Free The Prince by Vito Bruschini Page A

close to sixty, Manfredi had served the Licata family as an armed guard from time immemorial. Before him, there had been his father, and even before that, his grandfather. For him, land was a religion, and ever since he was a child—seeing his parents devote themselves to it until they were worn out—he had dreamed of owning a piece of it. That morning, Manfredi had made a big decision, prompted primarily by the insistence of his wife, Adele, and his son Nicola. He had taken advantage of the feast of the Cento Santi to go ask a favor of the prince. It was an ancient tradition in Sicily, on certain feast days, to present pleas to those in power.
    â€œ Patri ,” he began, using the customary term of reverence for the prince, after bowing and kissing his hand. “I have a request to ask of you. You’ve known me since I was a child, and you’ve seen my little ones born. All my life I’ve served you and protected the lands that you gave me to look after. You’ve never had to complain about me or my family.”
    â€œManfredi, you are one of the most loyal men I know,” the prince indulged him, to hasten along the pleasantries, “but please, go on. Between us, two words are already too many. What is it you have to ask me?” The prince conveyed an innate sense of authority, and therefore inspired fear.
    â€œ Patri ,” the campiere went on with considerable emotion, “I would never dare ask you, but I’ve reached the age when a wife and children prod you. . . In short, Father, over the years, my family has made many sacrifices. There are three of us who work on your lands.”
    â€œTwo,” the prince corrected, “it seems to me Nunzio has been busy with other matters for quite some time now.”
    â€œPrince, it’s not easy to raise children these days. Someone puts certain ideas in their head and all our teachings go to hell—with all due respect.”
    â€œHonesty is praised by all, but dies of neglect,” the prince made a long story short.
    â€œFather,” the campiere continued in a supplicating tone, twisting his cap in his hands, “during the months I spent in Africa, I put aside some money; just a little, actually. There’s a piece of land down in the valley of the Madonnuzza. I’m talking about just a small plot; a salmo . It’s barren, abandoned for a hundred years or more now. There’s no water nearby. But vossia would fulfill an old dream of mine if you would offer it to me for that little bit of money.”
    The prince was surprised by the request. “My dear Manfredi, I wouldn’t want to rob you,” he said at last, moving toward the door. “Why on earth should you take for your own that piece of land abandoned by God and by man? Do you know the effort it would cost you to make it yield a few potatoes?”
    â€œConsider it an obsession of mine. I beg you.” Manfredi grabbed the prince’s hand to keep him from leaving the room.
    The prince freed himself from his grip. “We don’t divide up the land; you know that. It’s a rule. But how much do you have to offer me, Manfredi?”
    â€œEverything we’ve saved up till now: six thousand liras.” Ferdinando Licata wasn’t easily moved, yet the man’s moral strength touched him. He also knew that the money wasn’t the result of years of scrimping, otherwise he would have said “everything I’ve saved.” It was the result of the cheating and stealing his son Nunzio carried out along with Lorenzo Costa and Jano Vassallo at the expense of the poor farmers in the area.
    But he pretended to be unaware of the origin of that small fortune. For one thing, he didn’t want to completely alienate the friendship of the family that for three generations had served the Licatas so devotedly. So he answered with a winning smile: “With five thousand liras, I can buy half a Balilla sedan. It