The Vengeance of Rome (19 page)

When Mrs Cornelius became ill I tried to get her to the hospital, but she would not go. She said anyone who went into St Charles never came out alive. I found a doctor for her and made her as comfortable as I could,
then I telephoned her son. I had the shop to run. He was very good and went round right away. He was with her, at least, when she died. He brought me some papers, some photographs, but I suspect he kept certain things for himself. I know his brother, the antique dealer, has his eye on my pistols but I intend to be buried with those guns rather than let him have them. Should Mrs Cornelius have kept them in trust for so long? They were given to me by a fellow Cossack, and they are my birthright. They are all I have left.

After taking what seemed a circuitous route, the car at last turned into a long, white avenue, lined with carefully groomed poplars and cedars standing dark against the cold, sharp sky. Most of the houses had guards. They seemed to be deserted. Their occupants had gone away for the holidays, but one house, standing back from the road in its own considerable grounds, had a few lights shining. The car entered a driveway. It paused at a pair of elaborately ornamental iron gates. Passing through a cordon of dogs and armed guards we reached another almost identical set of gates. We endured a similar procedure. Hard eyes looked me over carefully before allowing us to go through. I was mystified and not a little nervous. Did this have something to do with da Bazzanno? Was it an elaborate joke? Had Signora Sarfatti tricked me for some horrible purpose of her own? Or had she struck a deal with the Cheka? Was Brodmann involved? Were they deceiving me as El Glaoui had deceived me by making me walk into my own prison?

I had been a fool to go so trustingly into the car. Too late now to reconsider. I looked back at the guards and the gates. It began to dawn on me that this was to be no ordinary meeting with Signora Sarfatti. Perhaps she had not lied. Could I be on a genuine errand of state?

The drive curved, flanked by tall hedges, and for a second, in the yellow lights of the car, I had the impression of water, of mist and of shadowy figures. Then the headlamps were turned off. The chauffeur got down from his wheel and opened the door for me. I stepped out. A moment later, behind me, the car drove away. I was alone, walking down an avenue of poplars. I was walking, though I did not know it then, towards my destiny.

Once or twice, in my overlong coat, I tripped a little. I admit I was flustered. My heart began to pound. My hands sweated. Where was Signora Sarfatti? Who were the figures I could just make out ahead of me? They were obscured by the heavy mist rising from the waters of what I took to be an ornamental lake. There were three of them, perhaps four, their bodies swathed in scarves and heavy coats, their lapels turned up so that it was impossible to distinguish faces. My next thought was that maybe through his mistress da Bazzanno had arranged a secret meeting. Neither outline
reminded me of my friend. Another fear: I had offended the Mafia. But the Mafia in Italy was no longer a power. Mussolini had seen to that. Besides, I had no reason to distrust Signora Sarfatti. Wasn't she a supporter of mine?

My feet left the gravel and sank into soft grass. I walked with some difficulty towards the waiting figures. Increasingly, the scene felt dreamlike. Then I realised that some of the figures I saw were not human at all. They were statues, pale ghosts in the pale mist. Though they scarcely moved as I approached, the living figures were darker. One of them was a woman. The other was a burly man a little below average height. Without knowing why I began to tremble.

Now I had almost reached the marble bench beside the lake where they stood waiting. Both were smoking cigarettes. The smell of their Turkish tobacco swamped my senses. I felt nausea. Their faces could not be seen. Of course I already knew who they were. I heard Margherita murmur something to her companion, throw down her cigarette and stamp it out with her high heel. He, too, dropped and extinguished his cigarette, coughing slightly and raising his scarf against the cold air. I think Margherita introduced me. I do not remember. Bile rose in my throat. I heard her utter the name of Italy's dictator. I heard his familiar voice answer. Yet I was close to vomiting. As if I faced an enemy rather than my greatest hero. My legs shook. My mouth was dry. I knew all the symptoms of a familiar terror. But then his warm, strong hand was in mine, and I was safe.

From within his scarf his voice was soft, vibrant. His eyes were intense and respectful. I stammered some admiring banalities. He patted my arm rather as one would try to calm a nervous child.

