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  The appearance of the third bandit finally frightened the Duchess. She undid her necklace and handed it over to Guiliano. “Will that satisfy you?” she said.

  “No,” Guiliano said. “My dear Duchess, I’m a soft-hearted man. But my colleagues are different propositions altogether. My friend Aspanu, though handsome, is as cruel as that little mustache he wears that breaks so many hearts. And the man at the window, though he is my subordinate, gives me nightmares. Don’t make me unleash them. They will sweep into your garden like hawks and carry your children away into the mountains. Now bring me the rest of your diamonds.”

  The Duchess fled into her bedroom and returned in a few minutes with a box of jewelry. She had been quick-witted enough to hide a few valuable pieces before she brought it out. She gave the box to Guiliano. He thanked her graciously. Then he turned to Pisciotta. “Aspanu,” he said, “the Duchess may have forgotten a few things. Go take a look in the bedroom just to be certain.” Pisciotta found the hidden jewels almost immediately and brought them to Guiliano.

  Guiliano meanwhile had opened the jewelry box and his heart jumped with elation at the sight of the precious gems. He knew the contents of this box would feed the entire city of Montelepre for months. And it was a greater source of joy that they had been bought by the Duke with the money sweated from the hides of his laborers. Then as the Duchess was wringing her hands he noticed again the huge emerald on her finger.

  “My dear Duchess,” he said, “how could you be so foolish as to try to cheat me by hiding those other pieces? I would have expected that from some miserly peasant who slaved for his treasure. But how could you risk your life and those of your children for two pieces of jewelry that you would no more miss than your husband the Duke would miss the hat on his head? Now without any fuss, give me that ring you wear on your finger.”

  The Duchess was in tears. “My dear young man,” she said, “please let me keep this ring. I will send you its value in money. But my husband gave it to me as an engagement gift. I could not bear to be without it. It would break my heart.”

  Again Pisciotta laughed. He did so deliberately. He was afraid that Turi would let her keep the ring out of the sentimentality of his own heart. And the emerald was obviously of the highest value.

  But Guiliano had no such sentimentality. Pisciotta would always remember the look in his eye when Turi took the Duchess’s arm roughly and pulled the emerald ring off her trembling hand. He stepped back quickly and then he put the ring on the little finger of his left hand.

  Turi saw the Duchess was blushing and there were tears in her eyes. His manner was once again courtly when he said, “In honor of your memories I will never sell this ring—I will wear it myself.” The Duchess searched his face for a look of irony, but there was none.

  But it was a magic moment for Turi Guiliano. For when he slipped it on his finger, he felt the transference of power. With this ring he wedded himself to his destiny. It was the symbol of the power he would win from the world of the rich. In that pool of dark green, bounded by its circle of gold, still smelling of the perfume of a beautiful woman who had worn it without ceasing for many years, he had captured a tiny essence of life that could never be his.

  Don Croce listened without saying a word.

  The Duke of Alcamo was making his complaint to Don Croce in person. Had he not paid his “rent” to the Friends of the Friends? Had they not guaranteed his immunity against all forms of theft? What were things coming to? In the old days nobody would have dared. And what would Don Croce do now to recover the jewelry? The Duke had reported the theft to the authorities, though this was futile he knew and might displease Don Croce. But there was some insurance to be collected; perhaps the government in Rome would take this bandit Guiliano seriously.

  Don Croce reflected that it was time to take him very seriously indeed. He said to the Duke, “If I recovered your jewelry would you pay a quarter of their value?”

  The Duke was furious. “First I pay you the rent to keep me and my possessions safe. Then, when you fail in your duty, you ask me to pay ransom. How can you hope to keep the respect of your clients if you do business in this way?”

