The Vengeance of Rome

by Michael Moorcock

  ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ said Il Duce. ‘You want to be careful of her.’ An expression passed across his face which, in a lesser human being, I would have taken for terror.

  As we drove towards the ministry, Mussolini began to lecture me on the dangers of having anything to do with Germans. ‘They want to gobble us all up. And as for these Nazis — it is a corruption of everything I have ever said or worked for! A mishmash. Family man or not, that Göring is a degenerate. You saw for yourself. They’re all vicious boy-buggering dopers and masochists. Hitler goes everywhere with a nancy boy he calls his secretary. They admit it openly. That fudge-packer Röhm makes no secret of it. He’s even published his love letters to his catamites. They give Fascism a bad name by associating themselves with us. As Italy rediscovers her manhood, Germany becomes feminised. Because they’ve won a few seats in the Reichstag they think they can compare themselves with us. It makes me feel sick. They’re a gang of psychopaths. Not one of them has done an honest day’s work in his life. Believe me, Max, Germany can never be anything but an enemy of Italy.’

  If only he had heeded his own judgement. But he was too trusting. In the end, abandoned by all, he swung upside down in a Milanese meat market, one carcass among dozens. It is a tragedy which will be told down the ages, just as Julius Caesar and Caligula are told. At least those ancient emperors weren’t warned by a gypsy they would not die by violence. The last assurance Il Duce clung to. The last betrayal.

  Mussolini’s death was symbolic of the entire twentieth century.

  And we wonder why our young people no longer understand their history!

  Il Duce came with me as I went to my office. He was still talking. He did not seem especially upset with me but was clearly out of sorts. He spoke of traitors, of people he had elevated to positions of power and responsibility and who even now turned against him. How was it possible? What harm had he ever done them? Indeed, he was their benefactor! I could not tell if this was his subtle way of warning me of his displeasure, or if he remained simply aggravated by Signora

  Sarfatti’s success at finding her old friend Göring. He paced about grumbling while I hunted for the plans we needed - simplified drawings which would give nothing away.

  ‘I’m going to have to be more severe with these bastards,’ he said. ‘They’re taking too many liberties, Max.’ He turned his glaring eyes on mine. I blinked. When I looked again he was grinning.

  He sucked in his lower lip and stared at the ceiling, the plans in his hand. ‘But meanwhile we have finance for our machines!’

  He was extremely pleased with the idea of obtaining Spanish capital. I think he had probably been worrying over fiscal matters. While others slept soundly, Il Duce was up, pacing his lonely corridors, taking Andrews Liver Salts for his ulcers and mulling over the affairs of the day. I had the distinct impression that my Land Leviathan was moving a little closer to reality.

  We returned downstairs. As the door of his car was opened for him, he turned, rapping my chest with the rolled-up plans. ‘By the way, I was supposed to ask you this earlier. Signora Mussolini you know. She thinks you’re wonderful. She - well, my son Bruno, who you get on so well with, he’s mad on flying as you’re aware. Your films probably gave him the bug, eh? We talked this over, and she thinks he’s ready for flying lessons. As long as he’s taught by someone we both trust.’

  ‘An excellent idea, Duce,’ I agreed. ‘No better time for a boy to learn. I was younger than Master Bruno when I first flew. Hand-eye coordination is everything in a good airman.’

  ‘We knew you’d agree,’ said Mussolini. He tapped the side of his leg as he sometimes did if a weight was lifted from his mind. ’When’s the soonest you could take him up?’

  What could I say?

  ‘Mm?’ asked Il Duce.

  ‘I’m honoured, Chief,’ I said. ‘I’m at your disposal.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ll discuss the details tomorrow perhaps. Thanks for your time, Professor.’

  The door closed.

  With mixed feelings I waited for the secret service car to slip out of the shadows and take me home.

  Reluctantly I got into the car. I could still not be sure if Il Duce had absorbed the scene at my house or whether he would start to think about it later. I was certain, however, that Maddy Butter was in no doubt about what had been going on.

