The soprintendente had come calling on Giuseppe Martini one day.
“This little farm of yours,” he said, “the land is too rocky. You will not be able to make a decent living on it, growing olives and grapes.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Martini said. “I’ve been farming all my life.”
“We’re all worried about you,” the soprintendente insisted. “Don Vito has some good farmland that he is willing to lease to you.”
“I know about Don Vito and his land,” Giuseppe Martini snorted. “If I sign a mezzadria with him to farm his land, he will take three fourths of my crops and charge me a hundred percent interest for the seed. I will end up with nothing, like the other fools who deal with him. Tell him I said no, thank you.”
“You are making a big mistake, signore. This is dangerous country. Serious accidents can happen here.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Certainly not, signore. I was merely pointing out…”
“Get off my land,” Giuseppe Martini said.
The overseer looked at him for a long time, then shook his head sadly. “You are a stubborn man.”
Giuseppe Martini’s young son, Ivo, said, “Who was that, Papa?”
“He’s the overseer for one of the large landowners.”
“I don’t like him,” the young boy said.
“I don’t like him either, Ivo.”
The following night Giuseppe Martini’s crops were set on fire and the few cattle he had disappeared.
That was when Giuseppe Martini made his second mistake. He went to the guardia in the village.
“I demand protection,” he said.
The chief of police studied him noncommittally. “That’s what we are here for,” he said. “What is your problem, signore?”
“Last night Don Vito’s men burned my crops and stole my cattle.”
“That is a serious charge. Can you prove it?”
“His soprintendente came to me and threatened me.”
“Did he tell you they were going to burn your crops and steal your cattle?”
“Of course not,” Giuseppe Martini said.
“What did he say to you?”
“He said that I should give up my farm and lease land from Don Vito.”
“And you refused?”
“Naturally.”
“Signore, Don Vito is a very important man. Do you wish me to arrest him simply because he offered to share his rich farmland with you?”
“I want you to protect me,” Giuseppe Martini demanded. “I’m not going to let them drive me off my land.”
“Signore, I am most sympathetic. I will certainly see what I can do.”
“I would appreciate that.”
“Consider it done.”
The following afternoon, as young Ivo was returning from town, he saw half a dozen men ride up to his father’s farm. They dismounted and went into the house.
A few minutes later Ivo saw his father dragged out to the field.
One of the men took out a gun. “We are going to give you a chance to escape. Run for it.”
“No! This is my land! I…”
Ivo watched, terrified, as the man shot at the ground near his father’s feet.
“Run!”
Giuseppe Martini started to run.
The campieri got on their horses and began circling Martini, yelling all the while.
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.