The heavy doors closed behind him as he escaped the golden prison, gladly helped in that by the callow Nathaniel, the large wooden masses squeaking on the marble ground as they moved, creating a long sound that seemed to linger during way more than it should have, as if the very air had learned to echo the closing door of the sacred.
He stepped out. Behind him, the echo of his own footsteps seemed to follow, this obedient shadow.
And they say loyalty is a fever dream, an hallucination for the joyful, for the believer and for the fool. It seems, it is quite untrue. But for men, it is still to be seen.
While thinking of it, why these three names ? As if these three ever were other than one.
Or maybe not.
After all, he had seeing himself in what shape could be the pinacle of the latter two. And had months with whom only master these two. While, sadly, joy was never seen, partaking in its own course, far aways of the hopefulness of the belief that only the foolish harbour. A never learned talent.
But still, isn't hope the joy of the lowly ?
May he find in the lands of snakes and black gold the happiness he sought both to achieve and to distribute to others.
And may this third art this knight had mastered be kept carefully in his pocket, never to leave it again. If it had ever been there at all. He had learned long ago, far earlier in life, that in matters of motivation and morale, fear and ego were effective, but joy had never been surpassed.
And perhaps he could also loosen his grip on rationality, which, like a bride-to-be princess of a fairy tale, remained locked in the highest tower of his mind, never permitted to step outside.
But it is time to let this peculiar thought aside, for the moment. After all, a sun-scorched land and lesser people were already attending to it for him.
As he progresses in these great halls, destined and shaped for great men, these two noises both continue along their path, before mixing together, drawing together, moving as a pair, embracing like lovers, and finally abandoning their singularity to become one.
These two sounds mating, one the thunderous closures of the entry to holiness, the other the tedious beat of boots crushing on the white marble with a rhythm of shrill sound, unadorned. These two echoing of the imminence of something expanding, something that lived without barriers, whose locks bordered on legend. A force like fire in the world and in minds, but unlike fire, whose never was extinguished in silence, never without an explosion, literally or not.
It was the sound of the beyond, the beyond questioning, beyond respect, beyond the sacred. The sound of endless light that, like a moth, forever attracts the human eye, binding it with passion, admiration… devotion. Captivating, ensorceling, like the usual drugs. But unlike alcohol, sex, or fleeting medicine, these vices the undeserving fall into after a taste, this addiction was not caught. It was already there. It was in the nature, in the birth, in the blood. As is love, food and warmth...
And killing... for some people.
And like every flame... every candle, every fire. It is drawing the moth, corrupting is efficient yet unworthy, undeserving and inferior spirit, it will burn it, long before the attraction fades. You can revive this foolish little insect a thousand times, breed it through a billion generations, teach it every lesson, mate it with the obedient, the weak, the inferior.
It will always return to the light.
The light is all that matters. The rest is garnish on a plate.
But after all… isn't the light the core of life?
The great halls stretched in his presence, lungs of some slumbering god. Columns rising as its vertebrae and ribs, holding up this sky, no, these ceilings, painted with all the sweat and dreams of the old centuries. The sounds of footsteps interwoven within this skeleton of a god, vibrating in rhythm like its heart.
Far from a long time ago, long after the edification of this all, he was nothing, and now, he is above. The ambition had pierced its way into holiness. The candles guttered in invisible drafts at his passage, casting shadows that danced before, now bowing in his coming.
In his gaze awaited a mall procession, flanked by the Swiss guards, the eternal watch of this place, are standing two old figures. The two monsignori both bearing the same mask of polite stiffness and of sacred that only a monk can have.
The Duce stop a few paces from them, assessing them as he quietly remove his gloves with dedicated slowness.
The fez stays in place, of course.
"Eccellenza," the old man on the right begins, probably the Pontif, inclining his head just enough for the formality, not bowing but still somewhat respectful. His voice thin and firm at the same time, like an old decaying parchment. "You honour the Apostolic Palace earlier than expected."
"Ah, all my excuses signore" He respond as he harbours a wry smile "you see, the faithful is always eager for communion."
This comment give the small man an half-smile for a few seconds, as the other man of faith shift with little discomfort.
"Eccellenza," the second man, probably the secretary, interrupt the awkward silence as he bows slightly, his voice restrained to the form of an almost whisper. "If you will follow me. His Holiness awaits you."
Mussolini give him a curt nod before going.
