Introduction

A thrilling Sicilian saga about the legendary secret sect purported to be forerunners of the Mafia, translated into English for the first time.

Emerging from the dark streets and subterranean caves of Palermo, the Beati Paoli, masked and hooded, mete out their own form of justice to counter the unfettered power and privilege wielded by the aristocracy. For the voiceless, weak, and oppressed, the Beati Paoli are defenders and heroes.

Reminiscent of a Dumas novel, Sicilian Avengers is a vibrant, atmospheric fresco of early eighteenth-century Palermo. Onto the stage of the ancient city, Blasco da Castiglione, a bold, brash, orphan adventurer, arrives on a quest to discover his origins and seek his destiny. But this fearless, swashbuckling D’Artagnan-esque hero unwittingly gets caught up in a devious and murderous succession plot involving a powerful noble family.

When the Beati Paoli hear about this plot to usurp a rightful inheritance, they spring into action. Their shadowy machinations entangle the charismatic Blasco, who crosses paths with a cast of characters that test his loyalty and resolve in the pursuit of his true identity.

The historical accuracy of the novel is complemented by the most meticulous description of Sicily’s capital city ever written. Action-packed and laced with intrigue and chivalrous duels, Sicilian Avengers is a tale of love and hatred, friendship and betrayal, suffering and retribution.

As French critic Jean Noël Schifano said, Natoli's novel is “the fifth historical monument of contemporary Italian literature.”

Book 1 of 2 that includes an afterword by Umberto Eco.

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Excerpt

Chapter 10

In the antechamber a footman told Blasco that the Cavaliere della Floresta had had to go home because he had suddenly felt ill, and so as not to disturb Blasco, he had left without saying anything to him. Blasco threw his cape over his shoul- ders and went out. Midnight had sounded; along Via Lungarini, in the piazzetta near the Correria1 (now Piazza Cattolica), there was an endless line of portantine and carriages, next to which grooms and volanti were strolling or relaxing. A few lit torches affixed to a wall gave off just enough light to avoid bumping into someone or stumbling. Blasco didn’t have anyone waiting for him; he had neither a carriage nor a litter nor a portantina, nor servants with torches or lanterns to light up his path. He walked along the entire line of these equipages and started off all alone toward Sant’Anna. It was a beautiful moonlit night; on one side the houses were softly lit, and the spacious street was half in shadow. He crossed the piazza and went beyond the church, thinking about that unusual opera, where the poet seemed to have foreshadowed the little drama that had taken place between him- self, the duchess, and the Prince of Iraci. The facade of the Church of Sant’Anna was immersed in shadow, and its shadow projected over half the piazza.

Blasco was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn’t even look at a few men who were sleeping on the steps of the church, wrapped in cloaks. On the other hand, there would have been nothing new or strange about that sight; at night the steps of the churches and the benches of the workshops, then made of stone and projecting for a good length away from the closed shutters, were transformed into beds for a crowd of the wretched, whose large number would not have been imagined during the daytime. Scattered around the city, lost among the multi- tudes, unnoticed amid the splendor of the nobility and the ostentatious comfort of the bourgeoisie, they seemed to emerge at night from the bowels of the earth, a sorrowful army that competed with the dogs for the leftovers that accumulated in the trash and who threw themselves behind the doors of the churches, on the doorsteps, and below the pedestals of the statues in order to seek rest or to conceal their amorous encounters.

1. The ancient postal service.

The provinces sent the greatest number to the capital: peasants dispossessed by the barons, old men incapable of working, women left alone in the most squalid poverty, enticed by the illusion of finding in Palermo the charity of a piece of bread; they would come on foot, arriving half-naked, starving, with all their instincts in flux; they became thieves and prostitutes, lived like animals, without a sense of today or tomorrow.

No one was interested in them, except during the not-infrequent periods of famine, when a proclamation would expel them from Palermo. But they would return a few months later, more numerous and ravenous.

