Part 32 (1/2)

Twelve.

”There are three Corsicas,” the saying goes. ”The pilferers of the seas, the bandits of the ground, and the Brothers of the Unions.”

”They are the water, wind, and fire, but-for the mercy of the world-they shall never unite.”

”Until the day of the plague is called, and the world brought to its knees.”

But that was just legend and myth, rhymes without reason. Or so the few people that knew the inhabitants of the small island, closer to Italy than France, prayed.

Because to know the Corsicans was to fear them.

The island is ruled by that fear, always has been.

In 550 B.C. the Romans conquered the island, only to be slaughtered legion after legion for decades until they left, a beaten and shattered empire.

The Vandals, Byzantines, and Moors all arrived, all seemed to conquer, all were driven away b.l.o.o.d.y and broken. Italians and French both tried, both died.

In the Second World War the Germans lost more men and materiel in their brief occupation of the less than 3,500-square-mile island than they did to the French, Greek, and Polish Resistance movements combined.

And Corsica remained.

Oh, some things changed-the harbor at the mouth of Girolata still had the Roman sentry tower and German artillery emplacements-now a church and school.

The Haute-Corse still used Moorish roads and Vandals' field ca.n.a.ls-to tend to the thin crops of olives and wheat that the island produced.

Sartene, Corte, and L'ile-Rousse still carefully maintained the French underground storage grottoes-if storing things other than wine and olives in these more modern times.

But the heart of the island and its violent people who lived by vendetta and blood feuds remained essentially as it was in the days of the Lombard Kingdom. True to the other well-known saying of the Corsicans.

”My enemy may bleed me, but I will learn from that blood and it will drown my killers.”

In the heart of the island-amid the almost jungle undergrowth and rock formations of the maquis-the small village of Cammeo sits as a virtual doorway to the imposing Mount Cinto. The ancestral home of all the Unions of the Corsican Brotherhood, Cammeo grows olives, processes wheat into thick black bread, and allows no strangers within.

There are no hotels, hostels, or inns here. No one will offer you a room or a bed. There are no restaurants, gas stations, hospitality centers, or attractions to draw the casual tourist. And any that might be found in the sleepy, harmless-looking village come nightfall will be significantly the worse for wear by morning.

It's not that the people aren't friendly. Like most island people of the Mediterranean, they are easygoing and casual. But they have protected themselves in this manner for generations and have thereby become known as the safest safe haven in the world.

Which was why many of the people of Cammeo looked with open concern and violence at the six outsiders that had been brought to refuge in the cave homes halfway up the mountain behind the village.

But they'd been brought with the blessing of the Council and that ended all open discussion. Besides, a more ocontroversial topic was sweeping the dusty, dark streets of Cammeo not even an hour after the strangers had settled in.

The Council had called for a tribunale-a meeting of the leaders of all the clans of Corsican Unions on the island and around the world. They would all be coming within two days to the church hall. Not just a meeting of Union heads or a convening of the Council itself, the tribunale was a centuries-old tradition for settling disputes within the Brotherhood itself.

The word had circulated quickly that Franco DiBenetti-clan leader of the Cammeo Brotherhood-had directly challenged the Council.

And that he had enough support within the various factions and Unions of the Brotherhood to force this tribunal, where the world's Corsican leaders would decide the outcome.

Where the losing side would die painfully.

Three heavily armed men sitting in the rocks outside the small house carefully studied Franco as he came up. Never, in their lifetime, had a man directly challenged a Council ruling. It was a nearly unthinkable thing to do.

But the man was of Cammeo, so must be taken seriously. And his argument-snippets of which had been circulating in the hours since their arrival-was such that their Corsican blood boiled, and their warrior souls called out for vengeance.

But to challenge the Council...

They nodded noncommittally toward him as he pa.s.sed.

Franco ignored them as he walked up to the house. His mind was far from the coming political/life battle, distracted from issues of ethnic ritual and tradition. Instead his mind wandered over the problem of how to deal with the men waiting for him inside.

He pounded three times on the door, then let himself in.

The central room was empty. A table with five chairs at its center; on the table a cork mat with a loaf of black bread, a spread of olive paste and loose olives, and a razor-sharp knife with an eight-inch blade.

Franco hesitated. The loaf was intact-imperfectly round, crust hard and smooth-which meant, in Corsican parlance, This place is safe for our friends. But we do not yet know if you are our friend.

Had the loaf been sliced, it would've meant that he was welcome, among allies. If one piece was missing, it meant friends open to persuasion. But intact...

He closed the door behind him. ”In bocca al lupo,” he said in a strong voice to the emptiness.

”Crepi il lupo,” a smallish man responded as he stepped out of the one bedroom. Everything about him seemed measured, planned; every step, gesture, or expression planned out to the most infinite detail.

”Crepi il lupo,” a second man said as he stepped out of the kitchen. He was huge, well over six-five, 240 pounds. He held a cold leg of lamb in his hand, and it wouldn't have surprised Franco one bit to find the rest of the dismembered animal just behind the big man.

Franco turned as a third man moved out of the shadows to his right. He'd come from no room, no alcove or closet, must've been in the room within Franco's sight all the time. But he'd been invisible to the cautious Corsican leader, completely still and part of the shadowed woodwork.

”f.u.c.k the wolf,” he mumbled in English. ”Let's talk business.”

”Thank you all,” Franco said pleasantly as he sat at the head of the table. ”I owe you each a favor in return for your coming. You have my word on that.”

”What makes you think you're going to be around long enough to do me any favors?” the small one said.”

”Show's not till tomorrow,” the big man mumbled. ”You could be a memory by then.”

Franco shrugged. ”But what a happy memory,” eh? He smiled. ”What does it hurt to talk?”

The quiet one looked him in the eyes. ”Council'll have the b.a.l.l.s of anyone who's with you if you lose. I say we should wait until it's over.”

But no one at the table got up.

”Well, the Council has their schedule. I have mine,” Franco said lightly. ”Now, are we done with the bulls.h.i.+t, or what? None of you would be here if you gave a s.h.i.+t what happens tomorrow.”

”We're not here because of you,” the big man said clearly.

”And the Council is full of zucconi odiosi,” the quiet man said without moving. ”As you are, Franco.”

Franco smiled at the small one. ”Let's not get personal.”

”We're here because it's personal,” the small man continued. ”We each lost someone at Le Sangue Bambini.” Il Luogo dei Bambini che Sanguinano.