They then began walking. The priests keeping a small pace behind him, reluctant to walk side by side with the man.
The chamberlain, sensing the weight of the silence, says softly:"His Holiness prefers to receive official visitors privately, Eccellenza. You will find the Holy Father in the Papal Library."
"A library" Mussolini replied with what only few could see a smile. "I thought he only cheered one book ?"
None of the priests answered that.
They crossed the Sala Regia, where the frescoed wars of the popes stretched across the walls, each one bearing a scene from the centuries when the tiara had ruled kings. Mussolini is then choosing to pause for a moment before one panel, the battle of Lepanto, his hands behind his back.
"So much of your history," he says, "painted in victories and times that are already forgotten."
On the face of the monsignor beside him appear a smile that do not reach his eyes. "Our memory is long, Eccelenza, as long as our history, even longer... and longer than that of men and kingdoms, it will outlast all of us..."
He smiles faintly at this answer, not without a certain respect, he must admit... even if respect is not the first word he would think about. "Then we shall see what this memory of yours chooses to remember of today... and what it chose to put under the rug."
The rest of the walk was silent.
At last, they are reaching the antechamber of the Papal Library. The door is standing half open, an invitation, which beyond it lay that quiet realm of shelves and order. A papal gentleman (monk butler ?... whatever) step forward and bow to him.
"His Holiness will receive you now, your Eccellenza"
For a brief moment, he see himself adjusting his fez once more... what is it ? Perfectionism ?Anxiousness ? A simple repetitive gesture of him ? Actually, who cares... that is the last thing he briefly do before passing between the heavy doors, entering into the place where he will be standing ground with holiness. Or whatever they call it these days.
He enters.
____
The Papal Library unfolds before him in a calm, almost soothing silence. Ranks and ranks of shelves rising from below until the roof in disciplined order. Some burdened with centuries old ink and shell. A gentle light piercing through the tall windows, caressing the old wood.
And there he is
Seated behind a simple desk... an altar or a throne would have been expected.
Pius the XI.
Pope since 1922, the years have not already burdened his shoulders and his backbone, neither his gaze, piercing through souls and heavy with a sense you can only found in those whose ultimate power is on their sole mind and bind.
You can thus far see in his eyes the calmness and weight of the one at the top of the food chains... although still also way too filled with this perpetual mannerism and half fool mysticism that only these spiritual beings, monks and artist alike, can harbour. Full of fear and auto-gratification through baseless means and ways.
Still... you can see a man of power
It is probably the highest form of being he saw since he was brought back into this world, except for when he watches himself in the mirror... of course.
The Pope does not rise immediately.
Instead, the Bishop of Rome chose to lay his gaze again on the old and half feeble book in his gloved hands, finishing the probably very important and urgent line he is reading.
He really was not eager to bear the thing that he himself burden his servants and little not even half bold subordinates.
Really, he didn't know that those long silences powerful men like to let develop, just to appear in control, were so irritating…
Actually, to be strictly honest, he had known all along, it was simply too droll not to do it.
One of the pontiff fingers marks the page before he, after a few ways too long second, closes the book with a soft, decisive sound that reverberate a little in this great library. Only then does he lift his gaze again.
Sharp.
That he almost missed the first time.
Sadly, or fortunately, he will not bear the gaze of a full mystic.
That would have been a funny time, although quite tiring.
Not a man fully lost in his high clouds, but one who know how to judge a book by its overs and everything else, a scholar yes, but not the dull and feeble one, closer to what he is in himself.
He does not know if he likes that.
"Mister Mussolini."
Of course, no title. The old man uses every bit of his power to its fullest extent; he would have done the same in this situation. So, no titles for him.
Not yet.
After all, the relationship between the Pope and each prime minister since the fondation of this lovely country has always been... peculiar at best.
In 1870, after the French defeats in the franco-prussian war and the following departure of the french forces that Napoleon the third installed in Rome, the Italian forces under Victor-Emanuelle the second captured the city, ending the more than thousands of years old rule and existence of the Papal states. To finalise the Italian unification, with Rome as its capital.
Although the unification was, in fact, not quite finished, as we saw after that.
But after that, the papacy had to bear the fact that it was not free anymore. That their state was ended and that they had to live under the law and gaze of another one.
One of the mightiest and greatest powers on earth, subjugated to the whims and wishes of another state, not even one of the mightiest ones.
