The Vengeance of Rome (24 page)

For this reason Mussolini treated Italians to a constant litany of Italian successes—in the Arts, the Sciences, the Humanities. All agreed that Italy led the world in style, for instance. It was imitated everywhere. No longer a nation of opera singers, but of the great
condottieri
, said Mussolini.

‘And this,
Professore
,' he added, laying a firm hand upon my massive piece, ‘is what in the end impresses the world. Spectacular weaponry! Imagine the astonishment of the world when our futurist arsenal is revealed! The threat of war, Professor, brings many a great power to her senses. With machines like this we shall restore our African and our Eastern Empire without losing a single Italian life!'

The idea of war was still unpopular in Italy. Mussolini knew that if gains could be made with minimum losses his prestige would be even higher. His prestige and Italy's prestige were indistinguishable and interdependent. For this reason we worked in secrecy. A few hints of our project were released to the press. I was not named, save as a famous American inventor advising Il Duce in his great plans. We were designing a home-land defence system which would be second to none. That system would make the Maginot Line seem old-fashioned and hopelessly ineffective. All European countries in those days were prepared for another war. Few had the heart for it. Mussolini argued that war was identified with the bloody folly of the trenches. He reminded me that British tanks first broke that appalling stalemate. The modern equivalent of flying cavalry, the tank, together with the fighting aeroplane, changed the rules of warfare.

The months went by. I enjoyed a status I had never known before. I had won respect, power, approval, the company of international men of affairs. I was party to all the political secrets of Europe. I knew only one small frustration. I should have anticipated it when dealing with a man of so many responsibilities. Il Duce would not let me know when we would be ready to put the prototype into production. Whenever I asked, he would offer me some reason for delaying. Then he would turn the conversation to some other invention of mine and insist that a model be commissioned. Thus the surrounding panelling of the boardroom's walls was soon supporting shelves containing massive models of all my inventions. One of these was my long-range bombing aeroplane, the so-called ‘Flying Wing', which contained much more extra fuel than ordinary aircraft. Although we were not yet giving employment to Italy's engineers and steelworkers, we were making her toymakers rich.

Factories were not yet tooled up to produce the Land Leviathan's full-size prototype, but over the next months our people brought to life a whole series of designs. I felt the euphoria I had known when I had worked on films, though ultimately, of course, we aimed to produce reality rather than illusion. I was disappointed Il Duce showed little interest in my more domestic inventions, such as the Radio Oven, but glad he remained enthusiastic about the rest, a product of what he insisted on praising as my ‘Fascist sensibility'.

‘These machines, Professor, are the expression in steel and cordite of our Fascist ability to crush all opposition in a single efficient action.'

He would walk up and down our long model room studying a multi-engined flying boat here, a dynamite engine there, a jointed aircraft carrier,
a superfast mobile gun and so on. Set against suitable backgrounds, the models created an astonishing impression of reality.

To my intense relief even Margherita Sarfatti was banned from this inner sanctum to which only my Chief and myself were privy. Here Il Duce could let his hair down (figuratively, since he was going grey and was forced to shave his head). He could forget the cares of state. I was flattered that he wished to spend so much time with me. I sometimes wondered what my company offered him. I knew nothing then, of course, about his plans for the rapid expansion of Italian influence into Africa and the Balkans.

Although he loved to speak in terms of war—the war for wheat, the war against crime, the war on terror, the war against alcoholism and so on—Mussolini's nature did not lean much towards Mars. He enjoyed the game of it but had very little stomach for actual violence. He was probably never happier than when he stabbed the buttons of his radio-control, making my great War Ziggurat fire this way and that, rolling over infantry divisions, squadrons of cavalry, tanks, anti-aircraft guns, planes, forts and palm groves with mighty dignity. Sometimes Mussolini seemed a rather shy, almost timid person. When his defences were down he would ask quite naive questions with a direct, schoolboy innocence which made me admire and like him all the more.

