Chapter 12

   The war was now over but Guiliano's had just begun. In the course of two years, Salvatore Guiliano had become the most famous man in Sicily. He built up his domination of the northwest corner of the island. At the heart of his empire was the town of Montelepre. He controlled the towns of Piani dei Greci, Borgetto and Partinico. And the murderous town of Corleone, whose inhabitants were so ferocious they were notorious even in Sicily. He ranged just short of Trapani, and he threatened the town of Monreale and the capital of Sicily itself, Palermo. When the new democratic government in Rome put a price of ten million lire on his head, Guiliano laughed and continued to move confidently through many of the towns. He even dined occasionally in the restaurants of Palermo. At the end of the meal he would always leave a note under the plate which read, "This is to show that Turi Guiliano can go wherever he likes."
   Guiliano's impregnable fortress was the vast galleries of the Cammarata Mountains. He knew all the caves and all the secret paths. He felt invincible here. He loved the view of Montelepre below him, the Partinico plain that stretched away to Trapani and the Mediterranean Sea. As twilight became blue, reflecting the faraway sea, he could see the ruined Greek temples, the orange groves, the olive orchards and the grain-filled fields that were Western Sicily. With his binoculars he could see the padlocked roadside shrines holding their dusty saints inside.
   From these mountains he sallied forth with his men onto the white dusty roads to rob government convoys, stick up railway trains, and relieve rich women of their jewels. The peasants riding on their painted carts in holy festivals saluted him and his men at first with fear and then with respect and affection. There was not one of them, not a shepherd or laborer who had not benefited from his distribution of loot.
   The whole countryside became his spies. At night when children said their prayers they included a plea to the Virgin Mary "to save Guiliano from the carabinieri. "
   It was a countryside that fed Guiliano and his men. There were the olive and orange groves, the vineyards of grapes. There were the flocks of sheep whose shepherds looked the other way when the bandits came for a few lambs. Through this landscape Guiliano moved like a ghost, lost in the hazy blue light of Sicily which is the cerulean Mediterranean Sea reflected from the sky.
   The winter months were long in the mountains, cold. And yet Guiliano's band grew. At night scores of campfires freckled the slopes and valleys of the Cammarata range. The men used the firelight to clean their guns, repair their clothing, do their laundry in the nearby mountain stream. Preparing the communal evening meal sometimes caused arguments. Every village in Sicily had a different recipe for squid and eels, disagreed on what herbs should be disbarred from the tomato sauce. And whether sausages should ever be baked. Men partial to the knife for murder liked to do laundry; the kidnappers preferred the cooking and sewing chores. The raiders of banks and trains stuck to cleaning their guns.
   Guiliano made them all dig defense trenches and establish far-flung listening posts so they could not be surprised by government forces. One day when the men were digging they came upon the skeleton of a giant animal, bigger than they could imagine. Hector Adonis arrived that day bringing books for Guiliano to study, for Guiliano was curious now to know everything in the world. He studied books of science, of medicine, of politics, philosophy and military techniques. Hector Adonis brought him sackfuls every few weeks. Guiliano took him to where the men had dug up the skeleton. Adonis smiled at their puzzlement. "Haven't I given you enough books on history?" he said to Guiliano. "A man who does not know the history of mankind for the last two thousand years is a man living in the dark." He paused for a few moments. The mellow voice of Adonis was the lecturing voice of a professor.
   "This is a skeleton of a war machine employed by Hannibal of Carthage who two thousand years ago traveled over these mountains to destroy imperial Rome. It is the skeleton of one of his war elephants, trained to combat and never before then seen on this continent. How frightening they must have been to those Roman soldiers. Yet they availed Hannibal nothing; Rome vanquished him and destroyed Carthage. These mountains have so many ghosts, and you have found one of them. Think, Turi, one day you will be one of the ghosts."
   And Guiliano did think all that night. The idea pleased him that he would someday be one of the ghosts of history. If he were killed he hoped it would be in the mountains; he had the fantasy that, wounded, he would crawl into one of the thousands of caves and never be found until some accident discovered him, as had happened with Hannibal's elephant.
   They changed encampments many times during the winter. And for weeks at a time the band dispersed altogether and slept in the houses of relatives, friendly shepherds, or the great empty granaries that belonged to the nobility. Guiliano spent most of the winter studying his books and making his plans. He had long talks with Hector Adonis.
   In early spring he went with Pisciotta down the road that led to Trapani. On that road they saw a cart with new painted legends on its sides. For the first time they saw a panel showing the legend of Guiliano. It was a scene painted in gaudy reds, Guiliano taking the emerald ring from the finger of the Duchess as he bowed before her. In the background was Pisciotta holding a machine gun and threatening a group of cowering armed men. It was on that day too that they first wore the belt buckles with an eagle and a lion rampant etched on a rectangular block of gold. The buckles had been made by Silvestro, who now served as their armorer. He had given them to Guiliano and Pisciotta. It became an emblem of their leadership of the band. Guiliano always wore it; Pisciotta only when he was with Guiliano. For Pisciotta often went into the towns and villages disguised, even into the city of Palermo.
   At night in the mountains Guiliano, when he took off the belt, studied the rectangular buckle of gold. On the left side, there was an eagle that looked like a man in feathers. On the right side was a lion rampant, its paws – like the eagle's winged arms – supporting a filigree circle between them. It looked as if together they were spinning a wheel of the world. The lion especially fascinated him with its human body below the leonine head. The king of the air, the king of the ground, etched into soft yellow, gold. Guiliano thought of himself as the eagle, Pisciotta the lion, and that circle, Sicily.
   For centuries, kidnapping of the rich had been one of the cottage industries of Sicily. Usually the kidnappers were the most fearsome of the Mafiosi, who had merely to send a letter before the kidnapping. This would be in the polite form, to the effect that to avoid troublesome details the ransom be paid in advance. Like a wholesaler's discount for immediate cash payment, the ransom would be considerably less because all the irritating details, such as the actual kidnapping, did not have to be performed. For in all truth, such a thing as kidnapping a famous personage was not as easy as people thought it was. It was not a business for greedy amateurs or scatterbrained lazy good-for-nothings who refused to work for a living. Nor was it ever the harebrained, suicidal event that it was in America, where its practitioners had given kidnapping a bad name. Even the word "kidnapping" was not used in Sicily, since children were not held for ransom unless they were accompanied by an adult. For say what you would of a Sicilian: that they were born criminals, that they murdered as easily as a woman picks flowers, that they were as cunningly treacherous as Turks, that they were socially three hundred years behind the times; yet no one could dispute that Sicilians loved, no, they idolized children. So there was no such thing called kidnapping in Sicily. They would "invite" a rich person to be their guest, and he could not be released until he had paid room and board, as in a fine hotel.
   This cottage industry had developed certain rules over hundreds of years. The price was always negotiable through intermediaries such as the Mafia. There was never any violence offered to the "guest," if he cooperated. The "guest" was treated with the utmost respect, always addressed by his rank, such as Prince or Duke or Don or even Archbishop, if some bandit chose to endanger his soul by seizing a member of the cloth. Even a Member of Parliament was called Honorable to his face though everyone knew these rascals were greater thieves than anyone.
   This was done out of prudence. History showed it was a policy that paid off. Once the prisoner was released he did not show any desire for vengeance as long as his dignity had been preserved. There was the classic case of a great Duke, who, after being released, and then leading the carabinieri to where he knew the bandits were hiding, had then paid for their defense lawyers. When despite this they were convicted, the Duke interceded to cut their long prison term in half. This was because they had treated him with such exquisite tact and politeness that the Duke declared he had never encountered such fine manners even in the highest society of Palermo.
   Conversely a prisoner who had been ill-treated would, upon his release, spend a fortune having his captors hunted down, sometimes offering a reward larger than the ransom paid.
   But in the ordinary course of things, if both parties behaved in a civilized manner, the price was haggled over and the prisoner released. The rich of Sicily had come to think of this as a sort of unofficial tax for their living in the land they loved, and since they paid so little taxes to the official government, they bore this cross with Christian resignation.
   Stubborn refusal or extended haggling was remedied by mild coercion. Then perhaps an ear was cut off, a finger amputated. Usually these were sufficient to bring everybody to his senses. Except for those extremely sad, rare cases when the body had to be delivered, ritually mutilated and riddled with bullets, or, in the olden days, stabbed numerous times in the pattern of the cross.
   But "Inviting a Guest" was always a painstaking endeavor. The victim had to be observed for a period of time so that he could be snatched with minimum violence. Even before that, five or six hiding places had to be prepared and stocked with supplies and guards, for it was understood that the negotiations would be drawn out and the authorities would search for the victims. It was a complicated business not for amateurs.
   When Guiliano decided to enter the kidnapping business, he was determined to entertain only the richest clients in Sicily. In fact his first victim was the island's wealthiest and most powerful noble. This was Prince Ollorto, who not only had vast estates in Sicily but also a virtual empire in Brazil. He was the landlord for most of the citizens of Montelepre – their farms and their houses. Politically he was the most powerful man behind the scenes; the Minister of Justice in Rome was a close personal friend, and the former King of Italy himself had stood godfather to the Prince's child. In Sicily the overseer for all his estates was Don Croce himself. It went without saying that the magnificent salary Don Croce was paid also included insurance payments to preserve Prince Ollorto's person from kidnappers and murderers and his jewels and cattle and sheep from thieves.
   Safe in his castle, the walls guarded by Don Croce's retainers, the gatesmen, and his own personal guards, Prince Ollorto prepared for a peaceful and enjoyable evening of watching the stars in the heavens through the huge telescope which he loved more dearly than anything on earth. Suddenly there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the winding stairs that led to his observatory tower. The door crashed in and four roughly clad men holding guns filled the tiny room. The Prince covered his telescope protectively with his arm and turned away from the innocent stars to face them. When the Prince saw Terranova's ferretlike face, he offered up his prayers to God.
   But Terranova said to him courteously, "Your Lordship, I am ordered to bring you to the mountains for a holiday with Turi Guiliano. You will be charged room and board for your visit, that is our custom. But you will be looked after like a newborn babe."
   The Prince tried to hide his fear. He bowed and asked gravely, "May I take some medicines and a few clothes?"
   Terranova said, "We will send for them. Speed now is of the essence. The carabinieri will arrive shortly and they are not invited to our little party. Now please go before me down the steps. And don't try to make a run for it. Our men are everywhere and even a Prince can't outrun bullets."
   At the side gate far down the wall an Alfa Romeo and a jeep were waiting. Prince Ollorto was thrust into the Alfa Romeo with Terranova, the others jumped into the jeep, and the two vehicles sped up the mountain road. When they were a half-hour from Palermo and a short distance from Montelepre, the cars stopped and all the men got out. There was a roadside shrine with the figure of the Madonna, and Terranova knelt briefly before it and crossed himself. The Prince, who was a religious man, suppressed the impulse to do likewise, fearing it would be taken as a sign of weakness or of supplication to these men not to harm him. The five men spread out into a wide star formation, the Prince in its center. Then they started walking down a steep slope until they came upon a narrow path that led into the vast wilderness of the Cammarata Mountains.
   They walked for hours, and often the Prince had to ask for a rest, which the men accompanying him granted courteously. They sat beneath a huge granite rock and ate supper. There was bread, a coarse loaf, a huge hunk of cheese and a bottle of wine. Terranova shared this equally among the men, including the Prince, and even with an apology. "I'm sorry to offer you nothing better," he said. "When we get to our camp Guiliano will give you a hot meal, perhaps some good rabbit stew. We have a cook who worked for restaurants in Palermo."
   The Prince thanked him courteously and ate with good appetite. Indeed with better appetite than for the grand dinners he was used to. The exercise had made him ravenous, he had not felt such hunger for many years. Taking a packet of English cigarettes from his pocket, he offered them around. Terranova and each of his men took one gratefully and smoked avidly. The Prince mentally noted the fact that they did not appropriate the packet for their own use. So he was emboldened to say, "I have to take certain medicines. I am diabetic and must have insulin every day."
   He was surprised at Terranova's concern. "But why didn't you say so?" he asked. "We could have waited a minute. But in any case don't worry. Guiliano will send for it and you will have it in the morning. I give you my promise."
   "Thank you," the Prince said. Terranova's thin, whippetlike body seemed always to crouch with courteous and intense attention. His ferret face was always smiling and receptive. But he was like a razor: of use for service but also able to turn into something deadly. And then they resumed their march, Terranova at the point of the star formation. Often Terranova would drop back to chat with the Prince and reassure him he would come to no harm.
   They had been ascending and finally they reached the flat top plain of a mountain. Three fires were going and picnic tables with bamboo chairs rested near the cliff edge. At one table Guiliano was reading a book by the light of an American Army battery lamp. There was a canvas bag filled with other books resting at his feet. The bag was covered with geckos and indeed there was a loud steady hum that filled the mountain air which the Prince recognized as the sound of millions of insects. It did not seem to bother Guiliano.
   Guiliano rose from the table and greeted the Prince with courtesy. There was no air about him of captor to prisoner. But there was a curious smile on his face, for Guiliano was thinking how far he had come. Two years before he had been a poor peasant; now he held at his mercy the man with the bluest blood and richest purse in all of Sicily.
   "Have you eaten?" Guiliano asked. "Is there anything you need to make your visit with us more pleasant? You will be with us for some time."
   The Prince admitted to hunger and explained his need for insulin and other medicines. Guiliano called down over the side of the cliff and soon one of his men came rushing up the path with a pot of hot stew. Guiliano had the Prince write in great detail exactly what medicines he needed. "We have a chemist friend in Monreale who will open his shop for us no matter what the hour," Guiliano said. "You will have your medicine by noon tomorrow."
   When the Prince had finished eating Guiliano led him down a slope and into a small cave where there was a straw bed with a mattress on it. Two of the bandits following them had blankets, and the Prince was amazed to see they even had white sheets and a huge lumpy pillow. Guiliano noticed his amazement and said, "You are an honored guest and I will do everything so that you may enjoy your little vacation. If any of my men offer you any disrespect, please inform me. They have received strict instructions to treat you with all regard for your rank, and your reputation as a patriot of Sicily. Now sleep well, you will need all your strength, for we make a long march tomorrow. A ransom note has been delivered and the carabinieri will be out in force searching so we must be a long way from here."
   The Prince thanked him for his courtesy and then asked what the ransom would be.
   Guiliano laughed and the Prince was charmed by that youthful laugh, the boyish handsomeness of his face. But with Guiliano's answer the charm vanished. "Your government has set a price of ten million lire on my head. It would be an insult to Your Lordship if the ransom were not ten times as high."
   The Prince was stunned then said ironically, "I hope my family thinks as highly of me as you do."
   "It will be open to negotiation," Guiliano said. When he left the two bandits prepared the bed and then sat outside the cave. Despite the absolute roar of the insects, Prince Ollorto slept better than he had in years.
   Guiliano had been busy throughout the night. He had sent men to Montelepre for the medicine; he had lied to the Prince when he said Monreale. Then he had sent Terranova to the Abbot Manfredi at his monastery. He wanted the Abbot to handle the ransom negotiations, though he knew that the Abbot would have to work through Don Croce. But the Abbot would be a perfect buffer, and Don Croce would get his commission.
   The negotiations would be long, and it was understood that the full sum of one hundred million lire could not be paid. Prince Ollorto was very rich, but, historically, the first demand was not the real price.
   The second day of Prince Ollorto's kidnapping was a very pleasant one for him. There was a long but not arduous march to a deserted farmhouse deep in the mountains. Guiliano was very much the lord of the comfortable manor, as if he were a wealthy countryman honored by a surprise visit from his king. With his sharp eye Guiliano saw that Prince Ollorto was distressed by the condition of his clothes. That he looked regretfully at the carefully tailored English suit he had paid so much for being frayed by wear.
   Guiliano asked him without contempt but only with real curiosity, "Do you really care so much for what you wear on the outside of your skin?"
   The Prince had always had a pedagogical turn of mind. And certainly in these circumstances they both had time on their hands. So he gave Guiliano a speech on how correct clothing, beautifully tailored and of the finest materials, could enrich a man such as himself. He described the tailors in London, so snobbish that they made Italian Dukes seem like Communists in comparison. He told of all the different kinds of fabrics, the great skills, the time spent in getting innumerable fittings. "My dear Guiliano," Prince Ollorto said, "it's not the money, though Saint Rosalia knows that what I paid for this suit would keep a Sicilian family for a year, and pay for their daughter's dowry too. But I have to go to London. I have to spend days with tailors who push me back and forth. It is a miserable experience. So I regret that this suit is ruined. It can never be replaced."
   Guiliano was studying the Prince with sympathy and he asked, "Why is it so important to you and your class that you must dress so extravagantly, or forgive me, so correctly? Even now you still wear your tie though we are in the mountains. When we entered this house I noticed you buttoned your jacket as if some Duchess were waiting to greet you."
   Now Prince Ollorto, though he was an extreme reactionary politically, and like most of the Sicilian nobility had no sense of economic justice, had always a sense of identity with the lower classes. He felt that they were human beings like himself and no man who worked for him and minded his manners and knew his place would be left in want. The servants in his castle adored him. He treated them like members of the family. There were always gifts for their birthdays and little treats for them on the holidays. During family meals when no outside guests were present, the servants waiting on the table would join in the family discussion and give their opinions on the noble family's problems. And this was not uncommon in Italy. The lower classes were treated cruelly only when they fought for their economic rights.
   And now the Prince took the same attitude toward Guiliano. As if his captor were only his servant who wanted to share his life, the enviable life of a very rich and powerful man. The Prince was suddenly aware that he could turn his period of captivity into an advantage that might even make paying his ransom worthwhile. But he knew he had to be very careful. That he had to exert his charm to the utmost without any condescension. That he had to be frank and sincere and as truthful as he could be. And that he could not try to make too much capital of the situation. For Guiliano could spring from weakness to strength.
   So now he answered Guiliano's question seriously and with great genuineness. He said with a smile, "Why do you wear that emerald ring, that gold buckle?" He waited for an answer, but Guiliano only smiled. The Prince went on. "I married an even richer woman than myself. I have power and political duties. I have estates here in Sicily and an even larger estate in Brazil through my wife. People in Sicily kiss my hands as soon as I take them out of my pockets, and even in Rome I am held in great esteem. For in that city, money commands. Everyone's eyes are upon me. I feel ridiculous – I have done nothing to earn all this. But it is mine to keep and I must keep it, I cannot disgrace that public person. Even when I go out hunting in what seems to be a rough garb of the countryman, I must look the part perfectly. That of a rich and great man going hunting. How I envy men like you and Don Croce sometimes, who hold your power in your head and your heart. Who have won your power by your courage and your cunning. Isn't it laughable that I do almost the same thing by going to the best tailor in London?"
   He delivered this speech so prettily that Guiliano laughed aloud. In fact Guiliano was so amused that the two of them ate dinner together and talked long of the miseries of Sicily and the poltrooneries of Rome.
   The Prince knew of Don Croce's hope to enlist Guiliano and tried to further that aim. "My dear Guiliano," he said, "how is it that you and Don Croce do not join together to rule Sicily? He has the wisdom of age, you have the idealism of youth. There is no question that both of you love Sicily. Why can you not join forces in the times ahead which are dangerous for all of us? Now that the war is over, things are changing. The Communists and Socialists hope to degrade the Church, destroy blood ties. They dare to say that duty to a political party is more important than the love for your mother, the devotion you owe your brothers and sisters. What if they were to win the elections and set these policies in motion?"
   "They can never win," Guiliano said. "Sicilians will never vote Communist."
   "Don't be so sure," the Prince said. "You remember Silvio Ferra, he was your boyhood friend. Good boys like Silvio went to the war and came back infected with radical notions. Their agitators promise free bread, free land. The innocent peasant is like a donkey following a carrot. They may very well vote Socialist."
   "I have no love for the Christian Democrats, but I would do everything to prevent a Socialist government," Guiliano said.
   "Only you and Don Croce can ensure the freedom of Sicily," the Prince said. "You must join together. Don Croce speaks always as if you were his son – he has a positive affection for you. And only he can avert a great war between you and the Friends of the Friends. He understands that you do what you must do; I understand it too. But even now the three of us can work together and preserve our destinies. If not we can all go down to destruction."
   Turi Guiliano could not contain his anger. What insolence the rich had. He said with lethal calm, "Your own ransom has not yet been settled and yet you propose an alliance. You may be dead."
   The Prince slept badly that night. But Guiliano showed no further ill will, and the Prince spent his next two weeks in a very profitable fashion. His health improved and his body toned up with the daily exercise and fresh air. Though he had always been slim, he had acquired deposits of fat around his middle and these now disappeared. Physically he had never felt better.
   And mentally too he was exhilarated. Sometimes when he was moved from place to place, Guiliano was not with the party guarding him, and he had to make conversation with men who were illiterate and ignorant of any culture. But he was surprised at their character. Most of these bandits were naturally courteous, had a native dignity, and were by no means unintelligent. They always addressed him by his rank and tried to grant his every request. He had never come so close to his fellow Sicilians before, and he was surprised to feel a renewed affection for his land and his people. The ransom, finally settled at sixty million lire in gold, was paid through Don Croce and the Abbot Manfredi. The night before his release, Prince Ollorto was given a banquet by Guiliano and his chiefs and twenty of the most important members of the band. Champagne was brought from Palermo to celebrate the occasion and they all toasted his imminent freedom, for they had grown fond of him. The Prince gave the final toast. "I have been a guest at the most noble family houses in Sicily," he said. "But I have never received such good treatment, such hospitality, or men with such exquisite manners as I have here in these mountains. I have never slept so soundly or eaten so well." He paused for a moment and said with a smile, "The bill was a little high, but good things always come dear.'' This brought a roar of laughter, Guiliano laughing loudest of all. But the Prince noticed that Pisciotta did not even smile.
   They all drank to his health and gave him a cheer. It was a night the Prince would remember for the rest of his life, and with pleasure.
   The next morning, a Sunday, the Prince was deposited in front of the Cathedral of Palermo. He went into the church for early Mass and said a prayer of Thanksgiving. He was dressed exactly as on the day he was kidnapped. Guiliano, as a surprise and a token of his esteem, had had his English suit repaired and cleaned by the finest tailor in Rome.

