//------------------------------// // The Backstage Villa // Story: Il Duce e la Principessa // by GIULIO //------------------------------// “Idiots,” Mussolini muttered under his breath. Adalberto, who was sitting across from the Duce, looked up from the crib with the sleeping alicorno. “Duce?” “From abroad,” Benito said from his desk, pointing to the newspaper in his hands. “‘After much public pressure on the subject of the La Stampa article of the Italian fascist party on the twenty-fifth,’” he read, “‘Foreign Secretary Lord George Curzon gave the following comment:’ “‘While it is too early to truly judge any single aspect of the political crisis in Italy,’” Mussolini read in a mocking tone, “‘the false bravado played up by the PNF and its affiliates is nothing more than words meant to stir the emotions of a vulnerable people, much like the invention of the so-called alicorno.’” Adalberto nodded, maintaining a neutral face. Benito resumed. “‘We have greater concerns in regards to foreign affairs, specifically our efforts of rekindling Turk-British relations. Italy can wait.’” Mussolini snorted, looking up from his newspaper. “As if the Turks would want a war so soon after the Great War,” he sneered, shaking his head. “I read on the Corriere della Sera that the Germans had a similar response,” Adalberto pointed out. “No comments from the French though.” Mussolini sighed, shaking his head once more. “The Germans are facing an economic crisis and they have massive reparations that they cannot pay.” He folded the newspaper and rose from the desk. “Why would they care about us? And as of the French, they’re too busy strangling the Germans for their few remaining lire.” As much as Benito was glad of the turmoil caused by the Versailles Treaty —it provided him and the PNF the ideal circumstances to thrive— he detested it. That damned treaty had robbed Italy of its deserved rewards, and it was the main driving force of the Italian irredentism movement. Dalmatia was still Slavic as was Albania and none of the German African and Asian colonies had been transferred to Italian dominion, as was promised for its cooperation in the Great War. For all of the liberal nonsense about self-determination spouted by that Wilson, he and the Entente ignored the pleas of the Italian people clamouring for Italy from across the Adriatic Sea. Britain and France took African and Asian territories that by all rights were supposed to have been split with Italy, for had Italy not sacrificed just as much as the Entente? And Albania… well, the less was said of the current political state of Albania, the better. The blackshirt said nothing at the sight of the thoughtful Duce, merely nodding in agreement. He watched Mussolini approach him when he asked Adalberto, “Is she sleeping again?” “Yessir,” Adalberto replied, taking the moment to look over the silent form inside the crib. “She sleeps a lot.” Mussolini mused about the blackshirt’s position as the caretaker of the alicorno. It wasn’t official, but ever since she was recovered from Naples that role had just been filled by Adalberto. Mussolini wondered if he ought to officially grant the blackshirt the position. Perhaps after the march, he decided. Nodding, Benito stood over the crib. “Newborns tend to do that, Adalberto.” He quietly observed the cloth and rubber diaper that the alicorno was wearing. “Is the diaper working as intended?” The diaper on the alicorno was a strange sight indeed, but if anything it was practical, as nobody really knew if toilet training her would be possible, especially at her guessed age. “No leakages so far,” Adalberto murmured, as if here were distracted by something. It didn’t take much imagination for Benito to guess what Adalberto was thinking. “Speaking of, sir,” Adalberto began, “she still needs a name. I know that you have a lot on your mind, but—” A knocking at the door interrupted the blackshirt. “Enter,” Mussolini called out. In came Michele Bianchi, breathing heavily and with his neat hair completely frazzled. “Duce,” he said breathlessly, “I just got a telegram from General Cittadini.” That perked up the Duce. Arturo Cittadini was the King’s personal aide-de-camp and, according to the Freemason Palermi whom he’d spoken to yesterday, was a mason of the same lodge as Palermi. Mussolini narrowed his eyes. “What does he want?” “It’s a summon, Duce,” Michele explained, taking a deep breath. “The King requests your presence in Villa Ada.” Everything stilled for Benito as he slowly came to realize the implications. The King, the Soldier King, wished to speak with the man who had promised to take Italy by force if he didn’t get his way. If he had any liberal tendencies, Vittorio Emanuele III would be the greatest obstacle to Mussolini’s ambitions. Mussolini was immediately suspicious: why would the King wish to speak to him? If he wanted