‘Good God.’
‘Look, it’s General Rommel!’ Renata clapped excitedly. Others in the crowd were joining the applause, cheering and calling his name; a photographer stepped forward, flashbulbs popping. Rommel appeared surprised at the fuss, but then offered a modest wave before descending the steps with the others. As he passed Renata, still clapping with excitement, he inclined his head politely. Then he saw Theo. And stopped.
His eyes narrowed. ‘It is you,’ he said in German, ‘isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid so.’
Rommel began buttoning his gloves, then glanced back at the opera house. ‘Amleto, by Faccio, based on Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Good story, rather indifferent music, I found. Do you know it? The play, that is.’
‘Um, well, no, sir, not really.’
Rommel nodded. ‘I shall have to start calling you Horatio.’
With that he continued down the steps to his limousine.
Late that night, footfalls sounded outside Theo’s room again. There was a squeak as the door opened, but it was not his grandmother this time. He heard the sigh of falling clothes, felt the bed sheets lifting, then Renata’s body was pressing against him, her breath hot on his neck. ‘Just hold me, Theo,’ she whispered. ‘Hold me like a husband would.’
*
The next morning he awoke late with his head throbbing and the house empty. ‘The family is out for the day,’ the maid informed him brusquely. ‘Furthermore, Signor Zambon instructs that you stay here no longer, but at a pensione, and he has left money accordingly.’ No other explanation was offered, nor did she know when the family might return. ‘Your presence displeases the Signora,’ was all she said when pressed. Unsure if this was to do with Renata, or his clandestine dealings in Rome, but suspecting the latter, he breakfasted alone, packed his suitcase and departed.
He passed the day aimlessly touring Rome, its piazze and viali, its statues and fountains, its famous buildings and historic monuments. Unlike London, he noted, Rome was entirely untouched by the ravages of bombs, its residents and visitors appeared blithe and unconcerned, and, apart from uniforms and the occasional strident billboard, it was hard to believe Italy was at war at all. After viewing the Coliseum, the Pantheon and the Circus Maximus chariot stadium, he paused to rest in a bookstore where he researched Hamlet, learning that Horatio was the Prince’s rather shadowy follower, who didn’t really have a history, didn’t fit into the narrative, but kept cropping up at key moments. Hamlet himself, he read, flicking to the end, died by poison at the hands of those he once considered allies, while his enemies marched on his homeland.
The hours passed slowly and uneasily, not helped by heavy rain and the nagging headache, both of which intensified in the afternoon, forcing him back to his pensione. This suited him, for, apart from feeling cold and ill, he had begun to imagine he was being followed, although with all the crowds it was hard to be sure. Stretching out wearily on the bed, he fretted over the next day’s plan, which seemed to grow more impossible with each rehearsal. Return to Regina Coeli prison in the morning; bluff his way past the guards again; have a second meeting with his grandfather to receive instructions from Lucetti, and speak about Eleanora’s health and Carla’s imprisonment; magically engineer a rendezvous with Lucetti’s Action Party cohorts; convince them of his legitimacy, exchange contact information and give assurances of support from the British government; finally make the soonest possible departure to the north, cross the border into Switzerland and report to the British Embassy for transportation home. Round and round his head the details swirled, while his teeth chattered, his body ached and the sheet grew damp with sweat. He dozed feverishly while outside rain lashed at the window and darkness fell. He heard the rumble of thunder and saw himself lying in a rain-filled ditch, in a black wood with artillery shells exploding all round. A figure rose beside him. ‘Don’t shoot till you smell their breath,’ it said, then vanished in a crimson mist. Later he imagined rough hands hauling him away: his head was smothered, he couldn’t breathe and his arms were pinned painfully behind him. Then he was dragged blindly downstairs and out into rain-washed streets for a jolting ride on the floor of a car, terrified by giddiness and suffocation. Then nothing but a long fall into the beckoning black.