Chapter 13

   The Mafia chiefs of Sicily demanded a meeting with Don Croce. Though Don Croce was acknowledged as the chief among the chiefs, he did not rule them directly. They had their own empires. The Mafia was like one of those medieval kingdoms where powerful barons banded together to support the wars of their most powerful member, whom they acknowledged as their nominal ruler. But like those ancient barons they had to be wooed by their king, they had to be rewarded with the spoils of war. Don Croce ruled them not by force but by the power of his intelligence, his charisma, his lifelong acquisition of "respect." He ruled by combining their divergent interests into one general interest, by which they all benefited.
   Don Croce had to be careful with them. They all had their private armies, their secret assassins, stranglers, poisoners, honorable wielders of straightforward death by the dreaded lupara. In that area their strength was equal to his; that was why the Don had wanted to enlist Turi Guiliano as his own personal warrior chief. These men were clever, too, in their own right, some of them the most cunning men living in Sicily. They did not begrudge the Don the building of his power; they trusted and believed in him. But even the most intelligent man in the world can be wrong sometimes. And they believed that the Don's infatuation with Guiliano was the only failure that had emerged from the labyrinth of his mind.
   Don Croce arranged a sumptuous lunch for the six chiefs in the garden of the Hotel Umberto in Palermo where secrecy and security were assured.
   The most fearful of these chiefs and the most outspoken was Don Siano, who ruled the town of Bisacquino. He had agreed to speak for the others and he did so with the harsh courtesy that was the rule of the Friends of the Friends at their highest level.
   "My dear Don Croce," Don Siano said, "you know the respect we all have for you. It was you who resurrected us and our families. We owe you a great deal. So it is only to do you a service that we speak out now. This bandit Turi Guiliano has become too strong. We have treated him with too much deference. He is a mere boy and yet he defies your authority and ours. He robs the jewels from our most illustrious clients. He abducts the olives, the grapes, the corn of our richest landowners. And now he shows us a final disrespect we cannot ignore. He kidnaps Prince Ollorto whom he knows to be under our protection. And yet you continue to treat with him, you continue to extend your hand in friendship. I know he is strong, but are we not stronger? And if we let him go his way, will he not grow stronger still? We all of us agree that now is the time to resolve this question. We must take all the measures possible to negate his strength. If we ignore his kidnapping of Prince Ollorto we will be the laughingstock of all Sicily."
   Don Croce nodded his head as if in agreement with all that had been said. But he did not speak. Guido Quintana, the least of the men present, said almost plaintively, "I am the Mayor of Montelepre and everybody knows I am one of the Friends. But nobody comes to me for judgment or redress or gifts. Guiliano rules the town and permits me to live there on his sufferance so as not to provoke a quarrel with you gentlemen. But I cannot make a living, I have no authority. I am a mere figurehead. While Guiliano lives, the Friends do not exist in Montelepre. I am not afraid of this lad. I faced him down once. Before he became a bandit. I do not think him a man to be feared. If this council agrees I will attempt to eliminate him. I have made plans and I only await your approval to execute them."
   Don Piddu of Caltanissetta and Don Arzana of Piani dei Greci nodded. Don Piddu said, "Where would be the difficulty? With our resources we can deliver his corpse to the Cathedral of Palermo and go to his funeral as we would to a wedding."
   The other chiefs, Don Marcuzzi of Villamura, Don Buccilla of Partinico, and Don Arzana voiced their approval. Then they waited.
   Don Croce lifted his massive head. His spike of a nose impaled them each in turn as he spoke. "My dear friends, I agree with everything you feel," he said. "But I think you underrate this young man. He is cunning beyond his years and perhaps as brave as any of us here. He will not be so easy to kill. Also I see a use for him in the future, not just for myself but for all of us. The Communist agitators are whipping the people of Sicily into a madness that makes them expect another Garibaldi, and we must make sure that Guiliano is not flattered into being their savior. I do not have to tell you the consequences to us if those savages ever come to rule Sicily. We must persuade him to fight on our side. Our position is not yet so secure that we can afford to throw away his strength by assassinating him." The Don sighed, washed down a morsel of bread with a glass of wine and mopped his mouth daintily with his napkin. "Do me this one favor. Let me make a last effort to persuade him. If he refuses, then do what you feel you must do. I will give you your answer within three days' time. Just let me make one last effort to come to a reasonable agreement."
   It was Don Siano who first bowed his head in agreement. After all, what reasonable man would be so impatient to commit murder that he could not wait three days? When they left, Don Croce summoned Hector Adonis to his home in Villaba.
   The Don was peremptory with Adonis. "I have come to the end of my patience with your godson," he said to the little man.
   "He must now be with us or against us. The kidnapping of Prince Ollorto was a direct insult to my person, but I am willing to forgive and forget. After all he is young, and I remember when I was his age I had his high spirits. As I have said always, I admire him for it. And believe me, I value his abilities. I would be overjoyed if he agreed to be my right hand. But he must recognize his place in the scheme of things. I have other chiefs who are not so admiring, not so understanding. I will not be able to hold them back. So go to your godson and tell him what I have told you. And bring me back his answer tomorrow at the latest. I can wait no longer."
   Hector Adonis was frightened. "Don Croce, I recognize your generosity in spirit and deed. But Turi is willful and like all young men too sure of his power. And it is true he is not altogether helpless. If he wars on the Friends, I know he cannot win, but the damage could be frightful. Is there some reward I can promise him?"
   The Don said, "Promise him this. He will have a high place in the Friends, and he will have my personal loyalty and my love. And after all he cannot live in the mountains forever. There will come a time when he will wish to take his place in society, to live within the law in the bosom of his family. When that day comes, I am the only man in Sicily who can assure him his pardon. And it will be my greatest happiness to do so. I mean this sincerely." And indeed when the Don spoke in this fashion he could not be disbelieved, he could not be resisted.
   When Hector Adonis went up into the mountains to meet with Guiliano he was very troubled and frightened for his godson and he resolved to speak frankly. He wanted Guiliano to understand that their love for each other came first, even above his allegiance to Don Croce. When he arrived, chairs and folding tables were set up at the edge of the cliff. Turi and Aspanu sat alone. He said to Guiliano, "I must talk to you privately."
   Pisciotta said angrily, "Little man, Turi has no secrets from me."
   Adonis ignored the insult. He said calmly, "Turi can tell you what I will tell him, if he likes. That is his affair. But I cannot tell you. I cannot take that responsibility."
   Guiliano patted Pisciotta's shoulder. "Aspanu, leave us alone. If it's something you should know, I'll tell you." Pisciotta rose abruptly, gave Adonis a hard stare and walked away.
   Hector Adonis waited for a long time. Then he began to speak. "Turi, you are my godson. I have loved you since you were an infant. I taught you, gave you books to read, helped you when you became an outlaw. You are one of the few people in the world who makes living worthwhile for me. And yet your cousin Aspanu insults me without a word of reproach from you."
   Guiliano said sadly, "I trust you more than I trust anyone except for my mother and father."
   "And Aspanu," Hector Adonis said reproachfully. "Has he not grown too bloodthirsty for any man to trust?"
   Guiliano looked him in the eyes and Adonis had to admire the serene honesty of his face. "Yes, I must confess, I trust Aspanu more than I do you. But I have loved you since I was a little boy. You freed my mind with your books and wit. I know you've helped my mother and father with your money. And you have been a true friend in my troubles. But I see you entangled with the Friends of the Friends, and something tells me that is what brings you here today."
   Once again, Adonis marveled at his godson's instincts. He presented the case to Turi. "You must come to an accommodation with Don Croce," he said. "Not the King of France, not the King of the Two Sicilies, not Garibaldi, not even Mussolini himself could ever completely crush the Friends of the Friends. You cannot hope to win a war against them. I beg of you to come to an accommodation. You must bend your knee to Don Croce at the beginning, but who knows what your position will be in the future. I tell you this on my honor and on the head of your mother whom we both adore: Don Croce believes in your genius and bears the seed of a true love for your person. You will be his heir, the favored son. But for this time you must bow to his rule."
   He could see that Turi was moved by this and took him very seriously. Hector Adonis said passionately, "Turi, think of your mother. You cannot live in the mountains forever, risking your life to see her a few days every year. With Don Croce you can hope for a pardon."
   The young man took some time to collect his thoughts and then spoke to his godfather in a slow serious tone. "First of all I wish to thank you for your honesty," he said. "The offer is very tempting. But I am now committed to free the poor in Sicily, and I do not believe the Friends have that same aim. They are servitors of the rich and the politicians in Rome and these are my sworn enemies. Let us wait and see. Certainly I kidnapped Prince Ollorto and stepped on their toes but I continue to permit Quintana to live and he is a man I despise. I forbear out of respect for Don Croce. Tell him that. Tell him that and tell him that I pray for the day when we can become equal partners. When our interests will not conflict. As for his chiefs, let them do what they will. I have no fear of them."
   It was with a heavy heart that Hector Adonis brought this answer back to Don Croce, who nodded his leonine head as if he had expected nothing else.
   In the following month three separate attempts were made on Guiliano's life. Guido Quintana was allowed the first pass. He planned with an elaborateness that was worthy of the Borgias. There was a road that Guiliano frequently used when he made a sortie out of the mountains. Alongside the road were lush fields which Quintana filled with a great flock of sheep. Guarding these sheep were three harmless-looking shepherds, natives of the town of Corleone and old friends of Quintana.
   For almost a week, when Guiliano was sighted coming down the road, the shepherds would greet him respectfully and in the old tradition ask for his hand to kiss. Guiliano engaged them in friendly conversation; shepherds were often part-time members of his band and he was always looking for new recruits. He did not feel himself in any danger since he nearly always traveled with bodyguards and often with Pisciotta, who was worth at least two men. The shepherds were unarmed and wore light clothing that could not conceal weapons.
   But the shepherds had lupare and ammunition belts strapped to the bellies of some sheep in the middle of the flock. They waited for an opportunity when Guiliano would be alone or not so heavily guarded. But Pisciotta had wondered about the friendliness of these shepherds, the sudden appearance of this flock of sheep, and he made inquiries through his network of informants. The shepherds were identified as assassins employed by Quintana.
   Pisciotta wasted no time. He took ten members of his own private band and rounded up the three shepherds. He questioned them closely about who owned the sheep, how long they had been shepherds, where they had been born, the names of their mothers and fathers, their wives and children. The shepherds answered with seeming frankness, but Pisciotta had the proof they were lying.
   A search uncovered the weapons hidden in the fleece of the animals. Pisciotta would have executed the imposters, but Guiliano vetoed this. After all, no harm had been done and the real villain was Quintana.
   So the shepherds were made to drive the flock of sheep into the town of Montelepre. And there in the main square they were made to sing out, "Come claim your gift from Turi Guiliano. A lamb for every household, a blessing from Turi Guiliano." And then the shepherds would do the slaughtering and skinning for any who requested such services.
   "Remember," Pisciotta told the shepherds. "I want you to be as obliging as the sweetest shopgirl in Palermo, as if you were getting a commission. And give my regards and thanks to Guido Quintana."
   Don Siano was not so elaborate. He sent two men as emissaries to bribe Passatempo and Terranova to act against Guiliano. But Don Siano could not comprehend the loyalty Guiliano inspired even in such a brute as Passatempo. Again Guiliano vetoed death, but Passatempo himself sent the two emissaries back with the mark of the bastinado.
   The third attempt was made by Quintana again. And it was this attempt that made Guiliano lose his patience.
   A new priest came to Montelepre, a traveling friar bearing various religious stigmata on his body. He said Mass at the local church one Sunday morning and showed his holy wounds.
   His name was Father Dodana, and he was a tall athletic man who walked so briskly that his black cassock swirled in the air above his cracked leather shoes. His hair was a whitish blond, his face wrinkled and brown as a nut though he was still a young man. Within a month he was a legend in the town of Montelepre, for he was not afraid of hard work; he helped the local farmers gather their crops, he chastised mischievous children in the streets, he called on sick old women in their homes to confess their sins. And so one Sunday when he was standing outside the church after saying Mass, Maria Lombardo Guiliano was not surprised that he stopped her and asked if he could do something for her son.
   "Surely you worry about his immortal soul," Father Dodana said. "The next time he comes to visit you send for me and I will hear his confession."
   Maria Lombardo had no love for priests though she was religious. But this man impressed her. She knew Turi would never make a confession, but perhaps he would have use for a holy man sympathetic to his cause. She told the priest that her son would be informed of his offer. Father Dodana said, "I would even go into the mountains to help him. Tell him that. My only business is to save souls in danger of hell. What a man does is his own business."
   Turi Guiliano came to visit his mother a week later. She urged him to see the priest and make a confession. Perhaps Father Dodana would give him Holy Communion. She would be easier in mind if he were shriven of his sins.
   Turi Guiliano was very interested, which surprised his mother. He agreed to see the priest and he sent Aspanu Pisciotta to the church to escort him back to the Guiliano home. As Guiliano had suspected, when Father Dodana appeared, he moved too much like a man of action; he was too vigorous and he was too sympathetic to Guiliano's cause.
   Father Dodana said, "My son, I will listen to your confession in the privacy of your bedroom. And then I will give you Communion. I have all my things here." He patted the wooden case under his arm. "Your soul will be as pure as your mother's, and if some evil befalls you, you will go straight to heaven."
   Maria Lombardo said, "I'll make coffee and some food for you and the holy father." She went into the kitchen.
   "You can confess me here," Turi Guiliano said with a smile.
   Father Dodana glanced at Aspanu Pisciotta. "Your friend will have to leave the room," he said.
   Turi laughed. "My sins are public. They appear in every newspaper. My soul is pure otherwise, except for one thing. I must confess to a suspicious nature. So I would like to see what is in that box you carry under your arm."
   "The wafers of Holy Communion," Father Dodana said. "I will show you." He started to open the box but at that moment Pisciotta pressed a pistol against the back of his neck. Guiliano took the box away from the priest. At that moment they looked into each other's eyes. Guiliano opened the box. A dark blue automatic nestled in a bed of holy velvet glinted up at him.
   Pisciotta saw Guiliano's face go pale, his eyes with their silver circles go black with a subdued fury.
   Guiliano closed the box and looked up at the priest. "I think we should go to the church and pray together," he said. "We will say a prayer for you and we will say a prayer for Quintana. We will pray to the good Lord to take the evil out of Quintana's heart and the greediness out of yours. How much did he promise to pay you?"
   Father Dodana was not worried. The other would-be assassins had been let off so lightly. He shrugged and then smiled. "The government reward and five million lire extra."
   "A good price," Guiliano said. "I don't blame you for trying to make your fortune. But you deceived my mother and that I can't forgive. Are you a real priest?"
   "Me?" Father Dodana said contemptuously. "Never. But I thought no one would suspect me."
   The three of them walked down the street together, Guiliano carrying the wooden box, Pisciotta trailing behind. They entered the church. Guiliano made Father Dodana kneel at the altar, then took the automatic out of the wooden box. "You have a minute to say your prayers," Guiliano said.
   The next morning Guido Quintana rose to go down to the cafe for his morning coffee. When he opened the door of his house, he was startled by a massive shadow blocking off the usual early morning sunlight. In the next instant a huge roughly made wooden cross tumbled inside, almost knocking him down. Nailed to that cross was the bullet-ridden body of Father Dodana.
   Don Croce pondered these failures. Quintana had been warned. He must devote himself to his duties as Mayor or the city of Montelepre would be forced to govern itself. It was clear Guiliano had lost patience and might launch an all-out war against the Friends. Don Croce recognized the sureness of a master in Guiliano's retribution. Only one more strike could be made and it must not fail. Don Croce knew that he must, finally take a stand. And against his judgment and his true will, he sent for his most reliable assassin, a certain Stefano Andolini, also known as Fra Diavalo.

