and the outrage of infinite pain and terrible murder.
It had happened. He had borne witness to the tableau of execution: strong men, trembling children, wives and mothers. His own.
Oh, my God!
Vittorio twisted his head and buried his face into the coarse cloth of the primitive bed, the tears flowing down his cheeks. It was cloth, not cold rough dirt; he had been moved. The last thing he remembered was his face being pressed with enormous strength into the hard ground of the embankment. Pressed down and held furiously immobile, his eyes blinded, his lips filled with warm blood and cold earth.
Only his ears bearing witness to the agony.
“Champoluc!”
Mother of God, it had happened!
The Fontini-Cristis were massacred in the white lights of Campo di Fiori. All the Fontini-Cristis but one. And that one would make Rome pay. The last Fontini-Cristi would cut the flesh, layer by layer, from
Il Duce
’s face; the eyes would be last, the blade would enter slowly.
“Vittorio. Vittorio.”
He heard his name and yet he did not hear it. It was a whisper, an urgent whisper, and whispers were dreams of agony.
“Vittorio.” The weight was on his arms again; the whisper came from above, in the darkness. The face of Guido Barzini was inches from his, the sad strong eyes of the stablemaster were reflected in a shaft of dim light.
“Barzini?” It was all he could manage to say.
“Forgive me. There was no choice, no other way. You would have been killed with the rest.”
“Yes, I know. Executed. But
why?
In the name of God,
why?”
“The Germans. That’s all we know at the moment. The Germans wanted the Fontini-Cristis dead. They want you dead. The ports, the airfields, the roads, all of northern Italy is sealed off.”
“Rome allowed it.” Vittorio could still taste the blood in his mouth, still feel the pain in his jaw.
“Rome hides,” said Barzini softly. “Only a few speak.”
“What do they say?”
“What the Germans want them to say. That the Fontini-Cristis were traitors, killed by their own people. That the family was aiding the French, sending arms and monies across the borders.”
“Preposterous.”
“Rome is preposterous. And filled with cowards. The informer was found. He hangs naked from his feet in the Piazza del Duomo, his body riddled, his tongue nailed to his head. A
partigiano
placed a sign below; it says, ‘This pig betrayed Italy, his blood flows from the stigmata of the Fontini-Cristis.’ ”
Vittorio turned away. The images burned; the white smoke in the white light, the bodies suspended, abruptly immobile in death, a thousand sudden blots of thick red; the execution of children.
“Champoluc,” whispered Vittorio Fontini-Cristi.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My father. As he was dying, as the gunfire ravaged him, he shouted the name, Champoluc. Something happened in Champoluc.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. Champoluc is in the Alps, deep in themountains. ‘Zürich is Champoluc. Zürich is the river.’ He said that. He shouted it as he died. Yet there’s no river in the Champoluc.”
“I cannot help you,” said Barzini, sitting up, the anxiety in his questioning eyes and in the awkward rubbing together of his large hands. “There’s not a great deal of time to dwell on it, or to think. Not now.”
Vittorio looked up at the huge, embarrassed farmhand sitting on the side of the primitive bed. They were in a room built of heavy wood. There was a door, only partially open, ten or fifteen feet away, on his left, but no windows. There were several other beds; he could not tell how many. It was a barracks for laborers.
“Where are we?”
“Across the Maggiore, south of Baveno. On a goat farm.”
“How did we get here?”
“A wild trip. The men at the riverfront drove us out They met us with a fast car on the road west of Campo di Fiori. The
partigiano
from Rome knows the drugs; he gave you a hypodermic needle.”
“You carried me from the embankment
It had happened. He had borne witness to the tableau of execution: strong men, trembling children, wives and mothers. His own.
Oh, my God!
Vittorio twisted his head and buried his face into the coarse cloth of the primitive bed, the tears flowing down his cheeks. It was cloth, not cold rough dirt; he had been moved. The last thing he remembered was his face being pressed with enormous strength into the hard ground of the embankment. Pressed down and held furiously immobile, his eyes blinded, his lips filled with warm blood and cold earth.
Only his ears bearing witness to the agony.
“Champoluc!”
Mother of God, it had happened!
The Fontini-Cristis were massacred in the white lights of Campo di Fiori. All the Fontini-Cristis but one. And that one would make Rome pay. The last Fontini-Cristi would cut the flesh, layer by layer, from
Il Duce
’s face; the eyes would be last, the blade would enter slowly.
“Vittorio. Vittorio.”
He heard his name and yet he did not hear it. It was a whisper, an urgent whisper, and whispers were dreams of agony.
“Vittorio.” The weight was on his arms again; the whisper came from above, in the darkness. The face of Guido Barzini was inches from his, the sad strong eyes of the stablemaster were reflected in a shaft of dim light.
“Barzini?” It was all he could manage to say.
“Forgive me. There was no choice, no other way. You would have been killed with the rest.”
“Yes, I know. Executed. But
why?
In the name of God,
why?”
“The Germans. That’s all we know at the moment. The Germans wanted the Fontini-Cristis dead. They want you dead. The ports, the airfields, the roads, all of northern Italy is sealed off.”
“Rome allowed it.” Vittorio could still taste the blood in his mouth, still feel the pain in his jaw.
“Rome hides,” said Barzini softly. “Only a few speak.”
“What do they say?”
“What the Germans want them to say. That the Fontini-Cristis were traitors, killed by their own people. That the family was aiding the French, sending arms and monies across the borders.”
“Preposterous.”
“Rome is preposterous. And filled with cowards. The informer was found. He hangs naked from his feet in the Piazza del Duomo, his body riddled, his tongue nailed to his head. A
partigiano
placed a sign below; it says, ‘This pig betrayed Italy, his blood flows from the stigmata of the Fontini-Cristis.’ ”
Vittorio turned away. The images burned; the white smoke in the white light, the bodies suspended, abruptly immobile in death, a thousand sudden blots of thick red; the execution of children.
“Champoluc,” whispered Vittorio Fontini-Cristi.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My father. As he was dying, as the gunfire ravaged him, he shouted the name, Champoluc. Something happened in Champoluc.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. Champoluc is in the Alps, deep in themountains. ‘Zürich is Champoluc. Zürich is the river.’ He said that. He shouted it as he died. Yet there’s no river in the Champoluc.”
“I cannot help you,” said Barzini, sitting up, the anxiety in his questioning eyes and in the awkward rubbing together of his large hands. “There’s not a great deal of time to dwell on it, or to think. Not now.”
Vittorio looked up at the huge, embarrassed farmhand sitting on the side of the primitive bed. They were in a room built of heavy wood. There was a door, only partially open, ten or fifteen feet away, on his left, but no windows. There were several other beds; he could not tell how many. It was a barracks for laborers.
“Where are we?”
“Across the Maggiore, south of Baveno. On a goat farm.”
“How did we get here?”
“A wild trip. The men at the riverfront drove us out They met us with a fast car on the road west of Campo di Fiori. The
partigiano
from Rome knows the drugs; he gave you a hypodermic needle.”
“You carried me from the embankment
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