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.