The Vengeance of Rome

by Michael Moorcock

  I was completely mystified. Had the Labrador made its way here and expired? Why would someone put it here? Perhaps it had been struck by a car and managed to get to my house before dying. Now I saw the creature had been shot in the throat with a small-calibre gun. Was it someone’s guard dog?

  Rather than inspect the corpse further, and feeling my lungs filling up with the unmistakable and almost indefinable smell of death, against which all normal animals react, I stepped over the beast and opened my door.

  As soon as I had put the lights on, I took a little ‘snuff’ to clear the stink from my nostrils and lit some anti-insect candles in the hope of keeping the flies out. Already some were in the room. Feeling quite ready to leave the place, I began to pack up my personal documents. Then on an impulse I rang the exchange and got a number for the local police. I telephoned the police and told them of the problem. They were sympathetic. They would contact the necessary municipal office who would send a team in the morning to remove the dog. I was tempted to use my authority with them, but I had already been cautioned against this by Tom Morgan. Il Duce hated his ‘secret party people’ making their status public. It simply wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do. I understood all this, having been trained in old-fashioned American courtesy by that great patriot Major Simmonds. I could try more tactful methods, I decided, if the flies got any worse. I continued with my packing. Someone would come in to remove the majority of my things when I found new quarters.

  At that time of the evening the sunset noises from the zoo carried over through the open window. I realised I was going to miss the roars and shrieks. The telephone rang. It was Quinto Navarra, Mussolini’s private secretary. He had heard I was thinking of moving. I told him I had been evicted by my landlady and he laughed. He understood completely. Had I found another place yet?

  I thought he had telephoned me to help with my accommodation. Instead, he asked if I was in good spirits. I told him that I was in excellent spirits until I had come home to find a dead dog on my doorstep. It was a mystery how it had got there.

  Navarra was extremely concerned. He would have some people come and remove it at once. What colour was the dog?

  I found this question a little strange. It was a black Labrador, I said. A male.

  ‘Black? A bad joke,’ he said. ‘We’ll have it looked into. I’ll call Bocchini’s office.’

  A joke? What sort of joke? And who would play it?

  He was not given to loud laughter but he seemed amused. ‘Someone who wanted you to think you were a Mafia target, perhaps? The black dog is their calling card.’

  I knew nothing of such people. I had made no enemies among them.

  ‘It isn’t the Mafia,’ Navarra assured me. ‘Il Duce has pretty much eradicated the Mafia. They wouldn’t dare. Do you have other enemies in Rome? Or perhaps America? Did something perhaps happen years ago?’

  I remembered Annibale Santucci and his people who had helped me in San Francisco. I had never doubted that they were involved with organised crime. But we had parted on the best of terms.

  And then, of course, it came to me.

  Brodmann!

  Quinto Navarra thought little of the whole thing. ‘Schoolkids used to do that with dead dogs all the time. It terrified some people! Particularly Jew shopkeepers the kids didn’t like. It used to scare them silly, thinking the Mafia had taken against them!’ Again he seemed to laugh to himself. He said that he had just left Il Duce. Much as he regretted not being able to come to me at my offices as usual, Mussolini would be glad if I visited him at the Palazzo Venezia in the morning. He would like a quiet a word with me.

  Normally I would have been delighted. This was certain proof that I was still persona grata with our Chief. But I was deeply confused as I replaced the receiver and continued to pack. I turned on the radio, hoping for some dance music, but the stations were already closing down for the evening.

  A little later came a knock at the door. No doubt Navarra had sent someone to remove the dog.

  I opened up to find Seryozha standing there. He offered me a knowing leer.

  Clutching two bottles of champagne in his hands, his pockets revealed glasses, some bread and what appeared to be the contents of a good-sized larder.

  ‘Are you starving?’ he asked. ‘I am.’ He stepped over the corpse and came in. ‘Is that your dog, Dimka? Aren’t people brutes? I saw you at the hotel, but you didn’t see me. Luckily I still had your address. This is our chance to be alone together with nobody knowing!’

  I guessed that any secret service novice could have kept watch on Seryozha while doing the crossword puzzle and listening to a football game, but I could not easily get rid of him. I closed the door. He embraced me. I felt the bottles digging into my back as he kissed me. ‘Now, Dimka, dear. Where shall we have our little picnic?’

  I told him I was delighted to see him but that we did not have long for our meal. I had an appointment with my Chief.

  ‘Then we shall make the most of our time,’ Seryozha promised. ‘After all, in lovemaking, quality not quantity counts!’

  I had become so alarmed at the threat of Brodmann back on my trail that I hardly cared what Seryozha said or did. Unless he was in the pay of the Cheka, which was a possibility, his company was better than nothing. I felt Brodmann would not strike tonight. He would give me time to think about the implications of my Fido Negro.

  I hardly listened to Seryozha as he prattled on. I was all too familiar with his kind of gossip: who was friends with whom, who hated whom and so on. He let me know that Göring and ‘the Berliners’ hated his patron, ‘Ernstie’, who was, he said, a ‘real Nazi’. Göring and company had already gone over to the forces of international capitalism against which the Nazis had been determined to fight as thoroughly as they fought Bolshevism. The corporate state was betrayed! I did not give this stuff much of my attention. I was distracted with more immediate matters.

