Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part one, chapter 21

She left because she suffered, because she wanted to be alone and vent her spite and left with that vanesio, because she believed, through Coriolano, to exercise a vengeance, a reprisal against Blasco. He told Don Raimondo that he felt a little bad, that he was coming home because the crowd was making her dizzy; he remained also: he would postpone the carriage.

"It's not necessary, just the porterina. Send me the carrier."

When Coriolano saw her go out with the prince of Iraki, her face expressed the most intense satisfaction.

He approached the Duke of Motta, with thoughtful air, saying to him: "What a cancellation; the most beautiful star will be missed at the feast!..."

Don Raimondo shook his shoulders, resigned.

"Small ailments. You know that women always have a supply."

He did not leave the feast; not already because he enjoyed the music, the game, the conversation, but because among the guests there was the Marquis of St. Thomas, secretary of the king, and there were also the Marquis Pallavicino, great squire, the Marquis of St. George great master of the house, the Marquis de la Pierre great chamberlain and the Marquis of Augrogne great master of ceremonies; all characters well seen by the king, who had practiced with the sovereign and that it was useful to have good friends in those days. Don Raimondo now spoke with one hour with the other, keeping a respectful attitude full of dignity, but at the same time caring and kindly helpful. He rightfully dropped the discourse on Sicilian legislation, on the prerogatives of the kingdom, illustrating them in order to show his juridical culture and, indirectly, the need to avail himself of his services.

At dinner, he sat next to the Marquis of S. Tommaso, making him between courses, lovingly, the history of the various noble families, of the rights that each one had, of the customs, of the conditions of the countryside and of public security. Calm, cold, reasoner, logical, inflexible in judgment, he did everything to make a man of government uncover himself. Without an opinion, he gave indirect advice to the king on how to govern Sicily, and suggested ways to solve with honor the serious issue raised with the Papal Curia for a very slight incident with the bishop of Lipari. The pope had launched the interdict, and there was great concussion in the clergy and a great disturbance in consciences. And all for a bunch of chickpeas! But already it was a pretext for the Curia of Rome, which did not tolerate, and for a long time, that the church of Sicily was almost autonomous, for the bull of Urban II, which created the kings of Sicily tied apostolic...

The Marquis of St. Thomas listened with interest to him, persuasing himself that the Duke of Motta was a man to propose to his Majesty. Vittorio Amedeo had in fact recommended to the dignitaries of his Court to study high society well, in order to be able to choose the men in whom to put his trust. Certainly the Duke of Motta, as well as for his competence in business, who came from the practice of offices, was of those to choose also for the doctrine and for the straightness of the mind and that kind of rigidity that he demonstrated.

"The kingdom needs strong men and rights. The Spanish government has left a great legacy of evils, which must be treated vigorously and violently... His Majesty will be able to choose among his faithful vassals..." "For me, though it is worth little, I lay my person at the foot of the throne, so that his Majesty may dispose of it at his pleasure. I will do all for the service of our Lord and for the prosperity of the kingdom."

After midnight, on an improvised altar in the artificial cave, the house chaplain celebrated the three Masses of rite and everyone listened to them devoutly, with his stomach full, in that sleep that happens at a laute dinner, but with the heart understood of the sweet satisfaction of feeling at peace with Domineddio, and of finding no contradiction between the refined epicureism of life and the spiritualism of religion.

After Mass Don Raimondo left the feast, satisfied with himself and foretaste the ambitious joy of new dignity that would place him higher than the same prince of whom he had been a guest. In the large atrium, at the foot of the staircase, he found his black leather pedestal, with large golden studs: an austere pedestal, as a magistrate. He wrapped himself in the large cloak, put his feet on the warmer that was placed at the bottom of the sedan and ordered to leave. The route was easy and simple: they had to follow the Celso road, bend for Guilla road, and go straight up to the Cape. Ten minutes. Two steering wheels were ahead with torches; the carriers were sturdy and fast, and they went fast. The streets were deserted; but the houses had illuminated windows here and there, and in the night silence the cobblestone of the dishes was heard mixing with laughter and songs.

From time to time, church bells were ringing.

The porters had passed the church of the Commenda di S. Giovanni; by the light of the torches, stray cats fled quickly, along the walls; some dogs were growling.

At the gate of the church of St. Mary two drunkards, staggering, crossed the footsteps of the flyers, falling almost on them: the flyers rejected them, but those, as enlivened by the impact, threw themselves against the flyers with bad words. The porters had to slow down their pace.

"What is it?" asked Don Raimondo, protruding his head.

"Two drunks, Excellency," answered one of the porters.

"Check them out and let's go."

But the sedan didn't move. The two flyers in a moment had been thrown to the ground and reduced to impotence and the two carriers had believed to run to their rescue. Don Raimondo stunned and wrinkled his head once again, but he barely had time to perceive a confused scene of bodies overturned between other bodies and a whaling of arms, which he felt a cold and sharp blade, sting his neck, and a threatening voice to say to him: "Not a word, or you are dead!..."

The scare, more than the injunction took his word. The sedan was surrounded by masked and intabrated men, armed with daggers and guns: the servants, caught off guard, landed, bound, gagged were carried away by other men; he was alone, the defenders, at the mercy of those mysterious beings.

A name that sounded terror, went up on his lips, but he did not dare to pronounce it, or could not: "The Beati Paoli!..."

"You will not be wrong with a hair," said the one who had spoken, "if you do not say a syllable, and if you do not do the least resistance."

"But what do you want from me?" stuttered Don Raimondo with a thread of voice.

"You'll know. Be obedient in the meantime."

