At that moment Don Marcuzzi started to kneel but Pisciotta had already opened fire. Passatempo and Terranova and the Corporal, still masked, also fired. The six bound bodies were flung up against the wall by the storm of machine-gun bullets. The jagged white stones were splattered with red-purple gouts of blood and pellets of flesh torn from the galvanized bodies. They seemed to be dancing from strings as they were flung back again and again by the continuing hail of bullets.

High in the tower of his palace, Prince Ollorto turned away from the telescope. So he did not see what happened next.

Guiliano stepped forward and advanced to the wall. He drew the heavy pistol from his belt and slowly and ceremoniously shot each of the fallen Mafia chiefs through the head.

There was a great hoarse roar from the watching crowd and, in seconds, thousands were streaming through the gates of Prince Ollorto's estate. Guiliano watched them. He noticed that none of the crowd came near him.

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."