  It occurred to me that I might contact my acquaintance Monelli at the OVRA headquarters and tell him that I was being threatened by a Chekist. But the situation would be impossible to explain and unfortunately would conflict in certain key areas with my official biography. Apart from Mrs Cornelius, who always supported me in whatever role I played, only Seryozha among our mutual acquaintances now knew me to be Russian. Fiorello, with luck, had escaped and would be no danger to me.

  When I left that evening, taking a whining but reinvigorated Seryozha with me, I had nowhere else to go. I told him I would drop him off at the Excelsior.

  The car arrived. Again we were forced to step over the rapidly decaying corpse of the dog. By now Seryozha was full of sentimental misery for the dogs fate and began speculating on the kind of bastard who would do that kind of thing. I delivered a still emotional Seryozha back and told my chauffeur to take a spin up the Tivoli road for a while. I was anxious to clear my head. Attempting to relax, I somehow could not enjoy that perfect Roman evening to the full.

  When I returned to the cottage, the dog was gone. Everything was perfectly clean. Navarra had been as good as his word. I showered, got into my pyjamas, read through some newspapers I had bought on my way home and then, though I was not particularly tired, went to bed early.

  Next morning, smart in my best uniform, my morale improved, I forced myself to think of nothing but work and matters in hand. I arrived at the Palazzo Venezia about half an hour early and as usual gave my name to the guard. Positioned everywhere were the tall, handsome young noblemen who formed Mussolini’s special ‘Death’s Head’ guard. Each was sworn to defend the life of Il Duce with his own. In their smart black uniforms, with silver skull-and-crossbones insignia on black fezzes, with silver daggers at their belts and the latest rapid-firing carbines on their shoulders, they were Mussolini’s own healthy praetorians, the best of the new Italy.

  I was taken to a waiting room where several others already sat. I was disconcerted. Having expected to see Il Duce alone, I felt rather like a petitioner in a medieval antechamber. In
deed, I was unpleasantly reminded of El Glaoui’s court.

  The affable Quinto Navarra soon found me. With apologies and excuses he led me through a private door. Less privileged visitors would be taken through an elaborate series of vast rooms before being presented to Il Duce, but Navarra guided me along the back corridors until at last we passed through a curtain guarded by two squadristi. We came out on to the huge landing of dark panelling and sombre murals, which lay before the so-called Hall of the Globe, the Mappamondo room, now Mussolini’s office. Here Navarra led me straight past the guards, set me on my way and quietly closed the doors behind me.

  I had heard of this hall but never previously experienced it. My meetings with Mussolini had always been of a more private nature. About seventy-five feet long and fifty feet tall, its walls, ceiling and panelling were decorated with entire panoramas of Italian history. In the distance, at a huge desk lit by a single lamp, sat Il Duce who gravely signalled me forward.

  I felt inflated, rather than reduced, by the sense of occasion. Proud in the uniform of my rank I strode forward to greet the greatest soldier-philosopher since Alexander. His massive shaven head and muscular torso were an impressive silhouette against the light. As I came nearer, Mussolini suddenly stood up and came round his desk towards me. Even as I raised my arm to salute him he put his own out. We shook hands. He was warm. He was abstracted, urgent. He said how good it was to see me. How much he had missed our discussions and especially our strategy meetings. He was even now trying to convince the Finance Ministry of the need to fund all the Peters prototypes. Affairs of state continued to engage him. But I must not despair. The Land Leviathan would soon be an impressive reality. The Peters Supertank might be a good name for it, didn’t I think? He had a few details to finalise with the Spanish government. Ten machines were as good as sold. With the money paid by the Spaniards, we would build our own ten first. Then we would build their ten. With the final payment, we could build another ten. And so on. He imagined a fleet of monstrous land ironclads perhaps a hundred or two hundred strong. ‘Enough to awe the enemy and dissuade resistance before it begins.’

  As always I was inspired by his vision. Even as I stood in his comradely embrace, I could see my armies of flying soldiers, of massive battle-engines and bombing aeroplanes streaming rank upon endless rank into a golden future. I saw myself as Mussolini’s foremost lieutenant. I would be his most magnificent marshal, Roland to his Charlemagne. Leading his legions against all Italy’s foes, I would establish another great Holy Roman Empire, stretching from the Sahara to the Pyrenees, from Lisbon to Constantinople, a great shield against Islam. My cities would fly. Flying cities would dominate the tranquil skies, keeping order upon the earth in a new Pax Romana. That world would abolish usury and establish the corporate state, would again be given over to natural farming and enlightened animal husbandry, to the skilled artisan, so that none should be without work, none should go hungry.

  In spite of all his optimism, however, I sensed that Il Duce was in a rather gloomy and contemplative mood. No doubt the recalcitrant Vatican and legal profession were causing him problems. But he said none of this to me. He changed the subject. ’I gather,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘that you’re getting on well with the German delegation. One of them’s a friend of yours, eh?’

