Chapter 22

   That Easter morning of 1949 was glorious. The whole island was carpeted with flowers, and Palermo balconies held huge tubs of wildly rioting colors; the cracks in the sidewalk grew red– and blue– and white-petaled flowers, and so, even, did the sides of old churches. The streets of Palermo were thronged with citizens going to the nine o'clock High Mass at Palermo's great cathedral where the Cardinal himself would serve Communion. Countrymen from the nearby villages had come in to attend, and in their black mourning suits, with their wives and children, they greeted everyone they passed with the traditional Easter morning salute of the peasant, "Christ is risen." Turi Guiliano responded with the equally traditional, "Blessed be His name."
   Guiliano and his men had infiltrated Palermo the night before. They were dressed in the sober country black of the peasants, but their suit jackets were loose and bulky, for beneath they wore their machine pistols. Guiliano was familiar with the streets of Palermo; in his six years as a bandit he had often sneaked into the city to direct the kidnapping of a wealthy noble or to dine at a famous restaurant and to leave his challenging note under the plate.
   Guiliano was never in danger on these visits. He always walked the streets with Corporal Canio Silvestro by his side.
   Another two men would walk twenty paces ahead of him, four more would walk on the other side of the street, another two men would walk twenty paces behind. And another two-man team still further back. If Guiliano were stopped by the carabinieri to show his identification papers, they were an easy target for these men who were prepared to shoot without mercy. When he entered a restaurant, the dining rooms would be crowded with his bodyguards at other tables.
   This morning, Guiliano had brought fifty men into the city. They included Aspanu Pisciotta, the Corporal, and Terranova; Passatempo and Stefano Andolini had been left behind. When Guiliano and Pisciotta entered the cathedral, forty of his men entered with them; the other ten men with the Corporal and Terranova were with the escape vehicles in the rear of the building.
   The Cardinal was conducting the Mass, and in his white and golden vestments, the great crucifix hanging from his neck, and with his melodious voice, he created an awesome aura of inviolable sanctity. The cathedral was filled with great statues of Christ and the Virgin Mary. Guiliano dipped his fingers into the holy water basin decorated with reliefs of the Passion of Christ. When he knelt he saw the vast domed ceiling and along the walls the banks of rose-colored candles that served as votive lights to the statues of saints.
   Guiliano's men dispersed themselves along the walls close to the altar. The seats were filled by the vast multitude of worshippers, the countrymen in black, the townspeople in vivid Easter finery. Guiliano found himself standing by the famous statue of the Virgin and the Apostles, and he was caught by its beauty for one brief moment.
   The chanting of the priests and altar boys, the murmured responses to the multitude of worshippers, the perfume of exotic subtropical flowers on the altar, the devoutness of these supplicants had their effect on Guiliano. The last time he had attended Mass was the Easter morning five years before when Frisella, the barber, had betrayed him. On this Easter morning he felt a sense of loss and of dread. How many times had he said to doomed enemies, "I execute you in the name of God and Sicily," and waited for them to murmur the prayers he heard now. For a moment he wished he could make them all rise, as Christ had risen, to lift them out of the eternal darkness he had hurled them into. And now on this Easter morning he might have to send a Cardinal of the Church to join them. This Cardinal had broken his promise, had lied to and betrayed him, and become his enemy. It did not matter how beautifully he chanted in this vast cathedral. Would it be impertinent to tell the Cardinal to make his peace with God? Would not a Cardinal always be in a state of grace? Would he be humble enough to confess his betrayal of Guiliano?
   The Mass was coming to its conclusion; the worshippers were going to the altar rail to receive Holy Communion. Some of Guiliano's men along the walls were kneeling to receive. They had confessed to Abbot Manfredi at his monastery the day before and were pure, since they would not have to commit their crime until after this ceremony.
   The multitude of worshippers, happy with the Easter rising of Christ, cheerful for the washing out of their sins, exited the cathedral and filled the piazza going on to the avenue. The Cardinal went behind the altar and his acolyte pressed upon his brow the conical mitre of an Archbishop. With this headdress the Cardinal seemed a foot taller, the elaborate gold scrolls on the front of the miter gleamed over his rugged Sicilian face; the impression was one of power rather than holiness. Accompanied by a flock of priests, he started on his traditional steps of prayer at each of the four chapels of the cathedral.
   The first chapel held the tomb of King Roger I, the second chapel that of the Emperor Frederick II; the third held the tomb of Henry IV, the last chapel held the ashes of Constanzia, the wife of Frederick II. These tombs were of white marble inlaid with beautiful mosaics. There was another separate chapel, the silver shrine, holding a thousand-pound statue of Saint Rosalia, the patron saint of Palermo, which the citizens of the city carried through the streets on her holy day. In this shrine were the remains of all the archbishops of Palermo, and it would be here that the Cardinal himself would be buried when he died. It was his first stop, and when he knelt to pray, it was here that Guiliano and his men surrounded him and his retinue. Other of Guiliano's men sealed off all the exits to the shrine so no alarm could be given.
   The Cardinal rose to his feet to confront them. But then he saw Pisciotta. He remembered that face. But not as it was now. Now it was the face of the devil come for his soul, to roast his flesh in hell. Guiliano said, "Your Eminence, you are my prisoner. If you do what I say you will not be harmed. You will spend Easter in the mountains as my guest and I promise that you will dine as well there as in your palace."
   The Cardinal said angrily, "You dare to bring armed men into this house of God?"
   Guiliano laughed; all his feeling of awe had vanished in the delight of what he was about to do. "I dare more," he said. "I dare to reproach you for breaking your holy word. You promised a pardon for me and my men and you did not keep that promise. Now you and the Church will pay."
   The Cardinal shook his head. "I will not move from this holy place," he said. "Kill me if you dare and you will be infamous all over the world."
   "I have that honor already," Guiliano said. "Now if you do not do what I command, I will have to be more forceful. I will slaughter all your priests here, then bind and gag you. If you come with me quietly, no harm will be done to anyone and you will be back in your cathedral within the week."
   The Cardinal crossed himself and walked toward the door of the shrine indicated by Guiliano. This door led to the back of the cathedral where other members of Guiliano's band had already commandeered the Cardinal's official limousine and chauffeur. The huge black car was decorated with bouquets of Easter flowers and flew the pennants of the church at each side of the radiator grille. Guiliano's men had also commandeered the cars of other dignitaries. Guiliano guided the Cardinal into his limousine and sat beside him. Two of his men also seated themselves in the rear of the car, and Aspanu Pisciotta got into the front seat beside the chauffeur. Then the procession of cars wound its way through the city, through the patrols of carabinieri who saluted them. At Guiliano's orders, the Cardinal waved back in benediction. On a deserted stretch of road the Cardinal was made to leave the car. Another band of Guiliano's men were waiting for them with a litter to carry the Cardinal. Leaving the vehicles and chauffeurs behind them, they all disappeared into a sea of flowers and the mountains.
   Guiliano was as good as his word; deep in the caves of the Cammarata Mountains the Cardinal ate as good a meal as could be had in the palace. The awed bandits, respectful of his spiritual authority, asked for his blessing as they served each dish.
   The newspapers of Italy went wild with indignation, while the people of Sicily were filled with two emotions: horror at the sacrilege committed and unholy glee at the shaming of the carabinieri. Riding over this was their enormous pride in Guiliano, that a Sicilian had defeated Rome; Guiliano was now the ultimate "man of respect."
   What, everyone wondered, did Guiliano want in return for the Cardinal? The answer was simple: an enormous ransom.
   The Holy Church, which after all was charged with the safekeeping of souls, did not stoop to the niggardly bargaining of nobles and rich merchants. It paid the ransom of one hundred million lire immediately. But Guiliano had one more motive.
   He said to the Cardinal, "I'm a peasant, not instructed in the ways of heaven. But I have never broken my word. And you, a Cardinal of the Catholic Church, with all your holy garments and crosses of Jesus, lied to me like a heathen Moor. Your sacred office alone will not save your life."
   The Cardinal felt his knees weaken.
   Guiliano continued. "But you are fortunate. I have another purpose for you." He then made the Cardinal read his Testament.
   Now that he knew his life was to be spared, the Cardinal, trained to expect the chastisement of God himself, was more interested in the documents of the Testament than in the reproaches of Guiliano. When he saw the letter he had written to Pisciotta, the Cardinal crossed himself with a holy fury.
   Guiliano said, "My dear Cardinal. Take the knowledge of this document back to the Church and Minister Trezza. You have seen the proof of my ability to destroy the Christian Democratic government. My death will be your great misfortune. The Testament will be in a safe place that you cannot reach. If any of them doubts me, tell them to ask Don Croce how I deal with my enemies."
   It was a week after the Cardinal's kidnapping that La Venera left Guiliano.
   For three years he had crept through the tunnel into her house. In her bed, he reveled in the comforts of her solid body, the warmth and shelter. She had never complained, never asked for more than his pleasure.
   But tonight was different. After they made love, she told him she was moving away to relatives who lived in Florence. "My heart is too weak," she told him. "I can't bear the danger that is your life. I dream of you being shot down before my eyes. The carabinieri killed my husband as if he were some animal, in front of his house. They kept firing until his body was a bundle of bloody rags. I dream of it happening to you." She pulled his head down to her breast. "Listen," she said, "listen to my heart."
   And he listened. And was moved to pity and love by the pounding erratic beat. The bare skin beneath her heavy breast was salty with the sweat of her inner terror. She was weeping, and he stroked her thick black hair.
   "You've never been afraid before," Guiliano said. "Nothing is changed."
   La Venera shook her head violently. "Turi, you've become too reckless. You have made enemies, powerful enemies. Your friends fear for you. Your mother goes pale with every knock on the door. You can't escape forever."
   Guiliano said, "But I haven't changed."
   La Venera began to weep again. "Ah, Turi, yes you have changed. You are so quick to kill now. I don't say you're cruel; you are careless with death."
   Guiliano sighed. He saw how frightened she was and it filled him with a sorrow he could not quite understand. "Then you must go," he said. "I'll give you enough money so that you can live in Florence. Someday this all will be over. There will be no more killing. I have my plans. I will not be a bandit forever. My mother will sleep at night and we will all be together again."
   He could see that she did not believe him.
   In the morning before he left, they made love again, all hot passion, their bodies plunging against each other wildly for the last time.

