The House of Savoy's King Umberto II was a humble sweet-natured man much beloved by the people, and he had approved the referendum on whether or not Italy should remain a nominal monarchy. He did not wish to remain a king if his people did not want him. And in this he was like his predecessors. The Savoy kings had always been unambitious rulers; their monarchies had been really democracies ruled by Parliament. The political experts were sure the referendum would be in favor of the monarchy.

The island of Sicily was counted on to give heavy majorities to retain the status quo. At this time the two most powerful forces on the island were Turi Guiliano, whose band controlled the northwest corner of Sicily, and Don Croce Malo, who with his Friends of the Friends controlled the rest of Sicily. Guiliano took no part in the election strategies of any political party. Don Croce and the Mafia exerted every effort to ensure the reelection of the Christian Democrats and the retention of the monarchy.

But to the surprise of everyone, the voters of Italy swept away the monarchy; Italy became a republic. And the Socialists and Communists made such a strong showing that the Christian Democrats tottered and almost fell. The next elections might see a godless, Socialist government ruling from Rome. The Christian Democratic party began marshaling all its resources to win the next election.

Don Croce was enraged. His people had done their job. They had made threats that frightened the villagers in all the rural areas, but obviously the threats had failed in the end. The Catholic Church had priests preaching against the Communists, and the nuns gave their charity baskets of spaghetti and olive oil only to those who promised to vote the Christian Democratic ticket. The church hierarchy in Sicily was stunned. It had distributed millions of lire in food, but the sly Sicilian peasant had swallowed the charitable bread and spit on the Christian Democratic party.

The biggest surprise had been Sicily. They elected many deputies to Parliament who belonged to the Socialist and Communist parties. In Sicily a trade union was still considered the work of the devil, and many industries and landowners refused to deal with them. What had happened?

Minister of Justice Franco Trezza was angry with his fellow Sicilians too -- a treacherous lot, cunning even when it brought them no profit, proud of their personal honor when they did not have a pot to piss in. He despaired of them. How could they have voted for the Socialists and Communists who would eventually destroy their family structure and banish their Christian God from all the magnificent cathedrals of Italy? There was only one person who could give him the answer to that question and the solution to the elections coming up that would decide the future political life of Italy. He sent for Don Croce Malo.

The poor people of Sicily, presented with the gift of a democratic vote for the first time in twenty years, had simply voted for the candidates and political parties that promised them the opportunity to purchase their own little bit of land for a minimal sum.

The peasants of Sicily who had voted for the left-wing parties and elected to abolish their beloved king would have been astonished to learn of the anger of all these high personages. They would have been amazed that the powerful nations of the United States, France and Great Britain were concerned that Italy was going to become an ally of Russia. Many of them had never even heard of Russia.

But they would have been horrified to know that their vote for the left-wing parties was a vote against their family structure, a vote against the Virgin Mary and the Holy Catholic Church whose holy images lit by red candles adorned every kitchen and bedroom in Sicily; horrified to know that they had voted to turn their cathedrals into museums and banish their beloved Pope from the shores of Italy.

Minister of Justice Franco Trezza was a native of Sicily and a genuine anti-Fascist who had spent time in Mussolini's jails before escaping to England. He was a tall aristocratic-looking man with hair still jet black, though his full beard was peppered with gray. Though a true hero, he was also a thoroughgoing bureaucrat and politician, a formidable combination.

No. The Sicilians had voted to be given a piece of land for themselves and their families, not for a political party. They could not conceive of any greater joy in life; to work their own land, to keep what they produced by the sweat of their brow, for themselves and their children. Their dream of heaven was a few acres of grain, a vegetable garden terraced on a mountainside, a tiny vineyard of grapes, a lemon tree and an olive tree.

The Minister's office in Rome was huge, with massive antique furniture. On the walls were pictures of President Roosevelt and Winston Churchill. The windows were of stained glass and outside them was a little balcony. The Minister poured wine for his honored guest, Don Croce Malo.