to keep the weak Facta government in power, then this was clearly a bait to arrest the Duce. Perhaps, if the King was ruthless enough, this could also be an attempt on his life. Why else would the King summon him? Benito’s mind went back to yesterday when he met Raoul Palermi at the Termini Station. The Freemason had told him that all of the masonic members of the military staff were behind the PNF, among them the King’s right hand. If both masons were to be trusted, then this summon wasn’t a trap. But then why does he wish to speak with me? Beyond discussions regarding the now infamous march, Mussolini could not guess what the King had in mind. He let out a slow breath. “Any specifics?” “Only the time and one request,” Michele replied. “He wishes for you and the alicorno to come, without armed guard.” This did nothing to inspire confidence—if anything, it sapped some of the conviction that Benito held prior to Michele’s arrival. It was the twenty-sixth; the march was to start tomorrow. This couldn’t have been mere coincidence. Had someone leaked the date? He wracked his mind trying to come up with names, with the masons and De Vecchi being at the forefront of the list. Even when he had names Mussolini knew that he didn’t have any real evidence to suggest that any of these belonged to traitors. All of this he kept to himself, lowering his gaze in thought. “Why the alicorno?” Benito asked. Bianchi splayed his hands to his sides, shrugging. “I’m afraid that there was no explanation to that, Duce.” Mussolini’s eyes fell upon the crib and the pink foal that was still sound asleep. Would the King try to take her and try to claim it as his discovery? So far most of Italy knew of the alicorno by word of mouth. While people had an idea of what she was they didn’t really knew how she looked like, as Mussolini had been careful to not release any photographs taken the day before before he left Naples. He had meant to save them for the march itself to help bolster support, but if Emanuele took the alicorno, who was to stop him from claiming that it had been his discovery all along? A twitch on Benito’s lips was the sole expression of how unsettling this news was to him. Had circumstances been different he would have chastised himself for his lack of facial control. “Duce, what will you do?” Benito turned to Bianchi who was quietly waiting for a response. Behind those glasses Mussolini saw the uncertainty in the secretary-general’s eyes. He clearly understood that this summon, were the Duce to accept it, would possibly the last political move that his leader would ever do. Mussolini ran a hand over his head, turning once more to Adalberto for some suggestion. The blackshirt was utterly silent, still sitting by the crib and keeping a guarded smile of his own. “What do you think, Adalberto?” the Duce asked. The man’s lips thinned. His eyes shifted sideways to steal a glance at the sleeping alicorno before quickly returning to Mussolini. “I’m not one for grand decisions, sir,” he began slowly, as if he were digesting his own words, “but perhaps you need to consider one thing.” At the slight tilt of the Duce’s head, he explained, “What would happen to Italy if the worst came to be?” The Duce chewed on the blackshirt’s words: If I were to die, what would happen to the country? Surprisingly enough, the answer came quickly. Revolution. The PNF would not sit idly and accept such an egregious act by the King were he to kill or even arrest the fascist leader. Up in Cremona there would be blood; the self-proclaimed Ras of the Squadristi there, Roberto Farinacci, would likely forcefully take over as Duce and start a bloody revolution in the whole of Italy. A xenophobe, anti-semitic and anti-cleric, the man frightened even Mussolini. Farinacci was behind some of the most brutal clashes with the anti-fascist leagues, and Benito could not see any other result besides a bloody uprising. He knew that a Farinacci as Duce would spell disaster for the whole country. Even if the Quadrumvirate were to stop him from seizing control of the party, who was to say that the man would form his own? Even at reduced strength Farinacci would be a force to be reckoned with. Either scenario scared Mussolini. Yes, he had threatened violence lest the King and the prime minister dissolved the current government, but it was a calculated gamble. It was still unlikely that he’d succeed with a bloodless revolt but whereas he could potentially win peace from his opponents, Farinacci had no chance at winning the hearts of the people. Letting out a slow and deep breath, Mussolini nodded. “Thank you Adalberto.” Before he turned to Michele he looked about the office. It wasn’t anything spectacular, as the main headquarters of the PNF was in Milan, but even the offices there were rather modest. Somewhere in him, Mussolini knew that in one way or