Chapter 14

   The garrison of Montelepre had been increased to more than a hundred carabinieri, and on the rare times Guiliano crept into town to spend an evening with his family, he was in constant fear that the carabinieri would swoop down upon them.
   One such evening, listening to his father talk of the old days in America, the idea had come to him. Salvatore Senior was drinking wine and swapping tales with an old and trusted friend who had been in America also and had returned to Sicily with him, and they good-naturedly reproached each other for being so stupid. The other man, a carpenter named Alfio Dorio, reminded Guiliano's father of their first few years in America before they had worked for the Godfather, Don Corleone. They had been hired to help build a huge tunnel under a river, either to New Jersey or to Long Island, they quarreled about that. They reminisced about how eerie it was to work beneath a flowing river, their dread that the tubes holding out the water would collapse and they would drown like rats. And suddenly it came to Guiliano. These two men with some trusted helpers could build a tunnel from his parents' house to the base of the mountains only a hundred yards away. The exit could be hidden by the huge granite rocks and the source of the tunnel in the house could be hidden in one of the closets or beneath the stove in the kitchen. If that could be done Guiliano might come and go as he pleased.
   The two older men told him that it was impossible, but his mother was wild with pleasure at the idea that her son could secretly come and sleep in his bed on cold winter nights. Alfio Dorio said that given the necessity for secrecy, the limited amount of men who could be used, and since the work could only be done at night, it would take too long to complete such a tunnel. And then there were problems. How would they get rid of the dirt excavated without being observed? And the soil here was full of stones. What if they came up against a strain of granite underground? And then what if the tunnel were betrayed by some of the men recruited to work on it? But the persistent objection of the two older men was that it would take at least a year. And Guiliano realized that they harped on this because they believed in their heart of hearts that he would not be alive so long. His mother realized the same thing.
   She said to the two older men: "My son asks you to do something that may help save his life. If you are too lazy to do so, then I will. We can try at least. What do we have to lose except our labor? And what can the authorities do even if they discover the tunnel? We have a perfect right to dig on our land. We'll say we're making a cellar for vegetables and wine. Just think. This tunnel may someday save Turi's life. Isn't that worth some sweat?"
   Hector Adonis was also present. Adonis said he would get some books on excavation and the necessary equipment. He also came up with a variation that pleased them all: that they build a little offshoot tunnel that would lead into another house on the Via Bella, an escape hatch in case the exit of the tunnel was compromised or betrayed by an informer. This offshoot tunnel would be dug first, and only by the two old men and Maria Lombardo. Nobody else would know about it. And it would not take so long to dig.
   They had a long discussion on which house was trustworthy. Guiliano's father suggested the home of Aspanu Pisciotta's parents, but this was immediately vetoed by Guiliano. The house was too suspect, would be closely watched. And there were too many relatives living in that house. Too many people would know. Besides, Aspanu was not on good terms with his family. His natural father had died, and when his mother remarried he had never forgiven her.
   Hector Adonis volunteered his house but it was too far away, and Guiliano did not want to endanger his godfather. For if the tunnel was discovered the owner of the house would surely be arrested. Other relatives and friends were considered and rejected, and then finally Guiliano's mother said, "There is only one person. She lives alone, just four houses down the street. Her husband was killed by the carabinieri, she hates them. She is my best friend and she is fond of Turi, she has watched him grow from a boy to a man. Didn't she send him food all the winter he spent in the mountains? She is my true friend and I have complete trust in her."
   She paused for a moment and then said, "La Venera." And of course since the discussion had begun, they had been waiting for her to say that name. From the first, La Venera had been the only logical choice in all their minds. But they were Sicilian males and could not make such a suggestion. If La Venera agreed and the story came out, her reputation would be ruined forever. She was a young widow. She would be granting her privacy and her person to a young male. Who could ever doubt that she would lose her virtue? No man in that part of Sicily could marry or even respect such a woman. It was true that La Venera was at least fifteen years older than Turi Guiliano. But she was not yet forty. And though her face was not beautiful, it was attractive enough, and there was a certain fire in her eyes. In any case she was female and he was male and with the tunnel they would be alone together. There could not therefore be any doubt that they would become lovers, for no Sicilian believed that any male and female alone together, no matter what difference in age, could refrain. And so the tunnel into her house that perhaps might one day save Turi Guiliano's life would also mark her as a woman of ill repute. What they all understood except for Turi Guiliano himself was that Guiliano's sexual chastity worried them. It was not natural in a Sicilian male. He was almost prudish. His band of men went to Palermo to visit whores; Aspanu Pisciotta had scandalous love affairs. His bandit chiefs Terranova and Passatempo were known to be the lovers of poor widows to whom they gave gifts. Passatempo even had a reputation as a man who used persuasion more typical of rapist than suitor, though he trod carefully now that he was under Guiliano's orders. Guiliano had decreed execution for any of his men who raped.
   For all these reasons they had to wait for Guiliano's mother to put forth the name of her friend, and they were a little surprised when she did so. Maria Lombardo Guiliano was a religious, old-fashioned woman who did not hesitate to call the young girls of the town whores if they so much as took a stroll in the village square without a chaperone. They did not know what Maria Lombardo knew. That La Venera, because of the sufferings of childbirth, the lack of proper medical care, could no longer become pregnant. They could not know that Maria Lombardo had already decided that La Venera could best comfort her son in the safest possible way. Her son was an outlaw with a price on his head and could easily be betrayed by a woman. He was young and virile and needed a woman – who better than an older woman who could not bear children, and who could not make any claims for marriage? And indeed would not want to marry a bandit. She had had her fill of that misery. A husband shot down before her eyes. It was a perfect arrangement. Only La Venera's reputation would suffer, and so she would have to make the decision herself. It would be on her head if she agreed.
   When Guiliano's mother made that request a few days later she was surprised when La Venera gave a proud and joyful yes. It confirmed a suspicion that her friend had a weakness for Turi. So be it, Maria Lombardo thought as she took La Venera into her arms with grateful tears. The offshoot tunnel was completed in four months; the main tunnel would not be completed for another year. Periodically Guiliano would sneak into town at night and visit his family and sleep in a warm bed, after his mother's hot meals; there would always be a feast. But it was nearly spring before he found it necessary to use the offshoot tunnel. A carabinieri patrol in strength came down the Via Bella and passed by. They were armed to the teeth. Guiliano's bodyguard of four men hidden in nearby houses was ready to do battle. But they passed on. Still there was the fear that on their return they might decide to raid the Guiliano home. So Turi Guiliano went through the trapdoor in his parents' bedroom and into the tunnel.
   The offshoot was disguised by a wooden panel covered with a foot of dirt so that workers on the main tunnel would not know it existed. Guiliano had to dig away the dirt and remove the wooden disc. It took him another fifteen minutes to crawl through the narrow space that led under La Venera's house. The trapdoor there led to the kitchen and was covered by a huge iron stove. Guiliano tapped on the trapdoor with the prearranged signal and waited. He tapped again. He never feared bullets, but he feared this darkness. Finally there was a faint noise above him and then the trapdoor was raised. It could not rise all the way because the stove above it broke the plane of the lid. Guiliano had to squeeze through the opening and wound up on his belly on La Venera's kitchen floor.
   Though it was the middle of the night, La Venera was still in her usual ill-fitting black dress, the mourning for her husband though he was three years dead. Her feet were bare. She wore no stockings, and as Guiliano rose from the floor he could see the skin on her legs was a startling white, so very much in contrast to the brown skin of her sunburned face and the jet black, coarse and heavily woven hair. For the first time he noticed that her face was not as broad as that of most of the older women in his town, that it was triangular, and though her eyes were dark brown, they had little black flecks in them he had never seen before. In her hand she held a scuttle full of live coals as if ready to throw them at the open trapdoor. Now she calmly slid the coals back into the stove and replaced the lid. She looked a little frightened.
   Guiliano reassured her. "It's just a patrol roaming around. When they return to their barracks, I'll leave. But don't worry, I have friends out in the street."
   They waited. La Venera made him coffee and they chatted. She noted that he did not have any of the nervous movements of her husband. He did not peer out the windows, his body did not tense at sudden noises in the street. He seemed completely relaxed. She did not know he had trained himself to act this way because of her stories about her husband and because he did not want to alarm his parents, especially his mother. He projected such an air of confidence that she soon forgot the danger he was in and they gossiped about the little happenings of the town.
   She asked him if he had received the food she had sent him in the mountains from time to time. He thanked her and said how he and his companions had fallen on her food packets as if they were gifts from the Magi. How his men had complimented her cooking. He did not tell her of the coarse jokes some of his companions had made, that if her lovemaking equaled her cooking she would be a prize indeed. Meanwhile he was watching her closely. She was not being as friendly to him as usual; she did not show that fond tenderness she had always shown in public. He wondered if he had offended her in some way. When the danger was past and it was time for him to leave, they were formal with each other.
   Two weeks later, Guiliano came to her again. The winter was near its end, but the mountains were filled with storm gales and the padlocked shrines of saints along the roads were dripping with rain. Guiliano in his cave dreamed of his mother's cooking, a hot bath, his soft bed in his childhood room. And mixed with these longings, much to his surprise, was the memory of the white skin of La Venera's legs. Night had fallen when he whistled up to his bodyguards and took the road down to Montelepre.
   His family greeted him with joy. His mother started to cook his favorite dishes and as they were cooking she prepared a hot bath. His father had poured him a glass of anisette when one of the network of spies came to the house and told him that carabinieri patrols were surrounding the town and the Maresciallo himself was about to lead a flying squadron out of the Bellampo Barracks to raid the Guiliano household.
   Guiliano went through the closet trapdoor and into the tunnel. It was muddy with rain and the earth clung to him and made the trip long and laborious. When he crawled into La Venera's kitchen his clothes were covered with slime, his face black.
   When La Venera saw him, she laughed and it was the first time Guiliano could ever remember her laughing. "You look like a Moor," she said. And for a moment he felt a child's hurt, perhaps because the Moors were always the villains in the puppet shows of Sicily, and instead of being a hero in danger of his life, he could be seen as a villain. Or perhaps because her laugh made her seem inaccessible to his inner desire. She saw that in some way she had injured his vanity. "I'll fill the bath tin and you can get clean," she said. "And I have some of my husband's clothes you can wear while I clean yours."
   She had expected him to object, that he would be too nervous to bathe in such a moment of danger. Her husband had been so jumpy when he visited her that he would never undress, never leave his guns out of reach of his hands. But Guiliano smiled at her and took off his heavy jacket and his guns and put them over the wooden box that held her firewood.
   It took time to heat pots of water and fill the tin tub. She gave him coffee while they waited and studied him. He was handsome as an angel, she thought, but she was not deceived. Her husband had been as handsome and murdered men. And the bullets that killed him had made him ugly enough, she thought with misery; it was not clever to love a man's face, not in Sicily. How she had wept, but secretly there was the tremendous surge of relief. His death had been certain, once he had turned bandit, and every day she had waited, hoping he would die in the mountains or some far-off town. But he had been shot down before her eyes. And ever since she had been unable to escape the shame, not of his being a bandit, but of his dying an inglorious and not a brave death. He had surrendered and begged for mercy and the carabinieri had massacred him before her eyes. Thank God her daughter had not seen her father slain. A small mercy from Christ.
   She saw that Turi Guiliano was watching her with that special light on his face that signaled desire in all men. She knew it well. Her husband's followers often had such a look. But she knew Turi would not try to seduce her, out of respect for his mother, out of respect for her sacrifice in allowing the tunnel to be built.
   She left the kitchen and went into the small living room so that he could bathe in privacy. When she left, Guiliano stripped and stepped into the bath. The act of being naked with a woman nearby was erotic to him. He washed with scrupulous care and then put on her husband's clothes. The trousers were a little short and the shirt was tight around his chest so that he had to leave the top buttons undone. The towels she had warmed near the stove were little more than rags, his body still felt damp, and for the first time he realized how poor she was and resolved to supply her with money through his mother.
   He called out to La Venera that he was dressed and she came back into the kitchen. She looked him over and said, "But you haven't washed your hair, you have a nest of geckos hiding there." She said this roughly but with a warm affection so that he did not take offense. Like some old grandmother she ran her hands over his matted hair, then took him by the arm and led him to the sink.
   Guiliano felt a warm glow where her hand had touched his skull. He quickly put his head under the faucet and she ran water over him and shampooed his hair with the yellow kitchen soap; she had no other. When she did so her body and legs brushed against him and he felt the sudden urge to pass his hands over her breast, her soft belly.
   When she finished washing his hair, La Venera made him sit on one of her black enameled kitchen chairs and vigorously dried his hair with a rough, raggedy brown towel. His hair was so long that it covered the collar of his shirt.
   "You look like one of those ruffian English lords in the movies," she said. "I must cut your hair, but not in the kitchen. It will blow into my pots and spoil your dinner. Come into the other room."
   Guiliano was amused by her sternness. She was assuming the role of an aunt or mother as if to prevent any show of a more tender feeling. He was aware of the sexuality behind it, but he was wary. In this area he was inexperienced and he did not want to look foolish. It was like the guerrilla warfare he waged in the mountains; he would not commit himself until all the odds were on his side. This was not scouted terrain. But the last year of commanding and killing men made his natural boyish fear seem more like a joke, the rejection by a woman not so paralyzing to his ego. And despite his reputation for chastity, he had gone to Palermo with his friends to visit prostitutes. But that was before he had become an outlaw and acquired the dignity of a bandit chief, and of course a romantic hero who would never do such a thing.
   La Venera led him into the small living room cluttered with stuffed furniture, small tables topped with black varnished wood. On these tables were photographs of her dead husband and dead child, singly and together. Some were of La Venera with her family. The photos were framed in black oval wood, the prints tinged with sepia brown. Guiliano was surprised by the beauty of La Venera in these younger, happier days, especially when she was dressed in pretty, youthful clothes. There was a formal portrait of her alone, dressed in a dark red dress, that struck him to the heart. And for a moment he thought of her husband and how many crimes he must have committed to bring her such finery. "Don't look at those pictures," La Venera said with a sad smile. "That was in a time when I thought the world could make me happy." He realized that one of the reasons she had brought him into this room was to make him see these pictures.
   She kicked the small stool from a corner of the room and Guiliano sat on it. From a leather box, beautifully made and stitched with gold, she took scissors, razor and comb – a prize the bandit Candeleria had brought home one Christmas from one of his crimes. Then she went into the bedroom and brought a white cloth which she hung over Guiliano's shoulders. She also brought a wooden bowl which she placed on the table beside her. A jeep went by the house.
   She said, "Should I bring your guns from the kitchen? Would you be more comfortable?"
   Guiliano looked at her calmly. He seemed absolutely serene. He did not want to alarm her. They both knew the jeep going by was full of carabinieri on their way to raid the Guiliano home. But he knew two things: If the carabinieri came here and tried to enter the barred door, Pisciotta and his men would massacre them all; and before he had left the kitchen he had moved the stove so that no one could raise the trapdoor.
   He touched her gently on the arm. "No," he said. "I don't need my guns unless you plan to cut my throat with that razor." They both laughed.
   And then she began to cut Turi Guiliano's hair. She did so carefully and slowly, grasping strands to snip, then depositing the hair into the wooden bowl. Guiliano sat very quietly. Mesmerized by the tiny snipping noises, he stared at the walls of the room. On them were huge portraits of La Venera's husband, the great bandit Candeleria. But great only in this little province of Sicily, Guiliano thought, his youthful pride already in competition with the dead husband.
   Rutillo Candeleria had been a handsome man. He had a high forehead surmounted by wavy chestnut hair carefully cut, and Guiliano wondered if his wife had cut it for him. His face was adorned with full cavalry mustaches which made him seem older, though he had only been thirty-five when the carabinieri shot him. Now his face looked down from the oval portrait almost kindly, in a benediction. Only the eyes and mouth betrayed his ferocity. And yet at the same time there was a resignation in that face, as if he knew what his fate must be. Like all who raised their hands against the world and tore from it what they wished by violence and murder, like others who made personal law and tried to rule society with it. he must come finally to sudden death.
   The wooden bowl was filling with glossy brown hair, clumped like the nests of small birds. Guiliano felt La Venera's legs pressed against his back; her heat came through the rough cotton of her dress. When she moved in front of him to cut around his forehead she kept well away from his leg, but when she had to lean forward, the swelling of her bust almost brushed against his lips and the clean heavy scent of her body made his face as warm as if he were standing before a fire. The portraits on the wall were blotted out.
   She swiveled her rounded hips to deposit another clump of hair in the wooden bowl. For one moment her thigh rested against his arm and he could feel the silky skin even through the heavy black dress. He made his body steady as a rock. She leaned against him harder. To keep himself from pulling up her skirt and clasping those thighs, he said jokingly, "Are we Samson and Delilah?"
   She stepped away from him suddenly. And he was surprised by the tears running down her face. Without thinking he put his hands on her body and pulled her closer. Slowly she reached out and lay the silver scissors across the mound of brown hair that filled the wooden bowl.
   And then his hands were under her black mourning dress and clutching her warm thighs. She bent down and covered his mouth with hers as if she would swallow it. Their initial tenderness was a second's spark that roared into an animal passion fed by her three years of chaste widowhood, his springing from the sweet lust of a young man who had never tasted the love of a woman but only the bought exercise of whores.
   For that first moment, Guiliano lost all sense of himself and his world. La Venera's body was so lush, and it burned with a tropical heat that went to his very bones. Her breasts were fuller than he could ever have imagined; the black widow's dress had cleverly disguised and protected them. At the sight of those oval globes of flesh he felt the blood pounding in his head. And then they were on the floor making love and taking off their clothing at the same time. She kept whispering, "Turi, Turi," in an agonized voice, but he said nothing. He was lost in the smell, the heat and fleshiness of her body. When they finished, she led him into the bedroom and they made love again. He could not believe the pleasure he found in her body, and even felt some dismay at his own surrender and was only comforted that she succumbed even more completely.
   When he fell asleep she stared down into his face for a long time. She imprinted it on her memory in fear she would never see him alive again. For she remembered the last night she had slept with her husband before he died, when she had turned her back after making love and fallen asleep and ever since could not remember the sweet mask that comes over every lover's face. She had turned her back because she could not bear the fearful nervousness of her husband when he was in the house, his terror of being trapped so that he could never fall asleep, the way he started up if she rose from the bed to cook or do some chore. She marveled now at Guiliano's calm; she loved him for it. She loved him because, unlike her husband, he did not bring his guns to bed, he did not interrupt his lovemaking to listen for the sound of lurking enemies, he did not smoke or drink and tell his fears. He was gentle in his speech, but took his pleasure with fearless and concentrated passion. She rose noiselessly from the bed and still he did not stir. She waited a moment and then went out and into the kitchen to cook him her best dish.
   When he left her house in the morning he went through the front door, stepping out carelessly but with guns hidden beneath his jacket. He had told her he would not stop to say goodbye to his mother and asked her to do so for him, to let her know he was safe. She was frightened at his boldness, not knowing he had a small army in the town, not noticing that he had held her door open a few minutes before he went out so that Pisciotta would be warned and would eliminate any carabinieri going by.
   She kissed him goodbye with a shyness that moved him and then she whispered, "When will you come to see me again?"
   "Whenever I come to see my mother, I'll come to you afterward." he said. "In the mountains I'll dream about you every night." And at these words she felt an overwhelming joy that she had made him happy.
   She waited until noon before she went down the street to see Guiliano's mother. Maria Lombardo had only to see her face to know what had happened. La Venera looked ten years younger. Her dark brown eyes had black flecks dancing in them, her cheeks were rosy with color, and for the first time in almost four years she wore a dress that was not black. It was the frilly dress beribboned with velvet that a girl wears to show the mother of her lover. Maria Lombardo felt a rush of gratitude for her friend, for her loyalty and her courage and also a certain satisfaction that her plans had come out so well. This would be a wonderful arrangement for her son, a woman who would never be a traitor, a woman who could never make a permanent claim upon him. Though she loved her son fiercely she felt no jealousy. Except when La Venera told how she had cooked her best dish, a pie stuffed with rabbit meat and chunks of strong cheese riddled with fat grains of pepper, and how Turi had devoured enough for five men and sworn he had never eaten anything better in his life.

Chapter 15

   Even in Sicily, a land where men killed each other with the same ferocious enthusiasm with which the Spaniards slaughtered bulls, the murderous madness of the citizens of Corleone inspired a universal dread. Rival families exterminated each other in a quarrel over a single olive tree, neighbors might kill each other over the amount of water one took from a communal stream, a man could die from love – that is, if he looked too disrespectfully at a wife or daughter. Even the cool-headed Friends of the Friends succumbed to this madness and their different branches warred to death in Corleone until Don Croce brought them to peace.
   In such a town, Stefano Andolini had earned the nickname of Fra Diavalo, Brother Devil.
   Don Croce had summoned him from Corleone and instructed him. He was to join Guiliano's band and win their confidence. He was to stay with them until Don Croce gave orders as to his future course of action. Meanwhile he was to send back information as to Guiliano's real strength, the loyalty of Passatempo and Terranova. Since Pisciotta's loyalty was unquestioned there remained only to evaluate that young man's weaknesses. And if the opportunity arose, Andolini was to kill Guiliano.
   Andolini had no fear of the great Guiliano. Also, since he was redheaded, and redheads were so rare in Italy, Stefano Andolini secretly believed he had been excused from the rules of virtue. As a gambler believes his system can never lose, so Stefano Andolini believed himself so cunning he could never be outwitted.
   He picked two young picciotti to go with him, that is, apprentice killers, who had not yet been admitted to the Mafia but hoped for that honor. They journeyed into the mountain haunts of Guiliano carrying knapsacks and lupare and sure enough were picked up by a roving patrol headed by Pisciotta.
   Pisciotta listened to Stefano Andolini's story with an impassive face. Andolini told him that the carabinieri and Security Police were looking for him because of the murder of a Socialist agitator in Corleone. This was quite true. What Andolini did not say was that the police and carabinieri had no proof and were merely seeking him for questioning. A questioning that would be more kindly than exhaustive due to the influence of Don Croce. Andolini also told Pisciotta that the two picciotti with him were men who were also being sought by the police as co-conspirators in the killing. This was also true. But as he was telling this story Stefano Andolini felt a mounting uneasiness. Pisciotta was listening with the expression of a man who has met someone he has known before or of whom he has heard a great deal.
   Andolini said that he had come into the mountains in the hope of joining Guiliano's band. And then he played his trump card. He had the stamp of approval from Guiliano's father himself. He, Stefano Andolini, was a cousin of the great Don Vito Corleone, in America. Pisciotta nodded. Andolini went on. Don Vito Corleone had been born an Andolini in the village of Corleone. His father killed, himself hunted as a boy, he had escaped to America where he had become the great Godfather. When he had returned to Sicily to wreak vengeance on his father's murderers, Stefano Andolini had been one of his picciotti. Thereafter he had visited the Don in America to receive his reward. While there he had met Guiliano's father who worked as a bricklayer on the Don's new mansion on Long Island. They had become friends, and Andolini, before he came into the mountains, had stopped in Montelepre to receive the blessing of Salvatore Guiliano Senior.
   Pisciotta's face became thoughtful as he listened to this story. He distrusted this man, his red hair, his face of a murderer. And Pisciotta didn't like the look of the two picciotti with Malpelo, for so he called him in the Sicilian style.
   Pisciotta said to him, "I'll take you to Guiliano, but keep your lupare strapped to your shoulders until he's spoken to you. Don't unsling them without permission."
   Stefano Andolini grinned widely and said with the utmost affability, "But I recognized you, Aspanu, I trust you. Take my lupara off my shoulder and your men can do the same with my picciotti here. After we speak with Guiliano I'm sure he'll return our guns."
   Pisciotta said, "We're not pack animals to carry your weapons for you. Carry them yourselves." And he led the way through the mountains to Guiliano's hideout on the edge of the cliff overlooking Montelepre.
   More than fifty of the band were scattered around the cliff cleaning guns and repairing equipment. Guiliano was seated at the table, watching through his binoculars.
   Pisciotta talked to Guiliano before he had the new recruits brought forward. He told all the circumstances and then he said, "Turi, he seems a little 'moldy' to me." "Moldy," the Sicilian idiom for a man who informs.
   "And you think you've seen him before?" Guiliano asked.
   "Or heard of him," Pisciotta said. "He is familiar to me somehow, but redheaded men are rare. I should remember him."
   Guiliano said quietly, "You heard about him from La Venera. She called him Malpelo – she didn't know his name was Andolini. She told me about him too. He joined her husband's band. A month later her husband was ambushed and killed by the carabinieri. La Venera didn't trust him either. He was full of little tricks, she said."
   Silvestro came over to them. "Don't trust that redhead. I've seen him at Palermo headquarters for private visits with the Commandant of Carabinieri. ''
   Guiliano said, "Go down to Montelepre and bring my father here. Meanwhile keep them under guard."
   Pisciotta sent Terranova to fetch Guiliano's father and then he went to the three men, who were sitting on the ground. He bent down and picked up Stefano Andolini's weapon. Members of the band encircled the three men like wolves surrounding a fallen prey. "You don't mind if I relieve you of the task of caring for this weapon now?" Pisciotta asked with a grin. Stefano Andolini looked startled for a moment, his face twisting into a grimace. Then he shrugged. Pisciotta tossed the lupara to one of his men.
   He waited for a few moments, making sure his men were ready. Then he reached down to take the lupare from Andolini's two picciotti. One of them, more from fear than malice, pushed Pisciotta away and put his hand on his shotgun. In the next moment, quickly as a snake baring its tongue, a knife appeared in Pisciotta's hand. His body darted forward and the knife cut the picciotto's throat. A fountain of pink blood burst into the clear mountain air and the picciotto slumped over on his side. Pisciotta was straddling his body, leaning down, and another quick stroke finished the job. Then, with a series of quick kicks, he rolled the body into a gully.
   The other men of Guiliano's band had sprung to their feet leveling their guns. Andolini, sitting on the ground, raised his hands in the air and looked around him beseechingly. But the other picciotto lunged for his weapon and tried to bring it around. Passatempo, standing behind him and grinning with enjoyment, emptied his pistol into the man's head. The shots echoed through the mountains. They all remained frozen, Andolini pale and shaking with fear, Passatempo holding his pistol. And then Guiliano's voice from the edge of the cliff said quietly, "Get rid of the bodies and tie that Malpelo to a tree until my father comes."
   The bodies were wrapped in bamboo nets and carried to a deep crevice. They were thrown in with stones tumbled down after them to keep the stench from rising, according to old superstition. This was a task for Passatempo, who robbed the bodies before he buried them. Guiliano constantly fought against his distaste for Passatempo. No amount of rationalization could turn that animal into a knight.
   It was after dusk, almost seven hours later, that Guiliano's father was finally brought into the camp. Stefano Andolini was released from his tree and brought over to the cave lit with kerosene lamps. Guiliano's father was angry when he saw Andolini's condition.
   "But this man is my friend," he said to his son. "We both worked for the Godfather in America. I told him he could come and join your band, that he would be well treated."
   He shook hands with Andolini and said, "I apologize. My son must have misunderstood or heard some gossip about you." He paused for a moment, troubled. It distressed him to see his old friend so full of fear. For Andolini could barely stand.
   Andolini was sure he would be killed. That this was all a charade. The back of his neck ached as the muscles tensed to receive the bullets. He almost wept at his own brashness that had made him underestimate Guiliano. The quick killings of his two picciotti had sent him into shock.
   Signor Guiliano sensed that his friend was in mortal danger from his son. He said to him, "Turi, how often do I ask you to do something for me? If you have anything against this man forgive him and let him go. He was kind to me in America and he sent you a gift when you were christened. I trust him and hold his friendship dear."
   Guiliano said, "Now that you have identified him, he will be treated as an honored guest. If he wishes to remain as a member of my band he is welcome."
   Guiliano's father was taken back to Montelepre by horse so that he could sleep in his own bed. And after he was gone Guiliano spoke to Stefano Andolini alone.
   "I know about you and Candeleria," he said. "You were a spy for Don Croce when you joined Candeleria's band. A month later Candeleria was dead. His widow remembers you. From what she told me it wasn't hard for me to figure out what happened. We Sicilians are good at putting together puzzles of treacheries. Bands of outlaws are disappearing. The authorities have become amazingly clever. I sit on my mountain and think all day. I think of the authorities in Palermo – they have never been so clever before. And then I learn that the Minister of Justice in Rome and Don Croce are hand in glove. And we know, you and I, that Don Croce is clever enough for both of them. So then it is Don Croce who is clearing away these bandits for Rome. And then I think soon it will be my turn to be visited by the spies of Don Croce. And I wait and I wait and I wonder why the Don is taking so long. For, with all modesty, I am the biggest prize of all. And then today I see the three of you in my binoculars. And I think, 'Ha, it's Malpelo again. I will be glad to see him.' But I must kill you all the same. I won't distress my father so your body will disappear."
   Stefano Andolini lost his fear for a moment in his outrage. "You would deceive your own father?" he shouted. "You call yourself a Sicilian son?" He spat on the ground. "Then kill me and go straight down to hell."
   Pisciotta, Terranova and Passatempo were also astonished. But they had been astonished many times in the past. Guiliano who was so honorable, who prided himself on keeping his word, who spoke always of justice for everyone, would suddenly turn and do something that seemed to them villainous. It was not that they objected to him killing Andolini – he could kill a hundred Andolinis, a thousand. But that he should break his word to his father and deceive him seemed to them unforgivable. Only Corporal Silvestro seemed to understand and said, "He can't endanger all our lives because his father is softhearted."
   Guiliano said to Andolini in a quiet voice, "Make your peace with God." He motioned to Passatempo. "You will have five minutes."
   Andolini's red hair seemed to bristle all over his head. He said frantically, "Before you kill me speak to the Abbot Manfredi."
   Guiliano stared at him with amazement and the redheaded man spoke in an outpouring of words. "You once said to the Abbot that you owed him a service. That he could ask you for anything." Guiliano remembered his promise well. How did the man know about it?
   Andolini continued, "Let us go to him and he will beg for my life."
   Pisciotta said contemptuously, "Turi, it will take another day to send a messenger and get his answer back. And does the Abbot have more influence with you than your own father?"
   Guiliano astonished them again. "Bind his arms and put a halter on his feet so that he can walk but not run. Give me a guard of ten men. I'll bring him to the monastery myself, and if the Abbot does not ask for his life, he can make his last confession. I'll execute him and give his body to the monks for burial."
   Guiliano and his band arrived at the monastery gates as the sun was rising and the monks were going out to work the fields. Turi Guiliano watched them, a smile on his lips. Was it only two years ago that he had gone into the fields with these priests, wearing his brown cloak and the crumpled black American fedora on his head? He remembered how this amused him. Who would have dreamed then of his future ferocity? A nostalgia came for those old days of peace working in the fields.
   The Abbot himself was coming toward the gate to greet them. The tall black-robed figure hesitated when the prisoner stepped forward, then opened his arms. Stefano Andolini rushed to embrace the old man, kissed him on both cheeks and said, " Father. these men are going to kill me, only you can save me."
   The Abbot nodded. He held out his arms to Guiliano, who came forward to embrace him. Guiliano understood everything now. The peculiar accent on the word "Father" was not how a man addressed his priest but as a son addressed his parent.
   The Abbot said, "I ask you for this man's life, as a boon to me."
   Guiliano took the ropes off Andolini's arms and feet. "He is yours," Turi Guiliano said.
   Andolini was sagging to the ground; the fear rushing out of his body made him weak. The Abbot supported him with his own frail frame. He said to Guiliano, "Come into my dining room. I will have your men fed and the three of us can talk about what we must do." He turned to Andolini and said, "My dear son, you are not yet out of danger. What will Don Croce think when he learns of all this? We must take counsel together or you are lost."
   The Abbot had his own small coffee room and the three men sat comfortably. Cheese and bread were brought for the two younger men.
   The Abbot turned and smiled sadly at Guiliano. "One of my many sins. I fathered this man when I was young. Ah, nobody knows the temptations of a parish priest in Sicily. I did not resist them. The scandal was covered up and his mother was married to an Andolini. A great deal of money passed and I was able to rise in the Church. But the irony of heaven no man can foretell. My son grew up to be a murderer. And that is a cross I have to bear though I have so many of my own sins to answer for."
   The Abbot's tone changed when he turned to Andolini. He said, "Listen to me carefully, my son. For a second time you owe your life to me. Understand your first loyalty. It is now to Guiliano."
   "You cannot go back to the Don. He will ask himself, Why did Turi spare your life and kill the other two? He will suspect treachery and that will be your death. What you must do is confess everything to the Don and ask to remain with Guiliano's band. That you will give him information and serve as a link between the Friends of the Friends and Guiliano's army. I will go to the Don myself and tell him the advantages of this. I will also tell him that you will remain faithful to Guiliano but that will not be to his disadvantage. He will think you will betray this man here who spared your life. But I tell you that if you do not remain faithful to Guiliano I will damn you to hell forever. You will bear your father's curse to the grave."
   He addressed himself again to Guiliano. "So now I ask you a second favor, my dear Turi Guiliano. Take my son into your band. He will fight for you and do your bidding and I swear he will be faithful to you."
   Guiliano thought about this carefully. He was sure he could, with time, secure Andolini's affection, and he knew the man's devotion to his father, the Abbot. The chances of betrayal were therefore small and could be guarded against. Stefano Andolini would be a valuable subchief in the operations of his band but even more valuable as a source of information about the empire of Don Croce.
   Guiliano asked, "And what will you tell Don Croce?"
   The Abbot paused for a moment. "I will speak to the Don. I have influence there. And then we shall see. Now will you take my son into your band?"
   "Yes, by my sworn word to you," Guiliano said. "But if he betrays me your prayers will not be swift enough to catch him on his way to hell."
   Stefano Andolini had lived in a world of little trust which perhaps was why over the years his face had become formed in such a murderer's mask. He knew that in the coming years he would be like a trapeze artist, constantly teetering on the wire of death. There was no safe choice. It comforted him that the spirit of mercy that radiated from Guiliano's person had saved him. But he had no illusions. Turi Guiliano was the only man who had ever made him afraid.
   From that day Stefano Andolini was a member of Guiliano's band. And in the years to come he became so known for ferociousness and religious piety that his nickname, Fra Diavalo, became famous all over Sicily. The piety came from the fact that every Sunday he went to Mass. He usually went in the town of Villaba, where Father Beniamino was the priest. And in the confessional he told the secrets of Guiliano's band to his confessor to be relayed to Don Croce. But not the secrets Guiliano ordered him not to tell.