Don Croce did not respond to any of this. He ate steadily, and had to admit to himself that the food in Rome was far better than the food in his native Sicily. The Don bent his huge emperor's head close over his dish of spaghetti filled with truffles; the great jaws chewed steadily and inexorably. Occasionally he wiped his thin mustache with his napkin. The imperial beak of a nose stood sentinel over each new dish brought in by the servants as if scenting them for some poison. The eyes darted back and forth over the lavishly burdened table. He never said a word as the Minister droned on about momentous affairs of state.

They finished up with a huge platter of fruits and cheeses. Then over the ceremonial cup of coffee and a balloon glass of brandy, the Don made himself ready to speak. He shifted his huge bulk in the inadequate chair, and the Minister hastily led him into a drawing room with overstuffed armchairs. He ordered a servant to bring in the coffee and brandy and then dismissed him. The Minister himself poured the Don's espresso, offered a cigar which was refused, then prepared himself to hear the Don's wisdom which he knew would be to the point.

They sat sipping wine and talking over the political picture in Sicily and the coming regional elections. Minister Trezza voiced his fears. If Sicily continued its leftist trend at the ballot boxes, the Christian Democratic party might well lose its control of the government. The Catholic Church might well lose its legal position as the official state religion of Italy.

"I can deliver Sicily to you in the next election," he said to Minister Trezza. "But we have need of armed men. You must assure me that you will not move against Turi Guiliano."

Don Croce regarded the Minister steadily. He was not impressed with the aristocratic profile, blunt thick features, the forcefulness. And he despised the Minister's beard which he thought an affectation. This was a man who could impress in Rome but never in Sicily. Yet this was the man who could consolidate the Mafia's power in Sicily. It had been a mistake in the old days to sneer at Rome; the result had been Mussolini and the Fascists. Don Croce had no illusions. A left-wing government could be serious about reforms, about the sweeping out of the subterranean government of the Friends of the Friends. Only a Christian Democratic government would maintain the legal processes that made Don Croce invulnerable, and he agreed to come to Rome with the satisfaction of a faith healer visiting a horde of crippled supplicants who suffered mostly from hysteria. He knew he could effect a cure.

The Minister stroked his small beard. "What kind of man is this Guiliano?" he asked reluctantly. "He is far too young to be so ferocious. Even for a Sicilian."

"That is the one promise you must make," answered Don Croce.

"Ah, no, he's a gentle lad," said Don Croce, ignoring the Minister's sardonic smile and failing to mention that he had never met Guiliano.

Minister Trezza shook his head. "I don't think that possible," he said. "A man who has killed so many carabinieri cannot be called a gentle lad."

It was true. Don Croce thought that Guiliano had been particularly reckless during the past year. Since the time he had executed "Father" Dodana, Guiliano had unleashed his fury against all his enemies, Mafia and Rome alike.

"That is the one promise I cannot make," said Minister Trezza.

He had begun sending letters to the newspapers proclaiming he was the ruler of Western Sicily, let Rome do what it may. He also sent letters forbidding the carabinieri of the towns of Montelepre, Corleone and Monreale to go out on patrol in the streets after midnight. His explanation for this was that his men had to get to certain points to visit friends or family, and he did not want them arrested in their beds or shot when they came out of their houses or when he himself wished to visit his family in Montelepre.

The newspapers printed these letters with gleeful sidebars. Salvatore Guiliano forbade the cassetta. This bandit forbids the police from performing their lawful patrols in the towns of Sicily? What impudence. What colossal effrontery. Did this young man think he was the King of Italy? There were cartoons showing carabinieri hiding in an alley of Montelepre as the huge figure of Guiliano stepped majestically into the square.

Of course there was only one thing the Maresciallo of Montelepre could do. Every night he sent patrols into the streets. Every night his garrison, beefed up to one hundred men, were at alert, guarding the entries into the town from the mountains so that Guiliano could not mount an attack.

