Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part three, chapter 7

English

The leader of the Beati Paoli smiled with a sense of pity and said:

"You are young, inexperienced with many things, even though you have lived intensely among the tragedies of life. We do not want the death of the Duke of Motta; that he dies or lives is completely indifferent to us: We want the title and the assets to be returned to their legitimate owner. On the day that he would fall under the sword of our righteousness, without having first ripped from him what he stole through a murder, all the wealth would pass by law and legally to the daughter, Violante; it would not return to Emanuele. Emanuele would remain civilly dead; he would be nothing but an anonymous nephew of Don Girolamo Ammirata and the theft, the bloody robbery, would be sanctioned by an injustice that would dress itself in all legal forms. No, no. We have respected Don Raimondo's life only so that he himself, by recognizing Emanuele, would return to him his..."

Blasco thought of Violante. He could not deny within himself how much that man wanted the strictest and most rigorous justice.

An orphan had been robbed and it was necessary to return to him what was his. This was right and proper; but Blasco thought that this return meant the debauchery and infamy of another innocent, of Violante, and in this he saw another injustice. What fault did the poor girl have for being born of that man? What fault had she committed to being deprived of a wealth to which from the moment she was born she had acquired a right, and to be forced to suffer the infamy of her father? This idea stirred in him a deaf feeling of rebellion: However, he did not dare to disown the justice of the Beati Paoli.

"It is not for love of justice to be unjust..."

"To whom?"

"To those who are not guilty..."

"What is a man before a right violated? What is a human life before justice that walks straight on its way? Worse for those who stand in its way. It must go ahead and crush those it encounters. An innocent man cries? His tears compensate those of other innocent people who cried before. Justice must not have mercy, and it must not look at the consequences. Too many tears have been shed: A young, beautiful, rich woman struck by an atrocious pain that robbed her of her husband, while she gave the world the fruit, besieged, led to despair, died of terror in a bed not her own, gathered by charity; a faithful and devoted servant was murdered; those who picked up the child doubly orphaned, who hid him and took him away from death, who carried out this wonderful act of charity live fleeing like wolves, hiding, forced to defend their lives day by day; others groan in prison, suffer the infamy of an undeserved torment; two men, guilty only of having gathered the terrible testimonies of the murder, they were sent to the gallows, like two scoundrels. What are the tears of an innocent victim in front of the blood of eight innocent victims? Justice must take its course. No one will arrest her and you, Blasco da Castiglione, you less than others!..."

Blasco heard those words fall to one by one cold and relentless and the reason within him approved them, but his heart did not and rebelled, and there was something, even in what he approved, that helped that rebellion.

"Why," he said, "why, if you are so persuaded of the righteousness of your cause, are you hiding? Why don't you fight face to face? Do they have the noble causes to hide in the shadows? So there is something less noble that forces you to hide; you dare not face the light, because you feel the wavering of faith in your righteousness!"

"Ah no!" the head of the Beati Paoli strongly interrupted; "it vacillates only faith in legal justice; rather, it does not falter, it even lacks; this you had to say. The shadow is necessary. It's our strength and our security. The king's justice is administered by men who see in it not a duty, but a wage. They're not there to deliberate, to recognize the right of each one, but rather to protect the strongest from the weakest. The forts are the feudal lords, the officers of the State, the lords, the clergy. Surrounded by immunity, privileges, covered with parchments, they have a right on their behalf, which is not the right of others, of the weak. The magistrates and the laws defend precisely this particular and privileged right, which is instead an insult and draws injustice for the great mass of the weak, who are the most numerous. A knight who kills, finds in that right and in those magistrates a compassion and tolerance that would seem unshakable; a plebian who commits the same crime, dies on the gallows almost immediately!...

A nobleman can take away from his vassal only because he is a vassal, the beasts, the weapons, the horse, and his right allows him to do so; this same right sends that vassal to the gallows, if he dares to steal a bit of wheat or a lamb from the master. And this is called justice!...