Time passed, intervals of lucidity came and went like images at a magic lantern show. Waking in terror to a blacked-out room. A midnight cycle ride through a rainy forest. Lying on a hard cot, his hands shackled to the frame. Columns of men stretching into the night like a giant insect. Swimming towards a ship that never came nearer. A figure slumping before a firing squad.
Then he awoke to find a woman kneeling beside his bed. A candle burned nearby; he thought she was praying, and therefore he must be dying, but then her clasped hands unfolded a cloth with which she dabbed his brow.
‘He lives,’ she muttered, seeing his eyes blink.
‘Water,’ he croaked feebly.
She tipped a cup to his lips and then departed. Later she returned with a bowl of soup, but his wrists were still manacled, so she fed him by spoon like a baby.
‘Where am I?’
‘Don’t speak.’
‘Bathroom, I need—’
‘Later.’
She left again. The next time he woke, daylight showed through the curtained window. He was still fastened to the bed, and the urge to urinate was overwhelming, but the fever had broken and his head was clearer. After a while the woman returned bearing a basin and chamber pot. She unfastened one hand and then stood by the window while he used the pot before returning to bathe him with the basin and cloth. She didn’t speak but her eyes were anxious as she changed him into clean shirt and underwear before departing once more, locking the door behind her. He dozed. From the sounds of livestock and birdsong beyond the window he guessed it was mid-morning, and he was in the countryside. Later, heavy feet arrived at the door, the lock turned and two men entered, one dark and swarthy, the other slighter with shaved head and spectacles. The larger one stood nervously by the door while the bespectacled one drew out a notebook and pen.
‘Name?’
Theo’s head spun. So much complication in such a simple question. And who were these men? Kidnappers? Terrorists? Undercover police?
‘I… I’m not—’
‘Tell me your name!’
‘Andreas Teodoro Giuseppe Vittorio Ladurner-Trickey.’
The man jotted. ‘This will require verification.’
‘By who? Who are you?’
‘I will ask the questions. Why were you in Rome?’
‘To visit relatives.’
‘Lies. You are a spy and infiltrator.’
‘No.’
‘Then answer.’
‘I… No.’ A spark of rebellion flickered inside him, the product of his commando training perhaps. Or the beating from the Blackshirts. ‘Not until you tell me what’s going on.’
‘You were apprehended, you are in custody. Say who you are and what you were doing in Rome or you will be executed as a spy.’
‘You know who I am, you have my belongings, and my papers; no doubt you have stolen the gold sovereigns too.’
‘Everything is being checked. Who ordered you to Italy? Speak now.’
The second man was nodding encouragement, his face pleading. Theo rolled over, turning his back on them both. ‘You have my name, you have my belongings; I have nothing further to say.’
‘Very well.’ He heard the fountain pen screwing shut. ‘We believe you are a traitorous infiltrator sent to betray us. Your uncooperative attitude supports this. I will now leave with my report and your belongings and return in due course with our findings. If my suspicions are borne out, you will then be executed. In the meantime you will remain here under lock and key.’
He spent the rest of the day shackled to his bed. Mostly he dozed; once the woman visited, clucking anxiously as she fed him bread and cheese. In the evening the larger of the men returned, standing by the door fingering his cap.
Eventually he spoke.
‘Il Capitano thinks you’re a spy.’
‘He is mistaken.’
‘I am inclined to agree. Unfortunately it is not my decision.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘What they do with you. I am Cockerel by the way. Cockerel is my code name. My real name is Francesco. This is where I live.’
‘I see.’ Cockerel’s dialect was of the rural interior. ‘And where is this?’
‘To the south of Rome.’
‘Are you Action Party?’
‘I’m not supposed to say.’
‘Was that your wife earlier?’
‘Yes. Her code name is Sparrow. It is cold up here. If I release you from the bed, you can come downstairs where it is warm and meet the others.’
‘Others?’
‘Yes. But you must promise not to escape and I must lock you up after.’
‘I understand.’