But on the one occasion he sent his carabinieri into the mountains, Guiliano and his five chiefs -- Pisciotta, Terranova, Passatempo, Silvestro and Andolini -- each leading a band of fifty men, ambushed them. Guiliano showed no mercy, and six carabinieri were killed. Other detachments fled from a devastating fire of machine guns and rifles.

Rome was up in arms, but it was this very recklessness of Guiliano that could serve them all now if only Don Croce could convince this eggplant of a Minister of Justice.

"Trust me," Don Croce said to Minister Trezza. "Guiliano can serve our purposes. I will persuade him to declare war on the Socialist and Communist parties in Sicily. He will attack their headquarters, he will suppress their organizers. He will be my military arm on a broad scale. Then of course my friends and myself will do the necessary work that cannot be done in public."

Minister Trezza did not seem shocked by this suggestion, but he said in a supercilious voice, "Guiliano is already a national scandal. An international scandal. I have on my desk a plan from the Chief of Staff of the Army to move in troops to suppress him. There is a price of ten million lire on his head. A thousand carabinieri have been alerted to move to Sicily to reinforce the ones already there. And you ask me to protect him? My dear Don Croce, I expected you to help deliver him to us as you helped with the other bandits. Guiliano is the shame of Italy. Everyone thinks he must be eliminated."

Don Croce sipped his espresso and wiped his mustache with his fingers. He was a little impatient with this Roman hypocrisy. He shook his head slowly. "Turi Guiliano is far more valuable to us alive and doing heroic deeds in his mountains. The people of Sicily worship him; they say prayers for his soul and his safety. There is not a man on my island who will betray him. And he is far more cunning than all those other bandits. I have spies in his camp, but such is his personality that I don't know how loyal they are to me. That is the kind of man you talk about. He inspires affection from everyone. If you send your thousand carabinieri and your army and they fail -- and they have failed before -- what then? I tell you this: If Guiliano decides to help the leftist parties in the next election, you will lose Sicily and therefore, as you must surely know, your party loses Italy." He paused for a long moment and fastened his gaze on the Minister. "You must come to an accommodation with Guiliano."

"And how would all this be arranged?" Minister Trezza asked with the polite, superior smile that Don Croce despised. It was a Roman smile and the man was Sicilian born. The Minister went on. "I have it on good authority that Guiliano has no love for you."

Don Croce shrugged. "He has not endured for the last three years without being clever enough to forget a grudge. And I have a connection with him. Doctor Hector Adonis is one of my people, and he is also Guiliano's godfather and most trusted friend. He will be my intermediary and make my peace with Guiliano. But I must have the necessary assurances from you in some concrete form."

The Minister said sarcastically, "Would you like a signed letter saying I love the bandit I'm trying to catch?"

It was the Don's greatest strength that he never took notice of an insulting tone, a lack of respect, though he stored it away in his heart. He answered quite simply, his face an inscrutable mask. "No," he said. "Simply give me a copy of your Army Chief of Staff plans to mount a campaign against Guiliano. Also a copy of your order to send a thousand carabinieri reinforcements to the island. I will show them to Guiliano and promise him you will not implement the orders if he helps us to educate the Sicilian voters. That will not incriminate you later on -- you can always claim that a copy was stolen. Also I will promise Guiliano that if the Christian Democrats win the next election, he will receive a pardon."

The Minister pondered his decision. Don Croce lowered his massive head and said softly, "If the pardon is at all possible I would urge it."

"Ah, that no," Minister Trezza said. "A pardon is beyond my powers."

The Minister was striding up and down the room thinking out all the complications that could arise. Don Croce never moved his head or body to follow his movements. The Minister said, "Promise him the pardon in my name, but you must know now it will be difficult. The scandal may be too much. Why, if the newspapers even knew that the two of us met they would flay me alive and I would have to retire to my farm in Sicily and shovel shit and shear sheep. Now is it truly necessary for you to have copies of those plans and my order?"

The Minister saw the light. He saw, as Don Croce intended him to see, that in the end Don Croce must be rid of Guiliano, that the two of them could not exist together in Sicily. And that Don Croce would take all the responsibility for this, that the Minister need not concern himself in solving the problem. Certainly promises could be made. He had only to give Don Croce copies of the two military plans.