Book III Michael Corleone 1950

Chapter 16

   The Fiat skirted the town of Trapani and took a road along the beach. Michael Corleone and Stefano Andolini came to a villa, larger than most, with three outlying houses. There was a wall around the villa with only a gap left on the beach side. The gate to the villa was guarded by two men, and just inside Michael could see a wide fat man dressed in clothes that looked alien in this landscape: a sport jacket and slacks with an open, knit polo shirt. As they waited for the gate to open Michael saw the grin on the man's broad face and was astonished to see it was Peter Clemenza.
   Clemenza was the chief underling of Michael Corleone's father back in America. What was he doing here? Michael had last seen him that fatal night when Clemenza had planted the gun he had used to assassinate the police captain and the Turk, Sollozzo. He had remembered the look of pity and sadness on Clemenza's face at that moment over two years ago. Now Clemenza was genuinely overjoyed to see Michael. He pulled him out of the tiny Fiat and almost crushed him in a bear hug.
   "Michael, it's great to see you. I've been waiting for years to tell you how proud I am of you. What a great job you did. And now all your troubles are over. In a week you'll be with the family, there'll be a great feast. Everybody's waiting for you, Mikey." He stared into Michael's face fondly while holding him within his two massive arms, and as he did so he made an assessment. This was no longer just the young war hero. During his time in Sicily the boy had grown into a man. That is to say, Michael's face was no longer open; it had the proud closed look of the born Sicilian. Michael was ready to take his rightful place in the family.
   Michael was happy to see Clemenza's huge, bulky form, his broad heavily featured face. He asked for news of his family. His father had recovered from the assassination attempt, but his health was not good. Clemenza shook his head mournfully. "It never does anybody any good when they get holes punched in their body, no matter how good they recover. But it's not the first time your father was shot. He's like an ox. He'll be okay. Sonny getting killed, that's what did the damage to him and your mother. It was brutal, Mikey – they cut him to pieces with machine guns. That wasn't right, they didn't have to do that. That was spite work. But we're making plans. Your father will tell you when we get you home. Everybody is happy you're coming back."
   Stefano Andolini nodded to Clemenza; they obviously had met before. He shook hands with Michael and said he had to leave – there were things he had to do back in Montelepre. "Remember this, whatever you may hear," he said, "that I always remained faithful to Turi Guiliano and that he trusted me to the end. If he is betrayed it is not I who will have betrayed him." He stuttered with sincerity. "And I will not betray you."
   Michael believed him. "Won't you come and rest and have something to eat and drink?" he asked.
   Stefano Andolini shook his head. He got into the Fiat and drove back out the gates which immediately clanged shut behind him.
   Clemenza led Michael across the open grounds to the main villa. There were armed men patrolling the walls and on the beach where the estate was open to the sea. A small dock stretched toward the faraway coast of Africa, and tethered to the dock was a large sleek motorboat flying the flag of Italy.
   Inside the villa were two old crones dressed in black without one color of light on their persons, their skin dark with the sun, black shawls over their heads. Clemenza asked them to bring a bowl of fruit to Michael's bedroom.
   The terrace of the bedroom looked over the blue Mediterranean Sea which seemed to part in the middle when hit by a shaft of morning sunlight. Fishing boats with bright blue and red sails bobbed on the horizon like balls skipping over the water. There was a small table on the terrace covered with a heavy dark brown cloth, and the two men sat on the chairs around it. There was a pot of espresso and a jug of red wine.
   "You look tired," Clemenza said. "Get some sleep and then I'll spell everything out for you in detail."
   "I could use it," Michael said. "But first, tell me, is my mother all right?"
   "She's fine," Clemenza said. "She's waiting for you to get home. We can't disappoint her, it would be too much for her after Sonny."
   Michael asked again, "And my father, he's completely recovered?"
   Clemenza laughed; it was an ugly laugh. "He sure is. The Five Families will find out. Your father is just waiting for you to get home, Mike. He's got big plans for you. We can't let him down. So don't worry too much for Guiliano – if he shows up we'll take him with us. If he keeps screwing off we leave him here."
   "Are those my father's orders?" Michael asked. Clemenza said, "A courier comes by air every day to Tunis and I go over by boat to talk to him. Those were my orders yesterday. At first Don Croce was supposed to help us, or so your father told me before I left the States. But you know what happened in Palermo after you left yesterday? Somebody tried to knock off Croce. They came over the wall of the garden and killed four of his bodyguards. But Croce got away. So what the hell is going on?"
   Michael said, "Jesus." He remembered the precautions Don Croce had taken around the hotel. "I think that was our friend Guiliano. I hope you and my father know what you're doing. I'm so tired I can't think."
   Clemenza rose and patted him on the shoulder. "Mikey, get some sleep. When you wake up you'll meet my brother. A great man, just like your father, just as smart, just as tough, and he's the boss in this part of the country, never mind Croce."
   Michael undressed and got into bed. He had not slept for over thirty hours and yet his mind jumped and would not let his body rest. He could feel the heat of the morning sun though he had closed the heavy wooden shutters. There was a heavy fragrance of flowers and lemon trees. His mind worked over the events of the past few days. How did Pisciotta and Andolini move around so freely? Why did Guiliano seem to have decided Don Croce was his enemy at this most inappropriate of times? Such an error was not Sicilian. After all, the man had lived seven years in the mountains as an outlaw. Enough was enough. He must want to live a better life – not possible here, but certainly in America. And he definitely had such plans or he would not be sending his fiancee, pregnant, to America before him. The clarifying thought struck him that the answer to all this mystery was that Guiliano was bent on fighting one last battle. That he did not fear to die here on his native ground. There were plans and conspiracies spinning out to their final conclusions that he, Michael, could not be aware of, and so he must be wary. For Michael Corleone did not want to die in Sicily. He was not part of this particular myth.
   Michael awoke in the huge bedroom and opened the shutters, which swung outward to a white stone balcony glittering in the morning sun. Below the balcony, the Mediterranean Sea rolled like a deep blue carpet out to the horizon. Streaks of crimson laced the water, and on these boats fishermen sailed out of sight. Michael watched them for a few minutes, utterly bewitched by the beauty of the sea and the majestic cliffs of Erice up the coast to the north.
   The room was full of huge rustic furniture. There was a table on which stood a blue enameled basin and a jug of water. Over a chair there was a rough brown towel. On the walls were paintings of saints and the Virgin Mary, with the infant Jesus in her arms. Michael washed his face and then left the room. At the bottom of the stairs Peter Clemenza was waiting for him.
   "Ah, now you look better, Mikey," Clemenza said. "A good meal to give you back your strength and then we can talk business." He led Michael into a kitchen that held a long wooden table. They sat down and an old woman in black appeared magically at the stove and poured two cups of espresso and served them. Then just as magically she produced a platter of eggs and sausage which she put on the table. From the oven came a great sun-shaped brown-crusted loaf of bread. Then she disappeared into a room beyond the kitchen. She did not acknowledge Michael's thanks. At that moment a man entered the room. He was older than Clemenza but looked so much like him that Michael knew immediately that this was Don Domenico Clemenza, Peter Clemenza's brother. Don Domenico was attired much differently. He was in black velvet trousers that tucked into sturdy brown boots. He wore a white silk shirt with ruffled sleeves and a long black vest. On his head was a short billed cap. In his right hand he carried a whip which he threw into a corner. Michael rose to greet him and Don Domenico Clemenza took him into his arms with a friendly embrace.
   They sat at the table together. Don Domenico had a natural dignity and air of command that reminded Michael of his own father. He also had the same old-fashioned courtliness. Peter Clemenza obviously was in awe of his older brother who treated him with the indulgent affection an older brother shows a flighty sibling. This astonished Michael and amused him too. Peter Clemenza was his father's most trusted and deadly caporegime back in America.
   Don Domenico said gravely but with a twinkle in his eye, "Michael, it is such a great pleasure and honor to me that your father, Don Corleone, has put you in my care. Now you can solve my curiosity. My good-for-nothing brother here, is his success in America as great as he claims? Has he climbed so high, this younger brother of mine I could never trust to slaughter a pig properly? Does Don Corleone really set him on his right hand? And he says he commands over a hundred men. How can I believe all this?" But as he said this he patted his younger brother's shoulder fondly.
   "It's all true," Michael said. "My father always says he would be selling olive oil if not for your brother."
   They all laughed. Peter Clemenza said, "I would have spent most of my life in jails. He taught me how to think instead of just using a gun."
   Don Domenico sighed. "I'm only a poor country farmer. It's true my neighbors come to me for counsel and here in Trapani they say I'm an important man. They call me 'The Unfaithful' because I won't do Don Croce's bidding. Perhaps that's not very clever, perhaps the Godfather would find ways to get along better with Don Croce. But I find it impossible. 'Unfaithful' I may be, but only to those who have no honor. Don Croce sells information to the government and to me that is an infamita. No matter how subtle the reasons. The old ways are still the best, Michael, as you will see after you have been here the next few days."
   "I'm sure I will," Michael said politely. "And I must thank you for the help you are giving me now."
   "I have work to do," Don Domenico said. "If you need anything, send for me." He picked up his whip and went out the door.
   Peter Clemenza said, "Michael, your father agreed to help Turi Guiliano get out of this country out of his friendship and respect for Guiliano's father. But your safety comes first. Your father still has enemies here. Guiliano has a week to make a rendezvous with you. But if he doesn't appear you must go back to the United States alone. Those are my orders. We have a special plane waiting in Africa and we can leave anytime. You just give the word."
   Michael said, "Pisciotta said he'd bring Guiliano to me very soon."
   Clemenza whistled. "You saw Pisciotta? Hell, they're looking for him as hard as they are for Guiliano. How did he get out of the mountains?"
   Michael shrugged. "He had one of the special red-bordered passes signed by the Minister of Justice. And that worries me too."
   Peter Clemenza shook his head.
   Michael continued. "That guy who brought me here, Andolini, do you know him, Pete?"
   "Yeah," Peter Clemenza said. "He worked for us in New York, a couple of button jobs, but Guiliano's father was straight and a great artist with brick. They were both stupid to come back. But a lot of Sicilians are like that. They can't forget their shitty little houses in Sicily. I brought two men over with me this time, to help out. They haven't been back in twenty years. So we take a walk in the country up near Erice, a beautiful town, Mikey, and we were out in the fields with all those sheep they have and drinking wine and we all had to take a leak. So there we were pissing and when we finished, these two guys jump about ten feet in the air and yell, 'Long live Sicily.' What are you gonna do? That's how they are, Sicilians till they die."
   Michael said, "Yeah, but what about Andolini?"
   Clemenza shrugged. "He's your father's cousin. He's been one of Guiliano's right-hand men for the last five years. But before that he was close with Don Croce. Who knows? He's dangerous."
   Michael said, "Andolini is bringing Guiliano's fiancee here. She's pregnant. We have to ship her to the States and she sends back a code word to Guiliano saying that the route works and then Guiliano comes to us. I promised we'd do it. Is that okay?"
   Clemenza whistled. "I never heard Guiliano had a girl. Sure we can do it."
   They went outside to a huge garden. Michael could see guards at the gate and down at the beach at least six armed men strolling up and down. There was a large motorboat docked against a short pier. In the garden itself was a group of men obviously waiting for an audience with Peter Clemenza. There were about twenty of them, all typical Sicilians with their dusty clothes and brimmed caps, like poorer versions of Don Domenico.
   In a corner of the garden, beneath a lemon tree, was an oval wooden table with rustic wooden chairs around it. Clemenza and Michael sat in two of the chairs and then Clemenza called out to the group of men. One of them came over and sat down. Clemenza asked questions about the man's personal life. Was he married? Did he have children? How long had he worked for Don Domenico? Who were his relatives in Trapani? Did he ever think of going to America to make his fortune? The answer to this last question was invariably a Yes.
   An old woman in black brought out a huge jug of wine mixed with fresh lemons, then brought out a tray with many glasses. Clemenza offered each man he interviewed a drink and a cigarette. When he had finished and the last one was gone and the group had left the garden, Clemenza said to Michael, "Any of them hit you wrong?"
   Michael shrugged and said, "They all seemed the same to me. They all want to go to America."
   Clemenza said, "We need fresh blood back home. We lost a lot of men and we might lose a lot more. Every five years or so I come back and bring about twelve guys back with me. I train them myself. Little jobs first – collections, strong-arm, guard duty. I test their loyalty. When I feel the time is right and the opportunity comes along, I give them a chance to make their bones. But I'm very careful about that. Once they get that far they know they have a good living for the rest of their lives as long as they remain loyal. Everybody here knows I'm the recruiter for the Corleone Family and every man in the province wants to see me. But my brother picks them out. Nobody gets to see me without his okay."
   Michael looked around the beautiful garden with its many colored flowers, fragrant lemon trees, the old statues of the gods dug from ancient ruins, other newer ones of holy saints, the rose-colored walls around the villa. It was a lovely setting for the examination of twelve murderous apostles.
   In the late afternoon the small Fiat reappeared at the villa gates and was waved through by the guards. Andolini was driving, and beside him there was a girl with long jet-black hair and the exquisite oval features of a painter's Madonna. When she got out of the car Michael could see she was pregnant; though she wore the modest loose dress of the Sicilian woman it was not black, rather a hideous floral rose and white. But her face was so pretty the dress didn't matter.
   Michael Corleone was surprised to see the small figure of Hector Adonis get out of the back seat. It was Adonis who made the introductions. The girl's name was Justina. She had none of the shyness of the young; and at only seventeen years of age, her face had the strength of an older woman, as if she had already tasted the same tragedies of life. She studied Michael closely before she bowed her head to acknowledge his introduction. As if she were studying him to find any hint of treachery in his face.
   One of the old women took her away to her room and Andolini took her luggage out of the car. It consisted of only a small suitcase. Michael carried it into the house himself.
   That night they all had dinner together except for Andolini, who had left in the Fiat. Hector Adonis remained. At the dinner table they made plans to get Justina to America. Don Domenico said the boat to Tunis was ready; it always would be since they did not know when Guiliano would arrive and they would have to move quickly when he did. "Who knows what evil companions he will bring after him," Don Domenico said with a little smile.
   Peter Clemenza said he would accompany Justina to Tunis and make sure she was put on a special plane with special documents that would enable her to enter the United States without trouble. Then he would return to the villa.
   When Justina arrived in America she would send her code word back and the final operation to save Guiliano would begin.
   Justina said very little during the meal. Don Domenico asked her if she was up to making the journey this very night after she had traveled so much of the day.
   When she answered Michael could see the attraction she must have had for Guiliano. She had the same flashing black eyes, the determined jaw and mouth of the strongest Sicilian women and spoke as imperiously.
   "Traveling is easier than working and less dangerous than hiding," she said. "I've slept in the mountains and in the fields with sheep, so why can't I sleep in a ship or on an airplane? Surely it won't be as cold?" She said this with all the pride of the young, but her hands trembled as she lifted her glass of wine. "I worry only that Turi be able to escape. Why couldn't he come with me?"
   Hector Adonis said gently. "Justina, he didn't want to endanger you with his presence. It is more difficult for him to travel; more precautions must be taken."
   Peter Clemenza said, "The boat takes you to Africa just before dawn, Justina. Perhaps you'd better get some rest."
   Justina said, "No, I'm not tired and I'm too excited to sleep. Could I have another glass of wine?"
   Don Domenico poured her glass full. "Drink, it's good for your baby and it will help you sleep later. Did Guiliano give you any messages for us?"
   Justina smiled at him sadly. "I haven't seen him for months. Aspanu Pisciotta is the only one he trusts. Not that he thinks I would betray him but that I am his weakness through which they might snare him. It's from his reading all those romances where the love of women brings about the downfall of heroes. He thinks his love for me his most terrible weakness, and of course he never tells me his plans."
   Michael was curious to find out more about Guiliano, the man he might have been if his father had remained in Sicily, the man Sonny might have been. "How did you meet Turi?" he asked Justina.
   She laughed. "I fell in love with him when I was eleven years old," she said. "That was almost seven years ago and the first year that Turi was an outlaw, but he was already famous in our little village in Sicily. My younger brother and I were working in the fields with my father and Papa gave me a packet of lire notes to bring back to my mother. My brother and I were silly children and we flaunted the notes, we were so excited at having that much money in our hands. Two carabinieri saw us on the road and took away our money and laughed at us when we cried. We didn't know what to do, we were afraid to go home and we were afraid to go back to our father. Then this young man came out of the bushes. He was taller than most men in Sicily and much broader in the shoulders. He looked like the American soldiers we had seen during the war. He carried a machine gun under his arm yet he had such gentle brown eyes. He was very handsome. He asked us, 'Children, why are you crying on such a wonderful day? And you, young lady, you're ruining your beautiful looks, who will want to marry you?' But he was laughing and you could see that the sight of us delighted him for some reason. We told him what had happened and he laughed again and said we must always beware of the carabinieri and that this was a good lesson for us to learn so early in life. Then he gave my brother a huge wad of lire to bring home to our mother and to me he gave a note for my father. I can still remember it word for word. It said, 'Don't reproach your two beautiful children who will be the pleasure and comfort of your old age. The money I have given them is far greater than you have lost. And know this: From today on, you and your children are under the protection of GUILIANO.' I thought that name was so wonderful and he had written it in large letters. I saw that name in my dreams for months. Just those letters. GUILIANO.
   "But what made me love him was the pleasure he received in doing a good deed. He was really delighted to help someone else. That never changed. I always saw the same pleasure, as if he gained more from the giving than they did from the taking. That is why the people of Sicily love him."
   Hector Adonis said quietly, "Until the Portella della Ginestra."
   Justina lowered her eyes and said fiercely, "They love him still."
   Michael said quickly, "But how did you meet him again?"
   Justina said, "My older brother was a friend of his. And maybe my father was a member of the band. I don't know. Only my family and Turi's chiefs know we were married. Turi swore everybody to secrecy, afraid the authorities would arrest me."
   Everybody at the table was stunned at this news. Justina reached inside her dress and drew out a small purse. From it she took out a cream-colored stiff-papered document with a heavy seal and offered it to Michael, but Hector Adonis took it and read it. Then he smiled at her. "You will be in America tomorrow. Can I tell Turi's parents the good news?"
   Justina blushed. "They always thought I was pregnant without being married," she said. "They thought less of me for it. Yes, you can tell them."
   Michael said, "Have you ever seen or read the Testament that Turi has hidden?"
   Justina shook her head. "No," she said. "Turi never spoke of it to me."
   Don Domenico's face had gone wintry, but he also looked curious. He had heard about the Testament, Michael thought, but didn't approve of it. How many people did know? Certainly not the people of Sicily. Only members of the government in Rome, Don Croce and Guiliano's family and his inner circle of outlaws.
   Hector Adonis said, "Don Domenico, may I ask to be your guest until word arrives from America that Justina is safely there? Then I can arrange for Guiliano to receive the news. It should be for no more than an extra night."
   Don Domenico said with blunt forcefulness, "You will do me an honor, my dear Professor. Stay as long as you like. But now it's time for us all to go to bed. Our young Signora must get some sleep for her long journey and I am too old to stay up so late. Avanti ." And he made a shooing gesture like a great affectionate bird, to send them on their way. He personally took Hector Adonis by the arm to lead him to a bedroom, shouting orders to the women servants to take care of the rest of his guests.
   When Michael rose the next morning Justina was gone.
   Hector Adonis had to sleep over for two nights before the courier letter came from Justina that she was safely in America. Somewhere in the letter was the code word that satisfied Adonis, and the morning he was to leave he asked Michael for a private conference.
   Michael had spent the two days tense with anticipation, anxious to get home to America himself. Peter Clemenza's description of Sonny's murder had filled Michael with a sense of foreboding about Turi Guiliano. In his mind the two men were growing intertwined. They looked somewhat alike and they both had the same sense of physical vitality and power. Guiliano was only Michael's age, and Michael was intrigued by the man's fame; he was anxious at the thought that they would finally meet face to face. He wondered what use his father could put Guiliano to in America. For he had no doubt that was his father's purpose. Otherwise the assignment of bringing Guiliano home with him did not make sense.
   Michael walked with Adonis down to the beach. The armed guards saluted them both: " Vossia, " Your Lordship. Not one of them showed any sign of derision at the sight of the tiny elegantly dressed Hector Adonis. The motorboat had come back, and now closer to it Michael could see it was almost as big as a small yacht. The men aboard it were armed with lupare and machine guns.
   The July sun was very hot and the sea so blue and so still that the sun reflected off of it as if it were metal. Michael and Hector Adonis sat on two chairs on the pier.
   "Before I leave this morning, I have a final instruction for you," Hector Adonis said quietly. "It is the most important thing that you can do for Guiliano." "With all my heart," Michael said.
   "You must send Guiliano's Testament to America immediately, to your father," Adonis said. "He will know how to use it. He will make sure that Don Croce and the government in Rome will know it is safely in America and then they will not dare harm Guiliano. They will let him emigrate safely."
   "Do you have it with you?" Michael asked.
   The little man smiled at him slyly and then laughed, "You have it," he said.
   Michael was astonished. "You've been misinformed," he said. "No one has given it to me."
   "Yes they have," Hector Adonis said. He put a friendly hand on Michael's arm and Michael noticed how small and dainty his fingers were, like a child's. "Maria Lombardo, Guiliano's mother, gave it to you. Only she and myself know where it is, not even Pisciotta knows."
   He saw Michael's uncomprehending look. "It's in the black Madonna," Hector Adonis said. "It's true the Madonna has been in the family for generations and is valuable. Everybody knows about it. But Guiliano was given a replica. It is hollow. The Testament is written on very thin paper and each sheet has Guiliano's signature. I helped him compose it over the last few years. There are also some incriminating documents. Turi always knew what the end might be and wanted to be prepared. For a young man he has a great sense of strategy."
   Michael laughed. "And his mother is a great actress."
   "All Sicilians are," Hector Adonis said. "We trust no one and dissemble before everyone. Guiliano's father is certainly trustworthy, but he might be indiscreet. Pisciotta has been Guiliano's truest friend since their childhood, Stefano Andolini has saved Guiliano's life in battle with the carabinieri, but men change with time or under torture. So it's best they do not know."
   "But he trusted you," Michael said.
   "I am blessed," Hector Adonis said simply. "But you see how clever Guiliano can be? He trusts only me with the Testament and he trusts only Pisciotta with his life. Both of us must betray him if he is to fail."