There was no resistance. The man, drawn from his breasts a large silk handkerchief, blindfolded his eyes tightly: with a rope he tied his arms behind his kidneys: he drove him back into the seat, and repeated:

"You are warned. Woe to you if ye cry; ye shall not cry.

Don Raimondo heard the sedan lift that resumed the route more quickly. Where did they take him? He warned that he would now turn right, now left, but did not understand which alleys he walked, in that neighborhood that he knew perfectly well.

Fifteen minutes later, the carrier stopped.

That same voice said to him, "Get up."

At the same time, four hands held him by their arms, guiding him. He went down a ladder, turned around; then he felt relieved by weight, carried a little up and down finally laid over a chair. Then they took off his blindfold.

He was in a room, just illuminated by two oil lamps, placed on a table, on which stood a book, a Christ, a inksmith and paper.

Behind, around the table, beside and behind is a dozen men, wrapped in black capes, with their heads covered with a hood, their faces disguised, their hands armed with daggers. A great silence reigned in the room. Don Raimondo was sweating; behind the masks he saw threatening pupils shine; the blades had nerve vibrations that caused them to flash leftly.

"Duke of Motta," said the man who had spoken until then: "We know your crimes."

Don Raimondo became paler.

"We know how you, as a simple knight, became the duke and lord of a heritage that did not belong to you; we, listen well, we know where and why Aloisia, widow of Don Emanuele of Motta died..."

The duke had a thrill of terror.

"We know how and why Maddalena died, murdered by you and your servant..."

Don Raimondo felt like he was failing.

He tried a defense; he stuttered with a suffocated voice: "That's not true..."

"Taci" imposed the mysterious man "and thinks that sometimes the graves open and the accusers come out. We have evidence and witnesses. Watch out, Duke of Motta!"

"That's not true!... that's not true!..." stuttered Don Raimondo once again.

"So will it be necessary to remind you of Peppa la Sarda's drinking?..."

These last words brought out the Duke of Motta; pale as a dead, trembling, lost, he could hardly, between the beating of teeth, stand out a few words.

"Who are you?... What do you want?"

"See, then, that we have so much in our hands that you deliver your head to the executioner and inaugurate the new kingdom with a great act of righteousness; but it is not time!..."

The executioner!... The cleaver!... Don Raimondo saw himself lost; with a groaning, with his mouth gripped by a spasm of jaws he repeated: "Who are you?... What do you want?..."

Who, then, were those mysterious men who searched in his past, and held the ax of the executioner on his head with a thread? How did they know everything? Why did they evoke those turbid nights of crime?

"Who are we?" answered the masked man; "righteousness; true justice, that of the people who do not fail, because it is not paid. What do we want? To stop you from hurting good people, and doing other infamies..."

And he turned to two men who were behind Don Raimondo, and said, "Throw him away."

They obeyed.

"Duca della Motta," said the boss, "you have arrested and blacked yourself in prison, without trial, without judgment, two good people, throwing into grief and despair a family. We are not deaf to the cries of pain of the poor. We ask nothing more from you, than a letter to the captain of justice, for the immediate release of Don Girolamo Ammirata and his grandson."

Don Raimondo sighed and was refreshed. He feared worse; however he objected: "But it is not up to me..."

"The captain of justice keeps those two poor people in prison just to please you. Write."

The tone did not admit reply; Don Raimondo was at the mercy of men who possessed all the weapons to kill him, and did not ask, finally, that a very light thing, offer which was not, for him, a great sacrifice. He took the pen, put it on and pulled a sheet of paper. To his wonder he realized that it was the paper he used to use; a little blue paper.

He wrote, though with a little trembling hand, and delivered the letter to the masked man. The letter said,

"Ill'mo and Spett'mo mr. Captain and most venerable friend,

"In addition to being grateful to V. S. for having in my prayer made to support in prison Mr. Girolamo Admirata and his nephew, for the lack known to V. S., I come now to pray to her, so that she deserves to put them back in freedom no longer standing the reasons of their imprisonment, and considering that the pain suffered has satisfied the legitimate resentment of my home.

Of course V.S. will accept my prayer, I declare them most grateful and I beg you to always consider me among his faithful servants."

The Duke of Motta

"is well:" said the man, "close it and seal it."

With an even greater and almost terrifying amazement, Don Raimondo realized that the wax and the seal were his.

How were they there?

With more trembling hands on the matter of that discovery, he wrote the address.

To the illustrious Mister

Mr. D. Raffaello Bellacera,

Marquis of Regalmici

Captain Giustiziere of the Kingdom of Sicily

Palermo.

He delivered the letter and waited, looking with suspicious eyes.

The masked man filmed: "I told you that a hair would not be wrong to you, and I keep my promise; but beware, Mr. Duke, the least step you will take, or to harass Don Girolamo Admirata, or to put you on our trail, it will cost you life and honor. Now you know what we can."

He called him "you" now, but without stopping the harsh and authoritarian tone. He gave a sign to one of the masked men.

"Bend him and bring him back."

Again Don Raimondo was blindfolded and bound and brought back for a thousand goings, going up and down stairs; he felt himself resting in the sedan, lifting, carrying. After a while, the porterina stopped. A masked man, without making a motto loosened the cord, took off the blindfold and sprinkled. Don Raimondo saw a reddish light, shyly looked out, saw the two steering wheels with torches, and the two carriers pick up the straps of the rods, as if nothing had happened.

He went back inside murmuring with tight teeth, in a rage of anger against the servants: "Vigliacchi, brigandi!... I will fire you all!... Let's go!"

As soon as he came home, he ran into his study; his wax and his seal were there, on a tray, next to the candle. He looked around; the windows were locked, there was no lighter human footprint. A superstitious tremor caught him; he fell over a high chair with his head between his hands, immersed in deep and terrible thoughts.