> Il Duce e la Principessa
>  by GIULIO
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Under the Shadow of the Vesuvius
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

"...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.
> L'Alicorno
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Emilio De Bono stood staring at the creature in the arms of the blackshirt that was quietly feeding it with a bottle of goat's milk. It was most similar to a minuscule foal, but even that was just an approximation: the colours of its coat and mane, even with the muck staining them, were simply not possible were it a horse. If anything, the striped mane and tail were as absurd as the stripes on a zebra.

Along with the colours, the thing only passed as a foal in the broadest sense. The snout was a tiny thing, and the head was far too large and round for it to be an actual equine. Those purple eyes, asides from being too big relative to the head, held a startling amount of intelligence behind them. It wasn't like peering into a dog's eyes, but into those of a newborn child. To top it all off, the creature had tiny feathered wings and a stub that could only be described as a budding horn akin to that of unicorns.

If De Bono hadn't known any better, he would have suspected a particularly devious prankster who dyed a deformed foal and added a horn and wings to have a laugh.

He rubbed his temples. "And it was crying?" he asked again, getting the same tired nods from the fascist leaders. "Like a child?" More nods. He looked over the contented... foal. Foal was probably the best term, he supposed. De Bono stared as the foal blinked and gazed this way and that, all while still being fed by Adalberto.

"And why did you bring it here?" he asked, shifting his stare towards the Duce, who was slumped on a chaise.

Mussolini had changed his dusty uniform for a civilian suit, but there were grimy handprints on the linen of the jacket. Those stains and the bags underneath his eyes were unbecoming for the fascist leader, for they made him look like a poor vagabond wearing his best suit.

"Her," he corrected, prompting a few raised eyebrows. "If you know anything about genitals, you can clearly see that it's a female." Nobody decided to ask the Duce as to how he was privy to the foal's sex.

Probably for the best, Emilio conceded, looking for the tell-tale signs of the foal's sex.

"Perhaps it's a hermaphrodite?" Balbo suggested. Seeing the confused looks about him, he huffed. "I mean, think about it. It's something close to Pegasus from Greek mythology. Perhaps it may look like a filly, but it's actually both and neither, like Pegasus."

A new round of examination over the foal passed by, eased by Adalberto holding it by the barrel and letting the legs and tail dangle in the air. It ended when Cesare, deadpan, said, "I don't see a pecker there, Balbo. It's definitely a girl."

There was a snort from Bianchi, but the atmosphere still remained reasonably sober.

That is until the filly let out a tiny burp, much to the visible surprise of her caretaker.

"Horses don't belch," Michele said incredulously.

"Of course they don't," Mussolini suddenly piped up, groaning as he rose from the chaise. "This isn't a horse, or have you perhaps seen one with a pink coat and striped violet tail and mane? Oh, and let's not forget the wings and the horn!"

At the outburst, the filly ceased feeding to look at the man. Seeing this, he paused, watching the foal continue staring before seeking her bottle of milk to which Adalberto quickly provided.

Emilio shook his head. "I swear; that foal has the eyes of a newborn."

"It looks like a newborn, sir," Adalberto pointed out.

"Yes, but I meant a human newborn." The older fascist waved his hand. "Sure, the eyes are much larger, but you can see intellect behind them. Real intellect." He turned to Mussolini. "Why did you bring it here?" he asked again.

Benito ran his hands down his face. "I'm—" He yawned. "I couldn't leave her."

It sounded like a poor excuse, but it was the truth. Benito didn't know why and he couldn't explain it; Mussolini had felt stunned when he first understood what he was dealing with, but by the time Benito had gotten out from underneath the wall, he hurriedly ordered the blackshirts to surround him and promptly left in a hurry, foal in hand with one single purpose in mind: get back to the hotel. He didn't even deign a response to the protests and surprised yelps of the firefighters and civilians.

Figuring out how to get her to stop her wailing was an endeavour in it of itself. Once they had figured out that the filly was hungry, there were few suggestions to solve this conundrum. The advice of getting a nursing mare was immediately rejected for obvious reasons.

It was Balbo who had thought of finding a baby bottle with milk to feed the foal. Thankfully, the hotel had ample goat's milk in their storage, and the cries soon came to an end.

Cesare hummed. "Well, it's here. What should we do with it?"

Mussolini pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know," he half-whispered.

"Who's going to be responsible for it?" De Bono asked.

Benito glanced at Adalberto, who had just finished feeding the foal. Closing his eyes, he repeated, "I don't know."

"Should we name her?"

Everyone turned to the blackshirt. Adalberto didn't flinch at the sudden attention and said, "Sirs, so long as she's in our care, we ought to give her a name, right?"

The Squadristi commander scoffed. "We don't even know if we're keeping it." He crossed his arms. "I say we should sell it to an institute. Can you imagine how many liras she's worth?"

Adalberto grimaced but otherwise did not say anything. Emilio seemed to entertain the notion, whereas both Balbo and Bianchi looked to Mussolini. "The Congress has eaten through our budget, and we're in need for more," Michele admitted.

Once again, all eyes were on the Duce. He scratched at his chin, trying to clear his mind. The fascist found his thoughts sluggish and unclear. He said nothing for several long seconds, failing to find any faults in De Vecchi's suggestion. Perhaps it was the only reasonable course of action, after all.

That was when the foal began to cry again.

Emilio's eyes widened at hearing the filly wail for the first time. Cesare recoiled away from Adalberto, clasping his ears. "Damnit man, shut that thing up!" he growled.

Struggling with the fidgeting foal, Adalberto did his best to cradle her, but with no success. He shook his head. "I don't know how to, sir."

All of the fascists except for Cesare and De Bono began to huddle around the blackshirt, trying to figure out how to calm the foal down. "Maybe it needs to let out some air?" Balbo suggested, raising his voice to surpass that of the filly.

Adalberto nodded sluggishly and let the wailing creature on his shoulder and tried to pat at her back. The cries only intensified.

"You idiot, you're hitting the wings!" Michele said, grabbing at the foal. Caught unaware by the sudden move, the blackshirt unconsciously tightened his grip, making Bianchi pull with unintended force.

The volume grew to unbearable levels. Both Adalberto and Bianchi reached for their ears and dropped the foal. The baby fell for a good meter before its fall was broken not by the floor, but by Benito's arms.

He didn't know how he managed to react that quickly, but Benito did not waste time wondering. He was quick to turn the filly on her stomach so that she lay on his forearm, and her head rested on the crook of his arm. Mussolini supported the leg with the same hand, using his free hand to caress her neck and between the wing joints.

The effect was immediate: the cries diminished to sobs; the legs grew limp; the wings drooped. Within seconds the filly had calmed down entirely.

Mussolini sighed a breath of relief and carefully shifted the weight, turning the baby and drawing her to his chest. Once satisfied that he had a good hold on her, Benito looked up to see a room of stunned fascists. Even Cesare's lips were slightly parted.

"How…?" Balbo's voice fell.

Benito cleared his throat. "I used to be a father," he explained. "That was a long time ago, though." A yawn escaped his lips as he turned to Adalberto and Bianchi. "But that's beside the point. You two ought to be more—"

A quiet yawn interrupted the Duce; he looked to see the filly closing her mouth with the vestiges of a yawn, shifting her head against his chest and fell asleep. For the first time, Benito felt the warmth of the foal and the faint beat of her heart. Her only movements were the steady rise and fall of her barrel. Hesitantly, he pushed aside a lock of the mane from the front of her peaceful face.

The silence that dominated the room felt loud in contrast to the previous racket, but it was a welcome change, and for a moment, Benito felt… right. It was a sensation similar to the one that he experienced years ago when he first held his newborn. He looked at the foal but saw a baby in need. Perhaps…?

"Duce?"

Mussolini looked up to Balbo. The aviator cracked a smile. "Seems like she likes you."

Benito felt a smile of his own forming. "She does, doesn't she?" He glanced back at the sleeping form and gently ran a finger along the messy mane. "I suppose that she can recognize an important person," he joked.

"Well, Duce?" Cesare said. "Should I call a car to get it to the university? I think that I can find someone there who'd pay well." Seeing the sleeping foal, he added, "Or maybe you've got something else in mind?"

Mussolini stared at Cesare before returning his gaze on the filly. She was still soundly asleep, her head resting on one of his breast pockets.

"I think..." he stopped, focusing once more at Cesare. "I think I'll sleep on this. Adalberto," he called, prompting the blackshirt to stand to attention. "See if you can get a blanket, a pillow, or better yet, a crib with both of them."

Adalberto thrust his arm and exited the room. Balbo shook his head, grinning all the while. "Seems like there's a soft side to you, after all, Duce."

Benito suspected that under most circumstances, he would have scoffed at the suggestion. A fascist cared yes, but he was strong and resolute first, for that was the real strength of fascism.

And yet, he couldn't disagree with Italo, opting to simply shrug instead.

"Without compassion, how can one truly know their own strength?" he said, chuckling softly to himself. "Italy needs a government that is strong, but one that is also understanding, and she" —Benito raised the filly— "shall be the embodiment of that government."

Nobody seemed to know how to react to that. Michele immediately nodded his agreement, even though he didn't seem to understand just what the Duce had meant by that. Emilio and Italo both exchanged curious expressions.

De Vecchi sighed. "How the hell will I explain this to the men?" he muttered resignedly, massaging his temples.





When Mussolini woke, he immediately knew that he had not slept enough. Were it not for the alarm clock he would have considered staying in bed: he had a rough night after all. Grumbling to himself, Benito knew that he had a train to catch, so he sloughed off his bedsheets.

As he rose, he heard faint singing from outside. It took a moment for Benito to recognize the chorus group attached to the Squadristi as it wasn't singing any of the usual chants that he had heard countless times.

In fact, as he listened more closely as he made for his wardrobe, the Duce started to make out one of the verses:

"Alicorno, alicorno;
"Bundle of joy and beauty;
"Smiling to all nearby;
"Your laugh rings and goes!"

It was a different version of Giovinezza, Mussolini realized as he began to wear a shirt and trousers. Alicorno? he wondered while working the buttons on his pants. What were they referring to?

Just as he put on an overcoat and as the song went back to the main verse did realization dawn upon Benito. He chuckled: Guess Cesare managed to break the news to his men, after all, Benito thought. He checked himself in front of a body mirror before making his way out of the room. He passed by and was saluted by a large gathering of blackshirts in the lobby.

The air outside was just as chilly as during the night. With the sun beginning to peek above the Vesuvius, however, it promised to be a warm day. He idly wondered what the weather would be like in Rome once he would arrive.

Mussolini found most of the Quadrumvirate (Bianchi was conspicuous by his absence) standing at the sidewalk by the entrance, seemingly enthralled by the chorus. Approaching from behind, he was about to ask Balbo what was happening. He was instead fixated on a small pink form sitting next to Adalberto that sang along with the dozen blackshirts.

Nobody took notice of the Duce's arrival, and the altered Giovinezza continued with what sounded like improvised verses, all relating to the filly who was…

Benito almost did a double-take as he saw the foal bobbing her head in the rhythm of the beat of the song, now thoroughly cleaned, and with what was definitely a smile on her small snout.

A nearby blackshirt turned his head for a moment and was startled by the Duce's presence. "Evviva il Duce!" he proclaimed, arm thrust upwards in salute. Every fascist in the street, including the chorus group, stopped and turned, saluting as one and chanting, "Viva il Duce!"

The greeting was overwhelming being in the middle of it with so many voices and arms, but Mussolini managed to keep his authoritative poise. Smiling and saluting the closest blackshirts, he and the Quadrumvirate negotiated their way through their crowd. He knew that the men were expecting a speech from him, but right then, he had something else on his mind.

Fortunately, the foal stood close to Adalberto, and they were given some breathing room. Amongst the strikes of heels against the road, Mussolini was surprised to hear a baby-like giggle from the filly. With him approaching, Adalberto saluted himself before picking the foal up.

"How is she?" Benito asked.

Adalberto beamed. "She loves the attention," he replied, allowing the filly to wiggle her legs, "and the men love her back."

Mussolini chuckled. "She seems to be quite the hit all right," he said, offering a finger to the foal that she tried to suckle on. "Alicorno?" he asked.

"Yessir." The blackshirt used his free hand to scratch at the filly's ears to which she shrieked with pleasure. "The men came up with the name."

There was a sideways tug at the Duce's lips. "Not a bad name for the species," he muttered. "She still needs a proper name."

"Have you thought of one, Duce?"

Mussolini did not respond, only offering a smile to the alicorno. She returned it with a giggle. Satisfied, Benito turned to the Quadrumvirate and said, "Come along now. Let's not keep the men waiting. You too, Adalberto."

"But, Duce… the train?"

Turning to the nonplussed blackshirt, he offered him and the nearby men his best smile. "It seems that my discreet departure will have to wait."

A converted Fiat truck had the back removed to act as an impromptu stage, and Benito, Balbo, De Bono, and De Vecchi climbed on. Adalberto hesitated at first, but at the Duce's encouraging smile, climbed on as well, carrying the filly all the while.

The sight of their leaders and their newest mascot sent the fascists into applause, a particularly loud one at that. Flashes of light from with the crowd told Mussolini that there were a good number of photographers in the audience, just as he liked it. He brought his hands up to abate the cheering.

"Fascists of Italy!" he said in a loud, clear voice. "The time of grandiose speeches has passed with the Congress. And as we all know, the time for action is now." Benito paused to wet his dried lips. "I am needed elsewhere, but our plans will still continue. I leave you with some of the most capable fascists to prepare for our march!" With a wave, Mussolini introduced the Quadrumvirate leaders.

A new bout of cheers rang out. There were waves of Roman salutes from the sea of blackshirts, and from the islands of civilians that attended. Scattered black flags of the PNF flew high above the audience.

The numbers seemed to be roughly equal to those in the last two days, but Mussolini noticed that there were considerably fewer local residents this time.

He wanted to scowl at the lack of local support. As much as he wished he could not go back in time and prevent his men from killing that woman. The assistance lent by the PNF with last night's building collapse was probably the only reason that there were any Neapolitans present to begin with. Benito took solace in the apparent fervour of those few supporters that had shown up.

The applause ebbed away, and he resumed. "Speed is imperative for the coming days, for we cannot hope that our enemies shall sit idly by while we work to seize Rome. As such, even if I may not be there to watch over you, I expect that not a single one of you shall delay, for if we linger for too long..." Benito threw his head back, jutting out his chin before raising a clenched fist and shaking it. "Saremmo tutti accoppati!"

That reference to the famous Arditi motto struck a chord, as the fascists erupted in acclamation. With so many former Arditis being fascists, stirring the people's memory of Italy's most elite was always a dependable tactic to rouse a crowd, even from those Arditis who were not fascists.

Mussolini kept his aggressive stance even though the chants of 'Duce' made him smile inside: he knew that they were celebrating the myth and not the man, but who was he to disappoint the men? Doing a little wave with his raised hand, Benito incited more praise with more 'Duces' from the crowd.

"Evviva l'alicorno!" someone cheered from the front rows.

For a moment it had seemed that nobody but Mussolini had heard that cheer.

Then he heard it again, this time from farther back.

"Viva l'alicorno!" This was closer by.

Another shout from the right: "A hurrah for the Duce and the alicorno!" To this, a mighty urrà roared from Benito's right side that rolled outwards like a wave.

It took some effort for him to not to break his pose, such was the surprise. He had intended to introduce the alicorno, but the crowd had beat him to it. For the first time for a long time, Benito found himself at a loss if for a moment.

Fortunately, Adalberto didn't falter and approached the crowd, presenting the filly by raising her up high for all to see.

The volume of claps and cheers was deafening. Among the cheers for the alicorno, there were still the chants for the Duce. The latter were minute and barely audible relative to the overwhelming support for the filly; arms rose to salute the foal.

For her part the alicorno stared into the crowd, smiling and fidgeting all the while. Then, her right foreleg rose up and stayed that way for a while.

At first, Mussolini thought that it was just the filly's body acting outside of her control, much like how a newborn's did in the first months. But as that hoof didn't fall, Benito felt his jaw drop; she was mimicking a fascist salute!

This earned her both laughs and renewed applause from the mass of fascists. To the warm response, the alicorno uttered a nearly musical giggle.

By then Benito had recovered, smiling broadly, and approached Adalberto to join in with a salute of his own.

He allowed the cheers to peter out before adding, "A new Italy shall rise from our actions, with new national symbols!" He raised a finger. "The Fascio of strength and authority!" Another finger. "The Roman Eagle of times past!" Then a wave to Adalberto and the filly. "And the Alicorno of the fascist future!"

Mussolini had thought over how he could benefit the party with the alicorno, and among one of his ideas, promoting her as a fascist symbol had been one of them. He hadn't expected to introduce her so soon, but seeing the overwhelmingly positive response to her, Benito merely seized the opportunity once more.

The boulevard was alive with cheers from fascists and civilians. Benito had a feeling that once the news spread, he would see far more massive crowds of non-fascists. He allowed himself to beam: this alicorno would prove useful indeed.







Mussolini Introduces the Alicorno to the World - Naples



Yesterday morning an unexpected speech made by Benito Mussolini at the Vesuvio Hotel surprised the residents with a small creature that fascists called the 'alicorno.' While no photographs have been taken of the alicorno, it has been described as a winged foal-like animal with a horn and pink coat. Earlier witness accounts from the night before describing this alicorno had previously been dismissed by the city hall. This dismissal has since been rescinded.

"It is an incredible animal," says Eduardo Verdonois, Mayor of Naples. "While we had thought the original testimonies to be too fantastical, the city of Naples recognizes its mistake and wishes to officially apologize to these witnesses. The municipal committee has approached the honourable Mussolini in regards to adopting the alicorno as a future symbol of the city of Naples."

In regards to the fascist leader, Mussolini had left to Rome with the alicorno for undisclosed reasons.

"This is a busy time for the fascist leadership," explains Michele Bianchi, Secretary-General of the PNF. "We're still working on our manifestation in Rome, and the discovery of the alicorno is still a topic of intense debate and discussion.

"We still stand with the Duce," Bianchi adds. "Among the fascio and the eagle, the alicorno is a fascist symbol meant to unify the new generations of Italians. There is a new era on the horizon, and it shall be a glorious one."

