In April, Aviation Chess and Jungle Chess swept through Rome’s social circles at an astonishing speed.
Cerydra gave the rules and sample boards to her sister, Yolanda—Yolanda had already married the Duke of Aosta and had her own salon in Rome.
Her eldest sister lost to her husband on her first try, then laughingly asked for another game, and after that, another, and then another.
That night, laughter filled Yolanda’s salon; ladies threw dice with lace-gloved hands, gentlemen argued endlessly over the gain or loss of a single move, and champagne glasses lined up in long rows beside the boards.
Word spread from Yolanda’s salon; the next day, Princess Mafalda came to ask for a set, and on the third day, Queen Elena’s chief lady-in-waiting personally arrived to politely inquire if Her Highness would be willing to make a set for the Queen’s afternoon tea party.
Within a week, all the prominent noble salons in Rome had begun playing these two games.
The randomness of Aviation Chess allowed everyone to win, while the restrictive relationships in Jungle Chess made every game full of drama.
The ladies liked that it didn’t require as much mental effort as Chess, and the gentlemen liked that they could drink while playing.
More importantly—this was “the game invented by Princess Cerydra.” Playing it became a symbol of status and taste in itself.
Orders flew to the court craftsmen like snowflakes; maple boards, ivory pieces, and the airplane models for Aviation Chess were crafted by the best sculptors.
A deluxe set of Aviation Chess sold for as much as five hundred lire, yet it remained in short supply.
Cerydra had Virginia pass on a message: the standard version should be made of beech wood, with a price not exceeding fifty lire.
She didn’t explain why when she said this, and Virginia didn’t ask.
A week later, two versions of Aviation Chess and Jungle Chess appeared in Rome’s shops—the deluxe version sold to nobles, and the standard version sold to citizens.
The standard version sold even faster than the deluxe one.
Within a month, in the Trastevere district across the Tiber River, workers would gather in taverns after work to play Jungle Chess.
They would throw dice, move pieces, and roar with laughter, slapping the tables over a brilliant move where a mouse ate a lion.
Cerydra read this news in a letter from Professor Ferrari.
In a park in Turin, the old professor had seen a group of retired men who had drawn a Jungle Chess board on a stone table, using bottle caps as pieces, playing with great delight.
“Your Highness,” he wrote, “you have brought a new kind of laughter to this city.” Cerydra finished reading the letter and placed it in a drawer.
Outside the window, the twilight of Rome was descending.
She knew that laughter was a part of the board—the part most easily overlooked, yet the most important.
A little princess who could make both nobles and workers laugh, and a little princess who could only win games on a board, were two completely different people.
The former made people love her, while the latter only made people admire her.
And love was safer than admiration.
May, Palazzo Venezia.
Mussolini sat behind his desk, with two documents spread out in front of him.
The first was a detailed investigation report on Princess Cerydra that he had requested from the intelligence department.
It was three times thicker than the one from last year.
He opened the first page.
The photo had been updated.
It was a news photo of Cerydra when she won the championship in Geneva—the white-haired, blue-eyed young girl standing before the chessboard, holding a blue cane in her hand, with sixteen national flags behind her.
Her expression was calm as water, her gaze directed beyond the lens, as if looking at something only she could see.
Beneath the photo was a caption: January 1930, Geneva, European Championship Invitational, won with an undefeated record.
He turned to the second page; it was a complete social network diagram.
Cerydra’s name was written in the center, with several lines extending from her, connecting to different names and factions.
Nobles: Colonna Family, Sforza Family, Rovere Family, Duke of Aosta (husband of Princess Yolanda).
Chess World: Professor Ferrari (retired), Mastroianni brothers.
Church: No obvious connection yet.
Within the Fascist Party: None.
Royalists— His gaze stopped.
The list of Royalists was long.
General Innocenzo Admiral Campioni’s name had been circled.
This general was a hero of the First World War, having commanded the counterattack on the Piave River defense line, and held extremely high prestige in the military.
He was an open supporter of the monarchy and had stated in private on many occasions that “what Italy needs is a King, not a dictator.” The report showed that Admiral Campioni had entered the Quirinal Palace three times in the past three months, and on two of those occasions, he had spoken with Princess Cerydra; the content of their conversations was unknown.
The corners of Mussolini’s mouth moved slightly—not a smile, but something colder.
He continued flipping through; the intelligence department had conducted a systematic analysis of Cerydra’s behavioral patterns.
The conclusion was marked in bold: The subject is deliberately establishing and maintaining a public image of a “perfect princess.” A Chess genius, elegant and approachable, apolitical, and widely beloved.
However, the subject’s social activities show a clear selectivity—most of the nobles she interacts with have Royalist leanings, while the social circles she avoids are mostly the new elites within the Fascist Party.
Preliminary assessment: The subject’s behavior is not entirely devoid of political awareness but has a clear direction.
Objective evaluation: To maintain the status of the House of Savoy and prevent the Royal Family from being marginalized within the Fascist Regime.
Mussolini closed the file and leaned back in his chair.
On the ceiling, the fresco of Caesar standing on a chariot receiving his coronation spread out above his head.
He suddenly laughed—a very light, very short sound.
A fifteen-year-old girl, wanting to preserve her family.
He had seen too many such people in his twenty-year political career.
Nobles, bureaucrats, officers, merchants—they all wanted to retain their place in the new era, using all sorts of methods to curry favor with power, maneuver, and gamble.
Princess Cerydra was smarter than them; she wasn’t currying favor with power, she was turning herself into a form of power—a soft, harmless, and lovable power.
A Chess genius, a salon star, a beautiful and elegant little princess.
Everyone liked her, no one feared her, and she thought that this was enough to preserve the throne of Savoy.
Mussolini placed the file into the drawer on his right-hand side.
That drawer had a label stuck on it, written in pen: Under Observation.
When he pulled the drawer open, a thick stack of documents was already piled inside.
The one on top had a name written on the cover: King Victor Emmanuel III.
The one below it read: Crown Prince Umberto.
Cerydra’s file was placed in the third position, and the sound of the drawer closing echoed softly in the empty office.
Only fifteen.
He thought, too young.
Too young to understand that in this era, being liked is never armor to protect oneself.
But he didn’t intend to touch her, at least not now.
A little princess who invented board games in noble salons, a little girl who occasionally spoke a few words with an old Royalist general, was not worth him taking action.
Let her play her games, let her draw her boards.
Let her think she was playing a very big game.
When she grew up, she would discover that the real chessboard was never in the gardens of the Quirinal Palace.
It was at the Palazzo Venezia.