The Vengeance of Rome

FOURTEEN

Of course she had not changed. She was still my angel. Only Mussolini gave off that same almost supernatural wave of animal magnetism. My eyes as full as my heart, I kissed her hand. ‘My dear Mrs Cornelius.’

‘Smarmy as ever, aincher, Ivan?’ She was her familiar amiable self. ‘Still, I got ter admit it’s good ter see a face I know. Found yerself somefink official an’ steady, eh? Workin’ fer th’ corporation. Can’t say I blame yer. I’m done for in ther English talkies. It’s me accent. So when I got ter Berlin I took up with little Baron ‘Uggy Bear over there.’ She indicated a short, dapper German with a huge Kaiser Wilhelm moustache and twinkling blue eyes, whose grey haircut looked as if a hard brush had been glued to his head. He wore formal evening dress and chatted to Count Ciardi, whom he seemed to know well. ‘Pappy’s not reely a baron. That just what a corl ‘im ‘cause someone said ‘e was a Press Baron and I wasn’t sure wot that was. I corl ‘im “Baron ‘Uggy Bear”. ‘E was good enough ter ‘elp me back on me feet, but I’m thinkin’ of goin’ inter cabaret, maybe in Berlin. Pappy’s ‘ot ter get me goin’ in ther local talkies, but I’m a bit chary o’ that world, if yer know wot I mean. Still, it’s orl wide open fer English artistes. They love us out there. An’ ‘e sez some other girl can do me ther German. Wot d’yer fink? Oh, ‘ello! ‘Ave yer met —’ She turned to address the enormous beaming German, an infatuated Zeppelin, who was clearly entranced by her.

“Ermann, is it?’

He bowed, clicked his heels and shook hands again. He did not recollect me. I supposed we all looked the same to him in our black uniforms. Although not quite as tall as he appeared from his photographs, Herman Göring was considerably wider. He spoke now in confident, but inexpert English. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Professor Peters. We have heard much of your achievements in Germany.’

I was surprised. I began to realise how much I had attracted the attention of various foreign governments. The newspaper pictures had done exactly what Mussolini had anticipated; they had whetted the curiosity of the other powers. Slipping easily into German, I made small talk with Captain Göring. Grateful to be speaking his own language, he admired my vocabulary. I told him how I had worked with Germans in the Ukraine during the Civil War when we were all trying to get rid of the Reds. This interested him. He had assumed I was an American. ‘Naturalised,’ I explained to him. ‘Before then I had direct experience of the Bolshevik terror.’

‘You must meet a friend of mine,’ he said. ‘He’s here tonight. His company’s making this film about the Russian Civil War. They are hiring genuine veterans. Real Russians. You could be of great help. Did you come up against the Red Cavalry, for instance?’

‘You’re bein’ borin’, boys,’ chided Mrs Cornelius. She smiled up at Hitler’s bulky emissary. Göring’s job was to attempt an understanding between the Nazis and the Pope. It was as well I did not know this at the time or I would have spoken my mind. One of the most disastrous policies Mussolini and Hitler formulated involved accommodation with Catholics who ultimately did as much as anyone to sabotage their efforts. ‘You tol’ me, ‘Ermann, you woz lookin’ fer a party ter go ter afterwards.’

The man was well bred and immediately dropped the subject of politics, saying only to me: ‘We must talk again. In Germany we have a great respect for the scientific tradition.’

Jokingly I said that for my taste there were a few too many Jews running the scientific establishments there. He hesitated at this, doubtless because he was here on a diplomatic mission, then laughed heartily. ‘Very good!’ he said. ‘Very good, Professor! I think you and I will get on well. You must come and see us in Germany once we are in power. Great things are happening. Il Duce’s inspiration, Adolf Hitler’s genius and German practical knowledge will transform the country and in time the entire world.’

