In 1860’s Italy, only the capture of Rome would make the Risorgimento complete. Giovanni Raggio’s young life holds many new experiences as he yearns to become a part of this momentous event. The people in his family, his home town, his priest, all have their own beliefs. He has yet to test his own. The excerpts from this work can be viewed, incomplete, and on their own, much like Giovanni’s own life, as he travels through Italy, determined to support the revolution.
Excerpt -‘Death of a Courier’:
It was market day and while early-rising citizens of Bettola were ready for shopping and gossiping, I heard a loud shout ring out in the center of the piazza. I heard doors slamming. People craned their heads out from every threshold, disheveled and looking around for the source of the noise.
I listened to a fountain of sound, first loud and abrupt, then tapering to mutters and murmurs. It was that hum that unnerved me, and probably everyone who lived around the piazza. The center of town, like the rest of Italy, was sturdily made of stone; cement and rock magnified sound in the early morning air, giving it an edgy, raw energy.
“Go, Gio! Go with your father and find out what has this wasp’s nest so fired up. Hurry and let me know quickly. Something’s wrong.” Mamma didn’t stop her breakfast cooking without good cause.
At her behest, we two strode toward the noise, listening for the sounds of crying, or anger, or any indication that would tell us what was amiss. Merchant wagons were still descending from the road. As we approached the narrow entrance to town, a knot of people stood — men and women both — some staring ahead, and some holding their aprons or shirts over their faces.
Now it was our turn, as we stared, horrified, but unable to look away.
A man’s body, looking as fresh as the day he and I had conversed around the oak, now sat beneath that same tree, his black thick hair curling sweetly around a bullet hole in front of the surprisingly petite ears; the right hand still held a brown Meerschaum pipe, and his fingers lay curled around the eagle claws that encircled the bowl. The formerly neat clothes were now wrinkled, dirty and wet from lying on the ground.
The sky, waking blue as rosemary flowers, seemed calm, no portent of trouble, as eternal as any new day. I forced my gaze back to the dead man, hearing his final words whisper in my mind.
“Remember, we each must be wary at all times. It is impossible to identify every enemy.”
He had lain dead all night, from what little I knew of these matters. Here, in the innocent town of my birth, was a murderer. I preferred to think that an accident, rather than deliberate misfortune had occurred here. It would be beyond foolish to think this however, or to neglect viewing this second incident as a warning. This death felt personal. I knew him.
Papà and I stared, frozen in drama and shock, unable to accept the violence of this death. Most people made the sign of the cross, some making the horns against evil as well.
“Call Father Sabastiani!” went out the cry, and someone went to fetch him, relieved to feel the priest so close at hand in times like these.
Excerpt — Spider
One layer at a time, Spider removed his outer garments until, finally, he stood, as ordinary as any farm laborer in his worn house-clothes. He leaned into the aged wood shelves, savoring a moment of pleasure in their umber patina and the old-paper aroma the room exhaled. The comforting odors settled him.
What would it be this time? He was usually brought information and a command to manage one task or to arrange another. A small shiver of anticipation crested between his shoulder blades. His mandates often brought danger of being exposed; infrequently, the threat of death.
Spider tried to imagine the person who brought the message, the one who threw the signal-flag, altering his imagination as whimsy and mood allowed. Never could he select a suitable image of someone he actually knew, putting flesh on the bones, clothes on the form, and a light in the eye of his messenger.
Spider tried to imagine the person who brought the message, the one who threw the signal-flag, altering his imagination as whimsy and mood allowed. Never could he select a suitable image of someone he actually knew, putting flesh on the bones, clothes on the form, and a light in the eye of his messenger.
The pale note caught and reflected the glint of the candle. Hovering over the flickering light, Spider perused the missive, memorizing each word. The charge from his unseen manager was explicit.
He took out the flag and tossed it onto the chessboard set, ready for play. Where would it land? “No matter,” he spoke into the empty room. “My course is clear.” He then thriftily tucked the small white patch into a sleeve for later use, and went to open his door.