/chapter rewriting is taking place/
I am rewriting this chapter and a lot of other one. But this one is long and I have only a brief time to do this. And I my current situation, only a phone to do this.
So maybe while reading this chapter, you will find things that seems incoherent with the previous chapters. Cause the rewriting isn't finished for any of the two.
Thank you and good reading.
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"So... am I still going?"
He asks, with a little more anxiety in his voice than he would have liked.
"Of course."
Simple and quick.
A response as efficient as possible, almost artistic in its minimalism.
"Why?"
He dares to ask, already knowing that his friend, like with all matters he considers closed, will never talk about it again. He is already opening another drawer, moving on to another completely different task.
Swamp drainage? Whatever...
His friend's eyes meet his as he asks the question, silently daring him to continue.
Because of course he won't explain it himself.
God, he is a great man.
But such an insufferable cunt.
"Because now, after all this..." he begins, his voice dry. "After knowing my particularly different view on these... people... you still trust me to follow your vision?"
Amedeo asks.
He already knows he will go.
Whether willingly or not is a matter that was settled several minutes ago.
"What makes you think I won't simply do as I please the moment I'm on the other side of the Mediterranean?"
The idea of... softening his hand, as his friend calls it, deeply sickens him.
Especially because he knows it only means he will remain in this deep, sickening south for longer.
Can't he simply do what Scipio Africanus did in his greatest hour? Burn the unholy Carthage and salt the earth, ensuring no enemy ever rises again from that hole?
Benito smiles at this.
Not mockingly.
Almost as if he enjoys the almost-rebuttal.
His tongue briefly touches his lips, as if tasting a peculiar word or some amusing thought hidden inside Amedeo's question.
"Trust..."
The imposing man chuckles, a small rictus forming on his face, as if he has heard an old private joke that, even after years of being repeated, still carries the same ironic appeal.
"What an extraordinary invention."
He leans back comfortably.
"I have never understood why men worship this peculiar thing so much. Especially for such an... unnecessary emotion, undeserving of the importance people give it."
Amedeo can almost see the point.
Almost.
"Trust is a useless burden, especially for men like us," the other man continues, tapping the side of the armchair, an amused and lofty gaze in his eyes.
"It demands so much... and gives nothing in return, except some useless emotional satisfaction."
"I 'trust' you to do as planned in the desert. Not because of childish fantasies, but because I know you have nothing to gain, except five minutes of satisfaction, by destroying this place."
"Even your young brain can understand how much our special relationship and partnership could be... damaged if we both begin purposefully doing the exact opposite of what the other wants, despite his obvious warnings."
It is said as nicely as it possibly could be.
Wrapped in enough subtlety that it almost sounds like friendly advice.
But sadly, a threat, whatever its form, is still a threat.
Amedeo may not be as experienced as him, but he is far from being as dense as he sometimes appears.
His friend continues regardless, as if those words were never spoken.
"I do not trust you."
The sentence comes so naturally that it almost sounds polite, his voice not wavering even once.
"I simply know you."
He stops for a few seconds, staring toward the ceiling.
"I know what you want."
"And I know what you fear."
His eyes meet Amedeo's again.
"That is enough to understand what you will do."
True.
As annoying as it is.
"You have far too much to lose by openly disobeying me."
His friend says this with such bluntness that it becomes almost unsettling.
No attempt at politeness.
No attempt to soften the statement.
"Friendship has nothing to do with it."
"If you deliberately sabotage what I have entrusted to you, then you weaken and purposefully damage the very partnership that allowed you to come this far."
A short pause.
"The same applies to me, from your perspective."
He guesses he cannot really contradict that.
"Don't worry. I don't ask you to be a gentleman," the man then continues, smiling for whatever new reason.
"You were never born to be one."
Not for you to decide...
Friend.
"I can tell you are not the type to wear white gloves when you have a job to do. Even if you like to appear and think of yourself as someone like that."
He guesses he is a little irritated by this blatant disregard for his own image.
His pounding heart confirms it.
He is not as calm as he would like himself to be.
"You are still authorized to do anything you deem necessary to secure this place."
