The desk was silent as ever, as indifferent to noise as it was to anything else.
In a way, it was completely different from what lay outside the walls of the Quirinal Palace, as if he were sitting in another world, another country entirely, rather than in the very capital he ruled from this desk.
Rome was always a very noisy thing, busy from day to night and from night to day, like a bee colony, producing a never-ending hum that made its inhabitants accustomed to almost any sort of background sound.
Vittorio-Emanuele never saw the appeal in that.
In fact, if he was honest... he always hated that from the bottom of his heart.
He had never found any love in noisy crowds.
He tried to force himself into liking it, as this sort of thing was somewhat required from a man of his destiny. But even now, after all these years, he could never achieve anything more than a quiet and reluctant acceptance about these kinds of things, at best.
It was simply not in him. Just as one could not expect an eagle to live on grass, one could not expect him to find any fondness for crowds and politics.
He was not born to see the appeal in this, in the ugliness of thought that only a thousand people screaming together could attain, to the rumbling streets, the cacophony of sounds that left no place for calm and rationality.
No...
From his birth, through his years as a prince and heir of the kingdom, and his coronation, through this ugly bloodshed that idiots dared to call the Great War, and into these present days, he had always found comfort and pleasure in far smaller things.
Smaller, and infinitely quieter.
He was never made for great ceremonies, military parades, speeches in front of hundreds of people, parliamentary debates that ended more in shouting than in anything audible, nor for the endless receptions where men in expensive clothes and women bearing jewels from faraway lands wasted their time in endless small talk, mostly dedicated to empty compliments in the hope of flattering his heart.
No.
He definitely preferred quieter things.
Compared to the calm of his home, to the silence of the Quirinal Palace, every prospect of activity, everything, paled.
A desk, a book, and a simple quiet evening before a good night's rest. That was what he required.
And that was what everyone, regardless of their place in the grand game of politics, seemed always determined to take from him.
Or at least, that was how he perceived it.
Perturbing him. Breaking the sacred silence of this place by bursting in, coming to his desk to annoy him with news that always ended up being nothing more than a simple repetition of what the person that occupied the post before them had said.
Always full of themselves. Full of confidence. Full of promises.
Petty games. Petty politics.
Populist, warmongering and flattering hordes of sycophants, that were all threatening the quietness of his home only to lay at his feet yet another row of political disputes, dreadful news, self-congratulatory words, empty promises, and reports of recent disasters that they swore they would have ended before the following week.
They would arrive with their plans, their solutions, their assurances that this time things would be different, that this time they had finally understood what the country needed.
And then, ultimately, they would resign after a few months, if not weeks, surrendering their title of President of the Council of Ministers to another, who would prove to be little more than a copy of the one before them, save for a few differences that mattered very little to Vittorio Emanuele. And probably not much more to most of the people he ruled.
Different faces. Different names. And the same endless procession.
Most of them for nothing.
These bugs seemed to crawl into office only to remain there long enough to keep the seat of government warm for their successor, before being replaced by another who would come with the same confidence, the same promises, and, ultimately, the same failures.
He always hated that.
This game of musical chairs, played by men who took themselves far too seriously, while their ineptitude ravaged the country.
Please, some silence.
A quiet room.
Just for one day.
Those were the things he sometimes surprised himself whispering into his beard, muttering them beneath his breath between one solemn nod and another in front of the Council of Ministers.
Not that anyone had ever caught him, thank the lord.
No ministers. No papers. No hurried voices waiting for an answer he could not give.
Only silence, his own thoughts. While he could sit in the familiar company of the things that never demanded anything from him. Small books that waited patiently upon their shelves, objects that had remained where he had placed them, pieces of a world long gone that would silently accompany him, relaxing his brain, and lifting his spirit.
That was perhaps why he had always found such comfort in his private collection.
The king spared a moment to gaze upon his personal library. That was perfectly organised, as always.
The different volumes stood in their places, arranged with the same precision he required of everything else around him. The older ones came first, works bearing Greek letters and words that had survived the disappearance of the great societies that had written them, followed by the Latin ones, then Italian, French, German, and everything that had come after.