‘Professor Peters! It is Mussolini who should be honoured. I am an enormous fan. The popular cinema is our most powerful instrument for social change. I am also your country's greatest admirer. The kind of wholesome films you make,
Professore
, remind us that there are still some decencies left. Let one man of the New Renaissance greet another as an equal!'

Those deep, reassuring tones soothed me at once. Soon my symptoms were forgotten. He spoke a rather pleasant English, occasionally drawing on French and German for vocabulary, and was perfectly easy to understand. I in turn tried to speak in Italian, which is by no means an easy language for me. I know he appreciated my attempt.

Il Duce went to every effort to put me at my ease. He was amiability itself. He insisted on treating me man to man, the surest sign of greatness, for he needed to prove nothing. I suspected he had only been ‘briefed' on my career and knew few of my films, but that résumé gave him an exceptional
understanding. He spoke with great admiration of my rôles. He assumed I had directed myself. He said the Masked Buckaroo should be a rôle model to all American youth, rather than the seedy gangsters, the worst scum of Italy, who now filled her press and cinema. America was too tolerant of these people, whom Mussolini's Italy had rejected. In ridding herself of her social poisons, in hardening herself in the fires of radical revolution, the new Italy had no room for such human rubbish. America would be wise to follow Italy's example in cracking down on all the so-called secret societies. I agreed wholeheartedly.

Signora Sarfatti took no part in our talk. She remained near the marble bench, smoking and staring up into the night sky, her breath silver in the harsh air. Il Duce murmured that I was the type of man the state was looking for to head the new Italian Renaissance, the rebirth of a greater Roman Empire. ‘Miss Sarfatti tells me you, like many Americans of the first class, are a committed admirer of the Fascist cause. We already have several Americans in our ranks, as you know. I hear rumours of some new leader rising to save your country from her present unhappy crisis. Weren't you in politics over there, for a while? I am a huge admirer of your
Birth of a Nation
. The Knights of the Ku Klux Klan are such romantic heroes. America needs more such heroes, eh? But I understand there was trouble?'

I stammered some reply, explaining the circumstances. I was astonished at Il Duce's intelligence. The newspapers spoke of his remarkable head for detail, the breadth and depth of his understanding. For once they published only the truth.

‘And who will be America's new Duce?' he wanted to know.

I was adamant. America could never produce a Mussolini. The country was far too corrupt. He had a quick, alert brain in those days. I was profoundly impressed. He spoke of El Glaoui as if he were an old friend. He asked me what I thought of France's chances of holding Morocco without the Caïd. He asked how many planes I had produced in Marrakech. I said there were about ten types, with perhaps ten of each now in production. Il Duce was impressed. He clapped me on the shoulder.

‘Quite a fleet. And these engines which dispense with oil—how practical are they?' I told him that they were extremely practical. In most designs it took time for the steam to reach full pressure. My special designs addressed this problem. I could produce steam engines for planes and airships, speed-planes, fighters and all kinds of land vehicles. The engine was as efficient and as manoeuvrable as anything currently run by gasoline.

Il Duce nodded gravely as we walked, his chin lowered, his hand on
my arm, guiding me over the rough ground where my long overcoat trailed. He asked me to describe my Desert Liner. This I now called the ‘Land Leviathan'. During my long stay in Tangier I had attempted to adapt my inventions to the needs of the day.

I soon realised that the Land Leviathan was Il Duce's chief interest. Margherita Sarfatti had passed on all I had told her. I did not know then, of course, of Mussolini's plan to reconquer Carthaginian Africa, any more than I knew that Signora Sarfatti, nervous of being displaced in her lover's affections, had found in my ideas a new way to win Il Duce's approval. The more we discussed my machine, the more enthusiastic he became, striding about like a happy schoolboy, barking questions at me and listening intently to my answers. His greatcoat was thrown back, his uniform jacket unbut-toned and his shirt undone, but the great scarf still swathed part of his face. He was afraid of catching cold, he said, and apologised. He had to be careful. All his family were short-lived. He asked me to confirm my landship's enormous capacity, its speed, its efficient firepower. Every inch of her was a revolutionary new design, with parts simplified and systemised so that one spare could do the work of many. I showed where the huge boilers would be and how they would in fact cool the rest of the Land Leviathan, together with powering her electrically operated gas-cannon. Such a machine could penetrate well into enemy territory without need of a long supply chain. ‘Imagine the effect of just one of these gigantic raiders entering a modern city,' I said. ‘They would think themselves attacked by monsters from Mars!'