"And..." Benito adds, as if dismissing something casually unimportant.
"If the hardships of war lead you beyond treaties, conventions, or the comfortable rules discussed in Geneva..."
A dismissive wave.
"...then so be it."
"As long as it serves a purpose. The purpose being winning this war as quickly as possible and preserving Italian lives as much as you can."
He then looks at him with an emotion Amedeo cannot quite decipher before speaking again.
"There is a profound difference between violence employed as an instrument, as a means to an end..."
"...and violence exercised simply for its own sake, for the pleasure of holding the instrument."
Is that a quote he borrowed?
Benito gives a slight chuckle as he sees the confused expression on his friend's face.
"You are, of course, completely free to use violence in this wasteland that is this bag of sand..."
"...as long as it has a reason to exist."
"Even the madness of a wild dog has its usefulness..."
He adds the last words almost as a whisper.
"So, what are my restrictions?" Amedeo asks, understanding the idea but still unsure whether he is truly free or not in this mission.
He receives his answer immediately.
Mussolini hands him a paper.
"These are your rules, my friend."
Amedeo lowers his gaze to read it, before immediately stopping as the content enters his vision.
A white paper.
Blank white.
Even with his own lack of subtlety, he can understand the meaning.
A nice blank sheet of paper.
Perfect for blowing his nose with.
So, he supposes he is free.
Free to do what he wants.
Just careful enough to curb the worst excesses.
And, above all...
Not to enjoy it too much.
....
"You leave on the first of October. Make sure to finish every project you are actually doing before then, and send me the ones you haven't."
His friend tell him, as he throws the nice blank paper away. Crushing it before sending it in the trash ban.
"Who will be appointed with me?"
The young man asks, wary of any potential pawn on his way, sent to advise him but who ends up taking his place, whether it is the original plan of the bald man or not.
"Messe will be your second in command," Mussolini answers, now nonchalantly, in a tone more than casual and cozy, as if the previous outburst had never even happened.
...
Messe ?
Ah yes, he thinks he can remember the name... though only through a few hours spent on some old strategy games, of course. Yet he doesn't recall much about the guy, not that he probably ever knew a lot to begin with.
What he does remember is that, among all the Italian generals available in those games, this guy was the most competent one, while not very often the highest in terms of rank.
Typical Italian military moment.
"Giovanni Messe," the Duce develops, "a brave and quite competent lad."
"He never held the top military positions in our alternate reality, but he still made quite a name for himself as perhaps the greatest general our country could show in the Second World War. He led Italian troops effectively in Russia and Greece—even though he was rarely given ideal conditions to start with, he always managed to scrape together victories, or at the very least prevent total disasters.
He earned respect in hopeless situations—through discipline, innovation, and sheer resolve."
"I think Rommel had a very good opinion of him, from their time together in Tunisia in the year 1943; this already says much in itself.
So quite the perfect one for helping you in this... cleaning operation."
Benito wraps up with a tap of his fingers on the desk.
"He already possesses some experience from WWI; you and him should like each other... I suppose. Just try not to be overshadowed by him. He'll advise you—and he might teach you a thing or two, which is fine. But remember, you are the chief there. Don't let people forget that. Your age and lack of experience already raise enough eyebrows as it is. It would be terrible for your future career and for your job there if your second in command whispered in your ear like a Wormtongue... not that he would be the type to do that."
Okay...
It will be a good appointment, he thinks. At least he will have a veteran, and not a bad one, to get some teaching from. And as the man will probably still lead in the next wars, whatever and wherever they are, Amedeo thinks it could be a good thing for... Messe... to get used to desert war.
And we never know, maybe this... 'talented' officer could maybe get some lessons from him, about the new reality of war and the doctrines that came with it.
After all, Amedeo knows it: the old school of war has ended. And now, there is a new doctrine that will bring victory to the one lucid enough to adapt it. And he is the one who will introduce Italy to this new way of snatching victory from the hands of the enemy's corpse.
A new type of war...
And now that the occasion presents itself—Libya and its... 'people'... they could be the perfect training ground to test these new ideas.
But they don't have to worry; he had his remonstrances, he will be soft.
That's what the report will say.
