The Vengeance of Rome
- Автор: Муркок Майкл
- Серия: Between The Wars #4
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Vengeance of Rome». Краткое содержание книги:
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!’