Free The Vengeance of Rome by Michael Moorcock Page A

were the reason I had left. They had stolen everything.
    Estates? she wanted to know.
    â€˜Property is nothing,’ I told her. ‘They stole my future. I share that view, at least, with the great Tolstoy and with Prince Kropotkin. My patents and prototypes.’
    Priceless?
    She possessed an uncanny understanding of my situation and my values. Such delicious, eager approval from so voluptuous an acolyte was irresistible. Before I embraced her, she was talking of telegraphing her paperto see if they would run a feature in their Sunday section. I saw this as useful publicity should I ever wish to return to my twin careers as actor and engineer in the US. And while I had never made any reference to my aristocratic blood, it seemed no harm would be done if she chose to refer to me, even in the first hours of our lovemaking, as Prince Max. I told her I preferred to be known as simple Max Peters or, in Spain, as Señor Gallibasta, but as Prince Max I was best recognised thereafter in Italy. She asked me if I knew how much I resembled Rudolph Valentino. I told her delicately that I had never considered the comparison flattering.
    She added gracefully that my looks were, of course, a far more refined version of his. And she believed there were better actors than Valentino.
    â€˜You must judge for yourself,’ I said. I promised her that I would take her over to
Les Bon’ Temps
the next day and show her some of the films I rescued from Morocco.
    In the morning she paid me the supreme compliment: only Benito Mussolini had a personality as powerful as mine. Had I ever considered seeking political office? I assured her that my political days were over. All I really desired was a chance to serve the world in practical ways, by solving scientifically problems of population and social hardship. Her face shone with idealism. She was my disciple. ‘And you will, dear Prince! You will!’
    With such commitment and support, I knew that my stolen future was about to be restored to me.
    When I returned to the port a few hours later I discovered to my astonishment that
Les Bon’ Temps
had upped anchor. Ashore I asked what had happened to her. The hotel manager told me that apparently there had been some urgent business. ‘The coastguard was involved.’ Shura had been unable to contact me but had left my luggage with the baker. I found a note attached to my carpet bag—‘
Sorry, old fellow. I know you’re among friends. We’ll look you up in Rome!
’ At first I was depressed, upset at losing my cousin’s company, but clearly his urgent business was dangerous and I suspect Stavisky had encouraged Shura in what he had done. I knew I was something of a liability to the political broker and was not greatly disappointed. I was now free to enjoy the company of my American admirer! Da Bazzanno had already invited me to come with him to Venice. Fate had determined my path for me. Once before, with Esmé, I had set out for Venice. Now at last I would arrive in reasonable style with a paramour almost as delightful as my little sweetheart but more of an intellectual equal. I seemed, at that time, to be ascending, slowly but surely, a golden staircase with my dreams about to be realised. I had journeyed into the Land of the Dead and I had been faceto face with the Beast; I had braved the oceans and the deserts and learned to live among savage nomads. I had flown where none had flown before, and I had discovered secrets previously forbidden to white men. Journeying through a dozen different versions of Hell, I had survived. Now these hardships and spiritual ordeals were about to be over, and I was to be rewarded.
    There could be no more perfect a candidate for Mussolini’s service. I had been tempered in the fires of the most extreme experience not once but many times. I had died and been reborn in the birthplace of civilisation. I had first-hand knowledge of politics in many countries. I was