The road of civilisation.
Arranged to perfection... It always was. As he took a particular pride, and an even greater care about this wonderful private collection of his.
And, for once, it was not because anyone required it of him. Not because of his status, nor because it was expected of a king. It was simply one of the few things in his life that he truly enjoyed, and one of the few things that nobody had forced him to enjoy.
These shelves of ink and paper were not filled with Machiavellian books about ruling, nor with Greek or German treatises on philosophy and the immateriality of things, nor even with French books dealing with the art of intricate speech or poems of love and despair, the sort that could capture the hearts of men.
Nor were they filled with any of the other books that a man of his position might be expected to possess in his private library.
No...
Not these books.
They contained pieces of what was once lost.
Numismatic.
The study of what made humanity something more. The science focused on the thing that followed man from the most distant times. The thing that drew the final line that separated the human from the other animals.
The study of what mankind had left behind in little pieces of metal.
Small pieces of money that had survived centuries buried beneath sand, mud, and ruins. Sleeping. Waiting to be uncovered. While their creators had long since disappeared into dust, cast away into the shadows of history.
Coins of coppers, gold, silver and lead alike, that had been passed from one hand to another, surviving kingdoms, languages, wars and men. Reaching sometimes the other side of the known world, before ending buried somewhere beneath the earth. And then discovered and landed on his desk.
There was something very beautiful in that. So many people and land he had visited and knew, so many stories the little coins was a silent witness of.
Vittorio-Emmanuelle liked knowing where each of his precious coins was. He liked seeing the familiar volumes he had arranged, the numerous boxes and books in which his little treasures were kept. He took pride in being able to say exactly where each one was stored.
He could spend hours talking about any of them: their origins, their value, their materials, the meaning of the symbols and inscriptions upon them.
Everything.
There was a certain comfort in it.
For once, there was something he could understand completely, something he could arrange, explain, classify, and make sense of.
He could spend hours among his books and coins without ever noticing the passing of time.
And that, he never forgot to make sure of. He always had time for his numismatics.
Except for one time.
One night in October, four years ago.
He had been far too occupied, and far too afraid, to even care about his precious collection.
But now, at least for a little while, he could return to it.
Return to the books, the coins and the calm.
Vittorio Emanuele played with the one currently resting upon his desk. A gift from a Spanish ambassador, one he had not yet had the time to find a proper place for.
He slowly turned the coin between his fingers, examining its worn surface beneath the light coming through the window. His eyes carefully followed every detail of the face displayed upon the gold.
Who was he ?
Who were you ?
A Roman emperor that commanded the world from this very city ?
A prince of the Renaissance who bathed in gold, spoke with artists and geniuses, and helped shape things that men would still admire centuries later?
An old king whose name had once carried power across the whole peninsula ?
Vittorio Emanuele did not have the time to examine it closely enough to say.
What he did know was that, like all the other faces in his collection, this man had once been someone of importance. Someone whose name had mattered. Someone who had been meant to be remembered.
And yet here was his only remains. A face upon a piece of metal. Like all the others.
Those who once commanded armies, founded cities, ruled kingdoms and changed the world. Now nothing more than dust. Their kingdoms gone. Their voices gone.
All of them, dust, even in the collective memory. Nothing more than faces on a piece of metal. Gold, bronze, silver or else. It hardly mattered. That was all that remained of them.
The king carefully placed the coin back on its place before returning his attention to the documents that were waiting before him, scattered across the desk without much order.
As he returned to his silent work, however, the thought did not leave him.
Gone. All of them.
It was a lesson he had learned from a young age, and one that a lifetime as a king, spent surrounded by a dozen of different governments, and three times as many coalitions, and as a soldier king through the great war, had done nothing but further sew into his mind.
Nothing lasted forever.
And his Kingdom, Italy, was the pinnacle of this motto.
There everything changed in a matter of weeks.
Governments, coalitions, minister, popular movement, even peoples that swore themselves "mortal enemies". All of these notions tend to crumble as quickly as autumn leaves.
But still, institutions endured... somewhat.
Or at least, they made sure to look as though they did.
