by Peter Watson
The air began to clear again. Limidi was still at the back of the cart, and still held his hostage. But the others had vanished in the dust of the explosion. All except Greco, who was still inside the cart.
The cloud of dust and sand lifted higher. Instinctively, the sergeant looked across to where Captain Fracci was, where the dynamite had landed.
He gasped. One of the boulders was no longer where it had been. And he could see Fracci. His throat tightened. The captain’s body lay under a rock. He appeared to be missing an arm and his body was joined to his head at an unnatural angle.
There were more groans now and he could see three more uniforms lying lifeless near where the explosion had occurred.
The sergeant took in the scene. There would be no negotiation. He knew that now. Since the captain was dead, he was in charge and he still had men left—more than a hundred, maybe. But that wasn’t the point. The point was: They were all hiding amid the boulders of the riverbed, beneath the gorge. Anyone who broke cover could be picked off, but if they stayed where they were, dynamite could be dropped on them at any time.
On the sergeant’s face sweat mingled with grit and sand and dust. His eyes still stung. He was stung too with fear, shame, and embarrassment. The Lazio Brigade had been humiliated by a bunch of bandits, tricked into a trap by a child priest and his sister.
The sergeant looked back down the gorge. The prisoners were more than a hundred yards away now, beginning to clamber over the landslide.
He had three hostages—including Greco, the man they wanted back above all others—but they had made it plain they would not negotiate. The bandits would blow up his soldiers until he surrendered.
And if he didn’t surrender? After they had killed his men, they would leave him to sweat. Without food, without water, without shelter. If he killed his hostages the bandits would kill him. If he didn’t kill them but allowed all the men under his command to be killed, he would have to go back to the mainland as the only survivor out of one hundred and ninety men. How would that look? He preferred death.
No, he didn’t, he told himself. He was a soldier and that involved knowing when you had lost. He couldn’t win in this situation. That was obvious now. His duty was to safeguard the lives of his men who were still alive.
Still holding the hostage, he unbuttoned his tunic, using the hand that held the revolver. When he had his tunic open, he pulled the tail of his shirt out of his trousers.
“Limidi! D’you have a knife? Quickly!”
Limidi stared at him.
“Quickly! Your bayonet.”
Using one hand, Limidi unclasped the bayonet from his rifle. He slid it across the floor of the cart.
The sergeant grasped it by the blade and, with his fingers, pulled his shirt over the point. He pulled until his shirt tore. Dropping the bayonet, he put his finger in the tear and pulled. A strip of shirt came away in his hand.
Using his fingers and his teeth, he wrapped the piece of shirt around the barrel of his revolver, formed a knot, and, again using his teeth, pulled it tight.
Then, still holding his hostage by the neck, he raised his gun above his head, waving his makeshift flag of surrender.
“You have no choice, Nino. You must leave the island. Your escape will have shamed, embarrassed, and infuriated the army. It’s like you stole their virginity and didn’t stay for the wedding. Now they will never rest until they find you. When they do, and they will find you someday, they will kill you. They will say you died resisting arrest. Believe me, I know. My brother is in the army.” Father Ignazio Serravalle was in his room at Quisquina. He was helping the others to wine. “I think you should go to America.”
Candles burned on the abbot’s desk and, on the mantelshelf of the great fireplace, liquid wax was spilling onto the cold iron feet of the candelabra. Shadows flickered over the huge tapestry that dominated and darkened the room. The tsk-tsk of crickets could be heard through the open windows.
There were not many people in the abbot’s study: Nino, now freed of his chains; the abbot’s secretary, Luigi Garofali; Ruggiero Priola, from Palermo; Bastiano and his wife, Smeralda, who was also Nino’s cousin.
Nino drummed his fingers on his lips. Then he turned to Bastiano. “What do you think?”
Bastiano wasn’t drunk, but he was certainly the worse for wear. “Nobody is going to be safe, at least for a while. Nothing like this has happened before. We killed eleven of their men and injured thirty-three. That’s a lot of blood. They’ll wait for reinforcements, then come again. Not only must you go, Nino, but people—the authorities—must know that you have gone.” He gripped his wine goblet and drank from it.