Chapter 17

   Michael Corleone and Hector Adonis walked back to the villa and sat under a lemon tree with Peter Clemenza. Michael was eager to read the Testament, but Hector Adonis said that Andolini was due to pick him up for the trip back to Montelepre and Michael waited to see if Andolini had any messages for him.
   An hour passed. Hector Adonis looked at his watch, his face worried. Michael said, "His car probably broke down. That Fiat is on its last legs."
   Hector Adonis shook his head. "Stefano Andolini has the heart of a murderer, but he is the soul of punctuality. And dependable. I'm afraid that since he is already an hour late, something has gone wrong. And I must be in Montelepre before dark when curfew begins."
   Peter Clemenza said, "My brother will give you a car and driver."
   Adonis thought about this for a moment. "No," he said, "I will wait. It's important that I see him."
   Michael said, "Do you mind if we go on and read the Testament without you? How do you open the statue?"
   Hector Adonis said, "Of course – read it. As for opening it there's no trick. It is carved out of solid wood. The head was soldered on after Turi put the papers inside. You simply chop off the head. If you have trouble reading it, I will be glad to assist you. Send one of the servants for me."
   Michael and Peter Clemenza went up to Michael's bedroom. The statue was still in Michael's jacket; he had completely forgotten it. When he took it out, both men stared at the black Virgin Mary. The features were definitely African yet the expression was exactly that of the white Madonnas that decorated almost every poor household in Sicily. Michael turned it over in his hands. It was very heavy – you could not guess that it was hollow.
   Peter Clemenza went to the door and shouted an order down to one of the woman servants. The woman appeared carrying the kitchen cleaver. She stared into the room for a moment and handed the cleaver to Clemenza. He shut the door to close out her curious eyes.
   Michael held the black Madonna on the heavy wooden dresser table. He grasped the disc carved into the bottom with one hand and used his other to clasp the top of the statue's head. Clemenza carefully put the cleaver to the neck of the Madonna, raised his burly arm, and with one quick powerful stroke, chopped off the head and sent it flying across the room. A sheaf of papers bound with a piece of soft gray leather sprouted out of the hollow neck.
   Clemenza had hit exactly on the seam where it had been soldered; the cleaver could never have cut through the hard olive wood. He put the cleaver on the table and pulled the papers out of the headless statue. He loosened the leather thong and spread the papers out on the table. They consisted of one sheaf of about fifteen onionskin pages covered with close handwriting in black ink. The bottom of each page was signed by Guiliano in the careless scrawl of kings. There were also documents with official government seals, letters with government letterheads and statements bearing notary seals. The papers were curling up to resume the shape of their confinement and Michael used the two pieces of the statue and the cleaver to hold them flat on the table. Then he ceremoniously poured two glasses of wine from the jug on the night table and handed one to Clemenza. They drank and then started to read the Testament. It took them almost two hours to finish. Michael marveled that Turi Guiliano, so young, so idealistic, had lived through these treacheries. Michael knew enough of the world to imagine that Guiliano harbored his own cunning, his own scheme of power, in order to remain dedicated to his mission. Michael was filled with an enormous sense of identification and commitment to the cause of Guiliano's escape.
   It was not so much Guiliano's diary which recounted his history for the past seven years but the documents supporting it that could surely topple the Christian Democratic government in Rome. How could these powerful men have been so foolish, Michael wondered: a note signed by the Cardinal, a letter sent by the Minister of Justice to Don Croce asking what could be done to crush the demonstration at Ginestra, all coyly worded to be sure, but damning in the light of the events that followed. Each thing by itself was innocent enough, brought together they built a mountain of evidence as imposing as the Pyramids.
   There was a letter from Prince Ollorto full of flowery compliments to Guiliano and assuring him that all the men in high places of the Christian Democratic government in Rome had assured the Prince that they would do everything in their power to have Guiliano pardoned, providing he did what they had asked of him. In his letter Prince Ollorto claimed he had a complete understanding with the Minister of Justice in Rome.
   There were also copies of operational plans prepared by high officials of the carabinieri to capture Guiliano – plans that had been turned over to Guiliano in exchange for services rendered.
   "No wonder they don't want to catch Guiliano," Michael said. "He can blow them all up with these papers."
   Peter Clemenza said, "I'm taking this stuff to Tunis right away. By tomorrow night they'll be in your father's safe." He picked up the headless Madonna and stuffed the papers back inside. He put the statue in his pocket and said to Michael, "Let's get going. If I start now I can be back here tomorrow morning."
   They went out of the villa, Clemenza depositing the cleaver with the old crone in the kitchen, who examined it suspiciously as if for some sign of blood. They started down toward the beach when they were surprised by the sight of Hector Adonis still waiting. Stefano Andolini had not appeared.
   The little man had unloosened his tie and taken off his jacket; his shiny white shirt was dulled with sweat though he was in the shade of a lemon tree. He was also a bit drunk – the big wine jug on the wooden garden table was empty.
   He greeted Michael and Peter Clemenza despairingly. "The final treacheries are beginning. Andolini is three hours late. I must get to Montelepre and Palermo. I must send word to Guiliano."
   Peter Clemenza said with rough good humor, "Professor, his car might have broken down, or he might have been detained by some other more urgent business, any number of things. He knows you're here in safety and will wait. Spend another night with us if he doesn't come today."
   But Hector Adonis kept muttering, "It will all go badly, it will all go badly," and begged them for transportation. Clemenza ordered two men to use one of the Alfa Romeos and drive Hector Adonis as far as Palermo. He told the men to be sure to have the car back at the villa before nightfall.
   They helped Hector Adonis get into the car and told him not to worry. The Testament would be in America within twenty-four hours and Guiliano would be safe. After the car rolled through the gates, Michael walked down to the beach with Clemenza and watched him get on the motor launch, and continued watching as the boat started its journey to Africa. "I'll be back in the morning," Peter Clemenza called out. And Michael wondered what would happen if this was the night Guiliano chose to appear.
   Later he had dinner, the two old women serving him. Afterward he walked along the beach until turned back by the guards at the perimeter of the villa's estate. It was the few minutes before darkness, and the Mediterranean Sea was the deepest and most velvety blue and from beyond the horizon he could smell the continent of Africa, a perfume of wild flowers and wild animals.
   Here by the water there was not the whirring of insects; those creatures needed the lush vegetation, the smoky heated air of the interior. It was almost as if a machine had stopped running. He stood on the beach feeling the peace and beauty of a Sicilian night and he pitied all the others voyaging fearfully in the darkness; Guiliano in his mountains, Pisciotta with the fragile shield of his special red-bordered pass going through enemy lines, Professor Adonis and Stefano Andolini searching for each other on the dusty roads of Sicily, Peter Clemenza riding the blue-black sea to Tunis; and where had Don Domenico Clemenza gone that he had not appeared for dinner? They were all shadows in the Sicilian night, and when they reappeared the stage would be set for the life or death of Turi Guiliano.

Book IV Don Croce 1947

Chapter 18

   The House of Savoy's King Umberto II was a humble sweet-natured man much beloved by the people, and he had approved the referendum on whether or not Italy should remain a nominal monarchy. He did not wish to remain a king if his people did not want him. And in this he was like his predecessors. The Savoy kings had always been unambitious rulers; their monarchies had been really democracies ruled by Parliament. The political experts were sure the referendum would be in favor of the monarchy.
   The island of Sicily was counted on to give heavy majorities to retain the status quo. At this time the two most powerful forces on the island were Turi Guiliano, whose band controlled the northwest corner of Sicily, and Don Croce Malo, who with his Friends of the Friends controlled the rest of Sicily. Guiliano took no part in the election strategies of any political party. Don Croce and the Mafia exerted every effort to ensure the reelection of the Christian Democrats and the retention of the monarchy.
   But to the surprise of everyone, the voters of Italy swept away the monarchy; Italy became a republic. And the Socialists and Communists made such a strong showing that the Christian Democrats tottered and almost fell. The next elections might see a godless, Socialist government ruling from Rome. The Christian Democratic party began marshaling all its resources to win the next election.
   The biggest surprise had been Sicily. They elected many deputies to Parliament who belonged to the Socialist and Communist parties. In Sicily a trade union was still considered the work of the devil, and many industries and landowners refused to deal with them. What had happened?
   Don Croce was enraged. His people had done their job. They had made threats that frightened the villagers in all the rural areas, but obviously the threats had failed in the end. The Catholic Church had priests preaching against the Communists, and the nuns gave their charity baskets of spaghetti and olive oil only to those who promised to vote the Christian Democratic ticket. The church hierarchy in Sicily was stunned. It had distributed millions of lire in food, but the sly Sicilian peasant had swallowed the charitable bread and spit on the Christian Democratic party.
   Minister of Justice Franco Trezza was angry with his fellow Sicilians too – a treacherous lot, cunning even when it brought them no profit, proud of their personal honor when they did not have a pot to piss in. He despaired of them. How could they have voted for the Socialists and Communists who would eventually destroy their family structure and banish their Christian God from all the magnificent cathedrals of Italy? There was only one person who could give him the answer to that question and the solution to the elections coming up that would decide the future political life of Italy. He sent for Don Croce Malo.
   The peasants of Sicily who had voted for the left-wing parties and elected to abolish their beloved king would have been astonished to learn of the anger of all these high personages. They would have been amazed that the powerful nations of the United States, France and Great Britain were concerned that Italy was going to become an ally of Russia. Many of them had never even heard of Russia.
   The poor people of Sicily, presented with the gift of a democratic vote for the first time in twenty years, had simply voted for the candidates and political parties that promised them the opportunity to purchase their own little bit of land for a minimal sum.
   But they would have been horrified to know that their vote for the left-wing parties was a vote against their family structure, a vote against the Virgin Mary and the Holy Catholic Church whose holy images lit by red candles adorned every kitchen and bedroom in Sicily; horrified to know that they had voted to turn their cathedrals into museums and banish their beloved Pope from the shores of Italy.
   No. The Sicilians had voted to be given a piece of land for themselves and their families, not for a political party. They could not conceive of any greater joy in life; to work their own land, to keep what they produced by the sweat of their brow, for themselves and their children. Their dream of heaven was a few acres of grain, a vegetable garden terraced on a mountainside, a tiny vineyard of grapes, a lemon tree and an olive tree.
   Minister of Justice Franco Trezza was a native of Sicily and a genuine anti-Fascist who had spent time in Mussolini's jails before escaping to England. He was a tall aristocratic-looking man with hair still jet black, though his full beard was peppered with gray. Though a true hero, he was also a thoroughgoing bureaucrat and politician, a formidable combination.
   The Minister's office in Rome was huge, with massive antique furniture. On the walls were pictures of President Roosevelt and Winston Churchill. The windows were of stained glass and outside them was a little balcony. The Minister poured wine for his honored guest, Don Croce Malo.
   They sat sipping wine and talking over the political picture in Sicily and the coming regional elections. Minister Trezza voiced his fears. If Sicily continued its leftist trend at the ballot boxes, the Christian Democratic party might well lose its control of the government. The Catholic Church might well lose its legal position as the official state religion of Italy.
   Don Croce did not respond to any of this. He ate steadily, and had to admit to himself that the food in Rome was far better than the food in his native Sicily. The Don bent his huge emperor's head close over his dish of spaghetti filled with truffles; the great jaws chewed steadily and inexorably. Occasionally he wiped his thin mustache with his napkin. The imperial beak of a nose stood sentinel over each new dish brought in by the servants as if scenting them for some poison. The eyes darted back and forth over the lavishly burdened table. He never said a word as the Minister droned on about momentous affairs of state.
   They finished up with a huge platter of fruits and cheeses. Then over the ceremonial cup of coffee and a balloon glass of brandy, the Don made himself ready to speak. He shifted his huge bulk in the inadequate chair, and the Minister hastily led him into a drawing room with overstuffed armchairs. He ordered a servant to bring in the coffee and brandy and then dismissed him. The Minister himself poured the Don's espresso, offered a cigar which was refused, then prepared himself to hear the Don's wisdom which he knew would be to the point.
   Don Croce regarded the Minister steadily. He was not impressed with the aristocratic profile, blunt thick features, the forcefulness. And he despised the Minister's beard which he thought an affectation. This was a man who could impress in Rome but never in Sicily. Yet this was the man who could consolidate the Mafia's power in Sicily. It had been a mistake in the old days to sneer at Rome; the result had been Mussolini and the Fascists. Don Croce had no illusions. A left-wing government could be serious about reforms, about the sweeping out of the subterranean government of the Friends of the Friends. Only a Christian Democratic government would maintain the legal processes that made Don Croce invulnerable, and he agreed to come to Rome with the satisfaction of a faith healer visiting a horde of crippled supplicants who suffered mostly from hysteria. He knew he could effect a cure.
   "I can deliver Sicily to you in the next election," he said to Minister Trezza. "But we have need of armed men. You must assure me that you will not move against Turi Guiliano."
   "That is the one promise I cannot make," said Minister Trezza.
   "That is the one promise you must make," answered Don Croce.
   The Minister stroked his small beard. "What kind of man is this Guiliano?" he asked reluctantly. "He is far too young to be so ferocious. Even for a Sicilian."
   "Ah, no, he's a gentle lad," said Don Croce, ignoring the Minister's sardonic smile and failing to mention that he had never met Guiliano.
   Minister Trezza shook his head. "I don't think that possible," he said. "A man who has killed so many carabinieri cannot be called a gentle lad."
   It was true. Don Croce thought that Guiliano had been particularly reckless during the past year. Since the time he had executed "Father" Dodana, Guiliano had unleashed his fury against all his enemies, Mafia and Rome alike.
   He had begun sending letters to the newspapers proclaiming he was the ruler of Western Sicily, let Rome do what it may. He also sent letters forbidding the carabinieri of the towns of Montelepre, Corleone and Monreale to go out on patrol in the streets after midnight. His explanation for this was that his men had to get to certain points to visit friends or family, and he did not want them arrested in their beds or shot when they came out of their houses or when he himself wished to visit his family in Montelepre.
   The newspapers printed these letters with gleeful sidebars. Salvatore Guiliano forbade the cassetta . This bandit forbids the police from performing their lawful patrols in the towns of Sicily? What impudence. What colossal effrontery. Did this young man think he was the King of Italy? There were cartoons showing carabinieri hiding in an alley of Montelepre as the huge figure of Guiliano stepped majestically into the square.
   Of course there was only one thing the Maresciallo of Montelepre could do. Every night he sent patrols into the streets. Every night his garrison, beefed up to one hundred men, were at alert, guarding the entries into the town from the mountains so that Guiliano could not mount an attack.
   But on the one occasion he sent his carabinieri into the mountains, Guiliano and his five chiefs – Pisciotta, Terranova, Passatempo, Silvestro and Andolini – each leading a band of fifty men, ambushed them. Guiliano showed no mercy, and six carabinieri were killed. Other detachments fled from a devastating fire of machine guns and rifles.
   Rome was up in arms, but it was this very recklessness of Guiliano that could serve them all now if only Don Croce could convince this eggplant of a Minister of Justice.
   "Trust me," Don Croce said to Minister Trezza. "Guiliano can serve our purposes. I will persuade him to declare war on the Socialist and Communist parties in Sicily. He will attack their headquarters, he will suppress their organizers. He will be my military arm on a broad scale. Then of course my friends and myself will do the necessary work that cannot be done in public."
   Minister Trezza did not seem shocked by this suggestion, but he said in a supercilious voice, "Guiliano is already a national scandal. An international scandal. I have on my desk a plan from the Chief of Staff of the Army to move in troops to suppress him. There is a price of ten million lire on his head. A thousand carabinieri have been alerted to move to Sicily to reinforce the ones already there. And you ask me to protect him? My dear Don Croce, I expected you to help deliver him to us as you helped with the other bandits. Guiliano is the shame of Italy. Everyone thinks he must be eliminated."
   Don Croce sipped his espresso and wiped his mustache with his fingers. He was a little impatient with this Roman hypocrisy. He shook his head slowly. "Turi Guiliano is far more valuable to us alive and doing heroic deeds in his mountains. The people of Sicily worship him; they say prayers for his soul and his safety. There is not a man on my island who will betray him. And he is far more cunning than all those other bandits. I have spies in his camp, but such is his personality that I don't know how loyal they are to me. That is the kind of man you talk about. He inspires affection from everyone. If you send your thousand carabinieri and your army and they fail – and they have failed before – what then? I tell you this: If Guiliano decides to help the leftist parties in the next election, you will lose Sicily and therefore, as you must surely know, your party loses Italy." He paused for a long moment and fastened his gaze on the Minister. "You must come to an accommodation with Guiliano."
   "And how would all this be arranged?" Minister Trezza asked with the polite, superior smile that Don Croce despised. It was a Roman smile and the man was Sicilian born. The Minister went on. "I have it on good authority that Guiliano has no love for you."
   Don Croce shrugged. "He has not endured for the last three years without being clever enough to forget a grudge. And I have a connection with him. Doctor Hector Adonis is one of my people, and he is also Guiliano's godfather and most trusted friend. He will be my intermediary and make my peace with Guiliano. But I must have the necessary assurances from you in some concrete form."
   The Minister said sarcastically, "Would you like a signed letter saying I love the bandit I'm trying to catch?"
   It was the Don's greatest strength that he never took notice of an insulting tone, a lack of respect, though he stored it away in his heart. He answered quite simply, his face an inscrutable mask. "No," he said. "Simply give me a copy of your Army Chief of Staff plans to mount a campaign against Guiliano. Also a copy of your order to send a thousand carabinieri reinforcements to the island. I will show them to Guiliano and promise him you will not implement the orders if he helps us to educate the Sicilian voters. That will not incriminate you later on – you can always claim that a copy was stolen. Also I will promise Guiliano that if the Christian Democrats win the next election, he will receive a pardon."
   "Ah, that no," Minister Trezza said. "A pardon is beyond my powers."
   "A promise is not beyond your powers," Don Croce said. "And then if it can be done, very well. If you find it impossible, I will tell him the bad news."
   The Minister saw the light. He saw, as Don Croce intended him to see, that in the end Don Croce must be rid of Guiliano, that the two of them could not exist together in Sicily. And that Don Croce would take all the responsibility for this, that the Minister need not concern himself in solving the problem. Certainly promises could be made. He had only to give Don Croce copies of the two military plans.
   The Minister pondered his decision. Don Croce lowered his massive head and said softly, "If the pardon is at all possible I would urge it."
   The Minister was striding up and down the room thinking out all the complications that could arise. Don Croce never moved his head or body to follow his movements. The Minister said, "Promise him the pardon in my name, but you must know now it will be difficult. The scandal may be too much. Why, if the newspapers even knew that the two of us met they would flay me alive and I would have to retire to my farm in Sicily and shovel shit and shear sheep. Now is it truly necessary for you to have copies of those plans and my order?"
   "Nothing can be done without them," Don Croce said. His tenor voice was as powerful and convincing as that of a great singer. "Guiliano needs some proof that we two are friends and some prior reward from us for his services. We accomplish both when I show him the plans and promise that they will not be implemented. He can operate as freely as before without having to fight an army and extra police. My possession of the plans verifies my connection with you, and when the plans do not go into effect, it will establish my influence with Rome."
   Minister Trezza poured Don Croce another cup of espresso. "I agree," he said. "I trust in our friendship. Discretion is all. But I worry about your safety. When Guiliano performs his task and is not pardoned, surely he will hold you responsible."
   The Don nodded his head but did not speak. He sipped his espresso. The Minister was watching him intently and then said, "The two of you cannot exist together on such a small island."
   The Don smiled. "I will make room for him," he said. "There is plenty of time."
   "Good, good," Minister Trezza said. "And remember this. If I can promise my party the votes of Sicily in the next election, and if then I can solve the problem of Guiliano with glory to the government, there is no telling how high my rise will be in the rule of Italy. But no matter how high, I will never forget you, my dear friend. You will always have my ear."
   Don Croce shifted his huge bulk in the chair and mused whether it would really be worthwhile making this olive-head of a Sicilian the Premier of Italy. But his very stupidity would be an asset to the Friends of the Friends, and if he turned treacherous he would be an easy man to destroy. Don Croce said in the sincere tone for which he was famous, "I thank you for your friendship and will do everything in my power to help you in your fortunes. We are agreed. I leave for Palermo tomorrow afternoon and would be grateful if you had the plans and other papers delivered to my hotel in the morning. As for Guiliano, if you cannot manage a pardon for him after he has done his work, I will arrange for him to vanish. To America, perhaps, or some other place where he cannot cause you any further trouble."
   And so the two men parted. Trezza the Sicilian, who had chosen to uphold society, and Don Croce who regarded the structure and law of Rome as the devil put on earth to enslave him. For Don Croce believed in freedom, a freedom belonging personally to himself, which owed nothing to any other force, won only by the respect he earned from his fellow Sicilians. It was unfortunate, Don Croce thought, that fate opposed him to Turi Guiliano, a man after his own heart, and not this hypocritical scoundrel of a Minister.
   Back in Palermo, Don Croce summoned Hector Adonis. He told him about his meeting with Trezza and the agreement to which they had come. Then he showed him the copies of the plans made by the government for their war against Guiliano. The little man was distressed, which was the effect the Don had hoped for.
   "The Minister has promised me that these plans will be disapproved by him and never implemented," Don Croce said. "But your godson must use all his power to influence the next election. He must be firm and strong and not worry about the poor so much. He must think of his own skin. He must understand that an alliance with Rome and the Minister of Justice is an opportunity. Trezza commands all the carabinieri, all the police, all the judges. He may someday be the Premier of Italy. If that happens Turi Guiliano can return to the bosom of his family and perhaps even have a great career himself in politics. The people of Sicily love him. But for now he must forgive and forget. I count on you to influence him."
   Hector Adonis said, "But how can he believe the promises of Rome? Turi has always fought for the poor. He would not do anything against their interests."
   Don Croce said sharply, "He's not a Communist, surely. Arrange for me to meet with Guiliano. I will convince him. We are the two most powerful men in Sicily. Why should we not work together? He refused before, but times change. Now this will be his salvation as well as ours. The Communists will crush us both with equal pleasure. A Communist state cannot afford a hero like Guiliano or a villain like myself. I will come to meet him wherever he wishes. And tell him that I guarantee the promises of Rome. If the Christian Democrats win the next election I will be responsible for his pardon. I pledge my life and honor."
   Hector Adonis understood. That Don Croce would risk Guiliano's wrath against him if the promises of Minister Trezza were broken.
   "May I take these plans with me to show Guiliano?" he asked.
   Don Croce considered for a moment. He knew he would never get the plans back and that in turning them over he would be giving Guiliano a powerful weapon for the future. He smiled at Hector Adonis. "My dear Professor," he said, "of course you may take them with you."
   Waiting for Hector Adonis, Turi Guiliano pondered what his course of action should be. He had understood that the elections and the victories of the left-wing parties would bring Don Croce to him for help.
   For nearly four years Guiliano had distributed hundreds of millions of lire and food to the poor in his corner of Sicily, but he could only really help them by seizing some sort of power.
   The books on economics and politics that Adonis brought him to read troubled him. The course of history showed that the left-wing parties were the only hope for the poor in every country except for America. Still, he could not side with them. He hated their preaching against the Church and their scoffing at the medieval family ties of Sicilians. And he knew that a Socialist government would make a greater effort to dislodge him from his mountains than the Christian Democrats.
   It was nighttime, and Guiliano watched the fires of his men spread out down the mountain. From the cliff looking down on Montelepre, he could occasionally hear snatches of music played over the loudspeakers in the village square, music from Palermo. He could see the town as a geometric pattern of lights that formed an almost perfect circle. He thought for a moment that when Adonis came and they had done their business he would accompany his godfather back down the mountain and then visit his parents and La Venera. He had no fear of doing so. After three years he completely controlled movement in the province. The carabinieri detachment in the town was fully covered, and besides he would bring enough members of his band to massacre them if they dared venture near his mother's house. He now had armed supporters living on the Via Bella itself.
   When Adonis arrived, Turi Guiliano took him into the large cave that held a table and chairs and was lit with American Army battery lamps. Hector Adonis embraced him and gave him a small bag of books which Turi accepted gratefully. Adonis also gave Turi an attache case filled with papers. "I think you will find this interesting. You should read it immediately."
   Guiliano spread the papers out on the wooden table. They were the orders signed by Minister Trezza authorizing another thousand carabinieri to be sent from the mainland to Sicily to fight against Guiliano's bandits. There were also the plans drawn up by the Army Chief of Staff. Guiliano studied them with interest. He was not afraid; he would simply have to move deeper into the mountains, but the advance warning was timely.
   "Who gave you these?" he asked Adonis.
   "Don Croce," Adonis said. "He received them from Minister Trezza himself." Turi did not seem as surprised as he should have been by the news. In fact he was smiling slightly.
   "Is this supposed to frighten me?" Guiliano asked. "The mountains are deep. All the men they send can be swallowed up and I'll be whistling myself to sleep under a tree."
   "Don Croce wants to meet with you. He will come to you at any place you name," Adonis said. "These plans are a token of his good will. He has a proposition to make."
   Turi said, "And you, my godfather, do you advise me to meet with Don Croce?" He was watching Hector intently.
   "Yes," Adonis said simply.
   Turi Guiliano nodded. "Then we will meet in your home, in Montelepre. Are you sure Don Croce will risk that?"
   Adonis said gravely, "Why should he not? He will have my word that he will be safe. And I will have your word which I trust more than anything else in the world."
   Guiliano took Hector's hands in his. "As I do yours," he said. "Thank you for these plans and thank you for these books you have brought me. Will you help me with one of them tonight before you leave?"
   "Of course," Hector Adonis said. And for the rest of the night in his magnificent professorial voice, he explained difficult passages in the books he had brought. Guiliano listened intently and asked questions. It was as if they were schoolmaster and child together as they had been so many years ago.
   It was on that night that Hector Adonis suggested Guiliano keep a Testament. A document that would be a record of everything that happened to the band, that would detail any secret deal Guiliano made with Don Croce and Minister Trezza. It could become a great protection.
   Guiliano was immediately enthusiastic. Even if it had no power, even if it were lost, he dreamed that perhaps in a hundred years some other rebel might discover it. As he and Pisciotta had discovered the bones of Hannibal's elephant.

