"Don't make me reconsider my choice, friend."
Mussolini says, while readjusting himself, half lying back on his chair, one leg crossed over the other, resting his weight on his arm, which follows the curve of the armrest.
The hand of that arm moves in a concert of friction and finger gesticulations, as if kneading an unknown shape hidden in his palm. Is it simply a compulsive gesture, a weird habit? Or the need to relax in order not to slip and say or do something beyond his control? Amedeo doesn't really know.
"Why?"
He responds immediately, baffled and irritated by the turn of this conversation.
"Because I've dared to contradict the great leader, and I've hurt his feelings with simple facts?"
"Careful now," the man responds with his raised index finger, in an imperious sign, silently ordering him to behave well, almost as one does to a dog, his eyes now holding a coldness never seen before.
The glow in them is now gone, the veneer of politeness with it, now totally eclipsed by nothing, disappeared in the absolute void that is the pupil of the man. The hue of a vision and the subtle promise of friendship and a shared place at the table are instantly gone. Now, there is nothing, utterly and absolutely nothing, just dark orbits, like shadows in ink.
The two round globes stuck at the bottom of these orbits do not express even the slightest sensation of life, detached from any form of emotion, not flickering, stripped of even the slightest hint of pathos. The only trace of any form of affect comes from his voice, harsh and brittle, whistling yet full of dryness, but especially from his jaw, his mouth wide open in an almost parodic grimace, revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth, overlapping, seeming to press against each other, grinding in a sound reminiscent of a prison door closing.
The two remain in a deep silence for some long and tiring minutes before Amedeo accepts and silently acquiesces with an irritated nod of the head, apologizing silently for his... cavalier remark.
Yet he would never do it verbally. Benito would never hear him making openly and vocally silly excuses under the pressure.
He isn't a coward.
He just knows how to behave.
"You will still go there," Benito then continues, quitting his interlocutor's gaze for some seconds, brushing off invisible dirt from his arm resting on the armrest, before returning to his unfortunate companion.
Amedeo listens, remaining quite calm, though inwardly apprehensive.
"But it would be a lie if I told you I don't feel uneasy with the discovery of your... particular point of view on these oriental matters.
Not that it would be strange to hear, from someone with your background and age, such naive and biased, if not completely stupid, ideas. But it is still disappointing."
"Planning to put me aside just because of these 'biased opinions'—that's what I consider to be really disappointing," Amedeo squeaks in a dry tone.
"And I thought you were the pragmatic type."
"Continue," Mussolini says, waving his hand. "And I could maybe really begin to seriously think about it."
"Because you really think I will buy these stupid excuses?" Amedeo continues, now less afraid to speak his truth and denounce these blatant lies from his companion, trying to undermine him under the stupid pretext of autochthonous treatment.
"You can be as sharp with your tongue as you want, I know what you are. There will never be any chance in the world that I would ever seriously believe that your sociopathic ass cares about these savag—"
"Yes, I fucking care!"
Benito cuts him off with a slam of his fist on the table, the sound echoing through the entire large marble hall, the blow causing his pile of papers to scatter everywhere around the desk, his eyes piercing with a mortally deadly gaze, and for once not measured and hidden, but open and unequivocal. Not chained under the jests of courtesy and propriety, but unleashed, like a river whose dam has broken, ready to pour out, clashing with everything in its path without discrimination. Each of his words emphasized, spoken slowly and loudly, each syllable sliding over his teeth.
"I fucking care... Because! These! People! Are! Mine!"
The man then gets up abruptly, the heavy and cozy chair falling in the action, a loud thud of wood on stone resonating in the room, followed by another piercing hit, that of the boot hitting the back of the chair and sending it flying without care in order to make some space, the wooden furniture being in his way, and the man of the nation being not in the mood for careful or respectful gestures.
Il Duce then passes around the desk, pausing for a moment to raise his index finger in the direction of the other man, silently ordering Amedeo, who was getting up to reach his level, to stay the fuck in the chair. The man then sits on the desk itself, his ass without consideration on some document, its ink still wet, shown by the traces that seem to appear on his pants, not that he seems to care at this point.