  Don Croce nodded. “I must admit you speak with reason. But think of Salvatore Guiliano as a force of nature, as a scourge of God. Surely you cannot expect the Friends of the Friends to guard you against earthquakes, volcanoes, floods? In time Guiliano will be controlled, I guarantee. But think: You pay the ransom I will arrange. You will have your protection without paying my usual rent for the next five years, and under the agreement Guiliano will not strike again. And why should he, since I and he presume you will have the good sense to keep these valuables in the bank vaults of Palermo? Women are too innocent—they do not know the lust and greed with which men pursue the material goods of this world.” He paused for a moment to allow the slight smile that had appeared on the Duke’s face to disappear. Then he said, “If you calculate the rent to pay for the protection of your whole estate for five years in the troubled times ahead, you will see that you have lost very little by this misfortune.”

  The Duke did think it over. Don Croce was quite right about the hard times that lay ahead. He would lose more than a little by ransoming the jewels, despite the remission of five years’ “rent”; who was to say that Don Croce would be alive for another five years or that he could contain Guiliano? But still it was the best bargain to be made. It would prevent the Duchess from wheedling more jewelry out of him in the years to come and that would be an enormous savings. He would have to sell another piece of land, but his ancestors had been doing that for generations to pay for their follies, and he still had thousands of acres left. The Duke agreed.

  Don Croce summoned Hector Adonis. The next day Adonis made a trip to visit his godson. He explained his mission. He was absolutely straightforward. “You won’t get a better price even if you sell the jewelry to thieves in Palermo,” he said. “And even then it will take time and you certainly won’t get the money before Christmas, which I know is your wish. And beyond that you will earn the good will of Don Croce which it is important for you to have. You have, after all, caused him a loss of respect, which he will forgive if you do him this favor.”

  Guiliano smiled at his godfather. He cared nothing for Don Croce’s good will; after all, one of his dreams was to slay the dragon of the Mafia in Sicily. But he had already sent emissaries to Palermo to find buyers for the stolen jewelry, and it was clear that it would be a long and torturous process. So he agreed to the bargain. But he refused to give up the emerald ring.

  Before Adonis left he abandoned finally his role as a teacher of romances to Guiliano. For the first time he spoke to him of the realities of Sicilian life. “My dear godson,” he said, “no one admires your qualities more than I do. I love your high-mindedness, which I hope I helped instill in you. But now we must speak of survival. You can never hope to win against the Friends of the Friends. For the last thousand years, like a million spiders, they have spun a gigantic web over all of life in Sicily. Don Croce now stands in the center of that web. He admires you, he wants your friendship, he wants you to grow rich with him. But you must bend sometimes to his will. You can have your empire, but it must exist within his web. One thing is certain—you cannot directly oppose him. If you do so, history itself will help Don Croce destroy you.”

  And so the jewelry was returned to the Duke. Guiliano kept half the money from the jewelry to be distributed among Pisciotta, Passatempo and Terranova. They eyed the emerald ring on Guiliano’s finger but said nothing, for Guiliano refused to take any of the money from the sale of the jewels.

  The other half of the money Guiliano was determined to distribute among the poor shepherds who guarded the flocks of sheep and cattle that belonged to the rich, the old widows and orphan children, all the poor around him.

  He gave out most of the money through intermediaries, but one fine day he filled the pockets of his sheepskin jacket with packets of lire notes. He also filled a c
anvas sack with money and decided to walk through the villages between Montelepre and Piani dei Greci with Terranova at his side.

  In one village there were three old women who were almost starving. He gave each of them a packet of lire. They wept and kissed his hands. In another village was a man who was about to lose his farm and land because he could not make the mortgage payments. Guiliano left him enough to pay off the mortgage in full.

  In another village he took over the local bakery and grocery store, paying the owner for the goods, and distributed bread and cheese and pasta to all the village people.

  In the next town he gave money to the parents of a sick child so they could take him to the hospital in Palermo and pay for the visits of the local doctor. He also attended the wedding of a young couple and gave them a generous dowry.

