would work for the party. Marco was intrigued by the job, even though he knew he would only be a portaborse, a briefcase carrier. He wasn’t political at heart, so he wasn’t particularly interested in serving Fascism, but he knew the job had to pay better than working in the bar.
Marco hustled through a bustling Piazza Navona to Palazzo Braschi, the fascio headquarters, which was housed in what used to be the majestic villa of the aristocratic Braschi family. The grand palazzo anchored the south side of the piazza, and it soared several stories high, with a lovely façade of large gray stones and on the bottom, narrow, amber-hued bricks. Its vaulted entrance was a courtyard marked by graceful arches in the front and back, large enough to fit old-fashioned horse-drawn carriages.
Marco had never been inside and approached the entrance, flanked by armed guards, with some trepidation. He and the guards exchanged Fascist salutes, then he went ahead to another pair of guards that flanked a glass-doored entrance and exchanged more salutes. The guards took his name, led him to a desk where he checked in, then told him to go upstairs to the topmost floor. He found himself vaguely intimidated as he ascended a magnificent staircase of gray marble, and each landing was inlaid with black marble triangles framed by warm gold-colored marble. He almost tripped looking up at the massive dome of a ceiling, decorated with large florets; at its top was an oculus, a circular eye to the sky, which seemed to be watching him.
He reached the top floor and approached another reception desk, located in a small room with a floor of multicolored marble and a ceiling covered with friezes of lions, angels, and Roman gods and goddesses. Finally he was shown into a large office, which was dominated by a polished, carved desk covered with stacks of neat papers. Commendatore Buonacorso stood up behind the desk, and flanking him were two other officers, one younger and one old.
“Duce,” Marco said, saluting.
Buonacorso saluted and approached him, extending a hand in his dark uniform, with his quicksilver smile. “At ease, Terrizzi. Please meet the other officers.” He gestured. “On your left is Comandante Spada, and on your right, Comandante Terranova. Gentlemen, this is young Marco Terrizzi.”
“Terrizzi,” Comandante Spada said stiffly. He was bald with a deeply lined face, gray eyebrows that needed trimming, and short gray hair that stood up like a brush. His demeanor was cranky, and his back was curved like a cooked prawn.
“Welcome, Terrizzi.” Comandante Terranova extended a hand, which Marco shook. He had large eyes that were a light brown, with a strong nose, full lips, and thick curly brown hair. His build was beefy, straining the buttons of his uniform, and his manner relaxed and benign, with an easy smile despite uneven front teeth.
“Please, Marco, sit down.” Buonacorso gestured to the fancy chairs across from the desk.
“Thank you.” Marco sat down, and so did Buonacorso and the others.
Buonacorso nodded. “Marco, I’ve been telling these gentlemen about the pride you feel in being Roman, as you expressed at your father’s bar. In addition, we have spoken with Captain Finestra of your Balilla unit, and he reports that you are extremely popular among your peers, and remarkably athletic. Does working for us interest you, Marco?”
“Yes, of course.” Marco felt honored simply that Buonacorso would speak to him in such a respectful way.
“That is, if you are qualified, Terrizzi,” Spada interjected, scowling. “I have had many, many aides in my time here. None has performed to my standards. Even those who do well in Balilla don’t take our doctrine as seriously as they should. You must know some of those.”
“Yes.” Marco was one of those, having joked his way through most of their paramilitary drills.
Buonacorso nodded. “As Comandante Spada points out, not everybody is up to snuff. I have no idea why we don’t attract more young men like you. Do you have any thoughts in that regard?”
Marco knew how he felt inside. “I think that we’re required to learn Fascist doctrine in school, so sometimes students consider it merely another assignment.”
“A good point. I’m sure that your father has inspired you, hasn’t he?”
“Yes,” Marco answered, though his father talked about cycling more than politics.
Spada interjected again, “This is platitudinous. Let’s see how much you really know, Terrizzi. Do you know the Decalogue?”
“I do.”
Spada folded his arms. “Recite it then.”
Marco didn’t hesitate. The Decalogue of the Young Fascist was a set of ten Fascist precepts