Although his expression seemed fixed in a jovial smile, he was evidently not relaxed. Mrs Cornelius nudged him. ‘Wot does it take ter make a Kraut let ‘is ‘air down?’ she asked me, winking. Again he was hugely apologetic. He was here on official business. It was so difficult to move from one mode to the other. ‘Wot abart this party, then?’ She dropped her voice. ’Yo’re just the chap, Ivan. ‘Ermann wants ter know if there’s anywhere they do the ‘okey-cokey rahnd ‘ere,’ and she put a finger to her perfect nose.

I was confused by all these turns of events and pulled my card from my inside pocket. On the blank side I scribbled the address where I hoped to meet Maddy Butter later. ‘I might be there myself,’ I said. ’Mention my name. Gallibasta.’ I winked back. At which point, to my absolute horror, a figure in a uniform which would have seemed garish on the stage of the Vienna Comic Opera, taller than Captain Göring by almost a head but threatening to rival him in corpulence, moving with what I can only describe as a kind of monumental mince, cracked its jackboots together, offered the Fascist salute and regarded me through rheumy, affectionate eyes which failed to hide the signs of a thousand disappointments. He uttered a wide, ghastly grin. ‘Good evening, Herr Captain,’ he said to Göring, whose expression of distaste was undisguised. ‘Maxim, dear. Did I hear somebody talk about a party?’

Mrs Cornelius’s natural generosity betrayed us then. She did not know the newcomer. Maybe she did not wish to travel alone in a taxi with Göring. ‘I’m sure we’re orl welcome,’ she said. ‘Yo’re wiv the German party, too, aren’t yer? We’ll go tergewer! ‘Uggy won’t mind.’

In spite of the horrible embarrassment at meeting Seryozha again, and in such unexpected circumstances, I was curious as to how he had managed to come back to Italy after only a few months - in a uniform of his own design and as part of the unofficial German delegation! When Mrs Cornelius led Captain Göring off to meet an old friend from the British Embassy in Rome, I was left with my slobbering ex-dancer. He, of course, wanted to open his heart to me there and then. His boyfriend had sent him here, he said, to keep an eye on things. ‘Ernst’s a really top-ranking Nazi, you know. A bit of a brute, really, but he has his points. Well, they’re all totally rivalrous, darling. It’s worse than the ballet! Nobody trusts anybody else and Ernst’s afraid what he calls the “eggheads” are going behind his back. They wouldn’t let him come now, so he sent me instead. I’m his aide. His eyes and ears, he said. They had to agree to let me do it. It’s at his expense, anyway. He even paid for my uniform. I met him in Bolivia. It’s all secret, of course. I hear you’re doing well in the government now. There are no private jobs worth having any more, are there? It’s the Crash.’

At that moment, Ferucci, who had no love for me, but knew that I was a particular protégé of Il Duce, came over to murmur that our Chief would like to see me when I could slip away. I made it my business to drop Seryozha, telling him I would meet him later at the party.

As soon as I could I got to Il Duce’s side. He was making ready to leave, shaking hands with Vech, the elegant Spanish military attaché. They seemed on excellent terms. Mussolini still refused to smile in public, but there was a hint of a curve to his firm, ruthless mouth and when he saw me he was clearly pleased. My Chief did not want me to meet the Spaniard, however, and in fact almost pushed Vech away as he came to talk to me. Il Duce was in a particularly good mood. I think the admiration of the German contingent was far greater than anticipated. His old confident, ebullient manner had returned. ‘Professor, we have some urgent business to discuss.’

I was mystified. He took me by the arm and began to lead me back towards his private room, divided from the main hall by a velvet curtain. Here all the guards were squadristi and sprang to attention when we entered. I was particularly proud to be treated in this way. Many of Il Duce’s other ministers there that night would have been envious. I appreciated this public confirmation of my status. In the room was a table laid with exotic food and drink. Il Duce brought his special guests here, either to honour them or to speak with them confidentially. ‘That was Colonel Vech. He has been authorised to approach us concerning our secret project.’ Il Duce explained that the Spanish had seen the sensational reports of our Land Leviathan in the papers. I think their own secret service had also done some research. My guess was that they had had no luck in stealing our plans so had approached Il Duce directly, to ask if the machines were in production. No doubt they could use a number for their own purposes in North Africa.

