Chapter 14
The Port of Civitavecchia is more heavily guarded than I thought it would be. And—except for the stench of fish and brine poisoning the air—is almost nothing like the port in Alexandria.
Tucked behind some exposed Roman brick on the outskirts of the thronging main port, Bes, Cec, and I observe the hustle and bustle from our hiding place.
Along with the loading and unloading of goods from cargo ships passing in and out of the harbor, people crowd the streets in colorful clothes and plastered-on smiles.
The longer I watch them, though, the more I see past the facade. All of Italy reminds me of a carnival magician: showing me what they want me to see rather than what’s truly going on behind the curtain.
My limbs grow restless from just standing here.
I tap my fingers incessantly against my thigh through my dress.
Spending most of the day on the boat, waiting for the evening, was a kind of torture.
The sun beat down on us beside the rotting dock mercilessly, the only saving grace a mild breeze wafting off the sea.
It didn’t help that I once again slept terribly. I couldn’t even say what my nightmares were about this time. Only that the fear I felt threatened to drown me.
Around noon, Bes managed to find a deck of cards hidden in the galley, briefly saving our sanity.
I tried to teach them Euchre—which apparently is nearly identical to a British game called Whist—but it only works with four people.
When that fell apart, Cec tried to teach me cribbage, which turned out to be a bust as well.
In the end, we ended up playing Go Fish, with Cec holding his cards right up to his face the whole time.
It was impossible to tell if he was lying or not, but he never once had the card I asked for.
Now, the sun has finally begun to set over the Tyrrhenian Sea, staining the water a deep sapphire blue.
I tug on the thin lavender scarf wrapped around my head and neck, hiding my bright blonde hair as well as the amulet chain.
I loathe having to wear this ridiculous thing—I’ve had to readjust it nearly a dozen times since we left the boat.
As Bes pointed out when I fought him on it, though, it’s a necessary evil: despite being able to easily pass as Italian in Northern Italy, we’re too close to Rome to take any chances. Nothing—not even my blatant discomfort—is worth drawing unwanted attention to ourselves.
Pressed against the old stone archway, the three of us continue to bide our time until there’s enough of a crowd to slip in unnoticed.
That’s proving to be difficult, though. I easily recognize a dozen uniformed men scattered all around the port, standing at attention.
By their dress, they look more like the Italian soldiers who murdered Ailsa in the Port of Messina, rather than the ones we hid from in Alexandria.
Though none of them wear berets, most don black shirts beneath green military jackets, black ties around their necks, and black flames with two ends at the edges of their collars.
One of them wears a black fez with a silver eagle on the front.
He looks important, I think, as he brushes the black tassel out of his face. Absurd, but important.
Their most notable accessory, however, is their weaponry. At ease but quite visible in their grips, they possess pistols, rifles, and a few other deadly weapons I don’t know the names of.
“How many soldiers does Mussolini’s army have?” I whisper to Bes.
Removing his coat and grasping it over his shoulder, likely to hide the bandages around his left arm from showing through his white shirt, he subtly eyes the uniformed men.
I take stock of his clothes while he does, glad to see we’ll all be fitting in despite my reservations.
He wears a white button-down collared shirt tucked into salmon-hued trousers with a brown belt, and a brown linen sport coat.
I’m not sure if he did this on purpose, but the color of his pants matches my oversized, mid-length salmon dress that I had to tighten around my waist with a thin white belt.
Cec, too, dons a salmon pocket square inside his tan sport coat slung over his white button-up—Bes must’ve picked it out for him.
“Trained soldiers?” he muses rhetorically to my question. “Not as many as you’d imagine. These are Mussolini’s Blackshirts. They’re the voluntary militia, tasked with providing security in smaller towns and easily accessible places like highways and ports.”
“One way in, one way out,” I mutter.
He glances at me and smiles. “Quite right.”
While we continue to wait, I think about why the colonists in my country formed a militia all those years ago: for freedom from tyranny. Yet, this… this is to maintain tyranny, even if the Blackshirts believe otherwise. Not to abate fear, but to instill and uphold it.
“How does one even become a Blackshirt? Is there a draft, or a sign-up sheet?”
Bes doesn’t crack a smile this time. “The Blackshirts were formed over ten years ago when many of the disgruntled soldiers who served in the Great War came together. Back then, their main objective was to lead the fight against their enemies—the Socialists.”
