar mustache flew out like two black wings over his mouth.
He wore the stripes of a corporal on his sleeve, a huge pistol at his belt and worst of all he regarded Pisciotta with the utmost suspicion and distrust as the guard recited his story. When Corporal Silverstro spoke his accent revealed him to be a Sicilian. “You are a lying piece of shit,” he said to Pisciotta. But before he could go any further, Guiliano’s voice could be heard shouting inside the gate.
“Hey there, carabiniere, do you want your wine or not? Yes or no?”
Pisciotta admired the style of Guiliano’s voice; the tone coarse, the dialect so thick it was almost unintelligible except to natives of this province, the choice of words arrogantly typical of the well-to-do peasant.
The Corporal growled with exasperation, “What in Christ’s name is that fellow bellowing about?” and with great strides was out the door. The guard and Pisciotta followed him.
The painted cart and its white mule were outside the gate. Bare to the waist, his broad chest streaming with sweat, Turi Guiliano was swinging a jug of wine. There was a huge idiotic grin on his face; his whole body seemed oafishly askew. His appearance disarmed suspicion. There could be no weapon concealed on his person, he was drunk and the accent was that of the most loutish dialect in all of Sicily. The Corporal’s hand dropped from his pistol, the guard lowered his rifle. Pisciotta took a step backward ready to draw his own gun from beneath his jacket.
