The Vengeance of Rome

  Margherita was furious at not being invited to the first big reception attended by Göring and his Nazi entourage. My Chief insisted, with uncharacteristic vehemence, that I come but that Margherita (or Maddy, for that matter) did not. He allowed no excuse. ‘It is a man-to-man affair,’ he explained soberly.

  I had planned to go on to a special ‘powder’ party with Maddy that night. Now she would have to go without me. I would try to meet her there later. She, too, was unhappy at being excluded. The function was being very carefully orchestrated, I explained. The Nazis were doing well at the polls. They might be a force to be reckoned with. She was unreconciled. It sounded to her as if Mussolini was muzzling the press. The idea was ludicrous. I pointed out that Tom Morgan would be going, as well as other top reporters, including Billy Grisham.

  The reception was in fact a rather large affair. I doubt if many more people could have been crammed into the vast halls of the Villa Trajanos, with its countless galleries and staircases. With the significant exception of Margherita, everyone who was anyone in Rome was there. No wonder she understood herself to be out of favour with Il Duce!

  I spent the first hour or two being introduced to one ambassador and his wife after another. Eventually I met Captain Göring himself. He seemed a little detached, chuckling a great deal but in response to nothing in particular. Possibly he could not understand me. His Italian was minimal — kitchen Italian, as we used to call it — good enough for instructing the cook. He was even then rather fat and wearing a suit cut in such a way as to hide the worst of his bulk. His vanity was second only to his self-indulgence, though he was an amiable fellow of the old South German type which is nowadays dying out.

  Like so many of those early Nazis, Göring worshipped Hitler. Mussolini found his enthusiasm irritating. The German, true to form, did not notice. Ethel Grisham, drifting up in an incongruous ocean of green tulle, eventually saved us and bore Göring off to meet ‘this delicious English woman’. ‘She’s just your type and she’s dying to meet you.’

  Mussolini muttered something to me about the crassness of the ‘German bumboys’ and was then forced to do his diplomatic best with the ambassador and his dumpy wife while I talked to Tom Morgan, Billy Grisham and one or two other pals from the press corps. Everyone but Tom was rather mocking about my uniform. I told them that they were lucky to earn such good salaries. They could afford suits. We servants of the state had nothing to wear but black serge.

  ‘And nothing to eat but black bread, I suppose,’ said Billy, amiably popping half a gram of caviar into his mouth. They were pleased with my elevation but like good friends saw no harm in ribbing me about it. That and their knowing winks around La Sarfatti, they reserved for me alone. When I was with Maddy they were more respectful. I regretted she was not there. Tom Morgan, a little drunker than the rest of us, told us some leering story and then nodded across the hall. ‘That Hun looks like Fatty Arbuckle playing the lead in The Merry Widow.’

  He spoke of Captain Göring. Like some favoured bull at a cattle show, the German preened himself before a woman he evidently found attractive. ‘What a stunner, eh?’ said Morgan, nudging me. ‘I bet she’s an actress.’

  I turned to look. As I did so an intense and complex emotion suffused my entire body. The ‘stunner’ was the woman I knew better than any other still alive. My wife! My eternal! My soulmate!

  ‘She is indeed an actress, Tom,’ I confirmed quietly, putting down my drink and adjusting my uniform. ‘She is an exceptionally fine one. She is my greatest leading lady. Miss Gloria Cornish.’

  Everything else forgotten, I hurried across the room to greet my guardian angel. She was, of course, the wonderfully beautiful and voluptuous Mrs Cornelius.

  She sensed my presence. A platinum radiance in pink and silver, a cloud of beaming Guerlain, she turned.

  I began to approach. For a heartbeat she paused, then she recognised me. “Ello, Ivan!’ Her genial voice was more lusciously sensual than ever. ‘Wot’s wiv ther face fungus?’ Her enormous blue eyes took in my uniform, my orders. ‘Turned out nice again, I see.’ The tip of her pink tongue wet her ruby lips. She winked, one old survivor to another.

  Mio angelo! Mia amante! Mia sposa! My life!