"And he will not be the only famous name to follow you in your safari."
He adds, while opening one of the folders on the desk, the red wrapping paper bearing the title "Colonial Stability Observation Group."
"The seat of Saint Peter is an old institution... that is quite the euphemism."
The words come before Amedeo can even ask.
Mussolini does not look at him. His eyes remain fixed somewhere beyond the window, as if the answer was not really meant for a conversation, but for a thought he had carried for years.
"And as with all old and decaying things, they possess an inherent capacity to resist time.
"A difficulty to move. To change... to accept the new realities of things and adapt to them."
A brief pause.
His fingers tap lightly against the armrest, almost absentmindedly.
"They prefer to remain where they are, as they are, lacking the evolutive nature that exists in any modern society.
"Clinging to old ideas—the good as well as the bad ones—that is not the question. They will keep them regardless."
Amedeo remains silent. Not because he agrees, but because interrupting would only delay the conclusion he already knows is coming.
"The world lives in a straight line, trapped in an ineluctable movement. An unchanging progression, directed toward an inevitable end, or at least a general direction.
"The Church, by contrast ; this one even more than most other religions... lives and dwells in a never-ending circle."
Mussolini finally turns his gaze toward him.
"Nothing is new. Nothing truly changes.
"The end does not exist. There is no finish line...
"And perhaps no beginning either."
A faint smile crosses his face.
"A living corpse... quite a fitting thing for people worshipping a rising cadaver."
OK, this is getting annoying...
"And what does that mean in Italian ? Without the half-superficial quotes, the pseudo-thoughts, and all the intellectual wankery, I mean."
Amedeo Tilt his head as he asks, half-irritated by the use of such derogatory comments on the Church... though not too much. He's mostly also already quite fed up from the earlier arguments.
"As you know the discussion with the Vatican are still underway" His friend summarizes, his friend summarizes, eyes fixed on the window.
"Plenty of honeyed words, of little picky promises, subtle half-threats, and lots, lots of concessions... This," he adds, opening a folder, "is one of them."
Inside lies a sheet of pristine white paper, bearing signatures and official seals. It looks more like an accord than a contract.
At the bottom, two signatures stand out.
The one on the left is instantly recognizable to Amedeo... so familiar, in fact, he could probably replicate it with his eyes closed.
A capital M written in large letters, resting on a sort of B written upside down, pointed horizontally, resembling some sort of Greek temple, all accompanied by some scribbles and added ink embellishments for the sole artifice of elegance.
The other signature is unfamiliar. But it's the two seals flanking the text that provide the answer.
The first needs no explanation: the eagle, the fasces, the Italian flag, the Savoy cross—standard symbols of the regime.
But the second is far more elegant—and far more recognizable. More so, even, than Benito's.
Two crossed keys beneath a papal tiara.
The seal of the Pope.
He waves the thought away. "Now, back to the topic..."
He taps the folder in his hand, measuring his words.
"This... is one of our accords. The Church will have the rights, the permission, and more importantly, our support. Explicit and total support. To expand its number of followers in Libya. And, naturally, the charitable assistance they offer."
He pauses, his voice tinged with faint mockery.
"Through all the usual means—education, hospitals... and missionary work, of course."
Inside, Amedeo can already see the shape of this arrangement—and it eases his fears.
At least... people he can work with.
And if he can follow the Lord's vision, and help His most holy Church, he'll do so gladly.
"Monastery hospitals and Catholic schools will be authorized to flourish in this new land," Mussolini sums up.
"At least it'll help us... assimilate the natives. And we won't have to spend a single damn lira or drop of sweat doing it. Thank God, huh..."
The man chuckles for a few seconds at his own joke, before returning to what he considers the interesting part.
"As I said.... missionaries will be sent by the Church, on an official mission to preach the good faith. They'll accompany you. They're authorized to use funds to build churches, monasteries, whatever little shrines these cassocked frogs want. In general, they'll help expand Roman influence in that big sandbox full of camel riders. And by Roman, it means both them and us."
"If there's one thing you have to give Muslims, it's their determination," he says.