Chapter 23

   Turi Guiliano had finally succeeded in doing what no other statesman or national politician had succeeded in doing. He had united all the political parties in Italy to pursue one course of action: the destruction of Guiliano and his band.
   In July of 1949 Minister Trezza announced to the press the formation of a special carabinieri army of five thousand men to be called the Special Force to Repress Banditry, without any reference to Guiliano himself. The newspapers soon rectified this sly coyness on the part of the government, which did not wish to make Guiliano seem the main target. They gleefully approved and congratulated the ruling Christian Democratic party for taking such a vigorous step.
   The national press was also struck with wonder at Minister Trezza's genius on the organization of the special five thousand-man army. The army would be made up of bachelors so there would be no widows, and so their families could not be subjected to threats. There would be commandos, paratroopers, armored cars, heavy weapons and even aircraft. How could any two-penny bandit withstand such a force? And it would be commanded by Colonel Ugo Luca, one of the great Italian war heroes of World War II, who had fought with the legendary German general Rommel. The "Italian Desert Fox" the newspapers called him, skilled in guerrilla warfare, whose tactics and strategies would bewilder the unsophisticated Sicilian country boy, Turi Guiliano.
   The press perfunctorily noted in small paragraphs the appointment of Federico Velardi as the head of all Sicilian Security Police. Hardly anything was known of Inspector Velardi except that he had been handpicked by Minister Trezza to assist Colonel Luca.
   Just a month before there had been a fateful meeting between Don Croce, Minister Trezza and the Cardinal of Palermo. The Cardinal told them of Guiliano's Testament with its damning documentation.
   Minister Trezza was frightened. The Testament must be destroyed before the army accomplished its mission. He wished he could rescind the orders for the Special Force that was now being assembled, but his government was under too much pressure from left-wing parties who were clamoring that Guiliano was being protected by the government.
   For Don Croce the Testament only added a complication but did not change his resolve. He had already decided to kill Guiliano: the murder of his six chiefs gave him no alternative. But Guiliano could not die at the hand of the Friends of the Friends or himself. He was too great a hero; his murder would be too great a crime for even the Friends to live down. It would focus the hatred of Sicily upon them.
   In any case, Don Croce realized he had to accommodate himself to Trezza's needs. After all, this was the man he wanted to make the Premier of Italy. He said to the Minister, "Our course must be this. Certainly you have no choice, you must pursue Guiliano. But try to keep him alive until I can nullify the Testament, which I guarantee I can do."
   The Minister nodded grimly. He clicked on the intercom and said commandingly, "Send in the Inspector." A few seconds later a tall man with frigid blue eyes entered the room. He was thin, beautifully dressed and had an aristocratic face.
   "This is Inspector Federico Velardi," the Minister said. "I am about to announce his appointment as the head of all Security Police in Sicily. He will be coordinating with the head of the army I am sending to Sicily." He introduced the men to each other and explained to Velardi their problem about the Testament and its threat to the Christian Democratic regime.
   "My dear Inspector," the Minister said. "I ask you to consider Don Croce as my personal representative in Sicily. You will give him any information he requires as you would to me. Do you understand?"
   The Inspector took a long time to digest this particular request. Then he understood. His task would be to advise Don Croce as to all the plans the invasion army made in their war against Guiliano. Don Croce, in turn, would pass on that information to Guiliano so that he could escape capture until the Don thought it safe to end his career.
   Inspector Velardi said, "Am I to give all information to Don Croce? Colonel Luca is no fool – he will soon suspect there is a leak and perhaps cut me out of his planning sessions."
   "If you have any trouble," the Minister said, "refer him to me. Your real mission is to secure the Testament, and to keep Guiliano alive and free until that is done."
   The Inspector turned his cold blue eyes on Don Croce. "I will be happy to serve you," he said. "But I must understand one thing. If Guiliano is captured alive before the Testament is destroyed, what do I do then?"
   The Don did not mince words; he was not a government official and could speak frankly. "That would be an unbearable misfortune."
   Colonel Ugo Luca, the designated Commander of the Special Force to Repress Banditry, was hailed by the newspapers as an inspired choice. They hashed over his military record, his medals for bravery, his tactical genius, his quiet and retiring nature, and his abhorrence of any kind of failure. He was a small bulldog, the newspapers said, and would be a match for the ferocity of Sicily.
   Before doing anything else, Colonel Luca studied all the intelligence documents on Turi Guiliano. Minister Trezza found him tucked in his office surrounded by folders full of reports and old newspapers. When the Minister asked him when he was taking his army to Sicily, the Colonel said mildly that he was assembling a staff, and that certainly Guiliano would still be there no matter how long he took.
   Colonel Luca studied the reports for a week and came to certain conclusions. That Guiliano was a genius in guerrilla warfare and had a unique method of operation. He kept only a cadre of twenty men about his person, and these included his chiefs: Aspanu Pisciotta as his second in command, Canio Silvestro as his personal bodyguard and Stefano Andolini as chief of intelligence and his contact messenger to Don Croce and Mafia networks. Terranova and Passatempo had their own bands and were allowed to operate independently of Guiliano's direct command unless there was a concerted action. Terranova carried out Guiliano's kidnappings and Passatempo the train and bank holdups that Guiliano planned.
   It became clear to the Colonel that there were no more than three hundred men in the whole Guiliano band. Then how, the Colonel wondered, had he existed for six years, how had he outfought the carabinieri of an entire province and almost absolutely controlled the entire northwest of Sicily? How had he and his men escaped searches of the mountains by large government forces? It could only be that Guiliano summoned up extra men from among the peasants of Sicily whenever he needed them. And then when the government searched the mountains, these part-time bandits would escape into the towns and farms to live like ordinary peasants. It also followed that many of the citizens of the town of Montelepre had to be secret members of the band. But most important was Guiliano's popularity; there was little chance that he would ever be betrayed, and there was no doubt that if he made an open call to revolution, thousands would flock beneath his banner.
   Finally, there was another puzzling thing: Guiliano's cloak of invisibility. He appeared at one place and then seemed to vanish into thin air. The more Colonel Luca read, the more he was impressed. Then he came to something he knew he could take immediate action against. It might look like nothing much, but it would be important in the long run.
   Guiliano had often written letters to the press that always began, "If, as I have been led to believe, we are not enemies, you will publish this letter," and then went on to present his point of view on his latest acts of banditry. To Colonel Luca's mind that opening phrase was a threat, a coercion. And the body of the letter was enemy propaganda. There were explanations of kidnappings, of robberies and how the money went to the poor of Sicily. When Guiliano had a pitched battle with the carabinieri and killed some of them, a letter was always sent to explain that in war soldiers had to die. There was a direct plea to the carabinieri not to fight. And another letter came after the execution of the six Mafia chiefs, explaining that only by that deed could the peasants claim the land due to them by law and human morality.
   Colonel Luca was astounded that the government had allowed these letters to be published. He made a note to ask Minister Trezza for the power of martial law in Sicily so that Guiliano could be cut off from his public.
   Another thing he searched for was any information that Guiliano had a woman, but he could find nothing. Though there were reports that the bandits used the brothels in Palermo and that Pisciotta was a womanizer, Guiliano seemed to have lived a sexless life for the last six years. Colonel Luca, being an Italian, could not believe this possible. There must be a woman in Montelepre, and when they found her half the job would be done.
   What he also found interesting was the record of Guiliano's attachment to his mother and hers to him. Guiliano was a devoted son to both parents, but he treated his mother with a special veneration. Colonel Luca made a particular note of this too. If Guiliano really had no woman, the mother could be used to bait a trap.
   When all this preparation was over, Colonel Luca organized his staff. The most important appointment was Captain Antonio Perenze as his aide-de-camp and personal bodyguard. Captain Perenze was a heavy, almost fat, man with genial features and an easy disposition, but Colonel Luca knew him to be extraordinarily brave. There might come a time when that bravery could save the Colonel's life.
   It was September 1949 before Colonel Luca arrived in Sicily with the first increment of two thousand men. He hoped this would be enough; he did not wish to glorify Guiliano by bringing a five thousand-man army against him. This was, after all, only a bandit who should easily have been dealt with sooner.
   His first move was to order the Sicilian newspapers to discontinue the publication of Guiliano's letters. His second move was to arrest Guiliano's mother and father on the charge of conspiracy with their son. The next was to arrest and detain for questioning over two hundred men in Montelepre on charges that they were secret members of Guiliano's band. All those arrested were transported to jails in Palermo that were heavily guarded by Colonel Luca's men. All these actions were taken under laws from the Fascist regime of Mussolini still on the books.
   The Guiliano house was searched and the secret tunnels found. La Venera was arrested in Florence. But she was released almost immediately when she claimed she never knew that the tunnels existed. Not that she was believed, but Inspector Velardi wanted her free in the hope that Guiliano would visit her.
   The press of Italy lauded Colonel Luca to the skies; here finally was a man who was "serious." Minister Trezza was delighted with his choice, especially when he received a warm letter of congratulation from the Premier. Only Don Croce was not impressed.
   The first month, Turi Guiliano had studied Luca's actions, the deployment of the carabinieri army. He admired the Colonel's astuteness in forbidding the newspapers to print his letters, cutting off his vital communication to the people of Sicily. But when Colonel Luca indiscriminately arrested the citizens of Montelepre – guilty and innocent alike – the admiration turned into hatred. And with the arrest of his parents, Guiliano went into a cold murderous rage.
   For two days Guiliano sat in his cave deep in the Cammarata Mountains. He made his plans and reviewed what he knew about Colonel Luca's army of two thousand carabinieri. At least a thousand of them were stationed in and around Palermo, waiting for him to try to rescue his parents. The other thousand were concentrated in the area around the towns of Montelepre, Piani dei Greci, San Giuseppe Jato, Partinico and Corleone, many of its citizens secret members of the band who could be recruited for a battle.
   Colonel Luca himself made his headquarters in Palermo and was invulnerable there. He would have to be lured out.
   Turi Guiliano channeled his rage into the making of tactical plans. They had a clear arithmetical pattern to him, simple as the game of a child. They nearly always worked, and if they did not he could always disappear back into his mountains. But he knew that everything depended upon faultless execution, every little detail perfected.
   He summoned Aspanu Pisciotta to the cave and told him the plans. Later, the other chiefs – Passatempo, Terranova, Corporal Silvestro and Stefano Andolini – were told only what each had to know for his particular job.
   Carabinieri headquarters in Palermo was paymaster for all forces in Western Sicily. Once a month a heavily guarded money wagon was sent out to pay the garrisons in all the towns and province headquarters. The pay was in cash, and an envelope for each individual soldier was made up, lire notes and coins to the exact pay, stuffed inside. These envelopes were put into slotted wooden boxes which were locked onto a truck that had formerly been an American Army weapons carrier.
   The driver was armed with a pistol, the soldier paymaster beside him with a rifle. When this truck stuffed with millions of lire left Palermo, it was preceded by three scout jeeps, each with mounted machine guns and four men, and a troop carrier holding twenty men heavily armed with machine pistols and rifles. Behind the money truck came two command cars, each with six men. All these vehicles had radio communication to call Palermo or the nearest carabinieri barracks for reinforcements. There was never any fear that bandits would make an attack on such a force. It would be suicidal.
   The payroll caravan left Palermo early in the morning and made its first stop at the small town of Tommaso Natale. From there it swung onto the mountainous road to Montelepre. The paymaster and his guards knew it would be a long day and they drove quickly. They ate pieces of salami and chunks of bread and drank wine from botttles as they rode. They joked and laughed and the drivers of the lead jeeps put their weapons down on the floors of their vehicles. But when the caravan rode over the top of the last hill that led down into Montelepre, they were amazed to see the road ahead filled with a vast flock of sheep. The jeeps leading the column made their way into the flock, and the guards shouted at the roughly clothed shepherds. The soldiers were anxious to get inside the cool barracks and eat a hot meal, to strip to their underwear and loll in the beds or play cards for their noon hour break. There could be no danger; Montelepre, only a few miles away, had a garrison of five hundred men of Colonel Luca's army. Behind them, they could see the truck carrying the payroll enter the vast sea of sheep but did not see that it had become becalmed there, that no path opened up for it.
   The shepherds were trying to clear the way for the vehicle. They were so busy they did not seem to notice that the troop carriers blasted their horns, the guards shouted and laughed and cursed. There was still no alarm.
   But suddenly there were six shepherds pressed close to the paymaster truck. Two of them produced guns from beneath their jackets and kicked the driver and paymaster out of the truck. They disarmed the two carabinieri. The other four men threw out the boxes full of pay envelopes. Passatempo was the leader of this band, and his brutish face, the violence of his body, cowed the guards as much as the guns.
   At the same moment the slopes around the road came alive with bandits holding rifles and machine pistols. The two command cars at the rear had their tires blown out by gunfire and then Pisciotta stood in front of the first car. He called out, "Descend slowly, without your weapons, and you'll eat your spaghetti tonight in Palermo. Don't be heroes, it's not your money we're taking."
   Far up in front, the troop carrier and the three scout jeeps reached the bottom of the last hill and were about to enter Montelepre when the officer in charge realized there was nothing behind him. Now even more sheep were on the road cutting him off from the rest of the convoy. He picked up his radio and ordered one of the jeeps to go back. With a hand signal he directed the other vehicles to pull over to the side of the road and wait.
   The scout jeep made its turn and started back up the hill it had just come down. Halfway up it met a hail of machine-gun and rifle fire. The four men in the jeep were riddled with bullets, and without a driver the jeep lost momentum and slowly rolled back down the hilly road toward the convoy.
   The carabinieri commanding officer sprang out of his scout jeep and shouted at the men in the troop carrier to dismount and form a skirmishing line. The other two jeeps took off like frightened hares scuttling for cover. But this force was effectively neutralized. They could not rescue the paymaster truck since it was over on the other side of the hill; they could not even fire on Guiliano's men, who were stuffing the money-filled envelopes into their jackets. Guiliano's men held the high ground and obviously had the firepower to slaughter any attackers. The best the army could do was set up a skirmish line under cover and fire away.
   The Maresciallo of Montelepre had been waiting for the paymaster. By the end of the month he was always short of money and, like his men, anticipated a night in Palermo dining at a good restaurant with charming women and friends. When he heard the gunfire he was bewildered. Guiliano would not dare attack one of his patrols in broad daylight, not with Colonel Luca's auxiliary force of five hundred soldiers in the area.
   At that moment the Maresciallo heard a tremendous explosion at the gate of the Bellampo Barracks. One of the armored cars parked in the rear had blown up into an orange torch. Then the Maresciallo heard the clatter of heavy emplaced machine guns from the direction of the road that led to Castelvetrano and the coast city of Trapani, followed by a constant rattling hail of small arms' fire from the base of the mountain range outside the town. He could see his patrols in the town of Montelepre itself streaming back to the barracks, in jeeps and on foot, fleeing for their lives; and slowly it dawned upon him that Turi Guiliano had thrown all his forces at the five hundred-man garrison of Colonel Luca.
   On a high cliff above Montelepre, Turi Guiliano observed the robbing of the payroll through his binoculars. By turning ninety degrees he could also see the battle in the streets of the town, the direct attack on the Bellampo Barracks and the engagement of carabinieri patrols on the coastal roads. All his chiefs were functioning perfectly. Passatempo and his men had the money from the payroll, Pisciotta had the rear of the carabinieri column immobilized, Terranova and his band, supplemented by new recruits, had attacked the Bellampo Barracks and engaged their patrols. The men directly under Guiliano commanded the bases of the mountain. And Stefano Andolini, truly a Fra Diavalo, was preparing a surprise.
   At his headquarters in Palermo, Colonel Luca received the news of his lost payroll with what seemed to his subordinates an unusual calm. But inwardly he could only seethe at Guiliano's cleverness and wonder where and how he acquired his information on the disposition of the carabinieri troops. Four carabinieri had been killed in the robbery and another ten killed in the pitched battle with the other Guiliano forces.
   Colonel Luca was still on the phone receiving casualty reports when Captain Perenze burst through the door, his heavy jowls quivering with excitement. He had just received the report that some bandits had been wounded and that one had been killed and left on the field of battle. The dead bandit had been identified by documents on his body and personal identification by two citizens of Montelepre. The dead body was none other than Turi Guiliano.
   Against all caution, against all intelligence. Colonel Luca felt a surge of triumph in his breast. Military history was full of great victories, brilliant tactical maneuvers, which were negated by small personal accidents. A mindless bullet directed by fate had magically sought out and found the elusive ghost of the great bandit. But then caution returned. The fortune was too good; it might be a trap. But if it was, then he would walk into it and trap the trapper.
   Colonel Luca made his preparations, and a flying column was readied that would be invincible to any attack. Armored cars went ahead, followed by the bulletproof car that carried Colonel Luca and Inspector Federico Velardi, who had insisted on going to help identify the body but really to make sure the body did not carry the Testament. Behind Luca's car were troop carriers with men at the alert, weapons ready to fire. Scout jeeps to the number of twenty, filled with armed paratroopers, preceded the column. The garrison at Montelepre was ordered to guard the immediate roads to the town and establish spotting posts in the nearby mountains. Foot patrols heavy in strength, massively armed, controlled the sides of the entire length of the road.
   It took Colonel Luca and his flying column less than an hour to reach Montelepre. There were no attacks; the show of strength had been too much for the bandits. But a disappointment awaited the Colonel.
   Inspector Velardi said the corpse, now resting in an ambulance at the Bellampo Barracks, could not possibly be Guiliano. The bullet from which the man had died disfigured him but not enough for the Inspector to be mistaken. Other citizens were forced to view the body, and they too said it was not Guiliano. It had been a trap after all, Guiliano must have hoped that the Colonel would rush to the scene with a small escort and lay himself open to ambush. Colonel Luca ordered all precautions to be taken, but he was in a hurry to start on the road back to Palermo and get to his headquarters; he wanted to report personally to Rome what had happened that day and also make sure no one had released the false report of Guiliano's death. Checking first to make sure all his troop elements were in place so the road back would not be ambushed, he commandeered one of the swift scout jeeps at the head of the column. Inspector Velardi rode with him.
   The Colonel's hastiness saved both their lives. As the flying column neared Palermo, with Luca's command car in the middle, there was a tremendous explosion. The command car flew up over ten feet in the air and came down in flaming pieces that scattered over the slopes of the mountain. The troop carrier following closely behind had eight men killed and fifteen wounded out of a total of thirty. The two officers in Luca's car were blown to bits.
   When Colonel Luca called Minister Trezza with the bad news, he also asked that his three thousand extra men waiting on the mainland be shipped immediately to Sicily.
   Don Croce knew that these raids would continue as long as Guiliano's parents were held prisoner, and so he arranged for their release.
   But he could not prevent the incursion of new forces, and two thousand soldiers now occupied the town of Montelepre and the surrounding area. Another three thousand were searching the mountains. Seven hundred citizens of Montelepre and in the province of Palermo had been thrown into jail for questioning by Colonel Luca, using the special powers delegated to him by the Christian Democratic government in Rome. There was a curfew that began at dusk and ended with dawn, citizens were immobilized in their homes and travelers without special passes were thrown into prison. The whole province was under an official reign of terror.
   Don Croce watched with some trepidation as the tide turned against Guiliano.