"A promise is not beyond your powers," Don Croce said. "And then if it can be done, very well. If you find it impossible, I will tell him the bad news."

"Nothing can be done without them," Don Croce said. His tenor voice was as powerful and convincing as that of a great singer. "Guiliano needs some proof that we two are friends and some prior reward from us for his services. We accomplish both when I show him the plans and promise that they will not be implemented. He can operate as freely as before without having to fight an army and extra police. My possession of the plans verifies my connection with you, and when the plans do not go into effect, it will establish my influence with Rome."

The Don nodded his head but did not speak. He sipped his espresso. The Minister was watching him intently and then said, "The two of you cannot exist together on such a small island."

The Don smiled. "I will make room for him," he said. "There is plenty of time."

Minister Trezza poured Don Croce another cup of espresso. "I agree," he said. "I trust in our friendship. Discretion is all. But I worry about your safety. When Guiliano performs his task and is not pardoned, surely he will hold you responsible."

Don Croce shifted his huge bulk in the chair and mused whether it would really be worthwhile making this olive-head of a Sicilian the Premier of Italy. But his very stupidity would be an asset to the Friends of the Friends, and if he turned treacherous he would be an easy man to destroy. Don Croce said in the sincere tone for which he was famous, "I thank you for your friendship and will do everything in my power to help you in your fortunes. We are agreed. I leave for Palermo tomorrow afternoon and would be grateful if you had the plans and other papers delivered to my hotel in the morning. As for Guiliano, if you cannot manage a pardon for him after he has done his work, I will arrange for him to vanish. To America, perhaps, or some other place where he cannot cause you any further trouble."

"Good, good," Minister Trezza said. "And remember this. If I can promise my party the votes of Sicily in the next election, and if then I can solve the problem of Guiliano with glory to the government, there is no telling how high my rise will be in the rule of Italy. But no matter how high, I will never forget you, my dear friend. You will always have my ear."

And so the two men parted. Trezza the Sicilian, who had chosen to uphold society, and Don Croce who regarded the structure and law of Rome as the devil put on earth to enslave him. For Don Croce believed in freedom, a freedom belonging personally to himself, which owed nothing to any other force, won only by the respect he earned from his fellow Sicilians. It was unfortunate, Don Croce thought, that fate opposed him to Turi Guiliano, a man after his own heart, and not this hypocritical scoundrel of a Minister.

Back in Palermo, Don Croce summoned Hector Adonis. He told him about his meeting with Trezza and the agreement to which they had come. Then he showed him the copies of the plans made by the government for their war against Guiliano. The little man was distressed, which was the effect the Don had hoped for.

"The Minister has promised me that these plans will be disapproved by him and never implemented," Don Croce said. "But your godson must use all his power to influence the next election. He must be firm and strong and not worry about the poor so much. He must think of his own skin. He must understand that an alliance with Rome and the Minister of Justice is an opportunity. Trezza commands all the carabinieri, all the police, all the judges. He may someday be the Premier of Italy. If that happens Turi Guiliano can return to the bosom of his family and perhaps even have a great career himself in politics. The people of Sicily love him. But for now he must forgive and forget. I count on you to influence him."

"May I take these plans with me to show Guiliano?" he asked.

Don Croce considered for a moment. He knew he would never get the plans back and that in turning them over he would be giving Guiliano a powerful weapon for the future. He smiled at Hector Adonis. "My dear Professor," he said, "of course you may take them with you."

Don Croce said sharply, "He's not a Communist, surely. Arrange for me to meet with Guiliano. I will convince him. We are the two most powerful men in Sicily. Why should we not work together? He refused before, but times change. Now this will be his salvation as well as ours. The Communists will crush us both with equal pleasure. A Communist state cannot afford a hero like Guiliano or a villain like myself. I will come to meet him wherever he wishes. And tell him that I guarantee the promises of Rome. If the Christian Democrats win the next election I will be responsible for his pardon. I pledge my life and honor."

