Ippolito and Orsino had already acquired certain fixed habits in their
several occupations, so that they rarely failed to meet at the same
regular hours and then separate again, each doing the same or similar
things day after day. Such regularity becomes a second nature in remote
places where there is little chance that anything unexpected should
happen.
Orsino had really not enough to do, after he had once familiarised
himself with his surroundings. So long as San Giacinto had remained, it
had been different, for he had great plans, and had spent much time in
riding about the country with an engineer from Palermo who was to build
the light railway round Etna. San Giacinto had now gone back to Rome,
however, leaving his cousin in charge of Camaldoli, with directions to
manage things with an easy hand, so as not to prejudice the people
against the work of the railway when it should be begun. To do this
meant, practically, to leave the tenants to their own devices, unless it
were possible to help them in any way to which they should not object.
At the same time, there were certain defensive measures which were
always necessary, for no one knew when the brigands might grow weary of
Noto and appear on the slopes of Etna again to avenge their friend
Ferdinando Pagliuca.
Orsino used to ride about a good deal, more for the sake of exercise
than for anything he could accomplish, and he carried his rifle now as a
matter of habit, but rarely took one or two of the carabineers with him.
He began to believe that there were not really any outlaws at all, and
that Ferdinando's unknown friend had left that part of the country.
Ippolito, as a priest, went about unarmed, and, being naturally
fearless, he rambled about as he pleased. Almost every day he walked to
Santa Vittoria and spent an hour at the organ. Orsino accompanied him,
when there was any reason for going to the village, but it did not amuse
him to hear his brother's music. In fact, it was rather a relief to him
not to hear the piano constantly at his elbow, as he heard it when
Ippolito played in their joint sitting-room in Rome.
On the afternoon of the day on which Concetta had walked to the grocer's
shop, Ippolito strolled up to the small church as usual. There was a
little lame boy who had discovered the priest's habits, and used to hang
about in the afternoon in the hope of earning a penny by calling the fat
sacristan to come and blow the organ. He was not strong enough to blow
it himself, and was content and glad to get a copper or two for limping
into the village with his message. Ippolito now had a key of his own to
the church, and went inside while the man was coming. Each day, during
the twenty minutes or so which generally elapsed, he worked at the back
of the instrument, repairing with bits of wire a number of trackers that
ran from the pedals to a wooden stop set up on one side of the organ. At
some former time the connexions had been repaired with waxed string,
which the hungry church mice had gnawed to pieces. It was a troublesome
job, requiring patience and some mechanical skill, as well as two or
three simple tools which Ippolito had brought from Rome and now left in
the organ until the work should be finished.
Instead of the sacristan, a big boy appeared on this particular day, the
same who had carried the holy water for the priest who had come down to
Camaldoli when Ferdinando had been killed. He explained that the
sacristan had been sent on an errand to Bronte by his brother, the
grocer, and had left him, the boy, to do duty at the bellows if needed.
Ippolito thought nothing of the matter, and sat down to make music, as
usual. The days were growing very long, and he generally regulated his
stay in the church by the sun rather than by his watch. Sometimes the
fat sacristan came round from behind, perspiring, and declaring that his
brother needed him at home.
Meanwhile Concetta had gone down the road to the cemetery just beyond
the shoulder of the hill, out of sight of the village and the little
church in which Ippolito was playing the organ. It was her hour, and he
had grown used to seeing her sitting on the curbstone by the churchyard
gate every day when he went home just before sunset. When she passed the
church and heard the music through the door that was left ajar, she knew
also who was there, and her eyes darkened as she went by, and she drew
her shawl more closely about her head. And she recognised the priest's
light step when he came by the cemetery gate an hour later, and she
always turned her face away that she might not see him.
The people knew her, too, and most of them pitied her, and all respected
her sorrow. Some of the labourers who came down from the hill farm, by
the paths that turned into the main road just at the end of the
churchyard, used to touch their hats when they passed her, and, when she
chanced to be looking, she nodded gravely acknowledging their greeting.
They knew she was half mad, but the madness of a great sorrow has always
been respected by simple folks who feel seldom, but keenly, and think
little. The peasants generally passed about sunset on their way into the
village.