A poor widow owes money: the creditor can strip her house and throw her out into the street and justice gives him a strong hand; a noble can instead beat his creditors and even imprison them, and he finds magistrates who will decide that this conforms to the law. And this too is called justice! Don Raimondo can kill, rob, suppress, and deserve commendations, rewards, and be placed to administer justice; Don Girolamo Ammirata who defends a weak man, according to justice, must hide instead in order not to lose his life; and this too is called justice!... the justice of the State; it is justice according to the laws written for the benefit of the strongest... But this justice is the most monstrous of iniquities!...

Ours is not written in any royal constitution, but is carved into our hearts: We observe it and force others to observe it: We have no soldiers, no guards, no algozins, no corporals; we do not pay judges; we do not seek in the codes the contrivances to correct injustice. Let us open our ears and hearts to the voices of the weak, of those who do not have the strength to break that dense net of arrogance, within which in vain they contest, of those who thirst for justice and ask for it in vain and suffer.

Who recognizes our authority? No one. Who recognizes in us the right to exercise justice? No one. Well, we must impose this authority and this right and we have but one weapon: terror, and a means to use it: the mystery, the shadow. We are not hiding out of cowardice, but out of necessity. The shadow multiplies our army and arouses the confidence of those who call for our protection. He who would not dare to appeal to a legal magistrate to defend himself, his house, the honor of his women, because the appeal would expose him to the wrath, reprisals, the vengeance of the baron or the abbot, confides willingly to the shadow his pain and the violence suffered; a man whom he does not see, does not know, gathers his lamentation. We see if he's right. A mysterious warning reaches the oppressor in his own palace, the complict magistrate in his seat; do they listen to it? We're not looking for anything better: they despise him, they bully him, and they continue the offense? We punish, and we avenge the offense. No one sees the punishing arm, so no one can escape it... This is our justice. She has never punished an innocent man, and she has dried many tears."

Blasco listened to him with an ever-increasing amazement; the man was inflamed, as he spoke; it seemed that before his eyes the vision of all injustices passed, that an old social constitution, in which the arbitration had taken the place of justice, and an uncertain jurisprudence, jammed between prerogatives, privileges, exemptions, diversity of magistrates or fora, permitted and fomented. He continued with a moved voice:

"Why do you, mighty, valiant, loyal, generous as you are, not enter, like me, into the thick of city life and baronal lands? Ah, you would see how many tears, how much blood, how many infamies compose it, and you would think that not one, but one hundred of these courts would be necessary, to prevent abuse, violence, and the scandals of the powerful. I know all the miseries of life; I have penetrated into the dens of the peasants, real flocks of slaves bent under the staff; I have penetrated into the houses of the artisans who live in distress; I have seen the misery that hides itself out of shame and waits for the night to seek a piece of hard bread, a bone, a torso; I have seen all human suffering and a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand mouths sobbing and asking for justice! And then I called men of good will around me and said to them, "We are in defense of the weak and the wretched!"

Until the world has changed and there will be on the one hand privileged men to whom everything is lawful, and to whom the laws are made beneficial, and men condemned to suffer all the arbitrations and all the violence, it is necessary to create a force that opposes, arrests, prevents these arbitrations; it is like a kind of balance of forces. And it's not new. Do you believe that the Beati Paoli have risen now? Do you know the story? In the days of Frederick the Emperor, Adinolfo di Ponte Corvo founded the society of the Vendicosi: It had no meaning other than our own. The Beati Paoli descend from the Vendicosi. The Beati Paoli are centuries old. Sometimes they sleep; suddenly, when the measure is full, they rise. We will die and more will come after us, because the weak will always need those who protect them, those who defend them. You yourself, Blasco da Castiglione, with all your courage, with all your value, are weak..."

"Me?..."

"You are alone, and therefore you are weak: You are a grain thrown into a field by the whim and arrogance of a baron; without name, without future; exposed by your very nature to the persecution of other bullies: forced to hide you like a bandit... Perhaps at this hour you would have died, if a hidden vigilance had not protected you, if we did not see in you who could be the most valid column of the sect..."

"Oh no; never!" cried Blasco.

"Don't rush," the head of the Beati Paoli replied coldly, "you have rendered more than one service to our court, without knowing it; however often we are forced to be strict. Even this time, in spite of your refusal, you have served us..."