another this would be one of the last times if not the last time that he could enjoy his workplace, once everything was said and done. When he turned to Bianchi he stood tall and determined. “Let’s see what his majesty has to say to me.” As the car rolled along the path to the courtyard of the King’s residence, Benito quietly observed the carefully maintained gardens before setting his eyes on the villa itself. A modest structure of white marble that invoked images of classic Roman architecture mixed with more modern designs stood before him, with the wide side ramps that ran perpendicular to the main staircase appearing almost like arms prepared to embrace visitors. It was neither as grandiose nor as historically rich as some of the other more famous European châteaux, however, the opulence of Villa Ada was evident in the care taken to its gardens and structure itself. Even the Florentine-inspired tower just to the left of the main residence, a call-back to a prosperous time, held an untold wealth. Soldiers with uniforms more pristine than the regulars’ approached the car, with one opening the door for Mussolini. “Welcome sir,” he said, offering a salute. It was a military salute to which Benito decided to return with a Roman salute. The soldier, a master sergeant as the collar insignia denoted, didn’t break his stoic expression when he saw the alicorno in the arms of Adalberto. He merely turned to Mussolini and asked, “Do you or your escort have any firearms or weapons in your possession?” As Adalberto exited through the other door, Benito stared at the sergeant. “You think me so insecure and pathetic that I’d bring a weapon into the home of his majesty?” He threw his head back. “I most certainly have not.” Even if this was a trap, he’d be damned before he swallowed his pride. “Just a formality sir,” the soldier replied automatically. He waved to the two fascists away from the palace and towards a section of the gardens. “If you please follow me. His majesty is awaiting you by the labyrinth.” Mussolini raised an eyebrow but said nothing, following the sergeant with Adalberto and four other soldiers in tow. They were led through a gravel path into the treeline that opened up to a garden that was divided into different levels and a hedge maze to the left. At the foot of the lowest level standing by a pond was a diminutive man dressed in a sharp officer suit. The master sergeant gave another wave. “If you please, sir.” Benito nodded and made his way to the artificial pond. Climbing down five sets of stairs with Adalberto right behind him, he reached the man. Even from behind, Mussolini recognized Vittorio Emanuele from the countless times he had seen his visage in the press. He was slightly shorter than De Bono and leaner. In fact the uniform seemed to be the only thing that gave the King any substance to his frail form. Gloved hands clasped behind his back, the Soldier King didn’t take notice to the visitors’ arrival, apparently admiring the pond. “Vostra maestà,” the sergeant called, clicking his heels together and saluting, “l’onorevole Mussolini e la sua scorta.” The King turned to see behind his shoulder, revealing a face weathered by age. There was a hint of a smile. “Ah, you have arrived,” Vittorio said, turning to face his guests. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d come at all.” His voice was cultured and equally delicate. It reflected the King’s age and elderly wisdom but belied the man’s military career. The black uniform, on the other hand, spoke volumes of his experiences with matters of war and military, with a number of medals adorning his left breast and his black and red kepi that sat upon his crown. The uniform was somewhat out of fashion; it would have belonged more on a man from the turn of the century, and yet the King seemed to make it work. Mussolini suspected that had the man not been a king but a mere civilian he would have been a well-respected scholar. He bowed, making sure not to break etiquette. After all, the man was his liege. “Why would I refuse a summon from our King, your majesty?” he said, charging his words with false confusion. Whatever inkling of a smile that there was on Vittorio’s face gave way to a grave expression. “Oh spare me the act,” the King huffed. “It’s unbecoming for a man of your intellect.” Rising from the bow, Benito nodded. “Of course your majesty, I meant no offense.” “No offense!” The King let out a hearty laugh that did not fit his image. “If that were true then you and your party would not be threatening a takeover of the government!” The familiar fear of a trap came back in full force. Surrounded by soldiers, Mussolini and Adalberto did not stand much of a chance if they moved in on the two fascists. The Duce brought his right hand to his chest. “Your majesty, if I have come across as such I apologize,” he improvised, hoping that the King would not catch his bluff. “It has never been my intention to resort to violence. “Italy is in dire straits, as his majesty must be aware,” Mussolini continued. “The country is being torn apart by the likes of the socialists and communists, for it is they who are the instigators of the strikes. It is they who would rather bring deadlock to the political process.