Roads and Ruins

ROADS AND RUINS
The Symbolic Landscape of Fascist Rome

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PAUL BAXA
Roads and Ruins

The Symbolic Landscape
of Fascist Rome
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS

Toronto Buffalo London
© University of Toronto Press Incorporated 2010
Toronto Buffalo London
www.utppublishing.com
Printed in Canada
ISBN 978-0-8020-9995-2
Printed on acid-free, 100% post-consumer recycled paper

with vegetable-based inks.
Toronto Italian Studies
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Baxa, Paul, 1968–

Roads and ruins : the symbolic landscape of fascist Rome / Paul Baxa.
(Toronto Italian studies)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-8020-9995-2 (bound)
1. Fascism – Italy – Rome. 2. Fascism and culture – Italy – Rome. 3. Roads –

Political aspects – Italy – Rome. 4. City planning – Political aspects –
Italy – Rome. 5. Rome (Italy) – History – 1870–1945. I. Title. II. Series:
Toronto Italian studies
DG813.B39 2010 945⬘.632091 C2009-906665-3
University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its

publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts
and the Ontario Arts Council.
University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support for its

publishing activities of the Government of Canada through the Book
Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).
For Patrizia and John Paul
Contents
Acknowledgments ix
Preface: Death on the Via del Mare xi
Introduction: Rome and Fascism 3
1 The Landscape of the War 16
2 Roads to Rome: The Blackshirts and the città nemico 34
3 Demolitions: De-familiarizing the Roman Cityscape 54
4 ‘An uninterrupted racecourse’: Fascism’s Roman Roads 76
5 The Palazzo and the Boulevard 101
6 Resurrecting a Pagan Landscape 121
7 Return of the Roman 135
Conclusion: The Cinematic City 155
Notes 163
Bibliography 203
Index 217
Acknowledgments
Many people, too numerous to mention, have contributed to this project

since its origins as a dissertation at the University of Toronto. Special
thanks to Modris Eksteins, who provided invaluable advice and assist-
ance over the years. I am especially grateful to Ave Maria University for
a research grant which allowed me to return to Rome in the summer of
2007. A special thanks in this regard is owed to Michael Dauphinais. Grat-
itude is also extended to Colin Barr and Eric Jennings, for their advice
in converting the dissertation into a book. I must also recognize in this
respect the generous assistance of Ruth Ben-Ghiat, and Borden Painter
Jr. While exploring the Vatican Archives in Rome, the aid and hospital-
ity of Massimiliano Valente was indispensable. Special thanks as well to
Mariapina De Simone at the Archivio Centrale dello Stato in Rome. I
would also like to thank Ron Schoeffel at the University of Toronto Press,
as well as the editorial staff. Many thanks as well to Christian Elia for his
patient reading of parts of the drafts and for his friendship.
Finally, I owe everything to my mother and father, whose stories of
growing up in fascist Italy provided the spark of interest that ultimately
led to his work. A very special thank you goes to my wife Patrizia for her
patience, love, and assistance. In the summer of 2007, rather than visit-
ing the sights of Rome, she spent many hours helping me in the archives.
For that sacrifice, as well as for her many other sacrifices, I am eternally
grateful.
Ave Maria, Florida

May 2009
P R E FA C E
Death on the Via del Mare
It is Italy’s most dangerous road. When it opened in 1928, the Via del
Mare represented the fascist regime’s dream of linking Rome to the sea.
In the twenty-first century, it has become the ‘killer road’ responsible
for some 250 deaths between 1996 and 2006.1 It is on this fast road that
Italy has faced the rising death toll of the so-called ‘Saturday Night Mas-
sacres’ (Stragi del Sabato Sera), the name given to a phenomenon which
sees mostly young men crash to their deaths after a Saturday night in the
discos of Ostia. The phenomenon has become a national tragedy and
a cause célèbre. Commentators have compared the holiday-weekend acci-
dent reports as something akin to war bulletins.2 In 2002 the Berlusconi
government even passed a law curtailing the drinking hours of discos
after a parliamentary commission was formed. New security measures
have been created, but the deaths continue and roadside crosses prolif-
erate along the twenty-three-kilometre route of the Via del Mare from its
starting point in the Piazza Venezia in Rome to the pier in Ostia where
the road ends.
It is appropriate that this death road should begin under the Tarpeian
Rock which overlooks the Via del Mare at its starting point underneath
the Capitoline Hill. This precipice, over which the ancient Romans
threw dissidents and criminals to their deaths, was excavated by the fas-
cist regime in the 1930s after centuries of being buried under medieval
buildings. The rock, along with the Via del Mare, was a pillar of Mus-
solini’s policy of romanità and its desire to link the Eternal City with the
sea. Here was fascism’s route to Mare Nostrum finding its starting point
beneath a symbol of Roman cruelty. Although the Via del Mare was
opened in 1928 as part of fascism’s program of providing Rome with a
modern transportation infrastructure, the brutality and violence of fas-
cism have become the road’s lasting legacy.
xii Preface
Ideology, however, was present in the road’s construction, as it was

designed to reveal the newly revealed ruins of Imperial Rome. The
road, built alongside the ancient Via Ostiense, is mostly straight, with
a few high-speed curves leading out from the Piazza Venezia, the heart
of fascist Rome. As it leaves Piazza Venezia and the shadow of the Tar-
peian Rock, the Via del Mare reveals to the gaze of the passing motorist
the ruins of Ancient Rome, through which the road weaves its way. In a
carefully crafted trompe l’oeil the road seems to plunge straight into the
arches of the Theatre of Marcellus, another Roman ruin ‘liberated’ by
the regime, before taking a fast, swerving left-hand band out towards
the Tiber River, where it encounters two republican-era temples in the
Foro Boario also excavated by the fascist regime in the 1920s. The man
responsible for overseeing the construction of the Via del Mare, Antonio
Muñoz, claimed that the design of the road, made up of short straighta-
ways punctuated by curves, ‘constituted an element of beauty, designed
so that the motorist will find in every section surprising visions.’3 Thus,
the Via del Mare functioned in the manner of a thrill ride in a theme
park, taking the motorist through not past ancient Rome.
After the Foro Boario, the Via del Mare sweeps along the Tiber River,
past the gasworks, a rare and surprising industrial landmark in the Eter-
nal City. Here, the Via del Mare leaves the walled city through the gate
of St Paul, past the pyramid of Caius Cestius, the Protestant cemetery
guarding the remains of Romantic poets, and the Stazione Ostiense, a train
station purposely built for the visit of Adolf Hitler in 1938. Here, traces
of fascist and ancient Rome coexist along with the memory of the Sec-
ond World War. It was at this gate in 1943 that Italian troops engaged
their former allies, the Germans, in combat after the surrender of Italy
on 8 September. Once through the gate, the Via del Mare follows the
ancient Via Ostiense, blasting past the Basilica of St Paul Outside the
Walls, the imposing final resting place of the saint now barely noticeable
to the driver speeding towards the sea. On the left, the motorist catches
a glimpse of the EUR (Esposizione Universale Roma) and its modern
basilica to saints Peter and Paul, but even this becomes a fleeting image
as the Via del Mare straightens out into its final and fastest leg, to Ostia.
This is the section of road where the ‘massacres’ take place. As the
road heads towards Ostia it is straight and fast, with no chance for
escape. It is on this final section that the coastline of Mare Nostrum fast
approaches, feeding the Imperial dreams of Mussolini, who would often
jump on his motorcycle and race from his office in Palazzo Venezia to
his beach home near Fregene. Eluding his bodyguards, Mussolini set out
Preface xiii
to prove the efficiency and speed of his roads.4 As the Duce sped towards
the coast he would barely notice the ancient osterie and villages of the
Agro Romano. If he looked, Mussolini might have caught a glimpse of
the borgate, shantytowns created by his regime to house the thousands
of Romans displaced by the demolitions in the city centre, demolitions
which made the Via del Mare possible. These shantytowns have long
since disappeared, replaced by the ENI-Casa housing projects of the Ital-
ian Republic in the 1950s.
On the right, before the Via del Mare enters the modern city of Ostia,
the ruins of ancient Ostia appear with its pagan temples and mosaics.
Just as the Via del Mare began amidst the ruins of Imperial Rome, so
now it reaches its conclusion in the ruins of the port which facilitated
ancient Rome’s dominion over the Mediterranean. A few miles beyond
the ancient city, the Via del Mare ends abruptly on the Lido of Ostia.
The road is extended, but only symbolically, by a pier which juts out into
the Tyrrhenian Sea. A few miles to the north stands the now abandoned
idroscalo (hydroport), where the fascist regime celebrated the achieve-
ments of aviators like the former squadrista Italo Balbo and greeted inter-
national aviators such as Amelia Earhardt and Charles Lindbergh. Thus,
the Via del Mare connected the real sea at Ostia with fascism’s adunate
oceaniche (oceanic rallies), which greeted Mussolini’s speeches in the
Piazza Venezia.
Why has fascism’s dream road become a death trap in the twenty-first
century? Critics of fascist urban planning see this as yet another example
of fascist ideology trumping sensible planning. It was built, so the argu-
ment goes, for the light traffic of the 1920s and 1930s and not the armies
of Fiat ‘cinquecentos’ and ‘lambretta’ motor scooters which became a
staple of Italian life during the Economic Miracle of the postwar era.
This argument ignores, however, one of the most important features of
fascism: the function of roads as monuments to the values of the regime.
The purpose of the Via del Mare was not merely functional, nor was
it designed to shift volumes of sunbathers efficiently to the beaches
of Ostia. Rather, in the words of the Roman governor Boncompagni-
Ludovisi, who inaugurated the road with Mussolini in 1928, the Via
del Mare was a ‘distinguished monument.’5 Since Baron Haussmann’s
transformation of Paris, roads had become, according to the historian of
architecture Sigfried Giedion in 1938, ‘architectonic expressions.’6 No
regime took this new concept of the road more seriously than fascism.
Roads became the monument of fascism par excellence.
These roads, however, were not conventional monuments. They were
xiv Preface
not meant for silent contemplation; rather they were intended as spaces
for the expression of fascist values such as speed. In the 1960s, Lewis
Mumford argued that Americans tolerated the increasing death tolls on
their roads precisely because of their worship of ‘empty abstractions’
such as power and speed. This ‘American way of death’ could also be
applied to the fascist regime and its roads.7 To view the Via del Mare as
an example of failed planning is to forget fascism’s cult of speed and
danger. In an article celebrating the opening of the road in 1928, the
journal Capitolium noted that the few curves in the road were engineered
to have a minimum width of 500 metres purposely to encourage speed.8
That the Via del Mare proved dangerous enough to take lives would have
pleased those fascists beholden to the futurist and militarist origins of
the movement embodied in squadrismo (early fascist movement). Much
of the myth of squadrismo was born on the dusty roads of Italy, where the
blackshirts tore around the countryside in their Fiat trucks terrorizing
opponents in the years following the Great War. The Via del Mare thus
became a lieu de mémoire for the ‘martyrdom’ of young, fascist thugs in
the years preceding the March on Rome.
The Via del Mare served as more than just a stage where martyrs could
be remembered, and punitive expeditions recreated; it was an instru-
ment of violence in its own right. The road itself was a weapon cutting a
violent swath through Rome’s once densely populated quartieri (neigh-
bourhoods). Two historic piazzas fell to the wrecking ball: the Piazza
Aracoeli and the Piazza Montanara. The latter had once been a central
part of Rome’s Jewish ghetto and a meeting place for farmers and shep-
herds bringing their produce from the countryside. It was a folkloristic
site and, therefore, something that was made to disappear under the
fascist regime’s attack on ‘local colour,’ a euphemism for the folkloristic.
The road was a pitiless prefiguring of the attitude of Robert Moses, who
referred to his Bronx Expressway as ‘hacking your way with a meat ax’
through an overcrowded metropolis.9
The Via del Mare was both site and instrument of violence on the his-
toric cityscape of Rome. On this road was realized the marriage between
technology and death theorized by Jean Baudrillard, who pointed out
the thanatos at the heart of fascism.10 Baudrillard’s point is useful because
it sees fascism primarily as a cultural expression rather than an ideology.
Reading the Via del Mare as a representative of fascist ideology is just
one level of the road’s significance. That the road embodied the ideo-
logical project of romanità is obvious, but ignores the broader cultural
significance of fascism’s encounter with the Eternal City. In the following
Preface xv
chapters, fascism will be viewed as part of a cultural phenomenon ema-

nating from Italy’s war experience. The fascist regime did not simply use
culture or adopt cultural policies; it was, in the words of George Mosse, a
culture movement all its own.11 It is at this level that the true significance
of a road such as the Via del Mare should be read. It was not only an
‘architectonic expression’ aimed at representing an ideological position;
it was also a cultural expression of the fascist love for speed, danger, and
death. On the Via del Mare one can see the two sides of fascism’s nature:
the constructive, monumental side and the destructive, brutalist side.
Death and monumentality find no more eloquent resonance than on
this road.
Reading fascism as a cultural phenomenon will help illuminate some
of the more puzzling contradictions or ‘aporias’ that fascism presents
to scholars, without an attempt to solve those contradictions by placing
them into neat theoretical schemata. It is precisely in the contradictions
that the significance of fascism is found. In order to grasp such a phenom-
enon as fascism, perhaps it is necessary to take Walter Laqueur’s advice
on adopting an ‘impressionistic’ approach to its study. Such a study, how-
ever, seems more appropriate to the artist rather than the historian.12
The notion of fascism as primarily cultural helps to explain what Susan
Sontag described as the fascination that fascism continues to exert on
contemporary culture. The exposing of this fascination has often been
left to non-historians such as Susan Sontag, who has attempted to show
the continuing allure of fascism in different contexts long after the fas-
cist regimes have disappeared.13 In Italy, the equivalent of Sontag was the
poet, filmmaker, and novelist Pier Paolo Pasolini, who, in the 1970s, con-
sistently sought to expose the persistent fascism that continued in Italian
life and politics in the years of the Economic Miracle. For Pasolini, his-
toric fascism may have been dead, but fascism as a deeply rooted cultural
impulse that aimed to destroy the traditional cultures of Italy was alive
and well and expressed in the pro-consumerist policies of the Christian
Democratic governments which had dominated Italian politics since the
end of the Second World War.14 Even though they looked very different,
there existed continuity – a thread – linking the fascist dictatorship and
the First Republic. Pasolini sought, and found, the evidence of this new
fascism in the streets and neighbourhoods of Rome, in the attitudes and
lifestyles of Italy’s youth, and in the values promoted by the state.
Pasolini’s search for the fascist thread in contemporary Italy ended
abruptly and violently at the end of the Via del Mare. In November 1975,
Pasolini, who liked to cruise Rome’s gay scene, picked up a young man
xvi Preface
outside Termini Station, then took him for a drive on the Via del Mare
to Ostia, where he found a discreet location in the old idroscalo. There, at
the spot where fascism reached its mare nostrum, Pasolini was murdered
in what appeared to be an ambush, despite the official court ruling that
it was carried out by one man. Pasolini’s friends, such as the poet Dario
Bellezza, had no doubt that he was the victim of neo-fascist thugs. Bellez-
za claimed that it was no accident that Pasolini was killed there. It was
‘Ostia at its most fascist.’15 Whatever the truth of the matter, the site of
Pasolini’s death raised the ghost of fascism in a landscape deeply imbued
with fascism. It is this landscape that is the subject of this book.
ROADS AND RUINS
The Symbolic Landscape of Fascist Rome
INTRODUCTION
Rome and Fascism
Fascist Rome has always elicited great interest from scholars largely
because the Eternal City was, in the words of Emilio Gentile, the site of
fascism’s most extensive ‘petrification of ideology.’1 Nowhere else could
one grasp the ideological pretensions of fascism, which used the Roman
cityscape to trumpet its dream of romanità. Scholarship on fascist Rome
can be divided into two groups, centred on urban planners and cultural-
ists. In the 1970s and 1980s, historians of urban planning denigrated fas-
cism’s attempts at city planning, arguing that the regime’s policies were
ultimately counterproductive. Italians such as Antonio Cederna severely
criticized fascist planning as being nothing more than a cover for its
megalomania, as a result of which Rome was transformed into a vast
space of congested traffic and isolated ruins in order to satisfy what Ced-
erna called the ‘sickness’ of reviving ancient Rome.2 Fascist urban plan-
ning was a façade to cover up the massive demolitions which destroyed
the historic character of the Roman landscape. Daniele Manacorda and
Renato Tamassia dismissed fascism’s ideological pretensions this way:
‘The invocation of romanità in its most superficial forms was considered
by the Duce as a means, like music and women, to control, influence,
and govern the crowds; to unite them and drug them, offering to them a
facile and gratifying model of identification (we are the descendants of
the ancient Romans; we are the inventors of civilization, the dominators
of the world, we, the heirs of Rome).’3 Modern Rome was transformed
by an ideology which Spiro Kostoff summed up in the words ‘traffic and
glory.’4 Even the seemingly positive goal of exposing the ruins of ancient
Rome to the light of day had the effect of rendering them meaningless.
Andrea Giardina has argued that fascism’s isolation of the ruins has cre-
ated a ‘poetry of emptiness … a distance between (the ruins) and life.’5
4 Roads and Ruins
A central premise of these urbanist assessments of fascist Rome is the

notion that the regime was ultimately destructive in its so-called urban
planning, and that this destruction was carried out in the name of an
empty, rhetorical ideology.
Two recent studies of fascist Rome have taken a different approach.
Borden Painter Jr’s Mussolini’s Rome and Gentile’s Fascismo di pietra focus
less on the success or failure of planning, and more on the ideological
impulses which shaped the regime’s urban planning. Rather than dis-
miss fascist ideology as empty rhetoric, Painter and Gentile approach
fascism’s ideological pronouncements seriously as a positive program.
Painter’s superb overview of fascism’s interventions into the Roman
cityscape makes the point that ‘the city has a fascist imprint that has
changed the way we experience the city today.’6 Painter argues that this
imprint remains strong despite half-hearted attempts by the Republic
to remove it since the end of the war. Fascism’s transformation of the
city was so far-reaching, however, that it would be impossible to erase
the ‘fascist layer’ without massive changes to the cityscape. The merit of
Painter’s book is that it amply demonstrates the many transformations
created by the regime, ranging from the gutting of the historic centre to
the construction of new suburbs and public housing. Modern Rome, as
a result, cannot be seen without acknowledging the fascist presence in
everything, from its streets and archaeology to its monuments. Whether
the regime was successful in its urban planning is beside the point. The
fact is that Mussolini was able to transform the Eternal City by giving it a
distinctly fascist layer that coexists with the ancient and papal city.
Gentile’s book has a narrower focus than Painter’s. He looks at the
myth of romanità and traces its origins and stages through the regime’s
encounter with the Eternal City. Gentile sets out to challenge the notion
that romanità was nothing but empty words. Rather, the myth of Rome
was a forward-looking idea which borrowed historical associations for
the purpose of creating a New Order founded on a New Man. More
than propaganda, romanità was ‘the essence of fascism.’7 Gentile skilfully
demonstrates how the myth of Rome was used by Mussolini as a personal
instrument in his rise to power. In 1921, faced with a seditious group of
ras (the regional commanders of the Fascist squads before 1922), Mus-
solini introduced romanità as a means of centralizing his power within
the fascist movement. Similarly, in 1936, after the war in Ethiopia, Mus-
solini would use the myth of Rome to construct the Cult of the Duce and
initiate fascist Italy’s move towards a more aggressive foreign policy and
alliance with Hitler. For Gentile, romanità is the key to understanding
the development of the regime. The evidence for this is still plain to see
in the fascismo di pietra which pervades the city of Rome. Gentile’s book
concludes with him depicting a disillusioned Mussolini sitting in the Sala
Mappamondo, his cavernous office in the Palazzo Venezia in 1942. Having
just listened to the reports of the provincial federali, Mussolini concludes
that his regime had failed in remaking Romans. All that remained of the
policy of shaping the New Italian man was the physical reconstruction of
Rome, much of which could be seen from the Duce’s balcony overlook-
ing Piazza Venezia.
Gentile and Painter thus offer a new perspective on the regime’s trans-
formation of Rome. Rather than dwelling on the shortcomings of fas-
cism’s urban planning, which had been the focus of the earlier school,
these studies attempt to demonstrate the deeper ideological sources of
fascism’s appropriation of the Eternal City. Both books, however, down-
play the violence and destructiveness of fascism’s urban interventions.
What results is a rather ‘bloodless’ view of fascism that reflects much of
the scholarship on fascist ideology and culture since the 1990s.8
Painter and Gentile also share with the culturalist school a belief that
fascist ideology was a top-down enterprise aimed only at forging con-
sensus. Both historians place the Duce firmly at the centre of fascism’s
myth of Rome to such an extent that the reader is left with the impres-
sion that fascist Rome was an emanation of Mussolini’s personal vision
of romanità. Consequently, the myth of Rome is viewed strictly as a state-
sponsored enterprise imposed on unwitting Italians. In this way, Painter
and Gentile share a common vision with the earlier Kostoff and Ced-
erna school of thought. Paolo Nicoloso’s recent book, Mussolini architetto,
shares with Painter and Gentile a belief that Mussolini was central to the
regime’s architectural projects, arguing that he spent much of his time
meeting with and discussing architecture with Italy’s leading architects.
Mussolini, according to Nicoloso, took a keen interest in architecture as
a means of fostering consensus, and also of educating Italians as a means
of transforming them according to the fascist image.9 To be sure, Mus-
solini was a key figure in the regime’s transformation of the city and he
did possess an obsession with the city and its cultural legacy, but fascism’s
encounter with the Eternal City was defined and shaped by many others
within the fascist movement.
A more pluralistic notion of fascism’s cultural policies has been
advanced by cultural historians such as Emily Braun, who, in her analy-
sis of the work of Mario Sironi, has argued that the cultural policies of
fascism were the product of ‘individual contributions and responses.’10
6 Roads and Ruins
Ruth Ben-Ghiat has demonstrated, in her book Fascist Modernities, that

