Italy's Preparations

June 6, 1933. Rome, Palazzo Venezia.

The windows were vast. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠office windows of the Palazzo Venezia, facing out onto Piazza Venezia, were symbols of Italian power in their own right simply by virtue of that view.

In ten years of Fascist rule, Mussolini had delivered countless speeches from before those windows. Arms outstretched, chin thrust high, gazing down at the crowds filling the square, bellowing until his throat was raw: "Italy will be Rome again!"

But today, there was no one. The morning sun of June bathed the piazza in light, and beneath it, Roman citizens shuffled to and fro. Listlessly, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the ground.

Before 1929, that square would have brimmed with life. Vendors hawking their wares, children's laughter, the sharp click of heels on the stone paving. Now, all that was gone.

Benito Mussolini stood before the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the scene. Rage. That was the name of the thing alive and churning in his chest. He could have called it sorrow, or anxiety, and it wouldn't have been wrong—but the label Mussolini always affixed to his inner fire was one: rage.

The Duce does not sorrow. The Duce does not fret. The Duce rages, and turns that rage into action.

That conviction had brought him this far.

Yet now, that rage had nowhere to go.

"…Shameful."

The word slipped from Mussolini's lips, low and clipped. A murmur to an empty room. He was alone in the office.

The citizens beyond the glass were starving.

Even after establishing the Institute for Industrial Reconstruction (IRI) to seize control of key industries, the shockwaves from the crash in New York had burrowed deep into Italy's economy. Steel mills ran at half capacity, textile factories idled their machines for lack of orders. In the countryside, tenant farmers stood empty-handed before landlords, with nothing left to pay. Unemployment soared relentlessly.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Mussolini knew the numbers. Finance Minister Guido Jung sent weekly reports, but they worsened bit by bit each time, and Mussolini's expression hardened accordingly with every reading.

The tenth anniversary of Fascist rule. Propaganda posters emblazoned every street corner: the Duce's face, eagle motifs, Roman numeral X. Construction projects celebrating a decade of triumphs dotted Rome, stagecraft meant to proclaim Italy's greatness to her people and the European powers alike.

But backstage, reality told a different story.

Are the people eating?

Mussolini chose not to ask himself that question. To ask would demand an answer; an answer, action; and action would require more than Italy's economy could presently provide.

What was needed instead was the people's gaze. Hunger fades with a full belly, but something quelled it even faster: pride. The fever of victory. The conviction of belonging to a great nation.

Italy will be Rome again. For that cry not to ring hollow, Italy had to become Rome. New territories. New triumphs. Africa.

But even that was no easy matter.

Mussolini turned from the window. A folder of documents lay on his desk. It had arrived the previous evening, dispatched from the Italian legation in Addis Ababa and the Military Intelligence Service (SIM)'s Africa desk. A bold red "CLASSIFIED" stamp marked the envelope.

Mussolini had torn it open last night, read the contents, flung it onto the desk, and retreated to the window—where he had stood ever since.

He returned to the desk, pulled up a chair, and sat. The report's first page was a chart of numbers: Ethiopia's purchases and contracts from Europe and America since October 1929. German machine tools, Belgian chemical plants, quantities of equipment from bankrupt American auto factories.

And the next page: a roster of foreign technicians entering Ethiopia. German metallurgists, American precision engineers, chemical experts. Numerous others pending confirmation.

Mussolini tapped a finger on the list. From 1929 to 1932, technicians cast adrift by the Depression had flowed into Addis Ababa. The report noted ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that intermediaries confirmed the Imperial Household had paid in gold.

His eyes lingered on that line. The Imperial Household paid in gold. That single sentence spoke more than the dozens of pages that followed.

He knew Ethiopia had gold; reports of rising output from her mines had come in since the 1920s. But to hoard it in the palace vaults, then unleash it all at the precise moment of the crash to buy up Western factories and experts…?

Mussolini set the papers down and closed his eyes. No coincidence.

The report's final page appended the intelligence officer's analysis. Short, dry sentences—but the subtext was clear.