"Always ready to take up arms and die for their way of life. You don't see that kind of fire much in people following our faith—or our way of life, for that matter..."
He shrugs, then continues, more calculated now:
"And since it's obvious there's no way we'll ever convert all of them, we might as well convert just enough to fracture this little tribal society."
"It'll be a lot harder for them to rise up if, on top of their tribal rivalries, they're stuck with the kind of ethnic and religious map you find in the Balkans."
"They'll travel with your army. You'll be tasked with protecting them...at all costs.
Think of them as the second wave of colonization. Or maybe the third, if you count the immigrants... no... immigrants will come after. Anyway... first: your soldiers. They deal with the insurgents."
"Then the missionaries. They arrive, help the people, educate a few, heal the wounded, preach, talk a lot..."
He lets the words hang in the air, then adds, with a lopsided smirk:"And in the end, maybe... just maybe... 0.000000005% of that population won't completely hate us."
He then adds humouredly "And as it is sure their fellow tribesmen will do it for betraying their faith, they will have no other choice."
He shrugs, as enthusiastic as this man could be.
"Good deal for us. The Church is happy. I get a better colony without lifting a finger, and it looks like I've granted to the pope some noble concession that I am doing with unease, he will remember this and try to repay me for it, while he is actually the one helping me. I'm happy. The holy see is happy. You're happy. Italy stops having grudges with the church and vice-versa. We're all happy."
He smirks.
"Well, maybe not the locals... but whatever."
"And…" he continues, dragging it out like the real news is still waiting behind the curtain.
"Some of these priests won't be Italian, you see. They're from a few other countries—members of specific orders of great repute. Jesuits, Dominicans, Benedictines, and the like."
"And since they are residents of foreign nations, I've...very humbly, in the spirit of mutual understanding and shared Catholic faith... asked if these countries would agree to support and help ensure the safety of their compatriots in that dreadful desert."
He gives a brief pause, pretending as though it's nothing.
"This includes the following countries: Portugal. France. Hungary…"
He pauses... then turns his eyes to Amedeo, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
The look is sharp, mischievous... like a man savoring the best joke in the universe, a joke about Amedeo, which makes him both mad and scared at the same time
"And Spain," he adds, voice thick with irony.
"Of course... the most holy of them all."
That already sets off an alarm.
Bring some help?
Before the concern fully forms, Mussolini cuts in, as if reading minds:
"Of course, we're not asking them to risk the lives of their brave men or do our job for us."
He raises his hands in mock innocence.
"Just permission... and maybe the opportunity... for them to send a few experienced officers. To help ensure the safety of these noble men of faith."
"And perhaps," he adds, with a smile that doesn't reach the eyes,
"exchange a few ideas. Discuss. Share their teachings. Make contacts. Gain some experience alongside their Italian comrades while they are dealing with the mess in Libia. About desert warfare... colonial warfare... and other such useful topics."
"It could be a formidable chance for all of us. Protect the men in cloth in their sacred mission. Make new friends on the way. Powerful friends. And learn from them. Most notably about the new realities of warfare, as we are destroying the Libyan rebellion."
"To summarize it, a perfect opportunity, for them as for us and for our officers. Militarily, diplomatically, politically. And for our relationship with the church and these four countries, as they will see we are lenient to work with them despite our ideological differences. And as the holiness will be happy to see that our loyalty in the faith of Italy is more than just honey words and political statements"
The Duce closes the folder gently, and finishes with a slow, satisfied smile.
"And... the liaisons we will make there could be usefuf... no, will be useful in the future, that is for sure. But I think showing you is easier than wasting words."
He says that while opening another folders, the paper he gets out of it harbouring a long list of names.
Most of them are unrecognisable for Amedeo, classical French names, but what pick his attention, it is the annotation, each name facing on the same line on the paper little informations about the person, age, rank, and... he don't really know what he is reading.
Etienne Morant, 34 years old, Adjudant chef,
Jeunesses patriotes.
Jean-Francois Dupuis, 39 years old, Capitaine, Camelots du Roi (Action Française)
Pierre Delaporte, 45 years old, Lieutenant-colonel, Fédération nationale catholique.