Everywhere in the country, the reaction to the alicorno has been a mostly positive one. A demonstration of supporters took place in Venice with effigies of both Mussolini and the alicorno. These demonstrators had been dispersed by local Carabinieri, though the reason for this has not been made clear.

La Stampa has telegraphed to the current government for a comment on this development, but there has been no official response so far.


> The Backstage Villa
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“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.
> The Magic of Music and Speech
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



Fascists March On Rome—Benito Mussolini To Be Prime Minister



Romans woke up today to the banners of the Italian tricolour interspersed with the black flags of the PNF flying along the Imperial Forums, and a celebratory mass of fascist supporters filling La Piazza del Colosseo. Between the night of the 26th and the afternoon of the 27th, armed militias took over various government institutes and buildings in major Italian cities. There has been no reports of resistance from either the army or the police, and in the afternoon an official statement from the King, Vittorio Emanuele III, has confirmed that a new government is to be formed.

“In an effort to avoid civil war I have dismissed Luigi Facta’s cabinet, and extended an invitation to the honourable Mussolini,” his majesty explained, speaking from his residence in Rome. “With general strikes and a political schism paralyzing the country, I have decided against declaring a state of siege, and allow the fascists to enter the capital unmolested.”

In the early hours on Saturday triumphant columns of blackshirts flowed into the outskirts of Rome for a chance to see both their leader and their newest mascot, the alicorno Cadenza, on their way to personally meet the King. 







Mussolini along with other fascist leaders and the alicorno prior to entering Rome.




According to an anonymous source from the Royal Family, Benito Mussolini is to present his majesty a list of ministers to form a new cabinet. Political experts speculate a fascist majority, though some believe that unionists Ludovico D’Aragona and Gino Baldesi are on that list.

While the overall mood is celebratory there have been voices of dissent at this development, namely from the likes of Giacomo Matteotti of the PSU.

“This is an illegitimate seizure of power,” Matteotti insists. “We may be a monarchy, but we have a constitution to uphold for the Italian people. This march [...] is nothing more than a medieval conquest by a barbarian [...] a Lombard raid of old in the guise of revolution.”

For now, the Squadristi remain outside the suburbs of Rome —as by law these armed militia are not allowed to enter the city— while Mussolini goes to the Palazzo Quirinale to swear the oath of office to the King.

Il Corriere della Sera will follow closely for new developments to this historic event.







Mussolini rapped his fingers on the table, deep in thought, as he eyed the handwritten list of names before him. He had written in over thirty names for different ministry positions, but he still needed candidates for the Ministry of War. Benito considered Cadorna, but that marshal had been the architect of so many military disasters during the Great War, and he couldn’t in good conscience add that name.

After racking his mind for names, three came to him. Benito scribbled the names of Armando Diaz, Paolo Emilio Thaon di Revel and Pietro Badoglio. Looking over the names he knew that it was one name too many, but he’d have to come back to it later.

Setting down the pen, Mussolini looked over his desk to see Italo sitting by an attentive Cadenza.

“Train,” Balbo articulated, pointing to the model train engine in his hand, “train. Can you say train?”

Cadenza stared back at Italo, blinking once.

Balbo leaned closer. “Train,” he said slowly, “train.”

“You’re wasting your time, Balbo,” Cesare groaned from behind his desk. “She’s a damn horse. She doesn’t have the voice box for speech.”

Italo turned his head, shooting an annoyed look at De Vecchi. “If Cadenza can almost sing, chances are that she can speak.” He turned back to the alicorno. “Can’t you, girl?”

Cadenza merely yawned.

That got Cesare laughing aloud; even Mussolini chuckled to himself. “No luck?” Benito asked.

“Pay him no mind, Duce,” Cesare said, going over his own paperwork. “Balbo’s got it in his head to try to teach Cadenza to speak.”

Benito glanced at the aviator and the filly sitting besides him. However, unlike Cesare, he did not sneer at the idea. “Do you think you could do it, Italo?”

Balbo gave a lopsided smile before turning to Cadenza and started to softly sing not in Italian, but a Romagnolo dialect.

“Come to the port, o sailor, that we welcome you.
“I am beautiful Lisa, that youthful blonde and grey.”

Cesare snorted, but Balbo continued.

“Lest there’s some demon, the marriage shall be soon.
“Soon soon, beautiful Enrico, I’ll give you my ring.”

The slow song paused momentarily as Italo observed the filly. While she had been bobbing her head in rhythm with the song, Cadenza hadn’t tried to vocalize it. She stopped, tilting her head at Italo, looking almost questioning.

“Don’t always go to sea, as you could drown.
“Listen to me, o dearest, never again be a sailor.”

Mussolini studied the alicorno’s movements. She stopped the resumed head bobbing, her ears perking up as she seemed to recognize Italo repeating the first verse. Just as he finished the verse the second verse was picked up by Cadenza, much to Cesare’s visible surprise.

Just like what happened back at the King’s residence, Cadenza wasn’t singing the verse with the words but with the notes. Ahs flowed unabated, imperfect but faithful to the original song. As she finished the verse, Cadenza was joined by Balbo’s voice following the lyrics of the final verse, forming a nearly harmonious duet as the two closed the song together.

The vestige of the song ebbed away, while aviator and alicorno gazed upon one another. Then Italo clapped, laughing triumphantly all the while. Cadenza joined in the mirth, jumping about on all fours, her wings fluttering uselessly. Even Benito couldn’t hide his smile.

“Cadenza you beauty!” Balbo exclaimed, grabbing and bringing the filly close for a hug. He looked behind his shoulder to flash a grin at a slack-jawed Cesare. “O ye of little faith,” he laughed.

The door opened and in came Adalberto, filled baby bottle in hand. He curiously looked about, setting his sight on the cheery aviator and playful foal. “Seems like the two of you are having fun,” he said with a smile, closing the door behind him.

“Didn’t you hear Cadenza sing?” Benito asked.

“Ah,” Adalberto exclaimed as he walked over to the alicorno. “So that’s what it was. Here,” he said as he offered the bottle to Balbo. “Which song was it?”

“Something from back home, Bella Lisa,” Italo replied as he gave Cadenza the milk.

The foal eyed the bottle and then Balbo before finally drinking.

Adalberto grimaced. “I think she will need to start eating solid food soon,” he muttered. “That’s the third bottle in an hour, and she looks like she’s getting sick of goat’s milk.” 

“We’ll have to be careful,” Mussolini interjected, rising from his seat. “Remember what Professor Huxley said: Cadenza may appear like a horse but it doesn’t necessarily mean that she can eat the same as one.”

A renowned British biologist who flew in from London, Julian Huxley was one of the few scholars from a large number of applicants responding to the PNF’s open request to study and examine Cadenza. Benito had originally held high hopes from the Londoner’s observations, but Huxley’s expertise in evolutionary biology did not add much insight. Besides confirming the assumption of an ornithologist that the alicorno’s wings were unlikely to grow to the size needed for her to fly, Huxley suggested that Cadenza was a possible offshoot from the main Equus genus. While most similar to horses, Cadenza simply had too many inconsistencies when compared to them, even when ignoring the horn structure and the wings.

It was the winged appendages that threw off the scholars the most, more so than the horn. A Scottish ornithologist (Kinnear or some such, Mussolini couldn’t recall) insisted that there was no discernable reason for them to be there: Cadence’s mass was far too large and the suspected density of her skeletal system was too great for the comparatively small wings. Short of finding something unexpected inside her in a biopsy, he concluded that the wings were perhaps a vestigial remnant from an unknown ancestor.

The suggestion to cut up Cadenza was profusely rejected by the fascists for obvious reasons.

“So should I put in an order for a bale of hay?” Cesare said, crossing his arms.

Balbo gave the man a funny look. “I’d say a basketful of apples,” he retorted, sighing. “Maybe some carrots?”

Mussolini shook his head. “Those would only be good as special treats.” He quietly observed the filly feeding on the bottle. “We’ll have to experiment with cereals, since wheat isn’t good for horses.”

“Duce,” Adalberto began, “what if she knows what she can and can’t eat? Can’t we—” Adalberto gesticulated as he searched for the word. “Couldn’t we, say, let her out in a pasture and see if she’ll eat the grass? What do you think, Duce?”

Benito mulled over his suggestion. An ordinary foal did eat grass once it was no longer reliant on its mother’s milk, but did it know to eat the grass because of instinct, or was it because it saw its mother eat it? While feeding from a milk bottle was instinctual, did Cadenza rely on observation to determine what she could eat?

A single drawn out word interrupted Mussolini’s response:

“Duuuucee.”

All eyes were on Cadenza, who had drawled out that word. There was no mistaking it, it was the filly who had said the word, and it wasn’t a mere approximation of the sound either but a fully formed word.

De Vecchi was the first to break the stillness. “Impossible,” he muttered wide-eyed.

Balbo approached the filly. “Duce,” he tentatively repeated, pointing to Mussolini as a visual aid. “Can you say Duce?”

“Duuce!” Cadenza echoed confidently. “Duce!”

Italo broke into hysterical laughter and was joined by the alicorno while the other three fascists stared, stunned. “I knew it!” he exclaimed, jabbing a finger in Cesare’s direction. “And you said that I couldn’t get her to speak!” 

The cackling continued as Adalberto congratulated both Cadenza and Italo. Cesare gaping expression, however, didn’t morph into one of defeat or joy but one of thought. A few mirthful moments passed when he finally responded.

“Did she now?” he said, crossing his arms and shifting unto one leg.

Balbo turned to face De Vecchi. “Of course she did,” he said, laughing. “Or have you gone deaf?”

“All I heard was Cadenza repeating a sound,” Cesare affirmed, flashing a sly grin.

The laughter stopped. “What are you on about, De Vecchi?” Balbo demanded, sitting up. “She said ‘Duce,’ clear as day.”

“Do you think that she was referring to the Duce when she said it,” De Vecchi retorted, “or that she said the word because she heard it often?”

Balbo stared. “Are you implying that she’s just imitating sounds?” He scoffed. “Are you really saying that despite hearing her sing?”

“I used to have a greyhound a while ago,” Cesare said, ignoring the daggers stared at him. “She’d howl to some songs and wheeze something akin to laughter when she was happy.”

He shrugged. “Does that make her intelligent? For a dog yes, but she imitated what she saw; I couldn’t have a conversation with her.” De Vecchi jabbed his index finger towards the distracted alicorno. “I say that this is the same only that Cadenza is far more capable to mimic our sounds and behaviours, watch. 

“Cadenza!” Cesare called from his desk. As expected she turned and perked up her ears. The fascist thrust his arm out in a salute and said, “Viva il duce.”

Smiling, Cadenza repeated the gesture and chimed, “Duce!”

“Cesare, that doesn’t prove your point,” Mussolini pointed out, leaning on his desk.

De Vecchi raised a finger, never taking his eyes off of the foal, and said, “Just a moment, sir.” Lowering his arm, he spoke again. “Cadenza, what do you think of our Duce?”

“Duce!” came the reply.

“Isn’t that her way of showing praise since she doesn’t seem to know other words?” Adalberto offered.

“Alright, let’s try this.” Cesare rose up from his desk. “Cadenza, do you like me?” Italo burst out laughing, but Cesare didn’t break his sober expression as he observed the filly.

After a pause Cadenza answered with yet another ‘Duce!’

The fascist allowed himself a derisive snort. “Unless she’s equating me to you Duce, Cadenza doesn’t know what the word means,” Cesare explained. “All she knows is that the word is associated to good things.”

While Balbo ran his hand through his beard, eyes narrowed as if trying to think of a counterargument, Benito digested De Vecchi’s point. There was nothing that decidedly disproved him, and Mussolini was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

And yet...

“But what about the smiles, sir?” Adalberto interjected. “Dogs don’t smile.”

Mussolini beat Cesare on the reply. “Apes smile, Adalberto.”

“Exactly, sir,” Cesare affirmed, nodding. “I can’t tell you how Cadenza is capable of such human-like mimicry, but she is, and we need to recognize it as such.”

Italo kept his contemplative frown, glancing once more at Cadenza who was playing with the model train. “I’m not convinced,” he finally said. “Maybe it’s too early for her to fully understand words.” He turned to face the other two fascist leaders. “We assumed that she was far younger than what that Englishman estimated. What if the assumption that Cadenza can learn speech at around the same age of a child is wrong as well?” Balbo shook his head. “I say that we keep trying to teach her to speak, like a person.”

Benito took this in, ignoring the growing spat between Cesare and Italo. Both arguments had merit, but neither had any solid evidence. The Duce seemed to recall reading something about a Russian scientist who worked on this field but with dogs. He’d have to remember to inquire about the Russian, maybe he would provide some insight in this. Regardless, Benito knew that they’d learn more in time. 

That, and that Cadenza was still unique.

However, Mussolini had more important matters to attend to: he still needed to finish compiling his long list of potential cabinet members to present to the King. Tuning out De Vecchi’s stubborn refusal of Balbo’s hypothesis, Benito returned to his desk to resume the list. Some dark thoughts returned as he saw a scratched out Matteotti on it. That bastard would get a visit from blackshirts soon enough.

A part of him considered moving to his own office to work, but as he picked up a pen he caught Cadenza smiling at Adalberto, still repeating her new catchphrase.

Mussolini’s own lips tugged upwards. There is intelligence there, he conceded. Just a question of how much.







Mussolini’s New Coalition Government



As of yesterday a new coalition government has begun its life with the first speech by the Prime Minister.

However, unlike the former government formed by now-deputy Luigi Facta, this government came along by less-than pacifist means with the fascist march on Rome last month. While the seizure had gone by with few reports of violence —none of which have been officially recognized by either the government nor the carabinieri— a number of deputies have openly criticized the King’s appointment of Benito Mussolini as Prime Minister.

To this Mussolini said, “I could have made a camp of maniples out of this grey and deaf chamber. I could have shut down the parliament and set up a government populated solely by fascists.

“I could have,” Mussolini emphasized, “but I have not [...] wanted to.”

Despite some walkouts —with deputies Nitti and Salvadori among the deserters— the Chamber rang with applause from the members present, as well as the repeated cries of ‘Duce’ from the alicorno Cadenza.

Many naysayers to Il Popolo d’Italia’s recent article detailing the cognitive functions of Cadenza were notably silent after Cadenza’s appearance in parliament. Asides from silencing critics, the alicorno’s presence is believed to have won support from the opposition, although no deputy has confirmed this.

It is expected that the vote of confidence that is to take tomorrow on the 17th will obtain favourable results for the installment of the new government, with the republican, socialist and communist bloc voting against.







Mussolini along with Cadenza the alicorno greeting his majesty Vittorio Emanuele III before entering parliament.




The King, upon being asked for comments from La Stampa, is confident in the viability of the new coalition government.

“Italy has been through difficult times in these past years [...] specifically this year,” his majesty explained. “Although [Mussolini] is unorthodox, he is possibly the only man who can unify the nation and bring about stability.

“I have faith in this government,” he emphasized.

We will know come tomorrow if the government will have survived its first true test.







Mussolini was relieved and satisfied.

Over three hundred votes, he reminded himself, thinking back at the result of the confidence vote just an hour back. Barely a hundred votes from the opposition were tallied against his government, and after speaking privately with some of the deputies, Benito was surprised to learn that a good number of republicans had voted yes. Even Facta, the man who tried to stop the march, seemed to trust the fascist enough to vote favourably. This was the last check  that the parliamentary system had that could stop the dream of a fascist-led government being set up semi-peacefully, and Mussolini beat it legally. 

To celebrate he intended to pass more time with Cadenza, the key to his victory today.

Oh, the deputies denied it, but the Duce knew full well that the presence of the alicorno in the Chamber ensured the result. He smiled at the memory of gaping mouths when she proudly exclaimed ‘Duce’ in the chamber the day prior. Granted, she hadn’t been enough to win over the entirety of the opposition, never mind those few who walked out: Nitti and the others who left would get what’s coming to them.

But that was then; now Benito stepped triumphantly into the lobby of the Montecitorio Palace to greet an awaiting Adalberto and Cadenza, as she had interrupted the proceeding with cries of protest. At least now he could reassure her that all was well, and that he could spend all day with the alicorno.

Well, that had been the intention anyhow. Instead of finding a patient blackshirt with foal in tow Mussolini heard panicked shouts and yells from the corridor. Armed gendarmes rushed towards the disturbance, led by a cuirassier in full ceremonial armor.

This did not bode well.

Hurrying himself to the source of the hollers, the Duce’s mind became awash with dread. Turning the final corner before the main entrance he saw what was a standoff between the honour guard and squadristi. Unholstered handguns were trained upon the two main groups, and a mixture of orders, threats and insults were exchanged between the dark-blue carabinieri and the black fascists.

The blackshirts surrounded Adalberto who held Cadenza close to his chest, whereas the palace guards encircled a wild-eyed deputy—Angelo, Mussolini recalled.

One of the fascists spotted him and called, “Duce! Order these idiots to stand down!”

At the mention of Mussolini confusion grew in the lobby. Weapons lowered as men from both sides turned to see the approaching Duce. 

The socialist deputy, frazzled as he appeared, was quick to recover. “P-prime Minister!” he sputtered, pointing a shaking finger towards Adalberto. “That, that– thing tossed me up in the air! I-it’s threat to the public at large!”

Following his indication Benito’s eyes fell upon a crying Cadenza, fidgeting against her caretaker’s grasp. A healthy amount of skepticism cropped up in Mussolini’s mind at Angelo’s accusation. Even so he decided to help him up.

“What’s this about the alicorno tossing you about?” he demanded the socialist.

Wild-eyed, Angelo hurriedly got onto his feet. “I-I was making to leave wh-when I heard crying,” he explained. “I came over to see, only to feel a tingling sensation all over and being suspended in mid-air!”

As additional people congregated in the evermore crowded lobby there was no shortage of doubt in people’s faces, among them Benito’s.

“She lifted you?” he deadpanned.

“I know how that sounds!” the deputy cried, moustache bristling. “But I was surrounded in this blue light, and that horn” —he pointed to Cadenza’s budding horn— “was alight with that same colour!”

