The Vengeance of Rome - [Between The Wars 04]

by Michael Moorcock

  As always, the alcohol on Tom’s breath remained my predominant impression of the man. His was not a type I naturally took to, though I have no doubt of his sincerity. He led me through corridors and halls smelling strongly of mould. Although the place had not been lived in for years, there were many signs of activity.

  In two rooms I was sure I saw splattered blood on the wall. Blood always makes that pattern when someone has been shot at an angle from below. Again I grew a little nervous. I am not one of those, like so many I knew in the old days, who were excited by the smell of blood and gunpowder. Some even lusted for it. Their disease was caught in the trenches after so many months of warfare when violence became a habit. Women were excited by it, too. Men were taught that violence was good for them, that they flourished and were made hard by it.

  Almost every country had such ideas after the World War. Many in the Klan believed a new civil war was coming and that they had to be ready for it. These Kennedys and Humphreys and Carters will be the cause of it. They will drive the Klan to take up their guns, no matter how reluctantly. I was in the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane when the news came of Robert Kennedy’s assassination. There was a TV playing in the lobby which was full of American businessmen. They all wear the same kind of three-piece suit and a tie, which is meant to look like something from an English public school. They have soft, self-indulgent, unformed faces. As soon as they heard the news of the assassination, they put down their briefcases and coffee cups and began to applaud. I was there. I heard it. I was waiting to meet a TV producer who was going to make a film about my life. Nothing came of it. My life has been too incredible. I tell the story to illustrate that it was not only ‘crazies’ and ‘extremists’ who were driven to distraction by the Kennedy clan and its descendants. Decent American politicians and capitalists shared frustrations with the assassin.

  The same with Matteotti. Of course, I have every sympathy for the man. He was murdered. But he brought it on himself. He was an unrepentant socialist and a constant critic of all that was positive in modern Italy. Mussolini had absolutely nothing to do with the crime. Margherita Sarfatti told me herself. When the news was brought to him and he was handed Matteotti’s bloodstained documents, Il Duce said nothing until everyone was gone. Then he began vomiting blood. His digestion remained poor from that moment on. That was how strongly he felt about murder. Scarcely the reaction of a man who condoned brutal methods!

  We entered a room whose walls and windows had all been lined with black velvet drapes, edged with scarlet and gold. The only decoration in the entire room was above the ornamental fireplace. Over it hung a magnificent portrait of Il Duce holding in his hands the Sword of Islam and the Roman fascisti respectively, ready to bring justice, dignity and honour back to his empire. An inspiring portrait. One I had not seen reproduced before. This showed the inner strength of Il Duce glowing from his determined, aggressive head. Every man gathered there around a huge oak table, wore an identical uniform — black jacket, black jodhpurs, black boots and a black cap. The only decorations were the epaulette buttons, the belt buckles and the silver fascisti at the collar.

  The others greeted me in silence, contenting themselves with bringing their heels together and raising their arms in the Roman salute. I replied in kind. This seemed to meet with their approval. Without any further ceremony, the ritual began. I was made to stand upright before them at the table while each of the men there fired questions at me. For the most part these were telling queries concerning my background and my abilities. Clearly they had been briefed by Tom Morgan. Some of my interrogators, their keen eyes boring into mine, were American. Others were French, Spanish, German, Swedish, even English. They were from all walks of life. No doubt between them they represented most of the professions. This was the Fascist answer to the Freemasons and the Jews, the Communists and the Moslem Brotherhood, who swore secret oaths and were the enemies of everything we held dear. In a future world, perhaps, we should have no need for such secret gatherings. But for the moment, with the world on the very brink of the final chaos, they were extremely necessary.

  My ordeal over, the uniformed men sat down around the table. I was led away to a small anteroom, also smelling strongly of damp. Here, two batmen helped me out of my ordinary clothes and into my uniform including the black silk shirt worn under the jacket. It had been delivered in anticipation of this visit. I looked at myself in the mirror. In those days I was young and vibrant and cut an extremely handsome figure. I had been hardened by my ordeals. My pain had given my already attractive features extra character. I was at the height of my physical beauty as well as my intellect. I had the good looks of the best type of Italian.