I have heard it said that Fascism is not an ideology but a conflict of ideologies. If that were true, perhaps Mussolini mirrored that conflict just as much as he resolved it. While he controlled himself, he held Italy, with all her own inner conflicts, together. When his conflicts got the better of him, he was forced to make draconian decisions rather than find compromise. Then his power left him. Then Italy was lost.

Only when Mussolini was thoroughly decisive was Italy badly served. Perhaps this sounds like treachery against a man I still treasure as a friend. Yet it was Mussolini's powers of compromise which enabled him to represent the Italian people and allow Italy to survive, just as my own similar powers have led to my own survival. One is neither a hypocrite nor a liar if one is by nature a diplomat.

In spite of his firm and necessary aggressiveness at the negotiating table, the Dictator always left doors open for alternatives. Tom Morgan believes that Hitler closed those doors for Mussolini and so initiated Italy's downfall. Franco, says Tom, had far more sense and kept Spain stable until the present day. Tom bought a house in Spain, which is very pro-American, but he often visits my shop when over here to see his doctor in Harley Street. At least he and I still have our admiration for Il Duce in common. I, of
course, understood Mussolini a little better than Morgan. Indeed, one thing Margherita Sarfatti, who perhaps knew her lover better than anyone, said to me was that I brought the man she had admired and respected back to life.

Sarfatti never told me much about her intimate episode with our friend. Yet sometimes, in the middle of making love to Maddy Butter, I would be seized by a chilling thought: could Mussolini and Margherita be discussing me? Might Margherita inadvertently reveal something to alert her protector to the truth? Nothing I could say would be believed by Mussolini. He would see me as her seducer (rather than her whore!). Disgrace would be the least I had to fear! For all his sensitivity, Il Duce was an Italian first. I was well aware how fiercely Italians defended their honour. This caused me to lose a certain spontaneity. Maddy began to complain that I had no time for her. When I explained how I was wearied by cares of state, she seemed satisfied, but some of her old, easy gaiety was lost in those heady first months.

Unfortunately, Margherita still found time for me. I think she was one of those people who feel obliged to keep all lovers, old and new, under their control. When she was in Rome I was often her escort in public, sometimes with Maddy as well, attending an opening of garish modernist art or sharing a box at some screeching contemporary opera. Maddy always complained of the smell. I was tempted to tell her she didn't know the half of it. I was not at that time Margherita's only lover, for her ardour, if not her peculiarity, had cooled a little, which was just as well, since I had developed bad headaches in the days when Il Duce was particularly energetic and demanding of my involvement.

One day in the restaurant where I usually met her, Margherita showed me the French and Swiss newspapers. To my amazement they had published shadowy pictures of my Land Leviathan, claiming they had been taken on secret manoeuvres in Libya. I was shocked. I had no doubt the pictures were of my models. They were so poorly reproduced, however, that they could have been the real thing if one did not know better. When I first looked I assumed for a moment that Mussolini had ordered a Leviathan built in secret. But certain features revealed both machines as the models we had installed in the Villa Valentino. The story, of course, was preposterous. Not a nut or bolt of the real thing had yet been made. Even at a most optimistic estimate, the project would take years to complete.

When I got to my office I immediately began enquiries to find out how a photographer could have sneaked through to a room only my staff was allowed to enter under the toughest security. They knew nothing. I was sceptical. I suspected some sort of Bolshevist plot. Brodmann, or even our own
OVRA, kept files on everyone and might have spies in my people's ranks. The photographs had been hastily taken and were not of professional quality. Any Brownie could have been used! I wrote a quick personal note to Il Duce saying I was baffled by this leak.

I waited in some nervousness to hear back from him. He might see this as an indication of disloyalty or un-Fascist laxity on my part. He could strip me of my rank, perhaps even expel me from Italy and consign my inventions to oblivion. Or claim them as his own.

