"...broken down, so we will not be able to bring enough supplies for all of the Squadristi that we have." Emilio De Bono looked up to the bald, clean-shaven man in black. "I can't say for certain, but we will be short by at least five thousand men if we can't get the trucks back in working condition. Should we delay the march?"
All eyes of the fascist leaders fell upon the decidedly tired man. Benito Mussolini was quick to slam his hand against the table. "Don't be absurd, Emilio!" he said, his voice starting strong, growing quiet as he calmed down. "That damned Facta knows that we will soon be upon him and his loyalists." He waggled a finger. "That's why he told D'Annunzio to hold the biggest demonstration that the country's ever seen on the fourth."
He looked around: the fascist leaders frowned at the mention of Gabriele D'Annunzio. The man was a national hero and was widely respected in Italy, even by the Duce himself. They had widespread support in Italy, but D'Annunzio had the edge when it came to popular support. If he decided to act against them all…
"We cannot delay our march," Benito continued. "We've all already discussed this. The sooner we march on the King, the better our chances are. The date will still be the twenty-seventh."
The smell of old cigarettes in the room irritated Mussolini. It was the most significant room that the blackshirts had been able to procure for the Quadrumvirate at the Vesuvio Hotel with a great view of the Dell' Ovo Castle and the sea beyond it. Granted, in the dark of the night with only a few street-side lamps to hint at the structure, it was not much of a view. Still, couldn't the men have gotten them a better room?
Emilio grew thoughtful, stroking his white beard. "We could always requisition some trucks," he offered. "It'd take some time though."
A moustachioed man as bald as the Duce leaned in. "I can get my men to scour the city for vehicles." Cesare Maria De Vecchi crossed his arms, turning to Mussolini. "Give me until noon tomorrow, and you'll have ten Fiats."
Italo Balbo, the aviator in the room, piqued his eyebrow at the commander. "Ten Fiats?" he repeated, incredulous. "You want to give the Neapolitans more reason to hate us? Especially after that fiasco from earlier?"
Mussolini frowned at the image of an eighty-something lady lying dead in the streets. All because a blackshirt shot into the crowd with a revolver when someone had thrown a rock at another. That incident did not win the fascists any love from the locals.
Cesare narrowed his eyes. "I can send word for our men in Abruzzo, Lazio and Marche to get as many trucks," he clarified. "Sure, they will have to be driven round the clock to arrive, but at least we will have more men."
"And risk running out of fuel or breaking down like the others?" asked Michele Bianchi, the party secretary-general, his reading glasses reflecting the indoor lights. He shook his head. "You're being overly optimistic, Cesare. It'll take days to get those trucks ready, and we need the men rested and ready for the worst-case scenario."
All of the men in the room knew exactly what Bianchi meant by that: a battle between a semi-organized paramilitary group and the King's army. They had all agreed to go through to the very end, but…
Mussolini waggled a finger once more. "No, we can't waste time waiting for trucks that might never arrive." He peered over the map, with a route to Rome highlighted, with arrows merging into the more massive arrow from various locales in and around the province of Lazio. He pointed to Rome. "Among our various objectives this is our final goal, comrades," he stated resolutely, taking in their varied expressions. "The centennial bastion of civilization. We cannot expect for it to be handed over to us bloodlessly, particularly if the loyalists are given a chance to mount a defence." Mussolini placed a hand on his hip. "Speed and surprise, gentlemen," he said, "are the keys to the Eternal City."
Michele and Italo's nods were encouraging; Cesare's narrowed gaze was less so.
Only De Bono did not face Mussolini, focusing instead on the map. "What if they are not enough, Duce?" he asked, looking back up.
The Duce did not respond, deciding instead to study the map once more. It was a feint of course, but he needed a moment to think it over.
What if it isn't enough? The question was incessant; it had been since he had first proposed this coup to his collaborators. There were so many variables that could go wrong, some of which had already done so, and things could quickly get worse for the fascists before they got better. The people called Vittorio Emanuele 'the Soldier King' for a reason after all. Who was to say that he wouldn't just acquiesce to the PNF's demands?
Images of black-clad fascists bleeding out on the cobbled streets before the Colosseum flashed momentarily within Mussolini's mind.