Mussolini eyed the alicorno once more, although this time with a certain sense of curiosity. Angelo was a socialist and the Duce held respect for him, but he couldn’t see how the man's story could possibly be true.

His eyes shifted to Adalberto’s, seeing apprehension behind them. “Do you have anything to add?”

Some of the blackshirts parted to allow the man to approach Mussolini, holding Cadenza tight. At this approach Angelo almost jumped back, shuffling behind a gendarme. This got a number of fascists to cackle derisively. 

Adalberto, however, looked the part of the child who had been caught with his hands in the jar of sweets. “Duce,” he began shakily, “the ah, deputy here did indeed come by when Cadenza was crying, but he told me to ‘shut it up’ as it was.”

“I did no such thing!” Angelo blubbered from behind the carabiniere.

“Shut your mouth, you socialist bastard!” a blackshirt called, prompting cries of approval from the group of fascists.

The cuirassier at the head of the gendarmes stood tall. “You shall not insult a member of parliament!”

The shouting slowly started up again and Benito, for all his attempts to play the diplomat, was losing his patience. Not today! Not after winning!

Just as tensions began to boil over, he closed his eyes, inhaled sharply, and shouted a single word at the top of his lungs: 

“Zitti!”

The lobby fell to a stilled hush. Mussolini, feeling his face going red and his body tingling with frustration, at first thought that he might have been too loud. However, as he opened his eyes, Benito realized that yes, everyone had stopped because of him, but not for the reason that he had anticipated. Suddenly that tingling sensation became utterly alien; suddenly his surroundings were all wrong.

Benito, now seeing the world through a light-blue filter, was floating a meter from the marble floor.

Eyes wide, they frantically searched about, finally settling on a snivelling Cadenza, her horn now encapsulated in a glow.

“Prime Minister!” a gendarme called. The honour guard trained their firearms at the alicorno. Whereas cries of panic from the fascists as they scrambled to make their ways between the guns and Adalberto.

Mussolini did not let the worst happen. “Stop!” he ordered in a shaky voice, once more becoming the focus of attention for all, with only the soft sniffling from Cadenza being audible. In spite of every fibre of his being telling him to wrestle against whatever was happening, he did his best to keep still. Benito looked to Adalberto.

“Adalberto,” he began, struggling to sound both calm and authoritative. “Please calm Cadenza down.”

The blackshirt stared back, eyes shifting back and forth between the Duce and Cadenza. “Please,” Mussolini urged, voice nearly breaking.

“I...” Adalberto shook his head and began to rock the alicorno in his arms, passing a hand over her mane and whispering something that Benito couldn’t quite hear.

All this time her eyes, shining with tears, never looked away from the floating Duce. That too-human pout had become a familiar sight in these last few weeks, but now he saw something else in them that he hadn’t before:

She was pleading.

Mussolini was simply unsure what to make of that. It had been weeks since she had first spoken back in the party’s offices, and while she did expand her vocabulary it did not seem that she was capable to converse. No biologist or psychologist had managed to prove Balbo’s theory on Cadenza’s cognitive capacity, but they hadn’t ruled it out entirely.

Benito was regretting not inviting that Pavlov scientist.

But right then, even as his body listed awkwardly in midair, Mussolini believed he finally knew the answer to the question as he stared into those eyes, and he had an idea. It was a shot in the dark, but confidence, timid though it was, came to him.

“Cadenza,” he piped up, addressing the filly directly.

The alicorno’s eyes widened with attentiveness. A good sign.

Reining in the waver in his voice Mussolini asked, “Are you doing this?”

“What the devil are you doing, Prime Minister?” Angelo cried.

Ignoring both the socialist and a fascist who shouted down Abisso, Benito was mildly surprised to see a nod from the alicorno. She had been observed to do this before, but it had been deemed to be a mere mimic by Cesare, just like her fascist salute. Was it just that or had Cadenza understood his words?

He offered a nod of himself and shakily brought up two placating hands. “I know you’re scared,” he said, carefully enunciating his words, “but you need to let me down.” Belatedly he added a sincere ‘please.’

The alicorno blinked slowly, eyes shining with the light that her horn seemed to produce.

This isn’t working, Mussolini told himself. Was he putting too much faith on Cadenza’s intelligence? Perhaps Cesare was right all along, perhaps she was a skilled imitator and nothing more.

Cadenza then scrunched up her face, as if focusing hard on something. Then, she worked her jaw making sounds not unlike what she had managed to do before.

But then, there were two words:

“Fffffa mm-benne.”

Had his jaw not been attached, Benito was certain that it would have clattered on the marble flooring. 

Va bene; alright.

That wasn’t a mumbled attempt to parrot a person’s words. It was a deliberate response to a request. Muffled perhaps, but intelligible nevertheless.

He was so utterly astounded that he nearly panicked when the world’s colours returned to normal and his feet reached the ground, dropping mere centimeters. The ethereal glow that encapsulated his vision was gone and so too was the aura around the horn. Mussolini stood uncertainly, throwing his arms out for balance, though he did not fall. Asides from his heels striking a marble tile, there was not a sound.

Angelo couldn’t hold it in. “Di– did that thing just speak?”

Spontaneous cheers and laughs erupted from the blackshirts. A number of ‘bella’ and ‘bravissima’ rang out from their side. Only Adalberto seemed paralyzed at the thought that he was caressing an intelligent foal who could lift a grown man. His drained and long face was almost comical, possibly as much as Benito’s own high-pitched titter. Thankfully nobody seemed to have heard his cackle of relief among the racket.

“Corazziere,” he called to the cuirassier, who stood to attention. “Would you have a child killed in the house of our parliament?”

The man’s eyes widened. “Chi—!” He imitated a fish as his mouth worked but said nothing comprehensible. “I… no, Prime Minister,” he finally said, recovering with straightening his pose.

“Then stand down,” Mussolini ordered.

Slowly, hesitantly, the gendarmes holstered their weapons at the behest of the cuirassier who relayed the order.

Angelo didn’t stand for this. “What are you doing?” he demanded to the nearest carabiniere. “That thing tossed me like a doll! It should be in chains!”

“Socialista di merda!” came the overwhelming blackshirt counter when the man was heard, followed by other insults of similar calibre. Benito found the response perhaps too crass for the halls of Montecitorio but he couldn’t deny its efficacy; Angelo seemed rather small without a gendarme to hide behind. 

The fascists were unrelenting: “Slink back to the hole they dug you up from,” one of the blackshirts jeered, “and make sure to tell your red friends that Cadenza is under the protection of the Black Flames!”

As the black-clad crowd clamoured at the fascist’s claim, the socialist made himself scarce, disappearing in the dispersing group of carabinieri. As the lobby grew empty of honour guards the tension melted away, and the fascists rejoiced, gathering around Adalberto and Cadenza. While the filly smiled seeing so many cheery people, her caretaker still looked pale despite the revelry and the congratulations sent his way for standing fast for the party’s mascot.

Adalberto’s long stare met Mussolini’s. In those few moments, among the celebrative atmosphere, Mussolini suspected that they would have a long conversation once they got back to the party’s headquarters.

He didn't look forward to it.
> Not a Goodbye
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I can’t do this, sir.”

The two men were alone with the alicorno who was enraptured with a bird whistle, a trinket that Balbo had brought earlier. “I’m not the man for this job,” Adalberto added.

Mussolini glanced back at the grimacing blackshirt. “Are you afraid of her?” he quietly asked, careful not let his disappointment show.

“Aren’t you?” Adalberto asked, disbelieving. “When I saw that light lift you up, I...” He cast his gaze downwards, sighing. “I was afraid for both our lives.”

Benito placed a hand on his hip, thinking on what had been said earlier. “So she lifted the man spontaneously?” he asked, pointing to Cadenza with a tilt of the head.

“I don—”

A warbling tweet rang throughout the office, startling the two of them. Turning to see the source they saw a confused alicorno, whistle in mouth. The filly blinked twice before she tentatively blew again, producing a longer and more consistent tweet. She giggled, dropping the loose whistle from her lips.

“Uh, no, Duce,” Adalberto replied, recovering. “At least, I don’t think so. That deputy did tell me to shut Cadenza up, and wasn't polite about it either.” He glanced back at the foal in question, watching intently her horn lighting up again as the whistle returned to her mouth with the aid of the mysterious aura. Once the trills started up again he turned back to Mussolini. “I believe that she thought that he was being aggressive towards me and tried to stop him.”

Mussolini raised his eyebrow. “You’re saying that she tried to protect you?”

The blackshirt sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know, sir. After what happened back at Montecitorio, I just don’t know what to think about Cadenza.” He looked once more at her, seeing her blowing on the bird whistle repeatedly and laughing in between long chirps. “I want to see her as a child, but...” Adalberto shook his head, crossing his arms. “I can’t.”

Benito hummed, his own eyes on the contented alicorno. He agreed with Adalberto but only to an extent. Slowly shifting his weight between his legs, Benito had been trying to control the tremors in his hands since the incident at parliament, and he could only still the shakes to slight twitches. Hopefully nobody had spotted the tiny detail in the lobby with all that was going on.

Adalberto glanced down towards the hand before glancing back up. “You were afraid of her too, weren’t you?”

Terrified, Mussolini admitted inwardly. He’d be damned before he did so aloud however, even to someone as trusted as Adalberto.

He placed his hand behind his back. “I was nervous, yes,” Benito half-lied. “But I do not fear Cadenza. I know that she was scared and that she meant no harm to anyone, least of all me. Look at her.” The Duce indicated to the foal with a tilt of his head. “She is but a child.”

Adalberto did turn to Cadenza, who was still doing her best to imitate a singing bird. There was a twitch to the man’s lips, but he still shook his head, sighing all the while. “With all due respect, Duce,” he said, turning back to Mussolini, “but I cannot see her as that. We’ve been wrong about her twice now because we went off from what we saw.” He splayed his palms outwards with a shrug. “What if Cadenza can’t distinguish the good from the bad?”

“If she couldn’t she would have done far worse to me than letting me go, Adalberto,” Benito retorted. “She listened to me. Cadenza listened.” He jabbed his finger into Adalberto’s chest for emphasis. “The foal just needs to learn,” he said softly, distantly noticing that the chirps had ceased.

The silence grew overbearing, enough so that it prompted the two fascists to look at the quiet alicorno. She had dropped the bird whistle and was fully attentive. Neither Adalberto nor Benito made a sound, staring back instead.

Cadenza pouted. “Duuce?” she whined.

Mussolini blinked, almost taken aback. Was she actually calling him? “Yes, Cadenza?” he said, his tone uncertain.

The filly opened her mouth and closed it, screwing her face in concentration. She brought a hoof to her chest. “Caaa-denssa...” she drawled, jaw working hard. “Ca-densa… brra-vva?”

Cadenza good? Had she actually paid attention to their conversation? Benito made a mental note to take care with what he said around Cadenza in the future.

“Yes, Cadenza,” he said with a smile, “you’re a good girl.”

She didn’t appear convinced. Struggling some more with her words, she asked, “Duce...  angry?”

Mussolini stole a side glance and saw Adalberto chewing on his lip. The blackshirt himself met Benito’s gaze and offered no help. Honestly, there was a certain sense of schadenfreude when Benito had pictured the socialist deputy panicking as he floated about. If anything, he would have commended Cadenza were it not for all the problems that that  would entail, especially from the perspective of their opponents. In fact, how would the Vatican see the alicorno especially in this new light? So far, there had been no official word from the Holy See, but Mussolini wouldn’t be surprised if Pius would accuse her being demon or some such if word of her impossible abilities got out.

It was amusing in a way: the Duce had to deal with the Roman Question, whereas the Pope almost certainly had to deal with the Alicorno Question. He’d have to remember to make the comparison in his newspaper eventually—it’d sell more copies.

That thought ebbed away and Benito sighed. “I’m not upset with you,” he said softly. “But you will need to be more careful.” The Duce approached the alicorno and kneeled in front of her. “Do you understand, Cadenza?”

Once more she pouted, albeit this time the foal looked far more pensive. Slowly, she nodded. “Vva be-ne.”

“Good girl,” Mussolini said with a small smile, scratching at her ear. The teacher in him was amazed at Cadenza’s impressive language acquirement, especially since Balbo seemed to have hit a wall in his attempts. He suspected that the aviator would be elated to hear the news.

Cadenza cooed, and when the feast behind her ears ended her horn was alight with a light blue that forced Benito to withdraw his hand. It took all of his self control to not recoil beyond flinching.

Another source of that same light entered his view from below: it was the bird whistle that was encased in the same blue. The whistle floated upwards and remained just centimeters from his Benito’s face. Risking a glance, he saw a Cadenza that looked on encouragingly.

A part of him warned against taking the offered whistle, but he went against his better judgement and slowly grasped it. The fascist looked back at Cadenza. A small smile grew on her snout and her tail swished this way and that. The lights disappeared, and Mussolini was left with an unremarkable bird whistle in hand.

Again he glanced at the filly, and again her smile grew.

Benito brought the whistle to his lips and, for a long moment, a lone bird-like chirp rang in the office.

“Duce!” Cadenza cheered, shrieking joyfully and beating her hooves together in applause. The man joined in the mirth, chuckling along with the foal, and ran his hand along her mane.

A knocking from the door made Mussolini sober up and stand up. “Enter,” he said aloud.

Through the threshold came Balbo, Bianchi and De Vecchi, the latter two out of breath. The alicorno perked up at the sight of her playmate.

“Duce,” Bianchi began, arm thrust in salute, “are you alright? We heard there was a confrontation at Montecitorio. What happened?”

The Duce returned the salute, but didn’t immediately respond, carefully examining the newcomers’ expressions. “What did you hear?”

Both Italo and Michele exchanged uncertain glances, while Cesare stepped forwards. “According to the men there was a socialist who threatened Cadenza, and guns were drawn.” He paused, his eyes flicking momentarily at the filly with no small sense of skepticism. “Apparently there was a magic act in that lobby where both a deputy and you yourself were floating in the air, thanks to her,” the squadrista commander explained, pointing to Cadenza with a tilt of his head.

There was a pregnant pause as none of the fascists spoke. It was cut short by a happy filly shrieking and galloping on her stubby legs towards Balbo. This wasn’t strange in itself, but her horn was aglow with a blue shimmer. More incredulously the bird whistle, encased in the same light, floated lazily through the air towards the aviator.

All three newcomers gaped at the sight of the whistle slowly rising upwards to Italo’s face. It remained there as Benito, hands on his hips, declared, “See for yourselves, gentlemen.”

Michele inched away from the whistle without actually taking a step, and Cesare blinked profusely, as if he were trying to determine whether or not he was seeing things.

Italo’s face grew all the more boyish as a grin slowly crept up his cheeks. His hand reached for the whistle before stopping short, his smile faltered, looking to Mussolini for guidance. At Benito’s nod and sly smile, Italo grasped the levitating toy. With the ethereal lights dissipating, Cadenza pawed a hoof at his shin, looking up to the aviator expectantly.

Like before, a trill rang in the office followed by more contented shrieks from the excited alicorno.

“You incredible girl!” Italo exclaimed. “Come here you,” he said, playfully chasing Cadenza, who shrieked with excitement as she galloped as quickly as her legs could carry her. The sight was somewhat unbecoming for the rising star in Benito’s mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to chastise the man, especially with what he was scheming in his mind.

While Italo and Cadenza did laps in the office, Bianchi spoke up. “How in the devil did she do that?”

Hands still on his hips, Benito shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips. “That is a question that I have no answer to.”

“Hang on a moment,” De Vecchi interjected, “did Cadenza actually lift you in the air?” At Mussolini’s affirmative, the Squadristi Commander ran a long hand along his face. “Christ, the men weren’t lying.”

“They most certainly haven’t in that instance,” Mussolini confirmed. Crossing his arms and slowly approaching Cesare, he asked, “Who else knows about this?”

The commander chewed on his lip. “Besides us?” He threw out his arms to the side. “Probably everyone in Rome, knowing how talkative and boisterous the men can be. But I doubt that most will believe a word of it.”

Benito gave a brisk nod. “Good. Tell them to keep it to themselves, lest there be consequences,” he ordered before turning to Michele. “Have our newspapers question the validity of the stories of Cadenza’s...” The Duce turned to the alicorno, now in Balbo’s arms. “...powers,” he finally said, “without outright denying or dismissing them.”

Michele was quick to salute with a ‘Duce!’ (which Cadenza copied). Both Italo and Cesare merely gave Benito a questioning look.

“I ah, I don’t understand, Duce,” Italo said, setting the filly down on the floor. “Why are we hiding her ability?”

Cadenza, looking up to the man, answered for the Italian leader. “Cadenza… careful!”

While not to the same degree as that of the other fascists, Mussolini was surprised seeing her initiative and hearing her newest word—one that he had used just minutes earlier, no less!

De Vecchi was the first to recover. “Accidenti,” he said in a whisper, running his hand over his scalp.

Balbo was far more enthusiastic, clapping once and grabbing at Cadenza again. “Well done! Very well done!” Laughing as he scooped up the foal in his arms, Italo nuzzled her. “You beautiful thing, you were paying attention all this time, weren’t you?”

Benito watched quietly as Cadenza gave a long-winded ‘sì!’, taking in the man’s unfiltered joy. The Duce glanced at Adalberto, who was doing his best to blend in the background. Perhaps the solution to the issue that the blackshirt had brought to Mussolini was currently caressing the alicorno.

That conversation would have to come later. Running a tongue along his teeth, Benito said, “You were right, Balbo.” He approached Italo, adding, “Not just that she’s more intelligent than we had given her credit for, but that we’ve made too many assumptions and have been acting upon them as though they were facts.

“Bianchi,” Mussolini called, turning to the secretary-general, “have the open letter modified to include physicists, nuclear scientists, and anyone else from similar fields of expertise. We’re not going to take half-measures this time.” His gaze fell upon Cadenza. “We’ll figure her out by the end of this.”

Bianchi saluted once more whereas Italo nodded. “I understand, Duce,” he said as he put down the alicorno again. “But why are we hiding her?”

Benito gave the man a quick once-over. “Fear,” he answered. “Unfortunately the church still holds great sway in Italy, and while the pope has been quiet insofar, I am not convinced that he and the Vatican would accept Cadenza in view of their faith.”