‘This is good news!’ Mussolini’s dark eyes twinkled. ‘Such a sale will help finance our own production. Of course I told him we could not possibly discuss such things. I did not even admit that we had a “secret weapon”. Have you said anything tonight?’

I was somewhat stunned. ‘You have sworn me to secrecy, my Duce.’

Mussolini approved of my loyalty. However, he argued, if we could convince them to give 100 per cent financial backing to our project, without their knowing it we should be able to begin production all the sooner. ‘We need to show them a couple of small plans, a simple picture or two. Have you got a little something to whet their appetites?’

I was still rather baffled by this change of attitude. I was silent.

‘He will have to see something tonight,’ my Chief continued. Vech was leaving first thing in the morning.

I was by now breathless with astonishment. Until now only Il Duce and myself had been privy to my inventions. Tonight there was talk of Spanish involvement. Mussolini himself had sworn me to secrecy. For mysterious reasons of his own he was prepared to admit that we were building a war ziggurat. His lightning mind sometimes understood situations and helped him make long-ranging decisions, rather as a first-rate chess player sees a whole range of moves open up for him. So I had learned to trust him. But it was impossible for me to guess the reason for this radical change of policy. I assumed he would eventually illuminate me.

Meanwhile, I stammered something about not having the keys to my document chest. He gestured expansively. He would drive me round to my house in his own car. There I could pick up my keys, he would take me to the ministry, I could find the plans, and his chauffeur could relay them directly to the Spanish Consulate. Typically he was in a hurry to put all this in hand instantly. I suspected he had a further liaison that night. Il Duce liked to get things done immediately or not at all.

I stammered something. He accepted this as acquiescence. Clapping me on the shoulder as if sensing my confusion, he promised we would not sell out Italy for a handful of Spanish doubloons. Certain specifications would, of course, be held back. Only a cruder version of the giant tank would be presented. He had not forgotten about naming it after me. Imagine what this would mean! Hundreds of Peters Leviathans guarding the frontiers of the free world against the combined Red and Yellow threat! My name would become a permanent addition to the military vocabulary.

He again sought to console me with promises of my coming public status. He failed to realise how used I was to my name appearing before the public. I was all for a speedier move towards full production of my machines, but I believed the entire project a secret shared only between myself and Mussolini. I could not readily readjust to this new development.

‘And, of course, there will be material benefits,’ he said. ‘Part of the Spanish money should rightfully go to you.’

I did not work for money, I reminded him. I had no more interest in it than did he. We had a common vision.

That was the closest I ever came to rebuking my Chief and he accepted it.

We left the hall by the special exit. Il Duce’s car was waiting, its engine running. Passing the main entrance of the villa, I saw a man and a woman leaving. I did not recognise the woman. I was surprised not to have noticed the man while at the reception. Surely it was the mutual friend Mrs Cornelius had mentioned earlier. A tall, slender Englishman, not in uniform on this occasion. He had once been romantically involved with Mrs Cornelius. I knew him as Major Nye, a British agent! Then I realised the importance of that reception. Now I knew that several crucial conversations had taken place that night. Political decisions had been made which would change the face of Europe for ever.

His chauffeur beside him, Mussolini himself had taken the car’s wheel. I was by now used to his wild, extravagant driving. Tonight he seemed determined to shake off the fleet of secret service cars which began to follow us. Indeed, he was successful with most of them. He liked to entertain himself in that way sometimes. Particularly as he had almost given up the violin. Like Sherlock Holmes he had once played it every single evening for his own solace.

Il Duce knew exactly where he was going. ‘Professor, I was thinking about your house. You need a bigger one. That place is far too cramped for you.’