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Remember your grace, we fascists have always reacted; never have we acted out of our own initiative.” While the last bit was not entirely true, the rest was. There was a reason why Mussolini had chosen October to hold the Congress of Fascists in Naples, and that was due to the general strike called by the unions in that period. With Italy at a standstill, a march by the PNF that would give the semblance of law and order that would be well received, hopefully winning the popular support that the fascists needed. Vittorio’s eyes, still brimming with youthful alertness, bore into Benito. The fascist did his best to not flinch under the scrutinising gaze. The King hummed, stroking at his greying moustache. “You’re not wrong,” he said, making his way to the blackshirt. His face softened at the sight of the alicorno that stared back. “So this is the fabled alicorno that I keep hearing about.” Adalberto’s response was prompt. “Yes your majesty.” “May I?” Vittorio asked, pointing to foal. Adalberto glanced at the Duce. When he got a nod in response he offered her to the king. The King handled the exchange with the grace that came with experience and rocked her slowly. The filly cooed at the attention given to her. A knowing smile grew on the King’s face. “Never have I imagined to see something this peculiar in my life.” Then there was a soft humming. It took a moment for Mussolini to realize that it was the King humming a lullaby. The Duce’s eyes widened at the scene, wondering if he wasn’t imagining it. Turning his head to steal a glance at Adalberto he saw the blackshirt tug at his lips, raising his eyebrows as well. When he turned back to the decisively fatherly Vittorio, Mussolini heard a second voice attempt to join in the lullaby. It fumbled and couldn’t get the right sounds, but it followed the rhythm and notes as well as an untrained voice could. What stunned Benito for the second time in two days was that the infantile voice came from the small alicorno in the King’s arms. The filly kept going until she realized that the duet had turned into a solo once again. Confused, she stared at Emanuele for guidance but only saw a slack-jawed King. “Did it…?” Vittorio turned back to Benito. “Just how old is the alicorno?” It took a moment for Mussolini to collect himself. “W-we uh, don’t know, your majesty.” He rubbed at his chin. “We assumed that she was no older than a month or so.” The King glanced back at the filly, discontent at the lack of attention. Hesitantly, he resumed the rocking motion, bringing a satisfied smile to the foal. As she closed her eyes the King muttered with a smile, “Definitely not like any other creature on God’s Earth.” He focused his attention back to the fascist leader. “Does she have a name?” Mussolini’s mind was a blank for a long time. He had not given it enough thought in the past two days as there was just so much that took priority. He was about to admit that out loud, but Benito stopped himself when his eyes fell once more on the quiet alicorno. His thoughts went back to the beautiful voice that had joined in the lullaby; it was an infant’s babble but it held something that no human baby had, let alone a newborn. Despite her apparent age the alicorno sang with the skill that was borne out of inert talent, completely rough and dull, needing only practice to bring out the best out of it. And the notes! Che cadenza! Then it came: an idea. “Cadenza, your grace,” he told Vittorio, putting on a confident face. The King looked to the newly-christened alicorno, humming once more, this time in thought. “Fitting,” he finally said, handing Cadenza back to Adalberto. He stood up straight, clasping his hands. “Now,” Vittorio spoke up, “onto the matter on hand.” Mussolini nodded, following his monarch, walking alongside the pond. The steps of the blackshirt and the soldiers’ boot heels were oddly mute as they too followed the two leaders. “I had to come back from my summer residence in San Rossore,” Emanuele began with a glance at Benito. “I haven’t slept soundly last night, and I have you and your party to blame for it.” The fascist opted to say nothing. What could he say? The man had every right to detest the PNF’s antics of the last few months, let alone those from the last few days, and Vittorio was a shrewd man: Mussolini could tell. There was not much that he could tell the King. “My signature was requested for a declaration of a state of