He clicked his tongue. “Do you think that seeing her do her—” Benito rolled his hand, searching for the right term. “Seeing her do magic, for lack of a better word, would make her seem better in their point of view?” He snorted. “Pius would probably jump at the chance of denouncing Cadenza as a demon or something as absurd as that.”

“The Duce’s right,” Cesare agreed. “If Cadenza can do more that just lift things, we need to know about them before we reveal anything to the public. It wouldn’t look good on us if it turns out that she can,” —he shrugged— “I don’t know, set people on fire just with a thought, and we didn’t say anything about it.”

Balbo was the only to scoff at the idea. Mussolini was careful not to show that he was taking even the farfetched hypothetical seriously; he did a better job of hiding his worry than Michele, who swallowed hard, stealing glances at the alicorno, whom suddenly didn’t seem so harmless now.

“Jokes about immolation aside,” Italo began as he recovered, “I see why we’d want to keep her out of the public eye.”

“In Milan,” Benito added. At the querying looks, he explained, “For all we can muster here in Rome, there are too many elements of the left.” He brought a fist into an open palm. “I want Cadenza safe in fascist hands.”

“Why? Has the left made a threat?” Bianchi asked.

It was Cesare who beat Mussolini to the answer: “Come on, Duce,” he said with a smile, “what are the reds going to do? That deputy shat himself—”

“Language!” Balbo suddenly reprimanded, pointing to an attentive Cadenza.

De Vecchi rolled his eyes and exclaimed, “Me ne frego, Italo.” When that didn’t deter the glare, he huffed. “Fine—Adalberto,” Cesare suddenly called, “take Cadenza outside and watch over her for a while.”

Adalberto blanched. “Sir...” His words died and the blackshirt turned to look at the alicorno, who in turn greeted him with a soft smile. “Yessir,” he finally said with a sigh. “Come along, Cadenza.” The foal sat up, cantering along with a dejected Adalberto. A tinge of pity touched Benito, but he otherwise said nothing as the two left.

“Duce,” Cesare began once again after the doors closed, “that socialist wouldn’t dare try to raise a stink after being scared to death.” He crossed his arms. “Even if he did, do you really think that his cronies would believe him?”

“We didn’t when we were told about this, Duce,” Michele admitted, his tone humble.

Mussolini hummed, taking into consideration the fascists’ input. He had worried that if Andrea were bold enough to speak out about his run-in with Cadenza, it could have offered the opposition an invaluable speaking point against the government. Not only that, but they’d in all likelihood demand an investigation into the incident back at Montecitorio. And if an investigation was launched, that meant that the foal would be studied in Rome, where most of the left’s strength was. If the King himself was more than willing to threaten Benito with Cadenza, the fascist knew that his political opponents would jump on the first chance to remove the PNF’s newest symbol.

The Duce would rather be damned before it came to that.

He would allow an investigation if it came to it, but he’d make sure that it was done on his terms, and not the communists' or even the socialists’. That meant vetting any and all investigators that the opposition would throw at him, and this would be easier to do in the party’s main stronghold in Milan.

However, Andrea had been thoroughly embarrassed, and if what De Vecchi and Bianchi said was true, the socialist’s word didn’t carry any real value for his colleagues and thus, no threat to Mussolini’s government.

He pouted pensively. “Perhaps I was too impulsive,” Benito conceded. “But I trust you understand my initial worry, gentlemen.”

“Of course, Duce,” Michele said immediately.

“Still, that does not mean that we can showcase her publicly before we fully understand her,” Mussolini insisted, slowly pacing back to his desk. “Today will be the last day that Cadenza will come to parliament, at least until we can figure out more of her powers.” He narrowed his eyes, focusing particularly on Italo. “Have I made myself clear?”

De Vecchi and Bianchi nodded, whereas Balbo hesitated. After a long pause, he gave his own nod. “Perfectly, sir.”

Benito himself nodded as he sat down. “Good. Spread the word to all of the blackshirts that were present and make sure today’s events remains as hearsay.”

The three Quadrumvirate leaders saluted and made to leave, but the Duce called out to Italo.

“Wait just a moment, Balbo. I’d like a word with you.”

After some moments and the door swinging twice, Mussolini was left in the office with an attentive Italo, a jittery Cadenza, and a growingly anxious Adalberto.

Benito shifted his weight in his chair and thought about how best to tackle the topic at hand. Clasping his hands on the table, he looked up to Balbo; the aviator kept a careful expression, betrayed only by his hand that ran across his brushed back hair. The blackshirt fidgeted, keeping the foal within his peripheral vision. Between the two men, Cadenza was once more enraptured with the bird whistle.

“Before I continue, I want to be sure of one thing.” Mussolini glanced at Adalberto. “Adalberto Serafino Bellomo,” he said aloud, “is there nothing that I can say to change your mind?”

Italo piqued an eyebrow, but Adalberto knew. “No, Duce,” Adalberto replied with a weak headshake. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Benito did not say a word, only letting out a sigh. “Balbo,” he called, “it’s no secret within our circle that Cadenza is very fond of you.”

The man’s nod was punctuated by renewed trilling from the alicorno in question. “And I her, sir,” he added with a small smile.

“Of course,” Mussolini muttered. That was exactly what he wanted to hear. Rapping his fingers on his desk, he finally asked, “Would you be willing to be her caretaker?”

Balbo blinked. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Did I stutter, Balbo?” Benito groaned and spoke more slowly. “Would you, Italo, be willing to be Cadenza’s caretaker?”

The man glimpsed at Adalberto before asking, “Duce, I would, but...” He paused momentarily as Cadenza let out a particularly loud whistle. As he scratched the filly’s ears, Italo continued, “But I thought that Adalberto had that role.” He turned to the man in question. “Do you need help with her?”

Adalberto seemed to shrink at the attention before standing straight. “I am resigning, sir.”

“Why?” Italo asked, his voice growing concerned. “What’s wrong?”

The blackshirt didn’t respond, but kept stealing glances at the placated alicorno. Italo followed the gaze and after a false start, he understood.

“You’re afraid of Cadenza.” It wasn’t a question, but Adalberto nodded all the same. “But she didn’t harm anyone,” Balbo said, before pausing and turning to Benito. “Did she?”

“Unless you consider scaring a socialist half-to-death as bodily harm, then no,” Mussolini replied, careful to not let his inner satisfaction seep out.

Balbo slowly turned back to Adalberto. “Adalberto,” he said slowly, “she’s not a threat to anyone—least of all you.”

“We don’t know that,” the Umbrian emphasized, balling a fist.

“For heaven’s sake man!” Italo exclaimed. “You’ve been with her more than anybody else, you’re her parent in her eyes.”

A momentary spark of indignation flared up in Benito at Balbo’s statement: if Cadenza saw anyone as a parent it would be the Duce first and foremost.

He did not need to hold his tongue as Adalberto faced his superior and repeated, “We don’t know that!” Cadenza’s ears folded at the raised voice, but the man ignored her. “We have no idea what Cadenza is! Every time we thought we did, she did something to remind us that we don’t! We need to stop pretending that we do!” After a beat, he belatedly added a ‘sir.’

The silence felt wrong in Mussolini’s mind. It was an uneasy quiet that highlighted Adalberto’s agitated state, so much so that his breath was clearly audible even from where the Duce sat. Cadenza perceived the discontent, and had drooped in stature with her ears flat against her skull and had curled her tail around her body when Adalberto half-shouted. The Quadrumvirate leader stood his ground, but his expression had softened somewhat.

“You’re right,” Balbo admitted in a soft voice. “We’ve made mistakes. We don’t know enough about Cadenza, and we must figure her out.” He indicated to Adalberto with an open hand. “And to do that, we need to make sure that she’s with as many familiar faces as possible.

“Think about it, what– how will Cadenza react when she’ll have strange men observing her?” Balbo asked, bringing the hand over to point to the alicorno.

Admiration briefly touched Mussolini seeing Italo’s angle of attack. Why hadn’t he considered the familiarity argument?

Adalberto followed the hand and looked upon the foal with eyes that lacked the previous fear from before, Mussolini noticed; in fact, it was Cadenza who shrank at the blackshirt’s gaze this time.

After a long moment, eyes still locked on the filly, he said, “I wouldn’t know.”

Judging by Balbo’s rapid blinking, that wasn’t the answer that he had hoped. “But you’ve seen it already before!” he exclaimed. “She’d do best wi—”

“Stop,” Benito piped up, raising an open palm. The aviator shot the Duce an incredulous look, whereas the blackshirt merely turned to raise an eyebrow. “It’s clear that Adalberto’s not going to budge on his stance.”

Italo was on the verge of a response, but Mussolini shut it down with a downwards tug at the corner of his mouth.

Balbo sighed. “Va bene.”

Cadenza’s ears perked up at the phrase, and her mouth worked as if she were primed to try to repeat it, but she seemed too frightened to look away from Adalberto.

For his part, the man seemed grateful. “Thank you, Duce,” Adalberto said with a slight bow of his head, before thrusting his arm in a final salute and made for the exit.

The doors closed, and the little foal walked up to them. “‘berto?” she whined, pawing at the bottom rail.

Benito watched, his gut growing heavy, as Cadenza continued to call for her departed caretaker. He was touched by the trust that she held for Adalberto, even in the face of his outburst and anger. He had seen it years ago in his daughter Edda with…

Mussolini sighed: he’d have to revisit his family ties later once he had the time.

“Duce?” Italo approached Benito’s desk. “Is this for the best?” he asked, adding, “For Cadenza?”

Benito straightened in his chair. “The world is not a comfortable one, Balbo. This is but a taste of things to come for her.”

“Even when you have the power to make it a comfortable one?” Balbo replied. “For her?”

Mussolini was quick and resolute with his answer: “Sì.”

Cadenza’s increasingly desperate calls and tears planted doubt in that resolve, however.
> Limitless Pink Potential
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



Concern for the Health of Cadenza Grows



Confirming a recent article published by Il Popolo d’Italia on the 18th, the administration has come forward with news of the alicorno’s well-being, announcing yesterday that her exclusion from public appearances has been due to influenza.

“Cadenza has displayed multiple classic symptoms of equine influenza,” a government spokesperson explained. “[Cadenza] has suffered from dry coughing, a high fever, a lack of appetite, and muscle pain. As such, she has been interned at a special wing of the Umberto I policlinic of the Faculty of Medicine and Surgery of the Sapienza Università di Roma, under the protection of PNF militia.”







Umberto I Policlinico in Rome.




Fears of the disease being borne from the deadly Spanish Flu were dismissed by officials, citing that asides from the time that has passed since the outbreak, human influenza does not affect equines.

“Cadenza cannot contract influenza from us, nor can we from her,” the spokesperson emphasized. “The Duce would be devastated if that were the case.”

Milan has reported a public vigil at the Piazza del Duomo, with hundreds of people praying for the amelioration of the alicorno’s health, much to the consternation of Cardinal Eugenio Tosi, Archbishop of Milan.

“[The alicorno] is not a creation of God,” Bishop Bartolomeo Visconti told Il Corriere della Sera, speaking for the Archbishop. “This congregation was neither sanctioned by the Church, nor done so in faith with its doctrine.”

Regardless of the objections from the Archdiocese of Milan, the general sentiment in the provincial capital is one of sympathy for Cadenza. There have been candles lit and notes left at the foot to the monument to Vittorio Emanuele II, offering people’s well wishes to the new darling of Italy.





Benito sat quietly behind his desk, taking in the academic stares of the three men who were observing Balbo’s interactions with Cadenza.

“Come on, Cadenza,” Italo prodded, offering a bird whistle to the alicorno. “Whistle for the nice gentlemen.”

Cadenza glanced at the three strangers with what Mussolini could only describe as guarded curiosity before both her horn and the toy glimmered. She paid them little heed when the two young men reacted audibly. The bespectacled twenty-something-years-old gasped whereas the slightly stouter man muttered something under his breath.

Of the three, only the eldest of them actually bothered with writing his thoughts in his notebook. He had gaped for a moment like the others, yes, but the physics director of laboratory in the Scuola Normale Superiore of Pisa, Luigi Puccianti, with the diligence expected from his position, actually did what he had come to do.

“Incredible,” the balding director said softly, noting down as quickly as his pen allowed. After a moment, he looked up and noticed that his colleagues were still staring even after Cadenza’s trilling whistle. “It’s rude to stare,” he said playfully, finally snapping the two younger physicists out of their stupor.

“Sorry, professor,” the taller one, Nello Carrara, murmured as he finally began to jot down his own thoughts.

This went on for a few minutes: the only real sounds in the room were Cadenza’s play, Balbo’s subtle encouragements and praises, the occasional mutters from the three scientists, and a barely audible chime that Cadenza’s horn produced. The latter was yet another item to the expanding list of unknowns relating to the alicorno. 

Eventually, the impatient drumming of Mussolini’s fingers against the ebony desk joined in. “Well?” Benito’s voice was startlingly loud.

The physicists might as well not have heard the Duce, so engrossed they were in their scrutiny.

“Gentlemen, the Duce has asked you a question,” Balbo offered.

For some reason that both escaped and irked Benito, that got through to the men. “You’ll have to forgive us,” the director from Pisa began, pushing up his glasses, “I suppose that what you have here is...” He flicked his eyes towards a distracted Cadenza. “Well, quite something.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” the youngest, some fellow by the name of Fermi, interjected. “Your alicorno has just contradicted numerous established laws of physics, just by lifting up that whistle!” He cracked a grin. “I can see why you’ve, ah...”

The prior enthusiasm had wilted and in its stead, a look of trepidation took over the man. Mussolini cocked an eyebrow: he noticed that the physicist was now deliberately avoiding eye contact.

Carrara intervened. “What my colleague means to say, is that you were wise in keeping ah, Cadenza out of the public eye.” He closed his notebook. “While lamentable, I believe that my colleagues and I agree that it is necessary.”

Tell me something I didn’t already know, Mussolini thought darkly. “Is it radiation?” he asked tentatively.

Three heads swiveled to observe the foal once more. Scratching at his beard, Puccianti the first to readdress Benito. “If it is, it’s not one that we’re familiar with.”

“There was both a visible and audible reaction,” the other bespectacled physicist noted, turning to his other colleague. “What do you think, Fermi—electromagnetic radiation with some radio-luminescence?”

Fermi pursed his lips, tapping the side of his head with his pen. “I don’t think so,” he said, “I suspect that it might be gravitational.”

“Einstein’s model?” Luigi asked.

“Indeed, professor,” Fermi replied with a nod. “Right now, it’s the one that best fits with what we’ve been presented with.”

Benito perked up slightly. “Does that mean that you know what it is?”

“Without any way to properly observe the energies and radiations, it’s just an educated guess at best,” Fermi explained, before turning to Nello. “What do you think, Nello?”

Carrara’s lips thinned. “I’m afraid that you’re right, Enrico. Unless we can obtain a spectrograph that is suited for this particular frequency, we won’t achieve much more than speculation.”

“That is assuming that this is a wave based phenomenon,” Puccianti weighed in, shrugging his shoulders. “As far as we know, this could be something wholly different.”

Much of the conversation went over Mussolini’s head: he had been more of a student of political science than that of the more traditional sort, after all. So far, all he had really gathered from the jargon was that these three had no definitive answer to his questions. 

Just like every group of experts so far, he harrumphed inwardly.

Nello hummed, glancing once more at Cadenza. “If it is electromagnetic, we could maybe produce a reaction with a magnet.”

Balbo was heard muttering, “I hope you aren’t implying that Cadenza’s a magnet.”

“Not at all,” Carrara said, shaking his head. “I’m not a biologist, but it’s unlikely that the whole body is producing the strange phenomenon.” He eyed the stubby horn of the filly. “The horn, however, is clearly some sort of conduit.”

“There might be an organ inside or at the base of the structure,” Puccianti hypothesized. His glasses fell slightly. “What if the brain extends into it?”

“That’d be quite a sight to behold,” Fermi said, now interested. He turned to Italo. “You wouldn’t happen to have perhaps an X-ray scan of her head?”

Mussolini answered for Balbo, somewhat miffed that the question hadn’t been addressed to him. “We do not. Is it necessary?”

“Well, not necessary per se,” the physicist admitted with a splayed hand, “but it’d definitely expedite things.” He fell quiet for a moment. “That, and that I’m sure that you want the alicorno to be kept in one piece.”

Benito was quick to furiously waggle his finger. “No dissections!” he stated determinately. “Cadenza is not to be harmed!”

The outburst, while nowhere near as explosive as the one Adalberto had weeks back, was enough to visibly startle Fermi. Even Cadenza momentarily stopped playing to see what was the commotion.

“It wasn’t a request or a demand, sir,” Puccianti piped up, bringing up a placating hand. “It was merely a suggestion.”

The Duce snapped his head back and placed a hand on his hip, harrumphing. “The suggestion is refuted. Have I made myself clear?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“Perfectly, Prime Minister,” Carrara replied.

Benito eased his posture and offered a smile that was, if not amiable, at least diplomatic. “Is there anything that you can determine today?”

“I think that my colleagues will agree that we can’t,” Luigi said after glancing at the other two physicists. “Not without specialized equipment, that’s for certain.”

Mussolini hummed, rapping his fingers along the smooth surface of his desk. “How soon will you be ready for a better examination if the state provides the necessary equipment?”

Nello gave the Duce a funny look, whereas Enrico pursed his lips. Only Puccianti kept a straight face.

“How soon?” he repeated. Once more he looked to both of his colleagues, engaging in a conversation conveyed merely through their expressions, before turning once again to Mussolini. “January at the earliest.”

There was a slight downwards twitch at his lips, but otherwise Benito maintained his smile. “Why not sooner?”

“Prime Minister, it’s the holiday season,” Puccianti explained. “Any university or laboratory that even has a spectrograph or a radio receiver is closed, and the technicians capable of using either are probably at home. We came because our faculty in Pisa is not far, but we couldn’t have brought anything more than our personal belonging.”

“X-ray scanners and spectrographs are not exactly portable,” Carrara added. “They take up close to an entire room.”

Luigi nodded. “Exactly as Carrara says,” he said, taking a step closer towards the desk. “Provided that the technicians return after New Year’s Day, we can arrange a visit for Cadenza to one of our labs within the week after that.”