"I am putting you there to pacify the region," the Duce emphasizes with a now very low voice, almost a whisper in the wind, his hand raised and making all sorts of the strangest gestures, as if to express his anger, calm himself, or assert his point.
"To have a Libya in order... a beacon of peace, purged of the instability inherent to this godforsaken region. A true model colony, where everyone can see the genius of the Italian man at work, ready to embrace the future with open arms, and be one of the first places where fascism will build the first traces of the authentic Italian society of tomorrow...
That's why I sent you... not to find a desolate wasteland—half the original population vanished, the region in ruins, towns reduced to rubble and needing to be rebuilt from the ground up.
Just because, instead of doing your job and dealing with the insurgency, you unleashed hell and worse on the place. And that just because you wanted to satisfy your urge to be a maniac, or your pathetic need to be seen as someone who is somewhat important, a juvenile urge, as ridiculous as it is dangerous. Or worse, to act out of some idiotic racism ingrained in you from the fact that, once upon a time in your previous life, when you were a fucking toddler sucking your thumb, your classmate, some third-world immigrant's son, beat you up in school."
"Because these 'people'..." Benito throws this phrase with a grim smile, while making a vague wave of his hand, pointing to an unknown spot on the horizon, as if he were pointing at those people he is talking about, as though they were present in the room, placing a particular emphasis on the word "people" in a mocking tone, as if he's holding back laughter from a bad joke. "And their land, they all belong to Italy, to the Italian state; there is no question about that."
"And I am the Duce, I am the government, I am the state... I am Italy!"
"It is me… Me. Me. Me. Me. Me !"
"I am the one who decides what happens to this land and these people. They belong to me... each one of them. No matter what fucking religion they practice, the fucking color of their stupid, ugly faces, the color of the ideology they pathetically devote their lives to... not even their sex, age, or culture... even their opinion about it does not matter, they are mine."
"None of it matters. Only me, only what I want for them...
Humans and animals alike."
From the most powerful of these backward tribal chiefs parading the desert on camels to the smallest and sickliest rat crawling through the sewers. They all belong to me, with no exception.
They exist in accordance with what I want, in accordance with my will. They are what I want them to be, what I decide they shall be. I am the one who chooses their fate.
Even the fetuses... still hidden in wombs, waiting to merely begin to almost exist in the farthest corners of this land, have a future because I've chosen it, because I've decided they would have a future. Because my decision, and mine alone, was for them to have one.
Their path, their role in all of this, their whole place in the grand game of the world, in the grand scheme of things, their purpose in the design of existence—they owe it to me. It is mine to give. And mine alone.
These people, their entire lives, dreams, and existence—all of it belongs to the Italian state, whatever the value of said lives is really worth.
And so many of them could be turned into something so beautiful, given the proper touch, made by the right hand, a hand I intend to lay on these half-crafted jewels."
God, does he really was finally able to piss him off ?
"And you."
Benito continues, pointing his finger in Amedeo's direction, eyes like daggers.
"You are talking and planning, I can see that, about the deliberate and unneeded destruction of my belongings, of the belongings of Italy.
And for what? For nothing else than rubbing your little childlike feelings, to soothe your brittle, childish ego and fill the void left by a missing father figure, all masked by the pathetic delusions of your racial and religious supremacy, that you wrap yourself in so as not to have to assume the failure of your personal life !"
"But no ! I will not let your pathetic feelings destroy my property.
Whether it is a Romagnole building, an economic plan, some coal in Turin, some farmland in the south, a diplomatic relation, a scientific advancement... or a little life on the other edge of the Mediterranean, who, like a diamond not yet cut and adorned by a jeweler, could be of such use for the state and the party, if time and planning were given to his simple existence..."
These are his last words before he turns his back on the younger man, not interested in any type of answer, joke, or contradiction.
Not that Amedeo has anything else in mind.
The chair at the desk makes a creaking noise as it is slowly lifted and set upright, then even more slowly moved to return to its original place, the capo del Governo pushing it without any impatience with one hand, the wood making a piercing sound on the marble, dragging on for several long seconds in a slow movement done deliberately.