Vittorio Emanuele continued his work in a calm and easy silence, going through the notes and reports before him, the pen in his right hand like a sword ready to slay his foes, ready to bring a quick solution to every problem there is in his Kingdom.
His ancestors were slaying their foes in a hand to hand combat in battle to bult this Kingdom. Him he is slaying his secretary's documents. Everyone has his part to play
Some of the documents were thick as bricks, their matters buried beneath overstretched explanations and endless packs of words, like a flock of sheep penned together without order. They were covered in notes from ministers and advisers, each of whom seemed to have had the opportunity to put his hands upon them.
Others were better.
Simpler.
Almost empty compared to their counterparts, national matters reduced to only a few pages, with brief but resolute explanations, and even briefer solutions. They asked little more than his approval before being put into action.
The latter were usually the most important.
Thank the Lord, nothing to have a headache for.
The King remained behind his desk for hours, alone in the room of the Quirinal Palace, dealing with each matter that was presented on his desk. The last light of evening had long since disappeared after hours of this quiet work, leaving the indoor candles as the only source of illumination over the papers arranged before him.
They were of all sorts.
Sollicitations of appointments, new military promotions, some administratives reforms, at the national or regional levels, both for some among theses. Some were more... complicated.
There were some he would approve without even the shadow of an hesitation, placing his signature upon the page as though drawing the final stroke across a feud before the matter was closed.
The document then joined the growing pile on his left.
Others made him pause.
He would ponder for a moment, reread the paragraph that had... perturbed him, and then reach for his pen anyway, placing his personal signature beneath that of the man who had occupied the seat to his right for the past four years.
There were only so many matters he could truly grasp.
There was little reason to trouble the functioning of the Kingdom over misunderstandings and dilemmas that concerned only him.
And after them, others continued to flow.
Industrial projects. Reports from one ministry following a request from another. A promotion waiting for his accord here, a diplomatic letter there. Requests for funds for excavations on one side, reports concerning colonial matters on the other.
And, of course, countless documents concerning new economic reforms, financial management, and industrial matters.
As there always seemed to be at this point.
These last few months, it sometimes appeared that they would quickly form a sea of paper and ink if he were to neglect his desk even for a week.
As if the whole country were a locomotive running at great speed. Impossible to stop.
Only instead of a man shovelling coal into the fire to keep it moving, it required a king to sign the papers that kept its machinery turning.
And a man to write them...
Of course.
The thought made him smile quietly, as he continued to work.
Despite what some critics believed, even those within his own court, Vittorio Emanuele was by no means indifferent to governing. He could never be described as a man who merely occupied the throne and left the work to others. Nor did he wish to be one.
No one could never say that he was a hand that did not took part into making what Italy was.
He had been King for a very long time at this point, in some of Italy's greatest moments, and on a lots of its worsts.
Long enough to have spent decades studying reports, listening to ministers, receiving ambassadors, and following the often extraordinarily complicated movements of Italian politics, which seemed to him rather like the winds of the Mediterranean.
Changing direction without warning. From Est to West while passing North and going South.
Calm one moment... and violent the next. Sometimes turning from an easy breeze into a storm before anyone had even had time to prepare.
And only an experienced captain could hope to guide his ship through such waters.
Of course, from time to time, the ship suffered damage.
It was inevitable.
But those aboard knew that it could always have been worse.
And, for all his complaints, Vittorio Emanuele had never forgotten that it was his ship too. And that as his Captain, it was to him to set the sails and make the direction. Despite what the winds said.
Which was precisely why he could not help but notice how different those waters had become. How the current situation felt so unusual. As if the ship had entered an entirely new sea. Calmer, and quieter, in some respects.
But calm does not mean still...
For years, Italy had been a country of hesitation.
Endless debate that produced little beyond noise. Compromises left unreached between men who thought themselves greater than they were, while being nothing more than servants of His Majesty's Kingdom.
Endless discussion, where every matter, every project, every reform, or even the mere idea of reform seemed to require more meetings, more negotiations, more attempts at agreement between people who could rarely agree on even the simplest of things.
A spectacle of puppets, but with no master.
It might have been laughable, had it not concerned matters that could never afford to be neglected.