To-day Concetta came to the gate as usual, and when she reached it
Francesco was no longer uppermost in her thoughts. At the sight of the
black cross that marked the last grave on the left, the whole world
vanished again, and her sorrow came down like a darkness between her and
all life. She stood with dry eyes and compressed lips, grasping the iron
rails that were hot with the level sun, and out of the long, low mound
rose the face and figure of the well-loved man.
There can be nothing intellectual in the spasm of a great sorrow, in the
blind grasping upon emptiness for what is not, in the heart-famine that
no living thing can satisfy. Such grief brings no thoughts, for it is
the very contrary of thinking. It is only when each returning convulsion
has subsided that thought comes back, and then it comes uncertainly like
the sense of touching a small object through a heavy pall.
Concetta had no consciousness of the passing of time, as she stood at
the gate, nor for a long while afterwards, when she had sat down upon
the curbstone in her accustomed attitude, with her shawl drawn down over
her face, shielding it from the low rays of the sinking sun, and from
the sight of the world that was so desolate for her. As spring warmed to
summer, no one passed that way who could help it, for the road was dusty
and hot.
Two of the foot-carabineers passed her, returning to Santa Vittoria from
their regular patrol of the high-road, their carbines slung over their
shoulders and their pipeclayed cross-belts gleaming white in the sun.
They knew her, too, and barely glanced at her as they went by. She did
not even raise her head, though she remembered, now, that she had come
to wait for Francesco Pagliuca, and she was glad that the patrol had
marched up again, for he must be following them, and could thus not be
met by them. She knew that he would come on horseback. As she strained
her ears to catch the distant sound of hoofs, the savage longing for
revenge began to burn again in her heart. Surely he must have come for
that, and not really for love of Aliandra Basili. If he reached the
cemetery in time, he could kill Ippolito, the priest, as he came down
from the church. She would show him just where to stand with his gun, at
the corner of the wall, and she would stand beside him; and then, if he
were quick, he could get down half-way to Camadoli, near the cross-roads
and kill Orsino too, when he came up hastily to see his dead brother.
The vision of much blood reddened before her aching eyes, as she
listened for the horse's hoofs. If only he could come before Ippolito,
she thought, and she listened also for the priest's light step behind
her.
Francesco came first. She saw him far down the road before the first
sound reached her. He was riding leisurely up the steep way, a broad hat
drawn over his eyes, against the level sun, that gleamed like fire on
the barrel of his rifle. She could see that from time to time he looked
behind him quickly. He was warned already, she thought. So much the
better. If only he would quicken his speed a little. Ippolito almost
always passed the graveyard before the sun was quite down. Her heart
beat very fast as she heard the clink of the horse's iron shoes against
the stones, and then the rattle of the tiny pebbles that flew up and
fell to right and left at every step.
She rose when he was within fifty yards of her, and threw the black
shawl back from her splendid black hair. He knew her face and would stop
when he recognised her. She remembered the sound of his voice, and how
he had said in her hearing that she was very beautiful, and once when
she had been alone in her father's shop, he had come in and had talked
strangely, and she had been a little frightened, but Ferdinando had
entered just then. She remembered it all distinctly. It did not matter,
now, for he had come to avenge Ferdinando. The bullets that should do
justice were already in the Winchester that gleamed so red in the
setting sun.
She stood upright, with her head thrown back, that he might recognise
her. He stopped beside her.
'Concetta!' he exclaimed, smiling, as he smiled at every pretty woman.
'What brings you here? What are you doing out here in the road alone?'
She hardly saw that he smiled, in her own earnestness.
'That brings me here,' she said, pointing through the iron gate. 'Do you
see? It is the last one on the left, with the black cross.'
Francesco looked.
'I see a grave,' he said indifferently.
'It is your brother's grave,' said the girl. 'Ferdinando lies there.'
'Oh--I understand.'
The young man glanced up and down the road, and dismounted from his
horse, passing his arm through the bridle. He advanced close to the
gate, and looked through it in silence for several seconds.
'Poor fellow!' he exclaimed, turning away again, but without any very
strong feeling in his tone.
Concetta grasped his arm roughly, to draw him after her, and spoke
rapidly into his ear.
'The priest Saracinesca will be coming down the road from the village at
any moment. Come quickly, come with me. Behind the corner of the wall.
You can shoot him from there, and I will hold your horse.' She dragged
him along and the horse followed, led by his arm. 'No one will come.