Chapter 24

   Before the coming of Luca's army, when Guiliano could enter Montelepre as he pleased, he had often seen Justina Ferra. Sometimes she had come to the Guiliano house on an errand or to receive the money Guiliano gave to her parents. Guiliano had never really noticed her growing into a beautiful young woman until one day he had seen her on the streets of Palermo with her parents. They had gone into the city to buy finery for the Festa not available in the small town of Montelepre. Guiliano and members of his band had gone to Palermo to buy supplies.
   Guiliano had not seen her for perhaps six months, and she had grown taller and slimmer in that time. She was tall for a Sicilian woman, with long legs that tottered on newly bought high-heeled shoes. She was only sixteen years of age, but her face and form had flowered in the subtropical earth of Sicily and she was a mature woman physically. Her hair was pulled into a jet black crown studded with three gemlike combs, exposing a neck as long and golden as that of an Egyptian woman on a vase. Her eyes were enormous, questioning; her mouth sensuous, yet the only part of her face that betrayed her extreme youth. She wore a white dress with a slash of red ribbon running across the front.
   She was such a picture of loveliness that Guiliano stared at her for a long time. He was sitting in an open cafe, his men scattered at the tables around him, when she walked by accompanied by her mother and father. They saw him. Justina's father kept his face stony and made no sign of recognition. The mother glanced quickly away. Only Justina stared at him as she went by. She was Sicilian enough not to greet him, but she stared directly into his eyes and he could see her mouth quivering to restrain a smile. In the sun-drenched street she was a pool of shimmering light, of the sensual Sicilian beauty that blooms at an early age. Since becoming an outlaw Guiliano had always distrusted love. To him it was an act of submission and held the seed for a fatal treachery, but in that moment he felt what he had never felt before – a suffusion in his body to kneel before another human being and willingly swear himself into an alien slavery. He did not identify this as love.
   A month later, Guiliano found that his mind was obsessed with the memory of Justina Ferra standing in that pool of golden sunlight on the street in Palermo. He assumed it was merely sexual appetite, that he missed his passionate nights with La Venera. Then in his reveries he found himself not only dreaming of making love to Justina, but of spending time with her roaming around the mountains, showing her his caves, the narrow valleys filled with flowers, cooking meals for her over the open campfires. He still had his guitar in his mother's house and dreamed of playing for her. He would show her the poems he had written over the years, some of which had been published in the Sicilian newspapers. He even thought of sneaking into Montelepre and visiting her in her home, despite the two thousand soldiers of Colonel Luca's Special Force. At this time he came to his senses and knew something dangerous was going on inside him.
   This was all foolishness. There were only two alternatives in his life. That he would be killed by the carabinieri, or that he would find sanctuary in America, and if he kept dreaming about this girl it would not be America. He had to get her out of his mind. If he seduced her or carried her off, her father would become his deadly enemy, and he had plenty of those already. He had once flogged Aspanu for seducing an innocent girl and over the years had executed three of his men for rape. This feeling he had for Justina was that he wanted to make her happy, to make her love and admire him and see him as he once saw himself. He wanted her eyes to be filled with love and trust.
   But it was merely his tactical mind that explored his options. He had already decided on his course of action. He would marry the girl. In secret. Nobody except her family would know and of course Aspanu Pisciotta and a few trusted members of his band. Whenever it was safe to see her, he would have her escorted into the mountains so that they could spend a day or two together. It would be dangerous for her to be the wife of Turi Guiliano, but he could arrange to have her sent to America, and she would be waiting for him when he made his escape there. There was only one problem. What did Justina think of him?
   Caesero Ferra had been a secret member of Guiliano's band for the last five years, strictly as a gatherer of information, never in its operations. He and his wife had known Guiliano's parents and had been neighbors; they lived ten houses down the Via Bella from the Guiliano house. He was more educated than most of the people in Montelepre and was dissatisfied with farming. Then when Justina as a child had lost the money and Guiliano had replaced it and sent her home with the note that the family was under his protection, Caesero Ferra visited Maria Lombardo and offered his services. He gathered information in Palermo and Montelepre as to the movements of carabinieri patrols, the movements of rich merchants who were to be kidnapped by Guiliano's band, the identity of police informers. He received a share of the loot from these kidnappings and opened a small tavern in Montelepre, which also helped his secret activities. When his son Silvio had returned from the war a Socialist agitator, Caesero Ferra ordered him out of the house. Not because he disapproved of his son's beliefs, but because of the danger to the rest of the family. He had no illusions about democracy or the rulers in Rome. He had reminded Turi Guiliano of his promise to protect the Ferra family and Guiliano had done his best to protect Silvio. And after Silvio was murdered, it was Guiliano who promised him that the murder would be avenged.
   Ferra had never blamed Guiliano. He knew that the massacre at Ginestra had profoundly disturbed Turi Guiliano, had caused him to grieve, that it still tormented him. He heard this from his wife who had listened for hours to Maria Lombardo talking about her son. How happy they had all been before that terrible day years ago when her son was shot down by the carabinieri and he had been forced against his better nature to kill in return. And of course every killing since then had been necessary, forced upon him by evil men. Maria Lombardo excused every killing, every crime, but she faltered when she spoke about the massacre at the Portella della Ginestra. Oh, the little children torn by machine-gun fire, the defenseless women killed. How could people think her son would do such a thing? Was he not the protector of the poor, the Champion of Sicily? Had he not given fortunes to help all the Sicilians in need of bread and homes? Her Turi could never have given the orders for such a massacre. So he had sworn to her on the statue of the black Madonna, and they had wept in each other's arms.
   And so over the years Caesero had pursued the mystery of what had really happened at the Portella della Ginestra. Had Passatempo's machine-gunners made an honest mistake in the elevation of their fire? Had Passatempo, out of the sheer bloodthirstiness for which he was famous, slaughtered those people for his pleasure? Could the whole thing have been engineered to damage Guiliano? Was there perhaps even another band of men who had opened fire with their machine guns, men not under Guiliano's orders but perhaps sent by the Friends of the Friends or even by a branch of the Security Police? Caesero left nobody off his list of suspects except Turi Guiliano. For if Guiliano were guilty the whole world he lived in would collapse. He loved Guiliano as he had loved his son. He had seen him grow from a child to a man, and there had never been a moment when he had showed any meanness of spirit, any viciousness.
   So Caesero Ferra kept his eyes and ears open. He bought drinks for other secret members of the band who had not been thrown into jail by Colonel Luca. He caught scraps of conversation among the Friends of the Friends who lived in town anc occasionally came to his tavern to drink wine and play cards. On one night he heard them talking laughingly about "The Animal" and "The Devil" visiting with Don Croce, and how the great Don had turned those two feared men into whispering angels. Ferra pondered on this and with that unerring Sicilian paranoia made the connection. Passatempo and Stefano Andolini had at some time met with the Don. Passatempo was often called "The Brute" and Fra Diavalo was Andolini's bandit name. What were they doing holding a private conversation with Don Croce at his house in Villaba, which was far from the bandits' mountain base? He sent his teenaged son to the Guiliano house with an urgent message and two days later was given a rendezvous in the mountains to meet with Guiliano. He told Guiliano his story. The young man showed no emotion and only swore him to secrecy. Ferra heard no more. Now three months later he received another summons from Guiliano and expected to hear the rest of the story.
   Guiliano and his band were deep in the mountains, out of range of Luca's army. Caesero Ferra traveled at night and was met by Aspanu Pisciotta at a rendezvous point to be led to the camp. They did not arrive until early morning and found a hot breakfast waiting for them. The meal was elaborate, spread out on a folding table with linen and silver. Turi Guiliano was dressed in a silk white shirt and tan moleskin trousers which were tucked into brown polished boots; his hair was freshly washed and combed. He had never looked so handsome.
   Pisciotta was dismissed and Guiliano and Ferra sat down together. Guiliano seemed ill at ease. He said formally, "I want to thank you for that information you brought me. It has been pursued and now I know it is true. And it is very important. But I have sent for you to speak about something else. Something that I know will be a surprise and I hope that it will not offend you."
   Ferra was startled but he said politely, "You could never offend me, I owe you too much."
   At this Guiliano smiled, the frank open smile that Ferra remembered from the man's childhood.
   "Listen to me carefully," Guiliano said. "Speaking to you is my first step. And if you disapprove I will go no further. Disregard my position as the leader of our band; I am speaking to you as the father of Justina. You know she is beautiful, you must have had many young men of the town hanging around your door. And I know you have guarded her virtue carefully. I must tell you that this is the first time in my life I have had such feelings. I want to marry your daughter. If you say no I will never say another word. You will remain my friend and your daughter will remain under my special protection as always. If you say yes, then I will ask your daughter if the idea pleases her. If she says no, that will be the end of the matter."
   Caesero Ferra was so stunned by this speech that he could only stutter, "Let me think, let me think." And for a long time he was silent. When he began to speak it was with the utmost respect. "I would rather have you for a husband to my daughter than any man in the world. And I know my son Silvio, God rest his soul, would agree with me." Again he stuttered when he spoke. "I worry only about my daughter's safety. If Justina was your wife, Colonel Luca would surely take any excuse to put her under arrest. The Friends are now your enemies and might do her some harm. And you must escape to America or die here in the mountains. I would not want her to be a widow so young, please forgive me for speaking so frankly. But it also complicates life for you and that worries me most. A happy bridegroom is not so aware of traps, he is not wary of his enemies. A marriage could cause your death. I speak so frankly only because of my affection and respect for you. This is something that can be put aside for a better day when you can know your future in more detail and plan for it more intelligently." When he finished speaking he kept a wary eye on Guiliano to see if he had displeased him.
   But he had only depressed him. And he recognized it as the disappointment of a young man in love. Which seemed to him so extraordinary that he said impulsively, "I am not saying no to you, Turi."
   Guiliano sighed. "I've thought of all of those things. My plan is this. I would marry your daughter in secret. The Abbot Manfredi would perform the ceremony. We would be married here in the mountains. It would be too dangerous for me anyplace else. But I could arrange for you and your wife to accompany your daughter so that you could witness the marriage. She would stay with me for three days, and then I would send her back to your house. If your daughter becomes a widow she will have enough money to start a new life. So you need not fear for her future. I love your daughter and will cherish and protect her all of her life. I will provide for her future if the worst should happen. But still it's a risk to be married to a man like me, and as a prudent father you have every right to refuse to let her take that risk."
   Caesero Ferra was immensely moved. The young man had spoken with such simplicity and directness. And with such wistful hope. But best of all he had been to the point. He had made provisions against the calamities of life and the future well-being of his daughter. Ferra rose from the table to embrace Guiliano. "You have my blessing," he said. "I will speak to Justina."
   Before he left, Ferra said he was happy that the information he had given had proven useful. And he was astonished at the change in Guiliano's face. The eyes seemed to open wider, the beauty of the face seemed to harden into white marble.
   "I will invite Stefano Andolini and Passatempo to my wedding," he said. "We can settle the matter then." It only occurred to Ferra later that this was a curious thing to do if the marriage was to be kept secret.
   In Sicily it was not uncommon for a girl to marry a man with whom she had never spent a moment alone. When the women sat outside their houses, those unwed had to sit always in profile, never staring full out into the street, lest they be called wanton. The young men going by would never get an opportunity to speak to them except at church, where young girls were protected by the statues of the Virgin Mary and their cold-eyed mothers. If a young man fell madly in love with the profile or the few words of respectful chatter, he had to put it in writing, in a well-composed letter declaring his intentions. This was a serious matter. Many times a professional writer was employed. The wrong tone might conceivably bring about a funeral rather than a marriage. And so Turi Guiliano's proposal through the father was not unusual, despite the fact that he had given Justina herself no sign of his interest.
   Caesero Ferra was in no doubt about what Justina's answer would be. When she was a little girl she had ended her prayers with, "And save Turi Guiliano from the carabinieri. " She was always anxious to run messages over to the mother, Maria Lombardo. And then when the news had come out about the tunnel that ran to La Venera's house, Justina had been wild with rage. At first her father and mother had thought it was rage at the arrest of the woman and Guiliano's parents, but then they realized that it was jealousy.
   So Caesero Ferra could anticipate his daughter's answer; that was no surprise. But the way she received the news was a shock. She smiled wickedly at her father as if she had planned the seduction, as if she had known she could vanquish Guiliano.
   Deep in the mountains was a small Norman castle, almost in ruins, that had not been occupied for twenty years. Guiliano decided to celebrate his wedding and honeymoon there. He ordered Aspanu Pisciotta to establish a perimeter of armed men so the couple would be guarded against any surprise attack. Abbot Manfredi left his monastery in a donkey cart and then was carried in a litter over the mountain trails by members of Guiliano's band. In the old castle he was delighted to find a private chapel, though all its valuable statues and woodwork had long since been stolen. But the bare stones were beautiful, as was the stone altar. The Abbot did not really approve of Guiliano getting married, and after they had embraced he said jokingly to Guiliano, "You should have heeded the old proverb, 'The man who plays alone never loses.'"
   Guiliano laughed and said, "But I have to think of my own happiness." And then added one of the Abbot's most beloved peasant sayings, which he always used to excuse his moneymaking schemes: "Remember, Saint Joseph shaved his own beard before he shaved the Apostles." This put the Abbot into a better humor, and he had his casket of documents opened and handed Guiliano his marriage certificate. It was a beautiful document, with medieval calligraphy written in gold ink.
   "The marriage will be recorded at the monastery," the Abbot said. "But have no fear, no one will know of it."
   The bride and her parents had been brought in on donkeys the night before. They had stayed in rooms of the castle that had been cleaned by Guiliano's men and furnished with beds made of bamboo and straw. Guiliano felt a pang at not having his mother and father at the wedding, but they were under close observation by Colonel Luca's Special Force.
   Aspanu Pisciotta, Stefano Andolini, Passatempo, Corporal Silvestro and Terranova were the only ones attending the wedding. Justina had changed from her traveling clothes into the white dress she had worn with such success in Palermo. She smiled at Guiliano, and he was stunned by the radiance of that smile. The Abbot made short work of the ceremony, and then they went out on the lawn of the castle where a table had been set with wine and cold meat and bread. They all ate quickly and drank a toast to the bride and groom. The trip back for the Abbot and the Ferras would be long and dangerous. There was anxiety that a patrol of carabinieri might wander into the area and the perimeter of armed bandit guards would have to engage them in battle. The Abbot wanted to be on his way quickly, but Guiliano detained him.
   "I want to thank you for what you have done today," Guiliano said. "And soon after my wedding day I want to perform an act of mercy. But I need your help." They spoke quietly for a few moments, and the Abbot nodded his head.
   Justina embraced her parents; her mother wept and looked imploringly at Guiliano. Then Justina whispered something in her ear and the older woman laughed. They embraced again and then the parents mounted their donkeys.
   The bride and groom spent their nuptial night in the main bedchamber of the castle. This room had been stripped bare but Turi Guiliano had had a huge mattress brought in by donkey, with silken sheets and a goose-down quilt and pillows bought from the finest store in Palermo. There was a bathroom as huge as the bedroom with marble tub and a vast washing sink. Of course it had no running water and had to be supplied by buckets which Guiliano himself hauled in from the sparkling stream that ran beside the castle. He had also stocked it with toilet articles and perfumes that Justina had never seen in her life.
   Naked, she was shy at first, holding her hands down between her legs. Her skin was golden. She was slim but with the full breasts of a mature woman. When he kissed her, she averted her head slightly so he touched only a corner of her mouth. He was patient, not with a lover's skill but with the tactical sense that had served him so well when he waged his guerrilla wars. She had let down her long jet black hair so that it screened her full breasts and he stroked her hair and talked about the first time he had seen her as a woman that fateful day in Palermo. How beautiful she had been then. He recited from memory some of the poems he had written about her when he was alone in the mountains and dreamed about her beauty. She relaxed in the bed, the goose quilt over her body. Guiliano rested on top of the cover, but she averted her eyes.
   Justina told him how she had fallen in love with him the day she had carried over a message from her brother and how crushed she had been when she realized he had not recognized her as the little girl whose money he had replaced years before. She told him how she had said prayers for him every night since she was eleven years old, that she had loved him since that day. Turi Guiliano had an extraordinary feeling of happiness listening to her tell this. That she loved him, that she thought and dreamed of him while he was alone in the mountains. He kept stroking her hair and she caught his hand and held it, her own warm and dry. "Were you surprised when I asked your father to speak to you about marriage?" he asked her.
   She smiled a sly, triumphant smile. "Not after you stared at me in Palermo," she said. "From that day I prepared myself for you."
   He leaned over to kiss her full lips which were a dark winey red, and this time she did not avert her face. He was surprised by the sweetness of her mouth, the sweetness of her breath and the responsiveness of his own flesh. For the first time in his life he felt his body melting and falling away from him. He started to shiver, and Justina threw back the goose quilt so that he could come into the bed with her. She rolled over to her side so she could put her arms around him, so they could flow together, and the feel of her body was different from any other body he had ever touched. She closed her eyes.
   Turi Guiliano kissed her mouth, her closed eyes and then her breasts, the skin so fragile that the heat of flesh almost burned his lips. He was stunned by the smell of her, so sweet, uninfected by the pain of life, so far removed from death. He ran his hand down over her thigh and the silkiness of her skin sent a thrill from his fingers to his groin to the top of his head where it almost gave him pain, at which he was so astonished that he laughed aloud. But then she put her hand between his legs, very lightly, and he almost literally lost his senses. He made love to her with a fierce yet gentle passion and she returned his caresses, slowly, tentatively and then after a time with equal passion. They made love for the rest of the night without speaking except for short exclamations of love, and when dawn broke, Justina fell into an exhausted sleep.
   When she awoke near midday she found the huge marble bathtub filled with cool water, and buckets also filled next to the sink. Turi was nowhere to be seen. She was frightened for a moment at being alone; then she stepped into the tub and washed. When she got out she dried herself with a huge coarse brown towel and used one of the perfumes at the sink. When she had finally completed her toilette, she put on her traveling dress, a dark brown frock and a white button sweater. On her feet were sensible walking shoes.
   Outside the May sun was hot, as usual in Sicily, but a mountain breeze cooled the air. There was a campfire by the trestle table, and Guiliano had breakfast ready for her – toasted slices of coarse bread, cold ham and some fruit. There were also mugs of milk poured from a metal container that had been wrapped in leaves.
   There was no one else in sight so Justina ran into Turi's arms and kissed him passionately. Then she thanked him for making the breakfast but reproached him for not waking her up so that she could have prepared the meal. It was unheard of for a Sicilian male to do such a thing.
   They ate in sunlight. Enclosing them, enclosing their enchantment, were the ruined castle walls, above them the remains of the Norman tower, its spire decorated with a mosaic of brightly colored stones. The entrance to the castle had handsome Norman portals, and through the broken stone they could see the altar arch of the chapel.
   They stepped through the ruined walls of the castle grounds and walked through an olive grove, a scattering of wild lemon trees. They waded through gardens of those flowers that grew so profusely all over Sicily – the asphodels of the Greek poets, the pink anemones, grape hyacinths, the scarlet Adonises that legend said were stained with the blood of the lover of Venus. Turi Guiliano put his arm around Justina; her hair and her body were drenched with the perfume these flowers gave. Deep in the olive grove, Justina boldly pulled him down onto the vast carpet of brilliantly colored flowers, and they made love. Above them a tiny cloud of yellow and black butterflies circled, then soared up into the infinitely azure sky.
   On their third and last day they heard the sound of gunfire far off in the mountains. Justina was alarmed, but Guiliano reassured her. He was always careful throughout their three days together never to give cause for fear. He was never armed, there was not a weapon in sight; he had hidden his guns in the chapel. He never betrayed his wariness, and he had ordered his men to stay out of sight. But shortly after the gunfire Aspanu Pisciotta appeared with a brace of bloody rabbits over his shoulder. He threw them at Justina's feet and said, "Cook these for your husband, it's his favorite dish. And if you ruin them we have twenty more." He smiled at her and as she got busy skinning and cleaning the rabbits, he motioned to Guiliano. The two men went over to a fallen arch of the wall and sat down.
   "Well, Turi," Pisciotta said, grinning, "was she worth us risking our lives for?"
   Guiliano said quietly, "I'm a happy man. Now tell me about those twenty rabbits you've shot."
   "One of Luca's patrols, but in strength," Pisciotta said. "We stopped them at the perimeter. Two armored cars. One of them ran into our minefield and burned as badly as your new wife will burn those rabbits. The other car fired its guns at the rocks and ran home to Montelepre. They will come back in the morning, of course, to find their comrades. In force. I suggest you leave here tonight."
   "Justina's father is coming for her at dawn," Guiliano said. "Have you arranged our little meeting?"
   "Yes," Pisciotta said.
   "After my wife leaves -" Guiliano stuttered over the word "wife" and Pisciotta laughed. Guiliano smiled and continued, "– bring those men to me in the chapel and we will settle the matter." He paused for a moment and said, "Were you surprised when I told you the truth about Ginestra?"
   "No," Pisciotta said.
   "Will you stay for dinner?" Guiliano asked.
   "On the last night of your honeymoon?" Pisciotta shook his head. "You know the proverb: Beware of the cookery of a new bride." The old proverb of course referred to the latent treachery of new friends as partners in crime. What Pisciotta was saying once again was that Guiliano should never have married.
   Guiliano smiled. "All this can't last much longer – we have to prepare for a different life. Make sure the perimeter holds tomorrow until we have finished all of our business."
   Pisciotta nodded. He glanced over to the campfire where Justina was cooking. "What a beautiful girl she is," he said. "And to think she grew up under our very noses and we never noticed her. But watch out, her father says she has a temper. Don't let her handle your guns."
   Again this was sly Sicilian peasant vulgarity, but Guiliano seemed not to hear and Pisciotta swung himself over the garden wall to disappear through the olive groves.
   Justina had gathered flowers and put them into an old vase she had found in the castle. These graced the table. She served the food she had cooked, rabbit with garlic and tomatoes, a wooden bowl of salad with olive oil and red wine vinegar. She seemed to Turi a little nervous, a little sad. Perhaps it was the gunfire, perhaps it was Aspanu Pisciotta appearing in their Garden of Eden with his saturnine face, black guns dangling from his body. They sat opposite each other eating slowly. She wasn't a bad cook, Guiliano thought, and she was quick to supply him with bread, more meat and fill his wineglass; she had been well trained by her mother. He noticed with approval that she was a good eater – she wasn't sickly. She raised her eyes and saw him watching her. She grinned at him and said, "Is the food as good as your mother's?"
   "Better," he said. "But never tell her that."
   She was still looking at him like a cat. "And is it as good as La Venera's?"
   Turi Guiliano had never had a love affair with a young girl. He was caught by surprise, but his tactical mind processed the question quickly. Next would come questions about his lovemaking with La Venera. He didn't want to hear such questions or answer them. He had not felt the love for the older woman that he felt for this young girl; still he felt a tenderness and respect for La Venera. She was a woman who had suffered tragedies and pain this young girl for all her charms had no knowledge of.
   He smiled at Justina gravely. She had risen to clear the table but was waiting for his answer. Guiliano said, "La Venera was a great cook – it's not fair to judge you against her."
   A dish went flying past his head and he began to laugh uncontrollably. He laughed with joy and delight at being part of such a domestic scene and because for the first time the mask of sweetness and docility was stripped from the young girl's face. But when she began sobbing he took her in his arms.
   They stood there in that instant silvery twilight that falls so quickly in Sicily. He murmured into her ear that peaked so rosily from her jet black hair. "I was joking. You are the best cook in the world." But he buried his face in her neck so that she could not see his smile.
   On their last night together, they talked more than made love. Justina asked him about La Venera and he told her that was the past and to be forgotten. She asked him how they would see each other in the future. He explained that he was arranging for her to be sent to America and would join her there. But her father had already told her that; she was concerned only about how they would manage to see each other before she left for America. Guiliano saw that it never occurred to her that he might not escape, she was too young to imagine tragic endings. Her father came in the early dawn. Justina clung to Turi Guiliano for one last moment and then was gone.
   Guiliano went to the chapel in the ruined castle and waited for Aspanu Pisciotta to bring him his chiefs. While he was waiting he armed himself with the guns he had hidden in the chapel.
   In his conversation with Abbot Manfredi just before the wedding, Guiliano had told the old man about his suspicions that Stefano Andolini and Passatempo had had a meeting with Don Croce two days before the massacre at the Portella della Ginestra. He assured the Abbot he would not harm his son, but that it was essential he know the truth. The Abbot told him the whole story. As Turi had guessed, his son had confessed to him.
   Don Croce had requested Stefano Andolini to bring Passatempo to him at Villaba for a secret meeting. Andolini had been ordered to wait outside the room where the two other men conferred. This had only been two days before the slaughter. After that May Day tragedy Stefano Andolini had confronted Passatempo, who had admitted that Don Croce had paid him a handsome sum of money to go against Guiliano's orders and have his machine guns fire into the crowd. Passatempo had threatened that if Andolini said anything about this to Guiliano he would swear that Andolini had been in the room with Don Croce when the bargain was struck. Andolini had been too afraid to tell anyone except his father, the Abbot Manfredi. Manfredi had counseled him to keep his mouth shut. The week after the massacre Guiliano had been in such a raging grief that he was sure to execute both men.
   Again Guiliano assured the Abbot that he would not harm his son. Guiliano instructed Pisciotta on what he was to do but said they would conclude the matter after Justina returned to Montelepre, after the honeymoon. He did not want to play the butcher before he played the groom.
   He waited now in the chapel of the ruined Norman castle, its ceiling the blue Mediterranean sky. He leaned back against the remains of the altar, and that was how he received his chiefs when Aspanu Pisciotta led them in. The Corporal had been briefed by Pisciotta and stood where his gun could command Passatempo and Stefano Andolini. Those two men were led directly to face Guiliano before the altar. Terranova, who knew nothing, sat on one of the chapel stone benches. He had commanded the defense of the perimeter during the long night hours and he was exhausted. Guiliano had not told any of the others what he would do to Passatempo.
   Guiliano knew that Passatempo was like a wild animal – he could sense changes in the atmosphere and the smell of danger as it came off other people. Guiliano was careful to behave exactly as he always had with Passatempo. He had always kept more of a distance between them than with the others. In fact he had assigned Passatempo and his band far away to control the area near Trapani, for Passatempo's savagery disgusted him. He used Passatempo to perform executions of informers and also to threaten stubborn "invited guests" until they paid their ransoms. Just the sight of Passatempo would usually frighten prisoners and shorten negotiations, but if that was not enough, Passatempo would tell them what he would do to them and their families if the ransom was not paid, and tell them with such relish that the "guests" would stop haggling to be released as quickly as possible.
   Guiliano pointed his machine pistol at Passatempo and said, "Before we part we must all settle our debts. You disobeyed my orders, you took money from Don Croce to massacre the people at the Portella della Ginestra."
   Terranova was looking at Guiliano with narrowed eyes wondering about his own safety, whether Guiliano was trying to find out who was guilty. Whether perhaps he too would be accused. He might have made a move to defend himself, but Pisciotta had also leveled his pistol at Passatempo.
   Guiliano said to Terranova, "I know your band and you obeyed my orders. Passatempo did not. He endangered your life by doing so, since if I had not found out the truth, I would have had to execute both of you. But now we have to deal with him."
   Stefano Andolini had not moved a muscle. Again he trusted to the fates. He had been faithful to Guiliano and, like those believers in God who cannot believe their God malignant, and commit all crimes in His honor, he had absolute faith he would not be harmed.
   Passatempo also knew. With that deep animal instinct he sensed his death was at hand. Nothing could help him but his own ferocity, yet two guns were leveled at him. He could only play for time and make a last desperate attack. So he said, "Stefano Andolini gave me the money and the message – bring him to account," hoping that Andolini would make a move to protect himself and that under cover of that movement, an opportunity to attack would open.
   Guiliano said to Passatempo, "Andolini has confessed his sins and his hand was never on the machine guns. Don Croce deceived him as he deceived me."
   Passatempo said with brute bewilderment, "But I killed a hundred men and you never complained. And the Portella was almost two years ago. We have been together for seven years and that is the only time I disobeyed you. Don Croce gave me reason to believe that you would not be too sorry about what I did. That you were simply too soft to do the deed yourself. And what are a few people dead more or less after all the others we've killed? I've never been unfaithful to you personally."
   At that moment Guiliano knew how hopeless it was to make this man understand the enormity of his deed. And yet, why should this offend him so? Over the years had he not himself ordered deeds almost as terrible? The execution of the barber, the crucifixion of the fraudulent priest, the kidnappings, the slaughter of carabinieri, the merciless killings of spies? If Passatempo was a brute, born and bred, then what was he, the Champion of Sicily? He felt his own reluctance to perform the execution. So Guiliano said, "I will give you time to make your peace with God. Kneel and say your prayers."
   The other men had drifted away from Passatempo, leaving him in his own doomed circle of earth. He made as if to kneel and then his short squat form exploded toward Guiliano. Guiliano stepped forward to meet him and touched the trigger of his machine pistol. The bullets caught Passatempo in midair and yet his body hurtled forward and grazed Guiliano as he fell. Guiliano stepped away from him.
   That afternoon Passatempo's body was found on a mountain road patrolled by the carabinieri. Pinned to it was a short note that read, so die all who betray Guiliano.