Therefore, Blasco didn’t even look at those black masses of people huddled in the shadows amid the bases of the columns; he continued on his way, thinking back to the Prince of Iraci’s face with a wicked satisfaction. He had reached the Lattarini, a neighborhood made up of narrow streets and vicoli that intersect and twist and turn like an inextricable labyrinth.

In Arab times it was a spice market; it still retained something of its ancient trade and contained inns frequented by the provincials. Blasco cast a quick glance into the narrow streets immersed in the shadows, more out of instinct than worry, and he continued forward; but he had not taken more than three or four steps when he felt a violent punch on his shoulder and at the same time he heard a voice shout at him: “Die, dog!”

At the violent and sudden blow, Blasco staggered and was about to fall down, but he promptly regained his balance and turned in a flash, drawing his sword. In front of him he saw four men armed with short swords who were about to attack him; they were so close that he could hardly have made use of his weapon. He immediately understood that a moment of indecision would mean his death—an inglorious and unavenged death. Holding his sword by the blade, he then threw himself against the nearest one, flashing the tip of the sword between his eyes with such lightning speed that the assailant had to retreat from the unexpected counterattack. That was enough for Blasco to gain a bit of space to enable him to square off. But he had four adversaries in front of him and at his sides, and his back was defenseless; moreover, a strong burning in his right shoulder was making his arm grow weak. Nevertheless, he managed to take one of the assailants out of the fight, but at the same time he felt his vision cloud over, his legs buckle, his body weaken, and he fell to the ground with a groan at the same time as his adversary. With a cry of triumph, the three others threw themselves on top of him in order to finish him off, but at that exact point, two pistol shots resounded in the silence of the night.

One of the assailants fell heavily to the ground without saying a word; the others stopped in dismay, looking around, not knowing from where that sudden threat had struck them. But they still hadn’t recovered when they realized they

were being attacked by half a dozen men in black with concealed faces, armed with daggers and pistols. They found no other way out than to flee, abandoning their companions on the ground horribly gasping for breath.

Those men approached Blasco, who looked at that inexplicable scene with nearly lifeless eyes. One of them opened a dark lantern and cast its light on him. “The villains,” he said, “beat him up. We arrived too late. Come on, let’s take him away!”

They lifted Blasco, who was looking at them with increasing amazement, inca- pable of moving and suffering from the wound that had slashed his shoulder. One of them soaked a handkerchief in water and passed it over his forehead, and the coolness seemed to revive him; he let out an anguished wail.

“Damnation!” he murmured. “I too think that they beat me up.

Gently.

. . . Gently.”

But as soon as he had said those words, his head dropped over his shoulder and he fainted. How much time passed? He couldn’t nor would he have been able to say. It might have been an instant, an hour, or a year. He opened his eyes in a place that seemed completely unknown to him, as much as the near darkness that enveloped him allowed him to perceive, and in that darkness he thought he could see strange black wandering shadows, silent and faint, like ghosts. He himself had no awareness of reality and might have thought he was dreaming; in fact, he closed his eyes again and fell back into a deep sleep. He vaguely heard a voice say, “Let him rest; it will do him good.” Then he heard nothing else until the sun came up. When he awakened, looking at the room and the bed with curiosity and amazement, he tried to get up, but a sharp pain kept him nailed to the bed.

A voice admonished him: “Your Excellency, don’t move.”

He turned; on one side of the bed was a rather old, sprightly, and well-kept woman, neat, dressed in black with a white handkerchief on her chest and a face that seemed to be made of wax. She could have been mistaken for a nun if she hadn’t had long white hair arranged in a braided bun on the nape of her neck. Where was he? Who was this woman? Then he hadn’t been dreaming? It was an airy room, whose windows looked out on a garden; it had pale blue walls, a few pieces of ordinary furniture, and a large wrought-iron double bed, high like a throne, on which he was lying. He was recalling the assault, the wound, the unexpected help, the mysterious men and the words spoken by one of them: “We arrived too late!” Arrived? What did he mean? And this old woman? He looked at her with amazement and not without a certain satisfaction; she sat there knitting, smiling gently, with a maternal expression on her face.