When he is dead, mount quickly and ride down to the cross roads above
Camaldoli, by the fields, and wait behind the shrine. I will run all the
way and tell the other Saracinesca that his brother is dead in the road.
He will run out,--from behind the shrine you can kill him easily. Then
ride for the woods of Noto. The brigands are there, and you will be
safe.'
Almost before he knew where she was leading him, he found himself behind
the corner of the cemetery, on the side away from the village. In
digging the foundations of the wall, the dark tufo had been broken out
of the earth and piled high up at a short distance, so that there was a
sort of deep trench between the wall and the heap of stones, out of
which the poisonous yellow spurge grew in great bunches. It would have
been impossible to select a better spot for an ambush in what was really
an open country.
With the unconscious ease of a country-bred woman, Concetta, taking the
bridle, backed the horse into the trench so as to leave room in front of
him for herself and Francesco to be under cover of the wall. She had
scarcely done speaking when they were already in position.
'Get your rifle ready!' she said in a whisper, at the same time taking
hold of the leathern belt by which the Winchester was slung. 'He may be
here at any moment. Be quick!'
'But I do not wish to kill anybody,' said Francesco, at last, with an
uneasy laugh.
Concetta started and stared at him, too much astonished to despise him
yet.
'You do not wish to kill the Saracinesca!' Her face expressed blank
amazement. 'But then, why have you come?'
'Not to murder anyone, at all events. You are quite mad.'
'Mad? I? Mad? Is not the body of your murdered brother lying there, on
the other side of that wall? Does not his blood cry out for the blood of
those who killed him? Have you not come to do justice? Have I not
brought you to a safe place? And you call me mad!'
'Quite mad,' reiterated Francesco, coolly.
She stared at him a moment longer, and an immense contempt rose in her
eyes.
'Give me your rifle,' she said in a different tone. 'I will kill him,
since you are afraid.'
'I am not in the least afraid,' answered Francesco, with the too ready
resentment against a woman's accusation of cowardice, which a real
coward always shows. 'Not that I see why I should risk being sent to
penal servitude because my brother got himself killed in a foolish
affair--'
'Foolish?' Concetta's black eyes blazed suddenly from contempt to anger.
'Foolish, yes! Ferdinando--I am sorry for him, of course--but he was a
fool.'
The back of one little white hand had struck him across the mouth,
almost before the word was out.
'Infame!' she cried, using the strongest word in her language.
He did not care for the light blow, still less for the word. She was
matchlessly beautiful in her anger, as the blood rose a little in her
white cheeks, and her nostrils dilated with wrath. The shawl had fallen
almost to the ground, and revealed her perfect throat and exquisitely
graceful figure as she faced him. The colour rose in his face, and his
lips reddened, and his eyes sparkled badly. Almost before the hand that
had struck him had fallen to her side, he had caught her in his arms,
and his lips were on hers, smothering her, hurting her, and he was
forcing her backwards against the heap of stones--not twenty yards from
his brother's grave.
She was lithe and strong, but she was no match for him. Yet, defending
herself as she could, like a wild animal, she bit his lip half through,
and as he started under the pain she wrenched her head aside and
screamed with all her might, once, before he got one of his hands over
her mouth.
But her scream had been heard. She had judged rightly that Ippolito
Saracinesca would be coming along the road in a few moments, to meet his
death, as she had hoped. Instead, he saved her, for at her cry, being
but a few yards from the corner of the wall, he sprang forward, saw a
woman struggling against a man, recognising neither, leapt into the
trench and had Francesco by the back of the collar in a moment,
twisting the tough starched linen with all the might of his by no means
weak white hands. As Orsino had always said, Ippolito was more of a man
than anybody suspected, and there was the good blood of his good race in
him, and all the fearlessness.
In an instant he had dragged Francesco backwards, half strangled, up the
little declivity of the trench, and out into the middle of the road. So
far he had done nothing more, perhaps, than was necessary to save the
girl. But having got him out, the man's instinct against the wretch that
does violence to a woman took possession of him, and holding Francesco
by the back of the collar in front of him with his right hand, he struck
him half a dozen times quickly and violently on the side of the head
with his left fist, till Francesco, stunned and choked, suddenly fell in
a heap in the road.
Concetta had struggled to her feet at once, and stood leaning against
the corner of the wall. With a mad horror she saw that she had been
saved by the man she had wished to kill. The horse leisurely picked its
way up through the stones and stood waiting in the road.
