the door. The Count smiled. It was a smile of flashing white teeth
and powerful charisma. His eyes were dark and romantic with the
sweeping lashes of a lady of fashion, his skin was lightly tanned to a
golden olive and the lustrous curls of his hair that escaped from under
the black beret shone in the sunlight. Although he was almost
thirty-five years of age, not a single grey strand adulterated that
splendid mane.
From his commanding position his height was exaggerated, so he seemed
to tower god-like above the men who scampered about him. The highly
polished cross-straps glittered across his chest as did the silver
deaths head cap badges. The short regimental dagger on his hip set
with small diamonds and seed pearls was to the Count's own design,
and the ivory-handled revolver had been hand-made for him by Beretta;
the holster was belted in tightly to subdue a waistline that was
showing signs of rebellion.
The Count paused and glanced down at the little sergeant.
'Yes, Gino?'he asked.
'Good, my Count. just a little up with the chin.' The Count's chin
caused them both much concern. At certain angles, it showed an
alarming tendency to duplicate itself like the ripples on a pond. The
Count threw up his chin sternly, rather like 11 Duce, and the gesture
ironed out the jowls below.
'Bellissimo,' cried Gino, and tripped the shutter. The Count stepped
down from the Rolls, enjoying the way the soft sparkling leather of his
high boots gave like the bellows of a concertina above his instep as he
moved, and he hooked the thumb of his gloved left hand into the belt
above his dagger as he flung his right arm up and outwards in the
Fascist salute.
'The General awaits you, Colonel,'Crespi greeted him.
'I came the moment I received the summons.' The Captain made a move.
He knew the summons had been delivered at ten o'clock that morning and
it was now almost three in the afternoon. The Count's primping had
taken most of the day, and now he glowed from bathing and shaving and
massaging and smelled like a rose garden in full bloom.
'Clown,' thought the Captain again. It had taken Crespi ten years of
unswerving service and dedication to reach his rank, while this man had
opened his purse, invited Mussolini for a week of hunting and carousal
to his estates at the foot of the Apennines, and had in return been
given the colonelcy of a full battalion. The man had never fired a
shot at anything larger than a boar, and until six months ago had
commanded nothing more formidable than a squad of accountants, a troop
of gardeners or a platoon of strumpets to his bed.
'Clown,' thought the Captain bitterly, bowing over the hand and
grinning ingratiatingly. 'Have your photograph taken swatting flies in
the Danakil desert, or sniffing camel dung beside the Wells of
Chaldi,'
he thought, and backed away through the wide doors into the relative
cool of the administrative building. 'This way, Colonel, if you would
be so kind.' A General De Bono lowered the binoculars through which