After a minute of contemplation, he asked her, “Who are you, good woman, and who brought me here?”

The woman didn’t answer him; she got up, adjusted the tucking of the sheet, and in turn asked, “How does Your Excellency feel? Well? Praise the Madonna del Carmine! But don’t move, because you could undo the bandages.”

He just then realized that he was bandaged. Who had bandaged him? A doctor, certainly; but who had called him? Perhaps the old woman? He said, “I won’t move, but tell me, who are you, and where am I?”

“As you can see, it’s my house. I am a poor woman, Zia Nora, the mother of Baldassare. Do you not know him, Your Excellency, Baldassare?”

Blasco looked at her dumbfounded; with all those references he knew less than before. Who was this Baldassare? He had never heard the name among his acquaintances. Meanwhile he was being cared for and attended to. But he felt something like an air of mystery around him. He began to think. He had to inform Coriolano della Floresta of what had happened to him; surely his friend must have been worried at not seeing him return. Who knows what he would say!

“Listen, Zia Nora, I would like to see your son.”

“Baldassare? . . . But he is working.”

“Where does he work?”

“At the Oratory of Santa Cita, with Maestro Giacomo Serpotta.”

“And when will he return? I need him; I would like to send someone to my house.”

“Do not worry, because it has been done.”

“Done? How? And they knew who I was and where I lived?” “They did, Your Excellency.”

Blasco was passing from one amazement to the next. The words he had heard when he had fallen down returned again to him: “We arrived too late.” So that aid hadn’t been sent by chance; those mysterious saviors had known that something was being plotted against him. How had they known? And why had they rushed to save him? What interest would lead people who were unknown to him to put their lives at risk by confronting such malefactors? All these thoughts swirled around Blasco’s head and he was bewildered; his attempts to pull a word out of the mouth of the woman were in vain. Either she knew nothing or she was sly and was pretending not to know or understand. She never answered him directly and would change the subject when Blasco pressed her with questions.

It was fortunate that Coriolano della Floresta arrived at that point.

The cavaliere entered without haste or revealing great emotion, while showing an attentive interest on his face.

“Well, my poor friend, what befalls you?” he said, gently taking his hand. “Don’t you see?” Blasco replied with a smile.

Coriolano looked at the old woman who had approached the bed and said, “And this good woman?”

“I am Zia Nora, the mother of Baldassare, the stucco worker.”

“I don’t know him,” Coriolano said. “Could he be that young man who came to give me the news?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“He did well . . . he told me that he picked you up at the corner of Via Lattarini.

You were wounded.”

“Whether it was he who picked me up, I don’t know,” Blasco answered. “I know that he wasn’t alone and that . . . there is some mystery here, my friend.”

Coriolano looked around and said to the old woman, “Has the doctor been here?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“Will he return?”

“At noon.”

“Do me a favor, Zia Nora, go and call him now; I would like to speak to him . . . I will wait here.”

“Right away, Your Excellency.” The woman took a shawl and left.

Coriolano closed the door and, pulling a chair closer to the bed, said, “Now we are alone. So, tell me how it happened.”

Blasco told him everything in detail.

“You understand,” he then said, “that there is some mystery.” “What mystery?”

“Let’s begin with the assault. Those men were probably following me or were lying in wait; I don’t think that I was mistaken for someone else.” “I too would be of the same opinion.”

“Who could have been the organizer?”

“You don’t think that they acted on their own?”

“Bah! Some despicable people, some commoners. I never had anything to do with them unless they are assassins hired by the Beati Paoli.”

“Oh! Oh! And how do you infer that?”

“They were always threatening Don Raimondo, Duke of Motta, and I was his friend.”

