The coast appeared first, a pale line of white, squished between two blue immensities.
Soon, he will land, and the sea will be behind him, not to be taken again, at least not before a time way to long for his liking.
And ahead of him, there would be nothing except desert in front.
Endless. Boring. Fucking. Desert.
Sand, rock, dust, scorched hills, winds dry and hot like the belly of a dragon. And after that, sand and rock again, just that, upon hundreds and hundreds of kilometers of barren emptiness stretching toward the interior of Cyrenaica and beyond.
A vast land... so vast and so monotonous it seemed almost made by a devil hand just for the sake of being hostile to human existence itself.
And he will have to stay there, on this land of eternal yellow. With only desert, sand and hot dirt, for God knows how many hundreds of kilometers.
Even a scorched earth could have been more appealing than this...
Even a battlefield blackened by artillery, burnt by a thousand liters of napalm would have appeared more inviting than this.
He had not even set foot ashore yet, but already, he is thinking about departure.
His mind searching, thinking about anything, any shrewd political maneuver, any elegant scheme or any genius warfare plan that might shorten this absurd assignment and return him to a proper place the sooner, any ways to bring him back to Rome, before this place could swallow him whole.
This godforsaken colony is not meant for him. If this horrid land is even meant for any sane man at all.
Though if he was slightly more honest, and forced himself into thinking rationnaly, outside of the superficial factors of this land, he would have to admit the fact he isn't really sure if it is the place in itself that makes him so mad, and not just his remote aspect.
Yes.
He can actually say this is it, the core of the problem.
It is mostly this... distance, that's the issue.
Distance from the capital.
The idea of being so far away from Rome... and from the palazzo Venezia. That is what triggers him so much.
That, more, way more than the desert itself, unsettled him.
He feels lost, taken away from the podium. Swept away from the chance, the chance to change things, to do anything useful, kept away from the opportunity to make things better, to make this country, and the entire world, a better place.
If only people would listen to him more... would actually care to open their ear and minds to what he has to say, what they have to do...
In Rome, history is moving. Every decisions matters. Men decide the future of the entire nation in little salon conversations. Power is ultimate there, like electricity in th air, it is present everywhere.
As every roads lead to Rome, so does every post of power in this empire.
But there, in Libya. What there is here ? Fucking palm trees and turbans ?
He felt exiled from the center of things, pushed away from the stage at precisely the moment he should have been ascending it. Swept aside just as opportunities had begun to open before him.
He should have been shaping policy, influencing Benito, being behind every step of the shaping of this new state of them. Proving himself indispensable to the future of Italy.
Instead, he had been sent here... Libya...
Here to put an end to the desperate, hopeless and useless rebellion of an old stubborn imam and his few hundreds horse riders. A bunch of fools that believe they can stand against the advance of modernity.
Dismissed from the center of power... To serve in this land nobody really cares about, except few nationalist idiots that can only live by jerking themselves to maps and flags.
"Tsk."
...
Of course, that not how they portrait it.
Official speeches of the government describe this campaign as simple task, last step of a civilizing mission, a final stretch in the consolidation of Italian authority over North Africa. The newspapers all speak with grandiloquence about empire, destiny, the renaissance of Rome and ajde ajde...
All of that upon the southern shores of the Mediterranean.
But privately, behind closed doors, outside of the common gaze, this song was playing on another tune...
Even among Fascists, many regarded all of this as a waste of time, seeing this "fourth shore" only as a burden. An expensive, hole for time and ressources, dressed up as an imperial triumph.
All of this is useless.
...
Of course, if he was in charge, he would still make sure this Libyan matter would be resolved... with haste. But he would not waste his precious time by even caring about this matter himself.
He would have sent Graziani to deal with this, like the Duce did in real life, or maybe Mario Roatta... or whoever else would be available and not talentless enough to be pushed back by this bunch of dusty backcountry people that hide in the south.
He is too damn important to be in charge of this shit !
Yet, even as vanity comforted him, another voice intrude in his mind, as he watch the shores gaining in size, closer and closer to him, a colder, more rational voice... one that sounded irritatingly like if Benito himself.
Even if makes his throat sore to admit it, more than it would be if he had bitten a lemon, he has to admit that So... Musolini, Mussolini is kinda right about all of this, on some parts at least.
His rise had been absurdly fast. Way too much to be comfortable for both of them.
...
The thought continues to lingers on him, as he watches a seagull flying close to the water, passing by the boat, in direction of the land.