Hector Adonis said, "But how can he believe the promises of Rome? Turi has always fought for the poor. He would not do anything against their interests."

Hector Adonis understood. That Don Croce would risk Guiliano's wrath against him if the promises of Minister Trezza were broken.

For nearly four years Guiliano had distributed hundreds of millions of lire and food to the poor in his corner of Sicily, but he could only really help them by seizing some sort of power.

The books on economics and politics that Adonis brought him to read troubled him. The course of history showed that the left-wing parties were the only hope for the poor in every country except for America. Still, he could not side with them. He hated their preaching against the Church and their scoffing at the medieval family ties of Sicilians. And he knew that a Socialist government would make a greater effort to dislodge him from his mountains than the Christian Democrats.

Waiting for Hector Adonis, Turi Guiliano pondered what his course of action should be. He had understood that the elections and the victories of the left-wing parties would bring Don Croce to him for help.

It was nighttime, and Guiliano watched the fires of his men spread out down the mountain. From the cliff looking down on Montelepre, he could occasionally hear snatches of music played over the loudspeakers in the village square, music from Palermo. He could see the town as a geometric pattern of lights that formed an almost perfect circle. He thought for a moment that when Adonis came and they had done their business he would accompany his godfather back down the mountain and then visit his parents and La Venera. He had no fear of doing so. After three years he completely controlled movement in the province. The carabinieri detachment in the town was fully covered, and besides he would bring enough members of his band to massacre them if they dared venture near his mother's house. He now had armed supporters living on the Via Bella itself.

When Adonis arrived, Turi Guiliano took him into the large cave that held a table and chairs and was lit with American Army battery lamps. Hector Adonis embraced him and gave him a small bag of books which Turi accepted gratefully. Adonis also gave Turi an attache case filled with papers. "I think you will find this interesting. You should read it immediately."

"Who gave you these?" he asked Adonis.

Guiliano spread the papers out on the wooden table. They were the orders signed by Minister Trezza authorizing another thousand carabinieri to be sent from the mainland to Sicily to fight against Guiliano's bandits. There were also the plans drawn up by the Army Chief of Staff. Guiliano studied them with interest. He was not afraid; he would simply have to move deeper into the mountains, but the advance warning was timely.

"Don Croce," Adonis said. "He received them from Minister Trezza himself." Turi did not seem as surprised as he should have been by the news. In fact he was smiling slightly.

"Is this supposed to frighten me?" Guiliano asked. "The mountains are deep. All the men they send can be swallowed up and I'll be whistling myself to sleep under a tree."

"Yes," Adonis said simply.

"Don Croce wants to meet with you. He will come to you at any place you name," Adonis said. "These plans are a token of his good will. He has a proposition to make."

Guiliano took Hector's hands in his. "As I do yours," he said. "Thank you for these plans and thank you for these books you have brought me. Will you help me with one of them tonight before you leave?"

Turi Guiliano nodded. "Then we will meet in your home, in Montelepre. Are you sure Don Croce will risk that?"

Turi said, "And you, my godfather, do you advise me to meet with Don Croce?" He was watching Hector intently.

Adonis said gravely, "Why should he not? He will have my word that he will be safe. And I will have your word which I trust more than anything else in the world."

"Of course," Hector Adonis said. And for the rest of the night in his magnificent professorial voice, he explained difficult passages in the books he had brought. Guiliano listened intently and asked questions. It was as if they were schoolmaster and child together as they had been so many years ago.

It was on that night that Hector Adonis suggested Guiliano keep a Testament. A document that would be a record of everything that happened to the band, that would detail any secret deal Guiliano made with Don Croce and Minister Trezza. It could become a great protection.

Guiliano was immediately enthusiastic. Even if it had no power, even if it were lost, he dreamed that perhaps in a hundred years some other rebel might discover it. As he and Pisciotta had discovered the bones of Hannibal's elephant.