Benito Mussolini's eyes kept their expression as he paced in silence beside me. He thought over all I had told him. He tested my engineering and technical knowledge against his own and realised very quickly the special genius of my designs. Il Duce shared ideas with his good friend Signor Marconi. He knew what he was talking about. What were the measurements of my treads? What steam pressure did I propose? He listened to my answers with a deeply furrowed forehead and a forward thrust of his jaw, every inch the ancient Roman Emperor, the widely informed modern statesman. Sometimes, quite unconsciously, he struck a pose already familiar from film and magazines—fist on hip, scratching the back of his head as if in disbelief, his step full of energy, his eyes forever alert. I could not help but compare him to another great hero of mine, the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius, whose common sense and wisdom has come down to us.

If I had awakened that moment from a dream I should not have been at all surprised. I could never have asked God for a more perfect reward than this. All my privations, disappointments and struggles seemed worthwhile
and all my frustrations were at last at an end, for here was a man who understood genius—
precisely because his own genius was as great if not greater than mine!

Stoic philosophy was a model for the New Italian man Mussolini wished to create—hard, disciplined, efficient—like the Roman legions of old. The legions which had conquered the world.

One could not help emulating his manner. Like his, my own style became laconic. It was clear he appreciated a companion who was not long-winded. Happily, I have always been a man of action first and words second. It is my nature. It is in my blood. We Slavs are moody and neurotic if we are not busy. We turn to drink and the writing of depressing novels. But we rise nobly to meaningful action, such as the defence of our homeland.

Hitler's greatest mistake was to underestimate the Slav. In the end he came to respect us and see us quite differently, but by then it was too late. The Bolshevik standard was raised above the ruins of the Reichstag. They had consolidated the victory they had begun to win in 1933. Now they rule everywhere and the map of the world drips crimson with their casual infamy. Once I was proud to wear a uniform, but now I sell them as fashion items to young people with no memory. They have not even heard of Mussolini.

As if he had learned all he needed for the moment on the subject of my Land Leviathan, Il Duce suddenly changed tack. He asked was I, as Signora Sarfatti had told him, a convinced Fascist? I hesitated, for I could not lie. At last I answered levelly. I looked him full in the eyes. ‘My Duce, I am as convinced of the rightness of your convictions as I am of the heroic destiny which guides you and makes you the inspiration and aspiration of the entire world. I count myself your most loyal follower. But as to the detailed philosophy of Fascism, I must admit myself deficient.'

‘Professor Peters,' said Il Duce embracing me, ‘you are a perfect Fascist. I believe you are the kind of metal we need in our Fascist Inner Council. This is a group of men whose sense of justice and moral purpose binds them together in a common cause. Although dedicated to the establishment of a glorious new Roman Empire, they are not all Italians. Some, like yourself, are American. Some are French. Still others are Austrian or Albanian. Together we convene to determine the direction and purpose of our empire. We pool our common wisdom for the common good. We are above worldly considerations. We are incorruptible men of great social influence. Those who join the Council must forswear all other loyalties save to myself and, through me, the Italian state. Are you ready to take that oath, Professor Peters, and join our brotherhood?'

Obviously Signora Sarfatti's recommendations were taken seriously by Mussolini. Now I could understand why their relationship had lasted so long. She was not merely Il Duce's sometime lover, she was his eyes and ears where he could not, these days, go. Mussolini's questions had been astute. With her instincts confirmed, he had made up his mind with his usual speed. Naturally I had no option but to accept! I did not experience a moment's reluctance as I took the heavy responsibility he offered. I was enormously elated! I had been granted the prestige, possibly even the power, which I believed my right! The frustrations and humiliations, disappointments and betrayals, faded in my memory. My dream had come true! I can scarcely remember my reply, but of course I agreed. Arrangements would have to be made, said my Duce. He asked if I could be ready to start work the next day. Naturally I would receive an adequate salary and so forth. He waved an expansive hand.