//------------------------------// // Red Rome // Story: Il Duce e la Principessa // by GIULIO //------------------------------// The telephone on Benito’s desk rang for his attention, startling him somewhat from his morning read. He recovered quickly though, setting down the newspaper and answering before the first trilling ring ended. “Yes, Mussolini speaking.” “A call from the State Police, Rome Office,” a switchboard operator said on the other line. “Put it through.” There was a momentary lull as the call was rerouted, and after an audible click, a tinny voice came through the earphone. “Signor Primo Ministro,” a man spoke, “this is Vice Director General Giuseppe Esposito speaking. I regret to inform you that Director De Bono is currently unavailable, and extends his apology for the inconvenience.” As the Duce pouted, he had a onceover at the eyes on him: all of the quadrumvirate except for De Bono were present, as was Cadenza, though she busied herself with letter blocks. He leaned back into his chair. “I understand,” Mussolini replied in a neutral voice. “When will he be available?” “Tomorrow at the earliest,” came the answer. Benito nodded; he’d have to inform Emilio later. “Very well, I thank you for your time.” “Have a good day, Mister Prime Minister.” He placed the receiver back on its stand and rose up. “Gentlemen,” he called. Michele and Cesare rose up from their seats, while Italo looked up from his spot besides Cadenza. Only Cadenza seemed to pay little heed, with only an ear turned to listen in. “Emilio will not be joining us today,” Mussolini announced, “so we will have to proceed without him.” There were more than a few raised eyebrows. “What’s this about, Duce?” De Vecchi asked. Mussolini eyed Cesare for a moment before turning to the others. “It’s about Cadenza,” he finally said, earning two perked ears from said filly. “More specifically, her transfer to Pisa.” None of the fascists spoke up, but there were some exchanged glances. Cadenza spun the blocks in the air, trying and not quite succeeding in spelling ‘ciao’ with them. “While I’ve been up in Cremona,” Benito said, placing a hand upon his desk, “Farinacci has confided in me some worrisome information about the ADP.” He paused for an instant to allow the implication to sink in: Bianchi’s eyes widened; Balbo’s lips thinned; De Vecchi’s brow creased downwards. Mussolini found each reaction to be perfectly valid and expected. The Arditi del Popolo had been one of the greatest hindrances to the PNF’s street actions prior to the March on Rome. They were responsible for the humiliation wrought upon the squadristi at Parma back in August, fighting off a greater force of thousands with a mere two hundred or so war veterans. Yes, they were eventually taken care of and their leadership dissolved, but it had required the intervention of the carabinieri and military. The embarrassment bit deeply and the grudge was one that wouldn’t be soon forgotten by any fascist. “They’re mobilizing again,” Benito said, then pointed to the ground with an index finger. “Here, right under our noses.” “But how?” Bianchi piped up. “I thought that Picelli had dissolved the ADP.” Mussolini splayed a hand to the side. “All I know is what Roberto told me in Cremona: a syndicalist up in Carpi revealed that former elements of the ADP of Civitavecchia have been reactivated and have installed themselves in Rome.” A frown touched his lips. “We couldn’t get any specifics in regards of their plans or any important members.” He stood up straight and placed his hands behind his back. “However fleeting this information is, we cannot ignore it.” Italo slowly rose up from his squatted position with a certain glint in his eye. “Duce,” he spoke carefully, “what does the ADP have to do with Cadenza?” Benito nodded slightly to himself, chewing on his lip. “I wouldn’t know, Italo,” he admitted with a downcast gaze. “Nothing good, I’d imagine. This is why I called you all here today.” “What’s the plan, Duce?” Cesare asked. The Duce’s eyes flicked over the three quadrumvirates, and nodded decisively. “We’ll organize two different transfers to Termini: one from the Policlinico and the other from our offices.” De Vecchi tilted his head slightly, but both Bianchi and Balbo’s faces lit up. “A decoy?” Michele said tentatively. Another nod. “We’ll publicize a fake transfer of Cadenza from the hospital to one in Milan to take place at noon of the seventh. “The real transfer, however,” Mussolini said with the beginnings of a smirk, “will take place before dawn on the same day.” He allowed a pause for the others to ask any questions: none