Clara had urged Ben to act, to quench the rumours and plots and counterplots, but he seemed at one moment decisive and the next, completely indifferent. A fortnight ago, when the Allies landed in Sicily, his only comment was, ‘The situation is delicate but not worrying.’ She was doing the worrying. She was on alert all day and all night. She did not know from day to day, whether her Lion would roar or plead. One day he was utterly dependent upon her and the next there would be more talk of the closed cycle and rejection. She knew much of this was owed to pain and anxiety and, perhaps, to the treatment for syphilis when he was young, though he denied that. At times he hardly knew what he was saying and Clara knew she had to be strong for him – the worse he got the more she loved him.
What about her own health? Her pulse raced at the slightest word, the slightest frown from Ben. She lay awake at night, unable to get enough air into her lungs. She was very tired. Only this morning she found three grey hairs at her temple and she was certain there were deeper lines around her eyes, lines that had not been there before. If only this dreadful war would end and they could have babies and be happy. Perhaps somewhere quiet, somewhere in the countryside. Well, perhaps not, Ben hated the country. He loved to talk about his country origins and his peasant ancestors but he could not wait to get back to the city whenever he was forced to visit the country.
There were no visits to the country now. For long periods they did not leave the room, and the world outside was becoming a fading memory. Clara left Ben snoring gently and went home to her family.
At precisely fifteen minutes after five in the afternoon, Mussolini arrived at the Quirinale, atop the highest of Rome’s seven hills. The graceful building was backlit by the sapphire sky of early evening, the lamps glowing against the warm sandstone of its walls. He arrived deliberately late for the meeting he had called for 5 pm. His chin jutted and he took the stairs with a violent stamp. The Grand Council of Fascism was his own creation and only he could call a meeting. Yet, here he was, summoned to attend as if he were no longer the one who governed. It was an outrage and they would pay dearly, those traitors who thought they could undermine his authority. Clara was right. He should have listened, but he would attend to them now. There would be no more of this insubordination. It was not to be tolerated.
At least he had had the presence of mind to take control once a meeting was inevitable. He was wearing his formal militia uniform and had ordered them all to wear full black ceremonial dress. He puffed his chest out, thrusting his jaw forward like his old self, but he knew he was too thin now. Rage was not good for his ulcer, which was clawing his guts, but he could not control it.
At the door to the chamber, he turned to his aide. ‘Are we walking into a trap?’
Inside the chamber, he strode to the front, carrying his heavy file. Frowning sternly, he thumped down the file, placed his fists on the table on either side of the document and began his oration. This would bring them to heel.
Mussolini’s voice rose and he made good use of all the quotations he had prepared. Many of the men in the room tensed forward in their seats, holding their breath. As he expounded his version of the war and the quandary of the present, they glanced from one to the other, eyebrows raised, at first surprised, then incredulous. Then, one by one, they exhaled loudly and relaxed into their seats, realising that the Duce of old was no more and that Mussolini had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, no grasp of the war. They had never heard, one said later, such woolly, rambling and inconsequential nonsense. They knew then they had made the right decision. Even those like Ciano, who had been difficult to persuade into this dethroning, were now convinced.
Mussolini droned endlessly in the late afternoon heat, at last concluding lamely, ‘The dilemma now is, war or peace? Surrender now or resistance to the last?’
He dribbled to a halt. A blowfly buzzed itself against the window until it fell dead. The air congealed and settled upon the listeners, who awoke from their torpor and, avoiding each other’s eyes, shuffled papers in embarrassment, shook heads. Whispered conversations sputtered back and forth, then Dino Grandi, Count of Mordano and President of the Chamber, rose to deliver the resolution he had drafted. In a long and ardent speech, lasting an hour and replete with every accusation, every sin committed or omitted, he put the motion that Mussolini resign forthwith and hand authority to the King, the Government and the Parliament.
The others waited, not even shame-faced: Farinacci, Bottai, Federzoni, and yes, even his son-in-law, the ingrate – though Count Ciano did look mortified, his face the colour of suet. For more than twenty years these men had done his bidding, shared his victories, been the beneficiaries of his largesse. There had been grumbling and complaining and muttering behind the scenes from time to time, but they had always obeyed him implicitly and not once had one of them ever dared to openly question his authority. They seemed as surprised as he to find themselves here this evening, and for a few minutes the atmosphere was strained. The chamber was mute. Then a spate of accusations spewed over him. Sharpened questions flew at him from every direction, assertions shouted, aspersions cast, all inhibition tossed aside. He thought of Caesar.
No longer did they cower before his great desk in the vast Mappamondo salon of Palazzo Venezia. Once, they would have had to walk the long, long length of that salon, from the door at the far end to his desk, before which no-one was ever asked to be seated, but was left to stand for the whole of the interview. Now it was as if Mussolini were the defendant in the dock.
‘You have imposed a dictatorship on Italy that is historically immoral!’
Did Grandi have froth at the corners of his mouth? His sweaty face was that of a stranger. It seemed a long time ago, that Grandi had written to him, ‘My life, my faith, my soul, are yours.’
Mussolini thought he might faint. It must be the heat. He tugged at his collar – his face felt florid and sweaty and his breathing was ragged. It was important, however, to speak with authority. ‘I think we will take an adjournment until tomorrow. As you know, my health is poor and I am feeling unwell.’
An exchange of astonished glances arced around the room. Grandi stood. ‘We have been kept here on many occasions until five in the morning to discuss some trifle you thought was important.’
He made it plain that they would be here all night, if that was what was required. They would allow a short adjournment and then recommence.
They were there all night. Exhaustion, reaction and fear had set in by the time Mussolini, still nominally chairing the meeting, put the motion to the vote. It was carried by a majority. The reign of Il Duce was over.
His voice feeble and tremulous, Mussolini leaned on the desk as he rose to speak. ‘We can go. You have provoked the crisis of the Regime. The meeting is over.’
It was two o’clock in the morning. Most left hurriedly, guilty and shaken by what they had set in motion. A few stalwarts remained for a desultory discussion of retribution against the rebels. Mussolini’s heart was not in it. He was too tired to care.
Clara woke early to the summery Roman morning, anxiety weighing upon her like a winter eiderdown. Kicking herself free of the damp sheet, she lay wondering what terrible thing had happened – she had faith in her instincts in these matters. She rang for her maid and ordered a cup of tea. Kneeling quickly, she crossed herself and muttered a plea to Saint