Chapter 19

   The historic meeting took place two days later. And in that short space of time the town of Montelepre was bursting with rumors that the great Don Croce Malo was coming, hat in hand, to meet with their own glorious hero, Turi Guiliano. How the secret got out was not known. Perhaps it was because Guiliano took extraordinary precautions for the meeting. His patrols moved into position to seal off the Palermo road, and almost fifty of his men who were related by blood to people living in Montelepre went to visit their relatives and stay in their houses overnight.
   Passatempo was sent with his men to seal off the Bellampo Barracks and immobilize the carabinieri if they ventured out on patrol. Terranova's men controlled the road from Castellammare and Trapani. Corporal Canio Silvestro was on a rooftop with his five best riflemen and a heavy machine gun camouflaged by the bamboo frames used to dry tomatoes into paste that many families used in the town of Montelepre.
   Don Croce came at twilight in a large Alfa Romeo touring car which parked in front of the house of Hector Adonis. He came with his brother, Father Beniamino, and two armed guards who remained in the car with the chauffeur. Hector Adonis was waiting for them at the door attired even more elegantly than usual in his specially London-tailored gray suit and a red and black striped tie on his dazzling white shirt. He made a startling contrast to the Don, who seemed to be attired even more carelessly than usual, his huge girth girdled by a pair of trousers that made him look like a huge goose waddling, his shirt, collarless and unbuttoned at the neck, and a heavy black jacket that did not even come together at the front, so that you could see the simple white suspenders, an inch wide, that held up the trousers. His shoes were thin slippers.
   Father Beniamino was in his clerical garb and wore his usual dusty black hat shaped like a round pan. He blessed the house before he entered, making the sign of the cross and murmuring a benediction.
   Hector Adonis owned the finest house in Montelepre and was proud of it. The furniture was from France and the paintings had been bought carefully from minor living artists of Italy. His dinnerplate was from Germany and his house servant was a middle-aged Italian woman who had been trained in England before the war. She served them coffee as the three men sat in the drawing room waiting for Guiliano.
   Don Croce felt absolutely secure. He knew that Guiliano would not dishonor his godfather by betraying his word. The Don was filled with a pleasurable anticipation. He would now meet and judge for himself the true greatness of this rising star. And yet even he was a little startled at how quietly Guiliano slipped into the house. There was no sound out in the cobbled street, no sound of a door opening or being shut. But suddenly Guiliano was standing in the archway that led to the dining room. Don Croce was struck by his handsomeness.
   Life in the mountains had broadened his chest and slimmed down his face. It was still oval and yet the cheeks were lean, the chin pointed. There were the statuelike eyes, golden brown with their curious circle of silver that seemed to embed the eyeballs into their sockets. His clothes too set him off to advantage – the moleskin trousers snug, a white shirt freshly washed and ironed. He wore a hunting jacket of russet velvet, loose, underneath which was slung a machine pistol he always carried. Above all he looked incredibly young, no more than a boy, though his age was twenty-four.
   Could such a boy have defied Rome, outwitted the Friends of the Friends, inspired devotion in the murderous Andolini, kept in check the brutishness of Passatempo, conquered a quarter of Sicily and the love of the people of the whole island? Don Croce knew that Guiliano was incredibly brave, but Sicily was full of brave men who had gone to early graves, easy prey to treacheries.
   And then even as Don Croce doubted him, Turi Guiliano did something that gladdened the Don's heart and reassured him that he was right to make this boy his ally. He came into the room and advanced directly to Don Croce and said, "Bacio tua mano."
   It was the traditional Sicilian peasant greeting to a man of higher rank – a priest, a landowner or a noble. "I kiss your hand." And Guiliano had a cheerful grin on his face. But Don Croce knew exactly why he had said it. It was not to show his subservience to the Don or even in respect for his age. It was said because the Don had put himself in Guiliano's power and Guiliano was showing respect for the trust. Don Croce rose slowly, his heavy cheeks becoming darker with the effort of rising. He took Guiliano in his arms. This was a noble young man and he wanted to show his affection. As he did so he could see the face of Hector Adonis beaming proudly – his godson had shown himself a gentleman.
   Pisciotta came through the archway and watched this with a small smile on his saturnine face. His handsomeness too was remarkable but in direct contrast to Guiliano. The illness of his lungs had thinned his body and his features. The bones of his face seemed to press outward against his olive skin. His hair was carefully combed and sleekly black whereas Guiliano wore his tawny hair closely cropped as if it were a helmet.
   As for Turi Guiliano, he had expected to take the Don by surprise with his greeting and had been surprised in his turn by the Don's complete understanding and graceful affectionate acceptance. He studied the huge hulk of Don Croce and became even more alert. This was a dangerous man. Not only by reputation but by the aura of power around him. The bulk of his body, which should have been grotesque, seemed to give off a heated energy; it filled the room. And when the Don spoke, the voice coming from that massive head had almost the magic of choral music. There was an extraordinary fascination about him when he set out to convince that was a combination of sincerity, forcefulness and exquisite courtesy which was strange in a man who seemed so uncouth in everything else he did.
   "I've watched you for years and waited long for this day. Now that it has arrived, you fulfill every expectation."
   Guiliano said, "I am flattered." He measured his next words, knowing what was expected of him. "I have always hoped we would be friends."
   Don Croce nodded and proceeded to explain the agreement that he had come to with Minister Trezza. That if Guiliano helped "educate" the populace of Sicily to vote properly in the next elections, then a way would be found for a pardon. Guiliano could return to his family as an ordinary citizen and no longer be a bandit. As evidence of the reality of this agreement, Minister Trezza had given the plans for the fight against Guiliano to the Don. The Don raised a hand in the air to emphasize his next point. "If you agree, these plans will be vetoed by the Minister. There would be no army expedition or extra thousand carabinieri sent to Sicily."
   Don Croce saw that Guiliano was listening attentively but did not seem surprised by all this. He went on. "Everyone in Sicily knows your concern for the poor. One might think that you would support the leftist parties. But I know of your belief in God, you are after all a Sicilian. And who does not know of your devotion to your mother? Do you really want Communists running Italy? What would happen to the Church? What would happen to the family? The young men of Italy and Sicily who fought in the war are infected by foreign beliefs, political doctrines that have no place in Sicily. Sicilians can find their own way to a better fate. And do you really want an all-powerful state that would brook no rebelliousness from its citizens? A left-wing government would surely mount a major campaign against both of us, for are we not the true rulers of Sicily? If the leftist parties win the next election, the day might come when there are Russians in the villages of Sicily deciding who might go to church. Our children would be made to go to schools that would teach them that the state comes before the sacred mother and father. What is worth that? No. Now is the time for every true Sicilian to defend his family and his honor against the state."
   There was an unexpected interruption. Pisciotta was still leaning against the wall of the archway. He said sardonically, "Maybe the Russians will give us our pardon."
   A cold wind blew through the Don's mind. But he in no way showed the anger he felt at this insolent mustachioed little dandy. He studied the man. Why had he called attention to himself at this moment? Why had he wanted the Don to notice him? Don Croce wondered if this man might be put to some use. With his unerring instinct he smelled a rottenness in this most trusted lieutenant of Guiliano. Perhaps it was the lung disease, perhaps the cynicism of mind. Pisciotta was a man who could never trust anyone completely and was therefore a man who by definition could not be trusted by anyone completely. Don Croce turned all this over before he spoke to answer.
   "When has a foreign nation ever helped Sicily?" he said. "When has a foreigner ever given justice to a Sicilian? Young men like yourself," he said directly to Pisciotta, "are our only hope. Cunning and brave and a pride in honor. For a thousand years such men have joined the Friends of the Friends to fight against oppressors, to seek the justice that Turi Guiliano fights for now. This is the time for us to stand together and preserve Sicily."
   Guiliano seemed impervious to the power of the Don's voice. He said with deliberate bluntness, "But we have always fought against Rome and the men sent to govern us. They have always been our enemies. And now you ask us to help them, to trust them?"
   Don Croce said gravely, "There are times when it is proper to make common cause with an enemy. The Christian Democrats are the least dangerous to us if they win Italy. It is to our purpose therefore that they rule. What could be simpler?" He paused for a moment. "The leftists will never give you a pardon. Rest assured of that. They are too hypocritical, too unforgiving, they do not understand the Sicilian character. Certainly the poor will get their land, but will they be able to keep what they grow? Can you picture our people working in a cooperative? God in heaven, they kill each other now in a quarrel over whether the Virgin Mary will wear a white robe or a red robe in our religious processions."
   All this was delivered with the ironical wit of a man who wanted his audience to know he was exaggerating and yet know the exaggeration held a good deal of truth.
   Guiliano listened with a slight smile. He knew that someday it might be necessary to kill this man and such was the respect Don Croce inspired by his presence and the power of his personality that Guiliano flinched from the thought. As if by even thinking such a thing he went against his own father, some deep feeling of family. He had to make a decision and it would be the most important since he had become an outlaw.
   Guiliano said softly, "I agree with you on the Communists. They are not for Sicilians." Guiliano paused. He felt that now was the moment to make Don Croce bend to his will. "But if I do Rome's dirty work, I have to promise my men some reward. What can Rome do for us?"
   Don Croce had finished his cup of coffee. Hector Adonis sprang to replenish it, but Don Croce waved him away. Then he said to Guiliano, "We have not done too badly for you. Andolini brings you information on the movements of the carabinieri so that you can always keep your eye on them. They have not taken extraordinary measures to root you out of your mountains. But I know that is not enough. Allow me to do you a service that will gladden my heart and bring joy to your mother and father. Before your godfather here at our table, before your true friend, Aspanu Pisciotta, I will tell you this: I will move heaven and earth to secure your pardon and of course for your men."
   Guiliano had already made up his mind, but he wanted to nail down such guarantees as he could. He said, "I agree with almost everything you say. I love Sicily and its people and though I live as a bandit, I believe in justice. I would do almost anything to return to my home and my parents. But how do you make Rome keep their promises to me? That is the key. The service you ask is dangerous. I must have my reward."
   The Don considered. Then he said slowly and carefully, "You are right to be cautious. But you have those plans I requested Professor Adonis to show you. Keep them as evidence of your relationship to Minister Trezza. I will try to secure other documents for you that you may be able to use and that Rome must fear you may make public in one of your famous letters to the newspapers. And then finally I guarantee the pardon personally if you complete your task and the Christian Democrats win the election. Minister Trezza has the greatest respect for me and would never break his promise."
   Hector Adonis had an excited, pleased look on his face. He was already envisioning Maria Lombardo's happiness when her son returned home no longer a fugitive. He knew Guiliano was acting out of necessity, but he thought that this alliance of Guiliano and Don Croce against the Communists might be the first link in a chain that could bind the two men together in true friendship.
   That the great Don Croce guaranteed the government's pardon impressed even Pisciotta. But Guiliano saw the essential flaw in the Don's presentation. How could he know that this was not merely all an invention by the Don? That the plans had not been stolen? That they had not already been vetoed by the Minister? He needed a direct meeting with Trezza.
   "That reassures me," Guiliano said. "Your personal guarantee shows the kindness of your heart and why people in Sicily call you 'The Good Soul.' But the treachery of Rome is notorious, and politicians – we know what they are. I would like someone I trust to hear Trezza's promise from his own lips and a document from him that gives some assurances."
   The Don was astounded. All during the interview he had had feelings of fondness for Turi Guiliano. He had thoughts of what it would have been if this youth had been his son. Oh, how they could have ruled Sicily together. And with what grace he had said, "I kiss your hand." The Don for one of the few times in his life had been charmed. But now he realized that Guiliano was not accepting his assurances, and his feeling of affection dimmed. He was conscious of those curiously half-closed eyes resting on him with a peculiar stare awaiting further proofs, further assurances. The guarantees of Don Croce Malo were not enough.
   There was a long silence, the Don considering what he should say, the rest waiting. Hector Adonis tried to cover his dismay at Guiliano's persistence and his fear of the Don's reaction. Father Beniamino's white pudgy face had the look of an insulted bulldog. But finally the Don spoke and reassured them all. He had reasoned out what was in Guiliano's mind and what he would need.
   "It is to my interest that you agree," he said to Guiliano, "and so perhaps I was carried away with my own arguments. But let me help you decide in this fashion. Let me say first of all that Minister Trezza will never give you any document – that is too dangerous. But he will speak to you and speak the promises he spoke to me. I can secure letters from Prince Ollorto and other powerful members of the nobility who are committed to our cause. Perhaps better than that, I have a friend who may convince you more – the Catholic Church will support your pardon. I have the word of the Cardinal of Palermo. After you hear Minister Trezza I will arrange an audience with the Cardinal. He too will make the promise directly to you. And there you have it, the promise of the Minister of Justice for all of Italy, the sacred word of a Cardinal of the Holy Catholic Church who might someday be our Pope, and myself."
   It was impossible to describe the manner in which the Don spoke the last two words. His tenor voice sank humbly as if he almost did not dare to include his name with the others, and there was an extra charge of energy in the words "and myself" that left no doubt as to the importance of his promise. Guiliano laughed. "I can't go to Rome." Don Croce said, "Then send someone you trust absolutely. I will bring him to Minister Trezza personally. And then I will bring him to the Cardinal. Surely you can trust the word of a prince of the Holy Church?"
   Guiliano watched Don Croce intently. Warning signals were going off in his brain. Why was the Don so anxious to help him? Certainly he knew that he, Guiliano, could not go to Rome, that he would never take that risk, even if a thousand cardinals and ministers gave their word. So whom did the Don expect him to name as his emissary?
   "There is no person I trust more than my second in command," he said to the Don. "Bring Aspanu Pisciotta with you to Rome, and to Palermo. He likes the big cities, and maybe if the Cardinal hears his confession, even his sins will be forgiven."
   Don Croce leaned back and motioned to Hector Adonis to fill his coffee cup. It was an old trick of his, to mask his satisfaction and sense of triumph. As if the matter at hand was so uninteresting that an external desire could take its place. But Guiliano, who had proved such a brilliant guerrilla fighter once he became a bandit, had an intuitive insight into the reading of men's motions and patterns of thought. He immediately sensed the feeling of satisfaction. Don Croce had won a very important goal. He could not guess that Don Croce wanted more than anything else time to be alone with Aspanu Pisciotta.
   Two days later Pisciotta accompanied Don Croce to Palermo and Rome. Don Croce treated him as if he were royalty. And indeed Pisciotta had the face of the Borgia general, Cesare. The sharp planes, the tiny mustache, the Asiatic sallow darkness of the skin, the cruel and insolent eyes, so alive with charm and an impudent suspicion of everything in the world.
   In Palermo they stayed in the Hotel Umberto, owned by Don Croce, and Pisciotta was shown every courtesy. He was taken out to buy new clothes for his meeting in Rome with the Minister of Justice. He dined with Don Croce at the finest restaurants. And then Pisciotta and Don Croce were received by the Cardinal of Palermo.
   It was extraordinary that Pisciotta, a young man from a small town in Sicily, brought up in the Catholic faith, was not awed by this audience, by the great halls of the Cardinal's palace, the dignified obsequiousness to the holy power shown by all. When Don Croce kissed the Cardinal's ring, Pisciotta looked at the Cardinal with a proud stare.
   The Cardinal was a tall man. He wore a red beret and a scarlet sashed cloak. His features were coarse and marked with smallpox. He was not a man who would ever receive a single vote for the papacy, despite Don Croce's rhetoric, but he was a seasoned intriguer, a Sicilian born.
   There were the usual politenesses. The Cardinal gravely inquired after Pisciotta's spiritual health. He reminded him that whatever sins were committed here on earth, no man must forget that eternal forgiveness awaited him if he were a proper Christian.
   After thus assuring Pisciotta of his spiritual amnesty, the Cardinal got down to the pit of the olive. He told Pisciotta that the Holy Church was in mortal danger here in Sicily. If the Communists won the national elections, who could know what would happen? The great cathedrals would be burned and gutted and turned into machine tool plants. The statues of the Virgin Mary, the crosses of Jesus, the effigies of all the saints would be thrown into the Mediterranean. The priests would be murdered, nuns raped.
   At this last, Pisciotta smiled. What Sicilian, no matter how mad dog a Communist, would ever dream of raping a nun? The Cardinal saw that smile. If Guiliano would help suppress the Communist propaganda before the next election, he, the Cardinal himself, would preach a sermon on Easter Sunday exhorting the virtues of Guiliano and asking the clemency of the government in Rome. And Don Croce could tell the same thing to the Minister when they met in Rome.
   With this the Cardinal concluded the interview and blessed Aspanu Pisciotta. Before he left, Aspanu Pisciotta asked the Cardinal for a little note he could give to Guiliano to show the interview had taken place. The Cardinal complied. The Don was astonished by this idiocy on the part of a Prince of the Holy Church but said nothing.
   The meeting in Rome was more Pisciotta's style. Minister Trezza did not pretend to the spiritual qualities of the Cardinal. After all he was a Minister of Justice and this Pisciotta merely a bandit's courier. He explained to Pisciotta that if the Christian Democratic party lost the election, the Communists would take extraordinary measures to wipe out the last bandits remaining in Sicily. It was true that the carabinieri still mounted expeditions against Guiliano, but that could not be helped. Appearances must be preserved or the radical newspapers would scream to the high heavens.
   Pisciotta interrupted him. "Is Your Excellency telling me that your party can never give Guiliano amnesty?"
   "It will be difficult," Minister Trezza said, "but not impossible. If Guiliano helps us win the election. If he then remains quiet for a time without committing any kidnappings or robberies. If he lets his name be not so notorious. Perhaps he could even emigrate to America for a time and return forgiven by everyone. But one thing I can guarantee, if we win the election. We will not mount serious efforts to capture him. And if he wishes to emigrate to America we will not prevent him or persuade the American authorities to deport him." He paused for a moment. "Personally I will do everything in my power to persuade the President of Italy to pardon him."
   Pisciotta said again with his slight smile, "But if we become model citizens, how do we eat, Guiliano and his men and their families? Is there perhaps a way of the government paying us? After all, we're doing their dirty work."
   Don Croce who had been listening with his eyes shut, like a sleeping reptile, spoke quickly to stop the angry reply of the Minister of Justice who was bursting with fury that this bandit dared to ask the government for money.
   "A joke, Your Excellency," Don Croce said. "He's a young lad his first time out of Sicily. He doesn't understand the strict moralities of the outside world. The question of support does not concern you in the least. I will arrange that with Guiliano myself." He gave Pisciotta a warning glance to keep still.
   But the Minister suddenly had a smile on his face and said to Pisciotta, "Well, I'm glad to see the youth of Sicily have not changed. I was like that once. We're not afraid to ask what's due us. Maybe you would like something more concrete than promises." He reached into his desk and pulled out a red-bordered laminated card. Tossing it to Pisciotta, he said, "This is a special pass signed by me personally. You can move anyplace in Italy or Sicily without the police bothering you. It's worth its weight in gold."
   Pisciotta bowed his thanks and put the pass in his jacket pocket, inside next to his breast. On their journey to Rome he had seen Don Croce use such a pass; he knew he had received something of value. But then the thought struck him: What if he were captured with it? There would be a scandal that would shake the country. The second in command of Guiliano's band carrying a security pass issued by the Minister of Justice? How could that be? His mind raced to solve the puzzle, but he could come up with no answer.
   The gift of such an important document showed an act of faith and good will on the Minister's part. The magnificence of Don Croce's hospitality on the trip was gratifying. But all this did not convince Pisciotta. Before he left he asked Trezza to write a note to Guiliano verifying that the meeting had taken place. Trezza refused.
   When Pisciotta returned to the mountains Guiliano questioned him closely, making him repeat every word he could remember. As Pisciotta showed him the red-bordered pass and voiced his puzzlement as to why it had been given him and the dangers the Minister ran in signing such a pass, Guiliano patted him on the shoulder. "You're a true brother," he said. "You're so much more suspicious than I am, and yet your loyalty to me has blinded you to the obvious. Don Croce must have told him to give you the pass. They hope you will make a special trip to Rome and become their informer."
   "That whore's goat," Pisciotta said with terrible anger. "I'll use this pass to go back and slit his throat."
   "No," Guiliano said. "Keep the pass. It will be useful to us. And another thing. That may look like Trezza's signature, but of course it's not. It's a forgery. If it suits their purpose they can deny the pass is legitimate. Or if it suits their purpose they can say certainly it's in order and produce records that the pass was authorized by Trezza. If they claim it's a forgery they just destroy the records."
   Pisciotta recognized the truth of this. With each day he felt a growing amazement that Guiliano who was so open and honest in his feelings could fathom the twisted schemes of his enemies. He realized that at the root of Guiliano's romanticism was the brilliant penetration of paranoia.
   "Then how can we believe they will keep their promises to us?" Pisciotta said. "Why should we help them? Our business isn't politics."
   Guiliano considered this. Aspanu had always been cynical, and a little greedy too. They had quarreled a few times about the spoils of some robberies, Pisciotta urging a larger share for members of the band.
   "We have no choice," Guiliano said. "The Communists will never give me amnesty if they win control of the government. Right now the Christian Democrats and Minister Trezza and the Cardinal of Palermo and of course Don Croce must be our friends and comrades in arms. We must neutralize the Communists, that's the most important thing. We'll meet with Don Croce and settle the matter." He paused and patted Pisciotta's shoulder. "You did well to get the Cardinal's note. And the pass will be useful."
   But Pisciotta was not convinced. "We'll do their dirty work for them," he said. "And then we'll hang around like beggars waiting for their pardon. I don't believe any of them – they talk to us as if we were foolish girls, promising us the world if we get into bed with them. I say we fight for ourselves, keep the money we make with our work instead of distributing it to the poor. We could be rich and live like kings in America or Brazil. That's our solution and then we won't have to count on those pezzonovanti. "
   Guiliano decided to explain exactly how he felt. "Aspanu," he said, "we must gamble on the Christian Democrats and Don Croce. If we win and gain our pardon, the people of Sicily will elect us to lead them. We'll win everything." Guiliano paused for a moment and smiled at Pisciotta. "If they play us false, neither you nor I will faint with surprise. But how much will we have lost? We must fight the Communists in any case; they are more our enemies than the Fascists. And so their doom is certain. Now, listen to me carefully. You and I think alike. The final battle will be after we defeat the Communists and must take arms against the Friends of the Friends and Don Croce."
   Pisciotta shrugged. "We are making a mistake," he said.
   Guiliano, though he smiled, was thoughtful. He knew Pisciotta liked the life of an outlaw. It fitted his character, and though he was quick-witted and cunning, he did not have imagination. He could not make a jump into the future and see the inescapable fate that awaited them as outlaws.
   Later that night, Aspanu Pisciotta sat on the edge of the cliff and tried to smoke a cigarette. But a sharp pain in his chest made him stub it out and put the butt in his pocket. He knew his tuberculosis was getting worse, but he also knew that if he rested in the mountains for a few weeks, he would feel better. What worried him was something he had not told Guiliano.
   All during the voyage to see Minister Trezza and the Cardinal, Don Croce had been his constant companion. They had eaten dinner together every night, and the Don had discoursed on the future of Sicily, the troublesome times to come. It had taken some time for Pisciotta to realize that the Don was courting him, trying to win him over to some sympathy for the Friends of the Friends, and in a very subtle way attempting to convince Pisciotta that perhaps, like Sicily, his own future might be rosier with the Don than with Guiliano. Pisciotta had given him no sign that he understood these messages. But it made him more worried about the Don's good faith. He had never before been in fear of any man, except perhaps Turi Guiliano. But Don Croce, who had spent his whole life acquiring that "respect" which is the badge of a great Mafia chief, inspired in him a sense of dread. What he realized now was that he feared the Don would outwit and betray them and that someday they would lie with their faces in the dust