Book V Turi Guliano and Michael Corleone 1950

Chapter 25

   Michael was deep in sleep, then suddenly came awake. It was as if he had wrenched his body out of a pit. The bedroom was completely black; he had closed the wooden shutters to bar the pale lemon light of the moon. There was no sound, just an eerie stillness broken now by the racing of his heart. He could feel the presence of someone else in the room.
   He turned over in the bed, and it seemed to him there was a lighter pool of blackness on the floor nearby. He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. The pool became the severed head of the black Madonna. He thought it had fallen off the table and the sound had brought him awake. He relaxed and smiled with relief. At that moment he heard a small rustling sound at the door. He turned toward it, and in the shadows the dim orange light of the lamp did not quite reach, he could see the dark bony face of Aspanu Pisciotta.
   He was sitting on the floor with his back against the door. The mustached mouth was spread in a triumphant grin, as if to say, so much for your guards, so much for the security of your sanctuary.
   Michael looked at his wristwatch on the night table. It was three o'clock. "You keep strange hours – what were you waiting for?" he asked. He got out of bed and dressed quickly, then opened the shutters. The moonlight entered the room like a ghost, appearing and disappearing. "Why didn't you wake me up?" Michael said.
   Pisciotta rolled to his feet like a snake raising its head on its body to strike. "I like to watch people sleep. Sometimes in their dreams they shout out their secrets."
   "I never tell secrets," Michael said. "Not even in my dreams." He stepped out on the terrace and offered Pisciotta a cigarette. They smoked together. Michael could hear Pisciotta's chest rattle with suppressed coughs and indeed his face looked ghastly in the moonlight, the bones skeletal.
   They were silent. Then Pisciotta said, "Did you ever get the Testament?"
   "Yes," Michael said.
   Pisciotta sighed. "Turi trusts me more than anyone on earth – he trusts me with his life. I am the only person who can find him now. But he did not trust me with the Testament. Do you have it?"
   Michael hesitated for a moment. Pisciotta laughed. "You are like Turi," he said.
   "The Testament is in America," Michael said. "It is safe with my father." He did not want Pisciotta to know it was on its way to Tunis simply because he did not want anyone to know.
   Michael almost dreaded to ask the next question. There could be only one reason for Pisciotta to be visiting him so secretly. Only one reason he had risked evading the guards surrounding the villa: or had he been passed through? It could only be that finally Guiliano was ready to appear. "When is Guiliano coming?" he said.
   "Tomorrow night," Pisciotta said. "But not here."
   "Why not?" Michael asked. "This is safe ground."
   Pisciotta laughed, "But I got in here, didn't I?"
   Michael was irritated by this truth. He wondered again if Pisciotta had been passed in by the guards under the order of Don Domenico, or even brought here by him. "It's for Guiliano to decide," he said.
   "No," Pisciotta said. "I must decide for him. You promised his family he will be safe. But Don Croce knows you are here, so does Inspector Velardi. Their spies are everywhere. What do you plan for Guiliano? A wedding, a birthday party? A funeral? What kind of foolishness do you tell us? Do you think we are all donkeys here in Sicily?" He said this in a dangerous tone.
   "I'm not going to tell you my plan of escape," Michael said. "You can trust me or not as you choose. Tell me where you will deliver Guiliano and I will be there. Don't tell me and tomorrow night I will be safe in America, while you and Guiliano are still running for your lives."
   Pisciotta laughed and said, "Spoken like a true Sicilian – you haven't wasted the years in this country." He sighed. "I can't believe it will finally be over," he said. "Almost seven years of fighting and running, of betrayals and killing. But we were the Kings of Montelepre, Turi and myself – there was glory enough for both of us. He was for the poor and I was for myself. I never believed at first, but in our second year as outlaws, he proved it to me and all of our band. Remember I am his second in command, his cousin, the man he trusts most. I wear the belt with the golden buckle as he does; he gave it to me. But I seduced the young daughter of a farmer in Partinico and made her pregnant. Her father went to Guiliano and told him the story. Do you know what Turi did? He tied me to a tree and beat me with a whip. Not in front of the farmer or any of our men. He would never expose me to such disrespect. It was our secret. But I knew if I disobeyed his orders again, he would kill me. That is our Turi." His hand shook as he brought it to his mouth. In the fading moonlight his tiny mustache gleamed like a thin sliver of black bone.
   Michael thought, What a strange story. Why does he tell it to me?
   They went back into the bedroom and Michael closed the shutters. Pisciotta picked up the severed head of the black Madonna off the floor and handed it to Michael. "I threw this on the floor to wake you," he said. "The Testament was inside, isn't that true?"
   "Yes," Michael said.
   Pisciotta's face sagged. "Maria Lombardo lied to me. I asked her if she had it. She said no. Then she gave it to you in front of my very eyes." He laughed bitterly. "I have been like a son to her." He paused for a moment and then said, "And she has been like a mother to me."
   Pisciotta asked for another cigarette. There was still some wine left in the jug on the night table. Michael poured a glass for both of them, and Pisciotta drank it gratefully. "Thank you," he said. "Now we must get down to our business. I will turn over Guiliano to you outside the town of Castelvetrano. Ride in an open car so I can recognize you, and come directly on the road from Trapani. I will intercept you at a point of my own choosing. If there is danger, wear a cap and we will not appear. The time will be as soon as dawn breaks. Do you think you can manage that?"
   "Yes," Michael said. "Everything is arranged. There is one thing I should tell you: Stefano Andolini did not keep his appointment with Professor Adonis yesterday. The Professor was very worried."
   Pisciotta was startled for the first time. Then he shrugged. "The little man was always bad luck," he said. "Now we must say goodbye until tomorrow at dawn." He took Michael's hand in his own.
   Michael said impulsively, "Come with us to America."
   Pisciotta shook his head. "I have lived in Sicily all of my life and I have loved my life. And so I must die in Sicily if I must. But thank you."
   Michael was strangely moved by these words. Even with his scant knowledge of Pisciotta, he sensed that this was a man who could never be transplanted from the earth and mountains of Sicily. He was too fierce, too bloodthirsty; his coloring, his voice were all of Sicily. He could never trust a strange land.
   "I'll pass you through the gate," Michael said. "No," Pisciotta said. "Our little meeting must remain a secret."
   After Pisciotta had left, Michael lay on his bed until dawn, unable to sleep. He would finally meet Turi Guiliano face to face; they would travel to America together. He wondered what kind of man he would find Guiliano to be. Would he be his legend? So much larger than life that he dominated this island and affected the course of a nation? He got up from the bed and opened the shutters. Dawn was finally breaking and he watched the sun move up in the sky and throw a golden highway across the sea, and riding on that broad beam of light he saw the motor launch speeding toward the dock. He rushed out of the villa and down to the beach to greet Peter Clemenza.
   They had breakfast together, and Michael told him about Pisciotta's visit. Clemenza did not seem surprised that Pisciotta had penetrated the guarded villa.
   They spent the rest of the morning making their plans for the meeting with Guiliano. There might be spies watching the villa for any extraordinary movement; a column of automobiles would surely attract attention. Also Michael would certainly be under close observation. True, the Sicilian Security Police under Inspector Velardi would not interfere, but who knew what treacheries might be afoot?
   When they had finished their planning, they had lunch, and then Michael went to his room for an afternoon sleep. He wanted to be fresh for the long night. Peter Clemenza had too many details to attend to – giving orders to his men, arranging transport and briefing his brother, Don Domenico, upon his return home.
   Michael closed the shutters in his bedroom and lay on the bed. His body was rigid; he could not sleep. Within the next twenty-four hours many terrible things could happen. He had a sense of foreboding. But then he weaved a dream of returning to his home on Long Island, his mother and father waiting for him at the door, his long exile at an end.