siege,” the King piped up, stopping dead to stare right into Benito’s eyes. “You understand what signing such a declaration would entail, correct?” It took a significant amount of self control on Mussolini’s part to not break his neutral smile. He knew full well that such a decree meant that the Quadrumvirate’s worst fears would come true. Instead of a bloodless march there would be a battle on the streets of Rome the likes of which had not been seen in decades. Slowly, he nodded. “I do.” “Of course.” The King gave a nod of his own. “Don’t worry,” he added, “I have not signed it nor do I have any intention to.” The Duce let out a breath that he didn’t realize that he was holding. Vittorio resumed. “The Prime Minister was miffed at my refusal to sign; more so when I dismissed him.” He turned once more to Mussolini. “For you see, Mussolini, I have a proposition for you.” “Your majesty?” The King looked upon the reflections in the pond, prompting Benito to follow his gaze. There he saw the two of them, the tips of the yellowing treeline, and the overcast sky above them all. Without viewing the King’s face directly Mussolini saw an exhaustion that he found familiar. “We both know that Italy is on a knife’s edge,” Emanuele explained. “Italians everywhere are frightened about the future of the country, and the split in the government due to the partisanship has been anything but reassuring.” He turned to observe the Florentine tower. “Italy is at a standstill and everyone is looking for a sign that things will get better before they get worse. “And if I were to agree to sign Facta’s decree,” the King said resolutely, “there’d be civil war.”  Benito nodded gravely. “Yes, I am fully aware.” “Then you came along” —Vittorio turned on his heels and jabbed a finger at the shaven man— “with an alicorno in tow. I was unsure as to what to do before, but the people’s reaction to Cadenza settled it.” Mussolini’s eyebrow piqued, but he suspected where the King was going with this. The shorter man scoffed. “Come on, man: that little foal of yours has resonated with Italians in a way that I never have seen.” His gaze shifted to the blackshirt to the side. “I cannot imagine another figure as popular as her. Not one!” “It was surprise to the party as well,” Benito conceded, offering a subtle shrug. “We did our best to drip feed the news of the alicorno, but the press is a fickle thing.” That was a blatant lie. Yes, he had been doing his best not to release photographs but that was the only thing he did to limit the spread of Cadenza—hm, that is a good name. There was no reason to tell the King that though. Whether or not he spotted the lie Vittorio didn’t say. “Even if you fascists hadn’t been lucky with this surge in popularity, you are the least worst out of the practical options.” He let out a grumble from deep within his throat. “I’d rather be damned before I allow the communists turn Italy into another Russia.” How long has it been since the civil war had started over there? Mussolini wondered. He seemed to recall that the Russians had been fighting for far longer than the rest of Europe had in the Great War. There was a tinge of pity for the Russian people, but that tinge was overshadowed by the contempt that he held for Russian society as a whole. Did these backwards slavs, who lost to Japan of all countries, deserve pity? In this Benito was resolute, and he could only hope that a Bolshevist takeover could bring the Russian people into the modern age through a new socialist state. That had been his dream for Italy once, but he had equally known when to jump the ideological ship for something that wouldn't cause as much chaos as that brutal conflict in the east. “What are you exactly proposing, your majesty?” he finally asked. The King narrowed his eyes. “Italy needs a stable government,” he stated. “As much as I detest admitting this, I need the image of order that you and your party perpetuate. I am willing to offer you and the PNF a position of power.” Mussolini blinked, lips parting to speak only to close his mouth. Out of all of the scenarios that he had played in his head, this was the last thing that he had expected from the King. He stammered out a response. “I… ah, I don’t know what to say, your grace.” His liege snorted. “You could thank me for starters,” he snided. “I am giving you what you have been asking for.” Vittorio’s brow creased. “Aren’t I?” “Oh, of course!” Mussolini bowed his head deeply. “I am very thankful for your offer, your majesty.” However, as his head rose a scowl formed. “Although, that is not something that I can just accept.” The still autumn air seemed to grow chillier. Mussolini could feel the stunned stare of Adalberto and possibly those of the nearby soldiers. It was the King’s turn to blink in confusion and to remain on the verge of a response. “Why– why wouldn’t you?” he