At that moment, four peasants coming home from the hill farm came down
into the road from behind the other end of the long wall of the
cemetery. They naturally glanced downwards before going up towards the
village, and seeing the priest standing over a fallen man, they hurried
to the spot. Francesco was already beginning to get to his feet.
Ippolito drew back a little to be ready if he should be attacked, as he
naturally expected. But a moment later the peasants had recognised
Francesco, had helped him up, and were dusting his clothes, while they
scowled at Ippolito.
'It is well that you come, friends,' said Concetta's clear, low voice.
'A moment later and another Saracinesca would have killed another
Pagliuca.'
Ippolito stared at her, dumbfounded by her speech, and then looked at
the grim and angry faces of the lean brown men who surrounded Francesco.
He could not conceive that a woman whom he had saved from worse than
death but a moment earlier should turn upon him instantly, as she was
doing.
But she could not help it, for she was half mad, and the idea of
injuring the Saracinesca was always uppermost in her unsettled brain.
She had come to warn Francesco of danger, because she had loved his
brother, and loved the name; and she had done her best to make him do a
murder then and there.
'Help Don Francesco to his horse,' she said to the peasants. 'Take him
round to the back of Don Taddeo's house--not through the village--you
will meet the carabineers, and he is bleeding. They would see; there
would be questions. Go quickly--the patrol passed half an hour ago; the
next will come out in half an hour more.'
She foresaw everything. In a moment the men had helped Francesco to the
saddle, and they were moving away. He had not uttered a word, surprised,
bruised, and terrified as he was, and his lip was bleeding where
Concetta had bitten it. His face was white with fear, and he held a
handkerchief to his mouth, as he slowly rode away, leaving Concetta and
Ippolito standing in the road together.
Ippolito faced the girl quietly enough, but he meant to ask for an
explanation of some sort.
'Did you think that I should accuse him, though he is--what he is?' she
asked, speaking first. 'You saved me from that infamous beast--yes. I
thank you, though you are my enemy. But do not think that I value myself
higher than the blood of my bridegroom whom you killed. I would rather
lose body and soul together than not hurt a Saracinesca if I could, kill
you, if I could, give your bodies to dogs, if I could, send you
unconfessed to hell, if I could. And you thought that I would turn and
accuse a Corleone when I could accuse a Saracinesca? You do not know
us.'
She turned from him scornfully before he could answer a word. She had
found her little shawl, and she drew it about her face as she moved
away. He stood still a moment, looking after her in mute surprise. Then
he shook his head and turned towards Camaldoli, not yet understanding
that the beautiful girl was not quite sane, but speculating upon women
in general, as good priests sometimes do in total ignorance of the
subject.
Orsino looked grave when Ippolito told him at supper what had happened.
'The girl is mad,' he said sadly, for he was himself the cause of her
madness. 'And she is a Sicilian. We understand these people very little,
after all. I sometimes think we never shall.'
'Nobody could possibly understand that kind of woman,' observed
Ippolito.
'No. Put such a scene as that on the stage, if it were possible, and the
audience would hiss it, as a monstrous improbability. They would say
that the girl would fall at the feet of her preserver, forget her hatred
for ever, or possibly turn it all against the man from whom she had been
saved. Unfortunately things are different in real life. Poor Concetta
will hate us all the more because one of us has helped her in danger. It
is true that she is mad. All the people say so.'
'Because she sits half the day outside the cemetery? It is not a month
since Ferdinando died. One need not be mad to feel a great sorrow for a
whole month.'
'No. Perhaps not. I should like to know what that fellow is here for. It
means no good to anyone. I have no doubt that he is in communication
with the outlaws, and she is quite capable of trying to help them to
catch us.'
'Then you really believe in the existence of the brigands, after all,'
said Ippolito, with a laugh, for Orsino did not often speak of the
outlaws seriously.
'We all know that they exist. But we have trouble in realising that they
do. We know the names of many of them. Everybody does. But of course,
with so many soldiers about, we feel safe. I wish you would carry a
weapon, Ippolito.'
'I? I am a priest. Nobody will touch me.'
'Do not be too sure. There are even priests who wear a revolver under
their cassocks down here.'