Chapter 20

   The 1948 April elections of the Sicilian legislature were a disaster for the Christian Democratic party in Rome. The "People's Bloc," the combination of Communist Socialist left-wing parties, polled 600,000 votes, to the Christian Democratic 330,000. Another 500.000 votes were split between the Monarchist and two other splinter parties. Panic reigned in Rome. Something drastic had to be done before the national election or Sicily, the most backward region of the country, would be decisive in turning all of Italy into a Socialist country.
   Over the previous months Guiliano had lived up to his agreement with Rome. He had torn down all the posters of rival parties, had raided the headquarters of left-wing groups and broken up their meetings in Corleone, Montelepre, Castellammare, Partinico, Piani dei Greci, San Giuseppe Jato and the great city of Monreale. His bandits had put posters in all these cities that proclaimed in great black letters, death to the communists, and he had burned some of the community houses established by the Socialist Workers groups. But his campaign had started too late to affect the regional elections, and he had been reluctant to use the ultimate terror of assassination. Messages flew between Don Croce, Minister Trezza, the Cardinal of Palermo and Turi Guiliano. Reproaches were made. Guiliano was urged to step up his campaign so that the situation could be reversed for the national elections. Guiliano saved all these messages for his Testament.
   A great stroke was needed, and it was the fertile brain of Don Croce that conceived it. He sent a message to Guiliano through Stefano Andolini.
   The two most left-wing and generally rebellious towns in Sicily were Piani dei Greci and San Giuseppe Jato. For many years, even under Mussolini, they had celebrated the first of May as the day of revolution. Since May first was also the name day of Saint Rosalia, their celebration would be disguised as a religious festival not forbidden by the Fascist authorities. But now their May Day parades were bold with red flags and inflammatory speeches. The coming May Day in a week's time was to be the greatest in history. As was the custom, the two towns would combine to celebrate and envoys from all over Sicily would bring their families to rejoice over their recent victory. The Communist Senator, Lo Causi, a renowned and fiery orator, would give the main speech. It was to be the official celebration of the Left of their recent stunning victory in the elections.
   Don Croce's plan was that this celebration was to be attacked by Guiliano's band and broken up. They would mount machine guns and fire over the heads of the crowd to disperse them. It was to be the first step in a campaign of intimidation, a paternal warning, a soft advisory hand of admonishment. The Communist Senator, Lo Causi, would learn that his election to Parliament did not give him license in Sicily or make sacred his person. Guiliano agreed to the plan and ordered his chiefs, Pisciotta, Terranova, Passatempo, Silvestro and Stefano Andolini to stand by to carry it out.
   For the last three years the celebration had always been held on a mountain plain between Piani dei Greci and San Giuseppe Jato, sheltered by the twin peaks of Monte Pizzuta and Monte Cumeta. The people of the towns would climb up to the plain on wildly curving roads that joined near the top, so that the populations of the two towns would meet and become a single procession. They would enter the plain through a narrow pass, and then spread out to celebrate their holiday. This pass was called the Portella della Ginestra.
   The villages of Piani dei Greci and San Giuseppe Jato were poor, their houses ancient, their agriculture archaic. They believed in the ancient codes of honor; the women sitting outside their houses had to sit in profile to keep their good reputations. But the two villages were home to the most rebellious people on the island of Sicily.
   The villages were so old that most of the houses were built of stone, and some had no windows but only small apertures covered with iron discs. Many families housed their animals in the rooms in which they lived. The town bakeries kept goats and young lambs huddled by their ovens, and if a freshly baked loaf dropped to the floor it would usually hit a pile of dung.
   The village men hired themselves out as laborers to wealthy landowners for a dollar a day and sometimes even less, not enough to feed their families. So when the nuns and priests, "Black Crows," came with their packets of macaroni and charity clothes, the villagers swore the necessary oaths: to vote for the Christian Democrats.
   But in the regional election of April 1948 they had treacherously voted overwhelmingly for the Communist or Socialist parties. This had enraged Don Croce who thought that the local Mafia chief controlled the area. But the Don declared that it was the disrespect to the Catholic Church that saddened him. How could devout Sicilians have so deceived the holy sisters who with Christian charity put bread into the mouths of their children?
   The Cardinal of Palermo also was vexed. He had made a special trip to say a Mass in the two villages and had warned them not to vote for the Communists. He had blessed their children and even baptized them, and still they had turned on their Church. He summoned the village priests to Palermo and warned them that they must increase their efforts for the national elections. Not only in the political interests of the Church but to save ignorant souls from hell.
   Minister Trezza was not so surprised. He was Sicilian and knew the island's history. The people of the two villages had always been proud and ferocious fighters against the rich in Sicily and the tyranny of Rome. They had been the first to join Garibaldi, and before that they had fought the French and Moorish rulers of the island. In Piani dei Greci the villagers descended from Greeks who had fled to Sicily to escape Turkish invaders. These villagers still retained their Greek customs, spoke the language and observed the Greek holidays by wearing ancient costumes. But it had been a stronghold of the Mafia which had always fostered rebellion. So Minister Trezza was disappointed by Don Croce's performance, his inability to educate them. But he also knew that the vote in the villages and the whole surrounding countryside had been engineered by one man, a Socialist party organizer named Silvio Ferra.
   Silvio Ferra was a highly decorated soldier in the Italian Army of World War II. He had won his medals in the African campaign and then had been captured by the American Army. He had been an inmate of a prisoner of war camp in the United States where he had attended educational courses designed to make prisoners understand the democratic process. He had not quite believed them until he had been given permission to work outside the camp for a baker in the local town. He had been amazed at the freedom of American life, the ease with which hard work could be turned into a lasting prosperity, the upward mobility of the lower classes. In Sicily the hardest-working peasant could only hope to provide food and shelter for his children; there could be no provision for the future.
   When he was returned to his native Sicily, Silvio Ferra became an ardent advocate of America. But he soon saw that the Christian Democratic party was a tool of the rich and so joined a Socialist Workers' study group in Palermo. He had a thirst for education and a passion for books. Soon he had gobbled up all the theories of Marx and Engels and then joined the Socialist party. He was given the assignment of organizing the party club in San Giuseppe Jato.
   In four years he had done what the agitators from the north of Italy could not do. He had translated the Red Revolution and Socialist doctrine into Sicilian terms. He convinced them that a vote for the Socialist party meant getting a piece of land. He preached that the great estates of the nobles should be broken up since the nobles left them uncultivated. Land that could grow wheat for their children. He convinced them that under a Socialist government the corruption of Sicilian society could be wiped out. There would be no bribing of officials for preference, no one would have to give a priest a pair of eggs to read a letter from America, the village postman would not have to be given a token lira to ensure delivery of mail, men would not have to auction off the labor of their bodies at a pittance to work the fields of dukes and barons. There would be an end to starvation wages, and the officials of the government would be servants of the people, as it was in America. Silvio Ferra quoted chapter and verse to show that the official Catholic Church propped up the debased capitalistic system, yet he never attacked the Virgin Mary, the diversified useful saints, or a belief in Jesus. On Easter mornings he greeted his neighbors with the traditional, "Christ is risen." On Sundays he went to Mass. His wife and children were strictly supervised in true Sicilian style for he was a believer in all the old values, the son's absolute devotion for his mother, respect for his father, the sense of obligation for his most obscure cousins.
   When the Mafia cosc h e in San Giuseppe Jato warned him that he was going too far, he smiled and intimated that in the future he would welcome their friendship, though in his heart he knew that the last and greatest battle would be against the Mafia. When Don Croce sent special messengers to try to make an accommodation, he put them off. Such was his reputation for bravery in the war, the respect in which he was held in the village and his indication that he would be judicious with the Friends of the Friends that Don Croce decided to be patient, especially since he was sure the election was won anyway.
   But most of all Silvio Ferra had a sympathy for his fellow man, a rare quality in the Sicilian peasant. If a neighbor became ill he brought food for his family, he did chores for ailing old widows who lived alone, he cheered all those men who eked out a bare living and were fearful of their futures. He proclaimed a new dawn of hope under the Socialist party. When he gave political speeches he used the southern rhetoric so dearly loved by Sicilians. He did not explain the economic theories of Marx but spoke with fire of the vengeance owed to those who had oppressed the peasants for centuries. "As bread is sweet to us," he said, "so is the blood of the poor to the rich who drink it."
   It was Silvio Ferra who organized a cooperative of laboring men who refused to submit to the labor auction where the lowest wage got the work. He established a set wage per day, and the nobility was forced to meet it at harvesting or watch their olives, grapes and grain rot. And so Silvio Ferra was a marked man.
   What saved him was that he was under the protection of Turi Guiliano. That had been one of the considerations that had persuaded Don Croce to stay his hand. Silvio Ferra had been born in Montelepre. Even as a youth his qualities had been evident. Turi Guiliano had admired him extravagantly, though they had not been close friends because of the difference in their ages – Guiliano was four years younger – and because Silvio had gone off to war. Silvio had returned a much decorated hero. He met a girl from San Giuseppe Jato and moved there to marry her. And as the political fame of Ferra grew, Guiliano let it be known the man was his friend though their politics were different. Thus when Guiliano began his program to "educate" the voters of Sicily, he gave orders that no action was to be taken against the village of San Giuseppe Jato or the person of Silvio Ferra.
   Ferra had heard of this and was clever enough to send a message to Guiliano thanking him and saying he would be of service to Guiliano at his command. The message was sent via Ferra's parents who still lived in Montelepre with their other children. One of the children was a young girl named Justina, only fifteen, who carried the note to the Guiliano home to deliver it to his mother. It so happened that Guiliano was visiting at the time and was there to receive the message personally. At fifteen most Sicilian girls are already women, and she fell in love with Turi Guiliano, as how could she not? His physical power, his feline grace fascinated her so that she stared at him almost rudely.
   Turi Guiliano and his parents and La Venera were drinking coffee and asked the girl if she would like a cup. She refused. Only La Venera noticed how pretty the girl was and was aware of her fascination. Guiliano did not recognize her as the little girl whom he had once met crying in the road and given lire to. Guiliano said to her, "Give your brother my thanks for his offer and tell him not to worry about his mother and father, they will always be under my protection." Justina quickly left the house and dashed back to her parents. From that time on she dreamed of Turi Guiliano as her lover. And she was proud of the affection he had for her brother.
   And so when Guiliano agreed to suppress the festival at the Portella della Ginestra, he sent a friendly warning to Silvio Ferra that he should not take part in the May Day meeting. He assured him that none of the villagers of San Giuseppe Jato would be harmed but that there might be some danger he could not protect him from if he persisted in his Socialist party activities. Not that he, Guiliano, would ever do anything to harm him, but the Friends of the Friends were determined to crush the Socialist party in Sicily and Ferra would certainly be one of their targets.
   When Silvio Ferra received this note he assumed it was another attempt to frighten him off, instigated by Don Croce. It did not matter. The Socialist party was on the march to victory and he would not miss one of its great celebrations of the victory they had already won.
   On May Day of 1948 the populace of the two towns of Piani dei Greci and San Giuseppe Jato rose early to start on their long march up mountain trails to the plain beyond the Portella della Ginestra. They were led by bands of musicians from Palermo especially hired for the occasion. Silvio Ferra, flanked by his wife and two children, was in the vanguard of the San Giuseppe Jato procession, proudly carrying one of the huge red flags. Dazzlingly painted carts, with their horses in special red plumes and colorful tasseled blankets, were loaded with cooking pots, huge wooden boxes of spaghetti, enormous wooden bowls for salads. There was a special cart for the jugs of wine. Another cart fitted with blocks of ice carried wheels of cheese, great salami logs and the dough and ovens to bake fresh bread.
   Children danced and kicked soccer balls along the column. Men on horseback tested their steeds for the sprint races that were to be a highlight of the afternoon games.
   As Silvio Ferra led his townspeople toward the narrow mountain pass called the Portella della Ginestra, the people of Piani dei Greci converged from the other road, holding their red flags and Socialist party standards high. The two crowds mixed, exchanging exuberant greetings as they walked on, gossiping about the latest scandals in their villages and speculating on what their victory in the election would bring, what dangers lay ahead. Despite rumors that there would be trouble on this May Day they were by no means afraid. Rome they despised, the Mafia they feared, but not to submission. After all they had defied both in the last election and nothing had happened.
   By noontime more than three thousand people had spread out over the plain. The women started the portable ovens to boil water for pasta, the children were flying kites over which flew the tiny red hawks of Sicily. The Communist Senator, Lo Causi, was going over his notes for the speech he was to deliver; a group of men led by Silvio Ferra was putting together the wooden platform which would hold him and prominent citizens of the two towns. The men helping him were also advising him to keep his introduction of the Senator short – the children were getting hungry.
   At that moment there were light popping sounds in the mountain air. Some of the children must have brought firecrackers, Silvio Ferra thought. He turned to look.
   On that same morning but much earlier, indeed before the smokey Sicilian sun had risen, two squads of twelve men each had made the march from Guiliano's headquarters in the mountains above Montelepre down to the mountain range which held the Portella della Ginestra. One squad was commanded by Passatempo and the other by Terranova. Each squad carried a heavy machine gun. Passatempo led his men high up on the slopes of Monte Cumeta and carefully supervised the emplacement of his machine gun. Four men were detailed to service and fire it. The remaining men were spread out on the slope with their rifles and lupare to protect them from any attack.
   Terranova and his men occupied the slopes of Monte Pizzuta on the other side of the Portella della Ginestra. From this vantage point, the arid plain and the villages below were under the barrels of his machine gun and the rifles of his men. This was to prevent any surprise by the carabinieri if they should venture out from their barracks.
   From both mountain slopes men of the Guiliano band watched the townspeople from Piani dei Greci and San Giuseppe Jato make their long marches to the tabletop plain. A few of the men had relatives in these processions, but they felt no twinge of conscience. For Guiliano's instructions had been explicit. The machine guns were to be fired over the heads of crowds until they dispersed and fled back to their villages. Nobody was to be hurt.
   Guiliano had planned to go with this expedition and command it personally, but seven days before May Day, Aspanu Pisciotta's weak chest had finally succumbed to a hemorrhage. He had been running up the side of the mountain to the band's headquarters when blood spurted out of his mouth and he collapsed to the ground. His body started rolling downhill. Guiliano, climbing behind him, thought it was one of his cousin's pranks. He stopped the body with his foot and then saw the front of Pisciotta's shirt covered with blood. At first he thought Aspanu had been hit by a sniper and he had missed the sound of the shot. He took Pisciotta in his arms and carried him uphill. Pisciotta was still conscious and kept murmuring, "Put me down, put me down." And Guiliano knew it could not be a bullet. The voice betrayed the weariness of an inner breakage, not the savage trauma of a body violated by metal.
   Pisciotta was put on a stretcher and Guiliano led a band of ten men to a doctor in Monreale. The doctor was often used by the band to treat gunshot wounds and could be counted on to keep secrets. But this doctor reported Pisciotta's illness to Don Croce as he had all the other transactions with Guiliano. For the doctor hoped to be appointed head of a Palermo hospital and he knew this would be impossible without Don Croce's blessing.
   The doctor brought Pisciotta to the Monreale hospital for further tests and asked Guiliano to remain to wait for the results.
   "I'll come back in the morning," Guiliano told the doctor. He detailed four of his men to guard Pisciotta in the hospital and with his other men he went to the home of one of his band to hide.
   The next day the doctor told him that Pisciotta needed a drug called streptomycin that could only be obtained in the United States. Guiliano thought about this. He would ask his father and Stefano Andolini to write Don Corleone in America and ask that some be sent. He told the doctor this and asked if Pisciotta could be released from the hospital. The doctor said yes, but only if he rested in bed for several weeks.
   So it was that Guiliano was in Monreale taking care of Pisciotta, arranging a house for him to recuperate in, as the attack was made at the Portella della Ginestra.
   When Silvio Ferra turned to the sound of the firecrackers, three things registered simultaneously on his mind. The first was the sight of a small boy holding up his arm in astonishment. At the end of it, instead of a hand holding a kite, was a bloody horrible stump, the kite sailing off to the sky above the slopes of Monte Cumeta. The second was his shock of recognition – the firecrackers were machine-gun fire. The third was a great black horse plunging wildly through the crowd, riderless, its flanks streaming blood. Then Silvio Ferra was running through the crowd, searching for his wife and children.
   On the slopes of Monte Pizzuta, Terranova watched the scene through his field glasses. At first he thought people were falling to the ground out of terror, and then he saw motionless bodies sprawled with that peculiar abandon of death and he struck the machine gunner away from his weapon. But as his machine gun fell silent, he could still hear the gun on Monte Cumeta chattering. Terranova thought Passatempo had not yet seen that the gunfire had been aimed too low and people were being massacred. After a few minutes the other gun stopped and an awful stillness filled the Portella della Ginestra. Then floating up to the twin mountain peaks came the wails of the living, the shrieks of the wounded and the dying. Terranova signaled his men to gather close, had them dismantle the machine gun, and then led them away around the other side of the mountain to make their escape. As they did so he was pondering whether he should return to Guiliano to report this tragedy. He was afraid Guiliano might execute him and his men out of hand. Yet he was sure Guiliano would give him a fair hearing, and he and his men could truly swear that they had elevated their fire. He would return to headquarters and report. He wondered if Passatempo would do the same.
   By the time Silvio Ferra found his wife and children, the machine guns had stopped. His family was unhurt and were starting to rise from the ground. He flung them down again and made them stay prone for another fifteen minutes. He saw a man on a horse galloping toward Piani dei Greci to get help from the carabinieri barracks, and when the man was not shot off his horse he knew the attack was over. He got up.
   From the tabletop of the plain that crowned the Portella della Ginestra, thousands of people were streaming back to their villages at the bottom of the mountains. And on the ground were the dead and wounded, their families crouched over them weeping. The proud banners they had carried that morning were lying in the dust, their dark golds, brilliant greens and solitary reds startlingly bright in the noon sun. Silvio Ferra left his family to help the wounded. He stopped some of the fleeing men and made them serve as stretcher bearers. He saw with horror that some of the dead were children, and some were women. He felt the tears come to his eyes. All his teachers were wrong, those believers in political action. Voters would never change Sicily. It was all foolishness. They would have to murder to get their rights.
   It was Hector Adonis who brought the news to Guiliano at Pisciotta's bedside. Guiliano immediately went to his mountain headquarters, leaving Pisciotta to recover without his personal protection.
   There on the cliffs above Montelepre, he summoned Passatempo and Terranova.
   "Let me warn you before you speak," Guiliano began. "Whoever is responsible will be found out no matter how long it takes. And the longer it takes the more severe the punishment. If it was an honest mistake, confess now and I promise you won't suffer death."
   Passatempo and Terranova had never seen such fury in Guiliano before. They stood rigid, not daring to move as Guiliano interrogated them. They swore their guns had been elevated to fire over the heads of the crowd, and when they had observed the people being hit, they had halted the guns.
   Guiliano next questioned the men in the squads and the men on the machine guns. He pieced the scene together. Terranova's machine gun had fired about five minutes before being halted. Passatempo's about ten minutes. The gunners swore they had fired above the heads of the crowds. None of them would admit they had possibly made an error or depressed the angle of the guns in any way.
   After he dismissed them, Guiliano sat alone. He felt, for the first time since he had become a bandit, a sense of intolerable shame. In more than four years as an outlaw he could boast that he had never harmed the poor. That boast was no longer true. He had massacred them. In his innermost heart he could no longer think of himself as a hero. Then he thought over the possibilities. It could have been a mistake: His band was fine with lupare, but the heavy machine guns were not too familiar to them. Firing downward, it was possible they had misjudged the angle. He could not believe that Terranova or Passatempo had played him false, but there was always the awful possibility that one or both had been bribed to commit the massacre. Also, it had occurred to him the moment he heard the news that there might have been a third ambush party.
   But surely, if it had been deliberate, more people would have been shot. Surely it would have been a far more terrible slaughter. Unless, Guiliano thought, the aim of the massacre had been to disgrace the name of Guiliano. And whose idea had it been, the attack on the Portella della Ginestra? The coincidence was too much for him to swallow.
   The inevitable and humiliating truth was that he had been outwitted by Don Croce.