Although he had never spoken of it before, I remembered that this was where he had once met and made love to the woman who these days preferred to satisfy her lusts on the leather furniture at the Villa Valentino. I was still uneasy about that situation. Obviously my association with La Sarfatti had made me more enemies than friends. She was not liked by the old Fascists and her influence over the Chief was thought to be excessive. She was sensitive to such things. Clearly, from her recent moods, things were not going wholly her way. Voices at court were raised against her. Ferucci was her sworn enemy. Some old affair between them, I guessed. Had someone told Mussolini about us?

In spite of the little house being only a short distance from the reception, it took us over an hour to get there. So obsessed had Mussolini become with outrunning his own guards that he was thoroughly lost. He did not have a native’s knowledge of Rome and her maze of streets. Eventually, he told me, most of the old, medieval mess would be torn down. He was tired of these fusty labyrinths. He would show me a model of the city that had been built a year or two before. Because of problems with land ownership, some of the building plans had been put back. The new understanding with the Vatican City was going to help that situation. He would leave behind him a Rome that would make the ancient capital seem only a sketch for the glories to come.

He laughed at his own audacity. Sometimes, as now, it seemed there were at least two Mussolinis — one was the boyish, self-mocking idealist who had come out of poverty in the poorest region of Italy to save his people. The other was the sophisticated, modern politician, forced through historical realities to take hard, painful decisions. Few visionaries make good politicians. Few good politicians have much in the way of original vision. That is the inextinguishable irony of the world. When visionaries are allowed to dominate daily politics, their talents are wasted, their decisions are a disaster. Yet occasionally there springs a man of vision who has the intelligence and will to overcome any discrepancy. Mussolini, of course, was just such a man. Nothing that happened between us subsequently has ever given me cause to change my view.

Unfortunately, such giants also attract pygmies who elevate themselves by association. These pygmies, scarcely noticed by anyone, almost always drag the giants down. Only Franco took the example of his colleagues and, like a good army officer, selected the best men for the work he had to do in Spain, bringing a stability his nation had not known for centuries. Though he lacked Mussolini’s towering greatness, he had a much better background. Mussolini and Hitler had both served in the trenches with distinction, but they had never been considered officer material. Blood will out, as they say.

My Chief tugged suddenly on the wheel of the huge car, making the tyres squeal and judder. Arnaldo the chauffeur uttered a kind of gulping scream. The whole vast chassis swung in an arc as Mussolini applied the brake.

With the engine still running he grinned, panting, at me. I was still recovering from the shock. Until the Chief pointed it out, I did not notice that we had arrived at my house. I asked Il Duce if he would care to come in and rest, but he refused. No doubt he had memories he did not wish to revive. He said he would wait in the car and smoke a cigarette. He asked me if I had a match.

The evening had been a confusing one for me. While in the cottage I planned to help myself to a quick sniff of cocaine (of which Il Duce rather prudishly disapproved) and thus be able to continue in better mood. As I walked up the little crazy-paving path past the fountain, I thought I saw two figures through the window. Opening the door I went in quietly. A man stood with his back to me. Slowly he was turning one of the pictures I had placed facing the wall. He adjusted it and stepped away from it. I saw that several other pictures had been turned, all of a similar style. I did not demand to know what he was doing because I recognised the set of his shoulders.

When, however, I coughed and he looked back rather wanly to see who it was, I did not immediately recognise his face. One of his eyes was closed shut, badly bruised. His nose had been broken. His mouth was split and scabbed, and most of his front teeth were missing. I felt sick. The single large brown eye regarded me with the expression of a dying horse. It was Fiorello da Bazzanno.

‘The pictures,’ he said. ‘They’re mine. Don’t you like them?’

I would not have hurt his feelings for worlds. This was the man who had done most to help me reach my present eminence. ‘I love them,’ I said, ’I was afraid the sun would get to them. I know nothing of oils. My God, Fiorello, were you in a crash?’