many intellectuals and artists contributed to the fascist cultural practice
of bonifica or the reclamation of Italian identity.11 Yet, even these scholars
present fascist culture as something manufactured after 1922, an instru-
ment of the regime to maintain, consolidate, and justify its dictatorship
through an elaborate process of meaning-making. Rarely is fascist cul-
ture presented as a phenomenon shaped by a specific shared, historical
experience.
Fascism as ‘Lived Experience’
This book will examine fascist culture as the product of a lived experi-
ence rather than a construct. This idea of a ‘lived experience’ is borrowed
from a recent study of the socialist case del popolo in turn-of-the-century
Italy by Margaret Kohn.12 The case del popolo were prime targets of the
fascist squadristi after the war, and Kohn ably demonstrates how these
unassuming structures, their layout, and their functions incarnated the
values of socialists. She argues that these workers’ sites were the product
of a ‘politics of personal transformation [linked] to a collective project
for acquiring power.’13 Tellingly, these structures loom large in the mem-
oirs of fascist blackshirts, who saw them as symbols of subversion.
The following chapters will examine how fascist Rome was the prod-
uct of the spatial and architectonic consciousness of the blackshirts, and
of the war veterans who dominated the ranks of the squads. Just as the
socialists were able to construct their own spaces in the case del popolo
and on the shop floors, so too did fascism construct its own spaces out
of its own cultural impulses. ‘Just as history is instinctively understood
as a record of change,’ writes Kohn, ‘so must we begin to think of archi-
tecture, geography, and urbanism as traces of spatial transformation.’14
Where did fascism’s spatial transformation of Rome originate? The mas-
sive transformational experience that gave birth to fascism was the Great
War. The story of fascism’s encounter with Rome was largely informed by
the sights, sounds, and landscape of the Italian Front. Paul Corner has
argued that the war was the ‘matrix’ out of which fascism was born, a fact
that has always been recognized but never analysed.15 Contemporaries
such as the anti-fascist Max Ascoli noted the war dynamic at the heart
of fascism. Even in peacetime, wrote Ascoli, war formed the ‘innermost
conscience of [fascist] man.’16
It is almost a cliché to argue that the Great War created the conditions
for the rise of fascism – so much so that some historians have often taken
for granted the direct relationship between the fascist phenomenon and
the war experience, while others have suggested that the war’s influence
has been overstated. The latter interpretation has been the predominant
one since Renzo De Felice’s cautioning against viewing the war itself as
the cause of fascism, preferring instead to identify the Interventionist
Crisis of 1914–1915 as fascism’s true point of origin.17 Since then, owing
largely to De Felice’s immense influence, historians have generally
agreed that the Great War was more a catalyst than a point of origin for
the rise of fascism. The birth of fascism, it is argued, lies in the cultural
and intellectual revolt of the turn of the century.18 While central in the
development of squadrismo, the war experience rarely is seen as central
in shaping the fascist regime after 1922.19 Fascism is often presented as
appropriating the memory of the war for its own propaganda purposes,
and the deeper cultural link between the war experience and fascism is
often glazed over.
There are signs that this Defelician orthodoxy is being challenged,
however, especially in the writings of Antonio Gibelli and Angelo Ventro-
ne, who have placed greater emphasis on the transformational experi-
ences of the war as the generator of fascism.20 These experiences became
the foundational element of squadrismo, which subsequently became
sublimated in the policies of the regime after 1922. Following the lead
of Renzo De Felice, historians of Italian fascism often make a distinc-
tion between fascism-movement and fascism-regime.21 While the seizing
of power did call for compromises and changes in the fascist program,
many of which drew protests from original blackshirts, there are some
deeper cultural impulses which provide for continuity. The violence
and brutality of the war experience constituted the essence of fascism,
and this can be seen in the spaces created by the regime throughout the
Ventennio. Ventrone argues that the elements that formed fascism were
first seen during the war, such as the use of concentration camps, denun-
ciations of un-patriotic Italians, and ‘ideological contamination,’ in
which parties and groups of opposing persuasions mixed together.22 All
these developments describe the formation of the early blackshirts, who
came from different political positions but shared the war experience.
The lived experience of the war served fascism as a repository of
myths which shaped the approach of the fascist regime to the Roman
cityscape. The war experience itself became, in the words of George
Mosse, a myth.23 This myth involved an interiorization of the landscape
8 Roads and Ruins
of war which influenced fascism’s later approach to urban spaces. One

of the most valuable contributions made by cultural historians such as
Mark Antliff and Roger Griffin, for example, is demonstrating the web
of mythologies that informed the fascist mind.24 In its encounter with
Rome, the fascist movement revealed its desire for myth and in doing so
became part of a general cultural striving for myth after the war. Luisa
Passerini has noted how the end of the First World War saw a resurgence
of ‘traditional myths and images’ that were later appropriated by the
regime, especially the cult of the Duce.25 Romanità was another such
myth. Added to these well-known myths are the self-mythologies created
by fascism, especially those of the war experience and the years of squad-
rismo. Fascism’s remaking of the Roman landscape was in part a reflec-
tion of these myths.
One of the pillars of fascism’s imaginative landscape was open space.
When Mussolini called for the opening of wide spaces around the
ancient monuments of Rome in his New Year’s Eve speech of 1925 at the
Rome city hall (Campidoglio), he was expressing the impulse at the heart
of fascism: that of creating spaces and breaking out of confinements.26
In doing so, Mussolini embodied the mythical image of the ‘destructive
character’ as outlined by Walter Benjamin. ‘The destructive character,’
wrote Benjamin, ‘knows only one watchword: make room; only one activ-
ity: clearing away. His need for fresh air and open spaces is stronger than
any hatred.’27 The destructive character, continued Benjamin, is young
and cheerful, exults in clearing away the traces of the present, and never
worries about replacing what he destroys. Such a description accurately
depicts fascism’s urban interventions in the Roman cityscape. Not only
did the regime subject Rome to massive demolitions and the opening
up of new spaces, but nothing was built to replace what was destroyed.
Instead, these spaces were traversed with wide boulevards slicing their
way through the ruins.
The regime’s demolitions combined with the construction of wide
boulevards is often compared to Baron Haussmann’s transformation of
Paris in the 1860s. To be sure, Haussmann cleared away medieval quar-
ters, built grand boulevards, and uprooted thousands of working-class
Parisians, but he replaced the old quarters with the characteristic, uni-
form apartment blocks lining the boulevards. Fascism, however, did not
rebuild in the historic centre. Rather, it left the ancient ruins exposed to
traffic on the new boulevards. More than Haussmann, Mussolini and his
regime foreshadowed the work of Robert Moses in the Bronx. The image
of the axe clearing away swaths of cityscape dominated fascist propagan-
da in the 1930s.
It is not in Haussmann’s nineteenth century that we find the inspira-

tion for fascist urban planning; rather, it is to be found firmly planted in
the twentieth century – a century, according to Michel Foucault, domi-
nated by the idea of space in contrast to the nineteenth century’s preoc-
cupation with time.28 Fascism was obsessed with space. Spazio vitale and
mare nostrum, the two key concepts which drove fascist foreign policy,
were spatial concepts. Aristotle Kallis has argued that these desires came
from the pre-1914, imperialist nationalism of Enrico Corradini.29 To be
sure, the European imperialism of the previous century was influential,
but it was the psychological experience of the First World War that most
determined fascism’s craving for space. Just as the Nazi desire for leben-
sraum was born in the shifting landscapes and spatial desires of the First
World War, so too did the Italian war experience on the Carso feed an
aggressive drive for open spaces and vistas.30 In his reflections on the war
experience – he fought on the Carsican front – the poet Giuseppe Unga-
retti wrote, ‘The Italian has a need for a war plan which gives him space,
more space, always space.’31
The regime’s Master Plan of 1931 was guided predominantly by an
urge to make space in Rome. Chapters 3 and 4 will show how two aspects
of the plan embodied this impulse: demolitions and roads. Both shaped
the new Rome, especially fascism’s obsessive hatred of the closed squares
typical of medieval cities. Chapter 2 demonstrates how those piazze were
associated in the fascist mind with socialist subversion during the years
of squadrismo.
The blasting open of new spaces in Rome allowed the fascist regime
to express another key myth deriving from the war experience: the col-
lapsing of time into space. New readings of time and history in a fascist
key now became possible. Roger Griffin and Claudio Fogu have both
noted how fascism entailed new readings of history. For Griffin, the fas-
cist calendar expressed the sense of palingenesis, or new beginnings,
while for Fogu fascism practised actualism, or the practice of making his-
tory present. Both are mythical reconfigurations of time. Griffin traces
fascism’s policy back to the revolutionary tradition begun by the French
Revolution.32 Fogu, by contrast, firmly places actualism in the tradition
of Catholicism.33 Drawing from the Latin Catholic tradition, argues
Fogu, ‘the fascist imaginary always tended toward a spatial annulment
of time.’34 My book, however, will locate fascism’s conflation of time into
space in the battlefields of the First World War. Christopher Coker, in his
insightful book War and the 20th Century, argues that the war experiences
of that century led many to believe that modern society could liberate
itself from history. The nineteenth-century liberal vision of history as
10 Roads and Ruins
continuity and progress was no longer tenable after the experiences of

the trenches.35 Time as a coherent and logical process lost meaning in
the spaces of the battlefield.
Fascists approached Rome as iconoclasts. The Eternal City was, to par-
aphrase Nietzsche, burdened with history. Many fascists, especially those
influenced by Futurism combined with the trench soldier’s impatience
with convention and tradition, found Rome’s layers of history oppressive.
Rome’s landscape had always inspired both synchronic and diachronic
approaches to the city’s past. The former approach was embodied in the
work of archeologists in the nineteenth century, who aimed at reveal-
ing the multiple layers of Rome’s built history.36 The diachronic view
of Rome’s history was best seen in the Catholic Church’s eschatological
approach to the Eternal City’s history, where the pre-Christian pagan city
was transformed as history moved towards the Second Coming. In both
cases, continuity was the dominant theme, whereby every epoch in the
city’s history contributed to a coherent narrative of that history. By con-
trast, the fascists approached Rome elliptically, choosing to destroy or
omit parts of Rome’s history. Claudia Lazzaro has argued that the fascist
regime was motivated by a desire to ‘liberate’ the ancient ruins in a proc-
ess ‘which obliterated other pasts and established a direct relationship
with the present.’37
Chapter 6 will demonstrate how fascism’s mythical approach to history
came to clash especially with the Church’s eschatological vision. The key
issue was Rome’s pagan heritage and the place it had in fascist Rome.
For the church, the vestiges of paganism had been overtaken by Christi-
anity and transformed; the regime, by contrast, wished to reveal pagan
artefacts and temples divested of their Christian superstructures in the
interests of retrieving the primordial landscape of Rome. Roger Griffin
has identified, as a central component of fascist modernism, primordi-
alism, in which fascism was responding to ‘the presence of an innate
human drive to achieve transcendence and create new cultural worlds,
a drive which becomes particularly active whenever an established order
is threatened by collapse.’38 Romanità was an example of primordialism,
as were Nazism’s Aryan fantasies. A desire for the primitive was not new
to the postwar world, as intellectuals and artists had been interested in
primitivistic themes in the latter half of the nineteenth century. A strong
yearning for atavistic experiences, however, came out of the war experi-
ence. George Mosse has argued that fascism’s desire for a ‘new pagan-
ism’ and ‘primitivism’ began in the trenches of the First World War.39
For Mosse, as for Griffin, primitivism went hand in hand with a desire
for a new order created out of the midst of the chaos of the modern
world.
In the fascist world view, fascination with the primordial was linked
with the myth of the barbarian, a myth apparently at odds with that
of Romanità. The attitude of the early Fascists towards Rome oscillat-
ed between respect and iconoclasm. In their ambivalence, the Fascists
saw themselves as both Romans and Barbarians. Fascism’s construc-
tion of roads linked the movement to the activity of the Romans. His-
torians such as Ettore Pais, who also served as a senator during the
regime, frequently exalted fascism’s road-building projects. Accord-
ing to Pais, true civilizations were identified by two activities: agricul-
ture and road building – best exemplified by the Romans, who saw it
as a matter of pride to ‘build, prolong, or perfect roads.’40 For Pais,
fascism had restored Italy’s predominance as road builders. This activ-
ity of road building, however, required extensive demolitions similar
to that wrought by the barbarians in late antiquity. This double act of
construction and destruction can be traced back to the war experi-
ence. Giuseppe Bottai, ex-ardito and governor of Rome at a time when
the regime was transforming the Eternal City’s landscape, remarked in
1936 that the soldiers of fascism were like the ancient Romans, ‘invin-
cible warriors and at the same time builders of roads.’41 This attitude
of destroyer and creator characterized Mussolini and his mixed feel-
ings towards the Eternal City,42 for civilizers and barbarians were con-
flated in his mind as well. Tellingly, in a speech given at Gorizia (a
central location on the Italian front) in 1942, while another war was
waging, Mussolini reminded his listeners of the Great War and said
that it was in the Roman tradition to ‘destroy everything that belongs
to one’s enemies.’43
This phenomenon of soldiers identifying themselves as both saviours
of civilization and the bearers of destruction can be traced to the war
experience. What had been an intellectual fad in the prewar years – that
of finding the savage in the breast of civilization – had now become a
central feature of industrialized warfare. Nietzsche’s warning that bar-
barism was waiting to break out seemed to come true for many.44 Both
the desire for, and the fear of, barbarism was accentuated by a postwar
society in crisis. Hayden White has shown how, in times of crisis, the
West often experiences a movement towards primitivism in the hopes of
releasing the ‘wild man’ who is always present in culture.45 White argues
that the West had gradually interiorized the Wild Man after the concept
had been de-spatialized by progress. In unsettled times, however, such as
12 Roads and Ruins
that which characterized the West after 1918, society has been encour-
aged to ‘throw off the restraints of civilization and thereby enter into a
kingdom that is naturally theirs.’46
The blurring of identities between the categories of barbarism and
civilization found in the fascist movement places fascism squarely in the
primary cultural impulse of the twentieth century. French philosopher
Simone Weil, who saw Adolf Hitler as a Roman reincarnate, theorized
in 1939 that barbarism was always present beneath the veneer of civiliza-
tion, and that ‘when any human group sees itself as the bearer of civili-
zation this very belief will betray it into behaving barbarously at the first
opportunity.’47 Weil was writing this just a year after this ‘Roman’ had
been feted by the fascist regime in Rome, an event which encapsulated
many of the cultural impulses of fascism, and forms the basis for chapter
7. In the postwar period, the distinctions between Civilizers and Barbar-
ians were confused to the point where a movement like fascism could
identify with both.
Roads and Ruins
The multiple mythologies of fascism and their complex interactions can

be read in the landscape left by the regime in the historic centre of the
Eternal City. The two predominant landmarks of that landscape were
roads and ruins. Any landscape is a product of both nature and culture,
of what is revealed and what is constructed. In his book Landscape and
Memory, Simon Schama argues that all landscapes are ultimately shaped
this way; even untouched, wilderness landscapes have an element of
construction to them.48 In the case of Rome’s historic centre, the ruins
revealed by the regime’s archaeological excavations, while they predated
the regime itself, were shaped by the perceptions created by the new
roads. Through demolitions and road building, the fascist regime cre-
ated a new way of experiencing the ruins of Ancient Rome. Previous-
ly, in order to see even imposing ruins like the Coliseum, one had to
navigate through a maze of narrow, medieval, and densely populated
streets. If one paid close attention, evidence of antiquity could be seen
in doorways and shops or behind clotheslines. Once through this maze
of streets, the searcher would be suddenly confronted by the Coliseum.
The effect was surprise and wonder. The fascist regime brought an end
to all this by demolishing everything that surrounded the ruins, thus
opening them up to the panoramic gaze. This act of de-familiarizing the
cityscape through the agency of the dieu voyeur was advocated by archi-
tects like Le Corbusier.49 Demolitions, just like war, revealed a hidden

landscape opening up new and strange vistas to the observer. Panoramas
and landscapes were ultimately more important to the fascist gaze than
individual buildings or monuments.
The fascist landscape was made up of a network of roads serving as
platforms for the mobile gaze of the fascist New Man. The importance
of the roads in shaping new perceptions of the Eternal City was a leitmo-
tif of fascism’s remaking of the Roman cityscape. Capitolium, the official
journal of the Roman municipal government, emphasized the impor-
tance of the new arteries which the regime had laid out in the midst
of the ruins. The following is a typical example: ‘Via dell’Impero, Via
del Mare, Via dei Trionfi … The new roads opened between the sacred
ruins have revealed previously hidden magnificence and have brought
the dynamicism of modern life amongst the glories of the past, provid-
ing, in a sense, an urban function to the ruins.’50
The movement of traffic was crucial in giving meaning to these mute
stones through the lens of the mobile gaze. This element was celebrated
by fascist writers such as Pietro Maria Bardi, who, in his novel La strada
e il volante, celebrated the mental transformations caused by the auto-
mobile upon Italians. In this novel, published originally in 1935, Bar-
di’s protagonist Filiberto, a dull bourgeois Italian, undergoes a personal
epiphany once he begins driving throughout Italy. Although he enjoys
Italy’s roads, it is on the regime’s autostrade that a transfiguration occurs,
especially in the landscape between Milan and Turin. He thought that
the autostrada, with its flat and straight trajectory, would be monotonous,
but here he discovered speed:
Filiberto was crazy for speed. He finally understood, for the first time, that
the only respectable people on earth are the record speed holders. He,
the automobile, and the road had become one pointing towards one goal:
speed … He was defiant; a conqueror; a law giver. He saw himself as a pair
of scissors slicing through the green blanket between Milan and Turin. He
believed in the illusion that was setting a new speed record.51
Bardi’s account of Filiberto’s exhilarating ride on the Milan–Turin