  * * * *

  FOURTEEN

  Of course she had not changed. She was still my angel. Only Mussolini gave off that same almost supernatural wave of animal magnetism. My eyes as full as my heart, I kissed her hand. ‘My dear Mrs Cornelius.’

  ‘Smarmy as ever, aincher, Ivan?’ She was her familiar amiable self. ‘Still, I got ter admit it’s good ter see a face I know. Found yerself somefink official an’ steady, eh? Workin’ fer th’ corporation. Can’t say I blame yer. I’m done for in ther English talkies. It’s me accent. So when I got ter Berlin I took up with little Baron ‘Uggy Bear over there.’ She indicated a short, dapper German with a huge Kaiser Wilhelm moustache and twinkling blue eyes, whose grey haircut looked as if a hard brush had been glued to his head. He wore formal evening dress and chatted to Count Ciardi, whom he seemed to know well. ‘Pappy’s not reely a baron. That just what a corl ‘im ‘cause someone said ‘e was a Press Baron and I wasn’t sure wot that was. I corl ‘im “Baron ‘Uggy Bear”. ‘E was good enough ter ‘elp me back on me feet, but I’m thinkin’ of goin’ inter cabaret, maybe in Berlin. Pappy’s ‘ot ter get me goin’ in ther local talkies, but I’m a bit chary o’ that world, if yer know wot I mean. Still, it’s orl wide open fer English artistes. They love us out there. An’ ‘e sez some other girl can do me ther German. Wot d’yer fink? Oh, ‘ello! ‘Ave yer met —’ She turned to address the enormous beaming German, an infatuated Zeppelin, who was clearly entranced by her.

  “Ermann, is it?’

  He bowed, clicked his heels and shook hands again. He did not recollect me. I supposed we all looked the same to him in our black uniforms. Although not quite as tall as he appeared from his photographs, Herman Göring was considerably wider. He spoke now in confident, but inexpert English. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Professor Peters. We have heard much of your achievements in Germany.’

  I was surprised. I began to realise how much I had attracted the attention of various foreign governments. The newspaper pictures had done exactly what Mussolini had anticipated; they had whetted the curiosity of the other powers. Slipping easily into German, I made small talk with Captain Göring. Grateful to be speaking his own language, he admired my vocabulary. I told him how I had worked with Germans in the Ukraine during the Civil War when we were all trying to get rid of the Reds. This interested him. He had assumed I was an American. ‘Naturalised,’ I explained to him. ‘Before then I had direct experience of the Bolshevik terror.’

  ‘You must meet a friend of mine,’ he said. ‘He’s here tonight. His company’s making this film about the Russian Civil War. They are hiring genuine veterans. Real Russians. You could be of great help. Did you come up against the Red Cavalry, for instance?’

  ‘You’re bein’ borin’, boys,’ chided Mrs Cornelius. She smiled up at Hitler’s bulky emissary. Göring’s job was to attempt an understanding between the Nazis and the Pope. It was as well I did not know this at the time or I would have spoken my mind. One of the most disastrous policies Mussolini and Hitler formulated involved accommodation with Catholics who ultimately did as much as anyone to sabotage their efforts. ‘You tol’ me, ‘Ermann, you woz lookin’ fer a party ter go ter afterwards.’

  The man was well bred and immediately dropped the subject of politics, saying only to me: ‘We must talk again. In Germany we have a great respect for the scientific tradition.’

  Jokingly I said that for my taste there were a few too many Jews running the scientific establishments there. He hesitated at this, doubtless because he was here on a diplomatic mission, then laughed heartily. ‘Very good!’ he said. ‘Very good, Professor! I think you and I will get on well. You must come and see us in Germany once we are in power. Great things are happening. Il Duce’s inspiration, Adolf Hi
tler’s genius and German practical knowledge will transform the country and in time the entire world.’

  Although his expression seemed fixed in a jovial smile, he was evidently not relaxed. Mrs Cornelius nudged him. ‘Wot does it take ter make a Kraut let ‘is ‘air down?’ she asked me, winking. Again he was hugely apologetic. He was here on official business. It was so difficult to move from one mode to the other. ‘Wot abart this party, then?’ She dropped her voice. ’Yo’re just the chap, Ivan. ‘Ermann wants ter know if there’s anywhere they do the ‘okey-cokey rahnd ‘ere,’ and she put a finger to her perfect nose.