‘You might say that.’ With a sigh he flung himself into an armchair, wincing. ‘A fall from grace, maybe. I’m not the golden boy I was a few short weeks ago, Max, as you probably know.’

All I knew was that his plane had been found. He had been missing. I told him how worried we had been.

I was rather distracted, aware that Il Duce himself was waiting impatiently in the car. I could not find my office keys. As I went towards the bedroom to look for them, Maddy came out. She seemed surprised to see me. ‘Oh, Max,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure you want to get involved in this.’

‘Involved?’ I was under my original momentum, still searching for my keys. ‘I’m delighted that Fiorello is safe. I have something to do. It will take less than an hour. Then I will be back.’

‘Fiorello isn’t safe,’ she said. ‘At least, not that safe.’

‘I can’t find my keys,’ I said. ‘Have you seen them?’

She suggested I look in the box on my dressing table. Sometimes I put them there.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked. There they were, in the box! I snatched them up. ‘Not safe? He’s here, with us!’

‘I wasn’t sure how you’d take it,’ she said.

‘Take what? Listen, my darling, I have a car waiting. It is very important that I leave immediately. Take what?’

‘Fiorello’s on the run,’ she said. ‘He was caught coming back from Switzerland. He never made it to his plane. They kidnapped him. Beat him up. One of them was de Vecchi, the Education Minister!’

I agreed it was terrible but was glad he was safe now. When I turned to leave, Fiorello was standing in the doorway, his lopsided, hideous face looking like something you would find in a charnel house, scarcely human at all. ‘I don’t expect you to help,’ he said. ‘I was trying to get Laura clear of the country. She’s all right now. She’s in Austria, I’m sure.’ He shrugged and glanced away. ‘Bloody commy.’

‘You helped a communist?’ I asked disbelievingly. Suddenly the enormity of my situation struck me. My legs lost their power to hold me. I sat down on the couch. Outside with his motor running was the supreme Fascist. Inside, a supreme traitor to Fascism. Should they meet, I would be irredeemably compromised. But there was nothing I could do save dash back out to the car with the plans and hope Maddy had solved the problem by the time I returned. I began to give up any idea of going on to the private party.

‘He’ll be gone when you get back,’ Maddy promised.

I willed strength into my legs, staggered to the door and reached for the handle. As I did so a key turned in the lock and it began to open. My legs threatened to fold at the knees again and I fell back, expecting to see my Duce himself.

Margherita Sarfatti stood there, an affectionate Fury in yellow and black silk. ‘Darling, I couldn’t wait to see you! I’ve been longing for you. You must tell me everything that happened tonight.’

I tried to speak, but no words came. I attempted to shove my way past her, but she pushed me back into the room, pausing with a look of almost comic outrage when she saw that we were not alone.

Slowly she absorbed the scene. She looked from me to Maddy to Fiorello. Her breathing seemed to grow more rapid, as if a dragon fired up its venom. And then she screamed.

‘There’s nothing between us, honestly,’ said Maddy. ’I think maybe we all need a drink and a sit-down.’

I, too, was close to screaming. Had Il Duce seen Margherita come in? If so, would he draw any particular conclusions? After all, we were in her house. Mussolini would come to investigate and find me harbouring a traitor while keeping a liaison with his mistress.

‘I really do have to leave,’ I said.

‘How long has all this been going on?’ Margherita wished to know. ‘Now I realise the depths of treachery you’ve plumbed! I helped you all! I gave you everything! My own blood I would have given you! And this is my repayment? I am nothing, eh? I don’t even get an invitation to the little boys’ parties any more. This insult will not be forgotten. Both of you I nurtured as a mother — as a lioness her cubs. I taught you everything. I even made you characters in my book. I protected you. Both of you would be in prison if it were not for me. Yet behind my back, you plot and scheme. Well, Il Duce shall know of this!’