“Steady,” whispered Serravalle, but Bastiano glared at him. He knew change had to come, but he didn’t like it.
Nino turned to his cousin. “Smeralda?”
“Nino,” she breathed, “you are my flesh. I don’t want you dead. I don’t want Annunziata to be an orphan. Holding the English priest was a mistake, I see that now. I’d rather look after Annunziata with you alive than with you dead. After a while she can follow you to America.”
There was a silence in the room.
Nino leaned forward and took the wine bottle from the abbot. He drank heartily. The local wine was sour and he screwed up his face as he swallowed.
“America is a big country,” he said. “Where shall I go?”
The abbot looked at Ruggiero Priola. Priola was a big man, balding, better dressed than the others. “Our families are related,” he said to Nino. “Your grandmother was my grandmother’s sister. In the past you have helped us, particularly when our business was threatened by the Orestano family. Now it is our turn to repay that debt. It is a matter of honor. As you also know, the Priola shipping line operates several steamers that sail regularly between Naples, Palermo, and New Orleans. The Syracusa leaves in six days’ time.”
“Six days! So soon?” Nino looked shocked.
The abbot spoke. “Nino, we have heard today that Rome has put up a ransom for you. Twenty-five thousand lire. That’s going to tempt a lot of people. Not everyone in Sicily loves you as we do.”
A grim smile briefly lit Nino’s face. “No one must go empty-handed, eh?” He sighed. “But six days!” He looked across to Bastiano. “You will take over as Don. I would choose Gino Alcamo as your consigliere. Think you can manage?”
Bastiano nodded. “Thanks to you.”
“Nino.” It was Smeralda. “We shall miss you … and you will miss us, I hope. But … we … Bastiano and I think you should not go alone.”
“What? Take someone else? Who?”
Now that Smeralda had made the first move, Bastiano was emboldened to speak. “You must take Silvio.”
“He’s just a boy! Mezzomaturo. Half-ripe. He’ll be more trouble than he’s worth!”
“Nino,” said Bastiano, softly but firmly, “you have not thought about this as we have. First, it will be good for you to have a companion. Second, without you here, it will be helpful to have one mouth fewer to feed—”
Nino started to interrupt, but Bastiano held up his hand. “No, listen to me this once. You know the boy has talent. You yourself have been teaching him. He’s very like his father. I heard you say he has the balls, the brains, the blood. Also, you owe your life to him. If he’d been in his own bed, he would have been captured like the rest of us, and unable to visit the abbot here and alert him to our … predicament.”
“Yes, I agree, but—”
“Have you asked yourself why Silvio was not in his bed?”
When Nino shook his head, Smeralda butted in. “He was with Annunziata. They spent the night together at the old temple near Catera.”
Nino’s eyes widened and he gripped the wine bottle more tightly. “He has more balls than I thought.… I’ll break—”
“Nothing happened!” cut in Smeralda.
“But it might have,” said Bastiano quietly. “It might have. And with you away … who knows?”
�
��Their feelings for one another are unhealthy, Nino,” said Smeralda. “They are cousins. Peas from the same pod. Something like this is always a risk when you live as we do, away from everyone else. You need someone with you. They need to be separated. It is the right solution.”
Now the abbot joined in. “He’s a talented boy, Nino, and he’s an orphan. He was eighteen last week. He’s ready. He’ll be a man by the time you get to America.”
Nino looked from one to the other. “There is another way. I could take Annunziata.”
“You could,” said Smeralda, “but who’s going to look after her when you get there? And while you’re out attending to business she’ll be in as much risk as if she stayed here. More so, probably. You have to find a place to live, you may even find a new woman, all the things men do in America. Be realistic, Nino—stop fighting us. We are your friends. Take Silvio, and send for Annunziata in a year. By then you’ll be safe, you’ll have a house, be rich maybe. Silvio and Annunziata will have forgotten each other. I am your flesh, Nino. I know you. You don’t want Annunziata with you, not in the first months. Take Silvio.”