  * * * *

  FIFTEEN

  Why do you cry?

  I am hungry.

  No, you are merely greedy. A Jew.

  I am in agony.

  A complaining old Jew.

  I beg you on my life for help!

  A melodramatic Jew.

  My soul is being destroyed.

  An exaggerating old Jew.

  I am not a Jew.

  That’s what they all say.

  I am not a Jew.

  Then you are nothing.

  * * * *

  SIXTEEN

  My mother is Juno. She is the goddess of the golden ship.

  My mother does not exist.

  My sister is Esméralda. She is our city’s most glorious jewel.

  My sister does not exist.

  My brother is Odysseus. He is the wanderer between the worlds.

  My brother does not exist.

  My brother is Isaac. He is the recorder of all our deeds.

  My brother does not exist.

  * * * *

  SEVENTEEN

  They called him the Jew-Greek and they reviled him.

  Their coarse, violent laughter brought bile to my throat. I lost control of my bowels.

  Here is another Jew-Greek, they said. What shall we do with him?

  Meyn Schiff is called Der Heym.

  Meyn Schiff is called Der Heym.

  My ship does not exist.

  * * * *

  EIGHTEEN

  My father is called The Turnface. He is mentor to the dead.

  My father is called The Negotiator. He bargains for the dead.

  My father is called The Trader. He is the speaker for the dead.

  My father is called The Word. He is the memory of the dead.

  My father does not exist.

  * * * *

  NINETEEN

  My city is called The Hero.

  My city does not exist.

  My land is called The Dream.

  My land does not exist.

  My nation is called The Just.

  My nation does not exist.

  My empire is called The Soul.

  My empire does not exist.

  * * * *

  TWENTY

  When I arrived back at the cottage our courtyard lamp was still burning. In the circle of orange light Mrs Cornelius and Captain Göring were leaning heavily against the wall laughing uncontrollably while between them they attempted to lift the groaning Seryozha, who had taken on the colour of a cadaver. Baron ‘Huggy Bear’ Hugenberg was nowhere in sight. I dismissed my driver and hoped I was not otherwise under surveillance. My Chief would not, I guessed, be pleased to learn I was continuing to hobnob with foreigners. As the car disappeared, da Bazzanno emerged from the shrubbery like the newly risen dead and joined us, wearing one of my best summer suits and a fresh silk shirt. Göring appeared to notice him for the first time. ‘My God,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You look like you were caught by a bunch of Sozis!’ But Fiorello didn’t understand him. He shrugged and I think he winked. ‘Hello, Max. We’re looking for a cab.’ My friend put his ruined hands in my pockets.

  “Ow was the boss?’ Mrs Cornelius hiccupped. ‘Pissed off, was ‘e? I ‘ope we’re not letting you down socially, Ivan.’ She and the fat German shook with a fresh wave of spluttering and giggling. In their state everything was comic and ridiculous. Even Fiorello was infected by their mood. From the beaten pulp of his face he seemed to be grinning.

  I would be glad to be rid of them all. I was impatient to see Maddy and try to explain myself. Surely she would understand when I told her how Signora Sarfatti
had blackmailed me. The likely hostility of Sarfatti was also imminent. It would lose me the protection of one powerful patroness, but, assuming my flying skills had not deserted me, I had another in Rachele Mussolini. She was even more powerful and effective because she hardly ever used her influence. Unless Mussolini mentioned my liaisons to his wife she would certainly remain my ally. If she did not, Mussolini would inevitably turn against me. My dilemma seemed to become more complex with every passing moment. A Borgia courtier would have sympathised.