I shake my head. “I can’t imagine being so bent at Socialists that you’d form an actual army against them.”
“Believe it,” Cec pipes up.
“Now they number in the hundreds of thousands,” Bes continues. “There are rumors Mussolini has plans to send many of them over to aid the Nationalists in Spain.”
“Fascists of a feather stick together,” I mutter.
“Consider yourself lucky there’re no militiamen nearby wearing all black.” Bes cranes his neck. “Only the Moschettieri del Duce—Mussolini’s Musketeers—wear that uniform, and it usually means the dictator himself is nearby.”
Thank God for that, at least.
“Then it’s a good thing I don’t believe in luck.”
Cec groans. “Now, why would you go and say a fool thing like that?”
I glare at him to find he’s reaching into his shirt to procure a pendant strung with a worn leather strap around his neck. He kisses it, glances up at the heavens, then tucks it back in. An odd time for Cec to be superstitious. The Amulet of Amun, snug against my own chest, pulses.
Alright, not that odd.
“What the hell was that about?”
Cec winks. “When the old gods smile upon us and keep us out of trouble, you’ll thank me.”
“It’s a cornicello,” Bes explains. “In Italy, it’s considered a good omen and a lucky charm.”
I stare at Cec. “I didn’t peg you as someone who believes in the Bogeyman.”
Then again, they believe the amulet possesses real magic. The Bogeyman isn’t too far off from his perception of reality.
With a huff, he tucks his cane underneath his arm and pulls the cornicello out of his shirt again. Placing it in his palm, he holds it out for me to see. A shiny, gold bail grasps the long red horn, connecting it to the dark brown leather around his neck.
He regards me as best he can. “The horn is made with red coral.”
I eye it with morbid curiosity. “It looks like an oddly-shaped vial of blood.”
He nods. “Italians consider blood to be synonymous with the well-being of every person. My mum always said ‘red wine makes good blood’.”
Bes breathes in my ear, “She wouldn’t let him leave the house without it.”
Red wine or the pendant, I wonder, acutely aware of Bes’s proximity to me.
I clear my throat, working to slow my racing pulse. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Cec glares in my direction and mutters. “We all know how you sleep at night.”
I shoot him a blazing scowl to match his own, though I know he can’t fully appreciate mine. How does he even know about my sleep aide? Bes must’ve told him about the dose I took after we left the Temple of Seti I.
Bes straightens abruptly, his attention set on something over my shoulder. “As your people would say, Miss Hawkins, step lively.”
He strides out from the protection of the shaded arch when a crowd of young people around our age mosey on by, talking and laughing. Cec and I follow suit.
They don’t seem to notice or care that we’ve joined their group. In fact, they don’t seem to notice much of anything.
Looking at them dressed in their fine clothes, one might think they’re happy and carefree.
Perhaps off to dinner or a party. Upon closer inspection, however, their smiles are strained.
Neither are their clothes new; they’re slightly frayed at the edges, and some even have holes.
And the colors, which must’ve been bright at one time, have faded.
It’s a strange contrast against the deep pinks and oranges and yellows of the sunset, the vibrant hues washing out their olive skin.
Without any sort of warning, Cec places his arm through mine.
“Is everything alright?” I murmur.
“Fine, just walk with me, Hawkins. It’s not every day one is graced by the presence of a blind bloke, and we need to blend in.”
Oh. I do as Cec asks without argument. He knows a lot more about the intricacies of his own disability than I do, and I’m not about to question it.
“Where are we going?” I inch closer to Bes until my hand brushes his. He doesn’t acknowledge it beyond a tick in his jaw.
“We’re meeting one of Uncle Arturo’s acquaintances later tonight, at a place called Club Sotterraneo.” He speaks so quickly and quietly, I struggle to keep up. I don’t ask him to repeat, though, as another crowd of people pass us by.
An acquaintance… Is this acquaintance like Ailsa? How many friends does he have? As long as they’re not like Claude or Ingrid, we should be fine.
My stomach groans. “Any chance we’ll pass by somewhere to eat on the way?”
Bes smiles fondly. “I already have a place in mind.”
Cec’s arm stiffens around mine. “Please don’t tell me you’re thinking about—”
Bes cuts him off. “Of course, I am. Where else could we possibly go?”
Cec’s shoulders droop like hydrangeas in heat out of the corner of my eye. “Grand.”
What’s got him so down?
“Not hungry, Cec?” I wonder innocently.