As I tried to frame a reply that would buy me the time I needed, I heard a tap on the door. This was certain to be Mussolini.

Not one of the million explanations which entered my head had the slightest ring of truth. I sighed and prepared myself for the inevitable enquiry. I had perfectly ordinary explanations, though Fiorello’s presence would take a little imagination.

I drew back the door, ready to face my Chief in all his rage.

But it was not Mussolini. A jolly gust of laughter announced the arrival of the not insubstantial Hermann Göring, Mrs Cornelius, Baron Huggy Bear (looking a little dazed) and an extremely drunken Seryozha who was scarcely able to stand but staggered between the other two with a look of depraved sentimentality on his face worthy of Kominski or one of the other great clowns of the old Kiev circus. ‘Why!’ exclaimed the smiling German. ‘You’re already ahead of us! The taxi driver was right after all. I hope you haven’t sniffed up all the “snow”, ha, ha, ha!’

I stood there open-mouthed. The vast captain waved my own card under my nose. A taxi driver had read the wrong side.

‘Ain’t yer goin’ ter let us in, Ive?’ suggested Mrs Cornelius a little peevishly. ‘It’s bleedin’ freezin’ art ‘ere.’

I stepped back.

Mrs Cornelius led the way into the house. “Ow sweet!’

Fiorello’s ruined face expressed the dumb comic distress of a commedia horse. Disapprovingly, Maddy folded her arms.

Göring flung himself into one of our comfortable armchairs. ‘Is all the fun over? Who has the happy-powder?’ His thickly accented English was indecipherable to everyone but me. They ignored him. Mrs Cornelius handed her coat to Fiorello, looking over her shoulder for her dapper little protector. “Ave yer met Pappy?’Assured she had not lost him, she turned. ‘Gawd! What ‘appened ter ya? Somebody beat yer up?’

‘Oh, la vie sportif, you know...’ Gracefully Fiorello took her coat, helped the bewildered Baron off with his and handed the clothes to Maddy Butter who had by now recovered at least a patina of conventional hospitality. ‘Can I get you all a drink?’ she wanted to know. ‘Camparis? Manhattans?’

‘Fuck your Campari Manhattans,’ said Margherita Sarfatti, hurling herself on to the sofa. ‘Hello, Hermann, mein Liebchen. How was the party?’

Maddy grasped at the only fact which had so far been presented to her. She looked steadily at me and said in a small voice as she poured the drinks, ‘Do I understand that you and Margherita have been having an affair?’

‘Not at all,’ I said.

‘Judas,’ said La Sarfatti absently. She was smiling at Göring and helping herself to a bar of chocolate lying on the table. ‘Did you get that Lautrec I recommended?’

‘Oh, Margherita! I am still a poor man, you know!’ He asked again after the neige. I had begun to realise Hitler’s ambassador was something of an addict. I felt sympathy for him, of course. I have always said that if the drug begins to use you, that is when you should stop the drug. I was to learn later that he favoured narcotics, like morphine, which have a debilitating effect on the character as well as creating addiction. I have always warned young people off such drugs. Stimulants have a completely different effect, creating dynamism and positive progress in society — unless a narcotics user decides to use them! Then a very strange result occurs. Hermann Göring, whom I last saw at Nuremberg, was a living example of this. Fifteen years earlier, however, he was not the slave to his addiction that he later became. Ultimately, of course, Hitler had to renounce him.

I was still trying to reach the door. I had decided to say nothing further but to make my escape now, while attempting to redeem myself later. From outside came an impatient toot.

Fiorello came up to me. ‘Max, I don’t plan to involve you. But you must realise what’s going on. They beat me up - squadristi thugs. I escaped. They were planning to kill me, take me up in my own plane and dump me out alive. They said so. But nobody could fly. De Vecchi’s their boss. He really hates me. I don’t think Mussolini understands. Remember Matteotti? That wasn’t his fault. Someone has to tell the Chief. You know how much I admire him. If you could put in a word, perhaps, we could clear all this up. He doesn’t mind as long as the communists are gone from the country. I was simply getting rid of another one.’ His attempt to smile was unfortunate.