He pursed his lips, finally meeting De Bono's gaze. "They must, or else we'll all be executed."
Italo and Michele saluted, followed by De Bono. Cesare raised his hand but did not fully extend his arm.
Mussolini returned the salute. "I expect our blackshirts to be ready in three days," he said, keeping his eyes on Cesare.
The man didn't even flinch. "They will," Cesare coolly replied, keeping his arms crossed.
"Good." Mussolini looked about. "Then gentlemen, this meeting is adjourned. Goodnight."
A final round of salutes went by as the leaders collected their belongings and filed out of the room. Only Cesare and Mussolini remained.
Once Balbo closed the door behind him, Cesare spoke up. "Remember what I told you," he warned. "I can't act against our King's wishes."
Mussolini approached the commander, hands clasped behind his back. "I have not forgotten, Cesare," he said. He stopped, standing above the shorter man. "But you can rest assured that it will not come to that."
Cesare snorted, his moustache bristling. "I will not have my men slaughtered senselessly," he said in what sounded like a low snarl. "Emilio can send his militia to their deaths for all I care, but then where will you be without me once shots are fired?"
"With a noose around my neck, I suppose," Mussolini replied, unfazed. "With you by my side."
The commander of the Squadristi opened his mouth then closed it, chewing on his lip. Without another word, he left the room, not bothering with the door behind him.
Once he was assured that he was alone, Mussolini let out a slow breath. He ran a hand over his head and felt the start of nervous sweat. There had been many times in his life when Mussolini had worried about his life; he'd even fought in the Great War! Granted, he really only came off worse due to that damned mortar misfire. It had been an excellent opportunity to embellish his persona, but what could he embellish out of his own death?
D'Annunzio would kill him if ordered so. That man held no love for the fascist and had even tried to denounce Mussolini as a coward on Il Popolo D'Italia, Mussolini's own newspaper.
He wanted to growl at the thought, but nothing more than a sigh came out. He was simply too tired to do so. The sizeable pristine bed was inviting, but, exhausted as Mussolini was, he just had too much going in his mind.
He sighed once more, looking out the window to take in the view. The moon was out, a waxing crescent that illuminated the sky and the Tyrrhenian Sea. There were some boats moored near the seaside castle, their lights occasionally becoming obscured as fishermen moved in and around the moor. The chill outside called to the fascist.
"Duce?"
Mussolini blinked, turning to see a gruff face of a blackshirt peeking around the open door. "Are you well?" he asked, sounding concerned.
Il Duce rubbed his temples. "I'm fine, Adalberto," he replied, walking towards the door, "just tired."
"Do you want me to walk you to your room?"
Again the temptation of a comfortable bed was tantalizing, but Mussolini shook his head. "I think I'll take a short walk."
The bodyguard gave him a funny look. "But it's nearly past midnight, sir," he pointed out. "You need to be up early for your train to Rome."
"And?" Mussolini retorted, looking up to the slightly taller man with a raised eyebrow. "I wish to take a walk by the seaside." Seeing the concern on Adalberto's face made him sigh. "I won't be long," he insisted. "If you want, you can accompany me."
Adalberto's hand rested on his gun holster. "Very well, sir." He stepped aside. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd rather you had a larger security detail, sir."
"Yes, yes," Benito said impatiently, waving off the guard. "Just be quick. I'll be in the lobby."
The gentle sound of rolling waves was drowned out by the step of jackboots hitting the pavement. Mussolini, guarded by no less than ten blackshirts spread out around him, was mostly left to his thoughts as he and his entourage walked by the seaside boulevard. The houses were dark for the most part, with the occasional window betraying the waking occupants within.
Mussolini let out a breath. A tinge of vapour could be seen in this crisp autumn air, but it was still pleasant enough. Distantly, he wondered just how cold this coming winter would be.
At the forefront of his thoughts, however, was the whole plan that he had been working on for weeks. At his orders, Mussolini held the fates of tens of thousands of fascists in his hands. If everything went according to plan, Rome and Italy would be his.