came. “Unlike the fake transfer, the real one will be low-key, with only one car and a small guard of cyclists to garner the least amount of attention.” Benito tapped on his desk, looking to Italo. “Balbo, you’ll pick one man to accompany you and Cadenza to Pisa. Be careful with who you choose, I don’t want any of this getting to the press.” The man looked pensive, staring momentarily at the carpeted floor before saying, “I have a few people in mind, Duce, and they’re all loyal.” He stood up straight. “Any one of them can be trusted.” Mussolini smiled inwardly; he had expected no other response from Italo. “Very good,” he said, taking a few steps away from his seat. “Bianchi, I’ll leave the press to you.” Michele’s eyes lit up behind his glasses. “I’ll get on it right away,” he said with an air of pride. “All of the major newspapers will run the story on the frontpage by tomorrow morning.” Benito nodded and looked to Cesare. He opened his mouth to speak but the Squadristi leader gave a nod of his own. “I’ll send word for the men, Duce,” he said in a huff. Mussolini didn’t care much for De Vecchi’s dismissive tone, but he was pleased nonetheless. He walked back behind his desk and resumed his seat. “We only have a few days to put this plan together, gentlemen,” he reminded the quadrumvirate. “Not only that, but I expect full confidentiality on the matter; not a single word that isn’t prepared goes out.” After a final round of salutes, De Vecchi and Bianchi left, leaving Benito with Cadenza and Italo. “Is it alright if I leave Cadenza with you, Duce?” Italo dusted himself off. “I’d like to have some time to myself to think.” “It’s alright,” Mussolini said with a dismissive wave of the hand. Just as Balbo made to leave as well, Benito called to him. “Yes, Duce?” Balbo asked at the threshold. The Duce opened his mouth but thought better of it. “Just think well and hard on your man,” he finally said after shaking his head. Italo’s eyebrow rose somewhat, but he nodded. “Don’t worry, I will.” Both Benito and Cadenza watched as the aviator closed the door behind him. Her stare lingered on the door for a long while before turning to Mussolini. “Baa-bo coming back soon?” she asked. Benito put on a smile. “He will be back. He just needs to go over some things.” As he finished saying that, there was a doubt gnawing at the back of his mind, however. As far as Mussolini was concerned, the plan was sound; both Italo and Cadenza would come out fine. Or at least they should, the doubt added for him. He looked to the filly, whose gaze was still upon the Prime Minister. Cadenza above everyone else, he decided. Cadenza’s Transfer to Milan Nearly a month after being interned at a special wing of the Umberto I Policlinico in Rome, the alicorno Cadenza is to be transferred to the Policlinico of Milan. The reason for this transfer has been cited by PNF sources as purely medical. “The Ospedale Maggiore of Milan has a modern radiology department,” PNF Secretary Michele Bianchi stated. “While the staff here are all capable, [the Umberto I Policlinico] lacks some of the more modern equipment to carry out a more precise prognosis for our beloved Cadenza. “The Duce, and by extension the rest of the PNF, only wishes to provide the best care for her.” Cadenza’s transfer has been scheduled to take place on Sunday the 7th under the watchful eye of the squadristi. When asked on this detail, Bianchi explained that it is for the safety of both Cadenza and the public at large. “While there has been no establishment of a link between human influenza and [the alicorno’s] disease, we are taking no chances. We intend to take every precaution to ensure the wellbeing of the public as well as Cadenza’s.” The transfer shall entail a long train ride for the alicorno in a train carriage specially equipped for any eventuality that may arise. Il Corriere wishes a safe journey to Cadenza. A runner exited from the entrance of the PNF headquarters and came up to the Super Fiat in the courtyard. Balbo rolled down the window. “Are we good to go?” he asked. “Yessir,” the man said, breathing hard against the crisp pre-dawn air. “The go ahead just came through.” Italo nodded. “Very good,” he said before turning to the driver in front of him. “Start her up, Armando.” A mild sputter and then a steady rumble from the engine came as a response, followed by a sharp whistle from one of the armed cyclists who had been waiting for the signal. The six blackshirts (not so fitting of a name, as they all wore large trench coats) saddled their bicycles, each with a rifle slung around their shoulders, and made to surround the