“Which university?” Mussolini suddenly asked.

Puccianti blinked. “I was thinking our laboratory at Pisa,” he said sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Although now that you mention it, I don’t believe that we have a radio receiver.”

“Doesn’t the University of Genoa have one of those?” Nello provided.

The department director’s lips thinned. “I’d have to write to the director to be sure. In fact, I might send one to the rector at Turin as well: I seem to remember that they have a modern X-ray scanner there.”

“They do,” Fermi said with a nod. “I have an old friend who studies in Turin, and he’s written to me about a new X-ray scanner from Germany.”

A spectrograph from Pisa, a Genoese transceiver, and a German X-ray scanner in Turin; unless Cadenza could somehow be at multiple different locations at once, Mussolini didn’t think that these physicists would be able to test all of their theories in one go.

“Sounds like Cadenza would have to travel a lot,” Italo noted while scratching at Cadenza’s ears.

“It’d probably be simpler if she came to each faculty,” Puccianti admitted with a slight tilt of his head. “I can get into contact with the directors, but we probably won’t have any concrete date until after the first next month at the earliest.”

The Duce resisted the urge to run his hand down along his face and hummed instead. He didn’t want to keep Cadence out of the public eye for any longer than he needed, and people would eventually catch on that she wasn’t at the Policlinico. If that were to happen…

Mussolini refused to finish that thought and opted to shoot a steely glare at the professor. “I want this resolved at the earliest, Puccianti. Cadenza belongs to the people, but we need to know that we can let her out.”

It was a veiled threat, hopefully clear enough for Puccianti to catch its implicit meaning. The slight flinch was encouraging. 

“Yes, Prime Minister,” he said in what Mussolini hoped was a cowed tone. “I um, I could see them myself. It might be better than sending letters.”

Benito sat back into his chair feeling rather pleased. “Good. Once you have a date, send a letter to Bianchi. It’ll go straight to me.”

Puccianti nodded sheepishly while Carrara pretended to go over his notes. Fermi, for his part, looked on at his professor with a disappointed smile.

“That is all, gentlemen.”

At the Duce’s dismissal, the three physicists left in a single file, passing by Cadenza.

“Ciaaaaoo!” she let out, waving the toy whistle with her ‘magic’ and giving a stiff fascist salute. Only Fermi waved back, if hesitantly. That brought a legitimate smile to Mussolini’s face, and he almost broke into a chuckle as the doors closed.

Balbo’s lopsided frown kept that moment of levity brief. “I won’t lie,” he said, “I was hoping we’d get some answers before the New Year.”

“Yes, it is unfortunate,” Benito added, feeling his earlier frustration returning in full. He sighed as he rested his head on his fist. “All of these delays are almost more trouble than they’re worth. Vassallo from Foreign Affairs received the third request from the British ambassador to see Cadenza, and he can only keep stalling for so long.”

Italo stopped his ministrations to Cadenza (much to her chagrin, who protested with a ‘Baa-bo’), and looked lost for a moment. “That Graham fellow?” he asked after a moment, butchering the name.

“The same,” Mussolini replied with a nod. “And his latest request was strongly worded according to Vassallo.” There was a long sigh from him as his eyes drifted away, looking at nothing in particular. “I can only guess that Graham has been having issues from his French counterpart, but his insistence is getting on my nerves.”

Once again, Balbo hesitated for a moment. “Is it because of what the French premiere had said?”

Another nod: “The British and Americans are rather annoyed of Poincaré’s posturing in regards of the Ruhr issue. I suspect that that’s the only reason why there hasn’t been much from Walker or the French in the case of Cadenza.”

Italo let his own eyes wander in thought, only to find an exigent filly pawing at his hand. “Baa-bo,” she whined, looking miffed that her caretaker was not paying any attention to his charge.

Benito watched quietly as Balbo focused once more on Cadenza. It had been a few weeks since Adalberto had walked away from his role, and from what he had seen, the alicorno had recovered from the loss of her first caretaker. It hadn’t been easy, what with the long wails and sleepless nights where she called for Adalberto, begging in her rapidly improving Italian. When Cadenza had refused to eat or sleep, many of the inner circle had worried that she actually had come down with something. Fortunately the filly’s mood improved within a few days, and the initial assumption of an illness had proven useful for creating a cover story. 

Her demeanour had changed, however. Cadenza clung to Balbo in a way that she hadn’t with Adalberto, and she would grow anxious at the mere indication of him leaving her for any extended length of time. Not even promising her that Benito would stay with her while the aviator was away seemed to be enough. True, Mussolini had few moments to himself now that he was running the country, but he was still the first person to take Cadenza under his care, damnit. 

A familiar touch of jealousy crept in, especially with how she referred to Italo (Baa-bo sounded eerily like babbo: dad), but he dispelled the thought. He had to, as Mussolini just had too much to do, even during the upcoming holiday season. He found himself skimming once again a report from Farinacci about socialists causing trouble up in Cremona. Had this happened just a few scant months back, Mussolini knew that Farinacci would have dealt with the situation in his brutal, if effective, way.

But Benito was the Prime Minister now, he couldn’t just have his squadristi browbeat the opposition as they had in the past and expect for the nation to look favourably upon the PNF. He had promised an end to the partisan violence in the streets, after all.

He set aside the report to pull out a clean letter template and began to pen his thoughts to pass on to Bianchi in regards of the situation in Cremona. The Duce felt that a visit and a few speeches up North would be enough to stop any escalation from either the socialists or Farinacci.

“Duce?” Italo asked in a soft voice. Benito looked up from his desk to see a thoughtful-looking Balbo running his hand gently through the mane of Cadenza, who was now resting.

“It just occured to me,” he began, “what if the physicists don’t‒ what if they can’t figure out Cadenza?”

Benito’s brow creased. “What do you mean?”

Italo’s eyes fell upon the quiet pink form by his side. “What if her powers can’t be explained? What if our understanding of the world cannot produce an adequate explanation?”

“There must be something,” Mussolini insisted without missing a beat. “If there isn’t something at this moment, then it shall come down along the line. We’re in a new era of knowledge and technology.”

Balbo appeared unconvinced as he looked once more at Cadenza. Mussolini made to assure him, but Balbo briskly shook his head. “Never mind, Duce. I suppose I’m just tired.”

Benito looked on, his eyebrow piqued, but said nothing. He went back to his letter; whatever it was that had crossed Italo’s mind was probably of little import.

The Duce just hoped that Cadenza wouldn’t miss him terribly when he’d have to leave both her and Italo.






Prime Minister Tours the North—Cadenza still Hospitalized



With the passing week, there has been a general sense of relief that the Christmas season would not entail a return to street violence in Emilia-Romagna and Lombardy, as the Prime Minister traveled to Cremona to speak against partisan animosity.

Mussolini has been spending much of the holidays riding a train from city to city, speaking in Cremona and Carpi, and called for the socialists and fascists to set asides past grievances.







Mussolini speaking at the Piazza della Rivoluzione in Cremona.




“Italians have been fighting for far too long,” he said to a large gathering of people. “It is shameful that we cannot look beyond partisan lines during the season of peace. So I call to you all, good people of Cremona[...] do not let past misdeeds cause future ones.”

Political experts and officials alike have praised the Prime Minister’s push for reconciliation, although some, like Giovanni Gentile, Minister of Education, were less impressed.

“Commendable as it is for [Mussolini] to compromise, the derivative Marxist philosophy that forms the majority of the Italian left just cannot mesh with the government’s own,” he commented when asked on the Prime Minister’s speeches.

“The two differing ideologies are destined to clash,” Gentile added. “Long-term peaceful coexistence between fascism and communism is impossible.”

Some doubt remains when it comes to Cadenza’s well-being, as government officials repeated the Prime Minister’s declaration that the alicorno is recovering, but her condition is still uncertain.

While not as numerous as they have been in the past, people still visit the Piazza del Duomo to relight candles and offer their well wishes to a speedy recovery, even in spite of the Archbishop’s protests and the first winter snowfall.

Whichever the case, this coming New Year's is believed to bring a new sense of peace within the country.






Balbo was not having a pleasant New Year's. He wasn’t even at the party’s own celebrations in Rome.

That didn’t mean that he couldn’t hear the music and laughter from his fellow fascists downstairs, never mind the fireworks going off all over the capital. Italo didn’t mind the noise while he was working. In fact, he didn’t really mind that he wasn’t out celebrating the passing of the year.

What he did mind was the terrible tantrum that Cadenza was currently throwing.

“Cadenza!” Balbo called to her, trying to pry the filly out from her hiding spot somewhere between two office cabinets. “Come out of there!”

“No! Scared!” she cried, shrieking and scrambling further away from the man after a new barrage of firework bursts rattled the windows.

It had been so peaceful until a few moments ago; Cadenza had her fill of panettone (of which she had grown to like when she tried it on Christmas’ Eve) and was about to fall asleep. If only she had done so before midnight…

“Come on!” Balbo tried again, finding the filly’s nook far too deep for him to reach into. “It’s just fireworks.”

Another burst, another rattle, and another shriek. What little of the alicorno disappeared from sight as she wormed her way deeper into her hiding spot. “Cadenza!” Italo called. There was another half-intelligible refusal from Cadenza in between the whimpers.

The man was not going to achieve anything this way. Had the Duce been present, Balbo suspected that he would have been alright with leaving Cadenza to cower, as a way for her to ‘build character,’ or some other such nonsense.

He groaned: the girl needed comforting, and he’d do it before the night was done.

Italo got up and groped for a hold on the smaller cabinet, the one she was hiding behind. Once he had a firm grip, Balbo heaved and pulled the furniture away from the wall.

“No!” Cadenza bolted with such speed that Italo barely saw her from the corner of his eye.

Italo liked to think himself a patient man, but he found himself growingly frustrated. Biting back a curse, he chased after the alicorno, who had sought refuge underneath a desk. “That’s enough, Cadenza,” he said in a terse voice, getting down on all four to grab at her.

The filly scrambled to a corner, wings aflutter, but Italo managed to grab hold of one of her hooves. A piercing shriek joined the cacophony of slipping hooves, sliding wooden furniture, and rattling glass.

“For God’s sake!” he exclaimed as he felt a fierce tug from his arm. Just how much strength did this little filly have? Balbo kept a firm grasp, but only just. The struggling alicorno put up a hell of a fight, yet she couldn’t get Italo to let go.

That was when Cadenza, in a panicked flurry, kicked at the hand clamped on her hoof. Italo cried out of surprise more so than pain, but he lost his grip. Cadenza jumped on the opportunity and made a run for it.

The man recovered quickly enough for him to leap for her, grabbing the ends of her tail. She yelped (out of fear and not pain, Balbo hoped) and ran in place, hooves skidding all over the smooth floor.

“Please calm down!” he pleaded, but Cadenza would have none of it, redoubling her efforts to get away to somewhere she deemed safe. 

Just as Italo thought he finally got the filly where he wanted her, he felt the tail tug upwards as her wings began to beat in near sync and…

He stared. He must’ve been seeing things. So great was his surprise that he loosened his grip enough for the smooth tail hairs to slip through his fingers, and fluttered upwards along with the rest of Cadenza.

The alicorno was flying.

It wasn’t at all graceful or composed, but flew she did. Even Cadenza seemed surprised by this newfound ability, that she panicked at the last moment, losing her rhythm and just barely making it to the top of the small cabinet.

That is until she misstepped and fell from her vantage point.

With a speed that he did not think possible, Italo dove, sliding along the floor, and caught the foal. “Gesù!” he exclaimed, quick to get up to his knees and bring her close for a tight hug. It was both a means to keep Cadenza from running off again and to calm her down, but at this point, it was mostly for the latter.

Perhaps, a small part of Balbo noted, the hug was a way for him to take a breather so as to fully understand what had just happened.

Doing his best to coo the frightened filly, the fascist found one recurring thought repeating in his mind: Cadenza flew.

It shouldn’t have been possible; all of the experts had said as much, citing how her wings were far too small for it to be possible.

The impossible didn’t seem to apply when it came to Cadenza, Balbo supposed.

But that was a concern for later. As of that moment, he had to deal with a frightened filly who was doing her best to tear herself away from him. Italo’s soft reassurances and caresses had some effect, as the alicorno stilled enough for him to bring her closer for a nuzzle. Balbo wasn’t really sure why he did that, but Cadenza’s cries were softening. Soon enough, the only audible sounds in the office asides from the now distant fireworks and partygoers elsewhere in the building, were Cadenza’s weakening whimpers and his heavy breathing.

While a part of Italo wondered how the others would react to the new development, he mostly concerned himself with what to do the next time when Cadenza would throw a tantrum.

“Baa-bo,” Cadenza murmured.

The fragility evident in her voice made Italo tighten his hug. “Yes, Cadenza?”

“Sorry,” she said.

Despite it all, the man found himself smiling. “It’s alright,” he said in a quiet voice. “I should’ve warned you about the fireworks.”

Cadenza didn’t say anything. All Italo felt was the nub of her horn painlessly digging into his chest.

“Come on,” he cooed, gently patting the back of her head, “let’s get you to bed.” The night was still young for New Year's, but after all of the commotion, he was sure that the alicorno was worn out.

As Balbo made to leave, he reminisced to Cadenza’s maiden flight. That reminded him: he’d have to finish flight school one of these days. Who knew? Maybe he’d fly with Cadenza one day if everything went well.

A small smile touched his lips as he closed the door behind him.
> Red Rome
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.
> Encyclica Rerum Omnium Perturbationem
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



Left-Wing Arditi del Popolo Attack Fascist Convoy—Day of Slaughter in Rome



Violence erupted in the streets of the capital during the early hours of the 7th, when socialist and communard terrorists attacked a car transporting high ranking fascists as well as the alicorno, Cadenza. A firefight broke out between the escorts and ambushers, leading to an undisclosed number of casualties.

Reports from the State Police indicate that the attackers were members of the Arditi del Popolo, the military wing of the political left, the same group that were behind much of the street violence in the previous years.

The car convoy was transporting Cadenza and a small entourage to the Termini Train Station to be transferred to Pisa for observation at the university. When asked about the previous statement that she was going to be moved to Milan, Michele Bianchi had this to say:

“Yes, we did say that [Cadenza] was being moved to Milan at a different time, but it was done so due to security concerns. The Duce fully admits this, and he rightly pointed out that even this was not enough to protect her.

“If anything,” Bianchi added, “it only goes to show that there is still much work to be done in order to crack down on the violent paramilitary groups that seek to undermine the government and Italy itself.”







Some of the first-responders that arrived on scene after the first shots.




The firefight attracted the attention of the local squadra d’azione, prompting an armed response to the scene. On their arrival the remaining members of the ADP either fled or surrendered on the spot. As of the time of publishing, Panisperna Street and the adjacent streets have been cordoned off for police investigation.

The final count of fatalities is believed to be no more than nine people, with many witnesses describing this as a small miracle, especially when considering that local residents formed a mob to face-off against the armed terrorists. The former were spurred into action when the alicorno, Cadenza, flew high along the upper stories of the apartment blocks to call for assistance.

“It was like an angel mustering His followers to the cause,” an elderly local stated, “as if God Himself was speaking through her.”

While other testimonies are hesitant to call it an intervention from God, they all agree that Cadenza’s capacity for flight and her powerful voice had rallied dozens of citizens to jeer and block the ADP paramilitaries.

Elements of the left such as the PCd'I have condemned the violence and denied having any involvement with the assault. Additionally, Il Messagero has approached the Holy See for comment, but there has been no response so far.





A trail of smoke followed Balbo as he finished his cigarette. He put it out before proceeding to the antechamber to Mussolini’s office. When he opened the door, a pleasant face behind a desk met his.

“Buongiorno, Signor Balbo,” Alessandra, the Duce’s secretary, said with a smile.

“Good morning, Miss Alessandra,” he replied with a smile of his own, waving away the last of the cigarette smoke. “Is the Duce available?” he asked while jabbing a thumb at the office doors.

Alessandra’s smile fell. “I’m afraid that he’s away with the King. He left earlier this morning.”

A low grumble from deep Italo’s throat threatened to make itself heard, but he sighed instead. “Right. When do you think he will be back?”

The brunette’s eyes glanced at the wall mounted clock. “Perhaps in an hour? Maybe two?” She shrugged. “I couldn’t say. When it comes to meetings with the King, his schedule usually needs to be redrawn from scratch afterwards.”

Balbo hummed in thought, pulling out his cigarette packet to light a new one. The subject of discussion that he wanted to divulge with Mussolini was important, but he knew that the King took precedence. He could wait a day if it came down to it, but Italo felt that what he had to say was best said early. After all, a possible traitor in the party was still of high priority.

As he lit the cigarette with a match, Alessandra eyed him with a needy look. “May I?” she asked, pointing to the cigarette.

“Sure,” Italo replied, and offered it to the young lady. She voiced her thanks and took in a deep breath of the aroma of tobacco.

As she let out a plume of thin smoke Alessandra handed the cigarette back. “I needed that, thanks again.”

“It’s no problem,” Balbo said, blowing a plume of smoke of his own.

His mind momentarily wandered, stopping to recall the moment when he wrote his letter of condolences while interned. Camillo Mondadori was a friend, and while Italo knew that he owed nothing beyond the written sympathy for the man’s family, the fascist felt obliged to make time to personally pay his respects at Mondadori’s funeral. The problem was that, however: would he even have enough time to do so, what with Cadenza and the inevitable witch hunt within the PNF?

Balbo’s lips thinned. He felt a little better after another lungful of smoke, but the worry remained.

He idly scratched at the bandage on his left hand. It still occasionally itched, but it had been several hours since it last hurt. All in all, Italo had come out of the ambush rather unscathed. Physically speaking so did Cadenza, though he still had his doubts in regards to the mental aspect…

“Does it hurt?”

Balbo blinked. The question had caught him off guard. “No,” he said, showing the back of the left hand. “Apparently I got cut by glass or something, but it was just skin deep. Nothing to worry about.”

Alessandra smiled at that, though she quickly frowned when she asked, “And Cadenza?”

Italo did not immediately respond. “She’s fine,” he finally said. “They’re keeping her under observation at the Policlinico, but she is fine.”