autostrada demonstrates the impact of fascism’s road building on motor-
ists. Speed is an act of violence, akin to cutting through the landscape.
Nature had been shattered by the desire for new speed records: ‘Filiber-
to could not see the countryside, which was a shame, but he was compen-
sated by his imagination, which inserted the fantastic landscape into the
14 Roads and Ruins
course of his amazing race.’52 To be sure, railway travel had introduced

a similar aesthetic in the previous century, but one was a passenger on a
train, while in an automobile one was a protagonist.
Fascism’s roads were intrinsically violent. Death and catastrophe were
ever present – which brings us back to the Via del Mare. Speed, danger,
death, and new perspectives on a once familiar landscape all came out
of the war experience. The first two chapters of the book will trace the
origins of these ideas in the exploits of the arditi, the specialized crack
assault units of the Italian Army introduced late in the war to break the
stalemate of the Carsican trenches. It was the mystique of the arditi that
later became the mobilizing myth of squadrismo when the blackshirts
took to the open roads of Italy looking to crush their opponents in a
manner similar to the assault squads of the Great War.
The arditi and the blackshirts provided fodder for mythmaking. They
raised the spectre of returning barbarians coming to render an account
from Rome, a city of imboscati (shirkers). The roads provided the avenues
for these myths to come alive under fascism. Not only roads, though,
but the modern technologies of the automobile and truck also became
the handmaidens for these new primitives. Here, fascism tapped into
the mystical, non-rational fantasies which the automobile raised in peo-
ple such as Aldous Huxley, who claimed that the automobile, a product
of science and technology, had the effect of putting one into a trance,
dreamlike state. Marcel Proust wrote that the ‘speed of a car imposes a
particular, mysterious vitality to the scenery, making trees, houses and
churches into something fable-like.’53 Marshall McLuhan noted in Under-
standing Media that the automobile has brought chaos to the modern city
with its implosions characteristic of primitive societies. For McLuhan the
modern driver was a new kind of tribal warrior protected by his chariot.
Influenced by Lewis Mumford’s claim that speed was compatible with
war, McLuhan argued that the automobile ‘provided a protective and
aggressive shell of urban and suburban man (transforming) the rider
into a superman.’54
The modern road, constructed for the automobile, was essentially
militarist. Fascism’s roads were not meant for simple pleasure riding or
contemplation of Rome’s historic landscape; rather, they recalled the
‘lived experience’ of the Great War. Jörg Beckmann has recently argued
that the modern highway, once a symbol of freedom, has become in the
early twenty-first century a battlefield of road rage: ‘Highways … have
now become the grounds where hate replaces hope.’55 Mikita Brottman
and Christopher Sharrett have noted that war, the automobile, roads,
and ruins are central to the ‘spatio-temporal compressions’ of moder-

nity. The destruction and creativity associated with war have returned
in the form of the automobile.56 This book will show that they too were
central to fascism and thus form a point of intersection between fascism
and modernity.
Traffic thus played a central role in defining fascism’s Roman land-
scape. Far from being a sign of failure in urban planning, as Cederna
and Kostoff would argue, traffic was the crowning achievement of fas-
cist culture. Urbanists like Scipione Tadolini would write in journals
such as L’Urbe that the new roads planned by the fascist regime would
‘hopefully’ move traffic through the historic centre towards the E42 (fas-
cism’s new Rome designed south of the city).57 In 1938 Siegfried Giedion
noted that the automobile had forced the ‘incorporation of movement
as [an] inseparable element of architecture’ and that modern traf-
fic ‘educates and sharpens our sense of space,’ such that the modern
city dweller ‘seems almost to know what is taking place behind him.’58
Giedion argued that this new sense of space acquired by the motorist
‘was unknown in baroque times; it may be the case of a redevelopment
of a primitive sense.’59 Roads and ruins worked together to shape fas-
cism’s mythological landscape. While the fascist regime paid lip service
to rational urban planning in shaping this new Rome, the process was,
in the words of Tim Benton, a ‘revolutionary act’ of violence.60 Violence,
myth, and technology, which combined to create the fascist landscape,
cannot be understood, however, unless we turn to the war experience on
the Carso.
CHAPTER ONE
The Landscape of the War
Aquileia
In 1928, ten years after the end of the First World War, Friulian writer
Chiro Ermacora made a pilgrimage to the ancient city of Aquileia near
Venice to render homage to the ten unknown soldiers buried next to
the ancient basilica. These were the ten who had not been chosen to
be honoured as the Unknown Soldier in Rome in 1921. Ermacora was
writing an elegiac book on the region of Friuli, in northwestern Italy, the
site of many of the most ferocious battles of the First World War. Aquileia
was not too far behind the Carso front, where Italian and Austrian troops
had engaged each other in a series of futile and bloody battles between
1915 and 1918. The city and its ruins were well known to troops going to
and from the front lines. It fell to the Austrians during the retreat from
Caporetto in October 1917.
It was here, after the war, that the partially destroyed basilica became
the site where Maria Bergamas, a mother from Trieste who had lost sever-
al sons to the conflict, chose one of eleven unknown soldiers to become
the Unknown Soldier. The solemn ceremony was held on 28 October
1921, after which the chosen coffin was placed on a flatbed railcar and
moved, procession-like, to Rome, where it found a home on the Victor
Emmanuel monument. The remaining ten soldiers were buried next to
the basilica, not far from where they had fallen on the ‘bloodied Carso.’1
As he stood contemplating the tombs, Ermacora’s imagination was
filled with the events of the Great War and the distant memory of the
Huns. With the ‘greyish’ Carso plateau looming in the distance, the
vision of trucks and trains passing the town gave rise to fantasies of
Roman legionnaires and Attila’s hordes. In Aquileia, wrote Ermacora,
The Landscape of the War 17
‘dreams and reality are intertwined.’2 Like Rome, Aquileia gave rise to
feverish images of past destruction and rituals of death in the mind of
Ermacora. In fact, the entire region of the Veneto would bear witness to
the orgy of slaughter that had been played out there during the Great
War, and which seemed to fall into ancient patterns. Civilization in the
form of the Roman Empire had been inundated here by the so-called
barbarians; the Great War, in the minds of many who fought here, would
reproduce that scenario in the fall of 1917.
Through the Unknown Soldier, the bond between Aquileia and Rome
was restored after centuries of separation. A once-great frontier city that
had been visited by emperors, Aquileia never recovered from the inva-
sions of the Huns and later the Longobards. Its original inhabitants had
either been killed or fled to the islands in the lagoon. The bond was
restored in the form of the mutilated remains of a soldier who had died
on the frontier in a manner similar to the Roman legionnaires. Aquileia
resumed its function as a copy of Rome on the frontiers of the empire,
a martyred city to the new barbarians who had come over the Carso. Its
ruins, similar to those of the Roman Forum, served as a reminder that
Roman civilization had once found a home here. The city was remarkably
like Rome; it was a major archaeological centre; it had a forum and Via
Sacra like the Eternal City. Similarly to Rome, Aquileia was always on the
verge of destruction and pillage. Whether they were Huns, Longobards,
or Austro-Hungarians, Aquileia always was at the mercy of invaders from
beyond the Dolomites. Now, in 1921, this once-frontier city of the Roman
Empire was resurrected by the events of the war. It was no coincidence
that exactly one year after the Unknown Soldier made his journey from
Aquileia to the heart of Rome, Benito Mussolini unleashed the March on
Rome. Like the Unknown Soldier, the fascist blackshirts descended on
Rome carrying with them the marks of the Great War. These squadristi
were, in the words of Curzio Malaparte, a participant, the heirs of the
‘holy damned,’ the new pagans coming from the trenches of the Carso
into the Eternal City as conquerors.3 The first place these ‘conquerors’
visited was the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, located on what Italians
referred to as the Altar of the Fatherland. The true altar, according to
Auro D’Alba, war veteran and blackshirt, was located on the frontiers.4
The Landscape of War
Fascism was created by the war. Without the war, fascism would not have
existed, at least not in the form it took. The first fascists were, to a man,
18 Roads and Ruins
war veterans freshly out of the trenches. The war experience informed
their decision to join Mussolini’s upstart movement in the Piazza San
Sepolcro in Milan on 23 March 1919. So close was the identification
between the movement and the war that we can speak of fascism as the
political incarnation of the Great War. The sights, sounds, smells, and
sensations of the war were transformed into a political ideology. Fascism
identified closely with the war, both its successes and its frustrations.
Giuseppe Bottai, ardito, squadrista, and future governor of Rome, spoke
of it as the war distinct from any others.5 Ultimately, the landscape of
war found its way into fascism’s identification with the war experience.
The unique features of the Italian front, such as the Carso plateau, the
mountains, and the flat, straight roads of the Veneto and Friuli, formed
a major part of fascist imagery during the years of squadrismo. Udine,
the main city of the Friuli region, was called the ‘capital of the war’ in
the Exhibition of the Fascist Revolution: ‘The war conferred on Udine
a privileged place in Italy,’ wrote Ermacora. ‘Refuge for the irredentists
before the war, it became the heart of the nation in arms after May 24,
1915.’6
In the memoirs of those who fought in the war, especially those who
later became fascists, two outstanding topographical features were prom-
inent in their memories: the Carso plateau and the Friuli plain (pianura).
The former came to represent the reality of the war and the transforma-
tions it was effecting in the soldier; the latter symbolized civilization and
the world the soldiers had known before the war. In the events of 1917,
the blurring of the clear boundary between the two landscapes gave
birth to the fascist landscape.
The Carso
‘On the night of June 8, 1915 our troops occupied San Polo and Monfal-
cone. They had arrived at the extreme limit of the Friuli plain. Throwing
a bridge over the wide irrigation canal serving the fields of the Monfal-
cone region, they subsequently occupied the edge of the Carso plateau.’7
Thus wrote the Irredentist hero Scipio Slataper on his deathbed in a
military hospital in 1915. Wounded at Monfalcone, Slataper was writing
an introduction to his now classic Irredentist book Il mio Carso. At that
moment, this forbidding rocky plateau, barely known to Italians before
the war, was becoming familiar to Italian troops. It would eventually
become the symbol of the war in the minds of the millions of soldiers
who fought there. On this plateau one of the most brutal and bloody
fronts between the Italians and Austro-Hungarians was established

immediately after Italy’s entry into the Great War in the spring of 1915.8
The Carso, wrote Slataper, was shrouded in mystery. Inaccessible and
subject to harsh climate, this lunar landscape contrasted sharply with the
lush landscapes of the rest of Italy. It was in many ways the perfect home
for the Great War. Slataper describes it as a ‘primordial’ landscape, ‘as if
the violent and monstrous substrata had come through to the top, throw-
ing off the surface of the earth. It is as if the humid and soft fecundity of
the living flesh had been stripped away revealing, only the immobile and
white bones. The Carso extends underneath the sun like an enormous
geological skeleton.’9 The Carso’s landscape, which remained indelibly
imprinted on the memory of those who survived the war, was violent and
pitiless; it was savage and primordial in its features.
The elemental nature of the landscape was in keeping with the Carso’s
location on the boundary of the Latin, Germanic, and Slavic worlds. It
was a place of blurred distinctions and mixed boundaries owing to its
functioning as a highway for peoples since prehistoric times. Located on
the route of the prehistoric Amber Way, the Carso had been a migration
route for the Venetii, the Illyrian, and the Celtic peoples. Attila’s Huns
in the fifth century used the Carso as an invasion route. The soldiers
of the Great War were very aware of the Carso’s history. Giovan Battista
Bussi, a survivor of the Carso, wrote in his memoirs: ‘No one who didn’t
fight on the Carso could know what it was like. Generals would sacrifice
soldiers to gain 30 or 40 metres of these damned rocks where Attila had
certainly descended, because here there exists no grass or water.’10 The
Great War seemed only the latest chapter in this tradition of the Carso
as a site of conflict between civilizations. Futurist writer Mario Puccini
noted how the city of Gorizia on the Carso introduced the Italian soldier
to a confusing world of mixed identities. Gorizia was a city, according to
Puccini, that was Italian in architecture and form but with Austrian street
names.11
A forbidding site of passage and conflict, the Carsican landscape
was a place of great inscrutability. During the war, soldiers and civilians
referred to the Carso with the cryptic lassù or ‘up there,’ rarely mention-
ing it by name.12 In their march to this mysterious place, the Italians had
to cross the Isonzo River, which became a boundary between the known
and the unknown. Leo Pollini writes about how soldiers made the sign
of the cross as soon as they crossed the Isonzo and how ‘faces became
dark and preoccupied.’13 Crossing the river sent the soldiers into a place
of such mystery, fear, and death that they could only compare it to a via
20 Roads and Ruins
crucis leading to a Calvary.14 Pollini described in vivid terms the sudden

transition in landscape as soldiers moved from the town of Gradisca on
the right bank of the Isonzo, the last town of refuge before going ‘up
there’ to the front. From Gradisca’s comfort the soldiers were immedi-
ately greeted on the outskirts of the town by a ‘disorderly and macabre’
scene of ‘overturned cars, cylinders, cases and ruined houses.’15
Adding to the Carso’s mysterious and deadly appearance were the lab-
yrinthine roads and trenches carved out of the jagged rocks of the pla-
teau. All roads on the Carso began straight but eventually transformed
themselves into narrow laneways which inevitably ended in some cav-
ern.16 According to Leo Pollini, the rocky landscape of the Carso meant
that any road was ‘archaeological’ in nature, as it ‘fights with the rock
threatening to reveal hidden depths.’17 Roads on the Carso were bleak,
forbidding, and dangerous. The landscape was formed by different levels
of rock which resembled a stairway. According to Carlo Delcroix, future
president of the Association for Wounded Veterans under fascism, the
Carso was ‘broken up by sinkholes deep and wide enough to shelter
entire regiments.’18 This was the ‘madhouse’ of the Carso. It was a place
made for defence, not movement. Emilio Lussu described life on the
Carso as ‘unbearable … We had done nothing but capture trench, after
trench, after trench. The situation remained always the same. Trieste was
always in view, in front of the gulf, the same distance away, tired.’19 The
narrow, claustrophobic, and dangerous roads and caverns of the Carso
remained a lasting memory for those who served there and would give
rise, as we will see, to fantasies of wide thoroughfares and open country.
On a visit to the front years after the war ended, Mussolini’s biographer
and mistress Margherita Sarfatti noted how ‘despite the sweetness of the
air and peacefulness of the fields, how lugubrious the Carso remained
even in 1922! … Oh mournful, sad Carso! The terrain remains com-
pletely dishevelled.’20
On the Carso, rocks took on new meaning. Artillery strikes on Italian
trenches had the effect of splintering rocks and transforming them into
deadly projectiles. Before the arrival of sandbags, soldiers had to use the
Carso’s rocks to build parapets, and as a result, the rocks became both
necessary for defence and also a threat. Curzio Malaparte noted how
time spent in the Carso changed his view of rocks. Back home he had
ignored them, but at the front they could make the difference between
life and death.21 Rocks, too, became the graves of soldiers. Sarfatti noted
how Mussolini was saddened by the thought of the ‘poor dead, buried
atop the impervious, solitary, rocky cliffs of the Carso.’22 Burial amidst the
rocks was a shock to Italians who, after centuries of Catholicism, could

only conceive of being buried in consecrated soil. This strangeness was
captured by Giuseppe Steiner, a war veteran, futurist, and fascist in his
poem The Song of the Dead on the Carso: ‘I am the dead of the Carso / I was
naturally infantry / Now I remain at the bottom of this sinkhole beneath
a pile of rocks / And you, don’t turn up your nose because I stink!’23
Amidst the Carsican rocks, soldiers cowered in the natural caverns and
sinkholes which marked the landscape. Pollini describes the soldiers’
world on the Carso as a ‘troglodyte’ village where soldiers hid in every
possible feature of the landscape sitting around their campfires which
came to resemble the ‘focolars of primitive humanity.’24 Within this trog-
lodyte world the soldier lived, slept, and died. As Paul Fussell has argued
in his seminal book The Great War and Modern Memory, a similar feeling
existed among the soldiers on the Western Front. Yet, this return to
primitive existence seemed more appropriate to the Carso because the
landscape, with its precipices and caves, was already in place for this kind
of existence. Today, as in some primitive society, the Carso retains names
carved on rocks by soldiers who served there.
The industrial nature of the war contributed to the troglodyte image
of the Carso. Soldiers were labourers as much as fighters in this context.
The Great War in Italy provided scenes of soldiers incessantly working
on the Carso plateau. Ungaretti noted, ‘Today soldiers go into the line
as if they were going to work.’25 For those approaching the Carso from
the Friuli plain, the spectacle of soldiers working and moving amidst the
rocks and ruins of the plateau provided one of the most distinctive sights
of the war. Frescura likened the scene to a human beehive.26 Malaparte
equated the war to a massive work project which transformed the men
who laboured there.27 The peasant-soldiers’ duty, it seemed, was to con-
struct a new world on the forbidding landscape of the Carso. He built
roads ‘out of the living rock … All the energies of the race were chan-
nelled towards the accomplishment of a massive work, which needed
years of sacrifice and torrents of blood.’28
The transformative process of the war was evidenced in the ability of
the Italian soldier to make himself at home on the Carso. Frescura noted
how the Italian soldier could sleep soundly in a ruined house on the
Carso that was squalid and full of refuse: ‘Probably out of nostalgia for
home,’ wrote Frescura, ‘the soldier is able to live there.’29 Pollini notes
how soldiers would move into the houses that they had watched being
demolished, ‘day after day, brick by brick, stone by stone, or being blown
up all at once. It was like witnessing a resurrection … When someone lit
22 Roads and Ruins
up the focolare (hearth) the house was reconsecrated, like an altar, even
if the walls were in ruins.’30 Pollini was astonished at how soldiers would
jealously guard their new possession and refer to a ruin as their house.
The ruins of the Carso suited the landscape of the plateau and pro-
vided a new environment far removed from the home front. Ruins would
dominate the accounts of the Carso as much as other topographical fea-
tures. Paul Fussell has noted how each sector on the Western Front had
a symbolic ruin which became a reference point for the soldiers passing
through.31 The symbolic ruin on the Carso was San Martino del Carso, a
small village on the front lines that saw some of the fiercest battles of the
war. Pollini described it as the ‘mysterious martyred village’ that soldiers
had been looking at for fifteen months. Once in, soldiers could not resist
wandering its barely recognizable streets and piazzas full of debris. For
these soldiers, Pollini observed, San Martino was not on the battlefield –
it was the battlefield.32
A mythic view of the world was born out of the soldier’s life on the
Carso, which in turn led to thoughts of the primitive, the buried, and the
suppressed. The poetry of Giuseppe Ungaretti elevated San Martino’s
ruins to the status of myth. The poem San Martino del Carso, written at
the front in August 1916,33 makes an analogy between the ruined houses,
‘of which not even a piece of wall is left,’ and his own soul, ‘which is the
country that is most damaged.’34 San Martino became a metaphor for
the life of the soldier on the plateau. In Ungaretti’s poetry, the ruins of
war became associated with the ancient ruins of his hometown of Alex-
andria, Egypt. The poem was first published in a volume entitled Sunken
Harbour, a reference to the sunken harbour of Alexandria, which had
been discovered in his lifetime by the father of a friend. For Ungaretti,
the title was a metaphor for that ‘secret within us which is indecipher-
able.’35 Ungaretti thus made a link between the inscrutable ruins of Alex-
andria and the equally sphinx-like and mysterious ruins of the Carso
and its landscape.36 Ruins, both ancient and modern, also preoccupied
Pollini, who came to associate San Martino with Pompeii.37 The imagina-
tion of the soldier conflated the ruins of the war with the more familiar
ancient ruins of history.
Slowly the Italian infantryman, or fante, began making himself at home
in the forbidding landscape of the Carso and increasingly identified with
the suppressed mysteries of the place. Parallelling the association with
home, the soldier developed an ambivalent relationship with the Carso.
A constant in the memoirs and war diaries is a compelling fascination
with the plateau added to a horror and distaste for it. ‘Squalid and rocky
Carso,’ wrote the futurist F.T. Marinetti, ‘broken ground, tormented,

