Ivo hid, watching in horror at the terrible scene that was unfolding before his eyes.
The mounted men watched the man run across the field, trying to escape. Each time he reached the edge of the dirt road, one of them raced to cut him off and knock him to the ground. The farmer was bleeding and exhausted. He was slowing down.
The campieri decided they had had enough sport. One of them put a rope around the man's neck and dragged him toward the well.
"Why?" he gasped. "What have I done?"
"You went to the guardia. You should not have done that."
The campieri pulled down the victim's trousers, and one of the men took out a knife, while the others held him down.
"Let this be a lesson to you."
The man screamed, "No, please! I'm sorry."
The campiero smiled. "Tell that to your wife."
He reached down, grabbed the man's member, and slashed through it with the knife.
His screams filled the air.
"You won't need this anymore," the captain assured him.
He took the member and stuffed it in the man's mouth. He gagged and spit it out.
The captain looked at the other campieri. "He doesn't like the taste of it."
"Uccidi quel figlio di puttana!"
One of the campieri dismounted from his horse and picked up some heavy stones from the field. He pulled up the victim's bloodied pants and filled his pockets with the stones.
"Up you go." They lifted the man and carried him to the top of the well. "Have a nice trip."
They dumped him into the well.
"That water's going to taste like piss," one of them said.
Another one laughed. "The villagers won't know the difference."
They stayed for a moment, listening to the diminishing sounds and finally the silence, then mounted their horses and rode toward the house.
Ivo Martini stayed in the distance, watching in horror, hidden by the brush. The ten-year-old boy hurried to the well.
He looked down and whispered, "Papa..."
But the well was deep, and he heard nothing.
When the campieri had finished with Giuseppe Martini, they went to find his wife, Maria. She was in the kitchen when they entered.
"Where's my husband?" she demanded.
A grin. "Getting a drink of water."
Two of the men were closing in on her. One of them said, "You're too pretty to be married to an ugly man like that."
"Get out of my house," Maria ordered.
"Is that a way to treat guests?" One of the men reached out and tore her dress. "You're going to be wearing widow's clothes, so you won't need that anymore."
"Animal!"
There was a boiling pot of water on the stove. Maria reached for it and threw it in the man's face.
He screamed in pain. "Fica!" He pulled out his gun and fired at her.
She was dead before she hit the floor.
The captain shouted, "Idiot! First you fuck them, then you shoot them. Come on, let's report back to Don Vito."
Half an hour later they were back at Don Vito's estate.
"We took good care of the husband and wife," the captain reported.
"What about the son?"
The captain looked at Don Vito in surprise. "You didn't say anything about a son."
"Cretino! I said to take care of the family."
"But he's only a boy, Don Vito."
"Boys grow up to be men. Men want their vengeance. Kill him."
"As you say."
Two of the men rode back to the Martini farm.
Ivo was in a state of shock. He had watched both his parents murdered. He was alone in the world with no place to go and no one to turn to. Wait! There was one person to turn to: his father's brother, Nunzio Martini, in Palermo. Ivo knew that he had to move quickly. Don Vito's men would be coming back to kill him. He wondered why they had not done so already. The young boy threw some food into a knapsack, slung it over his shoulder, and hurriedly left the farm.
Ivo made his way to the little dirt road that led away from the village, and started walking. Whenever he heard a cart coming, he moved off the road and hid in the trees.
An hour after he had started his journey, he saw a group of campieri riding along the road searching for him. Ivo stayed hidden, motionless until long after they were gone. Then he began walking again. At night, he slept in the orchards and he lived off the fruit from the trees and the vegetables in the fields. He walked for three days.
When he felt he was safe from Don Vito, he approached a small village. An hour later he was in the back of a wagon headed for Palermo.
Ivo reached the house of his uncle in the middle of the night. Nunzio Martini lived in a large, prosperous-looking house on the outskirts of the city. It had a spacious balcony, terraces, and a courtyard. Ivo pounded on the front door. There was a long silence, and then a deep voice called out, "Who the hell is it?"
"It's Ivo, Uncle Nunzio."
Moments later Nunzio Martini opened the door. Ivo's uncle was a large middle-aged man with a generous Roman nose and flowing white hair. He was wearing a nightshirt. He looked at the boy in surprise. "Ivo! What are you doing here in the middle of the night? Where are your mother and father?"
"They're dead," Ivo sobbed.
"Dead? Come in, come in."
Ivo stumbled into the house.
"That's terrible news. Was there some kind of an accident?"
Ivo shook his head. "Don Vito had them murdered."
"Murdered? But why?"
"My father refused to lease land from him."
"Ah."
"Why would he have them killed? They never did anything to him."