There was another long silence, during which Nino occasionally drank from the wine bottle. He was breathing heavily.
At length he drained the wine and stood up, turned the bottle upside down, and held it by the neck, like a club. He brandished it at his cousin, then at Bastiano. “Very well,” he said, his voice cracked with emotion. “I’ll take Sylvano on one condition.”
The others looked at him.
“He has to prove he’s a man.”
Still no one spoke.
“Someone betrayed us. While I was chained up, in that wagon, I heard the army captain talking. He was explaining to someone about our warning system. How did he find out about that? He was never specific, but he went on to say that someone in the regiment came from Borgo Regalmici and that this man played a part in capturing us. He’d acted as an intermediary.”
Nino’s eyes raked the room. “Now, who do we know in Borgo Regalmici who has a grudge against us, against me? Who is this canary who sang so loudly?” He glared from one to the other. “I will tell you. Luca Mancuso’s son, Gaetano. He made Maria Camastra’s daughter pregnant and then refused to marry her. I had a word with Luca and the wedding was set for next month. Luca was understanding. But Gaetano must have thought that with me out of the way he wouldn’t have to marry the Camastra girl after all.”
He paused.
At first no one else said anything. Then Bastiano nodded. “And you want …”
“I want Gaetano Mancuso killed, Bastiano. And I want Sylvano to do it.”
The main piazza in Santo Stefano was larger than in Bivona. The church was more impressive, more ornate, and there were two cafés and a bank, the latter closed because this was Sunday. In the afternoon, as it was now, sunshine filled the square, warming the stones of the wide steps that led down from the church.
Silvio had found some shade, in a small calle just off the square, where he could see the main doors of the church but where he was not conspicuous. He was not alone—three other men were with him. They were all older, more experienced than he. All had done before what he was to do for the first time today. Should he fail—God forbid!—they would ensure success.
Silvio was nervous. This business had blown up suddenly and he had barely had time to reflect on what was happening. He was both surprised and not surprised that he had been chosen. He had known, from the moment he had told Annunziata they had been betrayed, that morning in the giardino segreto, that Nino would want revenge. That was the way justice was done in Sicily. Silvio had also known, deep inside him, that he would at some point be required to do the sort of thing he was being asked to do today. It was inevitable, given the life he had been born to.
Now, however, he was beginning to see the various levels at which Nino’s manipulative mind worked. At the same time as he was told to kill Gaetano Mancuso, Nino also told Silvio that he was to accompany him to America. The second piece of news was as big a shock as the first, and just as unpleasant. But he could see it made sense from Nino’s point of view. It meant that Gaetano’s killer was out of the way, virtually immune from any further revenge attacks. It also offered Nino a way of proving his loyalty and bravery. But most important, Silvio knew that Nino wanted Silvio away from Sicily. It was not hard to fathom. Obviously the Quarryman had discovered that his daughter and Silvio were … well, closer than cousins should be.
Of course, the killings also achieved the elemental justice required by the Sicilian Mafia’s code of omertà, silence. Gaetano Mancuso had contravened that code and so had to be killed. Everyone accepted that.
By tradition, revenge killings were the highest form of duty, for they had to be carried out in public, in order to achieve their full effect. They therefore carried the most risk.
The doors of the church opened and people began to appear. The service was over.
“Here they come,” whispered one of the men standing behind Silvio. The man straightened up and threw his cigarette away. “Not long now.” He patted Silvio’s shoulder.
Silvio’s mouth was dry. Sono rettile? he asked himself. Am I a reptile? Cold-blooded, thick-skinned, shadow-loving? No, far from it. His blood ran cold one minute, but sweat cascaded down his temples the next. He found himself thinking of the few things that had frightened him in his life. Diving off the cliffs into the Capraria River. Escaping a forest fire at Lanzone. Getting caught in a stampede of cattle at Campofelice. Nothing came close to this.