crushed, fissured, filled with sinkholes and caverns.’38 For Puccini, the
Carso was one massive ruin, a place of dreadfulness where cemeteries
were shelled and where the ‘ground would often throw up bones’; still,
‘this is our land. Here one doesn’t talk of dying!’39 Frescura spoke of
wonder at seeing the town of Gorizia and the Carso during a night-time
bombardment. It was, he wrote, ‘a fantastic spectacle,’ even as the wind
carried the ‘putrid smells’ of cadavers down from the plateau.40 Leo Pol-
lini came to despise the sinkholes and caverns of the Carso because of
the pervasive stench that was a mixture of ‘cadavers, deep earth, cess-
pool, rats.’41 The Carso was a place where the boundaries between life
and death were erased and soldiers were exposed to a grotesqueness
matched by the landscape itself.42
It was typical of the Great War that for all the horrors presented by the
battlefield, soldiers were also fascinated by it. Welsh writer David Jones,
who authored an account of the war, In Parenthesis, that was full of mythi-
cal allusions, described the Western front as a ‘place of enchantment.’43
Despite the obvious horrors of living on the Carso, almost all the mem-
oirists expressed deep regret and even nostalgia at having to leave it in
1917 during the retreat of Caporetto. Italian soldiers came to feel as if
the Carso had become their own. Mario Puccini, in his account of the
retreat of Caporetto, wrote of the great pain experienced by soldiers
when they had to give up the Carso trenches: ‘The Carso was so familiar
to us! Hated yes, but we knew every sinkhole, every path; it was ours
like the town we were born in is ours.’44 Marinetti, who found the Carso
squalid in 1917, waxed nostalgic about it in later years during a visit to
the Southern Italian island of Capri. Speaking at a convention of envi-
ronmentalists in 1926, Marinetti came to compare the rocky landscape
of Capri with the Carso: ‘When I say that these rocks resemble those of
the Carso, I am defining them as typical Italian rocks, rebellious, tumul-
tuous, lyrical, violent, warrior-like, revolutionary just like our soul …
your rocks are identical to those of the Carso.’45 Even though, as one sol-
dier wrote, ‘the Carso ruined you,’ there was a sense of home and place
with which the Italian soldier came to identify.46 Leo Pollini described
looking back at the Carso in 1917 as if he was leaving home. ‘O, Carso,
addio!’ is the last line of his book.47 This nostalgia for the Carso was due
to the deep identification that soldiers had made between themselves
and the landscape. As Ungaretti exclaimed in 1917: ‘My God, how we
have remained attached to the Carso!’48 The effect of leaving was trau-
matic according to Ungaretti, who noted that the Italian soldier, known
24 Roads and Ruins
for his singing, had stopped doing so during the retreat of 1917: ‘‘‘How
was it,” said my companions, “that in twenty-four hours we lost the work
of three years?” They remained attached to the Carso.’49
From this attachment or identification with the landscape of the Carso
came the belief in the plateau as the place of origin of a new Italian. Cur-
zio Malaparte had no doubt that a new man, represented in the Italian
infantryman, was born on the Carso. For Malaparte, a moral revolution
in Italy could only be carried out by the fante who had been formed,
through ‘suffering,’ on the Carso.50 Ferruccio Vecchi, ardito and early
Fascist, wrote that the Carso was the birthplace of arditismo: ‘They were
born in the furrows of the trenches. They were born in the high Carsican
furnaces.’51 No longer a place of passage, the Carso during the Great War
was a place of origin and a dwelling for the new man represented by the
fante and the ardito. Gibelli has argued that the Great War transformed
life permanently for those peasants who had fought there by modern-
izing them and forcing them, among other things, to become literate.52
The Carso’s environment suited a man who could live on the periph-
ery where the civilized and uncivilized worlds met. Pollini devoted an
entire chapter of his memoir to an Italian soldier he had served with in
the trenches who had previously lived in Utah. This soldier had lived in a
deserted place in the ‘midst of savage mountains’ servicing a train which
passed through twice a day.53 Life in Utah was not unlike that on the
Carso. Hours of monotony in a strange land were broken by a few min-
utes of intense work: ‘For us, abandoned up there,’ said the ‘American’
to Pollini, ‘those few minutes were our whole life!’ Pollini had to admit
that this man was right at home in the trenches. He would do anything
asked of him and he never rested. This ‘American’ was the prototype of
the new man forged in the Carsican trenches. Fascist hagiography would
later celebrate General Sanna in the days of the March on Rome as the
‘most Carsican of all the generals.’54 A dominant theme of fascism was
the creation of a new man who would create a new world order out of the
ruins of the past. The notion that a new man was born in the Carsican
trenches thus acted as a precursor for this fascist obsession.
The Plain
If the Carso created a new man or type of soldier, the old civilization that
soldiers had known before the war remained always visible in the plain,
or pianura, which lay at the foot of the plateau. The plain came to rep-
resent everything that the Carso was not. On the plain, vistas were long,
roads were straight, towns were intact, flora and vegetation bloomed.
It was the last outpost of civilization before ascending to the primitive
heights of the Carso. During the war, the pianura became an object of
great desire for soldiers, not only on the Carso plateau, but also on the
Asiago plateau at the foot of the Dolomites. Soldiers would gaze wistfully
at the plain while holed up in their narrow, claustrophobic trenches.
One time, Emilio Lussu on the Asiago plateau could not understand
why his troops were so excited about capturing a particular trench until
he looked behind him: ‘In front of me, completely illuminated by the
sun, resembling an immense blanket covered by shining pearls lay the
pianura veneta. Beneath us were Bassano and the Brenta River; and then,
further out to the right were Verona, Vicenza, Treviso, and Padova. Fur-
ther still, to the left, Venice. Venezia!’55
Throughout Lussu’s account, the plain represented the opposite of
the front line, a constant reminder of normality in an abnormal world.
It was the world of the familiar, of home. Although it was constantly in
view, however, the plain was increasingly elusive, becoming almost like a
mirage. A similar spectacle presented itself to soldiers on the Carso. The
view of the plain from the Carso was spectacular, wrote Chino Ermacora
atop the Monte Nero. After a difficult march to reach the summit of
Monte Nero, and in anticipation of a battle, the Friulan native Ermacora
and a companion looked longingly on the plain and exchanged know-
ing glances with others sharing the same desire.56 ‘Oh what a sublime
spectacle loomed in front of us,’ wrote the futurist Ardengo Soffici, gaz-
ing at the plain from a castle at Sacile near Udine during the Caporetto
retreat.57 The sight of endless spaces appealed to soldiers after the claus-
trophobic experiences on the Carso. The extreme disparity between the
Carso and the plain, however, made the frustration more palpable. Mala-
parte bitterly recalled how soldiers on leave remained close to the front
lines on the Carso and were rarely allowed to go as far as the plain. On
the rare occasions when leave was enjoyed on the plain, the soldiers were
only allowed to stay in remote farmhouses far from the towns. The point
was to keep soldiers on leave uncomfortable.58 While in the trenches of
the Carso, in the middle of the night when soldiers were left to their own
thoughts, the fante would recall the fields and landscapes of his home
projected against ‘the black background of those unknown forests, of
that torment of rocks and crags, of land broken up and dried out by the
ice.’59
The stark contrast between the plain and the plateau made a strong
impression on those who fought there. Whereas the confines of the Carsi-
26 Roads and Ruins
can trenches encouraged immobility and stagnation, the plain promised

movement and space. From this landscape, the Italian soldier associated
the idea of freedom with movement – both of which were lacking on
the jagged rocks of the Carso. It was on the long, straight roads of the
Veneto that the Italians experienced the freedom of the march. The pre-
dominant view of the Great War in popular and academic history has
focused almost exclusively on the immobility of trench warfare, ignoring
the almost incessant movement of troops behind the lines. Denis Winter
has argued that, on the Western Front, the march provided one of the
few pleasurable aspects of the war, noting how his uncle smiled recalling
the memories of marching on the long, straight cobbled roads of north-
ern France. For British soldiers, the march was a link to past wars, and
the ‘unknown destination’ of marches released soldiers from a sense of
personal responsibility.60
The only difficulty of the march, apart from the heavy loads soldiers
had to carry, was that the long straight roads, ‘pleasing to the motorist
today,’ proved fatiguing to the eyes.61 On the Italian front, the use of an
automobile or truck could provide some degree of pleasure and control
on the open roads of Friuli. The arditi forged their identity on the roads
of Friuli, the most familiar part of the Veneto plain for soldiers, travelling
in vehicles at breakneck speeds from their base at Sdricca di Manzano to
the Carsican front. The arditi’s method of reaching the front was a way
of replacing the traditional march: ‘Don’t tire me with endless marches!’
was the title of an article published by Mario Carli in the corps’ journal
Ardito after the war.62 The infinite vistas, and monotony, of the Friulan
roads would crumble before the wheels of the arditi’s Fiat trucks. The
roads of Friuli became legendary in the memory of the Great War and
took on a special significance in the minds of the arditi. They became a
symbol of rapid, motorized advance against the trenches of the Carso.
The flatness and infinite views of the plain became the object of great
desire for soldiers in the Carsican trenches. The plain was a place of ref-
uge, a place of symmetry, and a home for all the regions of Italy to come
together in unity. Giovanni Comisso, soldier-writer and future legion-
naire who followed D’Annunzio to Fiume, recalled with fondness the
Friuli plain. Watching the interminable columns of soldiers heading to
the Carso, Comisso noted with delight that all regions of Italy were pass-
ing through, so as to unite Italy in a way that the Risorgimento had not
been able to do. Comisso’s war memoir, Giorni di Guerra, is obsessed with
the dusty roads of the Friuli and the ‘geometric designs’ of the streets
and piazze of the northern towns. Anticipating the grid-like patterns of
the Friulan roads, Comisso took pleasure in the ‘geometrical proportion

created by our marching columns through the Piazza dell’Unità’ in Flor-
ence.63 Compared to the chaos of the Carso, the towns and roads of the
Friuli were a model of precision, proportion, and tranquillity.
Not only did the pianura offer a comforting geometric order com-
pared to the jagged and broken Carso, the plain’s spaciousness offered
the possibility of attaining the infinite. According to Ungaretti, this
desire for the infinite was in keeping with the Italian character: ‘The Ital-
ian is impatient; the Italian has need for adventure. He needs a war plan
which gives him space; more space; always space.’64 Curzio Malaparte
saw infinite space as something to be recaptured by the war. Pre-war soci-
ety, according to Malaparte, had lost all sense of ‘mystery and of death;
the infinite had been lost.’65 The experience of war and the new man
that was the result would recapture the ‘oceanic’ instinct in the Italian
people.
Friuli’s wide-open roads were thoroughfares to the infinite. ‘It feels
as if we’re returning to life,’ wrote Pollini while admiring the straight
roads penetrating into the lush green landscape as he returned from the
front.66 The roads of the Friuli provided the ultimate escape from the
reality of the war. In the final days of the Caporetto retreat, Soffici and
other officers desperately searched for the open road that would take them
out of the war zone and into the Veneto. After making their way through
the ‘squalid and melancholy’ streets of Treviso, Soffici’s party finally
found the road to Montebelluna: ‘Laid out, almost supine, in the racing
car I look between the rows of trees along the road. Like the countryside
which races by the train, the sky rolls over us during our headlong rush. I
rediscover the sense of eternity.’67 This is the final entry in Soffici’s diary.
Caporetto and the Return of the Barbarians
In late October 1917, after two years of futile battles, an Austro-German

offensive finally broke the Carso front and sent the Italian army reeling
in retreat. The advance was not halted until November along the Piave
River, with the Italians suffering heavy casualties and desertions. With
the Caporetto defeat, the Friuli plain witnessed invasion and occupation
by the Austrians, but not before the Italian army had swept through it in
retreat accompanied by thousands of fleeing locals. With the Austrian
advance, the Carso came to occupy the plain. The ordered, symmetri-
cal roads of Friuli, which had provided dreams, pleasures, and escape
for Italian troops on the plateau now witnessed the chaos and disorder
28 Roads and Ruins
of war. During the retreat, the roads of the Friuli became jammed with
humanity, animals, and military transports desperately racing for the few
bridges over the Tagliamento and Piave rivers.68 Accounts of the retreat
abound with scenes of confusion, terror, and tragedy that raise the event
to biblical proportions.69 Coming down from the Carso were the sol-
diers transformed by years of war on the plateau. Accounts of the retreat
would characterize these soldiers as neo-primitives, a new species of men
shaped by an anthropological transformation that emphasized a return
to the primordial helped by modern technology.
The plain proved a nightmare for military defence. Everything the
Italian soldier had learned about fighting on the Carso was now useless.
‘The infantry, used to the Carso, can’t believe that one can fight here as
they did up there,’ wrote Puccini in his account of the retreat.70 Fight-
ing a rearguard action, Puccini’s men set up machine-gun posts on the
roads waiting for the Austrians, but the night made it difficult to identify
anything on the horizon. The reason for this was the flat landscape: ‘The
soldier has no precise sense of the time of events as when he was on the
Carso, where every hiding spot was known.’71 The limitless horizon of the
Friuli plain, a source of pleasure when it was behind the lines, became
a menace during battle.72 Some looked forward to finally fighting on
the open plain. Benito Mussolini, convalescing from a wound, wrote in
his newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia, that the ‘second Marne’ was now being
fought on the plain:
Let’s put an end to the episodic war, with guerilla warfare, with local offen-
sives, with frontal assaults against a mountain or hill, or an elevated post, or
a village, or a group of cottages. We have great means; we must have great
aims! Today, Germany offers us a battle of movement, the great clash in the
open field, outside of the trenches. On the Fruili plain we are no longer
isolated.73
Mussolini, in this editorial, displayed the type of rhetoric that he would

use years later when calling for the opening up of spaces in Rome. The
distaste for small, confined places in favour of the open plain came to be
a familiar refrain in fascism.
Fighting on the plain, however, would not prove to be so easy. Waiting
for the Austrians to appear on the horizon not only threw Puccini’s men
into a panic but also played on the imaginations of others like Ardengo
Soffici. While waiting for the Austrians to appear on the banks of the
Tagliamento, Soffici noticed a series of mysterious red lights punctuating
the horizon which had the semblance of something ‘dead and frighten-
ing about it.’74
Soffici’s account of the retreat is emblematic of the new sense of terror
and dread which had invaded the Friuli plain with the retreat. The road
from Pordenone to Casarsa, for example, ‘would have been fun in other
times but today was a new reason for melancholy.’75 Soffici was both wit-
ness and participant to the chaos of the retreat, and was often at pains
to restore some military discipline to Italian troops fleeing the enemy’s
advance. His odyssey to secure transportation and find the open road
was marked by despair, rage, and tragedy. All around him were scenes of
devastation and the madness of the retreat. ‘Oh, the vision of disaster as
we left (Udine),’ wrote Soffici as he looked upon the masses of people,
cars, and animals jamming the main road out of the city: ‘A sea of bodies
and vehicles packed in between the houses on either side (were) moving
slowly in the dust and sun.’76
The once harmonious and beautiful scenery of the Friuli was destroyed
by the visions of the emigration. Frescura witnessed the ‘painful vision
of the dreadful emigration of sad people, made ugly by the long escape,
without help or destination. Nothing speaks more of the war than the
rotting corpses of horses on the roadside displaying swaths of red meat
where soldiers had carved out some flesh.’77 Dead horses and abandon-
ed vehicles came to dominate the roadscapes. Once wide open to trans-
port, the Friuli roads became fatal to that traffic during the retreat as
the world of the Carso invaded the Friuli. The arditi who had once flown
down these roads towards the front now had to fight their way through
the mobs using their bayonets. Cars and trucks which had once been
used to dominate the roads of the Friuli were now a hindrance, and
Frescura was forced to order several of them torched in order to clear
the way.78 Soffici found himself driving on the shoulders of the roads
and eventually taking sidestreets and lanes: ‘In the rainy night, through
strange towns, we found ourselves in inextricable labyrinths of lanes and
alleys that left with me the image of dreamy and mysterious places.’79
Caporetto was forging a new myth.
Suddenly, the Friuli plain had become the Carso with its immobility,
scenes of death, darkness, and images of the fantastic combined with
the grotesque. The troglodytes of the Carso now intermixed explosively
with the civilians of the Friuli. The retreat was quick to reveal a latent
hostility between soldiers and civilians as they came into contact with the
civilization of the pianura. Comisso wrote of how a group of soldiers car-
rying a cart full of bread forced their way through the crowds blocking
30 Roads and Ruins
the roads: ‘Menacingly, the soldiers were ready to defend themselves.