  But what he loved most was to give money to the ragged young children who thronged the streets of all the little towns in Sicily. Many of them knew Guiliano. They gathered around him as he distributed the packets of money telling them to bring it to their parents. Guiliano watched them as they joyfully ran to their homes.

  He only had a few packets of money left when he decided to visit his mother before nightfall. Crossing a field behind his home he encountered a little boy and a little girl who were crying. They had lost money entrusted to them by their parents and said the carabinieri had taken it from them. Guiliano was amused by this little tragedy and gave them one of the two packets of money he had left. And then, because the little girl was so pretty and he couldn’t bear to think of her being punished, he gave her a note for her parents.

  The little girl’s parents were not the only ones who were grateful. The people in the towns of Borgetto, Corleone, Partinico, Monreale, and Piani dei Greci began to call him the “King of Montelepre” to show their loyalty.

  Don Croce was happy despite the loss of the five years’ “rent” from the Duke. For though Don Croce had told Adonis that the Duke would pay only twenty percent of the value of the jewels, he had collected twenty-five percent from the Duke, and put five percent in his pocket.

  What delighted him even more was his satisfaction that he had spotted Guiliano so early and judged him so accurately. What a fine upstanding lad. Who could believe that one so young could see so clearly, act so wisely, listen so temperately to older and wiser heads? And yet all this with a cool intelligence that guarded his own interests, which of course the Don admired, for who would wish to associate himself with a fool? Yes, the Don thought Turi Guiliano would be his strong right arm. And with time, a beloved titular son.

  Turi Guiliano saw clearly through all these machinations around him. He knew his godfather was sincerely concerned about his welfare. But that did not mean he trusted the older man’s judgment. Guiliano knew he was not yet strong enough to fight the Friends of the Friends; indeed he needed their help. But he was under no illusions about the long run. Eventually, if he listened to his godfather, he would have to become a vassal to Don Croce. This he was determined he would never do. For now, he must bide his time.

  CHAPTER 11

  GUILIANO’S BAND NOW numbered thirty men. Some of these were former members of the Passatempo and Terranova bands. Some were citizens of Montelepre who had been freed from prison by Guiliano’s raid. They had found there was to be no forgiveness by the authorities despite their innocence; they were still being hunted. They decided to be hunted with Guiliano rather than be tracked down alone and friendless.

  One fine April morning Guiliano’s informants in Montelepre sent word that a dangerous-looking man, perhaps a police spy, was making inquiries about joining the band. He was waiting in the central square. Guiliano sent Terranova and four men into Montelepre to investigate. If the man was a spy they would kill him; if he was someone of use, they would recruit him.

  Early in the afternoon, Terranova returned and told Guiliano, “We have the fellow and before we shoot him, we thought you might like to make his acquaintance.”

  Guiliano laughed when he saw the burly figure dressed in the traditional peasant Sicilian working garb. “Well, old friend, did you think I could ever forget your face. Have you come with better bullets this time?”

  It was the Corporal of the carabinieri, Canio Silvestro, who had fired his pistol at Guiliano’s head during the famous jailbreak.

  Silvestro’s strong scarred face was intent. The face appealed to Guiliano for some reason. He had a soft spot in his heart for this man who had helped him prove his immortality.

  Silvestro said, “I’ve come to join up. I can be invaluable to you.” He said this proudly as one who is about to make a gift. This also pleased Guiliano. He let Silvestro tell his story.

  After the raid on the jail, Corporal Silvestro had been sent to Palermo to face a court-martial for dereliction of duty. His Maresciallo had been furious with him and had interrogated him closely before recommending prosecution. Oddly enough the one circumstance that inflamed the Maresciallo’s suspicions was the Corporal’s attempted shooting of Guiliano. The cause of the misfire had been found to be defective ammunition. The Maresciallo claimed that the Corporal had loaded his gun with that one harmless bullet knowing it was defective. That the whole attempted resistance had been a charade and that Corporal Silvestro had helped Guiliano plan the jailbreak and stationed his guards to help the raid succeed.