He watched the people descend the church steps. Young couples, old women, mothers with babies, chatting, laughing, a few men lighting up their pipes or cigarettes, relieved to be outside in the fresh air. Silvio didn’t know Gaetano Mancuso—which should make what he had to do easier—but two of the men with him did. They also knew his routine: to stroll across the piazza after Mass and drink a vermouth at one of the cafés, idling away half an hour with friends, looking at the local girls.
“There he is,” muttered the man behind him. “Dark blue suit, widow’s peak, slightly buck teeth. Next to the man with a stick. See?”
Silvio did see. Gaetano Mancuso was tall, thin, good-looking, but already going bald. He had a swagger about him.
Silvio was thankful to note that Mancuso had no woman with him. Maria Camastra’s daughter was nowhere to be seen—because, of course, Mancuso had no intention of marrying her. Had they been a normal couple, in love and happy in the usual way, she would have been here with him. For Silvio that made his task easier, too. Mancuso was a mezza tacca, beneath contempt.
Mancuso reached the café on the other side of the piazza. For a moment he stood talking to a group of men his own age. Quietly, two of the men with Silvio detached themselves and strolled into the square. Silvio watched as they approached the café separately and took their seats, ordering coffee. They would see to it that no one interfered.
The crowd in front of the church was beginning to thin and now Silvio’s heart beat faster. What if something unexpected happened at the last minute? Would he be able to react quickly enough? He tried to moisten his parched lips with his tongue. He needed an audience, the bigger the better. If this went well today he would be famous—notorious—throughout Sicily. The more people there were to watch, the more successful it would be.
It would also be more dangerous.
“He’s sitting down.”
Silvio didn’t need to be told. He needed Gaetano Mancuso to be seated for maximum surprise, for effect, and because it was safer that way. Silvio gripped the lupara, the hunting shotgun. He turned and looked at the other man beside him. They nodded to one another. Silvio was ready.
But no—Mancuso was on his feet again. He held a cigarette, wanted someone to light it. He chatted for a while, still standing. Silvio cursed. The crowd outside the church continued to thin.
Then a waiter brought Mancuso’s drink and set it on the table. Mancuso strolled back to his place and sat down. Sil
vio couldn’t hear what was said, but he could see that Mancuso was laughing. That made it easier, too. He was a cocky puzzone, this Mancuso. Silvio watched as he held the vermouth to his lips, swallowed the liquid, set the glass back on the table, then crossed one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his knee, lounging back in his chair, arrogantly surveying the piazza.
“Ready?” hissed the man at Silvio’s side.
Silvio took a deep breath, nodded, and stepped out of the shadow into the square.
He forced himself not to hurry. He must not draw attention to himself, not just yet. He was an ordinary peasant, strolling through the town, come to enjoy the camaraderie of Sunday morning in Santo Stefano. His lupara would not draw particular attention. Almost all the men had one.
The crowd of churchgoers had moved away from the steps in front of the façade, but about half the people now stood in the middle of the piazza, a few yards from the café where Gaetano Mancuso was sitting. Silvio ambled through them. Children, playing, ran in and out of the throng.
He didn’t want to hurry but he didn’t want to delay either. As he walked past the crowd out of the corner of his eye he spied a face he thought he recognized. It looked like Luca Mancuso, Gaetano’s father!
Silvio’s throat tightened. No! But he couldn’t think about that.
He kept his eyes forward. They were fixed on Gaetano, drinking his vermouth. He was still smiling. He always seemed to be smiling, this bastard.
Silvio reached the edge of the area where the tables were laid out. So far no one had paid any attention to him at all. He chose his route. He needed to be able to make an escape without running, without stumbling.
About half the tables were occupied. Everyone was talking at once. Silvio stepped between two vacant tables and halted. One or two people glanced at him, but with no real interest. That was about to change.
He stared at Gaetano Mancuso. The other man suddenly felt Silvio’s eyes on him and looked up. At first there was a confidence about him, but that changed when Silvio’s eyes met his.