The crowds, after letting them through, would scream after them, ‘you,
camorristi (mafiosi) of course have your bread!’ or ‘Fattened up sell outs!’
Even the women screamed and showed their fists.’80 The suspicion of
civilians towards the retreating soldiers was confirmed to Comisso when
the lady of a house where his soldiers were billeted looked at them as
if they were thieves. After the war, Archbishop Rossi, a leading Roman
Catholic archbishop who had stayed behind after the retreat, noted that
the retreating Italians had left behind ‘nothing but devastation and
ruin,’ while the Austrian occupiers had left the region untouched.81
Who were the conquerors? Was it the Austrians or the fante descend-
ing from the Carso? For the inhabitants of the pianura the Italian soldier
in retreat was the new Attila. This view of the soldiers was the product of
increasing looting and vandalism carried out by the Italian troops during
the retreat. Military misconduct became a cause for scandal after the war
and served to distance soldiers from civilians already during the conflict.
The violence of retreating soldiers also revealed a striking primitivism
that was not lost on contemporary observers. It seemed as if the ancient
barbarian invaders had returned over the plateau to wreak destruction
on the plain. Before the retreat it was thought that barbarism was the
preserve of the Austrians, but the effects of war on the Carso had forced
the Italians to adopt barbarism as well. Frescura noted how the Austri-
ans used medieval-type instruments to kill the wounded, revealing their
savagery. A general told him, however, that Italians had to adopt similar
tactics to compete with them on the Carso. In the end, mused Frescura,
a steel bullet was just as ‘barbarous’ as any spiked club or mustard gas.82
Although much of the looting resulted from a desperate search for
food, there is evidence that the Italian soldier-barbarian was engaging
in violence for its own sake. Puccini recounted an incident where a sol-
dier named Croci had to be restrained from torching a house along the
retreat: ‘Croci, and many others like him, want to ruin and demolish,
for the pure pleasure of seeing fire and ashes, of putting his hands in gas
and straw in order to feel inside of him reverberating the slow burning of
things which are dying and disappearing.’83 Along the road to Latisana as
the troops retreated, Puccini noticed how the villas, which had once been
symbols of ‘cleanliness and wealth,’ were now at the mercy of retreating
soldiers. ‘The fires, the hasty encampments of passing troops, the plun-
dering have increased the scars and the macabre sights,’ he wrote. ‘Some
houses have collapsed; others burn.’84 On the road through San Daniele,
Frescura witnessed soldiers in ruined houses destroying furniture with
the butts of their rifles: ‘Dirt black with barbarian helmets, they resem-
ble the ugly vandals from long ago who had inhabited the fantasies of
childhood and now come back in adulthood as nightmares.’85 Frescura
noticed the transition from civilized man to savage in himself when he
was ordered to clear two automobiles blocking a road. Immune to the
sight of ubiquitous death on the roads, Frescura realized that the will to
dominate had now come as he and others pushed the automobiles: ‘I am
the strongest,’ wrote Frescura. ‘Men, violently knocked about, look with
amazement at my face, which must be terrible.’86 The new man, savage
and powerful, had come down from the Carso bringing barbarism to the
civilized plain. ‘The Veneto was put to the sack,’ according to Malaparte.87
A striking feature of this new barbarism was its use of modern tech-
nology. The new barbarian was a paradox in that he brought with him
ancient savagery characteristics of the modern. Dead horses lay next to
burning trucks and abandoned cannons. The symbols of the modern
became the targets of suspicion and hatred for the fleeing inhabitants of
the Friuli, who were either on foot or on mules. Even the marching sol-
diers, who did not have the luxury of an automobile, would throw rocks
at passing cars carrying officers.88 The Italian soldier was viewed by many
as the carrier of modernity. Puccini, who had realized the transformative
process brought by the war to Udine, also noted how the inhabitants of
the small town of San Giacomo looked upon his retreating soldiers as
‘modern.’ One inhabitant asked Puccini, ‘Why do you want to break this
harmony? The war doesn’t reach here.’89
The often grotesque mix of modernity and primitivism, technology
and the savage, disturbed Friuli’s traditional tranquillity. Frescura’s
account of an incident on the roads of the retreat is full of symbolism:
A vile humanity latches onto the car, shouting savagely, ‘–away with you!–’
Suddenly, the crowd on the road scatters as a car zig-zags down the road.
It’s an awful sight – the car is full of soldiers, one with his stomach ripped
open screams with a terrible voice. At the wheel is a cadaver, with its entrails
exposed. The phantom car disappears quickly and the macabre sight ends.90
The boundary between the pre-modern and the modern was demolished
in the retreat of Caporetto, when modern war and primitive humanity
had come down from the Carso to destroy the harmony of the Friuli
plain in 1917. The Italian soldiers had gone up to the Carso as peasants,
dreaming about their farms, and had come down as high-tech primitives
wreaking havoc on the peaceful pianura that they had so much longed
for in the Carsican caverns.
The metaphor of the soldier-primitive could not have been completed
32 Roads and Ruins
had not the image of the war been viewed as archaeological. A recent his-
tory of the Great War has argued that the war had the effect of rendering
things ordinarily hidden visible.91 Like the war on the Carso, the retreat
of Caporetto was also archaeological in nature, revealing aspects of the
frontier culture in the northeast long buried by centuries of civilization.
Writing to his friend Giovanni Papini, Giuseppe Ungaretti feared that
the war had released the ‘semi-barbarous lower Slavs’: ‘It’s a furnace that
has been lit by Europe. As with all half-primitives, half-brigands, half-
intriguers, there is in them a mystical depth that no one can compre-
hend; it will manifest itself in unexpected ways, just like all actions by
people still subject to hallucinations.’92
Ungaretti was writing about the Slavs who lived on the other side of
the Carso, but he could have been speaking about Italians as well. Not
only had the war revealed the blurred boundary in people between the
civilized and the savage, it also performed an archaeological excavation
on the plain.
The impact of the war on the Friuli is best expressed in Chino Erma-
cora’s book Piccola patria, with which we began this chapter. Written as
part war memoir and part travel diary, Ermacora’s book is exceptional
because of its celebration of regionalism, which ran counter to official
fascist policy.93 Although Ermacora writes about his native region, the
book is really about the war experience and the impact it had on his
beloved Friuli. Ermacora begins his book with a consideration of Friuli’s
location on the border between ‘civilization’ and ‘barbarism’: ‘Located
as it is in the extreme east of Italy, it faces the dark lands of the ancient
Aryan migrants, towards the lands which ancient Greek cartographers
gave few names to, towards the mysterious barbarisms of ancient Europe.
From here comes its importance and its unhappiness.’94
As it was during the Roman Empire, Friuli had once again been sub-
ject to a barbarian invasion, only this time by Italians. Traces of ancient
Rome could still be found in lost roads discovered accidentally by farm-
ers. The ancient Friuliani, wrote Ermacora, had sought refuge from the
barbarians by fleeing to the lagoon islands on the Adriatic. Towns such
as Grado, with its sunken Roman ruins, are testament to this.
While Ermacora is keen to emphasize Friuli’s Roman heritage, his
account of the region is full of the pagan and the magical. Often he
returns to the focolari, or hearths, characteristic of the Friuli home which
recalled pre-Roman times. During the dark days of the Austrian occu-
pation, ‘the focolari were relit amidst the ruins and the massacres.’95
Ermacora’s fondest memory of the Caporetto retreat was the sight of
an abandoned house that still had its focolare burning in defiance of the
advancing invaders.
In Friuli, Ermacora failed to see any concrete signs of the war. Instead,
he noticed that the war had become like a dream. It was as if it had
never happened. ‘Who remembers the past – even the most recent past?’
he asked himself as he contemplated the ruins of a fourteenth-century
church. ‘The war has become a myth. Even I ask myself if the war wasn’t
a dream – and I fought in these parts.’96
Friuli was the site where the modern and the primitive met. After tak-
ing part in a traditional wine festival, Ermacora spent an evening in a
café where a modern jazz band was playing. He was shocked by what
he saw: ‘Pale faces, short skirts, and short hair have obliterated thirty
centuries of civilization. I feel as if I am submerged in the darkness of an
equatorial forest, moving back towards the mysterious springs of human-
ity, and groping through the sunset of the world.’97 Refusing to partici-
pate in such a dance, Ermacora is accused by a companion of being a
passatista (lover of the past) – a favourite epithet hurled by Futurists at
those who refused to be modern. The savage and the modern revealed
themselves in this jazz club in the same way that the war had revealed
them a decade earlier.
The war had not transformed Friuli as much as revealed its true nature
as a place where the boundaries between the civilized and the non-
civilized were blurred. In Friuli, especially in Aquileia, the pagan and the
Christian lived together in a city of fantasies and dreams. It was here –
in a town that was largely uninhabited and a shadow of its former grandeur
– that the Carso and the plain melded together. Ermacora’s book, which
tries to place Friuli in the context of the new Roman Empire under
fascism instead reveals the region as a site of undefined boundaries.
Through this region came modern barbarian invaders who would take
their invasion to Rome, as they had done in the fifth century. After the
war, Rome and the ‘heathens’ would meet again in the form of the fas-
cist squadristi who were the fruit of the Caporetto retreat. Because of
Caporetto, the pianura, site of civilization and nostalgia, became a place
of myth, violence, and primitivism wedded to the technology of modern
warfare. The wide-open roads were now theatres of death and dreams;
the desire for infinite space became nihilistic. Here, during this retreat
that Malaparte described as ‘odyssean,’ the fascist landscape was born.
CHAPTER TWO
Roads to Rome:
The Blackshirts and the città nemico
‘Sire, I bring to you the Italy of Vittorio Veneto!’1 With these words, Mus-
solini greeted the king, Victor Emanuel III, on 28 October 1922. On that
day the blackshirts marched through Rome triumphantly celebrating
their supposed revolution, while Mussolini, in top hat and coat-tails was
given the post of prime minister by the king in the Quirinal Palace. Mus-
solini’s pronouncement reflected the fascist belief that the heroic Italy,
that which fought and won the battle of Vittorio Veneto in the closing
days of the war, was embodied in the squadristi who were formed around
the ideals of the arditi. According to fascist mythology, the blackshirts
were not the armed thugs their opponents made them out to be, but
the incarnation of the Italian warrior who had fought valiantly on the
craggy rocks of the Carso and the peaks of the Dolomites. Domenico
Maria Leva, the chronicler of Roman fascism, described how the young
blackshirts, as they approached the gates of Rome, were joined by vet-
erans wearing their ‘trench uniforms faded by the sun and rain of the
Carso, the plateaus, the Grappa: warriors who form the backbone of fas-
cism and who, finally, marching through the streets of Rome towards
the tomb of the Unknown Soldier … reap the rewards that were denied
them after Vittorio Veneto.’2 One blackshirt was alleged to have told a
military official who had half-heartedly tried to convince the squads to
turn back that ‘the last battle of the Carso has begun.’3
A participant in the March, the Florentine writer Curzio Malaparte,
would later write that the March on Rome was the concluding act of a
revolution that began in 1917 on the slopes of the Carso. In the days
following the defeat of Caporetto, wrote Malaparte, ‘the Veneto was
plundered.’4 The ‘holy damned’ of Caporetto began their March on
Rome that fateful October of 1917, descending on the imboscati (shirk-
Roads to Rome: The Blackshirts and the città nemico 35
ers) behind the lines only to find the towns of the Veneto deserted as
the inhabitants fled the ‘peasants from the Carso.’5 The retreat was the
beginning of a revolution: ‘Now the cry of the senza fucile (unarmed) was
raised from the roads of the Veneto, heading towards comfortable Italy.’6
In October 1922, the streets of Rome too would be deserted to greet the
blackshirts. For Malaparte, the war had caused what Antonio Gibelli has
called an anthropological revolution, transforming the peasants of Italy
into a ‘social class’ that hated everything that was ‘bourgeois, intellec-
tual, and imboscato.’7
What is remarkable about Malaparte’s account is the connections and
associations the soldier (fante) makes between the imboscati and the phys-
ical shape of the cities. The soldiers, claims Malaparte, were from the
countryside and the suburbs, while the imboscati could always be found in
the cities, especially in the piazze (town squares) where in 1914–15 they
had screamed for the war they now avoided serving in. The peasant-sol-
diers were sacrificing their lives to ‘defend the wide streets, large squares,
and the sumptuous palaces’ which the imboscati called home and from
which they fled during the Caporetto retreat.8 In Malaparte’s acount, the
characteristic villas of the Veneto region expressed the ‘abstract ideas of
war’ held by the Supreme Command in Udine in contrast to the ‘mud
and blood of the trenches.’9 It was only fitting that the March on Rome
in 1922 was held during a rainstorm, where the mud and blood of the
front could be authentically recreated. For Malaparte, the blackshirts
not only embodied the spiritual essence of the fante from the Carso,
they also brought with them the landscape of the war. The towns of the
Veneto were now Rome, the imboscati of the town squares were now the
parliamentarians and the socialists of the Eternal City, representatives of
a society ‘ill on particularism, local colour, and nationalism.’10 Although
he would later renounce fascism, Malaparte’s sensibility to the landscape
of the war and its incarnation in the fascist squadristi was a common trope
in the accounts of the March on Rome.
The previous chapter demonstrated how the landscape of the war, its
sights and sounds, were interiorized by soldiers. This interior landscape
determined, in large part, how the early fascists perceived their country
after the war. It was the transformative experience of the Great War that
especially informed early fascism’s attitudes towards Rome. The impact
of the war on the fascist imagination should not be underestimated.
Giuseppe Bottai, ardito, squadrista, and future governor of Rome, spoke
of it as the war distinct from any others.11 The mental landscape of the
Great War continued to form the fascist mind long after Mussolini took
36 Roads and Ruins
power in 1922. That landscape, which included the Carso plateau and
the Friuli plain, shaped how fascists approached the March on Rome
in 1922 and would continue to shape the fascist attitude towards the
Roman cityscape long after the march.
The Landscape of Squadrismo
Founded in March 1919 by the ex-socialist newspaper editor Benito Mus-

solini, the Fasci di Combattimento was composed entirely of war veterans.
Of these veterans the majority were arditi led by Mario Carli and Ferruc-
cio Vecchi.12 The influence of the arditi on squadrismo was fundamental.
The first squadrist action in April 1919, an attack on the Milan head
office of the socialist newspaper Avanti!, was essentially an ardito action.13
Later accounts of squadrismo would amplify the role of the arditi in fas-
cism’s birth. In his memoir-diary as a squadrista, Mario Piazzesi empha-
sized the crucial role played by an ardito who came to dinner at his home.
In one of the longest entries in the diary, Piazzesi transcribed verbatim
the ardito’s account of the Italian government’s betrayal of its veterans.
This encounter inspired Piazzesi’s involvement with squadrismo.14
The influence of the arditi on early fascism extended beyond battle
tactics and political propaganda. It also manifested itself in attitudes
towards Rome and was often expressed in aesthetic terms. Ardito and
founder of Roman fascism Giuseppe Bottai claimed in 1937 that the ardi-
ti were not just a military unit, but an ‘ideal category’ of the Italian peo-
ple.15 This ideal category, as mentioned in the previous chapter, found
its home on the open roads of the Veneto during the war. This was not
a trench-bound unit, forced to cower in the caverns of the Carso, but an
elite squad that revelled in moving rapidly across the Friuli plain on its
way to making lightning assaults on specific points of the front lines. Not
surprisingly, this love of the open road and its possibilities of speed made
arditismo sympathetic to Futurists after the war.
On the thirteenth anniversary of the founding of the ardito associa-
tion, Carlo Scorza urged the ex-arditi to ‘march on, not blindly, but in
a straight line.’16 The straight road was the playground of the arditi and
of the Futurists that found full expression during the war. In 1916 the
founder of futurism, Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, issued his manifesto
The New Religion – Morality of Speed, in which he envisioned a new world
dominated by geometric symmetry: ‘Tortuous paths, roads that follow
the indolence of streams and wind along the spines and uneven bellies
of mountains, these are the laws of the earth … Speed finally gives to
human life one of the characteristics of divinity: the straight line.’17 Attack-
ing the city via the straight road was a pillar of the fascist imagination
between 1919 and 1922, and played a prominent role in the mythology
of squadrismo. The most important and ubiquitous symbol of this view
was the Fiat 18BL. Used by the arditi during the war, the squadristi appro-
priated this vehicle for their punitive expeditions. Their adoption of the
18BL was not just a tactical move, but also a deeply symbolic one which
linked squadrismo to the war experience. An expedition in an 18BL took
on the characteristics of an ardito advance from the Friuli plain up to the
Carso.
Piazzesi’s account of his first motorized expedition in March 1921,
travelling from Florence to Perugia deep in the Apennine Mountains, is
instructive. Much as in a professional motor race, the squads left at stag-
gered times according to the speed capabilities of their vehicles. While
the foot soldiers used 18BLs and 15 TERs, the leaders crammed into a
small red sports car. They were the last to leave. For Piazzesi, the expedi-
tion was full of both wondrous expectation and trepidation. As the Carso
was for the arditi, the region of Umbria was an ‘unknown’ for Piazzesi
and his comrades. Under the constant fear of ‘red lairs,’ Piazzesi noted
how colourful Tuscany gave way to the ‘greyness’ of Umbria: ‘We never
seemed to get to our destination. The goal seemed lost in the whiteness
of the road.’18
As with the Italian soldiers who discovered another part of Italy dur-
ing the war, Piazzesi recounted with pleasure his discovery of the Lago
di Trasimeno, which eased some of the escalating tension of the expe-
dition. The spell was quickly broken by an attack on a Casa del Popolo
(socialist headquarters) at the side of the road. Once in Perugia, Piazzesi
and his companions found it difficult to fight in the ‘labyrinthine’ streets
of the city, streets ‘the Reds knew well.’19 Like the Carso, the streets of
Perugia seemed to help the defenders and only led to failure for the
attackers. The ride back to Tuscany was uncomfortable, but Piazzesi took
some solace in the fact that the dust thrown up by the truck acted as a
cover against enemy attack. Like the arditi, the squadristi felt a sense of
invincibility on the open road.
Squadrismo as a movement forged on the open roads of Italy was cen-
tral to the memoirs of Italo Balbo, whose Diario 1922 is full of references
to how the landscape of squadrismo resembled that of the war. Balbo’s use
of motorized transport in his expeditions became part of fascist mythol-
ogy. In his years as ras of Ferrara, Balbo made the open roads of the
Emilia-Romagna his own. First published in 1932 on the tenth anniversa-
38 Roads and Ruins
ry of the March on Rome, Balbo’s diary revealed important elements of

squadrist mythology.20 No other ras revelled in the use of vehicles the way
Balbo did, and his wartime service as an ardito was without doubt a major
reason for this. On 30 July 1922, Balbo conducted his most notorious
expedition, the so-called ‘column of fire.’ During this violent crusade,
Balbo commandeered a fleet of trucks and raced around the country-
side near Ravenna attacking and burning socialist ‘lairs.’ Allegedly going
without food or sleep for twenty-four hours, Balbo led this fleet in his
own car: ‘It was a terrible night. Our passage was marked by high col-
umns of flames.’21 His mission complete, Balbo returned to Ferrara, fer-
rying the fascist dead with him. This escapade bore the hallmarks of an
ardito expedition.
Like most squadristi, Balbo was obsessed with motorized transport.
He judged Mussolini’s character favourably after having witnessed the
future Duce driving a car: ‘Mussolini was audacious, extraordinary, with
a speed that was too high yet precise and secure. I will go to the ends of
the earth for him.’22 For Balbo, the automobile and truck were the keys
to power. On one occasion, he recounted how the fascist way of fast driv-
ing was enough to disperse a demonstration without resorting to rifles.
In the hours leading up to the March on Rome, Balbo had to get into his
car and drive from the operational headquarters in Perugia to Rome in
order to ‘gain contact with reality.’23 For an ardito like Balbo, waiting for
information was sedentary and pointless; only a journey in his car at high
speed could satisfy him.
The obsession with mobility made the open roads of Italy an impor-
tant lieu de mémoire in fascist mythology. Squadrismo found its home on
the streets and roads. Not only was it the medium used for the puni-
tive expeditions, but it also provided refuge. Balbo wrote of the ‘pictur-
esque sight’ of blackshirts camping in the streets during the ‘siege’ of
Bologna in May 1922. During the march on Ferrara a few weeks previ-
ously, Balbo recalled the blackshirts camping out on the streets when the
local schools were not open to them. On the streets the fascists shared
food with workers while fires and burners were lit to warm coffee. These
sights reminded Balbo of the war.24 The road was the preferred place for
squads and a source of fond memories. Piazzesi remembered the road
to the town of Troghi in Tuscany as a site of past expeditions. It was on
this road that the local inhabitants greeted his squadristi as liberators.25
In fascist mythology, the road was the site of triumph but also of death.
The squadristi’s willingness to march on the open road invited ambush
from the roadside. The hagiographies of fascist martyrs often paint a
picture of the heroic, marching blackshirt, head high, being attacked