Chapter 26

   In the seventh year of his banditry, Turi Guiliano knew that he must leave his mountain kingdom and flee to the America he had been conceived in, the America his parents had always told stories about when he was a child. The fabulous land where there was justice for the poor, where the government was not the lackey of the rich, where the penniless Sicilians rose to riches simply by good honest labor.
   Persisting in his avowals of friendship, the Don had contacted Don Corleone in America to help rescue Guiliano and give him sanctuary there. Turi Guiliano understood quite well that Don Croce was also serving his own purposes, but Guiliano knew he had very few options. The power of his band was gone.
   Now on this night he would start on his journey to meet with Aspanu Pisciotta; he would place himself in the hands of the American, Michael Corleone. He would leave these mountains now. These mountains that had given him sanctuary for seven years. He would leave his kingdom, his power, his family, and all his comrades. His armies had melted away; his mountains were being overrun; his protectors, the people of Sicily, were being crushed by Colonel Luca's Special Force. If he remained he would win some victories, but his final defeat would be certain. For now, he had no choice.
   Turi Guiliano strapped on his lupara, took up his machine pistol and started on the long journey toward Palermo. He was wearing a white sleeveless shirt, but over this was a leather jacket with large pockets that held clips of ammunition for his weapons. He paced himself. His watch said nine o'clock, and there were still traces of daylight in the sky despite the timid light of the moon. There was the danger of roving patrols of the Special Force to Repress Banditry, yet Guiliano walked without fear. Over the years he had earned a certain invisibility. All the people in this countryside threw their cloaks about him. If there were patrols they would inform him; if he was in danger they would protect him and hide him in their houses. If he were attacked, the shepherds and the farmers would reassemble under his solitary banner. He had been their champion; they would never betray him now.
   In the months that followed his marriage, there were pitched battles between Colonel Luca's Special Force and segments of Guiliano's band. Colonel Luca had already taken credit for the killing of Passatempo, and the newspapers reported in huge headlines that one of Guiliano's most feared chiefs had been killed in a fierce gun battle with the heroic soldiers of the Special Force to Repress Banditry. Colonel Luca, of course, had suppressed the note left on the body, but Don Croce learned of it from Inspector Velardi. He knew then that Guiliano was fully aware of the treachery that had been done at the Portella della Ginestra.
   Colonel Luca's five thousand-man army exerted an intense pressure on Guiliano. He could no longer dare to enter Palermo to buy supplies or sneak into Montelepre to visit his mother and Justina. Many of his men were being betrayed and killed. Some were emigrating on their own to Algeria or Tunisia. Others were disappearing into hiding places that cut them off from the activities of the band. The Mafia was now in active opposition to him, using its network to deliver Guiliano's men into the hands of the carabinieri.
   And then finally one of the chiefs was brought down.
   Terranova got unlucky, and it was his virtue that brought him misfortune. He had not the ferociousness of Passatempo, the malignant cunning of Pisciotta, the deadliness of Fra Diav o lo. Nor the ascetic quality of Guiliano. He was intelligent but he was also of an affectionate temperament, and Guiliano had often used him to make friends with their kidnapping victims, to distribute money and goods to the poor. It was Terranova and his own band that plastered Palermo with posters in the dead of night to present Guiliano's propaganda. He did not often take part in the more bloody operations.
   He was a man who required love and affection. A few years before, he had acquired a mistress in Palermo, a widow with three small children. She had never known he was a bandit; she thought he was a government official in Rome who took his holidays in Sicily. She was grateful for the money he gave her and the presents he brought for her children, but it had been made plain to her that they could never marry. And so she gave him the affection and care he needed. When he visited she cooked elaborate meals; she washed his clothes and made love with a grateful passion. Such a relationship could not remain a secret forever from the Friends of the Friends, and Don Croce stored the information away to be used at the proper time.
   Justina had visited Guiliano a few times in the mountains, and Terranova had been her bodyguard on her voyages. Her beauty had stirred his feelings of longing, and though he knew it was not prudent, he decided to visit his mistress one last time. He wanted to give her a sum of money that would sustain her and her children in the years to come.
   And so one night he sneaked into Palermo alone. He gave the widow the money and explained he might not be able to see her for a long time. She wept and protested and finally he told her who he really was. She was astonished. His usual demeanor was so mild, his nature was so gentle, and yet he was one of the famed Guiliano's great chiefs. She made love with a fiery passion that delighted him, and they spent a happy evening with the three children. Terranova had taught them to play cards, and when they won this time he paid them real money, which made them laugh with joy.
   After the children were put to bed, Terranova and the widow continued their lovemaking until dawn. Then Terranova prepared to leave. At the door they embraced for the last time, and then Terranova walked quickly down the little street and into the main square before the cathedral. He felt a happy satiety of the body, and his mind was at peace. He was relaxed and off guard.
   The morning air was blasted by the roar of motors. Three black cars sped toward him. Armed men appeared on every side of the square. Other armed men jumped out of the cars. One of the men shouted at him to surrender, to put up his hands.
   Terranova took one last look at the cathedral, the statues of saints niched on its sides; he saw the blue and yellow balconies, the sun rising to light the azure sky. He knew that this was the last time he would see such wonders, that his seven years of luck were ended. There remained only one thing for him to do.
   He took a great leap as if he would leap over death itself and hurl himself into a safe universe. As his body flew to one side and hit the ground, he drew his pistol and fired. One soldier reeled back and went down to one knee. Terranova tried to pull the trigger again, but by that time a hundred bullets converged on his body, blowing it to pieces, blowing the flesh off his bones. In one way he had been lucky – it had all happened so quickly that he did not have time to wonder if his mistress had betrayed him.
   Terranova's death brought a sense of doom to Guiliano. He had known that the reign of the band was finished. That they could no longer counterattack successfully, that they could no longer hide in the mountains. But he had always thought that he and his chiefs would make an escape, that they would not go down to death. Now he knew there was very little time left. There was one thing he had always wanted to do, and so he summoned Corporal Canio Silvestro.
   "Our time is over," he said to Silvestro. "You once told me you had friends in England who would protect you. Now is the time for you to go. You have my permission."
   Corporal Silvestro shook his head. "I can always leave when you are safe in America. You need me still. You know I will never betray you."
   "I know that," Guiliano said. "And you know the affection I have always had for you. But you were never truly a bandit. You were always a soldier and a policeman. Your heart was always a lawful one. And so you can make a life for yourself when all this is over. The rest of us will find it difficult. We will be bandits forever."
   Silvestro said, "I never thought of you as a bandit."
   "Nor did I," Guiliano said. "And yet what have I done these seven years? I thought I was fighting for justice. I tried to help the poor. I hoped to free Sicily. I wanted to be a good man. But it was the wrong time and the wrong way. For now we must do what we can to save our lives. And so you must go to England. It will make me happy to know that you are safe." Then he embraced Silvestro. "You have been my true friend," he said, "and those are my orders."
   At dusk, Turi Guiliano left his cave and moved on to the Cappuccini monastery just outside Palermo where he would await word from Aspanu Pisciotta. One of the monks there was a secret member of his band, and he was in charge of the catacombs of the monastery. In these catacombs were hundreds of mummified bodies.
   For hundreds of years before World War I it had been the custom of the rich and noble families to pin to the walls of the monastery the costumes in which they wished to be buried.
   When they died, after their funerals, their bodies were delivered to the monastery. There the monks were masters of the art of preserving bodies. They exposed the corpses to slow heat for six months, then dried the soft parts of the bodies. In the drying process the skin shriveled, the features contorted into all the grimaces of death, some of horror, some of risibility, all terrible to the viewer. Then the bodies were dressed in the costumes that had been left for them and placed in glass coffins. These coffins were placed in niches in the wall or strung from the ceiling by glass wires. Some of the bodies were seated on chairs, some stood against the wall. Some were propped into glass boxes like costumed dolls.
   Guiliano lay down on a dank stone of the catacombs and used a coffin as his pillow. He studied all these Sicilians dead for hundreds of years. There was a knight of the Royal Court in a blue silk ruffled uniform, a helmet on his head, a sword cane in his hand. A courtier, foppish in the French style, with white wig and high-heeled boots. There was a Cardinal in his red robes, an archbishop in his miter. There were court beauties whose golden gowns looked now like spider webs strangling the mummified shrunken bodies as if they were flies. There was a young maiden in white gloves and white frilly nightdress enclosed in a glass box.
   Guiliano slept badly the two nights he spent there. As who would not? he thought. These were the great men and women of Sicily for the three or four last centuries, and they thought they could escape the worms in this fashion. The pride and vanity of the rich, the darlings of fate. Much better to die in the road like La Venera's husband.
   But what really kept Guiliano awake was a nagging worry. How had Don Croce escaped the attack on his life earlier that week? Guiliano knew that the operation had been perfectly planned. He had brooded on how to do it ever since he had learned the truth about the massacre at the Portella della Ginestra. The Don was so well guarded that a chink had to be found in his defenses. Guiliano had decided his best chance was when the Don felt secure in the heavily guarded Hotel Umberto of Palermo. The band had a spy in the hotel, one of the waiters. He gave the Don's schedule, the deployment of the guards. With this intelligence Guiliano was sure his attack would succeed.
   He had mustered thirty men to rendezvous with him in Palermo. He had known of Michael Corleone's visit and lunch with the Don, and so he waited until late afternoon when the report reached him that Michael had left. Then twenty of his men had mounted a frontal assault on the hotel to draw guards off from the garden. A few moments later he and his remaining ten men had planted an explosive charge against the garden wall and blown a hole in it. Guiliano led the charge through the hole. There were only five guards left in the garden; Guiliano shot one and the other four fled. Guiliano rushed into the Don's suite but it was empty. And it had struck him as strange that it was unguarded. Meanwhile the other detachment of his band had forced their way through the defense barrier and joined up with him. They had searched the rooms and corridors along the way and found nothing. The Don's huge bulk made it impossible for him to move quickly, so only one conclusion could be drawn. The Don had departed from the hotel shortly after Michael left. And now it occurred to Guiliano for the first time that Don Croce had been warned about the attack.
   It was too bad, Guiliano thought. It would have been a glorious last stroke, besides removing his most dangerous enemy. What ballads would have been sung if he had found Don Croce in that sunlit garden. But there would be another day. He would not stay forever in America.
   On the third morning, the Cappuccini monk, his body and face almost as shrunken as the mummies in his charge, brought a message from Pisciotta. It read, "In the house of Charlemagne." Guiliano understood it immediately. Zu Peppino, the master carter of Castelvetrano, who had helped Guiliano in the hijacking of Don Croce's trucks and had been a secret ally of his band ever since, had three carts and six donkeys. All three of his carts had been painted with the legends of the great Emperor, and as boys, Turi and Aspanu had called his home the house of Charlemagne. The time of the meeting had already been set.
   That night, his final night in Sicily, Guiliano made his way to Castelvetrano. Outside of Palermo he picked up some shepherds who were secret members of his band and used them as an armed escort. They made their way to Castelvetrano with such ease that a suspicion flickered in Guiliano's mind. The town looked too open. He dismissed his bodyguards, who slipped away into the night. Then he made his way to a little stone house outside of Castelvetrano whose courtyard held three painted carts, now all bearing the legends from his own life. This was the house of Zu Peppino.
   Zu Peppino did not seem surprised to see him. He put down the brush with which he had been painting the slat of one of his carts. The he locked the door and said to Guiliano, "We have trouble. You attract the carabinieri like a dead mule attracts flies."
   Guiliano felt a little shock of adrenaline. "Are they Luca's Special Force?" he asked.
   "Yes," Zu Peppino said. "They are tucked out of sight, not in the streets patrolling. I spotted some of their vehicles on the road when I came back from work. And some carters tell me they saw other vehicles. We thought they were setting up traps for members of your band, but we never suspected it might be you. You never get this far south, so far away from your mountains."
   Guiliano wondered how the carabinieri could have known about the rendezvous. Had they trailed Aspanu? Were Michael Corleone and his people indiscreet? Or was there an informer? In any case, he could not meet Pisciotta in Castelvetrano. But they had a fallback meeting place if one of them did not show up at the rendezvous here.
   "Thanks for the warning," Guiliano said. "Keep an eye out for Pisciotta in town and tell him. And when you take your cart to Montelepre, pay my mother a visit and tell her I am safely in America."
   Zu Peppino said, "Allow an old man to embrace you." And he kissed Guiliano on the cheek. "I never believed you could help Sicily, nobody can, nobody ever could, not even Garibaldi, not even that windbag Il Duce. Now if you like I can put my mules to a cart and carry you wherever you want to go."
   Guiliano's rendezvous time with Pisciotta had been for midnight. It was now only ten. He had deliberately come in early to scout the ground. And he knew that the rendezvous with Michael Corleone was for dawn. The fallback meeting place was at least a two-hour fast walk from Castelvetrano. But it was better to walk than use Zu Peppino. He thanked the old man and slipped out into the night.
   The fallback meeting place was the famous ancient Greek ruins called the Acropolis of Selinus. South of Castelvetrano, near Mazzara del Vallo, the ruins stood on a desolate plain near the sea, ending where the sea cliffs began to rise. Selinus had been buried by an earthquake before Christ was born, but a row of marble columns and architraves still stood. Or rather had been raised by excavators. There was still the main thoroughfare, though now reduced to rubble by the skeletons of ancient buildings lining its way. There was a temple with its roof matted with vines and showing holes like a skull and stone columns exhausted and gray with centuries of age. The acropolis itself, the fortified center of ancient Greek cities, was, as usual, built on the highest ground, and so these ruins looked down on the stark countryside below.
   The scirocco, a terrible desert wind, had been blowing all day. Now, at night, so close to the sea, it sent fog rolling through the ruins. Guiliano, weary of his long forced march, detoured around to the sea cliffs so he could look down and spy out the land.
   It was a sight so beautiful that he forgot for a moment the danger he was in. The temple of Apollo had fallen in on itself in a twisted mass of columns. Other ruined temples gleamed in the moonlight – without walls, just columns, strands of roof and one fortress wall with what had been a barred window high up, now blackly empty, the moon shining through it. Lower down in what had been the city proper, below the acropolis, one column stood alone, surrounded by flat ruins, that in its thousands of years had never fallen. This was the famous "Il Fuso della Vecchia," the Old Woman's Spindle. Sicilians were so used to the monuments of the Greeks scattered over the island that they treated them with affectionate contempt. It was only foreigners who made a fuss.
   And the foreigners had raised the twelve great columns that stood before him now. Their grandeur was Herculean, but behind them was only the panorama of ruins. At the foot of those twelve columns, abreast like soldiers fronting their commander full face, was a platform of stone steps that seemed to have grown out of the ground. Guiliano sat down on the top step, his back resting against one of the columns. He reached under his coat and unhooked the machine pistol and the lupara and put them one stone step below him. Fog swirled through the ruins, but he knew he would hear anyone who approached over the rubble and that he could easily see any enemies before they could see him.
   He leaned back against one of the columns, glad to be resting, his body sagging with fatigue. The July moon seemed to pass over the gray-white columns and rest against the cliffs that led to the sea. And across the sea was America. And in America was Justina and their child to be born. Soon he would be safe and the last seven years of his banditry would be a dream. For a moment he wondered what kind of a life that would be, if he could ever be happy not living in Sicily. He smiled. One day he would come back and surprise them all. He sighed with fatigue and unlaced his boots and slipped his feet out of them. He took off his socks and his feet welcomed the touch of cold stone. He reached into his pocket and took out the two prickly pears and their sweet night-cooled juice refreshed him. With one hand on the machine pistol resting beside him, he waited for Aspanu Pisciotta.