For the past two days, the PNF congress had told him much about the current establishment's willingness to resist. For two days, as Mussolini roused the largest congregation of fascists in the world, he said the whole country what he had thought about the current political crisis. In that speech, he had made it no secret that unless Facta resigned and allowed for electoral reforms as well as a snap election, the PNF's militias and Squadristi would seize every government establishment in the country by force.
The official position of the government had not shifted; on the surface, even the King seemed to be willing to allow this march to take place.
Unofficially, it had been telegraphed to Benito that Luigi Facta had no intention to let the fascists run amok and occupy Italy. That was why Mussolini had made moved the march on the twenty-seventh of October, and not in November as he originally planned.
This new date, however, meant that he had less time to cover all of his bases. He had to travel to Rome to speak with the Grand Maester of the Piazza del Gesù Freemasons, a certain Palermi, as the Freemason had telegraphed Benito with news about the military. It didn't sit well with him that he had to deal with someone of masonic origins, but right now, he needed every bit of good news; he needed another Richard Washburn Child.
According to the American ambassador, his government had no qualms with a fascist revolution, and the man had given Mussolini the go-ahead when he had approached Child with the idea. Back then, it had given him hope.
Now though, that jubilation had long since been replaced with thoughts of fleeing Italy altogether. He's done it before, after all. But so much could go wrong: today's incident after the speech was just one instance; the trucks breaking down was another.
Mussolini took a moment to close his eyes. As he stopped, so did the jackboots around him. For a second, he allowed himself to get lost in the momentary serenity that the night brought. The waves had given way to calmer waters, and the only sound that Mussolini could hear beyond his breathing was the water sloshing around the nearby fishing vessels.
For all the brevity of those few seconds, Benito was at peace.
A tremor immediately tore the man from his reverie. It was a small thing at first, growing steadily as time passed. The blackshirts were quick to react.
"An earthquake!" one of them called, rushing for Mussolini. "We need to stay away from the buildings, Duce!"
The men huddled around him, leading Benito away from the structures and towards the seaside. He let himself be marshalled along, looking this way and that in panic. He eyed the looming dark figure that was Mount Vesuvius, hoping against hope that that dormant giant would not wake this night.
Seconds passed by quickly; people flooded out of their homes and the streets began to fill with rudely awoken Neapolitans. The Duce's entourage kept the latter at bay with threats, one going so far as unholstering a handgun and waving it menacingly.
Through the rumbling and confused chatter from the mob, Mussolini heard Adalberto yell a question to a local that he couldn't quite make out. When he finished, Adalberto turned to his care.
"It isn't the Vesuvius!" he shouted into Benito's ear. "This tremor should pass soon!"
A wave of relief washed over Mussolini. To think that he had just wanted to clear his thoughts…
There was a sudden loud roar. Just past the boulevard an ancient structure could not withstand the quake and had begun to collapse. People fled from the falling debris, some of the slower or unlucky ones being buried by ash and dust. The cloud travelled fast, engulfing the entire boulevard within seconds, including Mussolini and his blackshirts.
The world went dark for the man. All he could hear was the coughing fits all around him. He didn't feel the earth shake any longer, but his lungs and eyes burned as the dust went everywhere.
Mussolini was coughing up a storm when he finally opened his eyes. Everything had turned to a chalky whitish-grey, darkened by the obscured street lamps.
"Adalberto!" He coughed. "Are you alright?"
A ghostly figure approached. "Duce! I'm here!" The man rubbed at his face with a sleeve, revealing very little skin. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," Benito said before coughing once more. He looked around to see multiple people standing around him, recognizing his guards even under all of that dirt. "Men! I'm fine!"
One of the blackshirts (whiteshirt sounded more fitting now) grabbed at the man. "We need to get you to safety, sir!"
Benito was on the verge of agreeing when he saw what remained of the building. Old wooden beams had splintered into bits, with much of its masonry having turned into rubble. He could hear wails of pain from the piles of debris.
If there was one thing that Mussolini was the proudest of was his perceived capacity to seize an opportunity.
"No!" Mussolini tore away from the guard, pointing to the destroyed structure. "We need to help! You!" He indicated to the man who had grabbed him. "Go get more men. The rest of you, scour for survivors!"
As the blackshirts gave a delayed affirmative, following the Duce's lead, Mussolini himself made his way towards the ruins.