The secretary lit up a bit. “Say, have you read the news?”

Again Balbo blinked. “You mean today’s issue?” he asked, prompting a nod from Alessandra. “No, I haven’t.”

“The terrorists that survived are going to be tried by today,” the secretary explained. She removed the documents from her desk to reveal a newspaper. “It’s on the front page of Il Popolo d’Italia,” Alessandra said, holding it up for Italo to see.

A collection of mugshots lined the column of the main article. A total of seven faces stared back at Italo as he beheld the headline: ‘7 MEMBERS OF THE ARDITI DEL POPOLO TO BE TRIED.’

His eyes went over the two rows of pictures only to suddenly stop at the fifth one. It was a clean shaven man with a lean face, looking absolutely miserable. Looking closely, Balbo thought that he’d seen those defeated eyes somewhere before…

“I hope that they all get hanged.”

Italo looked up to see a grimace upon Alessandra’s face. “It’s the least those bastards deserve,” she insisted.

Balbo hummed in agreement. “I’m sure that justice will be served,” he said quietly, focusing on the picture of the dejected criminal. Why did this man look so familiar? While there was no color to discern from, he could tell that the eyes were bright. He remembered seeing those same piercing eyes somewhere… but where?

He tilted his head, humming once more.

“What is it?”

The aviator brought up a hand. “Do you have a pen?”

Not bothering to ask for clarification, Alessandra handed Italo one. He carefully scribbled crude looking whiskers that made the man in the photo look like a walrus. Then he added a goatee. When he was finished, Italo stared hard.

He’d seen this man before.

He was a blackshirt; one that Balbo remembered seeing among the throngs that had marched along the Appian Way last year.

Slowly, Italo’s eyes rose to meet Alessandra’s concerned eyes. “I must see the Prime Minister,” he half-whispered, “today.”

As the brunette grabbed the transceiver of her phone and dialled a number, Balbo’s mind raced, working hard to remember which century that particular squadrista belonged to.

Taking another deep smoke-filled breath, one hope persisted amongst all of the other thoughts:

Hopefully the audience with the King won't leave the Duce in too bad of a mood.





For what must’ve been the fifth time since he had left the royal residence, Mussolini let out a frustrated sigh. As the car rolled up to the courtyard of the Palazzo Venezia, he collected his belongings and stepped out of the car when the chauffeur opened the door.

He decided that his report to the King went about as well as expected, now that the emotions had had time to settle. As he had predicted, Vittorio was nearly apoplectic. Despite Benito’s guarantees for the end of street violence, the shootout within Rome itself was a step too far for the King. He went on an anticipated tirade about how political parties were a failure, no matter their political leanings, and voiced his longing for a return to the Italian honeymoon that was the post-unification period, when political violence did not exist.

One thing that the Soldier King had brought up however, was a reminder of his control over Mussolini and especially Cadenza, once more threatening the Prime Minister that if he didn’t bring law and order soon, the new government would be finished.

Benito was painfully aware of the reality of the threat, and even went so far to wish that he could do away with the House of Savoy altogether during one of the quiet moments.

Of course, that was an absurd notion. The Royal Family (or at least Vittorio Emmanuele III) was still too beloved by the people for Mussolini to make such a move. He very much doubted that he would even live to a point where the Italian people would clamor for the House of Savoy to abolish the Monarchy.

Still, a fascist could dream.

At least Mussolini had gotten what he had pinned on the assault to achieve: full support from the Monarchy for his drive to push the left out of political scene. All that was left to do was to think of the best way to broach the debate in parliament in the coming days. Benito would have to finally address the christian democrats in regards of this initiative. He’d need their support in parliament if it was going to gain any tract—

“Signor Primo Ministro.”

Benito’s train of thought slowed as a lanky-looking functionary presented himself by the entrance. “Yes, what is it?”

“Signor Balbo and Signor De Vecchi have been waiting for you in your office,” the walking stick of a man said, reaching to take Mussolini’s effects. “They say that it is urgent.”

Handing over his briefcase, Benito followed the functionary into the winding hallways of Palazzo Venezia. His thoughts went over the possible reasons that both Italo and Cesare wanted to meet him.

The answer was quick and plain: the ambush.

This too, like the King’s outburst, was wholly expected. The only trouble for Mussolini were the faux ADP militia that had been captured. The original plan did involve a few willing and loyal blackshirts to be ‘caught’ and have their image defaced in public, but here Mussolini was, left to deal with more than a few. Not just that, but only two of the arrested men had agreed to that part of the plan!

As he walked at a brisk pace along the corridors, Benito scowled. He hoped that he could get to the ones who hadn’t been in on the latter part of the operation. Hopefully he could salvage the situation before anyone too important would catch on.

An acrid smell of tobacco assaulted his senses when he entered his secretary’s office. Wrinkling his nose, Benito was greeted by Alessandra.

“Good morning, Mister Mussolini,” she said, rising from her seat and waving a hand towards his office. “Both Mister Balbo and Mister De Vecchi are waiting for you inside.”

Spotting a tray with four spent cigarettes, the Duce had half a mind to tell her off for allowing anyone to smoke. Instead, he merely nodded his thanks and proceeded to his office. As he’d been told, both Cesare and Italo sat waiting by Mussolini’s desk. However, standing by them was a third man, a bearded blackshirt with a mess of hair on his head. The medals and arm patches pointed to the man being in charge of a century, though Benito couldn’t ascertain which.

At least his office didn’t reek of cigarettes.

“Greetings, gentlemen,” he said aloud as he closed the door behind him, biting back any worry that he had.

The fascists all saluted, with the squadrista centurion clicking his heels. “Duce!” he hailed.

“At ease,” Mussolini said with a placating wave of a hand. As the salutes and stances wilted, the Duce placed his hands on his hips, throwing a critical look at the centurion. The man, broad as he was, didn’t seem to flinch under the scrutiny.

After a while, Benito finally looked to Italo and Cesare. “I have an inkling as to why you’re all here, in my office, at noon,” he stated with no small amount of mock indignation, “but I must ask: why are you gentlemen interrupting my lunch?”

De Vecchi was the first to pipe up. “Balbo here might’ve found the source of the leak.”

When the quadrumvir had said that, cross-armed and with a severe look upon his moustached face, Benito felt an uncomfortable tingling at the back of his neck. There had been a small part of him that had hoped against hope that this meeting was not going to be about the ambush.

Not needing to fake his interest, he said, “Really?” Mussolini glanced at Balbo who nodded. His right hand slid away from his hip as he regarded Cesare once more. “Well, that’s great news. Who’s going to get the truncheon or a flask of castor oil then?”

“Sir,” the centurion began, “we don’t believe it is just an informant.”

There’s that tingling again. “What is it then, Centurione…?”

The blackshirt momentarily fumbled his words before introducing himself. “Gaspari, sir. Centurion Gaspari of the Bari Century.”

“Well, Gaspari,” Benito said, “if it isn’t just an informant, then what is it?”

Gaspari’s features seemed to sag with shame. “Duce, we’re possibly dealing with party members, including some squadristi, that have crossed to the other side.”

Despite knowing the truth behind the matter, Mussolini couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow to that. Looking to his left to meet Italo’s own gaze, he asked, “What evidence do you have?”

“This man,” Balbo said, picking up a picture of a blackshirt group and pointing to one of the men in it, “was among those arrested from the ADP attack.”

Benito didn’t need to look to confirm his fear, as he explicitly remembered recruiting a man from the Bari Century. Still, he felt obliged to look over the photograph, if perhaps only to distract himself from clenching his jaw.

Asides from the man’s striking eyes, there was nothing that really called attention to the indicated blackshirt. Asides from absolute secrecy and loyalty, their unassumingness was the primary attribute that Mussolini had taken into consideration when he had recruited the fascists for the hit. The whole point of doing so was to keep from anyone important recognizing any one of them if found out. Hopefully this one (a certain Tonio) would not have given any leads if pressed.

If, of course, being the key word in this hypothetical; considering the PNF’s penchant for liberal use of cudgels, daggers and laxatives, any assumption that the blackshirt would stay quiet was beyond foolish.

“Are you certain?”

“See for yourself, Duce,” Cesare said, bringing up a newspaper with a line of mugshots. The one that had a shaggy beard and moustache crudely drawn on him looked frighteningly familiar.

At least he tried to change his appearance, Mussolini thought, though it wasn’t of much consolation.

“That’s...” He turned to de Vecchi. “That’s quite a find.”

“All thanks to signor Balbo, Duce!” the centurion said with some sense of adulation. “I don’t think that even I would have recognized my own man.”

Letting out a slow breath, Benito merely glanced at Italo. Why wasn’t he surprised? “Well done, Balbo,” he said with a forced smile.

Italo merely bowed his head. “It was a lucky coincidence, really.” He walked over to set down the photograph. “If he hadn’t glanced my way, I wouldn’t have recognized him.”

Mussolini felt the butterflies in his gut: of all of the faces for him to remember… “Well done,” he repeated in a mutter. “Who else knows about this?”

“Asides from us?” Cesare looked to the door. “Only your secretary.”

The tension in Benito eased somewhat; perhaps he could still handle the situation before it truly got out of control.

“Not a word,” he said tersely. At the silent response, he added, “This is grave, gentlemen. If word gets out that we have turncoats in our party, we’re‒ we’ll be undermined at every turn.”

“Having a red in our midst isn’t really ideal,” de Vecchi admitted in an unusually quiet voice.

“Exactly,” Mussolini said with a quick nod. “This man” —he pointed to the mugshot of Tonio— “is our key to any other possible weaknesses within our party members.”

Italo, scratching his beard, asked, “How do you want to deal with him, Duce?”

“I will,” Benito quickly said. “I’ll deal with him personally.”

Gaspari’s brow creased. “Duce?”

“This man betrayed the party.” Mussolini brought a hand to his mouth and rubbed a finger on one of his cheeks. “That means that I, somewhere, have failed.”

“Duce, if anyone’s to blame, it should be me,” the centurion insisted. “He’s one of mine, and I should have found him ou—”

A hand from the Duce stopped the man. Levelling his gaze upon the smaller blackshirt, Mussolini spoke with an edge to his voice. “The people look to fascism because of me. They join the party because of me.” He crossed his arms to impose himself, jutting his chin out for good measure. “I want for that man to explain to me exactly where I have gone wrong. Then, and only then, will we be in a position to kill the spectre of treason within the party.”

The silence that followed was deafening for Benito. This was his play and it was the best that he had to offer under the circumstances. He kept his admittedly defensive stance up, doing his utmost best to not let the anxiety of his bluff being called.

At least Gaspari seemed to relent, if his subtle nod and pursed lips were anything to go by. De Vecchi betrayed nothing but his usual disdainful stare, with the corners of his mouth just jutting downwards beneath his moustache. That was probably good, Mussolini decided.

When his eyes shifted to Italo however, the uncomfortable sensation at the back of Benito’s neck returned with a vengeance, which was almost enough to break his poise. In Balbo, the Duce saw a fury that was restrained only by the excuse of civility. The fire of hatred blazed intensely behind his taupe brown eyes. Gone were the boyish features, replaced with those of a man with murderous intent.

It was then that Mussolini realized that he had entirely forgotten about the man’s stance in light of the situation. Who else desired a chance to exact revenge on the man who had possibly killed men under his command as much as Balbo? Especially considering that he could have, even if by pure bad luck, killed Italo and Cadenza?

It was well masked, but the wroth within the aviator was palpable, and it frightened Mussolini.

“I understand, Duce.” Benito turned to Gaspari, almost startled by the sound of his voice. “I assume that you’ll want to see the man as soon as possible. I’ll make the preparations.” The centurione was gone after a salute.

Mussolini exhaled slowly, working to keep himself from looking relieved. At least that was one less person to convince to back off. Although he knew, looking to the other two fascists in his office, that it wouldn’t be as easy to convince either one.

Turning to Italo, Cesare was the first to speak up. “The Duce’s on the case.” His laugh rang hollow. “Everything’s taken care of. I can get back to work and you can go to the hospital to see Cadenza.”

The mention of the filly seemed to calm down Balbo, though it was evident that the man still had some words to mince with Mussolini.

Before he could dismiss the two though, a knock came from the door.

“Who is it?” asked Benito automatically.

Alessandra’s voice came as a reply: “Signor Bianchi wishes to speak to you, sir. He insists that it’s urgent.”

He gave his permission after glancing at the other two quadrumvirs; he needed the distraction.

When Michele came in, he had a pamphlet-size document in hand. In a brief look, he thought that he saw two crossed keys emblazoned on one of the sides. Were those papers from the Holy See?

“Forgive my intrusion, Duce,” Bianchi said with a salute, acknowledging his fellow quadrumvirs with a nod. “I know that you must be preoccupied with the attack, but I have important news regarding the Vatican.”

“What’s that?” asked Balbo with a pointed finger.

Michele approached the desk and placed the document —a letter, Mussolini realized— for everyone to see. The sigil of the Vatican was printed on the front of it, along with a title in Latin: Rerum Omnium Perturbationem.

“State of General Confusion?” de Vecchi said in an uncertain tone. “It’s been awhile since I’ve practiced my Latin.”

Bianchi tilted his head. “Può essere, according to my source.” He opened the letter. “Fortunately, the rest of this copy is in Italian.”

It took a moment, one moment too long than he would have preferred, for Mussolini to realize that this was an encyclical, and a new one for that matter. Italo was also quick to understand the implications.

“Does… does this have anything to do with Cadenza?” he asked in an unsteady voice. Cesare’s eyes lit up in recognition; even he realized what this meant.

Bianchi, surprising everyone, smiled. “Indeed. And it’s good for us.” He flipped a few pages and ran a finger along the paragraphs, stopping to a point in the letter and tapping it twice. “This is where the pope refers to her, right after commending writers and journalists due to a French saint and recognizing him as the patron of writers.”

He cleared his throat before reading aloud.



It is, in this respect, a curious coincidence that this Centenary falls upon so close a date to that of the discovery of a being that some of our Venerable Brothers have been quick to dismiss as mere rumor, a few going so far as to call it heretical to the teachings of the Divine Healer Jesus Christ. We are referring, of course, to the alicorno Cadenza. This is possibly the greatest event to befall the Church, one perhaps equivalent in significance to the Great Schism of 1054, and a matter to be discussed with the utmost care by the Church. We do not need to explain the scope of the appearance of the alicorno, as many of our Venerable Brothers have reported about their parishioners mentioning Cadenza. As such, many of them have sought for guidance in administering their parish with this new revelation within the context of His teachings.

Much time has been delegated to studying the numerous prophecies for possible correlations, including passages from the Book of Lamentations, the Book of Habakkuk, and the Book of Revelation, and it is in these passages that We uncovered the most compelling interpretation. While other prophecies of past Saints and Brothers, such as that of John of the Cleft Rock, appear to correspond with the circumstances of the alicorno, none of these compare to that found within the Books of Matthew. It is here, that We see the earthquake that preceded the arrival of a heavenly being. (Matthew xxviii, 2) This creature, the alicorno, is a spirit sent by Him in response to the growing instability of the world, with the threat bore upon the Russian Church; one of His many spirits walks among us.

There are those among you that may ask if this is a heavenly spirit, and why it has chosen such a form to cross into the mortal plane. The simple answer is that We do not yet know. We cannot assume anything until God’s intentions are clear. We hesitate to call her one of His angels, as for as you are all aware, Venerable Brothers, none of them had ever before assumed the female form.

As such, it is your duty to both assure your flocks that this is the Lord’s work and to prevent the spread of the interpretation that the alicorno is anything beyond what We have declared. In the meantime, We shall hasten to encounter her and learn of her intentions, and judge them accordingly.

As for those who align themselves with the alicorno, do not treat them as enemies of the Church, but as those who have lost their way in their search for a greater purpose. Remember, their patron was sent here for a purpose, and it is in the interest for all believers —Christians or not— to avoid incitement or doubt in scripture, until the Church can ascertain the alicorno’s purpose.

As a pledge of everlasting favors to come and in testimony of Our fatherly affection, We impart most lovingly to you, Venerable Brothers, to all your clergy, and to your people, the Apostolic Blessing. 




When Bianchi finished, he was smiling broadly. It was Cesare to speak first however.

“Imagine that—Cadenza being sent by God.” He chuckled deeply. “That’ll be a hell of a thing to explain to her.”

“With the Pope’s blessing, the support from the church is nothing if not certain,” Michele exclaimed, grabbing Balbo’s shoulder and playfully shaking him. Even Italo seemed to forget his previous furor, grinning as he was.

Benito, however, didn’t join in their cheer. When Michele noticed this he asked, “What’s wrong, Duce?”

“It’s...” Mussolini glanced back at the encyclical on his desk. “It’s not bad news.”

“Duce?”

The Duce saw the creased brows upon the quadrumvirs faces. “The Pope’s played us,” he explained, his previous worry put aside for the moment. “Yes, we had hoped that the Church would not have decried Cadenza, but this!” Benito picked up the encyclical. “Pius has put us on the back foot by making her a damned heavenly spirit.

“Think on it for a moment,” he said. “Now that Cadenza’s a manifestation of God, the Pope’s gained leverage on us, as she’s by virtue of being a heavenly being, a Catholic.”

Realization slowly dawned upon the men, as their features sagged dejectedly: the brilliance that was present before in Bianchi’s eyes dulled behind his glasses; Cesare’s nostrils flared and his moustache bristled; Italo’s face seemed to age several years right then and there.

“So...” Bianchi chewed on his lip. “He’s going to dictate terms.”

Mussolini’s nod was grave. “And what happened yesterday in regards of Cadenza’s powers will only cement the Vatican’s stance on her heavenly status in their dogma.” His eyes once more regarded Bianchi. “Has the letter already been circulated?”

“Yes, Duce,” Michele muttered. “It was handed for publication yesterday morning. Most of the larger parishes must’ve already received it.”

Benito ran a hand down along his face. By this time on Sunday, every churchgoer in Italy would have been spoonfed this farce, and there was no way to block this without Pius’s help.

“Call the Curia and get me someone important for me to speak to,” he told Bianchi, adding in a quieter voice, “Pius is probably waiting for me.”