Two days later I heard a familiar sound outside. The Fascist
squadristi
positioned themselves on both sides of doors flung open to admit the Dictator himself. I expected his expression to be stormy. But he was grinning in his familiar way as the doors closed and we were alone. My stomach turning over, I rose and saluted. He waved me back to my seat with an affable hand, unbuttoning his uniform jacket and loosening his belt.

‘
Professore
, you are worrying about nothing!'

He picked up one of the newspaper cuttings from my desk. ‘Who could tell anything from this? Does it matter how those photos came to be in the foreign press? Enough that they are believed. The newspapers are doing our work for us! Don't you see it? Even before we have built our first machine, the world is alarmed, wondering where, how, what—when? Eh? Meanwhile, the machines will soon be in production and those who believe the pictures to be fakes will be shown to be fools, so we win on every level.'

Il Duce had a knack of calming my worst fears. ‘
Professore
, you are living in the Dark Ages. This is the world of modern communications when the truth can be tailored according to need. Let's say someone on your staff required a little pocket money and gave the press these pictures. It has done no harm. Of course, you will make sure it doesn't happen again. But as long as the world is mystified, we are strong.'

My relief was considerable. I would keep my job! Mussolini continued. I must think of him as the star of a cinema film, he told me. The whole art of the film is to suspend disbelief, win authority for the director without being obvious. The director does not succeed by drawing attention to himself or his own skills. He draws attention to his star, his script, his sets.

‘Now since in this case I am both director and star, I have to make careful distinctions. I have to delegate, of course. I have to rely on experts. You, Professor Peters, are one of my experts. As your admission to the Fascist Inner Council shows, your worth is thoroughly recognised. Once our machines are in full production you will get all credit for your work. We shall put your name on everything. The Peters Land Cruiser. The Peters Long
Range Flying Boat. The Peters Jointed Aircraft Carrier. Meanwhile, the state requires that Mussolini's is the only name associated with our projects. Now that there has been a little scandal, we can reveal a few other details, perhaps let another vague photo or two be published. These will serve to keep the world guessing. Of course I understand your concern and appreciate your position, which is why the
Popolo d'Italia
has asked to run a series of interviews with you, concentrating on your many achievements in America. As we speak, the Italian Academy is considering inviting you to join its distinguished company. I learned today, and this is strictly between us, that you are to receive the Fascist Eagle First Class. Your efforts are not going unrewarded. Your salary, I understand, is also to rise in accordance with your new position.'

But none of these honours, none of these rewards meant as much to me as knowing that Il Duce was not displeased with me. I was close to tears.

‘My Duce,' I said, ‘I live to serve you and the Italian nation.'

That was all he needed to hear. Again his manly lips split into a boyish grin, his massive hands spread wide. If the desk had not been between us, I know he would have embraced me.

‘Come,' he said, heading for the door into our ‘secret' room. ‘Let's have a look at the monsters which are making the French and the Swiss wet their knickers.' And we were again at play.

I speak, of course, with a certain levity. I came to understand how my Chief used these exercises for many purposes. First, they relaxed him. Far more than the women who were brought every afternoon to his office, our machines of the future took his mind off the cares of the present. He could lose himself in his dream. Second, they enabled him to plan. His instincts were perfect at this time. As far as the world was concerned our weapons were so terrible, so effective, the chances of them being used were slim. My Land Leviathan would guard the boundaries of the New Roman Empire. My huge Flying Wings would carry passengers as easily as bombs. My jointed floating Aircraft Battle Stations could be always ready to launch my super-fast skyfleet into the skies. Such weapons meant peace, not war—a peaceful, secure Italy, firmly established within her natural imperial borders, threatening no one and unthreatenable. That was all the average Italian longed for. Look at
Things to Come
, which Korda made in 1936, if you want see a vision of the clean, predictable, decent future we hoped to achieve. In that wonderful film, which also owed something to my ideas, men of refined education and of the very best character take charge of the world and put it right. This was all Fascism wished for. Yet I do not believe H.G. Wells ever claimed to be a Fascist.