At his own pace of course. The men would get there well before he did.
Within minutes the blackshirts and residents searched the debris, digging out people and escorting them to safety. Mussolini, for his part, did his best to comfort those pulled out of the ruins. It wasn't necessarily a glorious responsibility, but it was a safe one.
After all, he thought deviously, the papers tomorrow will tell of a heroic Duce that risked everything for the Neapolitans.
That wasn't to say that he didn't see his share of death and suffering. While most of those rescued were more terrified than injured, several of them had come off worse from the earthquake. Some simply had cuts and bruises, but some came off far worse: a lady who had a broken leg; a teenager with a missing arm; there was even a man with a fractured wooden pole that had pierced him in the gut. His screams were the loudest.
There were only a few dead bodies, but Mussolini felt his face drain of blood when he saw the shape of a headless child.
A group of clean blackshirts came running from down the boulevard, rushing to assist. Among the newcomers, Benito recognized three of the Quadrumvirate, who immediately reported to him. "Duce!" Michele called.
Mussolini waved to them. "Gentlemen!" he greeted, standing as tall and presentable as he could, dusty and ashen clothes notwithstanding. "Where's De Bono?"
"He's taken over command back at the hotel," Cesare provided, giving the Duce the look-over. "Your uniform's a mess, sir."
Michele stared daggers at the man, but Mussolini laughed it off. "It can't be helped if the world thinks that I'm the centre of attention." He gave a friendly tap on Balbo's shoulder. "Now, let's get to helping out the unfortunate."
***
Three trucks and several horse-drawn carts made for simple if adequate ambulances, taking the injured to the Cotugno Hospital and the nearby clinical faculty at the University of Naples. Still, there was a wealth of people, most of which were blackshirts, searching the destroyed building, occasionally recovering the bodies of the less fortunate.
Mussolini had cleaned himself somewhat, though the damn dust still clung to his uniform. He stood at the foot of the rubble, hands clasped behind his back, overlooking the rescue efforts.
A blackshirt climbed down and saluted. "Duce, we're not hearing any more survivors," he reported, breathless. "Anyone still trapped is likely dead already."
Benito nodded solemnly, looking beyond the militiaman towards the ruin. It had been nearly an hour since the first quakes, and the exhaustion was taking a toll on him. He did what he could to look alert and attentive, but it was growing more and more difficult. This had been an essential distraction from his sleep, but still a distraction nonetheless.
He nodded once more, suppressing a yawn. "Do you have a handle on the situation?" At the blackshirt's affirmative, Benito said, "Very good. Be ready to offer any reasonable assistance to relatives of the victims and make sure that the ruins are fully cleaned out."
"Yessir," the man responded, shooting an arm upwards in salute, to which the Duce returned. Benito turned to leave with the rest of the fascist leaders.
But he stopped himself at the faint, yet very familiar sound of a wailing child.
Turning to the ruins once more, he saw renewed efforts from some of the rescuers. A blackshirt came running out of a crumbling corridor.
"There's an infant stuck underneath a large slab! I need help!"
Men answered the call, moving with haste towards the sounds of the wailing. Mussolini belatedly found himself walking towards them as well.
"Duce?" Balbo called out to him. "Where are you going?"
As tired as Benito was then, he still recognized the opportunity that lay in wait for him. He looked over his shoulder to say, "I won't leave a child stranded underneath a house." What spurred him forward, however, was a less-than-noble motive.
By now there were a good number of fascists with photo cameras, ready to take flattering pictures of good, honest and hardworking Squadristi doing their part to help the people of Naples. Of course, many of these included Mussolini caring for the wounded. Without heed, the cameramen followed their Duce like faithful hounds as he climbed up the debris and entered the corridor.
The wails grew louder, originating from below a ruined staircase. Two blackshirts with lanterns helped Benito down and led him to what smelled like a cistern. Wrinkling his nose, he looked about to see an intact doorway. It was there that the child was trapped.
Judging by the smashed bottles and red stains, this was a wine cellar. How a child had managed to get themselves here was a wonder in and of itself, but what caught the Duce's eye was the massive brick wall that had fallen over, somehow still mostly intact. Underneath it, the infant was crying its throat out.