Five minutes later he was sitting in a rustic farmhouse kitchen, eating soup, bread and wine brought by Sparrow, who fussed about him as though he were a sickly relative. Also watching closely were about a dozen men of varying ages and appearances ranging from eager youths to wrinkled pensioners. Three women, including Sparrow, were also present. Cockerel appeared to be their spokesman.
‘We are one of three cells in the southern Rome department,’ he explained. ‘All are named after great Italian heroes. Ours is Cellini after the master sculptor and soldier Benvenuto Cellini. There are perhaps twenty cells in all of Italy. We communicate via courier, by hand, using codes and never letters or telephone, although we are hoping to receive radios. From our allies.’
Theo nodded. Still dizzy and weak, he sat wrapped in blankets by the stove, chewing slowly on a crust. ‘So you are Partito d’Azione.’
‘That is not how we began, but we come under their patronage.’
‘What are your aims?’
‘Aims?’ Cockerel bristled with indignation. ‘To overthrow Fascism of course, depose the dictator Mussolini and restore socialism to our nation, nothing less!’
‘Do you have weapons?’
‘Of course! Well, no, not many. Some hunting guns, a few old carbines. We’re hoping for more, obviously, from you – that is, our allies. Explosives and so forth. Along with radios.’
‘I have a Springfield rifle!’ a youth said excitedly. ‘From 1890. It’s a beauty!’
‘Eighteen ninety, well, that’s, um, quite old. And what about organization – you know, like a command structure?’
A pause. ‘A what?’
‘Ah.’
‘We’re pissing in the wind.’ An old man called Crow spat noisily on the floor. ‘We’re a disorganized, under-equipped rabble!’
‘Now, Crow, that is untrue, I Capitani provide support and instruction—’
‘Bah! They are interested only in arguing politics. We are pensioners, farmers, baker’s boys: what do we know of organizing revolutions or, or command structures!’
Silence fell. Theo looked round the kitchen. Heads were shaking; people stared at their boots; the women exchanged glances. Then Cockerel shrugged.
‘I suppose we could do with some help in that department.’
*
He stayed two weeks. Confined at first to his attic prison, after a few days he was allowed out on the promise he didn’t escape, so wandered about the farm like a sickly octogenarian, a blanket about his shoulders, sniffing the spring air, sunning his face, watching the goats and chickens before returning to his fireside chair to read and make notes. A few days more and with his strength returning, he began taking closer interest in his surroundings and his hosts, Cockerel and his wife. They had two sons, he learned, both drafted into the army but not heard from in months, and they were tenant farmers in this village on Rome’s southern outskirts.
‘I must have better confirmation of your identity,’ he told them one lunchtime. ‘Code names are well and good but the special operations people in London need to know who they are dealing with.’
‘You are with special operations in London?’ Cockerel asked incredulously.
Theo considered. ‘I suppose I am.’
‘So what is your code name?’
‘Mine? I don’t have…’ Disappointment clouded their eyes. ‘… um, well, it’s Horatio. But don’t tell anyone.’
Most evenings the Cellini cell gathered at the farmhouse, there to chat, drink wine, tell stories, play dominoes and crack jokes. More a social club than a revolutionary organization, Theo decided; he saw little evidence of plotting or planning, apart from frequent enthusiastic toasts to libertà! or democrazia! and slowly, almost without realizing it, he found himself adopting the role of military adviser.
‘Do your meetings not have agendas?’ he asked one evening as a sing-song was getting under way.
‘What for?’
‘For things like, um, you know, priorities.’
‘Priorities?’
‘What needs to be done, who’s going to do it, when, and so on.’
‘Everyone!’ Crow called out. ‘Everyone listen! Horatio thinks our meetings should have agendas. To decide on priorities. What say you?’
Murmurs of misgiving, then: ‘Why?’
Suddenly all eyes were on him, like children in a classroom.
‘Well, look. You want us, your allies that is, to send you materials, like radios, and weapons and so on.’
‘Grenades!’
‘Yes, grenades, and—’
‘Uniforms!’