“Ah! The Beati Paoli never strike the friends of their enemies; and then, be assured that they already know that you no longer have relations with the Duke of Motta.”

“And so? . . . You see, then, that the mystery deepens.”

“It could be.”

“Then there is that unexpected help.”

“Hmm! That some good people save a man from the clutches of malefactors doesn’t seem like a mystery to me.”

“And those words: ‘We arrived too late.’”

“But it’s very natural. They regretted not passing there sooner so as to prevent your injury also.”

“And how did they know that it was me?”

“You are not an unknown person by now. You were often seen with the duchess.

. . . Someone certainly recognized you.”

“And they knew that I am staying at your house?” “He could very well have been a neighbor.”

“And excuse me, why were those saviors masked?”

“Well! It’s nothing new, to go out wearing masks at night so as not to be recognized.

There are many reasons.”

“You find everything so natural, and to me, it instead seems that there is some mystery.”

“Why do you worry about it?”

“Because I would like to know to whom I owe my life.”

“But to these good people who are giving you shelter, apparently.” “They are also mysterious characters.”

“Hmm! You always see some mystery around you! Let it go let’s talk about something else. You cannot imagine the guilt that I felt and still feel for what happened to you.”

“And what do you have to do with it?”

“Goodness! If I hadn’t left, if I had stayed with you, you certainly wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“They wounded me from behind, dishonorably, and they would have done it anyway. You have nothing to do with it, Coriolano.”

“That may be so, but I should not have left you alone; especially since the Prince of Iraci was at Casa Lungarini last night.”

“What? Would you really think that?”

“Didn’t I once tell you that you had signed a promissory note to the prince and to the duchess and that they would make you pay?”

“With such a cowardly murder? Oh, no, no; I don’t want to believe it!” Coriolano shrugged his shoulders.

“Who could have had an interest in doing away with you?”

Blasco closed his eyes; his face expressed a repugnance at the belief that a gentleman like the Prince of Iraci, and even more, a lady so beautiful and charming as the duchess, could have plotted a murder. But Coriolano’s words had such a tone of confidence that the effort he made to reject that certainty was overwhelmed and vanquished.

A little while later the surgeon arrived, a little old man dressed in black. Coriolano asked him, “Do you think that the wounded man can be carried in a litter to my house?”

The surgeon nodded respectfully and said, “Barring Your Excellency’s opinion, I would say no; at least not for four or five days . . . the wound is not fatal, but it’s serious. The blow was made too high, and the blade slid along the bone, which lessened its fury and prevented it from penetrating deeper. You had a narrow escape!”

“Thank you, signore,” Coriolano said to the surgeon.

After the surgeon had examined the bandages and left, Coriolano took his leave. “Cheer up,” he said to Blasco. “I will come to see you later; if you want anything, some books . . . in order to help you pass the time.”

“Thank you, whatever you think. But, excuse me, relieve me of a doubt. If these people knew me, why didn’t they take me to your house?”

Coriolano seemed struck by that simple question, but he immediately resumed his slight smile and calm manner.

“What do you want me to tell you? Those are things that are thought of after the fact. They thought that I could be frightened . . . who knows? Besides, why do you want to torment yourself? The important thing is that you get well soon; then we’ll try together to clear up what you think is a mystery. Arrivederci. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the publisher:

1. When you think of Sicily, what images, sensations, or feelings come to mind?

2. Who are the Beati Paoli and what organization(s) would you compare them to, which operate elsewhere in the world today?

3. What is the most memorable and moving scene from Sicilian Avengers, and how does the author’s writing style achieve this impact on the reader?

4. Which positive or negative character traits of individuals or groups in the narrative are most jarring in juxtaposition, and why?

5. Imagine yourself playing a part in this story. Who would you play? What draws you to them?

6. How do tensions between the privileged and the disenfranchised manifest themselves in the narrative?

7. What remnants of the social and cultural heritage of the eighteenth century persist to this day in Sicily?

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