Local rescue workers and blackshirts were picking away at the wall, opening up a crawlspace. A firefighter, wearing a large overcoat and helmet reminiscent to that of a cuirassier, stood at the ready with an electric torch. Mussolini watched with some fascination as the man crawled into the tight space, only to disappear within moments, with only a rope leading out.
Seconds later, the firefighter called back. "I think I see them!" The crying seemed to abate for a moment. Mussolini and the others waited with bated breath.
"I… I think they're missing a hand!"
A brief exchange of panicked glances between the blackshirts and rescue workers was soon replaced by a redoubled effort of breaking up the debris. One of the other firefighters, the chief, knelt by the crawl space.
"Sta bene?" he called with a thick Neapolitan accent.
The crying resumed, but there was no immediate response from the man inside.
"What in God's name is that?!"
All work stopped as the wailing grew to a new intensity and shuffling from within the hole grew. The boots of the firefighter suddenly kicked out of the entrance, slowly giving way to legs, then to a hysterical firefighter.
"What happened, Bennardo?" asked the chief firefighter.
Bennardo only stared at the hole. His eyes glanced at the chief at the repeated question. Mussolini recognized that look: shock.
"The-there's something in there." The firefighter pointed to the hole. "But it's not a child!"
"What are you on about? Those are definitely an infant's cries."
Bennardo vigorously shook his head. "I'm telling you, it's not human!"
The two firefighters argued, and Mussolini found himself looking at the fallen wall with curiosity. What could have gotten a firefighter of all people to abandon a child? Perhaps the infant had been mutilated if Bennardo was to be believed, but after seeing a corpse with a neck stump for a head, Benito wondered what the man could have seen that would have driven him back.
Something within him prompted Mussolini to walk to a nearby blackshirt and demand his torch. It was only when he lay down by the hole when the firefighters had stopped arguing.
"Duce, what are you doing?"
"Doing your damned job," Mussolini grunted, "seeing as you can't seem to be bothered to rescue a child."
"But it's not a human!" Bennardo cried, only to be silenced by the chief.
"Sir," the firefighter began, "I understand why you're doing this, but it's not safe. Leave it to us."
Several voices agreed, many of which, Mussolini guessed, belonged to the blackshirts present.
Twisting his body to look back through the tight space, he merely sneered at the bearded face of the firefighter. "I am not one to stand idly by when an infant is in danger," he said. "And since nobody here has the balls to do anything about it, I will!"
The chief seemed on the verge of grabbing at Benito's legs but seemed to relent, undoing the strap of his helmet and handing it to him. "At least wear this," he said.
Mussolini didn't bother with the strap, tight as the space was, but he managed to wear the tall helmet. Ready once more, he began to crawl along the irregular tunnel, flashlight lighting the way.
The bits of debris that stuck out of the wall poked at his body, but he paid them no heed, likening the experience to his drills that he partook in the Great War. Surprisingly enough, despite it having been years since he had done something similar, Mussolini found the going easy enough.
The cries grew louder and louder, and the Duce found himself amazed at the set of lungs of the infant. They'll grow up to be a tenor, he mused. Then, he saw a bit of pink among the dirt and dust.
Mussolini feared the worst. Was that blood? He couldn't quite tell with the angle, and he tried to get closer. The wails wholly stopped; so too did Mussolini.
Benito had seen many strange things in his life: the maddest of inmates, the most broken of soldiers, and the most stubborn of politicians.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, came close to the bizarre sight that was before him.
The form wiggled. It was definitely alive, but it was in no way a child. The pink around its body was too vivid for it to be the natural skin colour, and it couldn't be a bleeding wound. Even with all of that dirt covering it, Mussolini could see that what he first thought of a stump with a missing hand was instead a hoof-like limb.
The thing wiggled again.
It had turned in a manner that it revealed the face. Two large, light purple eyes peered back at Mussolini's.
He blinked. The eyes blinked back.
For that moment, Benito wondered whether or not he had actually died underneath the rubble and everything that he was experiencing right now was nothing more of a traumatic death experience.
It started crying again; his ears hurt.
No, he decided. I am definitely alive.