in an ambush and left to die on that road. One example among many is
the account of the ‘martyrdom’ of Franco Baldini in the days of the first
Fascist Party Congress in 1921: ‘Formed in a cortege with Baldini at the
head, the ardito group of fascists marched towards the San Lorenzo quar-
ter, noted nest of social-communists, singing patriotic songs. Baldini,
marching with his son, was murdered by assassins hiding behind trees.’26
For this reason, the fascists came to despise the narrow streets of the
medieval quarters. This is best described in Italo Balbo’s account of the
assault on Parma by the squadristi in the summer of 1922. On 1 August
a general strike had been declared and the fascists mobilized to break
it. Balbo was sent to Parma to take the city allegedly in the hands of the
communists. Bringing with him some 15,000 blackshirts, Balbo encircled
the city and immediately laid siege.27 His account of the battle is replete
with comparisons and analogies to the war. Crossing the Via Garibaldi,
which led into the city, became a ‘rite of passage’ for the fascists, as it
meant walking into continuous ambushes.28 As with the Isonzo River
below the Carso, a river had to be crossed in Parma to enter the battle
zone. This fact of nature proved no obstacle to the motorized fascists, as
Balbo proudly asserted: ‘Even special trains arrived.’29
Balbo’s account of the battle of Parma is useful because of the spa-
tial ideas it evoked. Fascist mythology was dominated by the contrast
between the open, straight road where the fascists dwelt, and the dark,
hidden recesses favoured by their enemies. While the fascist was on the
open road, the ‘subversive’ was usually hidden in a lair at the side of the
road. One account of the death of Tolemaide Cinini, a Florentine black-
shirt, uses all the tropes of this mythology. Cinini and his comrades, rid-
ing in an open truck, had descended into the plain when they fell into an
ambush (imboscata). As the story goes, the socialists, alerted by the bells
of the church, hid behind a bale of hay next to a farmhouse on the road:
‘Suddenly, a homicidal burst of gunfire hit the fascists, who had just
entered the plain. The singing of Giovinezza, which could be heard get-
ting louder as the truck approached, suddenly stopped.’30 The emphasis
on the pianura and the open road with the fascists singing patriotic songs
clearly showed echoes of the arditi during the war. The accounts of ‘mar-
tyrdom’ were always careful to point out the architectonic sites of death.
The farmhouse, little church, as well as osterie and inns became archi-
tectural symbols of fascism’s enemies. All these types of buildings would
later make up the colore locale that the regime tried to destroy in Rome.
In most accounts, these concealed spaces were found either in the nar-
40 Roads and Ruins
row medieval quarters or in the piazze. The centrepiece of Italian town

planning and social life for centuries, the piazza was fraught with dan-
ger for the fascists. To stand in a piazza was to leave oneself open to the
intrigues of the enemy. In his linking of the squadristi with the warriors
of the Great War, Malaparte noted that the real Italian was by nature a
street fighter and that the Holy Damned of the Carso were ‘alone in the
piazze against the ferocious crowds.’31 The deep division between the
soldiers from the Carso and the civilians was represented in the piazza
– the location where those who wanted war but did not want to fight
it held their demonstrations in 1914–15.32 Malaparte couched his criti-
cism of the piazza in architectural terms, noting how the long columns
of infantry marching towards the frontier contrasted with the piazze
and their ‘old palaces surrounded by the cold eyes of marble statues.’33
Old-guard fascists carried this attitude into the 1930s. One example was
former blackshirt and war veteran Gabriele Cruillas, who, in an article
celebrating the closing of the Exhibition of the Fascist Revolution in
1934, exclaimed, ‘The piazza is Mammon’34
The piazza as the site of rhetoric and inaction was common in fascist
accounts. Emilio De Bono, one of the fascist quadrumvirs of the March
on Rome, denounced the number of speeches being given in Perugia’s
main square in the days of the March on Rome, even though they were
pro-fascist.35 In his diary, Balbo distinguished between two opposed
‘mentalities,’ that of the piazza, where political meetings and rallies were
held, and that of organized fascist action aimed at taking power, a legacy
of the war.36
The association between the piazza and the political corruption of Ita-
ly made it a prime target in any punitive expedition. The piazza, Mario
Isnenghi reminds us, was often seen as a place of sedition and intrigue.
Dominated by left-wing groups in the early twentieth century, the fascists
made it their project to wrest control of the piazza from the socialists.37
According to Isnenghi, fascism used the piazza to gain power and then
effectively moved away from it owing to its inherently plebeian character.
Fascism’s disdain of the piazza was also due to the latter’s encourage-
ment of immobility. Once the piazza was secured, fascism set about to
destroy it. The squadristi, like the arditi, identified with movement and
speed, while the piazza favoured the hidden sniper and immobile war-
fare of the trenches.38 For the blackshirts, the piazze needed to be taken
and then demolished. The only means of ensuring this was the demoli-
tion of the buildings next to the road. A favourite fascist exercise was
to shoot at buildings and put them to the torch, especially the Case del
popolo (socialist headquarters) and printing houses. Before torching the

buildings, the squadristi liked to break in and throw the printing press-
es, papers, and furniture out onto the street, subsequently incinerating
them in large bonfires. In this way, Mario Carli’s dream of ‘vulcanizing’
the piazze of the cities became reality. The assault on buildings housing
‘subversive’ activities often found an architectural corollary. The follow-
ing is a blackshirt’s account of the torching of the Balkan Hotel in Trieste
on 13 July 1920:
It was a massive edifice, square shaped and in bad taste, resembling more a
barracks than a hotel. Compared to the low military buildings surrounding
it in the Piazza Oberdan, it had the air of a colossus inflated by treason and
threats. After about an hour, the flames spread out and very quickly the
gloomy building was nothing but a smouldering brazier, where the men-
ace was destroyed. The city inhabitants walked past the glowing ruin with a
lightened heart and breath as if one had just awakened from a nightmare.39
In the fascist imagination, the torching of the Balkan Hotel and its
new status as a ruin had a liberating effect. Trieste was now safer because
an oppressive example of architecture had been destroyed. This mindset
would characterize squadrismo’s approach to Rome in 1922.
Rome against Rome
Squadrismo brought its war-inspired landscape to the March on Rome in

October 1922. In its attack on the Eternal City, fascism inherited much
of the pre-1914 cultural revolt against Rome as the city of political cor-
ruption. It was, in the words of the future governor of Rome Giuseppe
Bottai, a case of ‘Rome fighting against Rome,’ as the squadristi from the
provinces restored to the Eternal City the idea of Rome currently lost in
the morass of Liberal Italy.40 In the nineteenth century, Giuseppe Mazzini
called for a ‘Third Rome’ to lead Italian unification. This ‘Third Rome’
would spread the values of republicanism, democracy, and nationalism.
At the turn of the century, a new generation of artists and intellectu-
als saw this ‘Third Rome’ as mired in corruption and scandal, prevent-
ing Italy from achieving its greatness. Rome was now the seat of ‘official
Italy,’ a political class committed to keeping Italy weak.41 Much of this
sentiment came out in the interventionist campaign of 1914–1915, dur-
ing which neutralists such as Giovanni Giolitti were attacked as repre-
sentative of official Italy.42 As a movement, fascism often identified Milan,
42 Roads and Ruins
its birthplace, as the representative city of a working Italy.43 Celebrating

industrial Milan was in keeping with the legacy of Futurism, which, like
fascism, was based in the Lombard capital. The fascists put this rivalry
between Rome and Milan in urban-landscape terms: ‘In Milan, only the
fascists could hold their rallies in the piazze undisturbed.’44 The piazza
in Milan was a fascist stronghold, whereas in Rome, by implication, the
piazza was a place of subversion. Early fascists also used geological meta-
phors with echoes of Slataper in describing Rome as a city ‘encrusted in
tough minerals.’45 A week before the March took place, the fascist news-
paper based in Trieste, Il Popolo di Trieste, looked forward to the ‘con-
quest of Rome … Marching on Rome for us means eliminating once and
for all those tenacious encrusted mines and ugliness which suffocate the
deep breathing of the nation.’46 Rome then was like the Carso; it needed
excavating in order for it to be hospitable to the new Italian represented
by fascism.
In the fascist mind, Rome was an enemy city to be taken by force. Not
only was it the home of ‘official Italy,’ but it was also dominated by the pres-
ence of the Vatican, which could be compared to the ‘other Vatican’ in
Moscow.47 Although fascism would later place itself in the tradition of the
Roman Empire, the regime never concealed the fact that Rome was nev-
er receptive to the fledgling movement after the war. Bottai, one of the
founders of the Fascio Romano, wrote in 1943 that squadrismo as an activ-
ist movement did not exist in the Eternal City and that fascism was more
‘political’ there.48 Fascism did not pretend that any social group in the
city would accept it, nor did it put its hopes in any popular revolution call-
ing for the blackshirts to enter the city. The fascists knew that they would
have to enter a hostile city and fight their way through its streets. Like the
Italian army during the war entering the towns on the Carso, squadrismo
planned to take Rome militarily and reduce it to ruin if necessary.
Fascist criticism of Rome was often portrayed in architectonic symbol-
ism, a feature borrowed from the Futurists. In Marinetti’s 1909 manifesto,
Let’s Murder the Moonshine, Rome was portrayed as a city called Paraly-
sis in terms that resembled fascist invectives: ‘The city of Paralysis with
its henhouse cackle, its impotent prides of truncated columns, and its
bloated domes [gives] birth to mean little statues.’49 Through Giuseppe
Bottai and Mario Carli, the Futurist and ardito approach to the Roman
landscape found articulation in the pages of the journal Roma Futurista.
Founded in 1919 by Carli, this journal combined futurism, arditismo, and
fascism in one package.50 From the pages of Roma Futurista emerged the
vision of a new Rome free of the old class of politicians, a fact reflected
in the physical landscape of the city. In the minds of Bottai and Carli,
the cityscape was intimately connected to its political function. If Rome
hoped to become the centre of Italian renewal, then drastic changes to
its cityscape would be required. Not surprisingly, the transformation of
the cityscape was to be violent and swift. Although Roma Futurista would
only publish a few issues and Carli would eventually abandon fascism,
this line of thinking was maintained by Bottai, who would become gov-
ernor of Rome during the transformations of the Master Plan of Rome
in the 1930s.51
Roma Futurista adopted the Futurist views of Rome as a city of passatisti
whose ruins became a metaphor for the liberal politicians and the clergy.
One caption called for a pickaxe to knock down these ruins of Rome
for the sake of public hygiene.52 In true Futurist fashion, the journal
took aim at the monuments of the city, especially those which embodied
the rhetorical style of Liberal Italy. The monument to Victor Emmanuel
II, known as the Vittoriano and located in Piazza Venezia, was especially
reviled and called the ‘marble ruin which represents Art with a capital
A!’53 The solution to Rome’s moral and political problems was the demo-
lition of its ‘ancient and unhealthy quarters and of the anti-hygienic and
cumbersome ruins.’54 The idea that Liberal Italy was embodied in its
most prominent monuments and buildings was a running theme after
Mussolini came to power. The journal of the Roman municipal admin-
istration, Capitolium, carried an article in 1927 which condemned the
Liberal regime of not knowing what to do with the Eternal City once
it became capital of the new Kingdom of Italy in 1870: ‘The ghost of
Rome oppressed them and filled them with fear, causing them to push
it away when it reared itself. Thus they concealed the Capitoline Hill
behind the monument to Victor Emmanuel, and Hadrian’s Tomb was
hidden behind the Palace of Justice.’55 Under this Futurist aesthetic Carli
added a uniquely ardito perspective to the remaking of Rome. In an arti-
cle entitled ‘Let’s Vulcanize the Great Cities,’ Carli called for new cities
that rejected the dull, monotonous styles of the nineteenth century. The
problem with our cities, he wrote, ‘is the wide and straight boulevards
which end up always in either a piazza or another road, and never in
a minefield or an abyss.’56 Carli demanded roadside architecture that
offered surprise and shock because soldiers were used to a constantly
changing landscape:
They have seen the ground collapse at every step because of the blast of
a 305 or a 280; they have seen houses ripped open up to the fourth floor
44 Roads and Ruins
because of the hit of an unstoppable bomb; they have seen entire sectors
go up in the air with acrobatic pirouettes. When they returned home, these
young Italians could no longer tolerate the spectacle of fossilized cities
where everything is predictable, exact, mediocre, and rational. Fantasy,
improvisation, and madness need to circulate more openly in our streets.57
For Carli, the new city needed zigzagging tramlines and cars that
descended flights of stairs. Sidewalks had to be large and collapsible
under one’s feet. The new city needed a new dynamic provided by lights
and incessant movement: ‘Form and reflection had to change every few
hours of the night and day.’58 This was the ardito’s city: an apocalyptic
vision of exploding bombs, ruins, incessant movement, and constant sur-
prise and change. Carli’s dream was of a city transformed into a battle-
field. Carli did not prescribe any new monuments or buildings – his was
a city where the road and movement were supreme, where the subjective
experience of the ardito at the front came to life.
A Neighbourhood versus the Nation
When the first Fascist Party Congress was held in Rome in November
1921, the fascists discovered an even more specific geographical space
within Rome to focus their violence – the Quartiere San Lorenzo. This
working-class neighbourhood where socialism received its greatest sup-
port in the Eternal City became for the fascists a cancer that needed to
be excised. This neighbourhood figured prominently in three legendary
accounts of fascist mythology: those of the party congress in 1921, the
return of the remains of war hero Enrico Toti, and the March on Rome.
The party congress was held in the Augusteo, a popular theatre built
on the ruins of the Emperor Ceasar Augustus’s tomb in the centre of the
city. The 1921 congress came at a delicate moment in the relationship
between Mussolini and the ras, who objected to Mussolini’s Pacification
Pact with the socialists, and also to the conversion of the movement into
a formal political party.59 This tension occurred against the general back-
drop of over thirty thousand blackshirts roaming the Roman streets to
the general hostility or indifference of the inhabitants.60 Sensing poten-
tial conflicts between the squadristi and the Roman populace, Mussolini
urged the squads not to provoke anyone amidst howls of protest from
the fascists gathered in the Augusteo.61
This call to order was jeopardized, however, by the omnipresent
memory of the war in those November days. The congress opened just
three days after the Unknown Soldier had been brought to the city, on
4 November. Mussolini told the squads that fascism was responsible for
the Unknown Soldier.62 Although aimed at pacifying the rampaging
squads, Mussolini’s evocation of the Great War ended any chance of the
squadristi remaining docile in the city. Between 9 and 13 November, fas-
cist squads engaged in battles throughout the working-class quarters of
Rome, especially in San Lorenzo. When the congress ended, the squads
were responsible for seven murders and numerous incidents, while the
fascists lost five blackshirts.63
Mussolini’s evocation of the war experience no doubt inflamed those
squadristi who already had a negative opinion of the city and its inhabit-
ants. Mario Piazzesi for one went to the congress in a foul mood over the
transformation of the movement into a party: ‘The word party evokes
for some parliament, corruption, negation of the Victory.’64 He feared
that the ‘alchemy’ of Rome would drag fascism into the ‘swamp of
Montecitorio’ (the building which housed the Chamber of Deputies).65
Rome, according to Piazzesi, was a ‘swinish city’ which only brought hos-
tility onto fascism. For Piazzesi, the worst of Rome was symbolized in one
neighbourhood – the working-class San Lorenzo quarter, where much
of the anti-fascist resistance was centred. Fascism controlled the centre
of the city during those days in November, but the periphery was in the
hands of socialist and anarchist elements hoping to harass the squads as
they came in and out of the city.66 Subsequent events in Rome confirmed
for Piazzesi that the periphery of Rome was a nest of subversives waiting
to ambush fascism’s march to the centre of Italy.
The problem of San Lorenzo was reinforced in May 1922 when the
remains of Enrico Toti were repatriated to his native city. Legendary for
fighting on one leg and on crutches, Toti was quickly appropriated by
the fascists as one of their heroes. Toti’s life had conformed in many
ways to the fascist vision of the new Italian. Born in Rome, Toti was an
adventurer who dreamed of travelling the world visiting exotic locations
in Africa and South America. In 1907, while working on the railroads,
Toti lost a leg in an accident. Not willing to succumb to this handicap,
Toti attempted to ride a bicycle around the world. He got as far as the
Baltic Sea before bad weather forced him to return home. Not discour-
aged, Toti soon embarked on an Egyptian expedition. An ardent Italian
patriot, he convinced a cycling battalion of the Bersaglieri regiment to
conscript him for service at the front when Italy entered the Great War.
He was killed in 1916 on the Carso, where, as legend had it, he threw his
crutches at the Austrians in a final display of defiance.
46 Roads and Ruins
Toti’s story was excellent material for fascist hagiography. In 1934 Ales-
sandro Pavolini dedicated an article to him, describing Toti as a heroic
Italian ‘dreaming of primitive and remote ports of call in order to bring
to them some civilization.’67 Pavolini’s description of Toti resembled
Malaparte’s mythical fante who straddled the line between civilization
and primitivism and was at home in both. This was best revealed in a
diary entry by Toti in which he wrote of his dream of entering Trieste car-
rying the standard of the Bersaglieri and singing an aria from Verdi’s Aida.
Toti was also valuable for fascist myth-making because he was an excep-
tional Roman, which Pavolini expressed in architectural and urban
motifs. Toti, Pavolini argued, was not a ‘domesticated Roman’ who lived
in a Giolittian ministry or in the Caffé Aragno, but could be found ‘walk-
ing alone in the middle of a road (or) amidst the arcs and columns of
the ruins of Rome. One had to imagine him between the Capitoline Hill
and the Fora.’68 The open roads and ruins were Toti’s dwelling places,
not the cafés or the piazzas and least of all the palaces of power in Rome.
On 24 May Toti’s body was brought to Rome and interred in the mas-
sive Verano cemetery in the San Lorenzo quarter. After the clashes of
the previous November, the fascists had come to despise this neighbour-
hood. Characterized as ‘vile’ during a speech at the Fascist Party Con-
gress by a certain ‘Signora Mezzomo,’ San Lorenzo’s dense streets and
low-rise apartment blocks gave the perfect opportunity for ambushes. It
was here, Leva noted, that the police discovered a ‘cache of arms and
munitions’ during the Congress.69 During Toti’s funeral procession, Leva
observed that while some hostility was expressed in Piazza Venezia, the
real trouble came when the cortège moved onto the via Tiburtina, which
cut through San Lorenzo. This ‘nest of subversives’ immediately erupted
in a hail of gunfire from the windows of adjoining buildings, accompa-
nied by ‘savage cries’ from ‘anarchists and their female sympathizers.’70
The dark narrow streets further advantaged the subversives, according
to Leva, as at night when the squads were returning from the cemetery
the anarchists used search lights to attack the fascists. Dark alleyways and
feminine tendencies thus characterized the world of the socialists.
Chiurco’s account of the incident in his multi-volume history of the
fascist revolution employed similar imagery. Chiurco pointed out that
the socialists, communists, and anarchists of the San Lorenzo thrived
in the piazza, and that their tactic was to fire from concealed positions
at windows. For Chiurco and Leva, the enemies of fascism suited their
surroundings. The month of Toti’s funeral, the fascist paper Il Popolo
d’Italia ran a series of vignettes which depicted San Lorenzo as a quarter
of monotonous block houses with ominous-looking windows.71 Leva not-

