The corridors of Palazzo Venezia were unusually quiet.
Inside his study, Benito Mussolini sat at a heavy wooden desk under the flickering light of a desk lamp, writing by hand in neat, pointed strokes.
A glass of red wine rested beside him, untouched.
The words spilled out with absolute clarity.
"This war will restore the grandeur of Rome. Abyssinia shall be crushed. Not for mere conquest, but to teach the world that Italy, once trampled, now commands."
He stopped for a moment.
Then continued.
"The world forgets what Rome was. We will make them remember."
He signed it.
Folded it.
Slid it into an envelope marked Privato.
Per uso del Duce.
A knock came at the door.
Ciano entered.
"They've refused again," he said.
Mussolini looked up.
"The Ethiopians?"
"No, the British. The Emperor's appeal. Downplayed in the Foreign Office. They're saying it's a League matter."
Mussolini stood and walked to the map mounted on the far wall.
Red pins marked key Italian ports.