Now, at least, things moved.
Regardless of how abrupt the change had been.
Decisions were made, and carried out as quickly as they were deemed necessary.
Projects advanced.
Orders were followed.
And, at least to Vittorio Emanuele, it seemed that people were finally working towards making the Kingdom what it deserved to be.
He did not always agree with every detail, of course. He was too experienced to believe that any government could ever be perfect.
But he could not deny one simple fact.
Italy, and its government, appeared stronger than they had been in years. Perhaps even stronger than they had been during the reign of his father, until his death. And that, that was not an easy task in itself.
No small achievement that is to put order in the most unordoned Kingdom that there is.
His pen moved across another document.
A railway expansion.
Approved.
A document about military reorganisation in Lybia.
Approved.
An industrial investment plan in calabria.
Approved.
The same signature each time. He had written it so often that he could have redrawn it with his eyes closed, perhaps even with both hands lost to him. The same small movement of the hand, repeated countless times in the quiet of his office.
Funny, really. A quiet desk. A simple signature. Nothing remarkable in it. Nothing that, to anyone looking from the outside, could have seemed to matter much.
And yet millions of lives could be touched by that little movement of the hand.
That was the curious thing about the Crown. About being a King. It was not always speeches, great ceremonies, or grand declarations made while riding on a horse. Quite rarely, in fact.
Sometimes it was simply a quiet approval, a nod, a signature; a silent hand upon the wheel, watching over the country without constantly standing in the way of those who steered it.
Small marks of ink upon a page, approving the changes that came before him. While silently reminding that they are only here because he allows them to. Because these changes, he bore them first in his heart.
That, after all, was part of the Crown's purpose: She was to be that, the great eternal of politics.
To remain despite turmoil and catastrophe. To endure while governments changed, to stand above the temporary and petty struggles of politicians, and to remind the people that, whatever happened, a King was there to assure stability... and to rule by himself, if the situation required it.
The men could change.
The governments could fall.
The Parliament could quarrel itself hoarse.
But the throne remained, giving the State a continuity that no minister, no coalition, and no parliament could guarantee by itself.
To be a beacon in the night, guiding those who had lost their way.
Stability, order, continuity. That was it. That was his purpose.
At least, that was what Vittorio-Emmanuelle believed. The thought lingering in his mind as he sat alone in his office, taking a quick pause, as most of the documents were already signed.
Yes, that was what he believed.
Perhaps that was why one of the letters on his desk, maybe the most elaborately presented one, waiting at the very bottom of the dying pile caught his attention.
Its envelope was embossed with the Fascist seal, the same fasces Vittorio Emmanuelle saw gradually appearing more and more on any sort of document and across the machinery of the State as the years passed. Even the letter itself seemed designed to demand attention. Its lettering was worked in gold, surrounded by the proper seals and formalities of the Presidency of the Council.
It had come from there, bearing every mark of official importance.
Another invitation, he thought at first.
Another pompous and long ceremony. In which he should not be expected to do much more than to appear, listen to unending speeches, and offer the proper number of silent nods as they were finished before the next one began. Silent observer that has to bear the mantle of overseer while men congratulated one another.
But, strangely, it did not appear to be that. Vittorio Emanuele quickly realised it as soon as he opened the letter and began to read its contents. As it appeared the words were coming from the very hand to which he had entrusted the reins of his Kingdom.
Maestà,
The Kingdom will soon have occasion to commemorate an event of the greatest importance in its recent history. On the twenty-eighth of this month, Rome will commemorate the fourth anniversary of the events of October 1922, and the State will gather for the principal ceremonies marking this anniversary. I would therefore be particularly pleased to have Vostra Maestà present, and to have You occupy the principal place in the ceremony.
As Vostra Maestà knows, much has changed since the days of the March. The difficulties which affected the Government of the Kingdom and its administration have since been greatly reduced, allowing the work of the State to proceed with a firmness which was only rarely possible in the past. Projects which had remained upon paper for years, awaiting decisions and approvals, are now being carried out, while the Government has been able to devote itself to matters which political circumstances had too often delayed, and in some cases left unfinished.