  Now in the flickering light of great flambeaux which burned on either side of Il Duce’s portrait, I was inducted into the Fascist Inner Council. I swore to abjure all other loyalties and oaths and serve only Il Duce, His Excellency the Dictator Benito Mussolini. I would lay down my life, if necessary, in his service. That oath rang around the rafters of the ancient villa, bringing vibrant new energy to the old stones. The very firelight seemed to tremble to its rhythms. Then, to a man, we lifted our arms in that noble salute, which a Roman legionnaire reserved for his peers or his superiors, and roared, ‘Hail, Mussolini! Hail, Il Duce!’We were a single, powerful unit. Nothing could hurt us. Nothing could disturb our security. Nothing could stand in our way. We had control of the future. We were going to make it unrecognisable!

  The rest of the meeting was highly congenial. I was truly among friends.

  I returned home to my Miranda. She did not fail to be impressed by my new uniform, the insignia glittering in place. She fell into my arms, hungry for sexual satisfaction. And in my newly energised state, I pleasured her again and again. She admitted she had been jealous. Now she realised she was foolish. How could she be jealous, she said, of a monument, an inspiration.

  A few days later, on 1 January 1931, my thirty-first birthday, I took up my position as Minister of Overseas Development in the Inner Cabinet of Benito Mussolini. My tailor had made me five identical uniforms so that I should have fresh ones at all times. My offices were a vast suite on the second floor of the Villa Valentino, into which light poured, creating long black shadows and pools of blinding whiteness. I was reminded of the best type of movie set.

  During the first weeks of my new position I paced in and out of these great shadows, frequently alone. My appointment had been announced in all the newspapers. I had begun to receive invitations from the highest sources. My status was never greater. However, I was without any kind of assistance or practical furniture. The rooms had been empty for years, and the taste of the minister who had occupied it, perhaps when the place was first built, had been fussy and showy and full of ugly little stuffings. I wanted office furniture in keeping with my modern position. Clean Austrian lines. Plenty of light.

  I wrote out my suggestions in longhand and gave it to Margherita Sarfatti, my only visitor. She came frequently. I was always glad that I was able to shower at the office and return home to my Maddy in one of my spare uniforms. Apart from that occasion at the Villa Torlonia, I had yet to meet my chief. On one level I was glad, for I was not sure I had enough emotional energy left to cope with Mussolini’s raw vitality. But I have to say I was growing impatient.

  The first weeks of 1931 were a round of parties at which I met many of the most important heads of state, film stars, actresses and designers. In common with my colleagues, I wore my uniform a great deal of the time. Only Tom Morgan did not wear his. Instead he sported a silver fascista behind his lapel. He told me that American public opinion was not quite ready for the news of his elevation. .

  I grew a little apart from Billy and Ethel Grisham, although Maddy continued to see them. We were so busy with official functions that somehow we were now always announced together as Professor Peters and his fiancée Miss Butter. I had attempted to stop this, but Maddy of course was delighted. I had loved my Esmé. I had loved my Rosie. I loved Mrs Corneliu
s. But I did not love Maddy with the same profundity. I made it very clear to her that I had no intention of marrying her. She argued with me. I compromised. We should not marry until my work for Mussolini was well under way. She understood completely. I must be sure to get plenty of rest and relaxation, or I would kill myself in Il Duce’s service. That would do nobody any good. I reminded her that our new lifestyle was a result of Il Duce’s favours. We owed him a great deal. Our social life and our status had improved enormously. She had not come to Italy, she said, to improve her social status. She had plenty of that back home in Texas. What she was interested in was politics, engineering advances, social progress - everything Mussolini was achieving in Italy. As her country wallowed in Depression. What was needed there was the same kind of dynamic leader. I understood her viewpoint very well. I shared it. However, I pointed out, things moved at a different pace in modern Italy. She should not make the mistake of confusing American simplification with efficiency.