‘Uniforms, indeed. But the thing is, for them to risk sending aeroplanes to drop these supplies, you must give them something in return. Like information.’
‘What information?’
‘Things like troop numbers, and movements. Around Rome for example: where the main garrisons are, how many troops live there, air defences, navy ships at the docks and so on. Things that will help them to help you overthrow the government. When the moment comes.’
Which would be a long time, he knew, for the simple truth was they weren’t ready. Apart from absent commanders, code names and good intentions, they had nothing: no structure, no organization, no relevant skills or weapons, nothing. They were children playing a game.
‘Tell us about London,’ they asked one evening a week or so later. Fed a diet of Fascist propaganda and censorship, his stories of the world beyond Italy were their favourite, and they would listen in rapt fascination. And in growing numbers too, he noted, with new recruits appearing nightly to sign up. Word of the Cellinis, despite his repeated warnings about security, was clearly spreading.
‘London?’
‘Yes. Our newspapers say it is flattened to rubble, with the vanquished people begging Il Presidente Churchill to surrender. Is this true?’
He thought back to a bus ride through the capital, sitting up top passing the wrecked streets, smoking craters and smashed buildings. And the people, chains of volunteers passing buckets, digging through rubble for a photograph, ornament or child’s toy. Suddenly he felt proud to be part of it. Not the death and desecration, but the unity, the sense of common purpose, the gritty black humour.
‘No, the Londoners don’t beg for surrender, that is not their way. The bombing is cruel and merciless and yes there is much devastation, but Britain is not beaten, far from it, her spirit is strong, and even as we speak she reaches out to attack the enemy.’
Nods of solidarity, then Crow caught his eye. ‘So, were you involved with that aqueduct incident down in Campania?’
A breathless hush filled the room. Theo allowed himself a faint smile. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
A few mornings later he awoke to the sound of a motorcycle racing up the track. As usual he was locked in his bedroom, but crouching at the window he glimpsed one of Cellini’s youths aboard the machine. A moment later feet were crashing up the stairs. ‘Horatio! Il Capitano is coming!’
The meeting took place in the kitchen. Theo was escorted downstairs by Cockerel
to stand before the same bespectacled man, who was dressed in jacket and cap and sitting at the table. Upon it was a sheaf of documents and Theo’s suitcase.
‘Why is the suspect not shackled?’ the man demanded.
‘He gave his word,’ Cockerel replied. ‘And keeps it.’
‘We shall see.’ He held a photograph up to Theo. ‘Do you recognize this person?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘I will not speak to you until I have an explanation.’
‘I see.’ The man removed his spectacles. ‘Then I will give you one.’
His code name was Leon; he was regional secretary of Action Party’s ruling council in Rome. The party was still in its infancy and gaining strength every day, but was threatened by dissenting interlopers, competing factions, the State, government spies, secret police, and the Germans, whom nobody trusted. It had therefore to exercise extreme caution in its dealings with outsiders.
‘Our objective is to overthrow Mussolini and restore a socialist democracy. By force if necessary. So we have many dangerous enemies. Which brings me to you.’ Leon pushed Theo’s suitcase across the table. ‘As far as can be ascertained, your story appears genuine.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But we can’t be certain and cannot risk betrayal. Therefore we require a demonstration. As proof of your integrity, and the British government’s commitment.’
‘A demonstration.’
‘Yes. You are supposedly a trained combatant and saboteur. Demonstrate it, and we will supply the information you require to pass to London.’
It was a set-up, Theo sensed immediately. Action Party hadn’t the skills or training to mount operations, so were using him for its own political ends. He glanced uneasily at the photograph on the table. Worse soon followed.
‘You do recognize him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course.’ Leon picked up the photograph. ‘Senator Ettore Tolomei, better known as the Undertaker of South Tyrol, scourge of the separatist movement you profess allegiance to. Many innocents has he arrested, including your grandfather; many more he has simply caused to disappear. He advocates the ruthless suppression of any opposition to the Fascist regime. He is a murderer.’
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