finally said, his eyes widening. “I may have not followed your every rally or speech, but I know that this is what you fascists have been asking for the last year.” Much to the King’s surprise, the Duce nodded. “You aren’t wrong, your majesty,” he replied before raising a finger. “However, if I were to accept a simple transition of government, I’d harm the fascist image.” At the piqued eyebrow, Mussolini explained, “Think how this would be perceived from the outside: what would prevent people from assuming that this was nothing more than a backstage scheme that they had no say in?” Among the reasons for the planned show of force in the march, this was one of the pivotal ones. If the people thought of the PNF as just another party like the Italian Liberal Party: incompetent, divided and incapable. Of course, this was not at all true, everyone who was a true supporter knew, but a lack of confidence in a fascist government would only be harmful. It was something that could be overcome but Mussolini knew that it would hold Italy back for a long time to come. Vittorio seemed to realize this as he mulled over it. “What do you suggest then?” “Let the march go unopposed tomorrow, your majesty,” Benito answered, feeling the inkling of a predatory smile forming as he raised a placating hand in anticipation of an objection. “Allow me to explain, your grace. If we march into Rome it will send a message more powerful than anything we could say if the PNF simply took over as you suggested. By marching into the capital we will appear as if we brought down the government from the outside.” “...and gain more support,” the King added, catching on. “I think I understand what you’re getting at.” His scowl returned however. “However, I can’t say that I like the thought of your armed thugs marching in the streets of the Eternal City.” Benito brought a hand to his gut. “You wound me, your majesty. I may be many things and I suspect that you believe me to be many more. However, there is one thing that I am most definitely not, and that I am no brute.” Feeling bold, he even jutted out his chin. “Your grace, I would never harm our majestic capital!” This, unlike the half-truths that he had fed the King, was entirely truthful. Benito would do everything to avoid any damage done to the city or any of its residents. The Eternal City had suffered much in its centennial history; it had suffered enough already. Vittorio bore into the Duce’s eyes, scrutinizing the fascist for some unseen fault. “Swear it,” he demanded. Before Mussolini could do so however, the King thrust a finger towards Adalberto. “On Cadenza’s name,” he added seriously. “She is your most valuable asset as of right now, Mussolini, don’t try to deny it. You might not be a religious man, but you are a pragmatic one.” Vittorio stood up straight, clasping his hands behind his back and narrowing his eyes. “Let me posit you this, fascist: what would happen if you lost Italy’s new cherished treasure?” It happened. Mussolini had honestly begun to think that it wouldn’t have come to this, but his alicorno, the party’s alicorno, was under threat. Granted, the King wasn’t taking the foal from him but the threat existed. Emanuele had finally showed his hand and was willing to play it. All that mattered now was Benito’s play. He bit his tongue; for a moment he didn’t see an elderly monarch before him but a cruel man who’d go the length to punish the fascist leader if he strayed from his promise. The urge to hit the man was strong, but Mussolini stilled his hand lest he risk his life. He stared daggers at the King, who did not flinch under the glare. Under that glare, Vittorio offered a hand. “Do we have an understanding?” Benito looked at the hand as if it was a stump of infectious flesh. Never had he thought the King to be so viperous: Vittorio Emanuele was a soldier, wasn’t he? Weren’t soldiers above this political scheming? This was a side to the man that Mussolini could never have dreamt of. This was something that a Bolshevist would aspire to, and it was a wonder why the communists hadn’t taken over Italy yet. Benito’s eyes fell upon the pond, seeing the distorted reflections of two men, only to notice the appearance of a third. Turning to see the real person, Mussolini was faced with Adalberto who was still caressing Cadenza. The blackshirt wore his usual mask, betraying nothing to those around him. His eyes did seem to have grown dull, however. Mussolini understood: at least Adalberto was on his side. The filly however seemed to have fallen asleep again. The calm on her face was jarring with the contrasting tension, and Benito envied her ignorance; at least she didn’t need to worry herself with the horrid reality that was politics. However, he knew what he had to do. Turning to the awaiting King Mussolini grasped the hand and kissed it. Qualsiasi cosa per l’Italia.