The party secretary nodded and gave a salute before taking his leave. Turning to the others, Benito said, “Go look for any men who are well versed in the Catholic doctrine. We’re going to have to cover every base if we’re going to discuss terms with a man like the Pope.”

Both Cesare and Italo exchanged doubtful glances and gave their own half-hearted salutes. As they left, Mussolini felt as if a great weight had been lifted off of him. He’d bought himself some time with the situation of the assault, but there was still the matter of Balbo. From what he had gathered, this whole thing had run the risk because of his stake and persistence in the incident. If Benito didn’t resolve this quickly…

Funny, it feels like summer in here.

Slumping down on his desk, he immediately got on the phone. Once the connection was established, and a tinny voice came through the line, he had only four words to say:

“Get me de Bono.”





Tonio del Boca lay on his bunk, trying in vain to ease the tension within him. Asides from the worry of having to revise his cover story to ensure that there were no inconsistencies, the constant pacing of his cellmate, Gianluigi, didn’t help his nerves.

He couldn’t exactly fault the man, though. He hadn’t been prepared for incarceration like Tonio had been, and he was rightly worried as to what would happen to him now that he had been arrested.

Granted, the plan had gone completely awry once that aviator, Balbo, began to shoot back; things had gone even worse when the alicorno had somehow formed a mob and sicked it on Tonio and his partners in crime. Nobody was supposed to have been caught then, let alone killed.

At least he was fairly certain that any interrogation that he would be forced into wouldn’t give the police any trails. Hopefully the party would intervene with his sentencing and lessen it somewhat. He couldn’t say the same for Gianluigi however. He had urged (threatened, really) Gianluigi to stick to a cover story and assured him that the police wouldn’t give either one of them trouble if they both played their part.

While it seemed as if he had gotten through to the young man, his jittery pacing told Tonio that Gianluigi would probably cave if pressed.

And this was the one man that he could actually speak with! Who knew what the other unprepared perpetrators would say during questioning?

Letting out a resentful sigh, Tonio could only await their fate.

Resounding footsteps from down the corridor were loud enough to rouse Gianluigi from his nervous stupor to cease his pacing, though he looked all the more panicked. Truth be told, even Tonio felt his heartbeat quicken with anticipation. Soon enough, half-a-dozen blackshirts escorting a prison guard appeared on the other side of the barred door.

“Tonio del Boca?”

Tonio tensed up. He’d been made? But these were PNF. Why would they out him?

“Who?” he said in spite of the lump in his throat.

One of the blackshirts rolled his eyes. “Come on, you’re in the clear. We’re moving you to a nicer cell.”

Del Boca slowly threw his legs over his bunk, carefully eyeing the maces that a good number of them had in hand. “Is that so?” he asked, failing to keep the edge out of his voice.

The blackshirt who first spoke nodded. “Yes, signor del Boca. Come on, up you go.”

Tonio obeyed the men and walked up to the now opened cell door. Before he left however, he was stopped by the lead blackshirt and brought close to him.

“Is he dependable?” the man whispered in his ear.

Tonio blinked; that wasn’t what he had expected. After chewing on the question for a while, he whispered back, “No sir.”

The blackshirt nodded once more. “Right, come with me.” He carried Tonio and led him away. Almost immediately, Gianluigi began to shout.

“Tonio!”

Del Boca looked back, noticing that the other fascists hadn’t followed, but had entered the cell, maces at the ready. It didn't take much imagination to guess what would happen next. Gianluigi’s pained screams soon confirmed his fears.

“Italy needs dependable men like you,” the blackshirt said, ignoring the cacophony from behind. “She doesn’t need weaklings like him or the others.” He turned to face Tonio. “You will point me to the others. Am I understood?”

A particularly sharp shriek stopped suddenly, plunging the cellblock into relative silence, only punctured by the distant sound of batons beating upon flesh.

Of course Tonio agreed. What other choice did he have?
> Dreams and Expectations
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------



Parliamentary Session Disrupted by Mob



Early on Wednesday, in a scene that harkens back to the Bonomi Administration, a massive crowd formed in front of Montecitorio Palace, barring entry to several deputies. The majority of the latter were later identified as members of the left-wing parties of the Italian Socialist Party and the Communist Party of Italy (PSI and PCd’I respectively).

Protesters hurled insults and profanities at the PSI and PCd’I deputies. Some witnesses added that rotten fruits and vegetables were thrown as well.

Among the different demands from the crowd, the most prominent was that of justice against the perpetrators of the firefight on the 7th, with many accusing the two parties being behind the attack on a fascist convoy that put at risk the alicorno, Cadenza. Despite denying any such claims, PSI and PCd’I house representatives were continually harassed by the mob.







Protesters waved flags and chanted anti socialist slogans.




Tensions grew high when carabinieri were dispatched to control the protesters, though there have been no reports of violence from either side. Regardless of the police presence, no action beyond protecting deputies was taken.

The multitudes remained for the remainder of the morning and much of the afternoon. With over a third of representatives unable to even enter parliament, the session of the day has been suspended. While the demonstrations drew criticism from many members of parliament, the response from both the government and the fascist wing of Montecitorio was decidedly mild.

Political experts claim that this is a grave setback for the left-wing parties and a victory for the administration. There is some speculation as to how this whiplash from the populace will affect future lawmaking, but the general consensus among political circles point to a loss of support from traditionally left-leaning parties for future proposals offered from the PSI and PCd’I.

Many, however, fully expect a repeat of the violence from previous years in light of the public outcry.





It was dark—impossibly so. There was not even the suggestion of light that Cadenza had seen in near-dark rooms. Those had frightened her before but this…! There were few words, if any, that could begin to describe the unease forcing the hairs of her coat to stand erect.

Cadenza had already given up calling for somebody, anybody to call back to her. All she was rewarded with were the harrowing echoes of her voice, vestiges of a ghostly speaker that only seemed to mock her attempts to communicate. Defeated, she made herself small as possible, and closed her eyes. What was the point of seeing if there was nothing to see?

Then, loud enough to stir her to attention, came a sound that wasn’t borne from Cadenza. It was close: as if somebody collapsed right next to her. Hesitantly, she peeked her eyes open.

It was Camillo down on his hands, struggling to rise. A sickly-looking liquid dripped from his head. She couldn’t really tell in the darkness, but it looked crimson: blood, the alicorno recalled, thinking back to the many times that Duce and his friends had mentioned it.

The man turned his head to face Cadenza, revealing a pained expression that morphed into one of surprise. “Cadenza...” Words failed him as he suddenly gasped, flinching in agony.

To her horror, a shower of shards fell upon Camillo, who elicited a wordless cry and crumbled under the barrage. The cacophony of shattering glass persisted however, and prompted Cadenza to cover her ears. When it ended, she gingerly unfolded her ears and took in the scene before her.

A layer of glass lay upon his form, like sleet on a rooftop, ruining the back of Camillo’s winter coat. Blood leaked out from the many tears on the fabric and the side of his face, pooling on the floorless bottom of the black void and against his body. His face remained contorted by pain,  with half of it being completely soaked in red. Camillo was entirely motionless, not speaking a word in his funny Southern twang.

Cadenza too remained frozen. She had done nothing to help the man, and she knew it: just a shove and he would have been spared. Why had she not done a thing? She had shown time and time again that she had powers that nobody else, not even Duce, had. She could have saved him.

The guilt bit deep, and the filly felt a shortness of breath and a burning sensation at the back of her neck.

“Not so special, then.”

Cadenza looked around the darkness. It sounded like Duce, but where was he? When she looked back to where Camillo’s body was, the scene had changed: instead of the Sicilian’s still form were now two figures. The first was Baa-bo on his knees, beaten and defeated; the second was a heavily clad person holding a smaller thunder tube aimed at Baa-bo’s head.

Italo saw Cadenza and wordlessly pleaded to her. There were no words, only an understanding. ‘I’m sorry,’ he seemed to say with his eyes, tilting his head away in preparation of what was inevitable. In response, the scarfed figure put the barrel of the weapon right into the side of his head.

Before, when Camillo was peppered by the shards of glass, Cadenza felt an emptiness within herself: a cold void that sapped her capacity to act beyond witnessing the terrifying scene. It was supposed to happen again, and even the armed figure seemed to know this, not giving the filly a second thought.

But it was different this time.

Where there had been a bleakness within her heart, a flame sparked into life, soon blazing into a sweltering inferno. Cadenza’s body screamed as her veins burned, but instead of writhing in agony she was compelled to act. A scorching passion revitalized her senses and abilities.

Not this time, she declared.

The weapon was ripped away from the bad man and, aflame with her will, struck a blow at the head, knocking him down. In a leap and a flap of her wings, Cadenza crossed the distance and now stood tall above the squirming mass of cloth and wool. It soon fell away, breaking off of whatever shape it once had, leaving the masked man suddenly maskless.

Much like Baa-bo, the revealed face implored to Cadenza, but here the bad man was terrorized beyond all comprehension. The boyish features told her that he was even younger than Baa-bo, not even having a hair anywhere along the jawline or above the upper lip. The skin was fair, but what was striking were the hazel eyes, wide open and with the pupils shrunk to mere pinpricks.

There was a moment of hesitation. The fire within Cadenza flickered as she saw what was probably a young boy who had just turned adult. Her weapon lowered slightly.

His mouth flapped open. “What the—”

The flame flared up again. She couldn’t allow the bad man to hurt her. She couldn’t allow him to hurt Baa-bo! Within Cadenza’s searing heart was a certain coldness: a sense of indifference. And that same iciness ordered her to pull the trigger.

The sound that followed was the loudest thunder that she had ever heard.





Cadenza’s eyes fluttered awake to a cool light. Her nose instinctively wrinkled at the unfamiliar smells, far too strong and artificial for her. Among the sickeningly sweet smells was, however, a far more familiar and pleasant scent.

“Buongiorno, Cadenza.”

A faint but genuine smile touched her lips. “Hi,” she said to Baa-bo.

Her eyes finally focusing, Cadenza saw that she was still in the private room set aside especially for her. Baa-bo sat on the only chair next to her, looking on with concern.

“Did you sleep well?”

The filly grunted noncommittally, letting out a wide yawn. “I miss my bed,” she muttered as she rubbed the sleep away from her eyes.

Baa-bo chuckled. “We’ll get you home sooner than you think. The doctors are confident that you’ve recovered fully and are ready to let you go.”

Cadenza’s smile faltered a bit. She knew that the doctors, gentle as they were, were only trying to help her, but she couldn’t say that she enjoyed her stay at the hospital. Sure, she was treated especially well, and even her room showed it: it was spotless, had a desk stocked with drawing material for her use, and had a personal bathroom. Even the food that the nurses brought in was good.

But Cadenza could see the cracks underneath it all. One time while she transited between wards, she caught a glimpse of those for the less fortunate, and was appalled by the conditions. Crowded, left unattended, and (from what the filly smelled) lacking toilets. Why was she receiving such good care while others languished in such squalor? This was supposed to be a hospital; everyone was supposed to be helped. What made her so special?

Baa-bo’s own smile fell away. “What’s wrong, Cadenza? Don’t you want to come back?”

“Oh sì, I do!” Cadenza quickly replied before looking down at nothing in particular. “It’s just…”

The man approached with a worried look. “What is it?” he asked softly.

Cadenza couldn’t meet his eyes. Her thoughts had wandered back to what had happened back at the car crash, and…

She bit her lip, then took a deep breath. “I saw the bad man,” the filly muttered, not wanting to look up.

“The bad man?” Baa-bo’s voice gained an edge to it. “Who are you talking about?”

Cadenza’s ears flattened—she really didn’t want to talk about it. But it’s Baa-bo, a part of her chided. He’ll understand.

“I saw him—while I was sleeping,” she began, finally managing to look to Baa-bo. “You‒ I saw him with the thunder thing on you.” She paused, blinking profusely to keep her eyes from tearing up.

Baa-bo drew close, lowering himself to eye-level. “He had a gun on me?”

Cadenza tilted her head at him for a moment. “Pistola?”

“The ah, the ‘thunder thing’. It’s a—” He shook his head. “But that doesn’t matter. What happened?”

The alicorno’s next breath was short. “I took‒ I took it away from him, like the other time, and I...” When she closed her eyes, the same scene played out before her once more.

Some details were missing though, like the actual ‘gun’ itself and the size of the man. Still, the important ones were as clear as ever: the look of confused panic on his face and the sheer scope of the anger within her.

When Cadenza opened her eyes again it was out of surprise: Baa-bo had closed in for a hug.

“You did the right thing,” he said sternly. “You did the right thing and that’s all that matters.”

She struggled with the embrace. “But I—”

“I know,” Baa-bo interrupted. “I know that you feel horrible for doing it, but if it weren’t for you, neither of us would be here to talk about it.”

“But that’s the thing!” Cadenza protested, finally breaking out of the hug to face Baa-bo. “I didn’t feel bad about it this time.”

For a moment, Baa-bo’s mouth opened to argue her point, but as she stared hard at him and her words sunk in, whatever argument he had died in his throat. “What?” he finally said.

“I mean, I wasn’t happy, b-but I was just so angry.” The alicorno’s voice became scratchy as she continued on at a faster pace. “I was angry with myself for not having done anything before and when I saw you ready to be—” She let out a ragged cough. “When you‒ when I saw you sitting there with th-the pistola on your head, I-I just...”

Cadenza stopped herself. She suddenly felt as if she had just run at full speed for hours. She was almost panting as well! Baa-bo merely watched with intense scrutiny, showing no sign of emotion.

Cadenza swallowed. “It… it felt good when I did it this time.”

Again, Baa-bo did not say a word. His only response was a slow blink and exhalation from his nose. He raised a hand to massage the bridge of his nose, never once breaking away his stare.

“I am‒ am I a bad person?” she asked in a tiny voice.

That seemed to light up his eyes. “No,” he immediately said with an emphatic shake of the head. “You are not bad.”

“But I liked it,” Cadenza said lamely. “I wanted to do to that man as they did to your friends!” She meant to continue, but a raised hand stilled her.

“You’re not bad,” Baa-bo repeated. “You know that it isn’t right to—” He paused, thinning his lips. “—to hurt people. That already tells me that you’re not like those bad people that tried to hurt us.” He placed his hand underneath the filly’s muzzle. “You did what you had to do, Cadenza. The world isn’t a fair place, and you will have to do ugly things to get through.

“I’ll admit that sometimes it feels good to do bad things,” Baa-bo said, “and it can be hard to realize that what you've done is bad. That” —he clasped one of her hooves— “is what separates good people like you and me from those who wish to harm others.”

Cadenza stilled as his eyes stared into hers. “Never forget that. So long as you know what you do is wrong and care, you’ll never be a bad person. Always try to help others who need it, but understand to do so, you will have to hurt someone sometimes.”

The filly took a shallow breath. Not once did his voice carry an inkling of anger, she realized, but there was gravity to it; Baa‒ Balbo meant what he said.

Balbo’s grip tightened. “You’re not a bad person,” he repeated once more.

Cadenza gave a curt yet firm nod. “Capito.” Despite the severity of their discussion, she felt… lighter. Perhaps not entirely better, but at least the man had given her a nugget of hope to hang on to.

She wouldn’t be forgetting that anytime soon.

“If you need to talk about this again, just ask.” Balbo offered a lopsided smile. “I’ll always be available.”

Her nod was much more emphatic this time. “I will.” Taking a brief moment to rub away the tears from her eyes, Cadenza rose up from her bed. Before she dropped down from it however, she paused. “Um, Bah-lbo?”

Despite his evident surprise at her nearly correct pronunciation, Italo didn’t miss a beat. “Yes?”

“Can you not tell Duce about this?” The filly rubbed her forehooves awkwardly. “I don’t want him to know what we’ve talked about.”

Balbo smiled. “D’accordo. We’ll keep it between the two of us.” He rose to his full height. “Now, about getting you out of here...”

“Where are we going?”

He stopped and turned to face her. “We’re going to the Duce’s home,” Balbo replied before his face fell. “His home is near Forlì, so we need to get going if we’re going to catch the train.”

Cadenza’s reaction was instant: her neck tensed up and her eyes widened while her ears stood attentive.

“I know,” Italo said in a tired voice, bringing up a placating hand. “But we’re not taking half-meas‒ er, we’re doing things right this time.”

The alicorno’s brow furrowed. “No bad people?”

“None whatsoever,” Balbo answered immediately, resting his hand upon his chest. “You have my word and that of the party.”

There was a pause before he finally got a nod from her. “You’ll need to make yourself presentable if you’re going to go to the Duce’s own home.”

Cadenza watched him walk to the desk; rather, Italo walked over to pick up a parcel on top of it. Turning around to present its green contents, he grinned. “What do you think?”





“Do I have to?”

Rachele gave the six-year-old a severe look. “Chiaro che sì,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “No matter who it is we have to be respectful to all guests, alicorni included.”

“But she’s even younger than Bruno!” Vittorio protested.

His mother gave the briefest of pauses. “And? What does the age of a guest have anything to do with how they’re received?” She placed her hands on her hips in a manner not unlike that of her husband. “You’ll keep to your seat until I tell you otherwise, am I understood?”

The blond child harrumphed and fumed, but he otherwise quieted down. Sitting next to him on his left was Edda, who in turn had the younger Bruno next to her. All three sat on the chaise, all dressed in matching suits and dress of blacks and greys.

Edda, sitting in the middle, sat still as she had been ordered to. Bruno was also as quiet as her sister, though he couldn’t help but fidget.

Poor kids, Benito thought, sitting across from them all. He sympathised with his children, seeing how they had been forced to wait for almost an hour for a tardy dinner. It couldn’t be helped, what with the actual security detail that had to be organized for Cadenza and Balbo. That had already been a headache to deal with if Cesare was to be believed. At least a private train had been requisitioned, and unlike the other time, the route had not been publicized; that had considerably simplified the whole ordeal.

Mussolini decided not to entertain the ironic thought of the train being hit by actual left-wing paramilitaries. The odds of that were next to nil, but still…

“I’m hungry,” Vittorio grumbled, along with his stomach.

Bruno took a moment to nod in agreement. Their sister merely glanced at her younger sibling, ever well-behaved and quiet.