I murmured that there was little I could do. I had no power and little real influence. I was a scientist, not one of the political people.

I was sure if he threw himself on Mussolini’s mercy everything could be sorted out.

The horn sounded for the second time. Impatient to begin with,

Il Duce would be furious by now.

I thought of suggesting to Fiorello that he go personally and ask Il Duce for clemency. It seemed a convenient moment. By now Maddy had poured the drinks and was placing tall red glasses into uncomprehending hands. ’Do you mean to say,’ she continued firmly, settling herself on the couch between Göring and La Sarfatti, ‘that you and Max have been doing something behind my back?’

‘And who is Max?’ asked Göring agreeably.

Seryozha had found the gramophone and was winding it up. ‘What marvellous records,’ he said. ‘You can’t find these in Berlin.’ He put on ‘The Last Round-up’. I think it was Gene Autry’s earliest recording. As the first bars began to play, Seryozha threw up discreetly behind a chair. Göring smiled apologetically to his hostess. ‘He is not German,’ he explained. He leaned forward and whispered something to her. Maddy got up and went into the bedroom.

The horn sounded for the third time. The beating of my heart suggested I could probably not live much longer.

Maddy came back in to the room with our cocaine and the apparatus for taking it.

It occurred to me to ask Fiorello if he knew the best way of getting into Switzerland. The Baron was moving admiringly around the room gazing up at the paintings and murmuring his praise. He seemed under the impression that he was at an opening.

Maddy, stone-faced, began to chop out lines of coke for everyone. As Seryozha fell to the floor, his face striking the carpet with a peculiar soft crunch, she incorporated his line into her own.

Fiorello was still beside me. I had begun to tell him that our leader was outside in the car and might be growing impatient when I felt pressure on the door handle. My first thought was to hang on to it, hold it tight and resist any further intrusions. My second was to begin weeping.

My third, as the door opened to admit a glowering Benito Mussolini, was to fall against the wall with a groan.

‘That’s awfully good of you,’ said Captain Göring, in his best English. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve been in need.’ Bending forward over the marble table, he put the little silver tube to his nose and inhaled his lines in a single bovine snort. He seemed to expand to twice his size, threatening to burst the walls of the room. He sat back on the couch. ‘I love my wife,’ he said. ‘I love her with all my soul. But a man is a man.’

Mussolini regarded the scene in disgusted silence. His smouldering eyes glared from face to face.

‘Caro!’ cried Margherita Sarfatti, rising like a blustering pheasant from cover. ‘Caro mio! Thank God you are here!’

I looked for Fiorello. He had disappeared.

Where Fiorello had been standing a moment ago, there was Mussolini. Hands on hips, a look of irritable disapproval on his features, he turned his back pointedly to the others. He spoke quietly. ‘Are you ready?’

I saw my keys on the table next to the line of coke Maddy had cut for me.

‘Sorry if I’m breaking anything up,’ I said casually. ‘I was looking for my keys. Ah, there they are! Sorry I have to go. It was nice to meet your friends, Maddy.’

Save for Göring and the Baron, the others were all staring at Il Duce. Ignoring the uncrowned Queen of Italy, Mussolini turned once to stare thoughtfully at an obliviously happy Captain Göring before leading the way back to the car in silence. I heard Margherita’s wounded shriek behind us, but she did not come out.

We got into the car. Il Duce shook his head. ‘What’s Margherita doing with that Hun? I’ve been trying to keep them apart all week. Did you invite them?’

‘Certainly not,’ I said, reflecting privately that Maddy would not take a sanguine, European view of my arrangement. ‘Thinking I would be away, she no doubt arranged to see him there. But who knows? She’s a strange one. Maybe she can seduce him? To be fair, he seems besotted with his wife. Surely Signora Sarfatti wouldn’t attempt —?’