passenger car. “Avanti!” the lead escort barked, motioning for the Fiat to get moving. The driver shifted the gearbox and accelerated down along the avenue, armed cyclists matching the vehicle’s speed and sticking close to it. Balbo loosened his scarf after closing the window. It was a typical winter morning for Rome: overcast and chilly, with nary a beam of sunlight. “At least it isn’t raining,” he muttered, though the man suspected that even with the lack of rain most people would stay indoors for the day. “Sir?” Italo blinked, turning to face his fellow passenger sitting on the other side. The blackshirt was wearing an overcoat and the ever-popular fascist fez. Even with all of the bulk of his clothes, Balbo could see that the man was well-built, indicating a life spent working the land. Even his face suggested this; the tan was perhaps not as dark as it was prior to the winter, but his face was weathered with numerous wrinkles and creases that told of long, arduous hours spent toiling underneath a harsh Mediterranean sun. Italo offered a smile. “Nothing, Camillo,” he said, “just thinking out loud.” The Sicilian looked on for a moment, then nodded sheepishly, before letting his eyes wander outside. That was when the third passenger nudged at Balbo. Cadenza sat in the middle of the two fascists, and were she any larger, it would have been a tight squeeze for the three of them. Regardless, she sat with her wings and tail tucked in close to her so as not to disturb her fellow passengers. “Where are we going?” she asked for the second time since she had been rudely woken up, some thirty minutes back, before yawning loudly. It was still somewhat jarring for Italo to see the growing foal in the nude, having grown out of requiring nappies just days ago and appearing comfortable in the cool winter air. An order had been placed for clothes tailored for her, but finding a tailor had been a fruitless endeavor so far. Perhaps he was misremembering, but it looked as if Cadenza’s pink coat was thicker than it had been back in October in a manner that reminded him of the winter coat of horses. Or is it just her maturing? Balbo wondered idly. “We get to ride a train,” he said in a near-whisper, leaning in closely with his best smile. “Treno?” Cadenza repeated with lidded eyes. Camillo leaned in closer to the filly himself. “Yes, we’re going North!” he exclaimed. “You'll get to see the Leaning Tower.” Balbo’s smile turned genuine. He had thought long and hard over his pick of personal escort during the last few days, as he wanted someone who was both open minded and approachable for Cadenza as well as reliable in an emergency. Camillo Mondadori had served during the war and the French Foreign Legion before that, so while he was getting on with his years, this was one blackshirt that would fight if it came down to it. The only doubt that had remained in Italo’s mind with picking the Sicilian was how well he’d handle Cadenza. As the filly in question beamed, asking ‘Really?’ Balbo was certain that he had chosen well. “Oh yes,” Camillo replied. “Rome, great as it is, isn't the only great city in Italy.” “Where?” “Pisa,” Italo answered. “We might even get to climb the Apuan Alps if we have time.” Cadenza’s tail wagged like that of a dog. Balbo smiled and ran hand throuh her hair, leaving it ruffled. He looked out of the window, barely recognizing Panisperna Street in the darkness of the dawn. They were coming up to the crossing into Milan Street, and they slowed for the cyclists. There was another car oncoming from the other direction. For some reason, its headlights were switched off. Armando slowed, but the opposing car kept speeding up. “Ma che cos—” The lead cyclist jumped away from the runaway car, and Balbo braced for the impact. “Hang on!” A sharp shriek from both the car’s tires and Cadenza rang right until the impact. There was a terrible crash, and Italo’s head hit against the front seat. Everything went dark for a second, and stars filled his vision. He ached everywhere, and his left hand tingled. Balbo tried to turn, only to find his neck stiff. Hopefully he hadn’t broken anything, but right then he idly wondered what had happened. He reached for the door handle and pushed against the door; no luck, it didn’t budge. Italo managed to look to his left, the world still sounding distant and cold, and saw Camillo slumped against his front seat. The blackshirt wasn’t breathing. “Mondadori,” Balbo said weakly. For some reason that escaped him, his voice sounded off. Odd, there was a dull ringing in his ears. There was no response from the Sicilian. Italo shuffled awkwardly