'I could hardly carry a rifle,' remarked Ippolito, laughing again. 'And
imagine carrying a knife in these days--one of us! It sounds like the
last century.'
'A knife is a very good weapon, nevertheless. The peasants say that a
knife has more shots in it than a revolver, and does not miss fire.'
'I hate the idea of carrying a weapon.'
'Yes, no doubt. But suppose that matters had turned out a little
differently to-day, and that Francesco Pagliuca, instead of being an
abject coward, had turned upon you and fought you for his life. What
could you have done with your hands?'
'A priest has no business to be fighting,' said Ippolito. 'When he
fights he must take the consequences.'
'But you could not escape it to-day. The cause was just and urgent. As a
man, you could not have done otherwise.'
'Certainly not. I admit that, and the fellow was scared. He had a
Winchester rifle across his back. It got into the way when I twisted his
collar, I remember. Do you know that I never struck anyone before? It
was rather a curious sensation.'
'You have struck me often enough,' laughed Orsino. 'You used to fight
like a wildcat when we were little boys. It is a pity that you turned
priest.'
'I am very glad I did,' said Ippolito. 'Besides, I do not like fighting.
It was different when we were children and pummelled each other.'
'Look here,' said Orsino. 'I shall feel anxious about you after this
affair. Unless you will carry some weapon, I shall have you escorted to
Santa Vittoria and back by a carabineer.'
'How absurd!'
'I will, I assure you. If you were like that miserable Francesco
Pagliuca, I should send four men with you. But I know that you could
make a pretty good defence alone, if you had anything to fight with.'
'Of course if you insist in that way, I must. I utterly refuse to be
followed about by soldiers. It is too ridiculous. Have you got a knife?
Something that is easy to carry--'
'Two or three,' answered Orsino. 'There is a very nice bowie knife--one
of those American things made in England. It is convenient, for it has a
cross-hilt and a leathern sheath.'
He rose from the table and opened a drawer in an old-fashioned press,
from which he produced the weapon in question.
'There is a saddler in Rome who gets these things,' he observed, showing
it to his brother. 'You see it is really a dagger, for there is no
spring. It is made solid and straight and would go through anything, I
should think. Look at the thickness of the back of the blade, will you?
And the point is extremely fine. You could engrave with it, and yet it
is as strong as the rest.'
Ippolito turned the knife over and over.
'At all events it will be useful in cutting up the bits of leather I use
for mending the old organ,' he observed. 'My pocket knife is of hardly
any use.'
He sheathed the knife-blade and dropped it into the deep side pocket of
his cassock.
'Imagine me carrying a bowie knife!' he exclaimed, still inclined to
laugh.
'Imagine the feelings of Francesco Pagliuca this afternoon, if he had
thought you had one in your pocket, when you were behind him and
twisting his collar.' Orsino smiled grimly.
'My hands were good enough for such a beast,' answered Ippolito in a
tone of disgust.
Thus it was that Ippolito began to go armed, much against his will, for
he took his profession as a priest and a man of peace seriously. Orsino
was not even then half satisfied, and intended before long to try and
persuade him to carry a revolver instead of a knife.
But up at Santa Vittoria there was much talk of another sort on that
evening. As generally happens in such cases in Sicily, the carabineers
and the soldiers, though on the lookout for Francesco Pagliuca, were in
profound ignorance of the fact that he was now lodging for the second
night at the house of Taddeo the grocer, though there was now hardly a
man in the village who did not know it. The soldiers in Sicily are
matched as one to a thousand against a whole population of the most
reticent people in the world, bound together by that singular but
half-defined force, which is the mafia. Knowing the country perfectly
and well acquainted with the unchanging hours of the regular patrols in
the neighbourhood, Francesco might have stayed ten days in Santa
Vittoria in spite of the soldiers, even if he had been guilty of the
crimes which he did not at all mean to commit. Not a human being would
have informed against him, and if anyone had betrayed him, the
betrayer's own life would not have been worth much. They did not think
any the better of him, nor any the worse, because he was innocent of any
misdeed. He was a part of the idea of the mafia, a born Sicilian, who,
somehow, had been obliged to give up his birthright to Romans, who were
as much foreigners to the people of Santa Vittoria as Englishmen could
have been. It was their duty, to a man, for Sicily's sake and their own,
to stand by him as a Sicilian against all authority whatever. Besides,
they knew him, the Romans had killed his brother, whom they had also
known, and both he and his had always helped the outlaws against the
government. The peasants remembered and told their children how the
Corleone brothers had once led a dozen carabineers about the hills for
two days in search of the brigands, taking good care not to catch them.