"Yes" He thinks, while imagining himself to be that bird, flyign above all of this, all of them
"I need to prove myself, both to him, and foremost, to these sycophants in Rome"
Only months earlier, he was nothing more than a mere officer, the little chief of a meharist unit.
Oh, he had a famous name, for sure, a glorious one. He was still a prince yes, but nothng, outside of a superficial respect, was in his hands, nothing on his shoulders.
Then suddenly, in a matter of weeks, everything had changed.
Dinners at Palazzo Venezia. Long private conversations with the Duce. In meetings where even ministers twice his age and responsibilities would dream to be able to speak as freely as him.
For the average person, he somewhat went from a nobody that could be known only for his family, to one of the few people in this country with such a power on the Italian government, without any reason or merits.
He is now in this "inner circle".
Of course, officially, he still has no major governmental office, remaining merely a military man, technically.
But in the land of the fasces, technically is often a waste of thought
Here proximity matters way more than post or experience.
But, all of that drags attention. And attention came with expectations, and lots of enemies. whispering behind smiles to further entrench themselves by degrading their rivals. Ready to jump at the first sight of blood, bunch of sharks in uniforms.
So he needs some legitimacy.
Achievement...
Sadly, even in a dictatorship such as this, Benito could not simply elevate someone from obscurity into the upper ranks of government without justification.
Especially someone like him a member of the royal family... As there are many, among the ranks of the eagle, who share more than affinities with the concept of republicanism...
There can be only one Caesar, only one big bird in the sky, or something like that.
"Haha."
The idea makes him chuckle, as he sees the same seagull from before going back, then plunging into the ocean, disappearing for a few seconds before going back into the air, some sort of fish in its beak.
...
So, it's time to write a recipe on how to truly deserve the promotions your boss bestowed on you. And how to make some mouth shut.
And what's better for that than putting down the rebellion who has been a thorn on the side of Italy for so many years ?
Not an important or even strategically impressive rebellion. But an irritating one, certainly. Embarrassing more often than any can bear, even Italians.
The idea even tainted him, as he watches the shores of the coming land. Hot and untamable, like its people.
A disaster, a profoundly shaming disaster. And one that has been going, continually repeating itself for so much time that even the most fervent Italian irredentist will go red as a tomato at the bare mention of their name, the name of these people... The Senussi order.
...
Since the invasion of Tripolitania and Cyrenaica by Italy in September 1911, claiming these lands they had wrested from ottoman control, as what was promised to them in the Berlin conference of 1888, the land that composed Libya has remained Italy's most difficult holding to keep in order.
Italy had landed on these same shores he watches, expecting a swift, easy and glorious colonial conquest. Instead, the campaign had become a lingering nightmare. Plagued by awful logistic, an unknown terrain, an unprepared Italian army, a staunchly resistant ottoman empire and a population that wasn't very receptive of Italian presence.
Though after a year of this bloody and costly conflict, the Ottomans formally surrendered these territories with the addition of rhodes to Italy's gains, real control over the mainland remained elusive at best.
Especially in Cyrenaica.
There, in its core land, the Senussi Order had led resistance to Italy rightful gains, uniting the clans into a coherent force, shaping a mere tribal revolt into something far more durable, and far more dangerous.
A fucking religious war.
What does these people call this again ? Ah yes, a jihad.
Although he isn't sure if it exactly what this group of lunatics called this. The Senussi order remains the biggest obstacle to Italian presence in North Africa..
Senussi order, how to describe what is it?
The movement itself would be difficult to categorize for any Europeans. A blend of religious brotherhood, tribal political network, clan confederation, that plagued the region since the nineteenth century. Created by some imam, Muhammad ibn Ali al-Senussi.
God, the damn thing is named after him, what a fucking narcissist.
This thing had spread like mice across deserts, passing by the zawiyas, the religious lodges scattering the caravan routes, slowly building its influence in the tribes of the desert, in a land owned by a neglectful and distant empire. Until it became the beacon of power in the Libyan desert, building an identity for these people.
By the time the Italian flag was planted on Tripoli soil, the Senussi were far from their early status. No longer an only spiritual movement, this was the closest thing to a state that Cyrenaica had. Relentless in its pursuit of isolation and independence, refusing Italian domination with a staunch stubbornness.
And for years until now, they had resisted every attempt by the state to put crush their petty rebellion.
The Italian fleet columns could seize ports, columns of soldiers could occupy towns, forts and roads, for sure. But the desert itself remains beyond Rome's grasp. Even the control of coastal cities and stronghold slipped out of hand the moment sufficient troops withdrew, on more than one occasion.