Chapter 27

   Michael, Peter Clemenza and Don Domenico had an early supper together. If they were to make the dawn meeting hour, the operation to collect Guiliano would have to start at dusk. They went over the plan again and Domenico approved. He added one detail: Michael was not to be armed. If something went wrong and the carabinieri or Security Police arrested them, no charges could be brought against Michael, and he could leave Sicily no matter what happened.
   They had a jug of wine and lemons in the garden and then it was time to go. Don Domenico kissed his brother goodbye. He turned to Michael and gave him a quick embrace. "My best wishes to your father," he said. "I pray for your future, I wish you well. And in the years to come, if you ever have need for my services, send me word."
   The three of them walked down to the dock. Michael and Peter Clemenza boarded the motor launch which was already full of armed men. The boat pulled away, Don Domenico waving farewell from the dock. Michael and Peter Clemenza went down into the cabin where Clemenza went to sleep in one of the bunks. He had had a busy day and they would be at sea until nearly dawn the following morning.
   They had changed their plans. The plane at Mazzara del Vallo in which they had planned to fly to Africa would be used as a decoy; instead the escape to Africa would be by boat. Clemenza had argued for this, saying that he could control the road and guard the boat with his men, but he could not control the small airfield. There was too much ground area in the approaches and the plane was too fragile; it could become a deathtrap while still on the ground. Speed was not as important as deception, and the sea was easier to hide in than the sky. Also provisions could be made for transferring to another boat; you couldn't change planes.
   Clemenza had been busy during the day dispatching some men and cars to an assembly point on the road to Castelvetrano; others to secure the town of Mazzara del Vallo. He had sent them at intervals of an hour; he did not want spies observing the unusual movement of a convoy going through the villa gates. The cars went off in different directions to further confuse any observers. Meanwhile the motor launch was making its way around the southwestern point of Sicily to lie out over the horizon until the dawn started to break, when it would zoom into the port of Mazzara del Vallo. Cars and men would be waiting for them. From there it would not be more than a half-hour drive to Castelvetrano despite the swing they would have to take north to meet the Trapani road that led to where Pisciotta would intercept them.
   Michael lay down on one of the bunks. He could hear Clemenza snoring and was filled with amazed admiration that the man could actually sleep at such a time. Michael thought that in twenty-four hours he would be in Tunis and twelve hours after that he would be home with his family. After two years of exile he would have all the options of a free man, no longer on the run from the police, not subject to the rule of his protectors. He could do exactly what he wanted to do. But only if he got through the next thirty-six hours. As he fantasized about what he would do his first days in America, the gentle roll of the boat relaxed him and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
   Fra Diav o lo was sleeping a far deeper sleep.
   Stefano Andolini, on the morning of the day he was to pick up Professor Hector Adonis in Trapani, drove first to Palermo. He had an appointment with the Chief of the Sicilian Security Police, Inspector Velardi, one of their frequent meetings in which the Inspector briefed Andolini on Colonel Luca's operational plans for the day. Andolini would then transmit this information to Pisciotta who would carry it to Guiliano.
   It was a beautiful morning; the fields alongside the road were carpeted with flowers. He was early for his appointment so he stopped by one of the roadside shrines for a cigarette and then knelt in front of the padlocked box that held the statue of Saint Rosalia. His prayer was simple and practical, a plea to the Saint to protect him from his enemies. On the coming Sunday he would confess his sins to Father Beniamino and take Communion. Now the radiant sun warmed his bare head; the flower-perfumed air was so heavy it washed his nostrils and palate clean of nicotine and he was enormously hungry. He promised himself a good breakfast in Palermo's finest restaurant after his meeting with Inspector Velardi.
   Inspector Federico Velardi, head of the Security Police of Sicily, felt the virtuous triumph of a man who has waited patiently, believing always in a God who would finally bring order into his universe, and finally received his reward. For nearly a year, under the direct and secret orders of Minister Trezza, he had helped Guiliano escape the carabinieri and his own flying squads. He had met with the murderous Stefano Andolini, Fra Diav o lo. For that year Inspector Velardi had, in effect, been a subordinate of Don Croce Malo.
   Velardi was from the north of Italy, where people made something of themselves through education, a respect for the social contract, a belief in law and government. Velardi's service years in Sicily had instilled in him contempt and deep hatred for the Sicilian people, high and low. The rich had no social conscience and kept down the poor by their criminal conspiracy with the Mafia. The Mafia, which pretended to protect the poor, hired themselves out to the rich to keep down those poor. The peasants were too proud, had such egos that they gloried in murder though they might spend the rest of their lives in prison.
   But now things would be different. Inspector Velardi's hands had finally been untied and his flying squads could be unleashed. And people would see again the difference between his own Security Police and the clownish carabinieri.
   To Velardi's astonishment Minister Trezza himself had given the order that all those people who had been given the red-bordered passes signed by the Minister, those all-powerful passes that enabled the users to pass through roadblocks, to carry arms, to be immune to routine arrests, were to be detained in solitary confinement. Those passes had to be gathered up. Especially those issued to Aspanu Pisciotta and Stefano Andolini.
   Velardi prepared to go to work. Andolini was waiting in his anteroom for his briefing. He would get a surprise today. Velardi picked up the phone and summoned a captain and four police sergeants. He told them to be prepared for trouble. He himself was wearing a pistol in a belt holster, something he usually did not do in his office. Then he had Stefano Andolini brought in from the anteroom.
   Stefano Andolini's red hair was neatly combed. He wore a black pin-striped suit, white shirt and dark tie. After all, a visit to the Chief of the Security Police was a formal occasion in which to show respect. He was not armed. He knew from experience that everyone was always searched when they entered the headquarters. He stood in front of Velardi's desk waiting for the usual permission to sit down. It was not given, so he remained standing and the first warning signal went off in his head.
   "Let me see your special pass," Inspector Velardi said to him.
   Andolini did not move. He was trying to fathom this strange request. On principle he lied. "I don't have it with me," he said. "After all I was visiting a Friend." He put a special emphasis on the word "Friend."
   This enraged Velardi. He moved around the desk and stood face to face with Andolini. "You were never a friend of mine. I obeyed orders when breaking bread with a swine like you. Now listen to me carefully. You are under arrest. You will be confined in my cells until further notice, and I must tell you that I have a cassetta down in the dungeons. But we'll have a quiet little talk here in my office tomorrow morning and spare you some pain, if you're clever."
   The next morning Velardi received another phone call from Minister Trezza and a more explicit one from Don Croce. A few moments later Andolini was escorted from his cell to Velardi's office.
   The night's solitude in his cell, thinking about his strange arrest, had convinced Andolini he was in mortal danger. When he entered, Velardi was striding up and down the room, his blue eyes flashing, obviously in a temper. Stefano Andolini was cold as ice. He observed everything – the Captain and four police sergeants at the alert, the pistol at Velardi's hip. He knew that the Inspector had always hated him, and he hated the Inspector no less. If he could talk Velardi into getting rid of the guards, he might at least kill him before he was killed himself. So he said, "I'll talk, but not with these other sbirri here." Sbirri was the vulgar and insulting idiom for the Security Police.
   Velardi ordered the four policemen out of the room but gave the officer a signal to stay. He also gave him a signal to be ready to draw his gun. Then he turned his full attention to Stefano Andolini.
   "I want any information on how I can put my hands on Guiliano," he said. "The last time you met with him and Pisciotta."
   Stefano Andolini laughed, his murderous face twisted in a malevolent grimace. The skin grained with red beard seemed to blaze with violence.
   No wonder they called him Fra Diav o lo, Velardi thought. He was truly a dangerous man. He must have no inkling of what was coming.
   Velardi said to him calmly, "Answer my question or I'll have you stretched out on the cassetta. "
   Andolini said with contempt, "You traitorous bastard, I'm under the protection of Minister Trezza and Don Croce. When they have me released, I'll cut your sbirri heart out."
   Velardi reached over and slapped Andolini's face twice, once with his palm and then backhand. He saw the blood well up on Andolini's mouth and the rage in his eyes. He deliberately turned his back to sit at his desk.
   At that moment, anger blinding his instinct for survival, Stefano Andolini grabbed the pistol out of the Inspector's belt holster and tried to fire. In that same instant the police officer drew his own gun and fired four shots into Andolini's body. Andolini was hurled against the far wall and then lay on the floor. The white shirt was stained completely red and, Velardi thought, it matched his hair quite nicely. He reached down and took the pistol from Andolini's hand as other policemen rushed into the room. He complimented the Captain on his alertness, and then in full view of the officer he loaded his pistol with the bullets he had emptied out of it before the meeting. He did not want his Captain to get delusions of grandeur, that he had actually saved the life of a careless head of the Security Police.
   Then he ordered his men to search the dead body. As he suspected the red-bordered security pass was in the sheaf of identification papers every Sicilian was required to carry. Velardi took the pass and put in into his safe. He would hand it over to Minister Trezza personally, and, with luck he would have Pisciotta's pass to go along with it.
   On deck one of the men brought Michael and Clemenza small cups of hot espresso which they drank leaning against the rail.
   The launch was slowly heading in to land, motor quiet, and they could see the lights on the dock, faint blue pinpoints.
   Clemenza was walking around the deck, giving orders to the armed men and the pilot. Michael studied the blue lights which seemed to be running toward him. The boat was picking up speed, and it was as if that churning of the water swept away the darkness of the night. A chink of dawn opened in the sky, and Michael could see the dock and beaches of Mazzara del Vallo; the colored umbrellas of cafe tables were a dusky rose beyond them.
   When they docked there were three cars and six men waiting. Clemenza led Michael to the lead vehicle, an open and ancient touring car which held only a driver. Clemenza got into the front seat and Michael got into the back. Clemenza said to Michael, "If we get stopped by a carabinieri patrol, you duck down to the floor. We can't fool around here on the road, we just gotta blow them away and make our run."
   The three wide-bodied touring cars were moving in the pale, early sunlight through a countryside almost unchanged since the birth of Christ. Ancient aqueducts and pipes spouted water over the fields. It was already warm and humid, and the air was filled with the smell of flowers beginning to rot in the heat of the Sicilian summer. They were passing through the Selinunte, the ruins of the ancient Greek city, and Michael could see from time to time the crumbling columns of marble temples scattered over Western Sicily by the Greek colonists more than two thousand years ago. These columns loomed eerily in the yellow light, their fragments of roof dripping blackly like rain against the blue sky. The rich black earth foamed up against walls of granite cliffs. There was not a house, not an animal, not a man to be seen. It was a landscape created by the slash of a giant sword.
   Then they swung north to hit the Trapani-Castelvetrano road. And now Michael and Clemenza were more alert; it was along this road that Pisciotta would intercept them and bring them to Guiliano. Michael felt an intense excitement. The three touring cars went more slowly now. Clemenza had a machine pistol lying on the seat on his left side so he could bring it up quickly over the car door. His hands were positioned on it. The sun had climbed into its rightful dominance, and its rays were a hot gold. The cars kept slowly on; they were almost upon the town of Castelvetrano.
   Clemenza ordered the driver to go even more slowly. He and Michael watched for any sign of Pisciotta. They were now on the outskirts of Castelvetrano, ascending a hilly road, and stopping so that they could look down the main street of the town lying below them. From their high vantage point Michael could see the road from Palermo clogged with vehicles – military vehicles; the streets were swarming with carabinieri in their black uniforms with white piping. There was the wail of many sirens that did not seem to scatter the crowds of people in the main street. Overhead two small planes were circling.
   The driver cursed and stepped on the brake as he pulled the car to the side of the road. He turned to Clemenza and said, "Do you want me to go on?"
   Michael felt a queasiness at the pit of his stomach. He said to Clemenza, "How many men do you have waiting for us in town?"
   "Not enough," Clemenza said sourly. His face had an almost frightened look. "Mike, we have to get out of here. We have to get back to the boat."
   "Wait," Michael said, now seeing the cart and donkey toiling slowly up the hill toward them. The driver was an old man with a straw hat pulled down tight around his head. The cart was painted with legends on the wheels, the shafts, and the sides. It halted alongside of them. The driver's face was wrinkled and showed no expression, and his arms, incongruously muscled, were bare to his shoulders, for he wore only a black vest over his wide canvas trousers. He came abreast of their car and said, "Don Clemenza, is that you?"
   There was relief in Clemenza's voice. "Zu Peppino, what the hell is going on there? Why didn't my men come out and warn me?"
   Zu Peppino's stony wrinkled face did not change expression. "You can go back to America," he said. "They have massacred Turi Guiliano."
   Michael found himself strangely dizzy. Suddenly at that moment the light seemed to fall out of the sky. He thought of the old mother and father, of Justina waiting in America, of Aspanu Pisciotta and Stefano Andolini. Of Hector Adonis. For Turi Guiliano had been the starlight of their lives, and it was not possible his light no longer existed.
   "Are you sure it's him?" Clemenza asked harshly.
   The old man shrugged. "It was one of Guiliano's old tricks, to leave a corpse or dummy to entice the carabinieri so that he could kill them. But it's been two hours now and nothing has happened. The body is still lying in the courtyard where they killed him. There are already newspapermen from Palermo here with their cameras taking pictures of everybody, even my donkey. So believe what you like."
   Michael was feeling ill but he managed to say, "We'll have to go in and look. I have to make sure."
   Clemenza said roughly, "Alive or dead, we can't help him anymore. I'm taking you home, Mike."
   "No," Michael said softly. "We have to go in. Maybe Pisciotta is waiting for us. Or Stefano Andolini. To tell us what to do. Maybe it's not him, I can't believe it's him. He couldn't die, not when he was this close to getting away. Not when his Testament is safe in America."
   Clemenza sighed. He saw the look of suffering on Michael's face. Perhaps it wasn't Guiliano; perhaps Pisciotta was waiting to make a rendezvous. Perhaps even this was part of the plot to distract attention from his escape if the authorities were close on his heels.
   Now the sun had fully risen. Clemenza ordered his men to park their cars and to follow him. Then he and Michael walked down the rest of the street which was crowded with people. They were gathered around the entrance to a side street that was filled with army cars and blocked by a cordon of carabinieri. On this side street was a row of separate houses split apart by courtyards. Clemenza and Michael stood at the rear of the crowd watching with the others. The carabinieri officer was admitting journalists and officials past the cordon of guards after examining their credentials. Michael said to Clemenza, "Can you get us past that officer?"
   Clemenza took Michael by the arm and led him out of the crowd.
   In an hour they were in one of the small houses on a side street. This house too had a small courtyard and was only about twenty houses from where the crowd had gathered. Clemenza left Michael there with four men, and then he and two others went back into the town. They were gone for an hour and when Clemenza came back he was obviously badly shaken.
   "It looks bad, Mike," he said. "They're bringing Guiliano's mother from Montelepre to identify the body. Colonel Luca is here, the Commander of the Special Force. And newspapermen from all over the world are flying in, even from the States. This town is going to be a madhouse. We gotta get outta here."
   "Tomorrow," Michael said. "We'll run tomorrow. Now let's see if we can get past those guards. Did you do anything about that?"
   "Not yet," Clemenza said.
   "Well let's go out and see what we can do," Michael said.
   Against Clemenza's protest, they went out into the street. The whole town seemed to be covered with carabinieri. There must be at least a thousand of them, Michael thought. And there were literally hundreds of photographers. The street was clogged with vans and automobiles and there was no way of getting near the courtyard. They saw a group of high-ranking officers going into a restaurant, and the whisper went around that this was Colonel Luca and his staff having a celebration lunch. Michael caught a glimpse of the Colonel. He was a small wiry man with a sad face, and because of the heat he had taken off his braided cap and was wiping his partially bald head with a white handkerchief. A crowd of photographers was taking his picture and a mob of journalists was asking him questions. He waved them aside without answering and disappeared into the restaurant.
   The town streets were so dense with people that Michael and Clemenza could hardly move. Clemenza decided they should go back to the house and wait for information. Late that afternoon word was brought by one of his men that Maria Lombardo had identified the body as that of her son.
   They ate dinner in an open-air cafe. It had a blaring radio giving news reports of Guiliano's death. The story was that the police had surrounded a house in which they believed Guiliano to be hiding. When he came out he was ordered to surrender. He had immediately opened fire. Captain Perenze, Colonel Luca's chief of staff, was giving interviews on the radio to a panel of journalists. He told how Guiliano had started to run and he, Captain Perenze, had followed him and cornered him in the courtyard. Guiliano had turned like a lion at bay, Captain Perenze said, and he, Perenze, had returned his fire and killed him. Everybody in the restaurant was listening to the radio. Nobody was eating. The waiters made no pretense of serving; they also listened. Clemenza turned to Michael and said, "The whole thing is fishy. We leave tonight."
   But at that moment the street around the cafe filled with Security Police. An official car pulled up to the curb and out of it stepped Inspector Velardi. He came up to their table and placed his hand on Michael's shoulder. "You are under arrest," he said. He fastened his icy blue eyes on Clemenza. "And for good luck we'll take you with him. A word of advice. I have a hundred men around this cafe. Don't make a fuss or you'll join Guiliano in hell."
   A police van had pulled up to the curb. Michael and Clemenza were swarmed over by Security Police, searched and then pushed roughly into the van. Some newspaper photographers eating in the cafe had jumped up with their cameras and were immediately clubbed back by the Security Police. Inspector Velardi watched all this with a grim satisfied smile.
   The next day the father of Turi Guiliano spoke from the balcony of his home in Montelepre to the people in the street below. In the old tradition of Sicily, he declared a vendetta against the betrayers of his son. Specifically he declared a vendetta against the man who had killed his son. That man, he said, was not Captain Perenze, not a carabiniere. The man he named was Aspanu Pisciotta.