towards him. “Mondadori.” The body shifted suddenly. From the crossed arms popped out a pink horn. Balbo stared—he had completely forgotten about the alicorno, and realized that it had been Camillo who had shielded her with his body. In fact, he hadn’t even braced himself, having instead bundled Cadenza in his arms and hunched over her. Whatever hope there was that Camillo survived faded when Italo saw blood trickling down from the side of the man’s head. Hissing in pain, Italo closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Only now did the ringing begin to fade and in its place came some odd crack-like sounds… Balbo’s eyes opened wide as he recognized the all-too familiar sound of rifle fire. They were under attack! Experience led his hand to his holster in spite of the pain, and Italo pulled out his loaded revolver. A quick glance out of the window showed one of the cyclists with his rifle out, looking about with a wild look in his eyes. Balbo made to call the blackshirt, but coughed. At the second attempt, the escort’s head snapped back and fell down, dead. Italo ducked down. “Cazzo!” He stayed low and looked to Cadenza; she had been crying, and he wasn’t sure when she had started. He waited for a while and strained to hear beyond the rapidly fading ringing, but he didn’t hear any other shots. Either the snipers were reloading or… ...or they killed all of the escorts, a thought finished for him. Revolver now in hand, Balbo listened attentively for any sign of trouble. Cadenza had managed to free herself from Camillo’s hold, and scrambled away from the dead fascist, seeking comfort from Balbo. He almost jumped at the touch of her. “Jesus, Cadenza!” “Hurts,” the filly cried, sobbing loudly while rubbing against Italo. There was nothing that he’d rather do than comfort Cadenza; to take her away from all of this and get her to safety. The clicks of boots against the cobblestone brought Italo back to reality. He leaned against the door. Just where were the footsteps coming from? Listening more closely, Balbo guessed that there was someone walking up to his window. His grip of the handgun tightened. Just a few more steps and… “Che diavolo?” Italo turned sharply to see the confused expression of a man at the other side of the window. The fascist would later berate himself for the long hesitation, but Italo was the first to aim and shoot. The intruder fell. Perhaps Balbo missed, but, for the moment at least, he wouldn’t have been a problem. Cadenza cried out at the sound of Italo’s revolver. It momentarily distracted him from watching his window, turning later than he would have liked. When he did, the barrel of a rifle stared down at his face. Balbo reacted quickly and grabbed the barrel to shove it away. The rifle discharged, and the fascist’s world exploded. Ears ringing and vision blurred for a mere moment, he growled and shot. The moustached man’s head snapped back and fell from view, dropping the rifle through the window. Balbo screamed; he could barely hear himself over the dim ringing. A part of him distantly wondered if his eardrums had finally burst, but whether or not that was true, there was a sharp pain in his ears. He writhed while the world spun, unable to make sense of what was happening anymore. Eventually Italo recovered enough that his vision regained focus, and his eyes widened in surprise at what he saw. The first man had a handgun aimed through the left window. Italo winced in anticipation of the shot, but it never came. Instead, the man’s firearm was torn away from his grasp and spun vertically in mid air. “What the—” The pistol discharged at the attacker. It was only then, as the ambusher’s lifeless body fell, did Balbo understand what had happened. Both the handgun and Cadenza’s horn were alight in that familiar blue aura, as she stared in horror. Her lip trembled and her ears folded as the implications of her actions dawned on her. Ears still ringing dimly, he turned to Cadenza. “Look at me,” he said. The filly merely flicked her ear in response. “Cadenza,” Italo called. She finally glanced at him. “B-b-ba...” Balbo hushed her. “It’s alright, you did the right thing.” “Brutti bastardi!” The car sparked with glancing shots and ricochets. Cadenza shrieked and dropped the gun and Italo ducked down again. Just how many were out there? “Don’t shoot!” someone outside shouted with a noticeable Roman accent. “You might hit the alicorno!” While someone else called back ‘vacci tu, allora!’ to the first, Italo was confused; how did they know about Cadenza? In fact, how had they known that there was a car going to Termini to begin with? He didn’t have much time to mull over those questions when a bullet shattered the left passenger side window. Both Italo and Cadenza cried out as shards of glass fell upon the two of them. Luckily for them, Camillo took the brunt of the projectiles. “Stop shooting, you idiots!” The shooting diminished, until there were only the ebbs of echoing rifles. Among the deafening silence there was the pungent smell of fuel; had it been leaking all this time? If that was the case, then Balbo had to get out of there immediately, lest he and Cadenza risked a fire. “Signor Balbo!” the first voice called out. Italo froze, and felt a chill run down his spine. They knew that he was part of the escort too? How in the devil…? “We don’t need to spill any more blood,” the Roman continued. “Surrender the alicorno and you and your entourage shall be spared.” While Balbo tried to make sense of where the man was, a small part of him found the demand almost amusing: everyone in the car save for himself and Cadenza was dead. The only life that would be spared was prepared to sell itself dearly. “If anyone there can hear me, just surrender the alicorno and walk out with your hands up. You have my word.” Italo ran his tongue along his incisors and tightened his grip on his revolver. “Come and take her!” There was no response from the extorter; in its stead was a single crack of a rifle and the shattering of glass. Cadenza yelped as the driver’s window crumbled and showered an unmoving Armando. “Bastards!” Italo cursed under his breath. “That was a warning shot,” the man shouted. “You won’t be warned again. Exit the car with your hands up!” This time, Italo actually considered the offer. The ambushers had their firing zones zeroed down on the Super Fiat; short of a miracle, there was no way that they’d come out of this unscathed. Perhaps… Balbo looked to Cadenza. She was crying again, head buried under her hooves and trembling. Was this the better option? If he stood his ground, what would he achieve with his inevitable demise asides from killing a few more of these men? Italo was already down to four shots, plus what the handgun that Cadenza used had. Would that be enough? Beneath the hooves, Cadenza’s head rose enough to reveal teary-eyed terror. Swallowing hard, Italo came to a decision and tossed his gun out of the window. “Don’t shoot, we’re coming out!” “Baa-bo?” The fascist turned back and saw a slack-jawed Cadenza who stared back in shock. That look and dismayed tone was all it took for him to feel sick to his gut. She might have just been a filly, but Balbo recognized the betrayal in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Cadenza,” he said in a quiet voice, “but this is for the best.” To emphasize his point, Italo closed in to comfort her, only to see the alicorno recoil away from his hand. The metaphorical dagger in his gut twisted and dug deeper. Biting back his emotions, Italo gingerly picked up Cadenza and brought her in close in spite of her struggle. “I will come back for you,” he whispered, “don’t lose hope.” Cadenza stilled somewhat, but the distrust was plain on her all-too-human face. Balbo pretended to not have seen it. He shoved Camillo’s body aside and made for the door. With a push it budged open, and Italo brought a hand up in surrender. “Don’t shoot!” he repeated as he waited for a response. “Exit the car,” someone demanded. Balbo did so, if awkwardly, and took a few steps away from the totaled car. In fact, now that he was outside, Italo saw the extent of the damages. Asides from the side windows that had been shot out during the firefight, the hoods of both the Super Fiat and the other car still held most of their original shapes, but the chassis had crumpled somewhat. From where he stood, Italo could barely recognize his driver. He tore his gaze from the crash when he heard approaching footsteps. From one of the arched residences there was a brown-clad gunman walking towards Balbo and Cadenza. The man held his rifle low but still kept it trained on Italo. Balbo felt Cadenza squirm in his grasp. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” the man warned with a gravelly voice through his scarf. Italo swallowed hard, and nodded. “I’m unarmed.” Even though it was still dark, the morning had grown light enough that he saw the gunman’s eyes. Perhaps he was seeing things, but… Is he remorseful? The man said nothing and thrust his left hand into Balbo’s coat pockets while still keeping his rifle on the fascist. “Go away!” Cadenza cried. That gave pause to the gunman, but he soon resumed checking Italo for any hidden weapons. A blue light erupted in front of Balbo, forcing him to look away. When he looked back, the man was lying on the pavement on the other side of the road. Italo, realizing what had just happened, bolted for the car. The remaining gunmen didn’t take long to recover. Whip-like cracks went off as bullets zipped past and struck the cobbled road, barely missing his feet. “Porco Giuda!” Italo hunched over Cadenza who was struggling again. “Let go!” she beseeched, tugging hard against Balbo’s hold. A particularly strong jab with a hoof made him stumble and hit hard against the wreckage. In the confusion the alicorno slipped from his grasp. “Cadenza, wait!” Italo grabbed at her, but he was too slow; Cadenza took a few leaps while flapping her wings before she finally took off from the ground and to the sky. The rifle fire ceased almost immediately after Cadenza soared. A part of Balbo couldn’t blame the shooters: she hadn’t flown after that incident on New Year’s, and that hadn't been much of a flight. No one else has even seen her attempting to fly. Here though, Cadenza was flying high enough to reach the upper floors of the apartment blocks. She stopped and hovered awkwardly above the middle of the road and took a sharp breath. Then suddenly there was a great cacophony that carried enough physical force to push down on Italo. His first immediate thought was that a large explosion had burst just above, but after he covered his ears, he noticed that the noise were actually words. “Aiuto! Ci sono dei cattivi qua!” Cadenza was beyond scared. The bad men had hurt Baa-bo’s friends and they wanted to take her. Not only that, she was currently hovering in mid-air at a dizzying height. Not even Duce’s balcony was this high! What was worse, Baa-bo had put himself in direct danger. She knew that he had done this to protect her from the bad men, but Cadenza didn’t want to see him hurt. When the man didn’t leave when she told him to, there was a… spark, like what had happened before, when that scary man was shouting at Adda and Cadenza months ago. She just wished to get him away and after a flash, the man had been thrown away like a ball. It was considerably harder to do than using the metal lightning thing of the other man in the car against him, but it didn’t… The alicorno stopped herself and focused on what needed to be done: getting help. She wasn’t sure if her calls would wake up anyone after the terrible noise from before, but she poured everything into her voice. “Help! There are bad men here!” The strength behind the call caught her by surprise. Cadenza’s ears instinctively flattened against her head at the incredible volume. But like she had done with the powerful shove and consistent flight, the filly couldn’t stop to appreciate her actions. No, she had to get someone to come and help. Cadenza flew along the street, not entirely sure how she was managing to do so, but calling for help regardless. As she flew, she spied windows lighting up and opening. She heard startled voices as residents peered out from their homes to the call of the child. Cadenza saw one particular man out on a balcony and flew up to him. The man looked like he had just gotten out of bed, wearing only white undergarments and having messy bed hair. He recoiled, wide-eyed, but otherwise stood his ground. “Please!” Cadenza said, hovering just in front of him. “There are bad men hurting my friend and me!” He followed her indication and saw the car crash and the figures down the street. He mouthed something, but the filly didn’t catch the meaning. As more people appeared from their homes, there was a growing clamor from them. Confused at first, but the promises of assistance followed soon after. Cadenza was glad that her pleas had garnered so much attention, yet there was a sense of trepidation; she had no idea as to what these people would actually do. That man that she pushed away promised not to harm her or Baa-bo, after all. Would these people have done the same? As she landed on the roof of a building, her fears receded somewhat as the man before her finally spoke up. “What the devil are you doing?” he called to the men that had hurt Baa-bo’s friends. “Vergogna!” Soon more jeers joined his, turning the street into an echo chamber of shame calling directed to the bad men. Those men looked about wildly, essentially surrounded by dozens of civilians whipped up to a frenzy the likes of which was rarely seen. It was not long when someone emptied a bucket of dirty water on top of them. Or at least, it looked like water. Cadenza wondered if it might’ve been pee. Whatever it was, those who were hit in full visibly