ed that the narrow streets became death traps for the squadristi gunned
down in a hail of bullets ‘coming from every window and doorway.’72
Fascism, like Toti, found its home on the open road and not in the nar-
row streets of the San Lorenzo. ‘It is not right,’ declared Il Popolo d’Italia,
‘that an entire quarter of the Capital is armed against the people of the
Nation!’73 The next day, Mussolini, writing in Il Popolo, declared omi-
nously that ‘all obstacles will eventually come down’ in the face of squad-
rismo.74 This prophecy materialized in the 1930s, when construction of
the University of Rome led to the demolition of much of San Lorenzo.
The March on Rome
All these architectonic and geographic symbols of Rome would take cen-
tre stage in the accounts of the March on Rome. The choreographing
of the march was suited to the mental landscape forged in the war. The
event that fascists later claimed inspired the march was a speech given in
September 1922 by Mussolini in Udine, the capital of the Friuli region,
to a congress of squadristi from the Veneto region. Speaking to the assem-
bled blackshirts, Mussolini reminded the fascists that 20 September was
the anniversary of the Italian army taking Rome in 1870 and that fascism
had to take Rome in the same manner: ‘Rome has to become a city of
the fascist spirit, a city that is purified and disinfected from all the ele-
ments which corrupt and muddy it.’75 Mussolini chose the location for
this speech carefully. Udine had been the so-called capital of the war,
and from this moral capital the taking of Italy’s real capital began. Its
role in the renewal of Italy formed the conclusion of Mussolini’s talk: ‘I
salute Udine, this dear old Udine of which I have many fond memories.
On its wide streets have passed generations of Italians. Many of these
young men sleep soundly in the small isolated cemeteries along Italy’s
sacred river, the Isonzo. Udinesi, fascists, Italians, recall the spirit of these
unforgettable dead and make it the ardent spirit of the immortal Father-
land!’76 From Udine, fascism would march on Rome the same way an
‘eastern religion unknown to us’ had once captured the Seven Hills of
Rome. Fascism, like Christianity, was a strange force that would trans-
form Italy only after taking Rome.
The images evoked by Mussolini in this speech spoke directly to the
war experience and its links to fascism. With the Carso looming in the
distance, Mussolini played on the memories of those who fought in the
war, paying close attention to the landscape of the war, from the roads
48 Roads and Ruins
to the cemeteries to the ‘sacred river’ of the Isonzo, which soldiers had
to cross to get from the plain to the Carso. In order to emphasize the
landscape of the war surrounding Udine, Mussolini visited the Carso just
before entering Udine for the congress.77 The landscape of the Friuli was
bound to have a powerful effect on those blackshirts who were also vet-
erans. In his account of the congress, Italo Balbo noted the impression
a long cortège of squadristi on bicycles on the ‘interminable roads of the
Friuli’ made on him.78 From Mussolini’s speech Balbo quoted the sec-
tion on the March on Rome starting from the banks of the Piave River,
the river where the Italians had halted the Austrians during the retreat
of Caporetto. Balbo’s focus on this part of the speech is significant, as it
suggests that the March on Rome was somehow connected to the retreat
of October 1917. It was as if the Italians, once having stopped the Austri-
ans, would continue on to Rome to fight the internal enemy. The inter-
minable roads of the Friuli, it seemed, led all the way to the Eternal City.
The march was planned as a movement from the periphery to the
centre. The squads were to be mobilized throughout Italy and converge
at three jump-off points around Rome where, after massing, the squads
would march into Rome, only after receiving the order from the four
quadrumvirs headquartered in the city of Perugia.79 Moving from the
periphery was central to the choreography of the March. This was not
an exaltation of provincialism or regionalism, but a symbol of fascism’s
outsider status in Italian politics. Mussolini’s speech in Udine identified
the squadristi as the reincarnation of the fante marching from the rocks
of the Carso, via the Friuli plain, to Rome. According to Malaparte, the
true Italian was a natural street fighter, ‘born in the countryside, ancient,
populist, antimodern.’80 He was someone who had suffered on the Carso
and was now entering Rome to take back the streets from subversives.
Despite the anti-modern character of squadrismo, the March used very
modern means to reach Rome. A main part of the spectacle was the omni-
presence of automobiles, trucks, and bicycles bringing the blackshirts to
the jumping-off points. One of the march’s leaders, Ulisse Igliori, wrote
that ‘some 2,000 men arrived on all sorts of vehicles, like trucks, old cars,
bicycles, various types of carriages, and not a few on horses.’81 Igliori’s
account was accompanied by a romanticized illustration of squadristi
blasting their way through a town in an 18BL. Balbo recalled a vision
of fascist leaders racing through the streets of Italy in beat-up old cars.82
He baptized his own automobile as the ‘phantom car’ racing on the
roads between Perugia and Rome, clearing all roadblocks.83 Taking
their cue from Balbo’s account of his harrowing night journey into
Rome, several of the squad leaders, such as Dino Perrone Compagni

and Gustavo Fara, tell of driving on the roads to Rome in the days and
nights leading to the march. Compagni even provided technical details
of the car he used.84 The ubiquitous presence of vehicles and transport
recalled the days of the Caporetto retreat, when the flat, straight roads of
the Friuli were packed with transportation of all types.
Rather than fleeing from the enemy, as at Caporetto, the vehicles in
the march were bringing liberation to Italy. Another prominent fascist,
Dario Lischi, told of how the igniting of engines was the signal for round-
ing up the local squadristi in Florence. Later, Lischi’s group of cold and
shivering blackshirts at the train station had their spirits buoyed by the
‘fantastic vision’ of the train’s ‘flaming eyes’ as it pulled into the station
ready to take them to Rome.85 For Lischi, the train journey became a
microcosm of Italy, as on the train all dialects of the nation could be
heard moving towards the ‘zone of death and the altars of glory.’86 Lis-
chi’s account also tells of an ‘old republican’ who encouraged the squads
by showing up in his own car as an example. This image of the solitary
hero at the wheel of a car is a common one in the narratives. While
marching in the rain towards Rome, Lischi was inspired by the sight of
a fascist leader hurling down the Via Aurelia in his sports car.87 Not only
was the car or truck a convenient tool for advancing, it also represented
hope and liberation.
Another theme of the march narratives was the presence of the war
experience. The bivouacs at the jump-off points, with their campfires,
reminded many of the war. Mario Piazzesi wrote of how he encountered
his war-veteran father, who had also joined the fascists in one of these
camps. This meeting inspired fantasies in his head about the Great War
as told to him by his father.88
Under strict orders not to bother residents of the towns for food or
shelter, the blackshirts encamped under the incessant rain and suffered
through a scarcity of food, which did not, however, prevent problems
between fascists and civilians. Hostility between soldiers and civilians,
characteristic of the war, re-emerged in the days preceding the march
between locals and squadristi. The deserted-looking houses and lack of
welcome for the blackshirts gave the impression that the squads were an
invading army faced by the hostility and incomprehension of the civil-
ians. The houses of Santa Marinella looked ‘dark and murky’ to Lischi.89
The gloomy appearance of the town intensified with the incessant rain,
which quickly turned the ground into mud, recalling the days of the
Caporetto retreat in 1917. Unaware of the backroom deals that would
50 Roads and Ruins
eventually bring Mussolini to power, the squads began to grumble.90 Ten

years after the march, one memoir recalled the suffering of the waiting
blackshirts, a suffering aggravated by the proximity of Rome: ‘It was close
yet so far!’91
Like Trieste in the Great War, Rome was a distant object of desire
which could only be reached after a painful rite of passage. One par-
ticipant in the march wrote of his column stopping on the way to Rome
to pay homage to a dead blackshirt in the deserted town of Mentana.
Alessandro Del Vita’s memoir of the march in Il Selvaggio was replete
with darkness and death. He tells of the excruciating march in the rain
in total darkness, broken occasionally by the ‘spectral illusion given by
street lamps.’92 Before reaching Rome, the squads were greeted by the
vision of a dead ‘subversive’ on the road. The lights of Rome could be
seen in the distance, but they never seemed to get closer. Dal Vita notes
how a few days of discomfort had given the squadristi the look of grizzled
veterans. His memoir, which resembled in many ways Curzio Malaparte’s
writings, brought the experience of the march very close to the retreat
of Caporetto in its allusions to roads, death, darkness, and an unreach-
able city.
Like the Friuli plain in the days of Caporetto, the Agro Pontino around
Rome became a place of both fascination and horror. Rome itself was
both enemy and lover. War veteran, blackshirt, and writer Gabriele Cruil-
las, in his book La Terra, described the plain surrounding Rome during
the march as a ‘solemn altar during a universal rite … The face of Rome
revealed itself as if Elevated.’93 Giuseppe Bottai recalled the ambivalence
of the blackshirts who approached Rome during the march: ‘Difficult,
this Roman fascism: This city which was at the same time target and des-
tination; it was the reviled city yet also the greatly desired city. It was the
city against which we had to fight but which we also fought for. This
Roman fascism dwelt inside a city against which we bitterly fought but
which we also marched for.’94
The squads did finally reach Rome on the morning of 30 October,
but by then the king had already decided to make Mussolini prime min-
ister. As a result, the columns of squadristi met no resistance from the
Italian army at the gates of the city, even though these were guarded by
machine-gun units. The sense that the squads were entering a war zone
was reinforced by the presence of surveillance planes and barbed wire
on the Cavour bridge over the Tiber River.95 Although the squads did not
have to fight the regular army, they did encounter resistance from the
socialists once they entered the city.
The San Lorenzo quarter once again became a battleground when

Giuseppe Bottai marched his column through it in direct provocation
of the socialists. One foreign observer wrote, ‘It was feared that the tri-
umphant fascisti would destroy the local Socialist working-class quarter.’96
As Bottai’s column passed through the district, it was ambushed by gun-
men concealed behind the windows of the adjoining buildings. Bottai
recounted how his column was stopped at the Mammolo bridge by Gen-
eral Piola Caselli, who warned him not to pass through San Lorenzo: ‘I
am disappointed to inform you,’ Bottai told Caselli, ‘that my road passes
directly through San Lorenzo and I will not deviate from it.’97 Whether
the exchange occurred this way or not, Bottai’s memoir suited the myth
of squadrismo with its allusion to fascists as conquerors of the open road.
Once past the bridge, Bottai symbolically stopped his column beneath
the walls of the Verano cemetery, where Toti had been buried, before
moving on to the inevitable clash. Death and the road provided the
familiar setting for the fascists before they marched into the San Loren-
zo, where, as Bottai tells it, ‘the subversives fired from behind the safety
of the curtained windows.’98
Bottai’s account of the march placed squadrismo firmly in the tradition
of the arditi and their expeditions of the Great War. The fascists were in
control of the open, wide boulevard, while the enemy could only cower
in the dark corners of the neighbourhood. The image of the piazza as a
place of danger informed the accounts of the march. Chiurco filled his
entrance narrative with tales of ambushes in the Borgo Pio quarter near
St Peter’s Square and of gunfire in the Piazza del Popolo that wounded
a leading member of the PNF (Fascist Party) directorate.99 Although
owned by the squadristi, the open roads of the city also became death-
traps during the march. The 18BL trucks became easy targets, being
‘fired on as usual from behind shutters and doorways’ when they passed
through the Quartiere Trionfale, another working-class district hostile
to fascism.100
Although fascism depicted its enemies as barbarians, the squadristi rein-
forced their own image as savage and primitive invaders. Leva believed
that the fascists were a primitive group descended from the lost world
of Atlantis. Their goal, according to Leva, was to return to the primor-
dial Roman.101 This view resembled Malaparte’s belief that the fante rep-
resented the true, primordial Italian taking the corrupt city from the
countryside. The squadristi’s self-definition as savages or primitives was
reflected in the title of Mino Maccari’s journal dedicated to the myth
of squadrismo, Il Selvaggio (the savage).102 Squadristi took a kind of bar-
52 Roads and Ruins
baric joy in riding around the streets of Rome looking for socialists, and
Piazzesi wrote of ‘falling in love’ with the machine gun on his 18BL.103
Margherita Sarfatti, Mussolini’s biographer and mistress, wrote of how
the ‘fascists brought to Rome an enormous, rancorous barbarism resem-
bling the fanaticism of a jilted lover.’104
Foreign observers such as the American journalist Carleton Beals also
noted the atavistic character of the blackshirts in the streets of Rome. He
observed that the Via Nomentana had been the historic invasion route of
invaders and that rumours told of ‘50,000 fascists’ camped out on the Via
Nomentana with cannons ready to attack the city.105 Beals also remarked
on the ‘explosive automobiles’ which descended on the Roman streets
and piazzas carrying the squads and on the use of different varieties of
vehicles. The violence of the squads caught Beals’s attention. He noted
how the fascists lit bonfires on the ‘fashionable Corso, where newspapers
were heaped upon the muddy stones tracked with three days of march-
ing and countermarching.’106 Beals and his wife had narrowly escaped
being victims of fascist violence when the hotel they were staying in was
accidentally shot at by squads firing on a Casa del Popolo next door.
For Beals, Italy had fallen victim to a trend which began all over Europe
after the war and which could only lead to disaster. He saw the fascist
March on Rome as similar to the Russian Revolution. It was an irony, he
noted, that the newspapers the fascists were burning on the streets con-
tained articles by Trotsky and Max Stirner: ‘What are these but their own
gods?’107 The ‘shattered columns’ of Rome’s forum ‘bear mute witness to
the futility of human violence – and its apparent inevitability.’ According
to Beals, Italy had been delivered into the hands of a militant minority
whose impact would be to ‘reawaken bitterness and stark passions.’108
Although he was an opponent of fascism, Beals’ analysis would have
found approval from the tribalistic fascists who were setting fires and
attacking socialist buildings in Rome in a manner worthy of the arditi.
Curzio Malaparte would lament a few years after the march, in an article
entitled ‘Barbaric Italy,’ that the squadristi should have ‘filled Rome with
dead bodies.’109
The New Primitives
Malaparte’s desire to see dead bodies on the streets of Rome would come
to haunt him in 1944 when he returned to Rome accompanying the
U.S. 5th Army during its liberation of the Eternal City. In his semi-auto-
biographical novel The Skin, Malaparte recounted his service as inter-
preter and guide for the American forces as they made their way up the
Italian boot. The ex-squadrista Malaparte suggested that the Americans
enter Rome via the archaeological zone. Not only would the Americans
take the Via Appia Antica, thus recalling fascism’s celebration of Ancient
Rome, they would enter the city using the the Via dei Trionfi and the Via
dell’Impero, both built by the regime in the 1930s.
On the way into the city, Malaparte witnessed atavistic scenes. He saw
in the distance partisan units chasing German soldiers in the fields next
to the Aurelian Walls, while crowds wildly cheered the advance of the
U.S. army. Like the fascists in 1922, American soldiers demonstrated an
aggressive love for the architectural legacy of the city. When Malaparte
pointed out the Church of the Quo Vadis? on the Via Appia Antica, he
explained that this was the spot where St Peter had a vision of Jesus.
Desiring to behold the shrine immediately, the soldiers started to break
down the door of the church when they found it locked.
When the Americans passed through the San Sebastian gate, the
mythology of Rome finally dawned on some of them. Twenty years previ-
ously, Malaparte had called for a new age of myths to rejuvenate Italy.
Now, as he moved into Rome under the moonlight, Malaparte pointed
to the moon, declaring to an American officer that it was not the moon
they were seeing, but Achilles. Once the Americans entered the city, one
final echo of fascism’s march emerged. On the Via dell’Impero, a hys-
terical crowd composed mainly of women engulfed the Americans. The
confusion of the scene described by Malaparte had echoes of Caporet-
to. One person, in his enthusiasm to greet the Americans, was crushed
under the wheels of a Sherman tank. As in the days of squadrismo and
Caporetto, the road became a site of violent death and liberation, only
this time it was on the wide, straight boulevards constructed by the fascist
regime in the 1930s. The building of these roads, more than anything
else, embodied the fascist love of death, danger, and speed, and it was
to build these monuments that the regime submitted the Eternal City to
transformations on a massive scale. It is to these transformations that we
now turn.
CHAPTER THREE
Demolitions: De-familiarizing the

Roman Cityscape
In the spring of 1937, a small gallery off the Piazza Venezia in Rome called
the Galleria Cometa, not far from Mussolini’s headquarters, opened an
exhibition called Demolizioni (Demolitions), a collection of paintings by
Mario Mafai. This gallery, which took its name from the comet depicted
in the coat-of-arms of Pope Leo XIII, had opened only two years earlier
and had already acquired a good reputation among the artists and lit-
erati of the Eternal City.1 Thus, when this curious exhibition opened it
immediately attracted attention. By 1937 Mafai was a well-known mem-
ber of the Scuola Romana, a group of neo-expressionist painters whose
leading figure, Scipione (Gino Bonichi), had died only a few years ear-
lier. Mafai’s exhibition at the Cometa caused some surprise, however, as
it represented a new, realist aesthetic for the artist. The subject matter
was also striking: demolitions. Mafai had made the extensive demolitions
in Rome undertaken by the fascist regime the subject of his work.
Since 1931, when the fascist regime unveiled the Master Plan for Rome,
the Eternal City had been subject to massive transformations of the his-
toric centre which included demolitions, population displacement, and
the laying out of wide, straight roads. In the 1930s, demolitions became
spectacle, and Mafai was one of many Romans who gazed daily at the
transformations in the once-familiar cityscape of Rome. Like thousands
of other Romans as well, Mafai was personally affected by the demolitions.
He would lose his home on the Via Cavour owing to the construction of
the Via dell’Impero. His home was also his studio and the meeting place
for the Scuola Romana. It was one of the most frequented artist’s studios
in Rome where he, and his wife, the Lithuanian sculptress Antonietta,
held court throughout the 1920s. He watched from the street the day his
home succumbed to the pickaxe: ‘I personally saw my old house fall, the
Demolitions: De-familiarizing the Roman Cityscape 55
walls tumbling one by one, rooms exposed to the light of day only briefly
before becoming rubble and dust themselves.’2
Inspired by this scene, Mafai set out to paint the various demolitions
around the city, focusing on those around the old Augusteo theatre built
atop the ruins of the Emperor Augustus’s tomb. This too had once been
a prime meeting place for artists and intellectuals, as well as the site of
the various fascist party congresses, and was now being demolished to
expose to the light of day what remained of the tomb. Mafai understood
that these were not simply old, decrepit buildings being demolished;
rather, they represented an era that was being lost. In an interview given
in 1940, Mafai said, ‘We are witnessing continually the demolition of all
that is openly nineteenth-century.’3 Mafai’s collection of paintings was
a tribute to a century that was disappearing in the interests of exhum-
ing the long-buried ruins of antiquity. Cesare Brandi, commenting in
1939 on the paintings, wrote that Mafai’s ruins were not those of Ancient
Rome, but rather were the ruins of ‘little bourgeois rooms … shattered
but still warm from having been recently occupied.’4
Mafai captured one of the key motivations behind fascism’s urban plan
to tear away all that was nineteenth-century in Rome, specifically the city
associated with the liberal monarchy after 1870. What came under the
guise of rationalistic, scientific planning was actually the continuation
of fascism’s March on Rome. Malaparte had been disappointed that the
fascists did not leave any dead bodies lying around in 1922, but now,
under the Master Plan, the regime could physically dismantle the old
Rome and force Italians to forget about the preceding century in the
interests of revealing Ancient Rome. Not only could the regime create
its own ideal landscape, it could also now shift thousands of Romans,
dangerously congregated in the city centre, out into the peripheries of
the city, creating open spaces and exorcising the demons associated with
overcrowded neighbourhoods that went back to the days of squadrismo.
An atmosphere of war and catastrophe surrounded Rome in the
1930s. Mafai and his associates in the Scuola Romana such as Renato
Guttuso saw this and commented upon it. In an interview to Il Selvaggio,
Guttuso claimed that the late 1930s were ‘dangerous and extraordinary
times.’5 He would later scribble down in disjointed prose the reasons for
his disturbing Crocefissione series: ‘This is a time of war: Abyssinia, gas,
gallows, decapitations; Spain and elsewhere.’6 For Mafai, these danger-
ous times could be discerned in the demolitions of Rome. Years later,
just before his death, Mafai in a bout of despair would write in his diary:
‘Even reason and man as a human and thinking being suffered hard
56 Roads and Ruins
defeat in the folly and barbarism of the last war. There is nothing to lean
on. We are without a past. Our house is a ruin.’7 In this despairing pas-
sage the image of his home on the Via Cavour returned. Mafai’s ‘archae-
ological’ paintings serve as a useful means of examining the impact that
fascism had on the Roman cityscape. Not only did the regime reduce the
city to a pile of ruins, but it did so in a way that rendered the Eternal City
unfamiliar, shocked Romans, and brought into question the very mean-
ing of history as embodied in the multiple layers of Rome’s soil.
Demolizioni
Instead of the emotional turmoil of the Scuola Romana’s neo-