Chapter 28

   Aspanu Pisciotta had felt the black worm of treachery growing in his heart for the past year.
   Pisciotta had always been loyal. Since childhood he had accepted Guiliano's leadership without jealousy. And Guiliano had always proclaimed that Pisciotta was co-leader of the band, not one of the subchiefs like Passatempo, Terranova, Andolini and the Corporal. But Guiliano's personality was so overwhelming that the co-leadership became a myth; Guiliano commanded. Pisciotta accepted this without reservation.
   Guiliano was braver than all the others. His tactics in guerrilla warfare were unmatched, his ability to inspire love in the people of Sicily unequaled since Garibaldi. He was idealistic and romantic, and he had the feral cunning so admired by Sicilians. But he had flaws that Pisciotta saw and tried to correct.
   When Guiliano insisted on giving at least fifty percent of the band's loot to the poor, Pisciotta told him, "You can be rich or you can be loved. You think the people of Sicily will rise and follow your banner in a war against Rome. They never will. They will love you when they take your money, they will hide you when you need sanctuary, they will never betray you. But they don't have a revolution in them."
   Pisciotta had opposed listening to the blandishments of Don Croce and the Christian Democratic party. He had opposed crushing the Communist and Socialist organizations in Sicily.
   When Guiliano hoped for a pardon from the Christian Democrats, Pisciotta said, "They will never pardon you, and Don Croce can never permit you to have any power. Our destiny is to buy our way out of our banditry with money, or someday to die as bandits. It's not a bad way to die, not for me anyway." But Guiliano had not listened to him, and this finally aroused Pisciotta's resentment and started the growth of that hidden worm of treachery.
   Guiliano had always been a believer, an innocent; Pisciotta had always seen clearly. With the advent of Colonel Luca and his Special Force, Pisciotta knew the end had come. They could win a hundred victories, but a solitary defeat would mean their death. As Roland and Oliver had quarreled in the legend of Charlemagne, so Guiliano and Pisciotta had quarreled and Guiliano had been too stubborn in his heroism. Pisciotta had felt like Oliver, repeatedly begging Roland to blow his horn.
   Then when Guiliano fell in love with Justina and married her, Pisciotta realized his and Guiliano's destinies were indeed separate. Guiliano would escape to America, have a wife and children. He, Pisciotta, would be a fugitive forever. He would never have a long life; a bullet or his lung disease would finish him off. That was his destiny. He could never live in America.
   What worried Pisciotta most was that Guiliano, who had found love and tenderness in a young girl, had become more ferocious as a bandit. He killed carabinieri where previously he had captured them. He had executed Passatempo while on his honeymoon. He showed no mercy to anyone he suspected of informing. Pisciotta was in terror that the man he had loved and defended all these years might turn on him. He worried that if Guiliano learned of some of the things he had recently done, he, too, might be executed.
   Don Croce had studied the relationship between Guiliano and Pisciotta closely for the last three years. They were the sole danger to his plans of empire. They were the only obstacles to his rule of Sicily. At first he had thought he could make Guiliano and his band the armed forces of the Friends of the Friends. He had sent Hector Adonis to sound Guiliano out. The proposition was clear. Turi Guiliano would be the great warrior. Don Croce the great statesman. But Guiliano would have to bend his knee, and this he refused to do. He had his own star to follow, to help the poor, to make Sicily a free country, to lift the yoke of Rome. This Don Croce could not comprehend.
   But from 1943 to 1947, Guiliano's star was in ascendency. The Don still had to forge the Friends into one unified force. The Friends had not recovered from the terrible decimation of their ranks by Mussolini's Fascist government. So the Don gentled Guiliano's power by enticing him into an alliance with the Christian Democratic party. Meanwhile he built the Mafia empire anew and bided his time. His first stroke, the engineering of the massacre at the Portella della Ginestra, with the blame falling on Guiliano, had been a masterpiece, but he could not claim the credit his due. That stroke destroyed any chance that the government in Rome might pardon Guiliano and support his bid for power in Sicily. It also stained forever the hero's mantle Guiliano wore as the champion of the poor in Sicily. And when Guiliano executed the six Mafia chiefs the Don had no choice. The Friends of the Friends and Guiliano's band had to fight each other to the death.
   So Don Croce had focused more intently on Pisciotta. Pisciotta was clever, but as young men are clever – that is, he did not give full weight to the hidden terror and evil in the hearts of the best of men. And Pisciotta too had a taste for the fruits and temptations of the world. Where Guiliano disdained money, Pisciotta loved the rewards money brought. Guiliano did not have a penny for his personal fortune though he had earned over a billion lire with his crimes. He distributed his share of the spoils to the poor and to help support his family.
   But Don Croce had observed that Pisciotta wore the finest tailored suits in Palermo and visited the most expensive prostitutes. Also that Pisciotta's family lived much better than Guiliano's. And Don Croce learned that Pisciotta had money stored in Palermo's banks under false names, and had taken other precautions that only a man interested in staying alive would make. Like false identity papers in three different names, a safe house prepared in Trapani. And Don Croce knew that all this was a secret held from Guiliano. So he awaited Pisciotta's visit, a visit requested by Pisciotta, who had known the Don's house was always open to him, with interest and pleasure. And also with prudence and foresight. He was surrounded by armed guards, and he had alerted Colonel Luca and Inspector Velardi to be ready for a conference if all went well. If it did not, if he had misjudged Pisciotta or if this was a triple-dyed treachery cooked up by Guiliano to have the Don killed, then it would be the grave for Aspanu Pisciotta.
   Pisciotta allowed himself to be disarmed before he was led into the presence of Don Croce. He had no fear, for he had just a few days before done the Don an enormous service; he had warned him of Guiliano's plan to attack the hotel.
   The two men were alone. Don Croce's servants had prepared a table of food and wine, and Don Croce, an old-fashioned rustic host, filled Pisciotta's plate and glass.
   "The good times are over," Don Croce said. "Now we must be very serious, you and I. The time has come to make the decision that will decide our lives. I hope you are ready to listen to what I have to say."
   "I don't know what your trouble is," Pisciotta said to the Don. "But I know that I have to be very clever to save my skin."
   "You don't wish to emigrate?" the Don asked. "You could go to America with Guiliano. The wine isn't as good and the olive oil is water and they have the electric chair, after all they are not as civilized as our government here. You couldn't do anything rash. But it's not a bad life there."
   Pisciotta laughed. "What would I do in America? I'll take my chances here. Once Guiliano is gone, they won't look so hard for me, and the mountains are deep."
   The Don said solicitously, "You still have troubles with your lungs'? You still get your medicine?"
   "Yes." Pisciotta said. "That isn't a problem. The chances are that my lungs will never get the chance to kill me." He grinned at Don Croce.
   "Let's talk Sicilian together," the Don said gravely. "When we are children, when we are young, it is natural to love our friends, to be generous to them, to forgive their faults. Each day is fresh, we look forward to the future with pleasure and without fear. The world itself is not so dangerous; it is a happy time. But as we grow old and have to earn our bread, friendship does not endure so easily. We must always be on our guard. Our elders no longer look after us, we are no longer content with those simple pleasures of children. Pride grows in us – we wish to become great or powerful or rich, or simply to guard ourself against misfortune. I know how much you love Turi Guiliano, but now you must ask yourself, what is the price of this love? And after all these years does it still exist or is it just the memory that exists?" He waited for Pisciotta to make an answer, but Pisciotta looked at him with a face stonier than the rocks on the Cammarata Mountains and as white. For Pisciotta's face had gone very pale.
   Don Croce went on. "I cannot permit Guiliano to live or escape. If you remain faithful to him then you too are my enemy. Know this. With Guiliano gone, you cannot remain alive in Sicily without my protection."
   Pisciotta said, "Turi's Testament is safe with his friends in America. If you kill him that Testament will become public and the government will fall. A new government may force you to retire to your farm here in Villaba or even worse."
   The Don chuckled. Then roared with laughter. He said with contempt, "Have you read this famous Testament?"
   "Yes," Pisciotta said, bewildered by the Don's reaction.
   "I have not," the Don said. "But I have decided to act as if it does not exist."
   Pisciotta said, "You ask me to betray Guiliano. What makes you think that is possible?"
   Don Croce smiled. "You warned me about his attack on my hotel. That was an act of friendship?"
   "I did that for Guiliano, not for you," Pisciotta said. "Turi is no longer rational. He plans to kill you. Once you are dead, then I know there is no longer hope for any of us. The Friends of the Friends will never rest until we are dead, Testament or no Testament. He could have been out of the country days ago but he lingers, hoping to get his revenge and your life. I came to this meeting to make an arrangement with you. Guiliano will leave this country within the next few days, he will end his vendetta with you. Let him go."
   Don Croce leaned back from his plate of food on the table. He sipped his glass of wine. "You're being childish," he said. "We have come to the end of the history. Guiliano is too dangerous to remain alive. But I cannot kill him. I must live in Sicily – I cannot kill its greatest hero and do the things I must do. Too many people love Guiliano, too many of his followers will seek revenge for his death. It must be the carabinieri to do the job. That is how it must be arranged. And you are the only one who can lead Guiliano into such a trap." He paused for a moment and then said deliberately, "The end of your world has come. You can stay with it through its destruction or you can step out of that world and live in another."
   Pisciotta said, "I could be under the protection of Christ, but I wouldn't live long if it was known that I betrayed Guiliano."
   "You have only to tell me where you are meeting him again," Don Croce said. "No one else will know. I will arrange things with Colonel Luca and Inspector Velardi. They will take care of the rest." He paused a moment. "Guiliano has changed. He is no longer your childhood companion, no longer your best friend. He is a man who is looking after himself. As now you must do."
   And so on the evening of July 5, as Pisciotta made his way to Castelvetrano, he had committed himself to Don Croce. He had told him where he would meet Guiliano, and he knew that the Don would tell Colonel Luca and Inspector Velardi. He had not told them that it would be at Zu Peppino's house, but only that it would be in the town of Castelvetrano itself. And he had warned them to be careful, that Guiliano had a sixth sense about traps.
   But when Pisciotta arrived at Zu Peppino's house the old carter greeted him with an uncharacteristic coldness. Pisciotta wondered if the old man suspected him. He must have noticed the unusual activity of the carabinieri in the town and with that unerring Sicilian paranoia, put two and two together.
   For a moment Pisciotta felt a thrilling pain of anguish. And then another agonizing thought. What if Guiliano's mother learned that it had been her beloved Aspanu who betrayed her son? What if one day she stood before him and spit in his face and called him traitor and murderer? They had wept in each other's arms and he had sworn to protect her son and he had given her a Judas' kiss. For a moment he thought of killing the old man and thought too of killing himself.
   Zu Peppino said, "If you're looking for Turi, he's been and gone." He took pity on Pisciotta; the man's face was white, he seemed to be gasping for air. "Do you want an anisette?"
   Pisciotta shook his head and turned to leave. The old man said, "Be careful, the town is full of carabinieri. "
   Pisciotta felt a flash of terror. He had been a fool not to know that Guiliano would smell out the trap. And what if now Guiliano smelled out the betrayer?
   Pisciotta ran out of the house, circled the town and then took the field paths that would lead him to the fallback meeting place, the Acropolis of Selinus in the ancient ghost town of Selinunte.
   The ruins of the ancient Greek city glistened in the summer moonlight. Amidst them, Guiliano sat on the crumbling stone steps of the temple dreaming of America.
   He felt an overwhelming melancholy. The old dreams had vanished. He had been so full of hope for his future and the future of Sicily; he had believed so fully in his immortality. So many people had loved him. Once he had been their blessing, and now, it seemed to Guiliano, he was their curse. Against all reason he felt deserted. But he still had Aspanu Pisciotta. And there would come a day when the two of them together would bring all those old loves and old dreams alive again. After all, it had been only the two of them in the beginning.
   The moon disappeared and the ancient city vanished into darkness; now the ruins looked like skeletons sketched on the black canvas of night. Out of that blackness came the hiss of shifting small stones and earth, and Guiliano rolled his body back between the marble columns, his machine pistol ready. The moon sailed serenely out of the clouds, and he saw Aspanu Pisciotta standing in the wide ruined avenue that led down from the acropolis.
   Pisciotta walked slowly down the rubbled path, his eyes searching, his voice whispering Turi's name. Guiliano, hidden behind the temple columns, waited until Pisciotta went past, then stepped out behind him. "Aspanu, I've won again," he said, playing their old childish game. He was surprised when Pisciotta whirled around in terror.
   Guiliano sat down on the steps and put his gun aside. "Come and sit a while," he said. "You must be tired, and this may be the last chance we can talk to each other alone."
   Pisciotta said, "We can talk in Mazzara del Vallo, we will be safer there."
   Guiliano said to him, "We have plenty of time and you'll be spitting blood again if you don't take a rest. Come on now, sit beside me." And Guiliano sat on the top stone step.
   He saw Pisciotta unsling his gun and thought it was to lay it aside. He stood and reached out his hand to help Aspanu up the steps. And then he realized that his friend was leveling the gun at him. He froze, for the first time in seven years caught unaware.
   Pisciotta's mind crumbled with all the terrors of what Guiliano would ask if they spoke. He would ask, "Aspanu, who is the Judas of our band? Aspanu, who warned Don Croce? Aspanu, who led the carabinieri to Castelvetrano? Aspanu, why did you meet with Don Croce?" And most of all, he was afraid that Guiliano would say, "Aspanu, you are my brother." It was that final terror that made Pisciotta pull the trigger.
   The stream of bullets blew away Guiliano's hand and shattered his body. Pisciotta, horrified at his own action, waited for him to fall. Instead Guiliano came slowly down the steps, blood pouring from his wounds. Filled with superstitious dread, Pisciotta turned and fled, and he could see Guiliano running after him and then he saw Guiliano fall.
   But Guiliano, dying, thought he was still running. The shattered neurons of his brain tangled and he thought he was running through the mountains with Aspanu seven years before, the fresh water flowing out of the ancient Roman cisterns, the smell of strange flowers intoxicating, running past the holy saints in their padlocked shrines, and he cried out, as on that night, "Aspanu, I believe," believing in his happy destiny, in the true love of his friend. Then the kindness of death delivered him of the knowledge of his betrayal and his final defeat. He died in his dream.
   Aspanu Pisciotta fled. He ran through the fields and onto the road to Castelvetrano. There he used his special pass to contact Colonel Luca and Inspector Velardi. It was they who released the story that Guiliano had fallen into a trap and been killed by Captain Perenze.
   Maria Lombardo Guiliano was up early that morning of July 5, 1950. She had been awakened by a knock on the door; her husband had gone down to answer it. He had returned to the bedroom and told her he had to go out and might be gone for the whole day. She had looked through the window and seen him get into Zu Peppino's donkey cart with its brightly painted legends on the panels and wheels. Had they news of Turi, had he made his escape to America or had something gone wrong? She felt the familiar anxiety building to terror that she had felt for the last seven years. It made her restless, and after she had cleaned the house and prepared vegetables for the day's meals, she opened the door and looked out into the street.
   The Via Bella was swept clean of all her neighbors. There were no children playing. Many of the men were in prison on suspicion of being conspirators with the Guiliano band. The women were too frightened to let their children out into the street. Squads of carabinieri were at each end of the Via Bella. Soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders patrolled up and down on foot. She saw other soldiers up on the roofs. Military jeeps were parked up against buildings. An armored car blocked the mouth of the Via Bella near the Bellampo Barracks. There were two thousand men of Colonel Luca's army occupying the town of Montelepre, and they had made the townspeople their enemies by molesting the women, frightening the children, physically abusing the men not thrown into prison. And all these soldiers were here to kill her son. But he had flown to America, he would be free, and when the time was ripe, she and her husband would join him there. They would live in freedom, without fear.
   She went back into the house and found herself work to do. She went to the rear balcony and looked at the mountains.
   Those mountains from which Guiliano had observed this house, with his binoculars. She had always felt his presence; she did not feel it now. He was surely in America.
   A loud pounding on the door froze her with terror. Slowly she went to open it. The first thing she saw was Hector Adonis, and he looked as she had never seen him look before. He was unshaven, his hair unruly, he wore no cravat. The shirt beneath his jacket was rumpled and the collar was smudged with dirt. But what she noticed most was that all dignity was gone from his face. It was crumpled with hopeless grief. His eyes were brimming with tears as he looked at her. She let out a muffled scream.
   He came into the house and said, "Don't, Maria, I beg of you." A very young lieutenant of the carabinieri came in with him. Maria Lombardo looked past them into the street. There were three black cars parked in front of her house with carabinieri drivers. There was a cluster of armed men on each side of the door.
   The Lieutenant was young and rosy cheeked. He took off his cap and put it under his arm. "You are Maria Lombardo Guiliano?" he asked formally. His accent was that of the north, of Tuscany.
   Maria Lombardo said yes. Her voice was a croak of despair. There was no saliva in her mouth.
   "I must ask you to accompany me to Castelvetrano," the officer said. "I have a car waiting. Your friend here will accompany us. If you approve, of course."
   Maria Lombardo's eyes were open wide. She said in a firmer voice. "For what reason? I know nothing of Castelvetrano or anyone there."
   The Lieutenant's voice was softer, hesitant. "There is a man there we wish you to identify. We believe he is your son."
   "It is not my son, he never goes to Castelvetrano," Maria Lombardo said. "Is he dead?"
   "Yes," the officer said.
   Maria Lombardo let out a long wail and sank down to her knees. "My son never goes to Castelvetrano," she said. Hector Adonis came over to her and put his hand on her shoulder.
   "You must go," he said. "Perhaps it is one of his tricks, he has done this before."
   "No," she said. "I won't go. I won't go."
   The Lieutenant said, "Is your husband at home? We can take him instead."
   Maria Lombardo remembered Zu Peppino calling for her husband early that morning. She remembered the sense of foreboding when she had seen that painted donkey cart. "Wait," she said. She went into her bedroom and changed into a black dress and put a black shawl over her head. The Lieutenant opened the door for her. She went out into the street. There were armed soldiers everywhere. She looked down the Via Bella, to where it ended in the square. In the shimmering July sunlight she had a clear vision of Turi and Aspanu leading their donkey to be mated seven long years ago, on the day he was to become a murderer and an outlaw. She began to weep and the Lieutenant took her arm and helped her into one of the black cars that was waiting. Hector Adonis got in beside her. The car moved off through the silent groups of carabinieri, and she buried her face in the shoulder of Hector Adonis, not weeping now but in mortal terror of what she would see at the end of her journey.
   The body of Turi Guiliano lay in the courtyard for three hours. He seemed to be sleeping, his face down and turned to the left, one leg bent at the knee, his body sprawled. But the white shirt was almost scarlet. Near the mutilated arm was a machine pistol. Newspaper photographers and reporters from Palermo and Rome were already on the scene. A photographer for Life magazine was snapping pictures of Captain Perenze and the picture would appear with the caption that he was the slayer of the great Guiliano. Captain Perenze's face in the picture was good-natured and sad and also a little bewildered. He wore a cap on his head which made him look like an affable grocer rather than a police officer.
   But it was the pictures of Turi Guiliano that filled the newspapers all over the world. On one outstretched hand was the emerald ring he had taken from the Duchess. Around his body was the belt with golden buckle with its engraved eagle and lion. A pool of blood lay beneath his body.
   Before Maria Lombardo's arrival, the body was taken to the town mortuary and put on a huge oval marble slab. The mortuary was part of the cemetery, which was ringed with tall black cypresses. It was here that Maria Lombardo was brought and made to sit on a stone bench. They were waiting for Colonel and Captain to finish their victory lunch in the nearby Hotel Selinus. Maria Lombardo began to weep at the sight of all the journalists, the curious townspeople, the many carabinieri working to keep them under control. Hector Adonis tried to comfort her.
   Finally they led her into the mortuary. Officials around the oval slab were asking questions. She raised her eyes and saw Turi's face.
   He had never looked so young. He looked as he looked as a child after an exhausting day of play with his Aspanu. There was no mark on his face, only a smudge of powdery dirt where his forehead had lain in the courtyard. The reality sobered her, made her calm. She answered questions. "Yes," she said, "that is my son Turi, born of my body twenty-seven years ago. Yes I identify him." The officials were still talking to her, giving her papers to sign, but she did not hear or see them. She did not see or hear the crowd pressing around her, the journalists screaming, the photographers fighting with the carabinieri to take pictures.
   She kissed his forehead, as white as the gray-veined marble, she kissed his blueing lips, the hand torn to pulp by bullets. Her mind dissolved in grief. "Oh my blood, my blood," she said, "what a terrible death you have died."
   She lost consciousness then, and when the attending physician gave her a shot and she had been brought to her senses, she insisted on going to the courtyard where her son's body had been found. There she knelt and kissed the bloodstains on the ground.
   When she was brought home to Montelepre she found her husband waiting for her. It was then she learned the murderer of her son was her beloved Aspanu.