shuddered. They moved to aim their lightning sticks at the culprit, only to be shouted down by another one of them. That made the filly curious: why weren’t they hurting the others? She was glad that they weren’t, but seeing how they had hurt Baa-bo’s friends without hesitating, Cadenza thought that there would have been a new fight breaking out between the people and the bad men. A new wave of jeers erupted from one of the apartment blocks as a crowd formed at a balcony, roughly handling a man that looked much like one of the bad men. A wave of cheers ran through the street as his lightning stick was torn from his grasp and held by the mob. This happened again in another block, though there was significantly less to see, as the bad man in that building was pushed out from the window and fell a story. The bad men in the streets seemed to be at a loss. Cadenza could tell that they could hurt anyone, but with so many people rallying to her call, she knew that they couldn’t hurt everyone. Some of them even seemed to plead with the crowd, waving their metal sticks to keep the people at a distance. All too quickly though, they were surrounded. One of these bad men, who had his back at a wall, pointed his lightning stick at the encroaching sea of people. When he looked at one side of the oncoming people, someone jumped from the other side and tackled him. A scuffle broke out and others joined in. Lightning cracked, and suddenly everyone was screaming. Cadenza looked on with horror as people fled the scene and hid in their homes. They had been so close to reaching Baa-bo! If only the bad man had waited just a bit more… But above the racket there was a prolonged screeching that Cadenza had heard once before; it didn’t belong to a person, but to two cars that were approaching from the way that she and Baa-bo had come from, lighting the street. On these cars —trucks, she recalled— were men dressed in the way that Baa-bo and his friends liked to dress as usual, all black. They jumped out of the back of the vehicles without waiting for them to stop and ran towards the car crash, cracking lightning with their own metal sticks. This caused renewed panic with the few people that were still out in the open, but it also sent the bad men running. Cadenza cheered when those too slow simply threw down their lightning sticks and raised their hands. She knew now that she and Baa-bo were safe now. Baa-bo in fact moved away from what remained of their car to approach one of the newcomers. They shook hands and there was a big grin on Baa-bo’s face. As he cupped his hands and called her name, Cadenza finally flew down to street level and hovered in front of him, much to the surprise of his friend. “Are you alright?” Baa-bo asked, his smile falling a bit now that he had a good view of her. She probably looked like a mess. Cadenza nodded. “I am now.” She turned to his friend and approached for a hug. “Thank you so much for helping us.” Baa-bo’s friend was slow to accept the hug. “It was, uh, the least that we could do,” he said after stumbling for a moment. It wasn’t as nice as one of Baa-bo’s hugs, but the alicorno found any physical contact reassuring. Slowly people billowed out of the buildings now that the situation had calmed down, and a crowd began to form. Baa-bo’s friends formed a ring around him and Cadenza, even though there was no ill intent from the people. In fact, many applauded their rescuers, shaking their hands and a few ladies offering kisses to them. Cadenza flew next to Baa-bo and closed in for a hug, which he gladly took. Hugs were very good, she already knew that, but after what had happened the filly had a whole new appreciation for them. She shuddered when her mind went back to when she had hurt that one bad man. Cadenza didn’t want to hurt anyone, not even those who wanted to hurt her, but when she saw that he was about to hurt Baa-bo… Another chill ran down her length. “Cadenza,” Baa-bo said softly in her ear, “I'm so sorry.” She blinked. “Why?” Baa-bo’s hug tightened. “I was going to leave you to those bad, bad men.” He loosened his grip to allow for the two to face each other. He looked devastated. “Will– will you forgive me?” “You did the right thing,” she quickly answered, giving a small yet genuine smile. Baa-bo’s own smile was one of relief. “You did the right thing too,” he said in a small voice. Was he talking about how she got everyone to come or when she..? The alicorno felt her lips twitch: that last thing didn’t feel like it was the right thing to do. One of Baa-bo’s friends approached them. “We need to get you some medical attention, sir.” He