Patrols that were sent into the mainland without sufficient numbers vanished in ambushes. Garrisons found themselves isolated, their forts island in a sea of hostile territory.
These rebels understand the land in ways no European officer ever truly could. They fight on known terrain, are aware of everything there is to know about this land and its people. Every caravan route, every dry valley, every hidden well buried beneath the immensity of Cyrenaica is known to them.
Having mastered the art of guerilla warfare. They always refused to engage in conventional battle, they instead struck on exposed patrols and remote outpost in sudden decisive combat with overwhelming speed, before disappearing at the first sight of reinforcement
By the time the closest garrison even knew about the attack and could master a proper force to respond, the attackers had already dissolved into the sand, untraceable as they escaped between dunes and rock mountains, fleeing in the escarpments of the interior.
And each pursuit would end the same way as the precedent one, with nothing...
Tracks vanished. No enemy in sight. Just a big fat wasteland that seemed to have swallowed the rebelling army, and was ready to spit it out back at you the second you show an once of weakness and are far from any help.
They cannot be caught or found in this large wasteland. At least as long as they don't want to be.
Untraceable...
It is like fighting a horde of ghosts.
And these men are led by a vicious man, vicious even for these people of the desert, his name is Omar... Omar al-Mukhtar, if he recalls correctly
Omar al-Mukhtar
The name lingered unpleasantly in his thoughts, as his grip on the ship's railing tightens all the more.
An aging schoolteacher, that instead of bowing to the unstoppable advance of history decided to play the soldier... and became very good at it. The old imam turned into some sort of guerrilla commander being a patient, disciplined and respected old fuck among the tribes of the desert.
Not charismatic, at least not in the European way, but stubborn and stupidly zealous enough to be inspiring to his fellow countrymen. Teaching them endurance and the ways of resistance.
Mussolini once talked about a movie that had been made about the man in their previous world, although he isn't sure if he wasn't just joking, as he doesn't recall a movie about that.
Lion of the Desert, or something like that, that was what Benito had called it, with amusement, of course.
He almost scoffed aloud at the idea.
Lion of the Desert...
Lion ?
No.
That implied nobility. Something a man like that, a coward that hides under rocks, sands and among civilians isn't deserving of.
Pfff... Snake of the desert would be more accurate
That, would have suited him far better than any of this senseless dick-eating titles.
Still, he has to admit it, reluctantly, this man shows some courage, and a spirit of resistance only few could master.
In their previous universe, his little rebellion had far exceeded in time what any reasonable man could have predicted, Italy only could permanently deal with him in late 1931, after capturing him. Following its last brutal offensive against the man that resisted them since 1911.
Twenty years of guerillas.
Twenty years.
Twenty years of resistance against a modern European power.
Even as he tries to supress this feeling, the sheer irrationality of it unsettled him since the moment he learned about it.
When he force himself to ponder about it, he cannot comprehend such stubbornness, such implacable faith in the refusal to accept the new era, to go against such a behemoth, to stand against the immovable tide of history with such zeal.
It isn't any natural way to try like that to move against an unstoppable force.
Empires rise and fall. Weak peoples submit regardless. The modern world always advances whether people wished it or not.
That is just simply the reality of this world. Why try to stop it ?
And yet, this old madman from had spent twenty years denying this notion. With glorious success, at least until now...
The thought lingered on him as he watches the dock, a deep sensation of strangeness emanating from him at this idea, the thought of such senseless refusal to adapt to a new era being so foreign to him, the sensation boiling in him being only matched with another one, a resolute determination.
A determination for... yes... this feeling...
This beautiful feeling that takes the heart of any man, that can captivate even the most resolute of them all. The feeling that makes blood boil and the chest aching, that gives anticipation to any person when thinking about the idea of crushing it with an absolute superiority.
Challenge.
Yes...
His jaw tightened slightly.
The teacher had resisted Italy forces for so many years, crushing them one by one as they came for him. Making this country learn a little bit of humility.
But these fights had been against lesser men. Stupider men.
Just wait, old man, he thought coldly. The real fight is only yet to come.
I am here.
And unlike the fools that preceded him, he won't waste 5 long years playing with you.
He swore to himself, as the sailor were securing the ship, tying it to the steel mooring posts along the dock.
God be sure of this, I will tame this land, and bring back these shepherds into the fold.
By fire and blood if necessary
_________________________________________________________
Giovani Messe waited, bearing the oppressive July heat that even the months where he was posted there didn't made him acclimated to, his hands clasped behind his back, as he was watching the steamer drift slowly toward the harbor, appearing bigger and bigger as the minutes passed.