It was not probable that the soldiers should ever get any information
against such popular persons, except by stratagem or accident.
And now Francesco sat in a long upper room at the back of Taddeo's
house, bathing his sore face with vinegar and water and telling his
story to the grocer and his brother, in his own way. And in many humble
little houses, the men were talking in low tones, telling each other how
the 'priest of the Saracinesca' had fallen upon Francesco Pagliuca,
after they had quarrelled over Ferdinando's grave, and had treacherously
twisted his collar and beaten him before he could get his gun into his
hand. And they discussed the matter in whispers. And one man, who had
loved Ferdinando, said nothing, but went out quietly from his house and
walked down over the black lands and set fire to three haystacks on the
Camaldoli estate, because the corn was not yet harvested, and there was
nothing else to burn at that time of year. In the morning everyone heard
of it and was glad, but no one ever knew who had set fire to the hay,
for the man who did it did not tell his wife.
But neither did Concetta tell her father truly what had happened to her.
She had been at the cemetery, she said, and the two gentlemen had met,
the priest and the layman, and had quarrelled, she knew not about what,
and the priest of the Saracinesca had caught Francesco Pagliuca
unawares by the neck. So her story corresponded with that of the
peasants and with that of Francesco.
For two reasons she could not tell her father the truth. If he had known
it, he would never have allowed her to leave the village alone again.
And he would most certainly have risen from the table, and would have
gone straight to Taddeo's house, where Francesco was, to kill him at
once, though Don Atanasio was an old man, having married very late in
life. It was true that since it was all over, and she had cast the blame
upon Ippolito, the hatred of her offended maidenhood for her cowardly
assailant was slowly and surely waking; and her white cheeks blushed
scarlet as though they had been struck, when she thought of it all. But
it was better that her father should not know, and she held her peace.
It was hardest of all to feel that she had almost had Francesco's rifle
in her hands, and that if he had not assailed her, there might by this
time have been one Saracinesca less in the world.
It would have done her good to see the haystacks flaming down in the
valley, and it would have brought a smile of satisfaction to her tragic
face to have heard what the peasants were whispering to one another in
all the little houses of the village that night.
No one said that it was a shame for an armed man to have been beaten by
an unarmed priest. They felt personally injured by what they called the
treachery of the latter in choking his antagonist, and they softly
cursed the Romans, and vowed to hurt them if they could. Generations of
their fathers had known generations of the Corleone, had been ground and
rack-rented by them, and had resisted their extortions with a cunning
that had often been successful. But now that the Pagliuca had lost their
birthright, that was all forgotten in the fact that they were Sicilians,
injured by Romans. No one said in defence of the Saracinesca that San
Giacinto had paid the Pagliuca more than twice the actual value of
Camaldoli. In the eyes of the peasants their old masters had been
ignominiously ejected from their home by Romans, and Ferdinando had done
a brave and honourable deed in trying to resist them. It was the duty of
every good Sicilian to stand by the Pagliuca against the Romans and
against the authorities, come what might. If this young Roman priest had
the overbearing courage to beat a Pagliuca on the high-road in broad
daylight, what might not his tall, black-browed brother be expected to
do, or what deed of violence might not follow at the hands of the
grey-haired giant who had been at Camaldoli, and who had momentarily
terrorised everyone? No one's life or property was safe while the
Saracinesca remained in the country. And they meant to remain. They had
cut down the brush around the house so that no one could creep up with a
rifle under safe cover, and they had strengthened the gate and were
restoring the tower. They had turned the monastery into a barrack for
the carabineers, and had quartered a company of infantry in the village.
Their power and their evident influence in Rome, since they had obtained
troops for their protection, made them ten times more hateful to men who
hated all authority. They wished that Ippolito had wounded Francesco
slightly with some weapon. Then he might have been arrested, and there
was not a man in the village who would have said a word in his favour.
Many would have perjured themselves to testify against him, in the hope
that he might really be sent to prison. The fact that he was a priest
went for nothing. He was not their own priest, and more than one
churchman had been in trouble in Sicily, before now.