Chapter 21

   The massacre at the Portella della Ginestra shocked all of Italy. Newspapers screamed in glaring headlines the slaughter of innocent men, women and children. There were fifteen dead and over fifty wounded. At first there was speculation that the Mafia had committed the massacre, and indeed Silvio Ferra gave speeches laying the deed at the feet of Don Croce. But the Don had been prepared for this. Secret members of the Friends of the Friends swore before magistrates that they had seen Passatempo and Terranova set their ambush. The people of Sicily wondered why Guiliano did not deny this outrageous charge in one of his famous letters to the newspapers. He was uncharacteristically silent.
   Two weeks before the national election, Silvio Ferra rode on his bicycle from San Giuseppe Jato to the town of Piani dei Greci. He cycled along the river Jato and skirted the base of the mountain. On the road he passed two men who shouted at him to stop, but he cycled on swiftly. Looking back he saw the two men trudging after patiently but he soon outdistanced them and left them far behind. By the time he entered the village of Piani dei Greci, they were no longer in sight. Ferra spent the next three hours in the Socialist community house with other party leaders from the surrounding area. When they were done it was twilight, and he was anxious to get home before dark. He walked his bicycle through the central square, greeting cheerily some of the villagers he knew. Suddenly four men surrounded him. Silvio Ferra recognized one of them as the Mafia chief of Montelepre, and he felt a sense of relief. He had known Quintana as a child, and Ferra also knew that the Mafia was very careful in this corner of Sicily not to irritate Guiliano or break his rules about "insults to the poor." And so he greeted Quintana with a smile and said, "You're a long way from home."
   Quintana said, "Hello, my friend. We'll walk along with you for a bit. Don't make a fuss and you won't be hurt. We just want to reason with you."
   "Reason with me here," Silvio Ferra said. He felt the first thrill of fear, the same fear that he felt on the battlegrounds of war, a fear he knew he could master. And so now he restrained himself from doing something foolish. Two of the men arranged themselves alongside him and gripped his arms. They propelled him gently across the square. The bicycle rolled free, then toppled over on its side.
   Ferra saw the people of the village sitting outside their homes become aware of what was happening. Surely they would come to his aid. But the massacre at the Portella della Ginestra, the general reign of terror, had broken their spirits. Not one of them raised an outcry. Silvio Ferra dug his heels into the ground and tried to turn back to the community house. Even this far away he could see some of his fellow party workers framed in the doorway. Couldn't they see he was in trouble? But nobody left the frame of light. He called out, "Help me." There was no movement in the village and Silvio Ferra felt a deep sense of shame for them.
   Quintana pushed him forward roughly. "Don't be a fool," he said. "We only want to talk. Now come with us without making an uproar. Don't get your friends hurt."
   It was almost dark, the moon was already up. He felt a gun being jabbed into his back and he knew they would kill him in the square if they really meant to kill him. And then they would kill any friends who decided to help. He started walking with Quintana to the end of the village. There was a chance they did not mean to kill him; there were too many witnesses and some had surely recognized Quintana. If he struggled now they might panic and fire their guns. Better to wait and listen.
   Quintana was speaking to him in a reasonable voice. "We want to persuade you to stop all your Communist foolishness. We have forgiven your attack on the Friends of the Friends when you accused them of the Ginestra affair. But our patience was not rewarded and it grows short. Do you think it's wise? If you continue you will force us to leave your children without a father."
   By this time they were out of the village and starting up a rocky path that would lead finally to Monte Cumeta. Silvio Ferra looked back despairingly but saw no one following. He said to Quintana, "Would you kill the father of a family over a small thing like politics?"
   Quintana laughed harshly, "I've killed men for spitting on my shoe," he said. The men holding his arms disengaged themselves and at that moment Silvio Ferra knew his fate. He whirled and started to run down the rocky moonlit path.
   The villagers heard the gunfire and one of the Socialist party leaders went to the carabinieri. The next morning Silvio Ferra's body was found thrown into a mountain crevice. When the police questioned villagers, nobody admitted to seeing what had happened. Nobody mentioned the four men, nobody admitted to having recognized Guido Quintana. Rebellious as they might be, they were Sicilians and would not break the law of omerta. But some told what they had seen to one of Guiliano's band.
   Many things combined to win the elections for the Christian Democrats. Don Croce and the Friends of the Friends had done their work well. The massacre at the Portella della Ginestra had shocked all Italy, but it had done more than that to Sicilians – it had traumatized them. The Catholic Church, electioneering under the banner of Christ, had been more careful with its charity. The murder of Silvio Ferra was the finishing blow. The Christian Democratic party won an overwhelming victory in Sicily in 1948, and that helped carry all of Italy. It was clear that they were to rule long into the foreseeable future. Don Croce was the master of Sicily, the Catholic Church would be the national religion and the odds were good that Minister Trezza, not for some years but also not too late, would someday be the Premier of Italy.
   In the end Pisciotta was proved right. Don Croce sent word through Hector Adonis that the Christian Democratic party could not get the amnesty for Guiliano and his men because of the massacre at the Portella della Ginestra. It would be too much of a scandal; the charges that it had been politically inspired would flare up again. The newspapers would go berserk and there would be violent strikes all over Italy. Don Croce said that naturally Minister Trezza's hands were tied, that the Cardinal of Palermo could no longer help a man who was thought to have massacred innocent women and children; but that he, Don Croce, would continue to work for amnesty. However, he advised Guiliano that it would be better to emigrate to Brazil or the United States, and in that endeavor, he, Don Croce, would help in any way.
   Guiliano's men were astonished that he showed no emotion at this betrayal, that he seemed to accept it as a matter of course. He took his men further into the mountains and told his chiefs to make their camps near his own so he could assemble them all at a moment's notice. As the days passed, he seemed to retire more and more deeply into his own private world. Weeks went by as his chiefs waited impatiently for his orders.
   One morning he wandered deep into the mountains by himself without bodyguards. He returned in darkness and stood in the light of the campfires.
   "Aspanu," he said, "summon all the chiefs."
   Prince Ollorto had an estate of hundreds of thousands of acres on which he grew everything that had made Sicily the breadbasket of Italy for a thousand years – lemons and oranges, grains, bamboo, olive trees which provided wells of oil, grapes for wine, oceans of tomatoes, green peppers, eggplants of the most royal purple as big as a carter's head. Part of this land was leased to the peasants on a fifty-fifty basis, but Prince Ollorto like most landowners would first skim off the top-fees for machinery used, seed supplied and transportation provided, all with interest. The peasant was fortunate to keep twenty-five percent of the treasures he had grown with the sweat of his brow. And yet he was well off compared with those who had to hire themselves out on a daily basis and accept starvation wages.
   The land was rich, but unfortunately the nobles kept a good portion of their estates uncultivated and going to waste. As long ago as 1860 the great Garibaldi had promised the peasants they would own their own land. Yet even now Prince Ollorto had a hundred thousand acres that lay fallow. So did the other nobles who used their land as a cash reserve, selling off pieces to indulge their follies.
   In the last election all the parties, including the Christian Democratic party, had promised to strengthen and enforce the sharing-of-land laws. These laws stated that the uncultivated lands of large estates could be claimed by peasant farmers on payment of a nominal sum.
   But these laws had always been thwarted by the nobility's practice of hiring Mafia chiefs to intimidate would-be claimers of land. On the day for the claiming of the lands a Mafia chief had only to ride his horse up and down the borders of the estate and no peasant would dare to make a claim. The few who chose to do so would invariably be marked down for assassination and the male members of his family with him. This had gone on for a century, and every Sicilian knew the rule. If an estate had a Mafia chief as its protector, no lands would be claimed from it. Rome could pass a hundred laws, those laws had no significance. As Don Croce once put it to Minister Trezza in an unguarded moment, "What do your laws have to do with us?"
   Shortly after the election, the day came when Prince Ollorto's lands could be claimed from those parts of his estate that had not been cultivated. All one hundred thousand acres had been designated by the government, tongue in cheek. Left-wing party leaders urged the people on to make their claims. When the day arrived almost five thousand peasants congregated outside the gate of Prince Ollorto's palace. Government officials waited in a huge tent on the property furnished with tables and chairs and other official apparatus to formally register their claims. Some of the peasants were from the town of Montelepre.
   Prince Ollorto, following the advice of Don Croce, had hired six Mafia chiefs as his gabellot t i. And so on that bright morning, the smoky Sicilian sun making them sweat, the six Mafia chiefs rode their horses up and down along the wall surrounding Prince Ollorto's estate. The assembled peasants, under olive trees older than Christ, watched these six men, famous all over Sicily for their ferocity. They waited as if hoping for some miracle, too fearful to move forward.
   But that miracle would not be the forces of law. Minister Trezza had sent direct orders to the Maresciallo commanding them that carabinieri were to be confined to their barracks. On that day, there was not a uniformed member of the National Police to be seen in the whole province of Palermo.
   The multitude outside the wall of Prince Ollorto's estate waited. The six Mafia chiefs rode their horses up and down as consistent as metronomes, their faces impassive, their guns sheathed in rifle holsters, lupare on shoulder straps, pistols tucked in their belts hidden by jackets. They made no menacing signs toward the crowd – indeed they ignored them; they simply rode in silence back and forth. The peasants, as if hoping the horses would tire or carry these guardian dragons away, opened their food sacks and uncorked their wine bottles. They were mostly men, only a few women, and among these was the girl Justina with her mother and father. They had come to show their defiance for the murderers of Silvio Ferra. And yet none of them dared pass the line of slowly moving horses, dared to claim the land that was theirs by right of law.
   It was not only fear that restrained them; these riders were "men of respect" who were in fact the lawgivers of the towns they lived in. The Friends of the Friends had established their own shadowy government that functioned more effectively than the government in Rome. Was there a thief or cattle rustler stealing a peasant's cattle and sheep? If the victim reported the crime to the carabinieri, he would never recover his goods. But if he went to see these Mafia chiefs and paid a twenty percent fee, the lost stock would be found and he would receive a guarantee that it would not happen again. If a hot-tempered bully murdered some innocent workman over a glass of wine, the government could rarely convict because of perjured testimony and the law of omerta. But if the victim's family went to one of these six men of respect, then vengeance and justice could be had.
   Chronic petty thieves in poor neighborhoods would be executed, feuds settled with honor, a quarrel over land boundaries resolved without the expense of lawyers. These six men were judges whose opinions could not be appealed or ignored, whose punishments were severe and could not be evaded except by emigration. These six men had power in Sicily that not even the Premier of Italy could exercise. And so the crowd remained outside Prince Ollorto's walls.
   The six Mafia chiefs did not ride close together; that would have been a sign of weakness. They rode separately, like independent kings, each carrying his own particular brand of terror. The most feared, riding a mottled gray horse, was Don Siano from the town of Bisacquino. He was now over sixty years of age and his face was as gray and as mottled as the hide of his horse. He had become a legend at the age of twenty-six when he had assassinated the Mafia chief preceding him. The man had murdered Don Siano's father when the Don himself had been a child of twelve and Siano had waited fourteen years for his revenge. Then one day he had dropped from a tree onto the victim and his horse and, clasping the man from behind, had forced him to ride through the main street of the town. As they rode in front of the people, Siano had slashed his victim to pieces, cutting off his nose, his lips, his ears and his genitals, and then holding the bloody corpse in his arms had paraded the horse in front of the victim's house. Afterward he had ruled his province with a bloody and iron hand.
   The second Mafia chief, riding a black horse with scarlet plumes above its ears, was Don Arzana of the town of Piani dei Greci. He was a calm, deliberate man who believed that there were always two sides in a quarrel and had refused to kill Silvio Ferra for political purposes, had indeed forestalled that man's fate for years. He was distressed by Ferra's murder but had been powerless to intervene, since Don Croce and the other Mafia chiefs insisted that the time had come to make an example in his area. His rule had been tempered with mercy and kindness, and he was the most loved of the six tyrants. But now as he rode his horse in front of the assembled multitude his face was stern, all his inner doubts erased.
   The third man on horseback was Don Piddu of Caltanissetta and his steed's bridle was garlanded with flowers. He was known to be susceptible to flattery and vain of his appearance, jealous of power and murderous to the aspirations of young men. At a village festival, a young peasant gallant had stricken the local women dumb with admiration because he wore bells on his ankles when he danced, wore a shirt and trousers made of green silk, tailored in Palermo, and sang as he played a guitar manufactured in Madrid. Don Piddu had been incensed with the adulation shown this rural Valentino, furious that the women did not admire a real man like himself rather than this simpering, effeminate youth. Who danced no more after that fateful day but was found on the road to his farm, his body riddled with bullets.
   The fourth Mafia chief was Don Marcuzzi of the town of Villamura, who was known to be an ascetic and had his own chapel in his home like the old nobility. Don Marcuzzi, despite this one affectation, lived very simply, and was personally a poor man since he refused to profit by his power. But he enjoyed that power enormously; he was tireless in his endeavors to help his fellow Sicilians but he was also a true believer in the old ways of the Friends of the Friends. He had become a legend when he executed his favorite nephew for committing an infamita, the breaking of the law of omerta, giving information to the police against a rival Mafia faction.
   The fifth man on horseback was Don Buccilla of Partinico, who had come to see Hector Adonis in behalf of his nephew on the long-ago, fateful day when Turi Guiliano became an outlaw. Now, five years later, he was heavier by forty pounds. He still wore his opera peasant clothes despite the fact that he had become enormously wealthy in those five years. His ferocity was benign, but he could not abide dishonesty and executed thieves with the same righteousness as those eighteenth-century English High Justices proclaiming the death penalty on child pickpockets.
   The sixth man was Guido Quintana, who, though nominally of Montelepre, had made his reputation by taking over the bloody battleground of the town of Corleone. He had been forced to do this because Montelepre was directly under the protection of Guiliano. But in Corleone, Guido Quintana had found what his murderous heart yearned for. He had settled four family feuds by the simple expedient of wiping out opponents to his decisions. He had murdered Silvio Ferra and other union organizers. He was perhaps the only Mafia chief who was hated more than he was respected.
   These were the six men who, by their reputations and the respect and enormous amount of fear they could generate, barred the lands of Prince Ollorto to the poor peasants of Sicily.
   Two jeeps full of armed men sped down the Montelepre-Palermo road and turned off on the path that led to the estate wall. All but two of the men were masked with wool coverings that had slits cut open over the eyes. The two unmasked men were Turi Guiliano and Aspanu Pisciotta. The masked men included Corporal Canio Silvestro, Passatempo and Terranova. Andolini, also masked, covered the road from Palermo. As the jeeps pulled up about fifty feet from the Mafia horsemen, additional men pushed through the crowd of peasants. They too were masked. They had been picnicking in the grove of olive trees. When the two jeeps appeared they had opened food baskets and taken out their weapons and their masks. They spread out into a long half circle and covered the horsemen with their rifles. All told, there were about fifty of them. Turi Guiliano jumped out of his jeep and checked to see that everyone was in place. He watched the six riders going back and forth. He knew they had seen him, and he knew the crowd too had recognized him. The smoky Sicilian afternoon sun tinged the green landscape with red. Guiliano wondered how these thousands of tough peasants could be so intimidated that they let six men keep the bread out of the mouths of their children. Aspanu Pisciotta was waiting like an impatient viper beside him. Only Aspanu had refused to wear a mask; all the others had feared a vendetta from the families of the six Mafia chiefs and from the Friends of the Friends. Now Guiliano and Pisciotta would bear the brunt of the vendetta.
   They both wore the gold buckles engraved with the lion and the eagle. Guiliano had only a heavy pistol in a holster hanging from his belt. He also wore the emerald ring he had taken from the Duchess years ago. Pisciotta carried a machine pistol cradled in his arms. His face was pale from his lung disease and excitement; he was impatient with Guiliano for taking so long. But Guiliano was carefully watching the scene to make sure his orders had been carried out. His men had formed the half circle to leave an escape route for the Mafia chiefs should they decide to ride away. If they ran they would lose "respect" and a great deal of their influence; the peasants would no longer fear them. But he saw Don Siano turn his mottled gray horse and the others follow him to parade again before the wall. They would not run.
   From one of the towers of his ancient palace, Prince Ollorto watched the scene through the telescope he used to chart the stars. He could see Turi Guiliano's face clearly and in detail – the oval eyes, the clean planes of his face, the generous mouth now pressed tight; and he knew that the strength in his face was the strength of virtue, and thought it was a pity that virtue was not a more merciful asset. For it was terrible indeed when it was pure, as the Prince knew this to be pure. He was ashamed of his own role. He knew his fellow Sicilians so well, and now he would be responsible for what was about to happen. The six great men he had bound with money would fight for him, they would not run. They had intimidated the great multitude who were before his wall. But now Guiliano was standing before them like an avenging angel. Already it seemed to the Prince that the sun was darkening.
   Guiliano strode to the path the six men rode. They were squat heavy men on horseback and they kept their mounts to a slow steady walk. From time to time they would feed their horses off a huge pile of oats heaped against the jagged white stone wall. This was so the horses would defecate continuously and leave a constant insulting trail of manure; then they would continue their slow ride.
   Turi Guiliano placed himself very close to their path, Pisciotta a step behind. The six men on horseback did not look his way or stop. Their faces were inscrutable. Though they all wore lupare over their shoulders, they did not attempt to unsling them. Guiliano waited. The men rode past him three more times. Guiliano stepped back. He said quietly to Pisciotta, "Bring them down from their horses and present them to me." Then he crossed the path and leaned against the white stone wall of the estate.
   Leaning against the wall he knew that he had crossed a fatal line, that what he was doing this day would decide his fate. But he felt no hesitation, no uneasiness, only a cold rage against the world. He knew that behind these six men loomed the enormous figure of Don Croce, and that it was the Don who was his final enemy. And he felt anger against this very multitude of people he was helping. Why were they so docile, so fearful? If only he could arm and lead them he could forge a new Sicily. But then he felt a wave of pity for these poorly clad, nearly starved peasants, and he raised his arm in a salute to encourage them. The crowd remained silent. For a moment he thought of Silvio Ferra, who might have roused them.
   Now Pisciotta took command of the stage. He was wearing his cream-colored sweater with the dragons rampant woven darkly in the woolen material. His sleek dark head, narrow as a knife edge, was etched in the blood-red Sicilian sunlight. He turned that head like a blade toward the six obelisks riding their horses and watched them for a long moment with his deadly viper's gaze. Don Siano's mount defecated at his feet as the six men rode past.
   Pisciotta stepped back one pace. He nodded toward Terranova, Passatempo and Silvestro, who ran to the fifty armed masked men forming the covering arc. The men spread out further to close off the escape route that had been left open. The Mafia chiefs continued riding proudly as if they noticed nothing, though they had of course observed and understood everything. But they had won the first round of their battle. Now it was for Guiliano to decide whether to take the last and most dangerous step.
   Pisciotta moved into the path of Don Siano's horse and raised his hand imperiously to that gray fearful face. But Don Siano did not stop. When the horse tried to shy away the rider pulled his head tight, and they would have ridden over Pisciotta had he not stepped aside and, with a savage grin, bowed low to the Don as he passed by. Then Pisciotta stepped directly behind the horse and rider, sighted his machine pistol on the gray hindquarters of the horse and pulled the trigger.
   The fragrant, flowered air was filled with ropy entrails, a vast shower of blood and a thousand golden flecks of manure. The hail of bullets swept the horse's legs beneath him and he fell straight down. Don Siano's body was trapped by the fallen body until four of Guiliano's men pulled him out and bound his arms behind his back. The horse was still alive and Pisciotta stepped forward and mercifully fired a spray of bullets into the animal's head.
   A low moan of terror and exultation rose from the crowd. Guiliano remained leaning against the wall, his heavy pistol still in its holster. He stood with his arms folded as if he too were wondering what Aspanu Pisciotta would do next.
   The remaining five Mafia chiefs continued their parade. Their mounts had reared up at the sound of gunfire, but the riders quickly brought them under control. They rode as slowly as before. Again Pisciotta stepped onto the path. Again he raised his hand. The lead rider, Don Buccilla, stopped. The others behind him reined their horses still.
   Pisciotta called to them, "Your families will need your horses in the days to come. I promise to send them. Now dismount and pay your respects to Guiliano." His voice rang loud and clear to the ears of the multitude.
   There was a long silence and then the five men dismounted. They stood there proudly gazing at the crowd, their eyes fierce and insolent. The long arc of Guiliano's men broke as twenty of them came close, guns ready. Carefully and gently they bound the arms of the five men behind their backs. Then they led all six chiefs to Guiliano.
   Guiliano regarded these six men without expression. Quintana had humiliated him once, had even tried to assassinate him, but now the situation was reversed. Quintana's face had not changed over these five years – it had the same wolfish look – but at this moment the eyes seemed vacant and wandering behind the Mafioso mask of defiance.
   Don Siano stared at Guiliano with contempt on his gray face. Buccilla seemed a little astonished, as if he were surprised by so much ill feeling in an affair that did not really concern him. The other Dons looked him coldly in the eye as ultimate men of respect must do. Guiliano knew them all by reputation; as a child he had feared some of these men, especially Don Siano. Now he had humiliated them before all Sicily and they would never forgive him. They would be deadly enemies forever. He knew what he must do, but he knew also that they were beloved husbands and fathers, that their children would weep for them. They gazed past him proudly, giving no signs of fear. Their message was clear. Let Guiliano do what he had to do, if he had the belly for it. Don Siano spat at Guiliano's feet.
   Guiliano looked at them in the face, each separately. "Kneel and make your peace with God," he said. None of the men moved.
   Guiliano turned and walked away from them. The six Mafia chiefs stood outlined against the white stone wall. Guiliano reached his line of men, then turned. He said in a loud clear voice that could be heard by the crowd, "I execute you in the name of God and Sicily," then touched Pisciotta on the shoulder.
   At that moment Don Marcuzzi started to kneel but Pisciotta had already opened fire. Passatempo and Terranova and the Corporal, still masked, also fired. The six bound bodies were flung up against the wall by the storm of machine-gun bullets. The jagged white stones were splattered with red-purple gouts of blood and pellets of flesh torn from the galvanized bodies. They seemed to be dancing from strings as they were flung back again and again by the continuing hail of bullets.
   High in the tower of his palace, Prince Ollorto turned away from the telescope. So he did not see what happened next.
   Guiliano stepped forward and advanced to the wall. He drew the heavy pistol from his belt and slowly and ceremoniously shot each of the fallen Mafia chiefs through the head.
   There was a great hoarse roar from the watching crowd and, in seconds, thousands were streaming through the gates of Prince Ollorto's estate. Guiliano watched them. He noticed that none of the crowd came near him.