Amedeo don't recognise any of these names, but clearly, in these annotations there is a lot of what appears to be political organisations whom these people are associated with, both because he can recognise even a few of them and because the names of the other ones doesn't let place to imagination, the classical types of words you can find in these right-wing political associations, the usual "People, Christian, national, front", you can see these people are chosen carefully.
Nationalist, Catholics, Conservative, probably even sort of fascist for some of them.
It is more than just to gather experience as he said, but to make contacts. Political contacts.
Making political contacts with officers of a foreign nation, officers who mostly share ideological similarities with us ? It stinks.
But only because he doesn't know if it is or not for a future plan his friend as in his mind.
But he will not be asking about it anyway.
"The French one could be very useful in the future."
Mussolini admits, seeing the interested gaze of his friend, dropping some information but without ever plainly explaining all of what's is hiding behind it, as usual.
"Especially Colonel Francois De Larocque."
"Although he isn't the head of the croix de feu, not yet, I believe he founded the organisation in 1928 or something like that, it will be crucial to make contacts with him. Both to make alliance, and maybe initiate some influence on his ideas early on. It will be harder layer, once he becomes head of party and in the center of the French political game, so now is the perfect time to do that."
Amedeo then give a gaze of annoyance as his friend take the sheet of paper from his hand, before throwing it back in the folders. As if this was some very irritating formality he was forced to do before reaching the interesting part of the conversation. Which seems quite true, as he then give him another white paper, also bearing its won long list of names, age, rank... and for some of the persons there, political affiliations.
"But I believe the Spanish ones, and it is sure all of the persons present on this list will be there, I had a wonderful chat with the envoy of Primo De Rivera about that, I believe they will be the most crucial part of these foreign attaché that will accompany you in the desert."
"After all, we both know that in the future, being in touch with the Spanish military could be very... beneficial, for both parties."
"Besides"
Benito continue while laying his fingers on one particular name.
"It will be the perfect occasion for you to meet in person with you dear spanish friends."
Oh...
It is the only thing he can think of, as he gaze on the name, recognising so easily.
Manuel Fal Conde
Famous member... of the Carlisle militia
"What do you mean ?" Amedeo says back with a false confused face.
Such poor attempt.
"Did you mistake me for the idiot of Roma ?"
The founder of fascist asks with a grim smile
"Sorry, but I am actually from Predapio, we do sarcasm there."
He guesses that he is fucked.
Shit... and he thought he was cautious.
It must be Salviati who switched him. This fucking little faggot.
"Oh... you really thought you were sneaky ? And that I could be that much gullible ?"
He continues with the same face an adult who give to a child trying to scam him.
"That would be very cute if it weren't so insulting."
The man then return to a serious and dead face.
"I will let it pass this time. Now go."
He finishes, waving his hand in a dismissing gesture.
"Don't forget to be back Saturday. We will do a group photo with the friends, to immortalise the finishing of the desk part of this room. It will be beautiful, I know it."
Amedeo nod as he stand up, moving his chair under the desk. Before going out.
He is stopped by the voice of his friend when he almost pass by the entry door.
"Next time you try to do things under my nose. I will make sure that, whoever is receiving you little package, will have a bad surprise."
He know his frien isn't lying
"Whoever it is, people you imagine as your future allies, friends, resistant, pawns in your game, or even your fucking dog, it does not matter, if it is planned under my nose, the package will be completed by a nice little stock of dynamite, if the blackshirt is to far way."
"We work together. Both at the highest places of this country. And we will do that even more in the future. But don't take my friendship for guaranteed, if you think you can do things alone while speaking in my name."
He complete
"If all is going as planned. In the future. And not a far from now future. There will be an independent country named Croatia. And as our ally, if you can call it that. And of course, a kingdom it will be. And a king it will need. An Italian one, of course."
Only at this Amedeo turn back, watching his friend on the other side of the great room, both men watching the other in the eyes despite the distance between them.
"Don't make me ask to your cousin to learn Croatian. For the love of God, and the love of the Crotian language. He has such a bad tongue."
"See you next week."
This is the last thing Amedeo can hear, before stepping out. Leaving in the loud silence.