Mussolini slowly opened his eyes and gazed at the documents again. Ethiopia's Empress, Zenebework Mikael. When he'd first heard the name, he'd dismissed it. A woman born in Africa's backwater, ascending the throne amid political chaos. The usual imperial-era power struggle in a backward nation Italy could crush at leisure.

But this report shattered that notion.

1916 to 1933. Seventeen years. No single page could capture all Ethiopia had achieved in that span, but the numbers alone sufficed: domestic rifles, machine guns, antitank guns, howitzers, sixty fighter planes.

Mussolini's right-hand fingers drummed the desk slowly, rhythmically. Domestic.

Italy's early colonial strategists, analyzing Ethiopia in the early 1920s, had premised their reports on one assumption:

That premise was now meaningless before these papers. Ethiopia made weapons.

Here, Mussolini paused his fingers. 1928. The twenty-year friendship treaty signed that August flashed through his mind. Mutual non-aggression. Trade cooperation. Territorial integrity recognized.

He'd been quietly pleased with it at the time. Right after Ethiopia exposed secret British-Italian correspondence at the League of Nations, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠embarrassing Italy diplomatically. Pretend to retreat, buy time until the Italian army was ready, then find a pretext and strike.

That was the plan.

But…

Mussolini revisited the plan's core assumption in that instant: "Ethiopia would stagnate in the interim, or fracture internally…"

What had actually happened? From 1928 to 1932—four years amid the Depression—Ethiopia had snapped up precision machine tools, erected chemical plants, summoned Western technicians. Her arsenals surely ran night shifts even now.

While Italy prepared, so did Ethiopia.

No—more honestly: While Italy prepared, Ethiopia had prepared faster.

Mussolini's lips thinned. There was such a thing as pride. The Duce's pride rebelled at the admission. An African backwater outpacing Italy? Impossible.

Yet the papers on the desk were merciless. Numbers didn't lie.

And Mussolini was no fool to deny his enemy's competence. If anything, that made speed all the more urgent.

The original timeline was 1935. Once Eritrean forces were reinforced, Somali logistics bases shored up, and international eyes fixed on Germany—then strike. Wash away Adwa's shame and build Africa's new Rome.

In that moment, Mussolini advanced the plan by a year in his mind.

Before the arsenals' lights burned brighter. Before German machine tools spat out more antitank guns. Before Ethiopian technicians doubled steel output with Swedish smelting techniques learned abroad.

Late already—but this was the fastest moment left.

Mussolini rose. The piazza beyond remained listless. Citizens still hunched their shoulders. But now the scene read differently.

The Duce knew what those people needed. Can't give them bread? Give them pride.

No Italian had forgotten Adwa in 1896. Grandfathers' generation, routed by an African black king, fleeing and abandoning corpses. The hottest, most shameful chapter in Italy's history.

Reverse it.

Mussolini glanced at the papers once more. Then he flung open the door to the secretariat.

"Bring General De Bono here this afternoon."

The duty officer in the outer office bowed his head. "Understood, Duce."

Mussolini was already striding back into the office depths, as if he hadn't heard.

Emilio De Bono. One of Fascism's Quadrumvirs. Veteran of colonial wars. The general who'd held northern advance plans for Eritrea for years.

The old man was cautious. In Mussolini's eyes, overly so at times. He trusted infantry over mechanized units, logistics over speed. The sort who'd spend years just paving Eritrean roads.

But that could be settled later. First, nail down 1934. Make De Bono grasp what accelerating meant. That waiting for perfect Eritrean supply lines was now a luxury these papers rendered obsolete.

Mussolini returned to the desk and sat. He gathered the folder, locked it in a drawer.

Sunlight slanted across the office floor from the window. De Bono would come that afternoon.

Until then, work awaited. Lists for the 1934 advance: expand Eritrean supply depots. Deploy more tankettes. Review poison gas stockpiles.

…And diplomatic steps to muzzle Ethiopia at the League before she objected again. The Four-Power Pact kept Britain and France on Italy's side for now. Germany was a new variable since Hitler's January ascension, but had no bandwidth for African meddling yet.

Conditions might never be better.

Mussolini reaffirmed his resolve inwardly. It hardened into decision swiftly.

Beyond the glass, Rome's morning drifted slowly onward.