Pope Pius the ninth then decided to not bow his head and to continue the fight, declaring the italian government as illegitimate, excommunicating Victor-Emmanuelle II and declaring himself and the catholic church as "prisoners in the Vatican" prisoners in their own homes, to a belligerent and hateful power
Since then, the following popes always refused to even recognize Italy existence as a state
The Church also used every bit of its power and influence to make it hard for the King and his new country, discouraging, sometimes even sanctioning, the Catholics who dared to support or having any participation in the Italian government (including forms of excommunication in certain cases).
For years the catholics of Italy, so not a handful of people, did not even vote or run in elections. Or at least that was the case before the creation of the Democrazia Cristiana.
After all, participating in a system meant recognising this system, and that, the papacy would not do.
He always thought it was a strange idea. And a very counterproductive thing to do.
After all, it is always a better idea to participate, having grasp and infiltrate the thing that you saw to destroy, rather than brutally fighting it.
Better to be the snake in the jardin of Eden rather than the Satan outside of it.
As Talleyrand said "What is the best thing to do if you want to overthrow a government ? Be a part of it."
And, as always... Above all, not too much zeal.
And he is here to end this little conundrum of zeal and... this little perpetual fighting between to force as stupid as each other need to end... now.
The Duce halts, precisely three steps into the room, two from the old man. Not too close to him. But not enough for it to be deferential.
Measured... as always.
"Holy Father," he replies, inclining his head. He hopes the man under him understand that it is rather not a bow, just recognition.
Silence follows for a few seconds.
Does all men of powers really do this same thing. He hopes not.
Pius XI rises at last.
Quite smaller than he thought but it does not diminish his presence.
"I trust," the Pope begins, his voice calm but carrying with unsettling clarity, "that your journey was… enlightening. I was reported of your many hours of wandering in the holy chapel"
A faint smile touches his lips.
He does have humour.
"Every path that leads a man to between the halls of Peter tend to be, Your Holiness."
A flicker, a barely perceptible one, just passes through the pope marble expression.
Recognition maybe ?
The pontiff gestures in front of his desk, not to anything remotely impressive or rich, but to a simple wood chair.
"Please, sit."
And he does, ignoring the underling way of the old man of saying that he can order him, sitting on the wooden chair, now reaching the same height as him.
Now they are at each other level, now they can talk. Equal to equal
Or almost...
"You move quickly," Pius XI says after another small silence, folding his hands, like a teacher would do, neither menacing nor welcoming. "Faster than many anticipated, including lots of my advisors."
"Audentes fortuna iuvat" The capo del governo answers smoothly, then letting the same silence stretch again for a while before continuing
I can play this game too
"History rewards the decisive," Mussolini continue after some seconds. "Hesitation is a luxury that only bears weight for those who believe the Future will wait for them."
"Doesn't it sometimes?" the Pope asks, his gaze piercing through the glasses of his spectacles. Still, there is not real challenge in his tone, more like... assertion.
Of course it is...
Of all the people he could meet, these are probably the worsts, or at least the most difficult to deal with.
They are above politics, temporal and petty squabbles, or at least they do think so, always eying the masses and the governments and the social and political changes with a prideful gaze, as they lays their eyes from above it all, certain of their eternity and of the particularly meaningless of it all, only their holy words and worlds are the priority.
Yet, they always intend to participate in it, putting their nose in everything and in each aspect of things they can find. Priding themselves as some sort of holy referee, watching the match and the usual competition of the world from under the sky, while thinking themselves of the one above.
But they are not.
And what is even harder with these people is, that they are clearly aware of their semblant of invulnerability, which is quite real, as long as they stay somewhat holy... and careful... particularly carefull at least.
But at the end of the, whether it is them, or their exact copy that has only a face and an accent as a change, they will always be here.
Government, states, kings, societies, nation, philosophies, they saw it all, and they will see the next ones.
Even in Russia, both modern and actual one, you can see this.
They suffered heavy blows under the bolcheviks, and still, right now, knowing the future, the worst is to come for them, with the ascension of big brother Stalin.
For years in my previous world, they suffered under the boot of the red men, having to live hidden, under the star and the sickle, and the watchful gaze of the NKVD, and after that of its succesor, KGB. And for almost 80 years, maybe more, the state had proclaimed atheism as the only way forward.