  I was confused by all these turns of events and pulled my card from my inside pocket. On the blank side I scribbled the address where I hoped to meet Maddy Butter later. ‘I might be there myself,’ I said. ’Mention my name. Gallibasta.’ I winked back. At which point, to my absolute horror, a figure in a uniform which would have seemed garish on the stage of the Vienna Comic Opera, taller than Captain Göring by almost a head but threatening to rival him in corpulence, moving with what I can only describe as a kind of monumental mince, cracked its jackboots together, offered the Fascist salute and regarded me through rheumy, affectionate eyes which failed to hide the signs of a thousand disappointments. He uttered a wide, ghastly grin. ‘Good evening, Herr Captain,’ he said to Göring, whose expression of distaste was undisguised. ‘Maxim, dear. Did I hear somebody talk about a party?’

  Mrs Cornelius’s natural generosity betrayed us then. She did not know the newcomer. Maybe she did not wish to travel alone in a taxi with Göring. ‘I’m sure we’re orl welcome,’ she said. ‘Yo’re wiv the German party, too, aren’t yer? We’ll go tergewer! ‘Uggy won’t mind.’

  In spite of the horrible embarrassment at meeting Seryozha again, and in such unexpected circumstances, I was curious as to how he had managed to come back to Italy after only a few months - in a uniform of his own design and as part of the unofficial German delegation! When Mrs Cornelius led Captain Göring off to meet an old friend from the British Embassy in Rome, I was left with my slobbering ex-dancer. He, of course, wanted to open his heart to me there and then. His boyfriend had sent him here, he said, to keep an eye on things. ‘Ernst’s a really top-ranking Nazi, you know. A bit of a brute, really, but he has his points. Well, they’re all totally rivalrous, darling. It’s worse than the ballet! Nobody trusts anybody else and Ernst’s afraid what he calls the “eggheads” are going behind his back. They wouldn’t let him come now, so he sent me instead. I’m his aide. His eyes and ears, he said. They had to agree to let me do it. It’s at his expense, anyway. He even paid for my uniform. I met him in Bolivia. It’s all secret, of course. I hear you’re doing well in the government now. There are no private jobs worth having any more, are there? It’s the Crash.’

  At that moment, Ferucci, who had no love for me, but knew that I was a particular protégé of Il Duce, came over to murmur that our Chief would like to see me when I could slip away. I made it my business to drop Seryozha, telling him I would meet him later at the party.

  As soon as I could I got to Il Duce’s side. He was making ready to leave, shaking hands with Vech, the elegant Spanish military attaché. They seemed on excellent terms. Mussolini still refused to smile in public, but there was a hint of a curve to his firm, ruthless mouth and when he saw me he was clearly pleased. My Chief did not want me to meet the Spaniard, however, and in fact almost pushed Vech away as he came to talk to me. Il Duce was in a particularly good mood. I think the admiration of the German contingent was far greater than anticipated. His old confident, ebullient manner had returned. ‘Professor, we have some urgent business to discuss.’

  I was mystified. He took me by the arm and began to lead me back towards his private room, divided from the main hall by a velvet curtain. Here all the guards were squadristi and sprang to attention when we entered. I was particularly proud to be treated in this way. Many of Il Duce’s other ministers there that night would have been envious. I appreciated this public confirmation of my status. In the room was a table laid with exotic food and drink. Il Duce brought his special guests here, either to honour them or to speak with them confidentially. ‘That was Colonel Vech. He has been authorised to approach us concerning our secret project.’ Il Duce explained that the Spanish had seen the sensational reports of our Land Leviathan in the papers. I think their own secret service had also done some research. My guess was that they had had no luck in stealing our plans so had approached Il Duce directly, to ask if the machines were in production. No doubt they could use a number for their own purposes in North Africa.

  ‘This is good news!’ Mussolini’s dark eyes twinkled. ‘Such a sale will help finance our own production. Of course I told him we could not possibly discuss such things. I did not even admit that we had a “secret weapon”. Have you said anything tonight?’