  I think she was suitably chastened by my little lecture. By then things had begun to move at last. Not much later, after some conference which Il Duce attended, I came to my offices one morning to find them fully furnished and thoroughly staffed, with aides, secretaries, office boys, filing clerks and everything, to go with them. Clearly the Supreme Leader of Italy was ready for me to start work.

  I had a huge modern desk to sit at and brass fittings to catch the light, deep carpets to pace upon, polished panelling to admire, familiar works of art to ease my soul and great armchairs to lounge in. I found myself nervously awaiting the arrival of Margherita Sarfatti, wondering which piece of furniture she would choose to use first, when suddenly the door opened and Mussolini walked in, his hand outstretched, his eyes full of concern. He was a gravely sympathetic bull. ‘Professore. We have some work to do, eh? I am so sorry you have had this trouble. Everyone involved has been chastised. You must let me know personally if there is anything else you need. Is the furniture to your taste?’

  I stammered my approval. I had felt like this only in the presence of Hollywood’s greatest producers. I understood how, with so many functions to supervise, so many things to consider, such men steadfastly refuse to give someone they respect merely half their attention. They wait, as I do, until their full attention can be employed.

  Again Mussolini stressed his admiration for my film work, his love of America, his admiration for, in particular, her fine engineers. He was shorter than I remembered him, a little below my own height, but very stocky and radiating masculinity. He shared Margherita Sarfatti’s taste for colognes and sometimes seemed to wear several at the same time, but nothing could disguise that radiant, animal quality which came off him in the way the stink of power comes off a lion’s hide. Il Duce arrived directly at the point. He wanted to see what my Leviathan might look like in action. Italy had some of the greatest modellers in the world. Would it be possible to make a large-scale model, complete perhaps with a desert scene of some kind. As realistic as possible? I said I would be delighted to provide such a model, but I had no idea when it would be completed.

  Mussolini was affability itself. He grinned at me in that ugly, comradely way he had and punched me lightly on the arm. In ten days, he said.

  I said I was amazed at his powers of prediction. ‘If I say ten days,’ he told me, ‘then it will be ten days. You will see.’

  He had inspired and empowered me.

  Sure enough, in ten days’ time, the entire main boardroom of my ministry had been given up to a vast table on which we had prepared a complete desert scene, down to the smallest detail. The only thing we had not had made were the railway trains which were the best German type, and the model soldiers, which were also German and very lifelike.

  Sitting in the middle of this scene was the massive model of my mobile ziggurat, the greatest war machine ever designed. I showed an excited Mussolini how it could be moved by remote control. I ran the trains and I set off the little gun batteries in the forts and towns. As the guns popped, flashed and smoked, Mussolini’s massive head split in a great grin. It was that attractive grin only his intimates were ever allowed to see. That grin, I think, made Mussolini human. The charming, uncalculated expression of a happy Romagnan peasant, it spoke of a big, generous, boyish heart. It was our Duce’s best-kept secret. His tragedy. He could not afford to let a rapacious world know that he was a man of sensitivity and fun.

  We played with our new models the whole day, yelling like children. The massive machine crushed fortresses and towns, its guns fired in all directions, its huge treads turned. I was extremely proud of the realistic effect. Clearly Il Duce could not have been more pleased. He had a photographer and a cinematographer come in to take close-up pictures. ‘This will convince them,’ he said, sticking out his chest and bringing his fists together as our Land Leviathan rolled over trench positions, crushing whole battalions of tiny clay soldiers.

  Towards the end of the afternoon Benito Mussolini turned to me, eyes shining. We were both invigorated, united in a bond of fellowship. Our tunics were off, our shirtsleeves rolled up; we drank glasses of fizzing water and contemplated the scene of our miniature triumph. Both of us at that moment could see the grand reality ahead. He shook my hand. ‘Professor,’ he said in his vibrant, musical English, ‘we are in business. I want you to come home and meet the wife.’