Sometimes the church was allowed to live, as shadows of their former self, prisoners of body and mind, in a state, and in a world, that no longer wanted them to be. And at worst, they were hunted and packed in camps, like animals, livestock ready to feed the new power, ready to die to lay an open place for the new collective idea.
But then, was orthodoxy destroyed ? No
When I died, it was thirty years since the fall of the wall, and since then, the church has returned, with more powers than she had in decades, with an influence everywhere in Russia, from the bottom to the top, in every aspect of society, even in the higher echelon of government, the church is there. Now all powerful, as she was a hundred years ago, even with half the same number of followers in the Russian society.
Communism died, but not the church
Beaten, but never ended.
And so is the exact same type of things in front of him, with just a slightly different skin, a man with a peculiar type of power, rarely really challenged, the one who know it cannot be moved, like rock, the rare types of people that know what they do and represent will continue, regardless of who is the idiot in charge of the country the institution live in.
The Duce leans back slightly in this damned wooden chair, getting the most comfort he can dig out of this simple wood.
"For some, time is an eternal ally, like a powerful wave, capable of washing any foes it could encounter, making even the most capable danger just soon forgotten threat" he says, letting his eyes drift briefly toward the packs of shelves, "For others… it is more a danger, as said, a predator that only promises decay and soon death, and after that, being sent into the echoes of history."
Pius XI follows his glance, smiling lightly as his eyes lays on one specific book at his right, although the Duce cannot see exactly which one in particular
"These shelves," he says quietly, "are the rest of the second type, they contain the thoughts and actions of men who believed themselves eternals, that thought themselves and what they ought to represent as things that could never be ended, that were doomed to exist until the last days of earth."
A pause, of course there is one... again.
"These people are now only that, ink on paper… footnotes."
The words land cleanly, with no aggression or even hint of power in them.
Yet, they burn like hot iron on skin. They strike harder than any accusation could.
Still... he somewhat like this, for one time, this is not the kind of opposition he is used to, not the one of a servant, a collaborator, a member of his party or any of these lesser people that know a word from him could end them. So, who chose to express their opposition through honeyed words, pleas and subtle discourses and scheme.
No, now is an all exposed, all open, opposition, an honest one. Another power that affirms itself. Standing instead of bowing. Which do not fear him, at least not this much as everyone else.
Bold and honest opposition ? It is a first.
Of course it would be... he does not know him.
As stated before, the church has saw already a plethora of prime minister, government and state official from Italy, each one staying for a shorter period of time than the precedent. Each owned by corruption and nepotism. Each easily scared with the menace of a catholic opposition. Each one too afraid to be and do anything. Giant with clay boots as they all were.
But he is different.
He intends to stay, for more than four years, for more than a decade and for more than even kings and parlements, for even more than all of them. And what he is building is not intended for a short time, for a little reelection or to curry the favors of someone, or even to sway the masses and being remembered after a whole mandate of nothingness, just to be soon wiped away by the wheel of history.
And he is not afraid, he is not bound by spiritual, legal and physical chains as they all were, he is free, the freest person in this entire country. He can put away things he dislikes and build entire cities dedicated to the things he likes. No one and nothing can stop him !
He is different, his movement they are different, his regime is different, like nothing this place of marble and prayers has ever known... or endured, if they are not careful.
"And yet," He replies, his voice sharpening just enough to let it clear that he isn't like the others, these fouls and bowing men that preceded him, "they are remembered. Their existence lay there, graved on these books, their blood in this ink. Which is already more than can be said for thousands of poor countless obedient souls that surrounded them but were never more than that."
"Ah, memory," Pius XI says, like testing the word on his tongue, before sharing his thoughts "Memory and legacy seem to be often mistaken for one another."
"And what," the Duce asks, his left eye itching "does the Catholic Church seeks in life, if not legacy ? As proven by these walls and this nice chapel of yours."
The Pope tilts his head slightly.
"Truth... truth and peace."
A heartbeat resonates in his body, making up for the silence of the instant, the anticipation almost palpable.
"Even when those are inconvenient..."
There it is. The window of opportunity that is opening
Not wrapped in submission, sadly, but far from being as blunt as a refusal either, the fine line between acknowledgment, opposition, and acceptance.
He was right to go himself, and alone; Amedeo would probably be on his knees, praying to whatever thing he clings to at this very instant. Bowing his head to the tiare like a well-trained servant, thinking himself as an apostle in place of a serf.