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ said Il Duce. ‘You want to be careful of her.’ An expression passed across his face which, in a lesser human being, I would have taken for terror.

As we drove towards the ministry, Mussolini began to lecture me on the dangers of having anything to do with Germans. ‘They want to gobble us all up. And as for these Nazis — it is a corruption of everything I have ever said or worked for! A mishmash. Family man or not, that Göring is a degenerate. You saw for yourself. They’re all vicious boy-buggering dopers and masochists. Hitler goes everywhere with a nancy boy he calls his secretary. They admit it openly. That fudge-packer Röhm makes no secret of it. He’s even published his love letters to his catamites. They give Fascism a bad name by associating themselves with us. As Italy rediscovers her manhood, Germany becomes feminised. Because they’ve won a few seats in the Reichstag they think they can compare themselves with us. It makes me feel sick. They’re a gang of psychopaths. Not one of them has done an honest day’s work in his life. Believe me, Max, Germany can never be anything but an enemy of Italy.’

If only he had heeded his own judgement. But he was too trusting. In the end, abandoned by all, he swung upside down in a Milanese meat market, one carcass among dozens. It is a tragedy which will be told down the ages, just as Julius Caesar and Caligula are told. At least those ancient emperors weren’t warned by a gypsy they would not die by violence. The last assurance Il Duce clung to. The last betrayal.

Mussolini’s death was symbolic of the entire twentieth century.

And we wonder why our young people no longer understand their history!

Il Duce came with me as I went to my office. He was still talking. He did not seem especially upset with me but was clearly out of sorts. He spoke of traitors, of people he had elevated to positions of power and responsibility and who even now turned against him. How was it possible? What harm had he ever done them? Indeed, he was their benefactor! I could not tell if this was his subtle way of warning me of his displeasure, or if he remained simply aggravated by Signora

Sarfatti’s success at finding her old friend Göring. He paced about grumbling while I hunted for the plans we needed - simplified drawings which would give nothing away.

‘I’m going to have to be more severe with these bastards,’ he said. ‘They’re taking too many liberties, Max.’ He turned his glaring eyes on mine. I blinked. When I looked again he was grinning.

He sucked in his lower lip and stared at the ceiling, the plans in his hand. ‘But meanwhile we have finance for our machines!’

He was extremely pleased with the idea of obtaining Spanish capital. I think he had probably been worrying over fiscal matters. While others slept soundly, Il Duce was up, pacing his lonely corridors, taking Andrews Liver Salts for his ulcers and mulling over the affairs of the day. I had the distinct impression that my Land Leviathan was moving a little closer to reality.

We returned downstairs. As the door of his car was opened for him, he turned, rapping my chest with the rolled-up plans. ‘By the way, I was supposed to ask you this earlier. Signora Mussolini you know. She thinks you’re wonderful. She - well, my son Bruno, who you get on so well with, he’s mad on flying as you’re aware. Your films probably gave him the bug, eh? We talked this over, and she thinks he’s ready for flying lessons. As long as he’s taught by someone we both trust.’

‘An excellent idea, Duce,’ I agreed. ‘No better time for a boy to learn. I was younger than Master Bruno when I first flew. Hand-eye coordination is everything in a good airman.’

‘We knew you’d agree,’ said Mussolini. He tapped the side of his leg as he sometimes did if a weight was lifted from his mind. ’When’s the soonest you could take him up?’

What could I say?

‘Mm?’ asked Il Duce.

‘I’m honoured, Chief,’ I said. ‘I’m at your disposal.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ll discuss the details tomorrow perhaps. Thanks for your time, Professor.’

The door closed.

With mixed feelings I waited for the secret service car to slip out of the shadows and take me home.

Reluctantly I got into the car. I could still not be sure if Il Duce had absorbed the scene at my house or whether he would start to think about it later. I was certain, however, that Maddy Butter was in no doubt about what had been going on.