The place around the docks of Benghazi had been arranged for this spectacle. A regiment formed ranks, facing the sea, accompanied by a little quickly improvised orchestra. The military band of six men waiting near the customs office, the brass instrument glinting beneath the light.
Lower colonial officiers were waiting there and there around, forming little group of discussion, in close ranks, some discretely readjusting their uniforms, wiping sweat from their collar, some lighting themselves a cigarette. These groups scattered all around the place, but never staying far from the place where the boat will land.
After all, who would miss to be one of the first to welcome the new strongman of Cyrenaica ? A prince moreover.
Although of course, the most important people of the colony weren't there, most of them being at the bal currently taking place in the Palazzo Littorio, as the sudden arrival of such a guest arrival was warned by their liaison in Rome only a handful of hours before now. Leaving most of them clueless about the new... situation
And only a quick time for the previous strong man to prepare himself and a reception.
About him...
His gaze lingered toward the governore, Enesto Mombelli staying at the center of the reception party, turned toward the coming ship with an obvious anticipation and anxiousness, only leaving the damn thing of his eyes when he turns to give orders, asking another thing to be taken away, another little area of the docks to be scrubbed and cleaned like hell or to scorn a soldier among the ranks that was relaxing himself a little bit too much.
Around him the usual amalgam of colonial officials, senior officers, Blackshirts, and local intermediaries, was surprisingly small, only few being aware of the latest news. The small group gathering themselves and forming a large block, putting distance between each other's, as they wanted to make the crowd look bigger than it actually is.
Which, Messe saw as what if was, a poorly attempt to make this look like a grandiose reception.
Everyone with such opaque informations from the capital. Everyone here knew why the prince had been sent here. Rome was tired, tired of the constant embarrassment that is "il problema libico"
Fifteen years after the landing in Tripoli, Tobruk and Benghazi, the interior is still an unresolved question. Two years after his appointment in Cyrenaica, with large powers and even larger ressources invested in this conflict, Mombelli is still unable to even present any good advancement in the pacification process.
Although putting the sole blame on him would be harsh.
And now the Duce had sent a new men in Benghazi, to solve the problem.
And his envoy would not be less than a prince. Such peculiar news being broadly spoken about among the few aware of his arrival.
Had the King taken back powers, in this delicate balance between the two strongmen of Italy ? Or is the Duce sending an olive branch to the crown ? Taking a royal as his new protege as a sign of favor and goodwill toward the King ?
The thought lingered until the boat landed on the dock, messe letting these political matters to others, as it is not his job to ponder about these. Giving his whole attention as movement spread across the upper deck.
At last, the subject of attention arrived...
The young prince descended from the footbridge, ready to set foot on African soil as the men around closed their ranks. The prince was moving with a controlled confidence, as his impeccably dressed white uniform and straight posture made his presence captivating all the yes, in pair with his high stature, almost 2 meters, putting high above anyone in this assembly.
The gangway lowered on the dock in a heavy metallic sound. While down below Mombelli stepped forward as the band finally began to play, the music thin and distorted in the heat.
The new man of Cyrenaica descended calmly, one white gloved hand resting lightly against the railing. Slow but steady, without visible discomfort beneath the harsh African sun.
Mombelli advanced and saluted sharply the moment he reached the dock. A
All around them, all soldiers, at the exception of the band, performed a salute, some putting the formal military salut, their hand on their kepi, other preferring the more political one, raising their hand toward the sky in a fascist salute that slowly become more preeminent in the military as the time passes.
"Vostra Altezza Reale," Mombelli greeted formally. With a smile that didn't hide the sharpening of his eyes "It is an honor to welcome you in Lybia."
The prince returned the gesture with perfect composure, not any expression on his face, his eyes, going there and there all around him, like taking notes of everyone and everything, to the last microscopic detail.
"Thank you for the reception. Signore Mombelli", the young man in pristine uniform said, his voice steady but flat.
Mombelli readjusted his smile before continuing, seemingly less nervous about it all.
"I hope you will find your time in Benghazi... agreeable. We are all honored to receive the visit of such an Im..."
- "Let's skip the formalities,"
Amedeo's voice cutting through the ceremonial welcome with coldness, his tongue bearing the tone of someone that wished to be as quick as possible.
"I'm not here for a visit, a reception or any sort of political niceties..." The prince let pause hang in the air before continuing. "I'm here because Rome sent me, the capitole is done waiting for results."