  I had so much at stake. Within a year one of my most cherished inventions would become reality. At last I was on the brink of world recognition. Already my name was whispered in the higher echelons of the world’s foreign services. In scientific circles, too, there was much talk of Mussolini’s new engineering genius. Margherita Sarfatti had made no secret of her ‘discovery’ of me and, of course, the high-ranking Fascists accepted me as an equal. I was on excellent terms with Farinacci and Grandi. I was a member of the fascist’s most exclusive order. I had sworn a personal oath to Il Duce. If I broke that oath I would pay with my life! The fate of poor Turati reminded me that I could lose all I had won as rapidly as I had gained it. Not long before Turati’s disgrace, Il Duce had spoken of him with affection and admiration. Now his name was never mentioned. As far as the stern Duce was concerned, Turati had never existed. Yet only months earlier before that able man’s dismissal at Rachele’s suggestion, Mussolini had praised him in the Autobiography. Turati, a courageous veteran of the World War, was a man of clear mind and aristocratic temperament, Il Duce had said, able to give the party the style of the new times, the consciousness of the new needs. ’Hon. Turati’ had accomplished a great and indispensable work of educational improvement of the Fascist masses.’ He was a precious element in the party. Yet Rachele had taken some minor sexual peculiarities as signs of a bad character. She had told me so herself. No doubt she had given me a gentle warning.

  Almost weeping with anxiety, I saw everything being snatched away. ‘Why didn’t you phone for a cab?’ I asked Fiorello, growing angry. They threatened to wreck all my dreams!

  I walked past them. I put my key in the lock. It turned but the door would not open.

  ‘She’s bolted it, I think,’ said Captain Göring.

  ‘Madame Sarfatti?’ My panic rose.

  ‘Still in there,’ said Fiorello. ‘They threw me out.’

  My heart sank.

  I made one or two efforts to call through the door in case Maddy intended to hear my side of things. I instinctively knew there was little hope of cool discussion that night.

  Eventually a huge taxi turned up guided by the jubilant Hugenberg. I accepted Mrs Cornelius’s offer and returned to their hotel as their guest. ‘For a nightcap,’ said Mrs Cornelius. ‘It’ll give ‘er a chance to cool down.’

  The Excelsior Hotel was all silvery chrome, gold and green marble. Rather than try to enter its subtly guarded portals, Fiorello murmured something about having caused enough embarrassment and slipped away. I hoped he had not attracted the attention of the OVRA, Italy’s answer to Stalin’s Cheka.

  I was not sorry to see him go. His lack of self-discipline astonished me. He was, after all, a leading Fascist. The kind who should be setting an example. He had sworn an oath, as I had sworn an oath, to serve Mussolini and the Italian state above all else, including life and liberty. Then he had allowed the sickliest of sentiments to weaken his Fascist resolve so severely he was prepared to help a communist, an enemy of his nation, evade justice! How could I believe anything he told me? Had he actually been beaten up by his communist friends? Captain Göring had instinctively put his finger on it. An experienced flying ace and soldier, Göring had led his own defensive squadrons in the streets of Munich. He had learned at first hand to recognise the hallmarks of leftist brutality.

  The rest of us hesitated in the lobby. I, of course, was still in uniform, as was Captain Göring, so we received the most courteous attention. We planned to have a drink in the bar but the place was still crowded with foreign delegates. Obviously we could not drag Seryozha in with us. Tiring of our discussion, Mrs Cornelius said she was done in. She needed to get to bed. ‘Which reminds me,’ she said. ’I think this is yours, Ivan.’ She put my box of cocaine into my hand. ‘I certainly don’t need any more o’ that nasty stuff.’ And with a prim goodnight she took her baffled Baron off.

  Looking at his massive wristwatch, Göring, too, declared his intention of retiring. ‘Regretfully, I am expecting a visitor in an hour. A matter of politics. We must stay in touch, Professor Peters.’ He took my hand in a serious embrace. ‘The delegation will be in Rome for a few days more. Give me a ring. We must talk aeroplanes, eh?’ He asked me to oblige him by making sure Seryozha was comfortable. Then he, too, entered an elevator, filling it at a single step.

  As soon as the lift doors had closed, Seryozha’s vast body suddenly shook all over as he became alert. ‘Hermann?’ He turned to me. ‘I think fate has once again thrown us together, Dimka, dear. It’s OK. It’s all this rich Italian food. I feel so much better now.’ He offered me a vast leer.