"You will still go... as what has been previously planned."
He resumes, while taking some folders and putting them back together among others, giving back to his desk the straightness and organization it had before his outburst. Partially, at least.
"Because now, with your little remonstrances, you trust me to follow your lead and do what you want like one of the thousand dogs you have in this building?" Amedeo asks, knowing even if he doesn't want it, he will have to follow the bald man's vision about these ungrateful tribes.
Or at least try to soften his hand.
"Trust..."
The imposing man chuckles, a little rictus on his face, as if he had heard an old private joke that, even after years of being told, still harbors the same ironic appeal.
"Trust is a useless burden, especially for men like us," he continues, while tapping the side of the armchair, an amused, lofty gaze in his eyes.
"It takes so much... and gives nothing in return, except some useless emotional input."
"I 'trust' you to do as planned in the desert. Not because of childish fantasy or an emotional spider link, sticky but so easily cut with a micro flick of the finger, but because I know you have nothing to gain, except five minutes of contented feelings, in destroying this place."
"Even your young brain can understand how much our special relationship and partnership could be... stricken, if we both begin to purposefully do the exact opposite of what the other wants, despite his warnings."
"I know you will do as said, because you have everything to lose and nothing to gain by doing the opposite, not because of this illogical thing you call trust."
He guesses he can't really contradict that, not that he could really think otherwise.
"Don't worry. I don't ask you to be a gentleman," the man then continues, smiling at his next wit.
"I know you are not the type to wear white gloves. Even if you like to appear and think yourself as one."
"You are still authorized to do anything you want to secure this place, definitely.
Even if what you have in mind could... contradict the usual rules of war and some useless international treaties, as long as it serves a purpose. Purposes which are winning this war as fast as possible and preserving Italian lives as much as you can."
"What I want you to do is not to 'cure' yourself or myself of our capability for violence, but to control it. A violence controlled, nurtured, targeted, a violence that serves a real purpose," Benito explains as he sees the confused expression on his friend's face.
"You are, of course, totally free to use it, to use this violence in the wasteland that is this bag of sand, as long as it has its own reason to exist and be released."
"So, what are my restrictions?" Amedeo asks, understanding the idea, but not really sure if he is totally free or not in this mission.
He is rapidly answered, as Mussolini gives him a paper in his hand.
"These are your rules, my friend."
Amedeo reads it, before instantly understanding the subtle meaning of this.
A nice blank paper, perfect for blowing his nose with.
"You leave on the first of October. Make sure to finish every project you're actually doing before then, and send me the ones you haven't."
"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 he 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 man explains even before Amedeo can ask.
"And as with all old and decaying things, they have an inherent capacity to resist time, a difficulty to move, to change... to accept the new realities of things, and to adapt to them, preferring to stay where they are, as they are, lacking the evolutive nature that exists in any modern society. Clinging to old ideas, the good as the bad ones—that is not the question—they will still keep them.
The world lives in a straight line, trapped in an ineluctable movement, an unchanging progression, directed toward an inevitable end, or a general direction at least. The Church, by contrast—this one even more than most other religions—lives and dwells in a never-ending circle. Nothing is new. Nothing truly changes. The end doesn't exist. There is no finish line... and perhaps no beginning either.
A living corpse... quite a fitting thing for people worshipping a rising cadaver.
But I suppose there are perhaps some small traits that are worth admiring in this devotion to the perpetual constant.
Though I despise the very idea of immovability, there is something truly alluring in stillness, in eternal ideas. As much emotional garbage as it is, as much pain as it bears—from its existential condition to the damage done to it by other entities—it still endures it.
Not that anything less could be expected from people choosing their god in the idea of a flogged and crucified poor carpenter, nailed to wood as their martyr. Even as the little bandage on emotional pain that this cult is, as the little cute and simple answer for people to forget the fact that they are nothing, that their existence stands on nothing, as well as the reason for said existence... Christianity still bears some spirituality that is not entirely to be thrown in the trash can."
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 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..."
He chuckles for a few seconds, 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 little Mohamed in the sky... 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. Ppwerful 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
"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. 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. 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.