The Vengeance of Rome

by Michael Moorcock

  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 resume gave him an exceptional understanding. He spoke with great admiration of my roles. He assumed I had directed myself. He said the Masked Buckaroo should be a role 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 Caid. 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 unbuttoned 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.’

  ‘Profe
ssor 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.

  I had enough remaining sense to murmur of commitments — minor business in the US and so on (actually, I needed time to catch my breath) and he was generous. Again the grave nod, the assurance of that gesture, and I was given until 1 January. Who could now deny my destiny?! That date was my birthday, both as a man and as a Fascist.

  Once again his firm hand was placed in mine. The interview was over. Mussolini walked with deliberate, thoughtful pace, back towards the great house, a pale shadow in the deepening mist.

  Margherita Sarfatti, her usual riot of scents and scarves, clutched excitedly at my arm. ‘You made a wonderful impression. He likes you. He normally doesn’t give me that amount of time these days. He trusts you. He believes in you. You have come at exactly the right moment. You bring him exactly what he needs: a machine which will overawe our enemies and reduce our casualties. We have taken another major step towards the establishment of a truly Fascist world. We shall harness all that is good about our modern age and place it in the service of the ideals and traditions of our noblest ancestors.’

  Rather foolishly, I mentioned to Margherita I needed to find a toilet. Apparently my entire system wished to void itself at one burst. She smilingly told me to use the lake. She would keep guard. A little self-consciously, though hidden by mist and bushes, I relieved myself into the freezing waters of the ornamental pond. Before I could pull up my trousers against the near-zero chill, Signora Sarfatti was upon me. Did I feel grateful, she asked, for what she had done for me? I was indeed very grateful. She pressed close to me, her breath smelling of violets and Turkish tobacco, her dyed hair escaping from under her fur.

  I was horribly conscious of who she was. Surely Il Duce’s mistress would not consider jeopardising everything for a sordid, carnal moment? The place was suddenly silent. I heard a car driving away.

  He has gone, she said. She sounded angry, disgusted. He has to get back to his wife and family. He had found an excuse to be free of his peasant brood for a few hours. My private parts in her heated hand, I stood beside the freezing water with my trousers down. Then I found myself turning suddenly to vomit. I heard her crooning behind me. I heard her telling me it was all right. Meanwhile, her hand held tight to my genitals as she stroked and whispered and at last let me raise my trousers and accompany her to her waiting car.

  ‘We’ll need a couple of hours,’ she said. ‘You can tell them whatever you like.’ She spoke in a rather detached, casual way, as if to a relative. ‘But we’ll need at least two hours.’ She flung herself back into the cushions of the limousine, scratching her prominent stomach. I was glad that she favoured dim lighting. Yet part of me really did love her at that moment. She was the medium through whom my dream had come true.

  However, no matter what I told myself, no matter how I found ways of making Signora Sarfatti attractive, there was one terrible obstacle to my ever achieving a state of lust sufficient to satisfy her. That obstacle would not leave my mind. It informed every action involving my benefactress. Even as she took me back to her extraordinary apartment, which she shared with children and servants, all of whom stared at me from hiding as we arrived, the knowledge kept pounding in my head. I was about to enjoy sexual congress with the ‘uncrowned Queen of Italy’, whom some called the new Lucretia Borgia, my hero’s long-established paramour, the mistress of a superman. A superman, I believed, who would not be entirely sympathetic to my circumstances and would take appropriate Italian action if he ever found out.

  It occurred to me, as Margherita settled herself upon me without bothering to take off most of her clothes, that I had become a character in a Greek drama. The irony did not console me.

  I became reconciled to my destiny.

  My last thought before that extraordinary, fleshy scarecrow began her unusual and somewhat terrifying ministrations was ‘What happened to Fiorello?’

  * * * *

  TWELVE

  I could only hope that Signora Sarfatti’s passion would fade with her act of conquest. I was in a state of silent exhaustion when she returned me to my friends’ flat at around two in the morning. To my dismay, they were all waiting up for me. The Christmas tree candles had gone out, but the fire was high. Billy, in a dressing gown which could have swaddled Africa, made me a hot toddy. Ethel carried off my street clothes, commenting sympathetically on their condition, while Maddy murmured comfort and enquiry.

  My silence was taken for weighty thought. Ethel told her husband to be quiet and suggested we all needed sleep. We could talk, if necessary, in the morning. Billy, with his journalist’s nose for news, was, of course, the most eager. But he was a gentleman through and through, the best kind of old-fashioned American, so his courtesy triumphed over his curiosity.

  Grateful for this, I allowed Maddy to lead me to bed. Insistently, since Margherita’s conflicting scents filled my own nostrils, I stumbled into a bath. From there I remember almost nothing. I awoke in the pink haze of a perfect afternoon with a few soft clouds in the pastel sky and two slender poplars framed in the window whose curtains a smiling Maddy drew back for me. I smelled coffee and croissants. I was filled with an emotion I can only describe as untranquil well-being. My elation at meeting my hero and discovering his respect — indeed his need — for me was almost overwhelming, as was the knowledge of the price I had to pay La Sarfatti for my good fortune.

  Bluntly, I felt as if I had been fucked by a demon. None of this can be said, of course. She is still alive, still spending the fortune she has made from selling the degenerate paintings she spirited away when she fled into exile. After she fell out of favour and was revealed as a Jewess, she ran off to America. She now lives, I understand, in Trieste, where all our histories began. D’Annunzio’s noble act of individualism, after all, provided the inspiration for the March on Rome. They now claim the march never took place, that every aspect of Mussolini’s career was a circus, an illusion, a further step into grotesque fantasy, but you only have to look at the buildings to know who was fantasising and who was not. Mussolini demanded an architecture which was powerful, brutal and stark — a tough, Fascist architecture. If it did not exist, why is it still being copied around the world, especially in London?

  Maddy Butter was grave as she settled her warm little body beside me. Pushing back her pretty curls, she did her best not to seem eager. While I ate from my breakfast tray, she read from t
he newspaper. She had looked, she said, for some hint of my activities last night, but unless I had been called to help a dog which had somehow climbed a tree in the Via delle Sette Chiese on Christmas Eve and had been stuck for twenty-four hours, howling the whole time until shot by a local squadristi, there was no clue. Of course she was quivering with curiosity and, because of my circumstances, I was able to be deliberate, cautious and cryptic in my replies. The philanderer’s perfect situation! Unfortunately I was not the perfect philanderer and had no enthusiasm for the role. I swore Maddy to secrecy before telling her that Signora Sarfatti had been the intermediary between me and a very important figure indeed.

  ‘Mussolini!’ cried Maddy, eyes shining. I neither confirmed nor denied this. I went on to say how I’d been offered a job doing what I could do best as an engineer. A job which satisfied my ideal for practical altruism. At last my talents were to be put to the public service. I had longed all my life for just such a chance. My eyes filled with sudden tears as I thought of my mother, of Esmé and my loved ones in Kiev. I wished they were with me now to share in my glorious fulfilment. Maddy Butter interpreted my tears as tears of joy. This allowed her to echo the supposed emotion, weeping for my success as I wept for my lost loved ones whom she, no matter how sweet, could never replace.