  ‘An acquaintance I’m trying to avoid, if the truth be told,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit awkward. He’s a Russian ballet boy I’ve helped out a couple of times. I think as a result he’s developed a crush on me.’ I had no wish to be associated with what Mussolini called ‘rouge boys’. ’I find it all rather disgusting.’

  ‘Strange bedfellows, eh?’ said Mussolini with a wink. He was in a comradely mood. ‘I hear you broke up with that girlfriend of yours.’ He offered me a sharp, penetrating look. Did he mean Seryozha? Of course not.

  I assumed he meant Maddy Butter. Or could Sarfatti have said something? I was struck by a thought: were they playing a game? Had Mussolini discovered the truth? Had the black dog’s corpse been placed on my doorstep at his instructions? Had Maddy’s accusations been believed? My left leg began to tremble. I knew a moment’s terror. I needed to see Maddy, to find out what she had said. Was she back in Rome, her press assignment over?

  ‘You must be feeling a bit fed up.’ He strolled over to the huge carved lectern on which was arranged an atlas almost as tall as himself. ’Needing a change. Someone told me you’re moving house.’

  He had forgotten that he himself had suggested I move. I agreed that a change would do me good.

  ‘Maybe even a vacation?’

  I had work to do for Italy. I had no more need of rest than did my leader.

  This pleased him. ’You are a true fastisti, Professor. A hard-working Renaissance man.’

  ‘You are my model and my ideal,’ I said. I spoke only the truth.

  He accepted this with his usual almost shy acknowledgement. ‘But it seemed to Signora Mussolini today that your nerves were a little bad. She remarked on it. And you know how much she cares about you. You are going to teach Bruno to fly. We need you in the best condition, Professor Peters. I, too, have a special interest in your health.’

  I said that I was honoured. I had, indeed, experienced one or two minor personal problems, but these were all now behind me. A dead dog on my doorstep had not improved my mood. But I was ready to put my shoulder to whatever wheel Il Duce presented!

  He frowned, thrusting his lower lip forward in that characteristic way. ’Perhaps you need a break. A change of scene. Maybe our mutual interest could be served. I desperately need someone I can trust. There are so few. You are one of them.’ He turned towards the enormous window, head low on his chest. A long pause. Then: ’Professor, I want to offer you a very special assignment. I wouldn’t even talk to the Grand Council about it. It can’t go beyond these walls.’ His brooding eyes fixed on mine. ‘It can only be between you and me. I want you to act for Italy.’ He stepped back, as if to study his effect on me.

  I could not respond. I stammered. I would do anything for him. Anything for my new nation.

  He nodded, taking this for granted. He placed a hand on my arm. ‘You are certainly already aware that Captain Göring is Hitler’s Special and Secret Emissary. That is the identical role I have in mind for you. Are you prepared to leave Rome for a few weeks?’

  ‘If necessary, Chief.’ This was something of a shock. I was a scientist, an inventor, not a secret service agent. But I had sworn an oath to obey my Duce to the death. I could not refuse. Moreover, if I was away from the city, I would have a chance to polish my flying skills before returning.

  His expression confirmed his own trust in me. ‘It’s not a pleasant mission. You’ll have to mix with some obnoxious people. You’ll be travelling to Munich and Berlin as my secret emissary.’ He noticed my reaction. ’The public knows nothing of your affiliations, you see. Only of your fame. Anyone else could not accomplish this. As an American film star you can go anywhere and not be under suspicion. The Nazi boys all know you, of course, and have a pretty good idea what you do. They’ll be wanting to find out about our inventions. You will give them a hint and no more. It won’t do any harm to exaggerate a little. It will be in your commercial interest as well as Italy’s to let them believe we are further ahead with production.’

  ‘But what excuse could I possibly have —?’

  He raised a silencing hand. He had thought of this, too. ‘Anyone who asks, you can say you’re curious about the new political movements in Europe. Meanwhile, you will be Italy’s eyes and ears. You speak German. You know Göring. In particular, you have the scientific and engineering experience to take a look at some of their own undercover projects.’

  ‘A spy, Chief?’

  ‘A special intelligence officer. Those Krauts plan to rearm if they come to power. They have some good people helping them. Göring confided all this to Margherita Sarfatti. They plan to make bombers disguised as commercial aircraft. They have half a dozen new aerial weapons ready fo
r production. I don’t trust them. Before we had our own weapons programmes under way, the Germans could be in Austria, then Italy. You know what they’re like. They’re promising revenge against us all.’

  ‘Excuse me, Duce,’ I asked levelly, ‘but are you asking me to find some sort of evidence that Hitler and company plan to attack Italy?’

  He became circumspect. He took me by the arm. He insisted: ‘I’ve told you. A foreign ambassador does not spy. But you are a loyal Fascist now. Should you discover information of use to this nation, you are honour-bound to relay it to us. That is all I ask you to do.’

  I was confused. ‘But what of my work here? We are almost at production stage. We can’t afford to have anyone discover what we’re doing, surely?’ I was genuinely distressed. Did he mean to abandon our engineering projects? ‘The flying lessons for your son Bruno. Signora Mussolini might be disappointed . . .’