"Me?..."

"You, yes, accepting our invitation..."

"How?"

"But don't you realize we've eliminated you? Don't you realize you're letting us free the field?"

He drew a watch out of his undergarment pocket and, looking at the hour, added:

"It's already eight hours of night; at this hour the Duchess of Motta and Violante travel far..."

"Ah, damn it!..." screamed Blasco drawing a gun out of his pocket; "now you're saying that you lied!..."

"I didn't lie!... The Duchess and her daughter were boarded an hour ago at my command..."

"Miserable!" cried Blasco, and shot.

The blow came back into the cave; the smoke filled it. A laugh answered. Blasco saw with his amazement the head of the Beati Paoli shouting towards the door, loudly: "It's nothing! Get out of the way, all of you!" then bending to the ground, gathering something and, giving it to the young man, he quietly said:

"My good young man, choose your balls again; these, you see? they dent themselves... Farewell!..."

He went out, but Blasco blocked his path by saying:

"You will not get out of here unless I rip off your mask first; I want to see your face... I want when I tell you that you are a vile man, my words slap your flesh and do not break on that mischievous face..."

"Do you really know me?..."

"Yeah!"

"I could spare you the trouble of taking off my mask, but it's useless. You know me..."

"The mask!... The mask!..."

"Well, yes; it's better. That's it."

With a quick gesture the black mask was removed from his face.

"Coriolano!" shouted Blasco "Coriolano!..."

And his arms fell down upon his body, and his voice fainted, and he heard his knees languishing.

"You!...you!...you!..." he repeated with a desperate accent.

"Yeah, me. What are you wondering about? You should have suspected it, I, at whom you targeted and shot!..."

Blasco bowed to the boss not knowing how to respond: His heart was divided and plagued by two different and opposite thoughts, which were summed up in two names: Violante and Coriolano.

"What have you done! And what have I done?" he murmured with a tone of inexpressible pain; then, changing his tone and giving the other gun to Coriolano, he added with feverish exaltation: "Kill me, please, kill me!"

"Why? What's the matter with you? What you have done is, I say, legitimate, like what I do. I don't hold any grudges, and in your place, I would have done the same... Give me your hand."

He had to take his hand. Then Blasco, overcome by commotion, burst into sobbing, murmuring:

"O!, Violante! Violante!..."

There was such deep sorrow in that groan that Coriolano of Floresta was shaken.

"What do you fear?" he said. "I swear on my honor that she is not in any danger, a hair will not be wrong to her, but it is necessary to us. Emanuele must be returned to freedom and safe from all possible attack: We will not achieve this without holding the wife and daughter of Don Raimondo della Motta hostage.

"What if he didn't give in?" Blasco asked with trepidation.

Coriolano kept quiet a little.

"Don't you answer?"

"It would be very serious," said the Knight of Floresta.

"Ah! see therefore that your promise is subordinate..."

"No; I have sworn to you on my honor that neither the maiden nor the Duchess will suffer the least violence, except the limitation of their freedom. They will be locked in a castle, but treated with all respect due to their rank..."

Blasco seemed to be tormented by a thought; after a moment of silence, he said:

"If I would guarantee you not only the release of Emanuele, but also the recognition of his rank and the return of title and heritage?..."

"You, Blasco?" the knight of Floresta was amazed.

"I, yes;... if I guaranteed you this, would you have any difficulty in entrusting me to the two women of the Albamonte house?"

"Take care of your commitment, Blasco!..."

"I know what I'm saying..."

"Do you therefore have this power?" asked Coriolano with a penetrating look.

"I've got it."

There was such security in the tone of his words, that Coriolano looked at him with increasing amazement. What could make Blasco so sure? Did he get close to Donna Gabriella there and think he was using her to succeed? He didn't think this was enough to give the young man so much security, because Don Raimondo has never let his wife drag him around. What, then, was there? It was not appropriate to reject Blasco's proposal, but he did not think he could accept it entirely.

There was only one road.

"Do you want a truce?" he asked.

"Be a truce..."

"How long?"

"The time to go to Turin and return..."

