bombing on his way home after the meeting and been encouraged by the enthusiasm of the few locals about at that late hour. He spent the night writing a rebuttal of the motion, a motion that could not stand. He telephoned his office and in a firm voice, instructed his private secretary to ring the palace and make an appointment with the King. He lunched at home – Rachele made him the only meal he really cared for these days: spaghetti with butter and cheese and a glass of orange juice.
Rachele hovered, fretting. ‘Don’t go to the King, Benito,’ she said. ‘I do not trust him.’
‘Women,’ he said. ‘What is wrong with you?’ Rachele suffered from the deeply suspicious nature of her peasant background, but only yesterday, Clara too was saying the same thing to him. He would wear his uniform, damn them all! No, he went twice a week to the King without fail and he had always been careful to wear civilian clothing. He would do so today. He undid the uniform jacket in haste and fumbled the cursed buttons, tearing the bottom one away as he ripped the jacket off and tossed it to the bed.
He stood for a moment, did some deep breathing. His legs were hard to keep still. What was wrong with him? The worst that could happen would be that the King might take back command of the armed services. Really, he had so much on his mind that the King might be useful in that role. He might as well do something useful, the idiot, instead of playing with his coin collection.
Mussolini ordered his car and arrived at Villa Savoia punctually, a little before 5 pm. His bodyguards followed in various vehicles, careful to maintain the 500-metre distance Il Duce insisted upon. They knew he could fly into a rage if they followed too closely. They parked outside the villa as he swept into the courtyard, to be greeted by the King who was waiting for him at the door, his hand extended.
See, thought Mussolini, I knew I could rely on the King. He maintained a sober expression but was exultant. He would soon have the traitors back under his thumb.
The King seemed more subdued than usual but that was to be expected. He was seventy-three, but had changed little in appearance as he aged. His close-cropped hair was now white. His moustache was also white and, being shorter and thinner than the bristly thatch of earlier times, it failed to conceal the weak set of his mouth.
He led the way to his office, where he turned to Mussolini and said, ‘We cannot go on like this.’
‘No, Your Majesty. I agree.’ He opened his file from last night’s meeting, ready to explicate the many errors rendering the motion illegal.
The King cut him short, both hands raised. ‘No! You know they are singing songs saying “Down with Mussolini”? The country cannot continue like this. I think we must accept that the right man for this delicate moment is Marshall Badoglio.’
The King’s face was wan and taut. His voice wobbled and he stared off into the corner of the room. Making momentous decisions did not sit comfortably with Victor Emmanuel III.
‘But, but, a crisis at this moment …’ This could not be happening. Mussolini tugged at his collar.
‘My dear Duce! My soldiers don’t want to fight anymore.’ The King’s voice cracked slightly. ‘At this moment you are the most hated man in Italy. We must accept the vote of the Grand Council as the will of the people. I have instructed Marshall Badoglio to prepare to take over immediately.’
Mussolini seemed to hear the words as if from a great distance. His face burned.
‘Then it is all over. All over. All over.’ His voice had a peevish edge and he swayed. He put out a hand to steady himself against the mantle. In the mirror, a livid stain mottled his neck. ‘What will happen to me? To my family? What will happen to us?’
His eyes, the King said later, reminded him of the horse he had put down when it was injured. King Victor Emmanuel III, by contrast, was wooden. It was only twenty past five but the meeting was over. The King walked him to the door where he shook his hand.
‘We will talk tomorrow,’ Mussolini said faintly, nodding, as if the King had said it.
On the gravel drive, he looked for his car but it was parked at the far side of the quadrangle. With a sigh, he began to walk to it, too drained even to be offended that it was not brought to him. Instead, he was confronted by an officer of the Carabinieri.
‘His Majesty the King has commanded me to accompany you,’ he said, ‘to protect you from the mob.’
‘Oh, very well, come on then,’ Mussolini replied. ‘There is no need.’ He made towards the car again, shaking his head. ‘No need to exaggerate,’ he said; the people would always love him.
‘No, this way,’ said the officer, turning him towards an ambulance parked off to the side. ‘It is safer.’
He took the elbow of the ex-leader and, as if offering help, propelled him up into the back of the vehicle, where two armed guards waited. Mussolini was seated on a stretcher, the doors slammed and the ambulance sped out of the palace.
The evening was glorious. The heat of the day had waned and a gentle breeze wafted about the nodding heads of the flowers in the garden as the King and his ADC walked back and forth.
The King shook his head. ‘The Queen is very upset about him being arrested here. It is true. She is right. Here he was our guest. The rules of royal hospitality have been violated. It is not good.’ The King shook his head again and the two men turned indoors.
Not too far away from the palace, Marshall Pietro Badoglio, 1st Duke of Addis Ababa and 1st Marquess of Sabotino, had received a messenger. He was in a jovial humour. He had waited a long time for this moment.
‘You’re all under arrest,’ he called boisterously to his family. ‘No-one leave the house! Bring up the Veuve Clicquot and put it on the ice!’ He bounded up the stairs to change into his military uniform.
Back in Palazzo Venezia, Quinto Navarra paced and fretted.
Outside Villa Savoia, Mussolini’s bodyguards kept watch, forgotten by all.
It was still too warm to eat. Clara’s plate was untouched – the deep green of the spinach bled onto the white flesh of the fish. She pushed it away with a pouty sigh, almost overturning her wineglass – why did her mother always set a wineglass when she knew Clara only ever drank water? She had changed into a floral cotton dress without sleeves, but under the wide red belt her bodice was soaked with perspiration.
Evening sounds drifted up to the terrace on the soft air, as if it were a day like any other. The debris of the meal was scattered across the table. The cork and golden foil from a bottle of Spumante lay beside a crystal salt dish and the terrace lanterns refracted amber light through the Frascati in the tall glasses. Beside her father’s elbow, the bottle of Sangiovese left a magenta ring on the starched tablecloth. Claretta played with the drawn thread design of its border until she poked a hole in the fine work. Her mother glared at her but said nothing and she let the fabric drop. Strawberries glistened in a crystal bowl set in ice.
Dr Francesco Petacci was not hungry either. His forehead glistened with perspiration, all the way back to where the last of his hair still clung on. He was in his shirt-sleeves despite his wife’s disapproval – it was too hot to dress for dinner when there was only the family present. He refilled his wine glass for the third time. His wife would disapprove of that too. He could see from the state Claretta was in that things were grave. Ben had disappeared, she said. He cannot have disappeared, thought Francesco, but if there was another woman involved, it could be a while before he showed up and he knew what that would be like, dealing with his daughter. More likely affairs of state, he said aloud. No, his daughter shouted, he has gone to the King and I cannot find him. Unrest was in the air and everyone except his wife, it seemed, was anxious.
Clara’s mother, Giuseppina, had no difficulty at all eating her supper, despite the heat. She frowned at Francesco