Free The Vengeance of Rome by Michael Moorcock

not wish to fight another war.
    The
ras
seemed utterly unworthy of his leader’s trust or of the honour bestowed upon him. His manners and opinions would have shocked a Chicago gangster. I began to make this comparison when da Bazzanno, perhaps conscious of his duties towards the rest of us, gracefully changed the subject and suggested that we all go to the observation deck on the roof of the aircraft. A full moon had risen over the bay and would be worth seeing. Miranda Butter took my arm as we went up. On three sides were steep wooded limestone terraces sharply defined by the light of a large yellow moon which made a silvery causeway across the lapping water to the dark, glinting metal of our little observation deck, bathing us all in its cold light.
    Though I had grown used to women again, Miranda Butter’s healthy young American body stirred a certain memory in my blood. I was reminded a little of Rosie von Bek. Even her perfume lacked ambiguity. She radiated energy and enthusiasm, frequently absent in modern European women. Most women I had met in those days preferred the languid life of a pampered
poule du chambre
to any active engagement in the world’s affairs.
    Ideally one should have two women: a comrade to stand side by side with you in the struggle against Chaos and a compliant sexual partner, always eager to serve your needs. My inability to choose between these equally attractive types has left me the companionless old man I am today, though Mrs Cornelius was of course a considerable comfort. When she died, there was no one.
    Miranda Butter had the same frank sexuality. Like Mrs Cornelius she was largely unconscious of it. Though she was only twenty-two years old, her naivety and directness had evidently opened doors for her in Europe, giving unusual access to the famous people she interviewed for her paper. Another advantage was the sheer romanticism of her origins. Everyone had heardof Texas. Everyone felt a certain romantic yearning for the land of Zane Grey and Karl May whose worlds had been brought to life in thousands of picture-plays, even before the drawling accents of their cowboy heroes were heard and imitated anywhere that a projector could be linked to sound. By addressing Texans through her pages, Europeans knew they were reaching the ‘true’ Americans—the great, open-hearted, idealistic frontiers-men and -women who typified all that was bravest and best in the old race, yet was untainted by Yankee-dollar madness or Albany politics. I often yearned for that American vivacity during my years abroad. The chance to experience it again was a marvellous treat.
    I remember my magical evening aboard
La Farfalla Nera
with great nostalgia. I did not return to
Les Bon’ Temps
but, at her request, accompanied Miranda Butter to her cabin to discuss a series of interviews in which I would give Houston’s readers the benefit of my predictions about the Future of Europe.
    This first act of our charade opened on the settee of her little cabin. We would begin, she said, with some background. She opened her reporter’s notebook and brandished a pencil. Her readers would want to know if I was married.
    Sadly, I told her, I am a widower.
    At this she became deliciously sympathetic. A small tear brightened her eye as she told me she understood that I must find the subject too painful to discuss. Of course, I was still technically married to Mrs Cornelius, but I returned to Esmé. Indeed, the circumstances of our parting, the cruelty of her ultimate betrayal, were things I am still reluctant to discuss. Sometimes I am too much of a gentleman for my own good. When it became clear to Miranda that I had lost my wife at the hands of a Bolshevist gang I did not elaborate. After all, I had lost my original Esmé in this way and no doubt by now she was dead in some anarchist trench. ‘Maddy’ asked why I had left Russia. I told her my departure had not been voluntary. The Reds