The man does have ideas, sadly burdened by the emotional maturity of a husky, coupled with the religiosity you can only find in a right-wing Twitter account.
At least on that last point, he does mirror the same volatility in both his beliefs and his religious devotion. Which is quite nice.
Two or three conversations in, some months playing the prince of an all-totalitarian state and getting the taste of absolute control without any barriers, and democracy is already a word his autocorrect seems to have forgotten entirely.
Still, that passion in his, almost a waste
Almost.
He forgets these useless thoughts and instead chose to lean forward now, his elbows resting lightly on his knees. No more decorum or semblant of familiarity, now is time to negotiate.
"But truth, as well as peace, often require a price to be paid" he says softly, his right hand index circling slowly on the wooden desk.
"What if these valours of yours require… adaptation?"
Pius XI does not move an inch, not moved the slightest by these words.
"These two things are what the church always tried to establish, regardless of the situation, it is what we cherish the most, even above some of our ethics..." he replies, "But..."
"But truth, as well as peace, require recognition... recognition of what is true and of what is right and wrong, and respect for what is not ours to alter…" He continues, eyes firm, cautious, wielding, but not rejecting.
"Those are not matters of negotiation. As truth cannot be bargained like fish and vegetables in a market. And peace built on lies is doomed to crumble at any moment."
The Pope's hands remained folded together, as the man repeat the words "any moment" softly, before continuing, after a pause that felt almost pastoral, with the sweet light that passes through and the wind that gently caress the skin from the opened window where the noise of Roma can be heard in the distance.
"The truth that we pursue could and will not be bent and dismissed for assurances and petty privileges... your Eccellenza."
A slight incline of the head.
"Unless you prefer that I call you by this new personal title of yours... Duce ?"
The last word tone would have guaranteed anyone a very bad day if he was not that forgiving, and if the person uttering it was someone else. The Duce studied the face for a moment, finding this resistance... interesting.
Could be annoying, make a hell of a lot of things way harder, could be dangerous even, but that is definitely interesting.
He leaned back again, this time slightly more than the precedent, letting the chair take his weight, not a lot, but still, as if testing whether it could break from it... and it could not.
"So," he said quietly, "Some could assume, with that little speech, that you do not wish to negotiate ?"
"I do" Pius XI answered, letting another pause before developing.
"But first, I wished to speak and see, the man I was talked about for so much time."
"So do I," The replied, and it was true. It not each day that he could see, and in such a private manner, men like him.
"You have built something remarkable, and in such a short span of time" the Pope continues anyway, "In a country that was not made to stay still, not made to be centralised or to be tamed. In the first time for probably years, things do not seem to crumble and move and change every now and then...
"Even good old Italy seem to finally have grasped the idea of stability..."
" You brought stability, order, somewhat even unity and purpose, although in his weakest forms, but still. On a country that, from is foundation, was doomed to be opposed to each of these." he continues, after a faint pause. "These feats are not small things to do."
Mussolini can feel his eyes narrowing, slightly yes, but still. Praise ? That, it was not expected. "And what," He asks finally, his voice lowering, "does Your Holiness want from me?"
Now the other man leans forward. Slightly but still, enough to show his dedication to the moment
"I want," he answers, "To whether you intend to just rule this country, as did your predecessor, even in your... peculiar way, or if you goal also intend to reach further than that. As you would not be the first to try to do so…"
"… I want to know if the man in front of me intend to truly serve God and his people, or if he imagines and portrays himself as enough to replacing him."
Ah, I see...
But do not worry about such things, my cult is a part of these new changes that I bring to this place, yes, but I still intend to keep some rest of the old world alive there and there.
It would be dull and stupid to lose this much for an ego-trip anyway...
"This country," The duce chose instead not to answer but to change the direction of this conversation, regaining some control of it that he purposefully lost to the other man before now.
"This country is entering a new form. I am here to repair the wrongs that history and that its leaders doomed it to bear. I bring change, I bring what it had missed for so much time, but it requires unity. Discipline. A single direction where crowds know where to go."
The Pope listened without interruption, although you can see in his gaze the cautiousness developing at a rapid pace
"And in this unity that I wish to bring here," Mussolini continued, "there is no space for dissidence and for chaos, no place for fragmentation. For parallel authority. Or for competing centres of loyalty."