"Save yourself this trip. Because instead the Duke of Motta will come here..."

"Will he come?..."

"In fifteen days, twenty at most, he will know that his family is in our power."

"And all this time, that poor creature?"

"She will not suffer the slightest discomfort, as I told you."

Blasco bowed his head thinking of Violante, and a painful dismay shook his heart. He murmured with a mixture of regret, pain and anger:

"Ah! why, why are you here before me, and not an enemy, or even an unknown one?"

Coriolano smiled and put his mask back on, saying seriously:

"Blasco, in here two men only saw my face: You and Don Girolamo Ammirata and no one else. Those twenty brothers in the hall, even though they are the principals of society, know only this mask; to the other affiliates they are a myth! Not here, not out of here, not even when we're alone, there's only one hint missing!"

"Do you want me to promise you the most scrupulous silence?"

"No, I know you. And now wait for me to send for you and above all obey me."

He went out, leaving the young man overwhelmed by a thousand thoughts, a thousand feelings, which swirled in his spirit, which perturbed him deeply. The court of the Beati Paoli was still gathered; those men had laid down the mask for a moment and spoke among themselves; some close around Don Girolamo Ammirata, they were told in detail how the attempted abduction of Violante had failed. He had escaped beautifully; but Andrea had received a blow, which if it had been a finger lower he would have sent him away.

"That young man is a devil, I tell you..."

Coriolano returned to the crypt at that moment and a great silence was made, everyone replaced their mask and resumed their place. The Knight of Floresta said: "We have a new brother. May each one of you help him and protect him, if he sees him in danger."

Blasco a moment later was introduced into the hall, and, suddenly caught by Coriolano's invitation, he had to swear, according to the suggested formula, fidelity and silence. Each of those brothers, in turn, approached him, embraced him, stung his arm, and with the drop of blood made him a small sign of the cross on his forehead. Retaken their place, the report of the facts and of the laments collected began. The misery was screaming through the mouths of those men, to whom the mask gave a stillness and a marble impassibility: The biggest complaints were for the collection of the "donation" decided by Parliament, and which, as usual, weighed only upon the people. One hundred thousand shields weighed on the milling of the fruits; on the state cities another one hundred thousand shields, almost; forty thousand on the city of Palermo, one hundred and thirty thousand on the merchants; twenty thousand on the employees; while on the barons they weighed only fifty thousand shields, and less than seven thousand on the clergy; so that the tribute of the possessors of all the earth and of all the wealth of the kingdom, nobility and clergy, would not reach a third of what were forced to pay the poor and this small contribution they would squeeze from the blood of the peasants through their officers, their secretaries, their algozini, with every vexation. A whole story of extortion, kidnapping, foreclosure, forced sales, which threw the poor people who could not pay for themselves, nor for the baron and for the convent of which he was a vassal, passed woefully at times, for that crypt, which seemed segregated from the world. And they were also lamentations against usurers who bled, judges who gave in to friendships or who let themselves be corrupted, inhuman and greedy officers, who were trying to snatch something more for their own benefit from the victims.

Blasco listened and heard a void digging in his chest, for dismay: life appeared to him in a very different way and a whole unsuspected world was revealed in his eyes; and that Parliament which gathered with such a solemn pomp and which appeared as the defense and healing of the kingdom and of which all were jealous, now appeared to him as the accomplice of those disloyalties.

Little was missing in the morning when the court ended its session. The Beati Paoli came out one at a time, mysteriously, wandering in the shadow of a corridor. When everyone was out, Coriolano said to Blasco:

"Let's go."

But instead of following the same path as the others, he led Blasco for a path that from a secret door led into a staircase, on whose landing an oil lamp burned before a Madonna painted on slate. Blasco noticed that while the first time he entered, he had to descend, now, going out, instead of climbing, he descended again. The staircase ended with a large vestibule, closed by a doorway. Coriolano drew a key out of his pocket, opened the small and low door, went out, let out Blasco and closed it:

"See," he smiled, "we are under the protection of the law; this house from whence we went out belongs to a judge."

It was in fact the home of Judge Baldi in the street that leads from San Cosmo to the Cape.