I know that Vostra Maestà has always followed with close attention the practical affairs of the Kingdom, with particular regard for the well-being and proper administration of the State. I am therefore certain that the progress which has been made during these four years will not be without interest to You.
The events of those October days were of an exceptional nature. The situation which had developed in the Kingdom required a decision of equal importance. Its causes and its consequences will doubtless continue to be discussed for many years, and different men will no doubt continue to judge those events according to their own interests and convictions.
Yet, whatever may be written about them in the future, there is one fact which cannot be overlooked. The decision taken by Vostra Maestà at that moment of great peril was of the greatest importance for the future of the Kingdom.
The men who had gathered in October believed that they were coming to Rome to decide the future of Italy by their own strength. In the end, it was the Crown which gave those events their final direction. By receiving me and entrusting me and my party with the formation of the Government, Your Majesty transformed what might otherwise have become a critical rupture into a constitutional change, and allowed the Kingdom to continue upon a new course without abandoning its institutions.
It was Your Majesty's decision which permitted the changes demanded by the situation to take place without the destruction of the State.
I have never forgotten this, and neither, I believe, has the Italian people.
The Government which was formed in those circumstances has now had four years in which to demonstrate what it was capable of accomplishing. The results are, I believe, sufficiently visible throughout the Kingdom. Although much remains to be done, I would be the first to recognise that no Government can consider its work complete. Nevertheless, the progress already made permits us to look upon the future with a confidence which would have been difficult to justify in those earlier days.
For this reason, I should be particularly honoured if Vostra Maestà would consent to take part in the principal ceremony of the anniversary.
It would be fitting that Your Majesty should be present on an occasion which recalls not merely the events themselves, but the decision by which Your Majesty determined the form in which those events would enter the history of the Kingdom. The circumstances of those days have changed, as circumstances always do, but the authority which gave them their final direction remains.
I therefore hope that Vostra Maestà will graciously accept this invitation and honour the ceremony with Your presence, occupying the place of honour among those who will gather to commemorate this anniversary.
Con profonda devozione,
Benito Mussolini
Capo del Governo, Primo Ministro, Segretario di Stato
He found that rather pleasing.
Perhaps, after all, they understood the way things should work far better than their predecessors had. Better than Giolitti. Better than the old men of the Casa di Destra. Perhaps he had been too harsh in his judgement of Benito's character.
Perhaps Mussolini, for all his faults and his rather excessive taste for spectacle, understood something that so many of his predecessors had failed to. That Italy needed a centre, a stable force. And what better centre could there be than the throne?
Yes, Mussolini, for all his faults, is a clever man. And a loyal one.
Vittorio Emanuele set the letter down for a moment, his fingers resting upon its edge, almost caressing the paper as he let his thoughts wander.
If he was honest, he would admit that the whole idea pleased him more than he cared to acknowledge.
He had never asked to be loved or admired, neither by the people nor by the Government. He had never expected them to, and most of the time had never even thought much about it.
When he had ascended to the throne after his father's cruel death at the hands of an anarchist, such things had been among the least of his concerns. They had never truly become greater concerns with the passing of the years.
But this...
This touched something in him.
He could not deny that it reached the right place in his heart.
At last, something different under the sun.
Perhaps that was something worth attending.
Vittorio Emanuele thought with a little smile returned to his face, as he read the final lines once more before folding the letter. Then, his fingers reached for the small silver bell resting at the edge of the desk. He gave it a light ring that resonated in the room.
A moment later, his secretary appeared at the door. Giving a bow before moving before the desk.
"Reply to the President of the Council," he said, handing him the letter. "Tell him that I shall answer positively to his request. And that he can count me present."
The secretary bowed.
"Yes, Maestà."
As he left as quickly as he appeared, Vittorio Emmanuelle rested in his chair, looking toward the ceiling, lost in thoughts.
Perhaps they had been wrong about Mussolini.
A faint smile returned to his face at this, as he began thinking about of the warnings he had received from men like Facta, De Nicola and Cocco Ortu. All same men, in the same clothes, bearing the same words, that advised him not to trust this new man and his party.
Perhaps he had been right not to listen to them.