Chapter 29

   Michael Corleone and Peter Clemenza were transported to the Palermo jail right after their arrest. From there they were taken to Inspector Velardi's office to be interrogated.
   Velardi had six carabinieri officers, fully armed, with him. He greeted Michael and Clemenza with a cold courtesy and spoke to Clemenza first. "You are an American citizen," he said. "You have a passport that says you have come here to pay your brother a visit. Don Domenico Clemenza of Trapani. A very respectable man, they tell me. A man of respect." He said the traditional phrase with obvious sarcasm. "We find you with this Michael Corleone, and you are armed with lethal weapons in the town where Turi Guiliano has met his death just a few hours before. Would you care to make a statement?"
   Clemenza said, "I was out hunting, we were looking for rabbits and foxes. Then we saw all the commotion in Castelvetrano when we stopped at a cafe for our morning coffee. So we went to see what had happened."
   "In America do you shoot rabbits with a machine pistol?" Inspector Velardi asked. He turned to Michael Corleone. "We have met before, you and I, we know what you are here for. And your fat friend knows too. But things have changed since we had that charming lunch with Don Croce a few days ago. Guiliano is dead. You are an accomplice in a criminal conspiracy to effect his escape. I am no longer required to treat scum like you as if you were human. Confessions are being prepared which I recommend you sign."
   At this moment a carabinieri officer came into the room and whispered into Inspector Velardi's ear. Velardi said curtly, "Let him enter."
   It was Don Croce, no better dressed than Michael remembered him from that famous lunch. His mahogany face was just as impassive. He waddled over to Michael and embraced him. He shook hands with Peter Clemenza. Then he turned and still standing stared Inspector Velardi full in the face without saying a word. A brute force emanated from that hulk of a man. Power radiated from his face and eyes. "These two men are my friends," he said. "What possible reason do you have to treat them with disrespect?" There was no anger in that voice, no emotion. It seemed merely to be a question demanding an answer with facts. It was also a voice that stated there was no fact that could justify their arrest.
   Inspector Velardi shrugged. "They will appear before the magistrate and he will settle the matter."
   Don Croce sat down in one of the armchairs next to Inspector Velardi's desk. He mopped his brow. He said in a quiet voice which again seemed to hold no threat, "Out of respect for our friendship, call Minister Trezza and ask his opinion on this matter. You will be rendering me a service."
   Inspector Velardi shook his head. The blue eyes were no longer cold but blazing with hatred. "We were never friends," he said. "I acted under orders which are no longer binding now that Guiliano is dead. These two men will go before the magistrate. If it were within my power you would appear with them."
   At that moment the phone on Inspector Velardi's desk rang. He ignored it waiting for Don Croce's answer. Don Croce said, "Answer your telephone, that will be Minister Trezza."
   The Inspector slowly picked up the phone, his eyes watching Don Croce. He listened for a few minutes, then said, "Yes, Your Excellency," and hung up the phone. He slumped down in his chair and said to Michael and Peter Clemenza, "You are free to go."
   Don Croce rose to his feet and shepherded Michael and Clemenza out of the room with a shooing motion, as if they were chickens entrapped in a yard. Then he turned to Inspector Velardi. "I have treated you with every courtesy this past year though you are a foreigner in my Sicily. And yet here in front of friends and in front of your fellow officers you have shown disrespect to my person. But I'm not the man to hold a grudge. I hope in the near future we can have dinner together and renew our friendship with a clearer understanding."
   Five days later in broad daylight Inspector Federico Velardi was shot to death on the main boulevard of Palermo.
   Two days later Michael was home. There was a family feast – his brother Fredo flew in from Vegas, there was Connie and her husband Carlo, there was Clemenza and his wife, Tom Hagen and his wife. They hugged and toasted Michael and commented on how well he looked. Nobody talked about his years of exile, nobody seemed to notice that the side of his face was caved in, nobody mentioned Sonny's death. It was a family homecoming party as if he had been away to college or on a long vacation. He was seated on his father's right. Finally he was safe.
   The next morning he slept late, his first truly restful sleep since before he had fled the country. His mother had breakfast waiting and kissed him when he sat down at the table, an unusual sign of affection from her. She had done it only once before, when he had returned from the war.
   When he finished eating he went to the library and found his father waiting for him. He was surprised that Tom Hagen was not there also and then realized that the Don wished to speak to him without any witnesses.
   Don Corleone ceremoniously poured out two glasses of anisette and handed one to Michael. "To our partnership," the Don said.
   Michael raised his glass. "Thank you," he said. "I have a lot to learn."
   "Yes," Don Corleone said. "But we have plenty of time, and I'm here to teach you."
   Michael said, "Don't you think we should clear up the Guiliano business first?"
   The Don sat down heavily and wiped his mouth of the liqueur. "Yes," he said. "A sad business. I was hoping he would escape. His father and mother were my good friends."
   Michael said, "I never really understood what the hell was happening, I never could get the sides right. You told me to trust Don Croce, but Guiliano hated him. I thought the Testament being held by you would keep them from killing Guiliano, but they killed him anyway. And now when we release the Testament to all the newspapers, they will have cut their own throats."
   He saw his father looking at him coolly. "That is Sicily," the Don said. "There is always treachery within treachery."
   Michael said, "Don Croce and the government must have given Pisciotta a deal."
   "No doubt," Don Corleone said.
   Michael was still puzzled. "Why did they do it? We have the Testament that proves the government was hand in glove with Guiliano. The Italian government will fall when the papers print what we give them. It doesn't make any sense at all."
   The Don smiled slightly and said, "The Testament will remain hidden. We won't give it to them."
   It took a full minute for Michael to grasp what his father had said and what it meant. Then, for the first time in his life, he was truly angry with his father. His face white, he said, "Does that mean we were working with Don Croce all the time? Does that mean I was betraying Guiliano instead of helping him? That I was lying to his parents? That you betrayed your friends and led their son to his death? That you used me like a fool, a Judas goat? Pop, my God, Guiliano was a good man, a true hero to the poor people of Sicily. We must release the Testament."
   His father let him speak then he rose from his chair and put his hands on Michael's shoulders. "Listen to me," he said. "Everything was prepared for Guiliano's escape. I made no bargain with Don Croce to betray Guiliano. The plane was waiting, Clemenza and his men were instructed to help you in every way. Don Croce did want Guiliano to escape, it was the easiest way. But Guiliano swore a vendetta against him and lingered hoping to fulfill it. He could have come to you within a few days, but he stayed away to make a final try. That is what undid him."
   Michael walked away from his father and sat in one of the leather armchairs. "There's a reason why you're not making the Testament public," he said. "You made a deal."
   "Yes," Don Corleone said. "You must remember that after you were injured by the bomb, I realized that I and my friends could no longer completely protect you in Sicily. You were exposed to more attempts. I had to be absolutely sure you came home safely. So I made a deal with Don Croce. He protected you and in return I promised that I would persuade Guiliano not to publish the Testament when he escaped to America."
   With a sickening shock Michael recalled that he was the one who had told Pisciotta that the Testament was safe in America. In that moment he had sealed Guiliano's fate. Michael sighed. "We owe it to his mother and father," he said. "And to Justina. Is she all right?"
   "Yes," said the Don. "She is being taken care of. It will take a few months for her to come to terms with what has happened." He paused for a moment. "She is a very clever girl, she'll do well here."
   Michael said, "We betray his father and mother if we do not publish the Testament."
   "No," Don Corleone said. "I've learned something over the years here in America. You have to be reasonable, negotiate. What good would publishing the Testament do? Probably the Italian government would fall, but maybe it would not. Minister Trezza would be out of a job, but do you think they would punish him?"
   Michael said angrily, "He is the representative of a government that conspired to murder its own people."
   The Don shrugged. "So? But let me go on. Would publishing the Testament help Guiliano's mother and father or his friends? The government would go after them, put them in jail, persecute them in many ways. Far worse, Don Croce might put them in his bad books. Let them have peace in their old age. I'll make a deal with the government and Don Croce to protect them. And so my holding the Testament will be useful."
   Michael said sardonically, "And useful to us if we should need it some day in Sicily."
   "I can't help that," his father said with a twitch of a smile.
   After a long silence Michael said quietly, "I don't know, it seems dishonorable. Guiliano was a true hero, he is already a legend. We should help his memory. Not let that memory go down in defeat."
   For the first time the Don showed annoyance. He poured himself another glass of anisette and drank it down. He pointed a finger at his son. "You wanted to learn," he said. "Now listen to me. A man's first duty is to keep himself alive. Then comes what everyone calls honor. This dishonor, as you call it, I willingly take upon myself. I did it to save your life as you once took on dishonor to save mine. You would never have left Sicily alive without Don Croce's protection. So be it. Do you want to be a hero like Guiliano, a legend? And dead? I love him as the son of my dear friends, but I do not envy him his fame. You are alive and he is dead. Always remember that and live your life not to be a hero but to remain alive. With time, heroes seem a little foolish."
   Michael sighed. "Guiliano had no choice," he said.
   "We are more fortunate," the Don said.
   It was the first lesson Michael received from his father and the one he learned best. It was to color his future life, persuade him to make terrible decisions he could never have dreamed of making before. It changed his perception of honor and his awe of heroism. It helped him to survive, but it made him unhappy. For despite the fact that his father did not envy Guiliano, Michael did.

Chapter 30

   The death of Guiliano crushed the spirit of the people of Sicily. He had been their champion, their shield against the rich and the nobility, the Friends of the Friends, the Christian Democratic government in Rome. With Guiliano gone, Don Croce Malo put the island of Sicily through his olive press and squeezed out an immense fortune from rich and poor alike. When the government tried to build dams to provide cheap water, Don Croce had heavy equipment for building dams blown up. After all, he controlled all the water wells in Sicily; dams supplying cheap water were not to his interest. With the postwar boom in building Don Croce's inside information and persuasive negotiation style procured the best building sites at a cheap price; he sold dear. He took under his personal protection all the businesses of Sicily. You could not sell an artichoke in Palermo's market stalls without paying Don Croce a few centesimi; the rich could not buy jewels for their wives or racing horses for their sons without taking out insurance with Don Croce. And with a firm hand he discouraged all the foolish hopes of peasants who wished to claim uncultivated land from the estate of Prince Ollorto, because of nonsensical laws passed by the Italian Parliament. Squeezed between Don Croce, the nobles and the government in Rome, the Sicilian people gave up hope.
   In the two years after Guiliano's death, five hundred thousand Sicilians, most of them young males, emigrated. They went to England and became gardeners, makers of ice cream, waiters in restaurants. They went to Germany and did heavy manual labor, to Switzerland to keep that country clean and build cuckoo clocks. They went to France as kitchen helpers and sweepers in garment houses. They went to Brazil to hack out clearings in the forest. Some went to the cold winters of Scandinavia. And of course there were the fortunate few recruited by Clemenza to serve in the Corleone Family in the United States. These were considered the luckiest of all. And so Sicily became a land of old men, young children and women who were widows by economic vendetta. The stone villages no longer supplied laborers for the rich estates, and the rich also suffered. Only Don Croce prospered.
   Gaspare "Aspanu" Pisciotta had been tried for his crimes as a bandit and sentenced to a life term in the Ucciardone Prison. But it was understood by everyone that he would be given a pardon. His only worry was that he would be murdered while in prison. Still the amnesty did not come. He sent word to Don Croce that unless he was pardoned immediately, he would reveal all the contacts the band had with Trezza, how the new Premier had conspired with Don Croce to murder his own citizens at the Portella della Ginestra.
   On the morning after Minister Trezza's ascension to the premiership of Italy, Aspanu Pisciotta awoke at eight in the morning. He had a large cell, filled with plants and large screens of needlework he had taken up during his time in jail. The brilliant silk of the embroidery patterns seemed to quiet his mind, for now he often thought of his childhood with Turi Guiliano, of their love for each other.
   Pisciotta prepared his morning coffee and drank it. He had a fear of being poisoned. So everything in that cup of coffee had been brought to him by his family. The prison food he first fed in tiny portions to the pet parrot he kept in a cage. And for emergencies he kept on one of his shelves, with the embroidery needles and piles of fabric, a huge jar of olive oil. He hoped that by pouring it down his throat, he would counter the effect of the poison or cause himself to vomit it up. He did not fear any other violence – he was too well guarded. Only visitors he approved were allowed to his cell door; he was never permitted out of this room. He waited patiently for the parrot to eat and digest his food and then ate his own breakfast with good appetite.
   Hector Adonis left his Palermo apartment and used the tram car to the Ucciardone Prison. The February sun was already hot though it was early morning, and he regretted wearing his black suit and tie. But he felt he must dress formally on such an occasion. He touched the important slip of paper in the breast pocket of his jacket, securely pressed to the bottom.
   As he rode through the city the ghost of Guiliano rode with him. He remembered one morning watching a tram full of carabinieri blown up, one of Guiliano's retaliations for his parents being put in this same prison. And he wondered again how the gentle boy he had taught the classics could commit such a terrible act. Now, though the walls of the buildings he passed were blank, he could still see in his imagination the bold red paint that had inscribed 'long live Guiliano' so often painted on them. Well, his godson had not lived long. But what always troubled Hector Adonis was that Guiliano had been murdered by his lifelong and childhood friend. That was why he had been delighted to receive instructions to deliver the note in his jacket pocket. The note had been sent by Don Croce with specific instructions.
   The tram stopped in front of the long brick building that was the Ucciardone Prison. It was separated from the street by a stone wall topped by barbed wire. Guards manned the gate, and the perimeter of the wall was patrolled by heavily armed police. Hector Adonis, all necessary documents in hand, was admitted, taken in charge by a special guard, and escorted to the hospital pharmacy. There he was greeted by the pharmacist, a man by the name of Cuto. Cuto wore an immaculate white smock over a business suit with a tie. He, too, had, by some subtle psychological process, decided to dress for the occasion. He greeted Hector Adonis cordially and they sat down to wait.
   "Has Aspanu been taking his medicine regularly?" Hector Adonis asked. Pisciotta still had to take streptomycin for his tuberculosis.
   "Oh, yes," Cuto said. "He is very careful about his health. He has even stopped smoking. It's something curious I've noticed about our prisoners. When they are free they abuse their health – they smoke to excess, they drink to drunkenness, they fornicate to exhaustion. They don't sleep enough or get enough exercise. Then when they have to spend the rest of their lives in prison, they do push-ups, they spurn tobacco, they watch their diet and are moderate in all things."
   "Perhaps because they have less opportunity," Hector Adonis said.
   "Oh, no, no," Cuto said. "You can have everything you want in Ucciardone. The guards are poor and the prisoners are rich, so it's reasonable that money should change hands. You can indulge every vice here."
   Adonis looked around the pharmacy. There were shelves full of medicines and great oaken closets that held bandages and medical instruments, for the pharmacy served as a medical emergency room for the prisoners. There were even two neatly made-up beds in an alcove of the huge rooms.
   "Do you have any trouble getting his medicine?" Adonis asked.
   "No, we have a special requisition," Cuto said. "I delivered his new bottle this morning. With all those special seals that the Americans put on it for export. A very expensive medicine. I'm surprised that the authorities go to so much trouble to keep him alive."
   The two men smiled at each other.
   In his cell Aspanu Pisciotta took the bottle of streptomycin and broke the elaborate seals. He measured out his dose and swallowed it. He was surprised at the bitterness of the taste for that one second he could think, then his body bent backward in a great arc and was thrown to the floor. He let out a scream that brought the guard running to the cell door. Pisciotta struggled to his feet, fighting off the agonizing pain that wracked his body. There was a terrible rawness in his throat and he staggered toward the jar of olive oil. His body arched again and he screamed to the guard, "I've been poisoned. Help me, help me." And then before he fell again there was a great furiousness that he had finally been outwitted by Don Croce.
   The guards carrying Pisciotta rushed into the pharmacy shouting that the prisoner had been poisoned. Cuto made them lay Pisciotta on one of the beds in the alcove and examined him. Then he quickly prepared an emetic and poured it down Pisciotta's throat. To the guards he seemed to be doing everything to save Pisciotta. Only Hector Adonis knew that the emetic was a weak solution that would not help the dying man. Adonis moved to the side of the bed and took the slip of paper in his breast pocket, holding it concealed in the palm of his hand. With the pretense of helping the pharmacist, he slipped the paper inside Pisciotta's shirt. At the same time he looked down at Pisciotta's handsome face. It seemed to be contorted with grief, but Adonis knew it was the contraction of terrible pain. Part of the tiny mustache had been gnawed away in his agony. Hector Adonis at that moment said a prayer for his soul and felt a great sadness. He remembered when this man and his godson had walked arm in arm over the hills of Sicily reciting the poetry of Roland and Charlemagne.
   It was almost six hours later that the note was found on the body, but that was still early enough for it to be included in the newspaper stories of Pisciotta's death and quoted all over Sicily. The piece of paper Hector Adonis had slipped inside Aspanu's shirt read so die all who betray guiliano.

Chapter 31

   In Sicily, if you have any money at all, you do not put your loved ones into the ground. That is too final a defeat, and the earth of Sicily has already been responsible for too many indignities. So the cemeteries are filled with little stone and marble mausoleums – square tiny buildings called congregazioni. Iron grill doors bar their entrances. Inside are tiers in which coffins are put and then that particular tier is sealed with cement. The other tiers are reserved for family use.
   Hector Adonis chose a fine Sunday shortly after Pisciotta's death to visit the Montelepre Cemetery. Don Croce was to meet him there to pray at the grave of Turi Guiliano. And since they had business to discuss, what better place for the meeting of the minds without vanity, for forgiveness of past injuries, for discretion?
   And what better place to congratulate a colleague for a job well done? It had been Don Croce's duty to eliminate Pisciotta, who was too eloquent and had too good a memory. He had chosen Hector Adonis to mastermind the job. The note left on the body was one of the Don's most subtle gestures. It satisfied Adonis, and a political murder was disguised as an act of romantic justice. In front of the cemetery gates, Hector Adonis watched as the chauffeur and bodyguards lifted Don Croce out of his car. The Don's girth had increased enormously in the last year, his body seeming to grow with the immense power he had accrued.
   The two men passed through the gate together. Adonis looked up at the curved archway. On the wrought-iron frame the metal was twisted to spell out a message for complacent mourners. It read: we have been like you-and you shall be like us.
   Adonis smiled at the sardonic challenge. Guiliano would never be guilty of such cruelty, but it was exactly what Aspanu Pisciotta would shout from his grave.
   Hector Adonis no longer felt the bitter hatred of Pisciotta that he had carried with him after Guiliano's death. He had taken his revenge. Now he thought of the two of them playing as children, becoming outlaws together.
   Don Croce and Hector Adonis were deep in the sepulchral village of small stones and marble buildings. Don Croce and his bodyguards moved in a group, supporting each other on the rocky path; the driver carried a huge bouquet of flowers which he put on the gate of the congregazione that held Guiliano's body. Don Croce fussily rearranged the flowers, then peered at the small photograph of Guiliano pasted on the stone door. His bodyguards clung to the trunk of his body to keep him from falling.
   Don Croce straightened up: "He was a brave lad," the Don said. "We all loved Turi Guiliano. But how could we live with him? He wanted to change the world, turn it upside down. He loved his fellow man and who killed more of them? He believed in God and kidnapped a Cardinal."
   Hector Adonis studied the photograph. It had been taken when Guiliano was only seventeen, the height of beauty by the Mediterranean Sea. There was a sweetness in his face that made you love him, and you could never dream that he would order a thousand murders, send a thousand souls to hell.
   Ah, Sicily, Sicily, he thought, you destroy your best and bring them to dust. Children more beautiful than the angels spring from your earth and turn into demons. The evil flourish in this soil like the bamboo and the prickly pear. And yet why was Don Croce here to lay flowers at Guiliano's grave?
   "Ah," said the Don, "if only I had a son like Turi Guiliano. What an empire I could leave for him to rule. Who knows what glories he would win?"
   Hector Adonis smiled. No doubt Don Croce was a great man, but he had no perception of history. Don Croce had a thousand sons who would carry on his rule, inherit his cunning, pillage Sicily, corrupt Rome. And he, Hector Adonis, Eminent Professor of History and Literature at Palermo University, was one of them.
   Hector Adonis and Don Croce turned to leave. A long line of carts was waiting in front of the cemetery. Every inch of them was painted in bright colors with the legends of Turi Guiliano and Aspanu Pisciotta: the robbing of the Duchess, the great slaughter of the Mafia chiefs, the murder of Turi by Aspanu. And it seemed to Hector Adonis that he knew all things. That Don Croce would be forgotten despite his greatness, and that it was Turi Guiliano who would live on. That Guiliano's legend would grow, that some would believe he never died but still roamed the Cammarata Mountains and on some great day would reappear to lift Sicily out of its chains and misery. In thousands of stone– and dirt-filled villages, children yet unborn would pray for Guiliano's soul and resurrection.
   And Aspanu Pisciotta with his subtle mind, who was to say he had not listened when Hector Adonis had recited the legends of Charlemagne and Roland and Oliver and so decided to go another way? By remaining faithful, Pisciotta would have been forgotten, Guiliano would fill the legend alone. But by committing his great crime, he would stand alongside his beloved Turi forever.
   Pisciotta would be buried in this same cemetery. The two of them would gaze forever at their cherished mountains, those same mountains that held the skeleton of Hannibal's elephant, that once echoed with the great blasts of Roland's horn when he died fighting the Saracens. Turi Guiliano and Aspanu Pisciotta had died young, but they would live, if not forever, certainly longer than Don Croce or himself, Professor Hector Adonis.
   The two men, one so huge, one so tiny, left the cemetery together. Terraced gardens girdled the sides of the surrounding mountains with green ribbons, great white rocks gleamed, a tiny red hawk of Sicily rode down toward them on a shaft of sunlight.