  Guiliano interrupted. “How did they think you could have known the bullets were defective?”

  Silvestro looked sheepish. “I should have known. I was the armorer in the infantry, an expert.” His face became grim and he shrugged. “I had a lapse, true. They made me a desk man and I didn’t pay too much attention to my real business. But I can be valuable to you. I can be your armorer. I can check all your weapons and repair them. I can make sure your ammunition is properly handled so that your supply dumps don’t blow up. I can modify your weapons so that they will suit the use you put them to, here in the mountains.”

  “Tell me the rest of your story,” Guiliano said. He was studying the man closely. This could be a plan to infiltrate his band with an informer. He could see that Pisciotta, Passatempo and Terranova were full of distrust.

  Silvestro went on. “They were all fools and they were all frightened women. The Maresciallo knew that it was stupid of him to take most of the men into the mountains when we had a barracks full of prisoners. The carabinieri regard Sicily as some foreign occupied country. I used to protest against that attitude, and that got me into their bad books. And the authorities in Palermo wanted to protect their Maresciallo—they were responsible for him after all. It would look better if the Bellampo Barracks had been betrayed from within instead of taken over by men who were braver and more clever. They didn’t courtmartial me. They told me to resign. They said it would be without prejudice, but I know them better than that. I’ll never get a government job again. I’m fitted for nothing else and I’m a Sicilian patriot. So I thought to myself—what can I do with my life? And I said to myself—I will go to Guiliano.”

  Guiliano sent to the cooking site for food and drink and then conferred with his chiefs.

  Passatempo was gruff and positive. “What kind of fools do they think we are? Shoot him and throw his body off the cliff. We don’t need carabinieri in our band.”

  Pisciotta saw that Guiliano was once again taken by the Corporal. He knew his friend’s impulsive emotions, so he said carefully, “It’s most likely a trick. But even if it’s not, why take the chance? We’ll have to worry all the time. There will always be doubt. Why not just send him back?”

  Terranova said, “He knows our camp. He’s seen some of our men and he knows their number. That is valuable information.”

  Guiliano said, “He’s a true Sicilian. He acts out of a sense of honor. I can’t believe he would act the part of a spy.” He saw that they all smiled at his innocence.

  Pisciotta said, “Remember, he tried to kill you. He had a concealed weapon and he was a prisoner and he tried to kill you out of sheer temper and with
no hope of escape.”

  Guiliano thought, And that’s what makes him valuable to me. Aloud he said, “Doesn’t that prove he is a man of honor? He was defeated but felt that he had to die avenging himself. And what harm can he do? He’ll be a member of the common band—we won’t take him into our confidence. And we’ll keep a close eye on him. I’ll give him my personal attention. When the time is ripe we’ll put him to a test that he must refuse if he is a spy for the carabinieri. Leave him to me.”

  Later that evening when he told Silvestro that he was now a member of the band, the man simply said, “You can count on me for anything.” He understood that Guiliano had again saved him from death.

  At Eastertime Guiliano visited his family. Pisciotta had argued against this, saying the police might set a trap. Easter in Sicily had always been a traditional death day for bandits. The police counted on the deep ties of family to bring outlaws sneaking down from the mountains to visit their loved ones. But Guiliano’s spies brought word that the Maresciallo himself would be visiting his family on the mainland and that half the garrison at the Bellampo Barracks had been given leave to celebrate the holiday in Palermo. Guiliano decided that he would bring enough men with him to make it safe. He slipped into Montelepre on Holy Saturday.

  He had sent word of his visit a few days before and his mother had prepared a feast. That night he slept in his childhood bed, and the next day, when his mother went to morning Mass, Guiliano accompanied her to church. He had a bodyguard of six men who were also visiting their families in the town but had orders to accompany Guiliano wherever he went.