Benito had to admit that he too was growing somewhat peckish himself. The handler had phoned ahead from the railway station to notify the Duce that Balbo and Cadenza were on the way, but they had trouble finding a car. That had been twenty minutes ago, approaching on half-an-hour, and he was growing concerned. His home wasn’t even ten kilometers from the station—surely it wouldn’t take an automobile this long to arrive.

Mussolini’s previous fears resurfaced all for a moment before he ruthlessly dismissed them. The only real concern that remained had to do with his family’s reception of their guests: specifically Cadenza, of course.

He was sure that the children would get along with her, Vittorio’s grumblings notwithstanding. In all honesty, it was Rachele’s acceptance that Mussolini had trouble ascertaining. The two have had plenty of moments to discuss the matter, yet even in the latter times, she had some qualm to the whole idea.

‘She’s a horse’ was the first and the most common excuse, with ‘she’s not even a year old’ following close behind. Benito rationalized, dismissed and explained away these concerns, insisting that Cadenza was a person first and foremost, like anyone else.

Granted, there were certain concessions that he had to make, though these were primarily culinary in nature. These were the ones that Rachele was at least agreeable with, as there were a number of dishes that accommodated the alicorno’s known diet.

Still, Benito fretted inwardly over his wife’s acceptance.

“They’ve arrived!” a voice from outside called, probably one of the guards at the compound gate.

All three children perked up and sat upright in their respective seats with nary a word (asides from a ‘finalmente’ from Vittorio), while both Mussolini and Rachele exchanged a knowing glance. She still wasn’t sure about the whole thing, but at least she was willing to give it a chance.

That’s all I ask.

The two of them got up, with a harsh yet brief gesture to Vittorio from Rachele, and walked to greet the newcomers.

When the knocking came, Benito went for the door. He clenched the doorknob and looked to his wife. Once she offered him a nod, he twisted the knob open.

“Buonasera, Duce.”

There at the front porch of Mussolini’s home both stood Balbo and Cadenza. Italo’s ware was formal though nothing particularly lavish: a simple yet fancy tan fedora; an overly large grey topcoat; a pair of plain trousers, and a black tie tucked underneath it all. It was clear to Benito that he had no formal evening dress and so had to make do with what he had.

Cadenza, on the other hand, looked stunning.

While the alicorno had always an air of elegance au naturel, the creature that stood before Benito was truly a sight to behold. Although she partially hid herself behind Balbo’s leg, her pistachio chiffron dress was still resplendent, even under Italo’s shadow. The openings made to accommodate her wings were a bit too large to be a perfect fit; in fact, the measurements on the whole appeared to be too large for her size. Understandable, as the measurements that Mussolini had provided were old and probably small for Cadenza now. As such, concessions had to be made for the commission, especially with the unusual design.

Still, the somewhat ill fitting dress worked on her. Hopefully it’d make as much of an impression on Rachele as it did on him.

“Balbo,” Benito greeted with a handshake and putting on a genuine smile. “I hope that the train ride to Forlì was comfortable.”

“Thankfully it was uneventful,” Italo replied with a lopsided grin. “That’s really all we could have hoped for.” He looked down. “Isn’t that right, Cadenza?”

The little filly gave a sharp nod, her eyes taking in the interior of the foyer. Once her gaze fell upon Mussolini, she folded her ears.

He bent down a bit. “Did you enjoy the ride?” He’d have come down to her eye level, but his suit wouldn’t allow for that.

Again Cadenza’s nod was crisp and short. She looked beyond Mussolini to Rachele.

“Hello, Cadenza,” Rachele said, doing what approximated to a curtsey. “I’ve heard and read much about you.”

Both the alicorno and the Duce gave her a perplexed look, though Benito suspected not for the same reasons. Yes, Cadenza was a very important and special guest—probably the most important that Rachele would ever receive at their own home. He did not however think that that qualified for a curtsey. Sure, it wasn’t really one, but still…

“Read?” Cadenza asked meekly.

Benito thought that he saw his wife’s lips twitch ever so slightly.

“Well, yes. There’s consistently an article on you in most papers now.” Rachele brought a finger to her lip, as if thinking. “In fact, I do think that the whole of Europe now knows your name. It might even be known in America.”

While it looked that Cadenza didn’t quite know how to take that, she seemed to edge on the side of receptive. Mussolini inwardly thanked that, for now at least, Rachele was receptive as well.

The alicorno remained silent, though she settled on smiling at his wife.

Before the silence threatened to become awkward, Italo stepped in: “You have to forgive her, signora. This is her first time outside of Rome. You understand, of course?”

“Of course, sir,” Rachele said before clicking her tongue and shaking her head. “But where are my manners? I am Rachele Anna Guidi Mussolini.”

“Italo Balbo, madam,” he replied as he daintily clasped her offered hand and bowed. “It’s a pleasure.”

As his wife welcomed the guests in, it occured just then to Mussolini that he and the others had all neglected to teach Cadenza the nuances of finer social interactions. It hadn’t been deemed necessary up until now, what with her having been accommodated at the PNF’s headquarters. One look at the clueless expression on the foal’s face made Mussolini want to kick himself. Both Benito and Cadenza would have to play this by ear then.

Hopefully Rachele wouldn’t be shouting said ear off by the end of tonight.

After Balbo had taken off his coat the four of them finally entered the living room. All of Mussolini’s children looked on from their seats, their eyes immediately settling on Cadenza. Edda’s reaction was, as expected, the most restrained of the three with a near imperceptible widening of the eyes. Both boys gaped, though Bruno went further with an incredulous ‘caspita!’

To be entirely fair, Cadenza’s own reaction was less than stellar: a lip bite and flick of the tail.

Rachele would have none of it. “Children,” she began with all of the subtlety of an armored car, “why don’t you greet our guests, Mister Balbo and young Cadenza?”

“Buonasera, signor Balbo,” they chorused imperfectly. “Buonasera, Cadenza.”

“Allow me to present you my children, Italo,” Mussolini said with a wave of a hand. “Edda, Vittorio, and the youngest, Bruno.”

“Hello, children.” Balbo shook hands with the boys and repeated the same gentle gesture with Edda as he had done with Rachele.

Then, much to her apparent dismay, all eyes were on Cadenza. Her tail wanted to tuck in behind her legs, but the dress got in the way.

“Go on,” Italo offered in a quiet voice, “say hello.”

Again she bit her lip.

“Ciao.”

Again that prompted some rather visible reactions from Mussolini’s sons and daughter. “Wow, she talks!”

Rachele bristled. “Bruno!” She slapped him at the back of the head. “Behave yourself!”

Benito watched with thinned lips as Bruno recoiled before straightening up. He knew that Rachele hadn’t hit hard, but he saw Bruno hold back a sob. “Sorry,” he said in a mewl.

“Don’t apologize to me,” she huffed, pointing to Cadenza. “Apologize to her.”

“Scusami, Cadenza.”

Cadenza, for her part, stared. Once more, Mussolini wanted to kick himself, but for a different reason this time. Perhaps he and the others had been too soft on her back in Rome, but there had never been a reason to dole out physical punishment.

It was no wonder that the sight of it here shocked her.

“I-it’s alright, Buh-roono,” Cadenza replied immediately. She looked to Rachele. “Please, don’t hit him.”

Benito didn’t even need to look to see what his wife’s reaction was. All he could hope for now was a quick end to the night.





Del Boca stood shivering in the chilling night air. He rubbed his gloved hands for warmth and tucked them in his overcoat pockets. “Freezing my arse off out here,” he muttered dejectedly to himself.

Tonio’s escorts had good motive to keep him out in the alley just outside the train station, as the risk of being recognized was too great. To be caught just on this side of the Swiss border would be terrible, as the lead escort had explained.

Del Boca still had many doubts over their plan to smuggle him over to Lugano. Granted, Tonio’s original expectation had been a quasi-exile in the Swiss Canton of Ticino, but with everything that had happened, he was worried that his handlers were rushing the most difficult part of the plan. They still hadn’t given him travel documents for if the border guards would check the passengers’ papers, nor did he have any Swiss Francs. Hell, he had no clothes asides from those on his back!

Tonio glanced towards the mouth of the alleyway for any sign of his handlers, spotting nothing beyond some unfortunate vagrant sleeping on the pavement—or was he knocked out? The discarded beer bottles were rather telling.

Tonio uttered another vaporous curse under his breath. Hopefully the others would come soon enough.

Yet there was a part of del Boca that hoped that they didn’t. Sure, the blackshirts had treated him well enough, but Tonio hadn’t forgotten what had happened back in Rome. Six fascists killed by the hands of the PNF itself, just because the party didn’t trust them to keep a secret.

His lips twitched downwards; it wasn’t the party that had thought them untrustworthy—he thought that, and he told them so.

Tonio’s action was unforgivable, especially so after he had worked with them. Even Umberto, the only other member who was prepared for arrest, was not spared from the accusation of treason. Del Boca had justified this by continually reminding himself that Umberto would likely have done the same to Tonio had the party bruisers gotten to him first instead of Tonio.

What would his mother think if she could see him now?

A short, mirthless chuckle was lost in the night air in that alley of Como. Even if he had bought exile by outing his friends, what exactly kept Tonio from being offed himself? If the party had no qualms of killing off its own members just to cut every loose end, why was he still alive?

At first he believed that this was some horribly skewed loyalty test. That had been his excuse at least, to justify putting himself above his fellow conspirators; they would have put the entire enterprise at risk if they were allowed to live. After all, Tonio knew that there was no such thing as a bloodless revolution.

But fascists aren’t supposed to kill one another, a part of him protested. They were just doing what they were told to. Everything else was beyond their control. Not for the first time, Gianluigi’s terrified visage resurfaced in Tonio’s mind.

“Cazzarola,” he cursed under his breath.

Footsteps and some sort of rumbling on the cobblestone pavement broke him from his reverie. Looking down along the narrow lane, del Boca spotted silhouettes of two men approaching. The nearest one raised a hand. “Sorry for the wait,” came a voice that Tonio had grown familiar with in the last few days.

The trilby on Fulvio Sassi’s head was tilted forwards, but it didn’t hide his apologetic smile. “The man responsible for the ticket office was asleep, and I had to go and look for him to get anything done.”

Tonio only half-listened to the man, as he was far more interested in the large boxy shape that the second fascist, a certain Dumini, was wheeling in on a hand truck. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the man was moving a fairly large trunk.

“What’s that for?” he asked Sassi, indicating the trunk with a tilt of the head.

Sassi turned to see what Tonio was pointing to. “The trunk?” He put on a smile. “Ah, that’s another reason why we took so long. Those, good sir, are your clothes.”

Del Boca’s brow shot up. “My clothes?”

“Yessir,” Fulvio said, patting the luggage with a gloved hand. “We took the liberty to get you enough clothes to last you for a week and a container for you to keep them and anything else in for once you arrive in Switzerland.”

Eyeing the admittedly charismatic smile with some trepidation, Tonio didn’t join in with a smile of his own. “Where in Switzerland, exactly?”

Sassi’s grin fell somewhat. “Signor del Boca,” he began politely, “as we’ve already told you before, your contact in Locarno wi—”

“Will tell me once I get there, I get it,” Tonio interrupted with a shaky huff. “A-and the money that I’m going to need will be given to me then, right?” He didn’t bother to wait for the response as he continued: “Can I even see the damn train ticket? You’ve hidden everything else from me so far.”

Fulvio brought a hand up to a breast pocket, in a movement that appeared to be almost defensive. After a moment of indecision, the hand dug into the pocket and he produced a small voucher.

Tonio approached him. “Hand it over.”

“I can’t do that,” Fulvio said flatly, stepping away.

Del Boca sucked in his lips. “Wha– why not?” he asked tersely.

“You know why,” his handler replied. “Until you’re on the train, we’re safekeeping both it and the money for in case—”

“Smettila di raccontarmi palle!” Had they been anywhere more public, Tonio’s outburst would have easily garnered the attention of onlookers. As it was though, not even the vagabond stirred.

He walked right up to Fulvio, standing over the smaller man and forcing him to draw back slightly. “I’ve had it with my handlers leading me by the nose while leaving me in the dark like you have.” Del Boca’s voice was considerably quieter, but the undertone had not changed. A part of him distantly wondered where this bout of courage had sprung from, but Tonio didn’t really care.

Sassi did not retreat, though Tonio saw the man’s throat twitch in response; even in the poor lighting of the alleyway, Fulvio’s eyes were as wide as headlights.

“N-now see here…!”

“Shut your trap, Sassi,” del Boca said in a menacing whisper, “and show me the fucking ticket.”

Threatening Fulvio was as far as he would get as Tonio felt a hand placed firmly on his shoulder. “Hey,” came the collected voice of Dumini, “there’s no need to get violent here.”

Del Boca’s temper abated when he realized that he was still outnumbered here if he escalated. It was still there, but Tonio understood that he was at a disadvantage.

It didn’t mean that he wasn’t pissed off, though.

“You’re going to calm down, yeah?” Dumini said with a sympathetic look about his eyes. “I know things are shit right now, but if you let us do our job, you’ll be safe.”

Tonio chewed the inside of his cheek. “I have– I’m just so tired of being kept in the dark. I can’t—” He let out a breath. “I just can’t keep doing this.”

Dumini patted his shoulder. “I understand. I promise you that this’ll all be over soon, sir.”

Looking into his eyes, Tonio couldn’t see anything disingenuous in the man’s tone. Dumini was a man of few words, but unlike Sassi, he was both frank and sincere.

Del Boca’s understanding clashed with his frustration regardless. Again he merely sucked in his lips, finding no target to vent his dissatisfaction of the whole affair. It was still quite the mess, even if he was being assisted here.

“Here,” Dumini suddenly said, digging out a flask from his person, “maybe this’ll make you feel better.”

Tonio eyed the offered flask. “It’s Cabernet Grappa,” the man supplied. “Think of it as an apology from the two of us—from the whole party.”

Again, he couldn’t find any ill intent in Dumini’s words. To be entirely frank, Tonio needed a drink what with everything that had happened so far.

“Thanks,” he replied perhaps too grumpily, but he had meant it. Unscrewing the cap, del Boca prepared to down the thing like a shot.

As soon as the contents made contact with his tongue, he immediately knew that something was terribly wrong.

The texture was completely off and far too thick for it to be any liquor. It promptly triggered his gag reflex and wracked Tonio with a series of terrible coughs. The taste! It reminded of him of castor oil!

He wanted to say as much, but the foul gel-like substance mushed his words into a long incoherent groan.

A small part of him realized too late that the warm, consoling hand from before was gone.

All too quickly, a gloved hand clasped against his mouth and nose, pulling him backwards. Before Tonio could react a sharp pain erupted at the rear of the base of his neck, puncturing through flesh and ligament; he felt it all.

A scream formed from within but it only came out as a gurgled rattle, and strength rapidly faded from del Boca.

Soon the agony was tripled as twice more the skin of his neck was lacerated by a cruel blade. His hands, once firm enough to wrap around the offending arm that was restraining him grew numb and limp, and all of his upper body strength disappeared.

The last thing that Tonio was aware of was the sound of his own bloody rale.





Fulvio watched del Boca crumple to the pavement with a horrific churning noise emanating from the man. The twitches and body spasms ceased quickly enough, but the sound went on for far longer than Fulvio would have liked.

“Shit!” Sassi’s glare stayed on the now-deceased blackshirt for a while longer until the shock faded and his eyes were drawn to the slick shine of Dumini’s dagger.

Something within him urged him to ensure that they were alone. Fulvio’s eyes were upon the sleeping drifter soon enough.

“Amerigo, you damned fool,” he said, suddenly breathless, “we were supposed to do this where nobody could see us!”

Dumini didn’t turn to face his companion, and had instead tore the scarf from the corpse to place it underneath the bleeding knife wounds. After what had felt like a minute, he finally replied: “Nobody’s here, Sassi.”

“Nobo…!” Fulvio brought a palm to his forehead. “There’s a man right there!” he said in a harsh undertone.

That finally caught Amerigo’s attention, as he turned to follow Fulvio’s indication to the sleeping form of the vagabond. The man scoffed—he actually scoffed.

“That bum? He’s not going to be rattling off any tales.”

Now it was Sassi’s turn to scoff. “Oh?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So I suppose that you’ll be offing this guy as well, right?”

“Don’t need to,” Dumini replied as he got back to removing his coat. “He’s already dead.”

Fulvio began to respond but suddenly stopped himself. What?

Continuing as if Fulvio had voiced his thought, Amerigo added, “The beer bottles tell me that he’s in a deep sleep.” He paused for a moment as he began to rip open del Boca’s coat. “And being knocked out in this weather? That’s a sleep he ain’t waking up from.”

Sassi stared dumbfoundedly at Dumini as he continued to indignantly strip down the cadaver. After a moment he turned to the unconscious vagrant. He should have come to Amerigo’s conclusion sooner. Perhaps he would have if that damned del Boca hadn’t blown up on him.

“Sassi.”

Fulvio shifted his eyes to Amerigo; he had just finished unclothing the corpse. “If you want to assist, you can come here and help me out with this.”

Fulvio didn’t respond at first: he only let out a shuddering breath.

“I already told you about that, Amerigo,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’ll, ah, I’ll go keep watch.”

“You go do that,” Amerigo said without turning to face him.

As Sassi took a few steps, he heard the crack of a dislocated joint. It would be the first of many—he knew.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

Fulvio stopped mid-step and turned to see Dumini look behind his shoulder with a steely gaze.

“We’re not friends, so do not call me Amerigo.”

Dumini’s voice chilled him far more than the cold did.






Body Found in Large Trunk in Lake Como



Curious onlookers late in the evening of the 12th spotted a locked travel trunk that had washed up on the Western shore of Lake Como, near the town of Moltrasio. Local authorities were contacted and the luggage was recovered.

A distinct smell of decay emanating from the trunk alarmed the agents on the scene, prompting them to break open the lock. Stowed inside, police sources say, were the remains of an adult male. After being stabbed fatally in the neck, the victim had been stripped nude and his joints have been broken and twisted to fit inside the container.

There is little hope to identify the victim as the head had been horribly disfigured with what sources claim was a blade. Authorities called for calm, promising to find and jail the guilty party swiftly.