Now, something almost had changed in Pius XI's gaze, the binocular shining under the sun light as he slowly moves his head, while dissecting these words in his mind.
"The Church is not a competing centre. As it is above petty squabbles of this world. It is not even one centre among others. It stands over all of this."
Another pause, way smaller this time, his gaze resolute.
"It is a measure, the ultimate one, the measure by which these centres are judged."
Right now, he feels something strange... is it curiosity ? No, fear ? Or perhaps... for a rare occasion, a flicker of something, dangerously close to... Respect.
The room seemed to settle into a quieter, more deliberate stillness, the noise of Roma disappearing the void, as if it never existed at all, like if the very walls of this holy place had understood that what was being spoken now would not be easily undone. Benito did not answer immediately; instead, he chooses to let his hand rest against the desk, fingers still taping on the wood in a calm rhythm, his gaze fixed on the other man.
"Then, I am delighted to see that we understand one another," he said at last, his voice calm, so much that it almost opposes the warm of his words, though the calmness of the voice did not hide the firmness beneath, which, as always, remained unmistakable. "But sadly, understanding is not enough, Your Holiness, your positions must eventually take practical forms, reach more... actual ways. Not that I am not a trusting man, but words alone rarely sustain facts."
Pius XI inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the remark, almost a smirk on his face. "On that we are joined in a similar position."
What followed was not a silence in the usual sense, somewhat quite different from the previous ones, far more constructive, as both men begins slowly but surely to step beyond simple oppositions and assessments, as they sit and join their mind into the careful outlining of a structure both wish to see built and outstanding time.
"The Church," the Pope continued, his tone even, "has since long, although reluctantly, dropped its claim on temporal power, or at least as realised that new times are on us. The roman church does not seek to govern your State, nor does it wish to challenge your authority in temporal matters. Order and dedication within a nation is not something we oppose, far from that."
The man allowed himself a brief pause, just long enough for the words to settle, before adding, "But... it cannot, and will not accept, any form of intrusion upon what belongs to it by God and Human Laws alike : the conscience of men, their education, their faith, and the associations they form in the name of Our Lord. Something your movement tend to sometimes forget."
Mussolini listened now more closely than ever, as a man that can understand when the conversation is tracing the outline of a boundary being drawn in front of him, especially when he is one of the two drawer.
"And in return ?" he asked, his tone quieter, before answering the question himself, his firs real condition. "In return, this Church of yours will not, ever, stand against the State and its people… As my state will keep the same courtesy toward Mother Church and its individuals."
The Pope slowly unfolded his hands, small gesture, yet enough to mark the shift in the conversation. Before briefly nodding without a word, acknowledge, and even more, accepting this new status quo built by him and the man in front of him. Which is in fact probably the closer the two state they lead will be, in their relationship, since the fondation of one of them.
As yes, two state, we will have to think about that, but that will be for another time.
Mussolini's expression sharpened slightly, the logic of it already unfolding in his mind.
"This agreement will stand, as long as you will not oppose me, I will do the same for you" he said.
"I will not condemn something that does not violate or threaten what is eternal," Pius XI corrected, the distinction subtle, but deliberate.
The Duce allowed himself a faint smile.
"Glad we then arrived to somewhere practical," he said, leaning forward.
"The State will recognize the place of the Church within the nation, more than any government before us. Its institutions, clergy, schools, organizations, all of that will be let to prosper in peace. The religious associations linked to you in this country will be permitted to stay, to exist and function like they did before, as long as they understand their place in this new world..."
He paused briefly, to ensure the next words carried their full weight.
"As long as they stay within the framework of the State. And under it."
The Pope's gaze did not falter, though something in it grew more defined.
"Within their proper domain," he replied.
The correction was minimal, yet absolute. But enough to be accepted by the Duce with a slight nod of the head. They have reached a deal. But he has still some more points to add.
"As long as we are on the subject, Catholic education will not be hindered, as said before, quite the exact opposite actually..." He adds in a quite pleased tone and more familiar tone. The words making the Pope to raise an eyebrow, intrigued by what seems quite like a proposal, and something even some would call privilege.
"The State," he resumed, more open than he has been for a long time, "has neither the time and the profit, nor the inclination to rebuild, from its foundations alone, what has been neglected for generations."
He rose slightly from the back of the chair, not fully standing, but enough to give his words more presence, hands resting lightly on the desk as his gaze never leave the other man.
