Malta, now you huddle in two palazzi in Rome clinging to a glory that has long since vanished.”
“Then we have something in common.”
He grinned. “That we do.”
Past the open window he heard the grind of another engine.
His visitor noticed, too.
“They’re here,” the man said.
A sudden resolve came over him, bolstered by the fact that Holy Roman Emperors, Napoleon, even Hitler himself had all been denied what he’d accomplished.
Defeating the pope.
This man being here was concrete proof of his victory.
“Ask Pius XII what it felt like to kneel before me,” he said.
“I doubt that happened.”
“Not literally. But figuratively, he knelt. He knew what I could do to his precious church. What I still can do.”
Which explained why the Vatican had never outwardly opposed his grab for power. Even after he’d attained total control, the church had continued to stay silent, never once using its massive influence to rally the Italian people into revolt. No king, queen, or emperor had ever been so fortunate.
He pointed at the man’s ring. “Like you, I take my strength from Constantine the Great. Only he and I succeeded where all others failed.”
The car outside arrived, and he heard doors slam shut as people emerged.
“Tell your grand master that he will regret not saving me,” he said.
“You’re a fool.”
He stiffened his back. “I am Il Duce.”
The man in the German uniform seemed unfazed, only shaking his head and saying, “Goodbye, great leader.”
And the emissary left.
He continued to stand tall and straight, facing the open doorway. How many times had he sent men to their deaths? Thousands? More like tens of thousands. Now he understood how helpless they felt at the moment of their demise.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs.
A new man entered the room—wiry, black-eyed, black-tempered—holding a machine gun. “I have come to set you free.”
He did not believe a word, but played along, “How fortunate.”
“We must go. Now.”
Clara appeared, entering the room and stepping toward the bed, searching the covers.
“What are you looking for?” the man asked.
“My knickers.”
“Never mind them. There’s no time. We must go.”
Mussolini gently grasped her arm and motioned for them to leave. Was she aware of what was about to happen? He doubted it since, as always, she seemed more concerned with him than herself.
They descended to ground level, left the house, and climbed into the rear seat of a tattered Fiat. A driver was already behind the wheel, and the man with the machine gun did not get in. Instead he stood outside, on the right-hand running board, pointing his weapon inside.
The car ground slowly down the steep road toward the village. Behind, on foot, came the two guards from last night. They all rounded a hairpin turn at a walking pace, but the Fiat picked up speed as it straightened out, the tires hissing on the damp road. The man perched outside ordered the vehicle to stop directly opposite an iron gateway, which formed a recess in the narrow inclined road about five meters wide and two meters deep. The gates blocked a driveway and hung between two large concrete posts, the extending walls about waist-high, curved inward, and topped with bushes.
The man with the machine gun sprang off the running board and opened the car doors. The driver emerged. More orders were yelled and the two other armed men took up positions, one above, the other below on the road. Trees and a sharp bend kept everything out of sight from the houses down in Azzano.
“Get out” came the command.
An agonized look formed on Clara’s face, her eyes darting about like a frightened bird’s.
Mussolini exited.
She followed.
“Over there,” the man said as he waved the muzzle of his gun toward the iron gateway.
Mussolini marched straight to the wall and stood against it. Clara came and stood at his side. He would not make the same mistake as yesterday. He would not be afraid. When they recounted what was about to happen, they would have to lie to make him a coward.
“Benito Mussolini, you are a war criminal. A sentence of death has been proclaimed as justice for the Italian people.”
“No. You can’t,” Clara screamed. “You can’t do that.”
She hugged his arm.
“Move away from him,” the man shouted. “Get away or you will die, too.”
She did not flee and the man pressed the trigger.
But nothing happened.
The assailant rattled the bolt and tried to free the jam. Clara screamed and leaped forward grabbing the barrel of the machine gun with both hands.
“You can’t kill us like this,” she shrieked.
“Bring me your gun,” the