The Vendetta Defense

August was the Torneo della Cavalieri, a festival in Mascoli since the fifteenth century. Although Tony had heard of the Torneo, he had never been to see it, for he had no time for such diversions and would not have been at this one except that he knew Silvana would be there. In the two months since they had shared their kiss wrapped in a kerchief, they had in fact kissed, as man and woman, seeing each other on a regular basis.

Tony would pack a basket of hard cheese, olives, fresh-baked bread, and juicy tomatoes, with a bottle of home-pressed chianti, and Silvana would meet him, leaving her house with some excuse, but only during the daytime. They would spread out a blanket in the hills around Mascoli, and while their ponies grazed, talk the entire afternoon, confiding in each other, kissing and laughing, and Tony grew to love the hills of Marche as his own, almost as much as he loved Silvana. In these talks, Silvana told Tony that she also saw Coluzzi on some nights for dinner, and that she appreciated the Fascist’s strength and cunning in ways Tony could not comprehend, so that in time the three of them—Tony, Silvana, and Coluzzi—were dancing that delicate tango that occurs when a woman is trying to make up her mind between two suitors.

It drove Tony crazy, waiting for Silvana to make her choice, but he knew it was folly to force her hand. His mother, being Abruzzese, had a proverb for everything, and counseled him to wait: Amor regge il suo regno senza spada, Love rules his kingdom without a sword. And his father, who knew more about politics, worried that the third leg of the triangle was a Blackshirt, and had a proverb of his own: I guai vengono senza chiamarli, Sorrow comes unsent for. He told Tony to forget Silvana, but Tony could not, and so he waited, withholding even the marriage proposal that was on his lips with each kiss, sensing that it was too soon. Then the Torneo was upon them, and Tony knew Silvana would be there with her family and so he journeyed to Mascoli to catch sight of her, and perhaps to meet them, to press his suit.

It was sunny that day and Tony arrived in Mascoli to find even its outskirts thick with revelers, honking automobiles, drunks on bicycles, and neighing horses. He tied up his pony for fear the beast would be terrified and made his way on foot through the raucous crowd to the Piazza Santa Giustina, where the opening ceremonies were held and the procession through the streets would begin. But Tony was late getting there, having spent much of the route trying to find Silvana, so he joined the procession at its raggedy end. Ahead of him, to clarion blasts and noisy drumbeats, strode the town mayor, in the role of Magnifico Messere, then the high magistracy, represented by local officials, all in colorful fifteenth-century costumes, surrounded by hundreds of costumed people and actors, all making merry. Groups of Blackshirts paraded in dress uniforms, laughing at the townspeople, delighted at the celebration encouraging Italian pride, but Tony didn’t see Angelo Coluzzi among them.

Tony started out following the procession but soon found himself borne along by it, his head swiveling this way and that to find Silvana, which he could see was a fool’s errand. The processants were in makeup and costumed as medieval knights, pageboys, ladies-in-waiting, and captains, and Tony had no idea if Silvana was masked as well. On all sides men juggled burning torches, swallowed swords, twirled flags, and performed magic tricks of every sort. Trained dogs did somersaults on a man’s shoulders, to the delight of Fascist schoolchildren dressed in little black shirts, black shorts, and black kerchiefs. The procession swept down one street, then turned at the next, then made a sharp right, and Tony was shoved from behind by a drunken knight. Tony picked up his pace, ignoring his flat feet, anxious lest the Torneo be over by the time he got there and Silvana gone.

The procession ended in the Piazza del Popolo, but even in its huge expanse Tony could barely breathe for all the people. He looked everywhere, but Silvana and her family had to be lost in the crowd, which was roaring for the tournament to begin. At the center of the piazza stood the Saracen, the false knight and horse constructed on a wooden frame and covered with rich velvet fabric, and standing to the side, representing the six ancient sections of Mascoli, were six knights on horseback, their costumed horses pawing the cobblestones and gnawing their bits to begin the contest. Each knight would have three runs at the Saracen, to try to hit the center of his shield with their lances in the shortest possible time. Tony knew there was a prize, the Palio del Torneo, but he didn’t care. He wanted to see Silvana, but it seemed he couldn’t stand in one place long enough to look around, there was so much pushing and shoving.