  My heart sank.

  I prayed Mrs Mussolini did not have her rival’s predatory tastes.

  * * * *

  THIRTEEN

  On the way to the Villa Torlonia Mussolini seemed a little gruff. I wondered if he felt embarrassed by his earlier enthusiasm. But he remained friendly enough. The big limousine took us through the busy streets of lunchtime Rome. We travelled with an almost supernatural smoothness. We stopped at a traffic light and were again surrounded by our motorcycle escort. My chief cleared his throat and moved his mouth in that almost comical way so many found endearing. ‘My boys are great lads,’ he said. ‘I allow them no special privileges. The same demands are made on them as on all Italian children. We are raising them as decent, gentlemanly Fascists. I take no credit at all. My wife is the best in the world. She tells me, “You stay out of my kitchen, and I’ll stay out of your politics.” She’s from a very political family. You heard about my daughter’s wedding! Never again! She’s in Shanghai now. Very happy. Thank God I needn’t go through all that with the boys. We have a cinema in the house. The boys are flying-mad, too. I told you they’re great fans of “Ace” Peters? They’ve watched all your films. White Aces, The Flying Buckaroo. They’d be enchanted if you’d tell them a bit about your film days.’ He shrugged, almost apologising. ‘I told them I knew you. They made me promise they could meet you. I hope you don’t mind, Professor Peters. Perhaps an autograph as well? They’ve been studying very hard. If it would not embarrass you too much . . .’

  ‘On the contrary, Chief.’ I was honoured. Almost no one was allowed into the Mussolini family sanctum. This invitation demonstrated how I was truly valued by Il Duce. I was relieved to hear, moreover, that the reason for the privilege was something as wholesome and simple as a papa’s promise to his sons!

  At last we had negotiated the great press of Roman traffic and arrived at the gates of the Villa Torlonia. It was my second visit, of course. Now I could see the security police everywhere. The wide street was deserted. Ordinary Italians avoided it, together with the nearby cafes, in case they should be arrested as suspected assassins. I understood the identity of the shadows I had seen in the grounds. We went through a couple of anterooms until we entered a pleasant, spacious room with windows looking out on to the garden and the lake beyond. A large table had been set with a white cloth. On it were the usual breads and condiments found on any comfortable Italian board. The linen, cutlery and tableware were of good quality but not at all pretentious. From nearby came the smell of cooking. Mussolini called a greeting and suddenly the place filled.

  First came two boys of about eight and eleven in their black-
shirt school uniforms, a little dishevelled. Following them was a stocky woman with a wide, cheerful face, her brown hair drawn back in a tight bun, a linen apron covering her cotton print dress. After them entered another pleasant young woman whom I took to be a secretary or governess. She had charge of two younger children. She was followed by a black-clad maid carrying a large tureen and another carrying plates.

  When everyone was around the table, having greeted Il Duce affectionately much as they would greet the head of any respectable household, they stood by their places looking expectantly in my direction. After a pregnant pause, for the Chief was incapable of any action without an element of drama, I was introduced.

  The servants curtsied. Mrs Mussolini came up to me, grasped me in her powerful, motherly hands and kissed me on both cheeks. I looked as handsome off the screen as on it, she said approvingly, and sat me down between herself and her sons, who eagerly asked me questions about my stunts. Not since Morocco had I found such an adoring audience. I must admit I rose to the flattery, describing all the people I had known in Hollywood, telling them of amazing feats and impossible escapes. Laurel and Hardy (whom they loved almost as much as me)? Laurel remained an Englishman. Hardy was shy. I described the daring of Tom Mix and Hoot Gibson and confirmed the angelic beauty and off-screen generosity of Clara Bow. Meanwhile Rachele Mussolini helped us to the soup, first me, then her husband and then the others. I enjoyed her sturdy minestrone made without wine and served with excellent fresh bread. Signora Mussolini assured me she had baked the loaf that morning.