A few officers shifted at that, subtle discomfort more than surprise.
Mombelli kept his expression controlled, although the wrinkle at the edges of his eyes were self-explaining
"Your Altezza Reale... I assure you that the administration of Benghazi is doing all it..."
Amedeo cut him off without raising his voice. "The Duce is a patient man, as you are aware, I am sure, but not a particularly merciful one..."
The words leaved a gasp in the air, as the Prince turned toward the car that was already waiting them, a Fiat 501 without ceiling, ignoring the procession and the welcoming ceremony, Mombelli walking hastily beside him, to stay at his sides, while Messe cautiously followed silently, his presence hardly acknowledge as he is inspecting discretely his new superior.
Mombelli, despite the obvious meaning underlying the words of the newcomer, kept his expression controlled. "Your Highness. The situation is—"
"Bad. Yes. I've read the reports."
The Prince said as he stopped besides the car, turning toward the governore. "Signore, these are not opinions of mine, just facts. Facts that are so annoying that it compelled the Palazzo Venetia to act, by sending me here to end this petty uprising myself."
He adjusted his gloves slightly, the leather making noise under the pression.
"Let it be clear, governore, I didn't come to manage Cyrenaica. The capital did not send me here to take your place. Merely to close the wound that had bleed Italy's southern shores for so many years."
The information, visibly eased Mombelli fears, although the personal pride is obviously touched at the idea of Rome sending a new strongman to rule his personal fiefdom, moreover, to deal with a crisis that burdened Cyrenaica's men for so long, a crisis that they could not take care of it themselves.
Messe watched Mombelli carefully. The governor didn't react outwardly, but the tightening around his jaw was visible if one knew where to look.
Amedeo continued, seemingly determined to make his point... and further entrench his opinions in everyone's mind.
"Omar al-Mukhtar played us for fools for far too long."
A brief glance at the officers lined behind Mombelli, a sharp one.
"You've been fairly passive in this war. Unable to form a coherent plan. To make a strategy to deal with him. Only capable of reacting to his actions. Now, it ends. No more half mesures, we don't wait for him, we act..."
He then looked at the pole next to the docks, were the tricolore was proudly hanging in the wind.
"Now, Libia's cleaning operations begin."
He turned back to the governor. "I want full control of intelligence and operations. Every piece of information currently available on Muktar and his band of raiders needs to be on my desk for this evening. I will take quarter in the Palazzo Littorio. I expect no delays."
"And I want honest reporting... not the ones that a clerk in Rome would want to hear."
A faint pause. as he briefly turned toward the ranks of soldiers.
"If that's a problem, you can say it now."
Silence rhythmed the place after these words
Only the band continued, awkwardly in the background, as if unsure whether it was still part of the moment, the notes being half played by the hesitant musicians.
Mombelli inclined his head. "Understood, Your Highness."
Amedeo gave a short nod, already disengaging.
"Good. I am glad we could reach an understanding. Take care..."
Then, as he started walking toward the waiting car, he stopped, turning toward him, acknowledging his presence for the first time.
His eyes were strange while observing him, expressing what would seem like judgement, anticipation, cold calculation, and... sort of acceptation.
"Messe, right ? Let's get in the car, we will talk on the road."
"Si, Altezza Reale..."
Messe barely had time to respond, as the prince already turned away and quickly headed toward the waiting Fiat with fast, impatient steps.
A servant stationed by the vehicle immediately rushed forward to door, bowing slightly before the royalty as he reached for the handle. But was unable to do so...
The prince already shoved him aside almost absentmindedly, with a sort of irritated efficiency, like if wanting to leave this place as fast as he can. The servant stumbling on his feet, as he was stepping back with confusion.
"I can still open a door myself," the young man muttered under his breath. while he pulled the handle, practically throwing himself into the rear seat in one jump, the car's suspension creaking beneath the sudden weight.
"To the palazzo." He ordered to the driver, as he settled on the leather seat. The engine already growling as Messe did not even reach the vehicle.
With precipitation, the Fiat lurched forward. Messe had to quickly catch the side of the slowly advancing door with one hand and jump inside awkwardly, his boots almost not even touching the steps as the car pulled away at the same time.
The door slammed shut in a metallic crack while the car left the harbour. Messe turning briefly to see the disappearing figues of the lower officers and Mombelli. Who was supposed to come with them.
He then turned to the young man at his left, the prince leaning against the door, his gaze toward the city that unveiled on his eyes, as he was almost violently tapping his fingers on the car window, the irritation emanating from him.