Tony wedged forward to the very front of the piazza to get away from the unruly revelers behind him and breathe easier, which was when he spotted Angelo Coluzzi. The squadrista stood on a black-draped dais at the near side of the piazza, in the forefront of a cadre of Fascists and their families. Coluzzi was frowning in emulation of Il Duce himself, his jaw thrust forward as if he were surveying parading troops, not pretend knights and toy horses. At the sight Tony recovered his footing, just as a shout went up from the crowd. The first knight was galloping full-tilt toward the Saracen, and his lance struck the shield with a loud clonk, setting the bogus Saracen spinning like a top and the crowd cheering wildly, especially residents of the knight’s district.

Coluzzi nodded in approval and turned to talk to his fellow, which was when he spotted Tony. Tony knew it the moment it happened, his gut told him before his two eyes did, and across the wildly cheering piazza, the two men locked glares; the farmer and the Fascist, in love with the same woman. The second knight spurred his horse leaping to a gallop and they thundered across the cobblestones, but neither Tony nor Coluzzi broke his gaze. The lance missed its target, to the disappointed aahs of the crowd, but Tony would not look away, nor would Coluzzi. The third knight was already off and racing flat-out toward the Saracen, and his lance struck boldly, making a dervish of the wooden target, obscuring Coluzzi from Tony’s view, and when the knight had passed, reveling in the crowd’s affection, Coluzzi had gone.

Good riddance. Coward. Pig. Filth. Tony thought Coluzzi was like the false Saracen, a hollow soldier waiting to be knocked down. How could Silvana see anything in such a poppet? Women apparently liked men who had strut and power, who wore confidence as thin as a uniform with epaulets. Though Tony had told her that Coluzzi had beaten the chemist, she had insisted that the chemist must have done wrong. Tony searched the crowd for her at the same time that the fourth knight was charging the Saracen, his lance raised, and this target struck the shield. A shout went up, and Tony felt hands suddenly clamped all over him and his neck yanked back by his collar.

“Come?” he said, not understanding at first, but Tony’s words were choked from his throat and the next thing he knew he was surrounded by black wool and strong hands were grabbing his arms and muscling him from the piazza. He cried out in alarm but a swift punch to the cheek brought blood bubbling to his mouth, and the next fist, expertly delivered, set pain arcing through his jaw and knocking him almost senseless.

There must have been ten Blackshirts and they hauled him off by his arms, his toes dragging on the cobblestones as the shouts of hundreds went up, cheering for the knights and drowning out the gurgling from his throat. Tony had to save himself. Nobody else would help him. He saw what had happened to the chemist.

He torqued in their grip but they hit him again and he was in such agony and shock that he was almost insensate as they dragged him back along the processional route, littered now with bottles and drunks retching on the sidewalk. The cobblestones rubbed off his farmer’s boots and flayed the skin from his bare feet as the streets grew quiet and they left the piazza, where celebrants could have borne witness.

They rushed him twisting and turning through streets as narrow as corridors, and Tony knew from their grunts and curses that they were loving this business, which sickened him to his stomach. He didn’t know where he was, or where or even why they were taking him, and the medieval streets all looked the same, each one like the next, which for some reason scared him more than the beating.

Then the rushing stopped and they began hitting him in earnest, raining blows everywhere on him all at once, to his back, his head, his gut, and he tried to raise his arms and cry out but they socked him in the stomach so hard he couldn’t breathe, and he crumpled to the ground, where they began kicking him with hard boots in his ribs, his legs, and his kidneys, so that he was thrashing and rolling in agony on the hot and gritty cobblestones. The hope of the Abruzzese lifted in his chest until more kicks came and Tony realized all that screaming was coming from him, and then even he began to lose hope, his limbs fighting back no longer. He barely remained conscious and gathered with peaceful resignation that he would die at their hands.

But just then the kicking came to an abrupt stop and everything went completely still. The air felt suddenly cool as a balm. Tony thought surely this was his death. His body had gone numb. He felt no pain. He didn’t think he could move, nor did he care to. It was so calm and nice lying here, like being in the hills under the trees where he and Silvana would have lunch. There was no sound. Tony opened his eyes to see at last the full glory of God.

Above him stood the outline of a helmet, shoulders with epaulets, and a chin like a dictator’s. The sun shone behind the outline, casting its long shadow on Tony. It wasn’t God, it was the Devil himself. Angelo Coluzzi.

“Congratulations, my friend,” Coluzzi said, laughing softly, but Tony didn’t understand.

“Che?” he croaked out incomprehensibly.