  I was somewhat stunned. ‘You have sworn me to secrecy, my Duce.’

  Mussolini approved of my loyalty. However, he argued, if we could convince them to give 100 per cent financial backing to our project, without their knowing it we should be able to begin production all the sooner. ‘We need to show them a couple of small plans, a simple picture or two. Have you got a little something to whet their appetites?’

  I was still rather baffled by this change of attitude. I was silent.

  ‘He will have to see something tonight,’ my Chief continued. Vech was leaving first thing in the morning.

  I was by now breathless with astonishment. Until now only Il Duce and myself had been privy to my inventions. Tonight there was talk of Spanish involvement. Mussolini himself had sworn me to secrecy. For mysterious reasons of his own he was prepared to admit that we were building a war ziggurat. His lightning mind sometimes understood situations and helped him make long-ranging decisions, rather as a first-rate chess player sees a whole range of moves open up for him. So I had learned to trust him. But it was impossible for me to guess the reason for this radical change of policy. I assumed he would eventually illuminate me.

  Meanwhile, I stammered something about not having the keys to my document chest. He gestured expansively. He would drive me round to my house in his own car. There I could pick up my keys, he would take me to the ministry, I could find the plans, and his chauffeur could relay them directly to the Spanish Consulate. Typically he was in a hurry to put all this in hand instantly. I suspected he had a further liaison that night. Il Duce liked to get things done immediately or not at all.

  I stammered something. He accepted this as acquiescence. Clapping me on the shoulder as if sensing my confusion, he promised we would not sell out Italy for a handful of Spanish doubloons. Certain specifications would, of course, be held back. Only a cruder version of the giant tank would be presented. He had not forgotten about naming it after me. Imagine what this would mean! Hundreds of Peters Leviathans guarding the frontiers of the free world against the combined Red and Yellow threat! My name would become a permanent addition to the military vocabulary.

  He again sought to console me with promises of my coming public status. He failed to realise how used I was to my name appearing before the public. I was all for a speedier move towards full production of my machines, but I believed the entire project a secret shared only between myself and Mussolini. I could not readily readjust to this new development.

  ‘And, of course, there will be material benefits,’ he said. ‘Part of the Spanish money should rightfully go to you.’

  I did not work for money, I reminded him. I had no more interest in it than did he. We had a common vision.

  That was the closest I ever came to rebuking my Chief and he accepted it.

  We left the hall by the special exit. Il Duce’s car was waiting, its engine running. Passing the main entrance of the villa, I saw a man and a woman leaving. I did not recognise the woman. I was surprised not to have noticed the man while at the reception. Surely it was the mutual friend Mrs Cornelius had mentioned earlier. A tall, slender Englishman, not in uniform
on this occasion. He had once been romantically involved with Mrs Cornelius. I knew him as Major Nye, a British agent! Then I realised the importance of that reception. Now I knew that several crucial conversations had taken place that night. Political decisions had been made which would change the face of Europe for ever.

  His chauffeur beside him, Mussolini himself had taken the car’s wheel. I was by now used to his wild, extravagant driving. Tonight he seemed determined to shake off the fleet of secret service cars which began to follow us. Indeed, he was successful with most of them. He liked to entertain himself in that way sometimes. Particularly as he had almost given up the violin. Like Sherlock Holmes he had once played it every single evening for his own solace.

  Il Duce knew exactly where he was going. ‘Professor, I was thinking about your house. You need a bigger one. That place is far too cramped for you.’

  Although he had never spoken of it before, I remembered that this was where he had once met and made love to the woman who these days preferred to satisfy her lusts on the leather furniture at the Villa Valentino. I was still uneasy about that situation. Obviously my association with La Sarfatti had made me more enemies than friends. She was not liked by the old Fascists and her influence over the Chief was thought to be excessive. She was sensitive to such things. Clearly, from her recent moods, things were not going wholly her way. Voices at court were raised against her. Ferucci was her sworn enemy. Some old affair between them, I guessed. Had someone told Mussolini about us?