Perugia.
Fascist Command Headquarters.
By the office window stood a burly man wearing a tight black shirt.
This was Mussolini, whose dark eyes often bored sharply into others as if they could pierce straight through their souls, giving him an undeniable aura of authority.
At this moment, his hands rested against the windowsill, preventing anyone from noticing that his composure was beginning to slip.
Ever since that phone call, bad news had arrived one after another, knocking him straight down from the clouds.
Fear and rage churned in his heart.
His carefully orchestrated “bloodless coup” had completely failed, and the rules of the game had abruptly escalated from political blackmail to military suppression by the state.
He had gone from the leader of a “March of Victory” to a rebel chief facing charges of treason and military suppression.
The pressure was immense.
Yet he could not show weakness, nor could he give up.
Seizing power was his only way forward.
He firmly believed that if blood flowed in Rome, the King would surely compromise rather than allow that eighteen-year-old youth to run wild and plunge the nation into chaos.
Mussolini composed himself, turned around, and said to the Fascist high command behind him, “We cannot give up, because hell lies behind us.
Only by seizing power can we achieve our ideals.” Just as he was about to make a decision, the intelligence chief, Aldo Finzi, entered the office and handed him a report.
“Duce, the situation has changed.” Mussolini took the intelligence report.
It contained statements from several prominent supporters declaring that they would no longer provide funding for future Fascist operations.
Mussolini frowned.
“What is going on?” “Have they been frightened by Rome’s decrees?” Mussolini tried hard to calm himself, lest anger and frustration once again take control of his mind.
Finzi shook his head.
“That is part of it, but one of our friendly representatives said they were warned by a certain force and sent incriminating documents detailing their past misdeeds.” “Bastards!” Mussolini let out a powerless roar.
The bourgeois parties had been intimidated, bewildered, and rendered speechless by him.
The syndicalist forces had been beaten underground, incapable of making a comeback.
The Fascists were at the gates of Rome, with victory almost within reach.
Yet Rome had unexpectedly become the final obstacle.
Now, his financial backers no longer dared to oppose that eighteen-year-old Crown Prince and had chosen to back down.
Without financial support, how could he contend with the Crown Prince?
He was well aware of the true capabilities of the Blackshirts.
“Finzi, contact the palace.
I want to speak with the King by telephone.” Mussolini wanted to make one final attempt: to intimidate the King with words and force him to strip Umberto of his authority.
…
The Royal Palace.
The night was quiet.
The King’s aide-de-camp on duty, Cittadini, remained in the telephone and telegraph room so that he would not miss any urgent calls or telegrams.
Ring, ring, ring.
The telephone suddenly rang.
Cittadini quickly picked it up.
After saying “Hello,” a vaguely familiar accent came through the receiver.
“Mr.
Mussolini?” “It is I, General Cittadini.
I request to speak with the King.
Please convey my request.” The voice on the other end was very humble, completely different from his tone that afternoon.
Cittadini suppressed a smile.
“I am sorry, Mr.
Mussolini, but the King is unwell.
All affairs of state are currently being handled by His Royal Highness the Crown Prince.
His Highness is managing state affairs at the Prime Minister’s Office.
Shall I transfer your call?” As Cittadini finished speaking, even the sound of breathing disappeared from the other end of the line.
However, the call had not been disconnected.
Cittadini waited patiently.
A moment later, a voice finally came through again.
“If you would be so kind.” Cittadini said nothing more.
He immediately transferred the call and hung up.
Then, with a broad smile on his face, he went to the study to report the matter to the King.
Palazzo Chigi.
The telephone in the Prime Minister’s office rang.
Umberto, still working, casually picked it up.
“Hello?” “Respected Crown Prince, I am Benito Mussolini.” The voice on the other end carried a heavy northern accent.
“Oh?” Umberto was somewhat surprised.
“What do you want with me?” “Your Highness, I will keep this brief.
You know that the Blackshirts have a million followers.
Once chaos erupts, it will become uncontrollable.
Combined with the Socialists, all of Italy will be engulfed in the flames of war.” “And so?” Umberto was almost speechless.
The man had already been pushed this far, yet he was still putting on airs.
“Your Highness, are you not afraid?” The voice on the phone sounded somewhat hurried.
“Mr.
Mussolini, rather than wasting your breath trying to intimidate me, you would be better off carefully considering your own situation.
I have records of every crime committed by Fascist thugs, and all of them will ultimately be laid at your feet.” Click!