didn’t look too worried, but he sounded adamant about it. Baa-bo nodded and they were led to one of the trucks. Cadenza however looked to the multitude of concerned faces around them; she couldn’t leave just yet. She turned to whisper in Baa-bo’s ear. “Please let go, Baa-bo.” “Are you sure?” he whispered back. At her nod, he did so, only for Cadenza to fly high. He began to call at her, but when she looked down to him, Baa-bo seemed to understand. The crowd pointed and lauded her as she flew. Once the filly was high enough, she took a deep breath: “Thank you all for helping,” she announced in her strong voice, silencing the crowds. “You all saved us from the bad men, and are good people!” Then she threw her hoof high and cried, “Evviva gli italiani!” Everyone went wild, reaching higher volumes and meeting her salute with their own. They chanted urrá and viva in an unending wave of praise and admiration. Their love and happiness was entirely palpable, and Cadenza felt genuinely good. All of her prior concerns melted away, and everything felt right in the world. Looking down to meet Baa-bo’s glowing smile only further exhilarated the filly. She let out a breath as the sun peeked above the skyline, feeling as if she had been holding it in for far too long. Things were good. Fingers rapped furiously against the hard-wood desk as a fuming Mussolini read the report before him. De Bono had long been gone after he groveled to the Duce and had begged for forgiveness for the failure of his duty. The list of fatalities was far too long for his liking. Benito had rightly berated the Director of the State Police, and had made it a spectacle for both Cesare and Michele to witness the consequences of failure. That hadn’t been the problem, however. Mussolini had fully expected to put up a good show regardless. The problem was the disastrous handling by the ambushers once Balbo began fighting back. Grumbling deep from his throat, Benito sneered at the memory of the idiot lieutenant that had guaranteed that the car crash wouldn’t have killed anyone, and would only have left them stunned. Then those bunglers had to shoot at the damned car! They had stayed for far too long and needlessly put Cadenza and Balbo at risk. His hand balled to a fist and knocked against his desk. It was a simple plan: stop the car, sacrifice the six blackshirts unlucky enough to have volunteered, grab a stunned Cadenza, take her to a safe house, then have the state police mount a ‘successful raid’ against the ‘criminal socialists.’ Whoever was the rammer had only one job, and he fouled up! And because of that, more good people were now dead, and everyone in Rome and the rest of Italy knew about Cadenza’s abilities. The fist shook, but Mussolini forced to still it with a sigh, slowly unfurling it. The only real issue here was that the secret was out. Both Cadenza and Balbo were fine, and the left had been dealt a significant blow. Everything else was regrettable but not critical, and no one important knew what had truly happened, not even the quadrumvirate. In fact, he supposed that the intervention by the people was an unintentional benefit. According to the rumors running around the party offices, Cadenza’s standing with the common people was now firmly cemented, and it looked as if the darling of Italy would become the darling of all of those against the growing threat of the political left. He looked forward to use that support to start clamping down on the socialists and communists. There was one other issue gnawing at him though. The Duce had been assured by the medical team currently observing Cadenza that she hadn’t suffered psychologically from the whole ordeal. Of course, this observation was made under the assumption that the alicorno was similar if not identical to a human child, and supposedly she did kill a man. Benito obviously hoped that they were right, but as it had been proven time and time again, nothing was certain when it came to Cadenza. Thus he was left to wonder how this would affect the girl. Perhaps it would only make her stronger; the way she managed the crowd was emphatically described as nothing short of astonishing by Balbo. Was Cadenza perhaps one of those who performed best under duress? Mussolini would have to look into that. But that was for later: he set aside the report with another sigh and pulled out a clean sheet of paper. The letter that he had prepared for the King was no longer accurate to what had happened so he began to pen a new one. Hopefully the additional casualties wouldn’t worsen Vittorio’s mood when he would inevitably storm into Mussolini’s office.