  Afraid that anyone else should overhear his conversation I gravely told the enquiring manager that I would see Seryozha to his room myself. My main intention was to get both of us out of the public eye as soon as possible. He gave me the key.

  Only by promising Seryozha to have a nightcap with him could I get him into the lift and up to the third floor. Further reassurances were needed to make him stumble quietly to his rather cramped room near the service elevator at the back. I had expected something much grander. Even as he fell through the door, he apologised for his quarters. The party hadn’t been able to pay his way. The Nazis were spending all their money on the elections. He didn’t have rich friends like Göring. He didn’t have millionaire mother hens like Hitler or successful actresses like Goebbels. He didn’t have contacts with the powerful industrialists like Strasser. He wasn’t related to old money like Hess. The list went on in this vein. His own patron, he insisted, was entirely independent, a military man of the strictest integrity. He himself received only a small allowance from his ‘Ernst’, who was notoriously frugal, disdained most civilian comforts, and insisted on living upon what he called ‘an honest soldier’s pay’. Unusually the ballet boy would not reveal the name of this paragon. Loyalty was the thing he prized most, he insisted, and disloyalty was severely punished.

  As I shut the door behind us he began to undress. Then he tangled himself in his trousers and collapsed again on the carpet. I helped him up. I had no intention of staying. Only as I sat him on his bed and turned to leave did I realise again that I had no money and absolutely nowhere to go. The thought of enduring Seryozha’s attentions disgusted me. Moreover I feared he would steal my sneg.

  Then my problem was solved. Seryozha slid back down to the floor, placed his head on his arm and began to snore. Letting him lie there, I slipped out of my uniform and hung it carefully in his wardrobe. Buttoning my cocaine box into one pocket, I climbed into bed. The day had exhausted me. Probably I took a foolish risk, but I was desperate for sleep.

  In spite of my anxieties, I slept deeply for several hours. At about five in the morning Seryozha’s cumbersome mass engulfed the bed, and he seized me in his damp, yet muscular, embrace. As I felt his huge tongue slithering into my ear, I resigned myself to the inevitable. I could afford no further scandals.

  Seryozha had always been a heavy sleeper. Next morning I was able to leave him sprawled among the stains of his own juices, get into my uniform, and take a little breakfast in the hotel before walking to the office. Descending the hotel steps I saw a taxi pulling away. In it was Margherita Sarfatti. Had she come looking for me and then changed her mind? Or had she been Göring’s ‘political business’ last night? She was rumoured to have been his mistress and to have acted as Mussolini’s go-between. It did not suit Il Duce’s policies for him to be seen by the other foreign powers as friendly to German radicals, so perhaps t
hat was what had been going on last night. Surely my exhaustion was making my eyes play tricks? Conscious of the gaze of the ordinary people, who were in no way impolite, I took pleasure in my stroll through the sunny dawn streets to my office.

  As hoped, I was the first to arrive, going immediately to my dressing room where my uniforms were kept. Washed and changed, as far as my staff knew, I had spent the night like any other night.

  Telephoning the cottage, I received no reply. Was this as a sign that I was still unforgiven?

  As an instinctive precaution, I went to the files and removed certain copies, making up a short dossier of my designs, together with photographs of the models lining the walls of our ‘war room’. All this went into a large envelope labelled ‘Manufacturers’ Brochures and Specifications’. This I put in an attaché case. I had no intention of betraying Italy, but these were my livelihood, my passport to immortality. Although my faith in Il Duce was in no way diminished, a misunderstanding might attract his disapproval. By now the poison-tongued gossips could have whispered stories and already be amplifying my innocent associations. From the evidence, Mussolini could form a completely erroneous idea of my behaviour. In the unlikely event of my dismissal, it was wise to take out a little insurance. While Mussolini was altogether a greater and more honourable man, my experiences of El Glaoui were still fresh in my mind.