The call disconnected.
Umberto had given most of the Blackshirts a chance to defect and reform, but that did not mean he intended to spare the chief culprits.
…
Perugia.
Mussolini flew into a rage, repeatedly cursing Umberto as a “bastard.” His methods had failed, and any chance of victory had completely vanished.
Of course, he still had a contingency plan.
If things truly took a turn for the worse, he would cross the Apennine Mountains and retreat to the Po River Basin.
That was where he had built his political career, with a deep base of support among the masses and backing from local landowners.
There, he could establish a regional stronghold and continue resisting Rome.
This was why he had chosen to establish his headquarters in Perugia.
Its convenient transportation links made retreating north much easier.
“Balbo, De Bono, we must withdraw our forces and retreat to Milan to oppose Rome.” Mussolini did not want to flee into exile.
“Duce, retreating to Milan is useless.
That Highness acts swiftly and decisively.
I fear the Carabinieri and the Army in Milan are already making preparations.” De Bono grew despondent.
He had a premonition that after this failure, the Fascists would never have another chance.
That Crown Prince had hidden his strength too deeply and planned for far too long.
He would never give the Fascists a second chance.
“Duce, even the King has stepped aside for the Crown Prince.
We cannot win.” “Let us flee.” De Bono was a military man, a former lieutenant general.
Having committed numerous crimes after joining the Fascists, he no longer had any place in the country if they failed.
“De Bono, what do you mean?
You’re giving up just like that?” Mussolini cursed, his voice shrill.
“We will continue our march!
I don’t believe that Crown Prince actually dares to kill us!” Mussolini put on an exaggerated expression, as though trying to demonstrate his determination.
“Duce, if you wish to continue, I cannot stop you, but I will not allow the soldiers under my command to march to their deaths.
They were once brave soldiers of the Kingdom and should not have to bear the crime of treason.” De Bono saluted Mussolini, turned around, and walked out of the conference room.
Seeing De Bono leave, Mussolini froze.
Bang!
Mussolini slammed his hand hard against the table to vent his fury, then said to everyone, “Order the frontline troops to conduct an orderly retreat toward Milan.” He had lost for now.
Just as Mussolini finished giving the order, he saw De Bono return, which eased his anger somewhat.
However, noticing that De Bono’s expression seemed wrong, he was about to ask what had happened when De Bonoquietly leaned close and whispered.
“Duce, leave quickly!
An unidentified armed force has appeared south of Perugia.” Mussolini’s expression changed drastically.
“Go!
We’ll take the train and leave immediately!” That night, the Fascist frontline forces received orders one after another to retreat toward Milan.
However, how could a force numbering in the tens of thousands withdraw at a moment’s notice?
Even a military organizer like De Bono could not pull tens of thousands of men away from Rome so easily.
Moreover, in their pursuit of a quick victory, the Blackshirts had traveled light, carrying almost no logistical supplies.
They had assumed that once they captured Rome, food, drink, and supplies would be readily available.
The movements of the Blackshirts were naturally discovered.
Frontline troops reported the situation up the chain of command, and the information quickly reached Umberto’s desk.
Before this, Umberto had already received a report from the raiding force stating that the Blackshirts had fled Perugia.
All signs indicated that Mussolini intended to retreat north and continue his resistance.
How could Umberto allow him to have his way?
“Trying to run?
It won’t be that easy.” Umberto called the Commander of the Carabinieri, Lieutenant General Giovanni Marelli, and ordered him to secure the northbound railway stations, intercept the Blackshirts, and hunt down Mussolini, with authorization to shoot any Fascist personnel who resisted arrest or opened fire.
Umberto granted the Carabinieri broad emergency authority.
At the same time, Umberto ordered Chiappini to advance and encircle the Blackshirts, forcing those around Rome to surrender.
Umberto also instructed the Ministry of the Interior to notify the railway companies to suspend all transportation for two days.
As the Army mobilized throughout the night, morale among the Blackshirts completely collapsed.
The majority chose to surrender and await judgment, while a small number fled into the darkness in every direction, hoping to escape punishment.
By daybreak, the Blackshirt force that had once boasted nearly one hundred thousand men had practically dissolved into thin air.
More than forty thousand men were escorted to temporary camps on the outskirts of Rome, where they were provided with basic food and shelter.
The overnight collapse of the Blackshirts shocked all of Rome.
The Crown Prince’s methods left people speechless with awe.
The Crown Prince’s prestige skyrocketed overnight.