"You know as well as I do that this country remains fractured, and in more ways than one. In its countryside, the deep South especially, in the villages and in the suburbs of its cities, there are still many who cannot read or write, and that will grow into men without ever truly becoming citizens, never reaching the proper education that they ought to have."
"In some places, children are sent to work before they even lay a foot in school, if they ever do that. Education exists, yes… but not where it is needed the most, and not in the numbers required, not with such a task."
His tone remained measured, almost neutral, yet beneath it ran something firmer, seemingly almost reluctant
"The State will is to, of course, address this, as soon as it can. But it would be… inefficient to ignore what already exists." He says, in a lower tone, as his eyes move briefly, toward the shelves surrounding them, before returning to the man.
"The church possesses already great network and experience in this type of things. It would be unwise not to make use of such an instrument."
"The Catholic schools will be expanded, where necessary. Encouraged, even. Merging with the local public education to end as one."
His fingers tapped once against the desk.
"Basic literacy must become universal, everywhere in this damned country, from the desert of the South to the high mountains of the North. That is non-negotiable. Reading, writing, arithmetic… and a shared sense of order, all of that need to be learnt."
The Pope's gaze remained steady, attentive.
"And the children?" he asked. "Those already working?"
Mussolini exhaled lightly through his nose, pinching it lightly while thinking about this problem, although it is already thought about.
"They will not all be removed from labor overnight," he said plainly. "That would be too unrealistic, even for us. But compulsory primary education will be reinforced, sooner or later. Attendance extended wherever is possible for the moment. A gradual, but hopefully rather fast transition. To transform this land of illiterates into something to be proud of."
"The State cannot afford ignorance," he added. "And neither can the Church."
A brief silence followed.
"And naturally," he added, almost as an afterthought, though nothing about it was accidental, "they will do so in harmony with the direction of the State, not in contradiction to it. But I presume it is already known of your holiness"
The Pope remained silent for a moment, his expression unreadable, the conversation now no longer about merely a boundary being drawn, now even full of offers.
And a great one, although the non said about the benefit that the state get from this privilege is not a minor one.
After all, nobody would want to admit that this compulsory education which is offered on a silver plate by the state to them partially because the said state lacks funds to fulfill this idea itself.
"The Church has always considered education a duty, for us" Pius XI replied at last, his tone calm, though more engaged than before. "Not a privilege."
"As to instruct the young is to shape the future…"
His fingers rested lightly against one another again, though less rigidly than before.
"If the State recognizes this sacred mission that we carry, and does not seek to alter its purpose… even actually joining us in it, then cooperation between our two entities is not only possible."
He stopped there, deliberately.
Then, after the briefest of silences:
"It is natural."
Mussolini inclined his head slightly, the faintest trace of satisfaction crossing his features, alas, the pleasure of seeing a plan working well, of seing something placed exactly where he intended it to be.
And a heavy burden, handed to another person, wrapped in a disguise of gift, offered to them as a privilege.
"I hope this same deal is applied to our territories recently... acquired ? Even on those that are still undergoing a pacification effort"
"I also would expect it," Pius XI agrees almost instantly, reaching the closer thing they have from being on the same side since the beginning of this conversation, his tone calm, "I would expect that such an arrangement would not be confined solely to the peninsula."
"Libya is not Italy," The Duce warned at first, tone measured, as a matter-of-fact it is far from being the same. "Not yet. The conditions there are… different."
He leaned back as he develops "The situation requires firmness before anything else, order should always prevail before anything can be thoroughly planned."
"But," he added, "the same principles can be applied, in time."
"Where stability is achieved, the Church will be allowed to operate. Schools, missions, hospitals, even monasteries, as you care. Provided they do not interfere with military operations or administrative control."
"That we can do..." The pope answered smoothly, this conversation is going very well, even brighter than they both hoped. "I assume you wish to also expand the subject on the missionary proposition of yours ? The documents your envoy sent were quite thoroughly explaining, and quite extended in their informations and planification, but it is rather preferable to hear it from the man behind it in person."
"One of the two, just one..." The Duce says, moving his index as he correct the Pope, not wanting to lay his... camarade of travelling in the shadow while profiting on his work and dedication.
But anyway, what a reassuring thing that they had already advanced enough to reach this point in the conversation.
These talks certainly are going nicely.
Maybe he should sometimes adhere to Amedeo's optimism.