expressionism, the Master Plan of 1931 on paper resembled the ambi-
tions of another artistic movement flourishing in fascist Italy: the
Novecento. The Novecento artists wanted to reconcile modernity with
classicism, something the Master Plan hoped achieve in urban planning.
The plan aimed to unite functionality and grandeur by revealing the
classical glory of ancient Rome while opening up the city to modern traf-
fic. The need to reconcile art and traffic in a master plan for Rome was
first expressed by Benito Mussolini in a speech given at the Campidoglio
(Roman city hall) in 1924 and reiterated six years later on the occasion
of the commissioning of the Master Plan. It was in the first speech that
he coined the phrase ‘necessity and grandeur’ to describe the two main
challenges facing any urban planning concerning Rome.8 The problem,
according to Mussolini, was to build a city that would be at once monu-
mental and a part of the twentieth century. For Mussolini, the new Rome
had to be modern but also ‘worthy of its glory, a glory which renews itself
incessantly.’ In October 1930, on the occasion of receiving the report
from the commission of the Master Plan, Mussolini returned to this dyad
of necessity and grandeur when he outlined that the new plan had to
account for a future city of over two million inhabitants and ‘150,000
automobiles.’9 Although Mussolini warned about tampering too much
with the ‘mystery’ of Rome and respecting the city’s historical associa-
tions, his speech left no doubt that the Eternal City was to be opened
to modern life. The world of the machine was to find a home in Rome
while at the same time respecting the city as a work of art. Aesthetics
and functionality had to be reconciled in the Master Plan through what
commission member Antonio Muñoz called a ‘marriage between art and
science.’10 Maintaining the city’s historical integrity, however, was, as we
shall see, the most difficult part of the plan to maintain.
It was the task of the commission for the Master Plan to ponder this
daunting challenge. Created in April 1930, the commission included a
cross-section of experts representing urban planners, engineers, histo-
rians, and archaeologists. Not surprisingly, there was little agreement
on how to reconcile art and traffic. This was, no doubt, a result of the
commission including in its ranks Gustavo Giovannoni, Marcello Piacen-
tini, and Armando Brasini, who had, in 1929, presented three different
visions of the future Rome at the International Congress of the Federa-
tion for Housing and Town Planning.
Piacentini’s idea, put forward as part of the Roman Urbanists’ Group,
envisioned the new Rome as being built outside of the Aurelian Walls to
the east, with the ancient centre thus left untouched. Gustavo Giovan-
noni’s project, entitled La Burbera, called for two wide boulevards to cut
through the historic centre, criss-crossing each other at an intersection
where a Forum dedicated to fascism was to be constructed. This intersec-
tion would be situated between Piazza Venezia and Piazza del Popolo,
right in the heart of the historic centre, thus entailing heavy demolitions
in this zone. This, however, was not the most extreme plan presented at
the conference. That distinction rested with Armando Brasini, who pro-
jected a monumental ‘Via Imperiale,’ forty metres wide and five kilome-
tres long, stretching from the Piazzale Flaminio in the north to the San
Giovanni gate in the southeast via the Mausoleum of Augustus. This plan
called for massive demolitions in the Piazza Colonna area in the heart of
the Renaissance quarter in order to construct a monumental city centre
dedicated to fascism. The solutions thus ranged from no demolitions
(Piacentini) to excessive demolitions (Brasini).
The Master Plan of 1931, a compromise solution, projected that Rome
would grow by 800,000 inhabitants over the course of fifteen years. This
expanded population would be accommodated in new residential quar-
ters around the Consular Roads. According to the report submitted
by the committee, the desire to save the historic patrimony of the city
was heartfelt, but in the end ‘we had to renounce this absolute intransi-
gence.’11 The plan adopted Giovannoni’s parallel road along the Corso
Umberto I and Piacentini’s road linking Piazzale Flaminio with the Porta
Maggiore using a tunnel underneath the Pincio Hill. Of these projects,
only the isolation of the Augustus Mausoleum and the completion of
the Via dell’Impero and Via del Mare would come to fruition. The plan
also called for a comprehensive network of streetcar lines, but this too
was never completed. In fact, even before the plan became law in March
1932, the provision to shift Termini Station outside the walls – a rem-
58 Roads and Ruins
nant of Piacentini’s original plan – was abandoned. Significantly, the

only aspects of the plan that were fully carried out were those that con-
cerned the widening or building of roads in the city centre, which, as we
shall see, were crucial to understanding the true nature of the plan. The
reluctance to demolish also proved to be half-hearted, as the plan would
demolish extensively while abandoning some of the more positive solu-
tions. The reservations of urban planners gave way to the nihilistic frenzy
of committed fascists.
Officially, the experts on the committee attempted to respect the
complex artistic and historical heritage of the city by implementing the
plan through a series of mini plans. Virgilio Testa, an important member
of the Roman planning department, remarked that only by leaving the
details to local plans would the ‘suggestiveness and beauty’ of the city
be maintained, and that any solutions pertaining to ‘traffic and hygiene
should not prejudice (but actually facilitate) the conservation and aug-
mentation of the beauty of the urban centres and their historic and artis-
tic importance.’12 The idea then was not to impose a monolithic plan on
the city in the manner of a Baron Haussmann, but to change Rome in
a way that took into account the artistic patrimony of each neighbour-
hood, or rione. The hope was to preserve Rome’s unique historical leg-
acy in keeping with the tastes of the nineteenth-century Roman middle
classes. This made sense to the urban planners, many of whom revered
the nineteenth-century cities that had benefited from planning, such as
Paris and Vienna. It did not suit the desires of the fascists, however, many
of whom saw the plan as an opportunity to demolish Liberal Rome.
The Spectacle of Demolition
From the moment the first spades and pickaxes cut into the ground,
demolition became spectacle in Rome. The ‘militant industry’ called for
by Mussolini was found in the armies of construction and demolition
workers who would descend on Rome from all parts of Italy. For nearly
a decade, the Eternal City was subjected to a process of demolition it
had never seen before. Journals and newspaper columns were filled with
photographs of the demolitions. Not only did Romans see the demoli-
tions, but so did all Italians through the medium of the LUCE newsreels.
The regime used these newsreels as central instruments of propaganda,
and the work of transforming Rome was a favourite subject in the 1930s.
Demolition was a leading feature of the LUCE films.
The newsreels focused on the act of demolition as carried out by
armies of workers. In an almost poetic gesture, the workers are shown

wielding pickaxes, pushing wheelbarrows, and toppling crumbling edi-
fices. The work was done grimly with the determination of an army at the
front. In order to demonstrate the military organization of these work-
ers, one newsreel shows the Duce himself arriving at a worksite to wield
the ceremonial pickaxe.13 Taking his work seriously, Mussolini takes off
his jacket, removes by hand several shingles on a rooftop, and then pro-
ceeds to vigorously hammer away at the structure. While Mussolini does
this, the LUCE film jump cuts to a phalanx of workers yielding their axes
at the same rhythm as the Duce.
Mussolini’s pickaxe became iconic of fascism’s reworking of the
Roman landscape, but equally important was the relentless pace of work.
The LUCE newsreels augmented this sight of workers by providing the
sounds of demolition as well. Dispensing with commentary, the newsreels
were content to convey the sounds of jackhammers, trucks, crumbling
bricks, and shouted orders. The impression was that of a war zone where
sound and fury combined. This was no longer the Eternal Rome of quiet
contemplation, of which the Romantics dreamed, but one of noise and
clamour that would have made the Futurists proud.14 Whereas many of
the LUCE sound newsreels would often have commentary and music in
the background, in these cases both were dispensed with. Sound, a cru-
cial aspect of the war experience, was emphasized in order to augment
the experience of demolition.15 During the war, noise became a domi-
nant part of the soldier’s life, triggering a sensorial change that was part
of the new mental landscapes created by the war. Through the workings
of the Master Plan, fascism hoped to recreate that experience in Rome.16
Added to this sound experience were the camera techniques employed
in the newsreels. In order to convey the scale of the work done, espe-
cially the building of the Via dell’Impero which linked Piazza Venezia
with the Coliseum, the camera pans slowly from the Palazzo, through
the Vittoriano, over towards the Coliseum. The deep-focus shot, later
perfected in several Hollywood films of the 1940s, was first used in these
newsreels.17 A ubiquitous image of fascist propaganda was that of a cam-
era looking through the arch of the Coliseum down the Via dell’Impero
during a parade. The bricks of the arch, the road, and the Vittoriano
in the background are all in focus, and thus the Coliseum becomes the
frame through which one looks at fascist Rome.
Along with these panning shots were lingering frames of hollowed-
out, darkened buildings silhouetted against the imposing Vittoriano.18
The scenes of work and demolition almost overshadow the monument
60 Roads and Ruins
to Victor Emmanuel II. Since the monument was unloved by fascism, the
message is clear that the new Italy would be the opposite of the liberal
values seen in the Vittoriano. The monument stands as a sentinel over
the workers, but is also a symbol of an older Rome being superseded by
the fascist city.
The image conveyed of Rome by the Giornali LUCE was of a city being
purified by the unyielding pickaxe of the regime. The impression given
by the newsreels was that of a massive military operation descending on
an unsuspecting city. Mussolini’s frequent visits to the cantieri as depicted
in the newsreels reminded Italians of a general’s visit to the front, con-
trolling operations and lifting the morale of the troops. The only thing
missing was the inhabitants. Like the war-torn towns of northeast Italy,
the centre of Rome was shown as devoid of ‘civilians,’ yet these houses
that the newsreels showed succumbing to the wrecking ball were once
inhabited.
The LUCE newsreels did not show the massive movement of people
from the centre to the periphery into the makeshift houses of the bor-
gate. Unplanned and lacking infrastructure, these zones resembled refu-
gee camps more than anything else. The director and poet Pier Paolo
Pasolini would later compare them to military prisons. The shocking
conditions of these borgate were noted by the Roman governor Boncom-
pagni-Ludovisi, who denounced the houses ‘with their ramshackle walls
through which pass rain and wind.’19 The governor, speaking in the Sen-
ate during a discussion over the Master Plan, assured his listeners that
the municipal government was constructing new suburbs in the Primav-
alle and Prenestina quarters composed of modest homes, ‘of the type
which fill the suburbs of all great cities.’ These houses would not only
be hygienic, exposing the inhabitants to air and sunlight, but would also
include little gardens for children to play in.
Promises of settled domesticity were short lived, however. In the same
speech, the governor promised that the ever-expanding Rome would
push these inhabitants out farther into the distance. The new houses
were projected to last for only fifteen years, after which they would be
torn down and the land sold for higher prices. In the meantime, the
expelled Romans would move ‘a bit farther out perhaps as much as three
or four kilometres.’20 Romans whose families had lived nestled among
the ruins of the ancient centre for centuries were now fated to a perma-
nent and planned migration, moving farther away from that centre.
Subjecting Romans to a life of transience was a consequence of the
violent method of removal caused by the demolitions. As in wartime,
self-preservation was the immediate need as the army of demolition

crews advanced on the Eternal City. Romans flooded the planning office
(Ufficio Tecnico, or UT) of the Master Plan with letters pleading that
their properties be saved. Some claimed that the unique character of
their neighbourhoods would be lost. One writer emphasized the aris-
tocratic (signorile) character of his quarter as a justification for preserv-
ing it.21 Others advanced their own interpretations of the Master Plan,
arguing that the mini plans did not fit into the larger one. Claiming
local knowledge, some residents argued that certain buildings were not
worth exposing, while widening the roads was not worth it because, in
the words of a retired admiral living near the Porta del Popolo, grand
boulevards would only ‘belittle’ Rome.22
For others, the demolitions seemed pointless and counter-produc-
tive.23 One group of merchants urged Mussolini to consider the effect
on their neighbourhood should their market stalls disappear, while oth-
ers pleaded that their family business be saved.24 One woman who lived
near Trajan’s Forum pleaded for the preservation of her home as it was
a family home given to her family by the municipal government when
her father had donated his paintings to the city.25 The letters reflect a
mixture of anger, shock, and disbelief. Romans were taken aback by the
spectacle of demolitions, especially if they directly affected their neigh-
bourhoods and homes. The shock of the demolitions and their scale was
satirically reflected in a series of sketches in L’Urbe, a journal founded in
1936 by master planner Antonio Muñoz. The illustrations show crowds,
in various states of agitation, gawking at the demolitions surrounding
them. One man is shown angrily gesticulating at the worksite, while oth-
ers simply stare in disbelief. In the illustration accompanying an inter-
view with Le Corbusier, two bourgeois caricatures, with their bowler
hats, canes, and bow ties, are angrily surveying the demolitions from a
balcony. One of the men has a look of fear on his faces as he watches
‘bourgeois Rome’ crumble before him.26
The UT had little sympathy for the requests it received to modify the
provisions of the plan. The correspondents framed their concerns in
traditional language, pointing out mostly practical considerations. One
widow noted that widening a certain road was not necessary, as the newly
built Via dell’Impero would absorb all traffic in her neighbourhood. Not
only that, but since the buildings on her street were all of unique archi-
tecture and proportionate to the road, any widening would cause a dis-
proportion.27 These correspondents obviously assumed that the regime’s
intentions in remaking the city were similar to Haussmann’s plans for
62 Roads and Ruins
Paris in the previous century. One complainant thought that the Mas-
ter Plan included creating a piazza in one area near Porta del Popolo,
while another believed that the homogeneity of street facades and the
character of new neighbourhoods were important.28 One writer, taking
the regime’s rhetoric about Romanità seriously, suggested that a baroque
church near the Fora be demolished (and hence her home be saved as
it obstructed a view of this church) since it had nothing to do with the
ruins of ancient Rome.29
For its part, the UT showed lack of consistency and callous disregard
for the homes threatened in its responses to the letters.30 Several of the
complaints appealed to the regime’s love of aesthetics and respect for
the past, but the UT often dismissed historical buildings that it did not
feel were worth saving. Saving something for the sake of art was too much
a nineteenth-century sensibility. The Palazzo Sonnino, for example,
associated with an aristocratic Roman family, was defined as a ‘building
not important enough to constitute a symmetry that must at all costs be
respected.’31 Another aristocrat, the Baron di Romagnano, pleaded with
the UT to make a slight modification to the proposed Via dell’Impero
so that his home might be saved, but the technicians of the governor’s
office were insistent that the straight road as planned was ‘crucial for the
liberation of the Fora.’32 Aesthetics and history had to take a back seat to
the straight road.
The UT, whose job it was to provide a correct interpretation of the
Master Plan and its objectives, came to reject the practical considerations
raised by concerned citizens. When one citizen dared to raise the issue of
finances with respect to demolitions around the Capitoline Hill, the UT
brushed the matter aside by arguing that money was of little importance
in the face of the ‘historic and artistic interest inherent in the liberation
of the hill.’33 In one case, the UT argued that it was pointless to distin-
guish between aesthetics and practicality. The improvement of city aes-
thetics, the UT argued, was inherent in the notion of public utility. The
two criteria were not mutually exclusive. The Master Plan was not simply
about utility and hygiene, but about the ‘necessities of art, archaeology,
the scenery, and urban aesthetics in general.’34 This rather meaningless
statement showed that the Master Plan was only about demolition for the
purpose of opening up spaces in the Roman cityscape. For the UT, the
real goal of the plan was the ‘absolute necessity of safeguarding in the
best possible way panoramic visions.’35 While Romans appealed to the
UT’s sense of reason, the plan’s technocrats showed only a regard for the
broad panoramas created by the large-scale demolitions. While some let-
ters focused on financial and legal issues associated with the demolitions,
the UT cared only for the vistas they created.
In the midst of an economic depression, these citizens’ concerns were
certainly valid, but the UT demonstrated that at the heart of the Master
Plan was a desire to eradicate the fabric of the Eternal City regardless
of cost, human or financial.36 The pitiless nature of the regime’s wreck-
ing ball sent many Romans into desperation, and the demand grew to
tear down the houses of neighbours. Several Romans suggested that the
house or wall of a neighbour should be demolished rather than theirs.37
A retired admiral who lived in Piazzale Flaminio suggested that rath-
er than having his house demolished to widen the Via Flaminia, a few
buildings behind his property should be torn down in order to create a
panorama of the Pincio Hill. The admiral warned that if the plan went
ahead and his house was demolished, some ‘aesthetic disappointments’
would result.38 As the demolitions carried on into the more prosperous
areas near the Piazza Navona and the swanky Ludovisi Quarter, the let-
ters began to point fingers at the regime itself, accusing it of wanting to
destroy the city. One widow who lived near the Augusteo flatly stated that
if demolitions continued at the current pace they will ‘end up destroying
large parts of Rome.’39 In the upper-middle-class district of the Ludovisi,
one critic angrily wrote that the demolitions planned around the Piazza
Barberini were ‘truly excessive and disproportionate,’ while a neighbour
went so far as to accuse the UT of ‘extreme abuse of power, illegality and
profit.’40 Clearly, the demolitions aggravated social tensions and raised
the possibility of opposition to the regime.
Nonetheless, the master planners showed little respect for title or
property, thinking nothing of destroying the homes and territory which
families had owned for generations.41 One merchant, in a cry of despera-
tion, accused the regime of making him the ‘sacrificial lamb’ in his zone
near Monte Mario: ‘This expropriation has brought me nothing but mis-
ery and dishonour. This expropriation came because of public utility
and force majeur.’42 The scale and target of demolitions made the fascist
regime seem like an occupying army.
Rendering Rome Unfamiliar
In a visit to Rome in the 1930s, the Calabrese writer Corrado Alvaro, who
had last seen the city before the fascists came to power, declared that
the new Rome ‘gives the impression of a city on the run … nothing is
familiar.’43 Sowing disorder and confusion into the landscape of Rome
64 Roads and Ruins
was necessary in order to reveal the city in new and unexpected ways.
The idea was not simply to construct a new Rome atop the old city, but
to reinvent the city in a manner which rendered the old city unrecog-
nizable. Like archaeology, the Master Plan had the effect of revealing
previously unknown aspects of the Eternal City through surprising dis-
coveries. The effect was to disrupt the memory of Romans, make what
was once familiar strange, and thus challenge long-held beliefs about the
city and its place in history.
Rupturing memory and hence linear notions of time was the work of
the sheer pace of change that characterized the city in the 1930s. The
transformation of Rome had been so rapid, according to urbanist and
Master Plan commissioner Gustavo Giovannoni, that ‘we who live in this
era almost do not realize the immensity of the transformation that has
taken place under our eyes … It is like watching a film at such a fast
speed that you do not notice the fleeting image.’44 The effect of all this
had been a rupture in memory so complete that even the recent past
appeared remote:
Who today remembers the appearance of the areas around Piazza di Ven-
ezia, Via Alessandrina, Via Bonella, Via di Marforio, or Piazza Montanara?
Or the character of the semi-rural zone around Via delle Tre Madonne, Via
Cupa, Vicolo dello Scorpione, of the Hostelry of the Povero Diavolo, of the
vast regions outside the San Giovanni gate of the Porta Maggiore? Or the
streetcar tracks in Piazza Venezia or Via del Tritone?45
The loss of memory was so intense that even Mussolini, on the occa-
sion of wielding the ceremonial pickaxe to commence work on the Pal-
azzo Littorio next to the Coliseum, felt the need to list the names of the
streets that would disappear as a result of demolition.46
The shock to the casual observer caused by these changes was a run-
ning theme in several articles appearing in Capitolium by urbanist Vin-
cenzo Civico, who noted in October 1937 how Rome was adding an
average of two streets per month because of the plan, a rate that was rap-
idly changing the face of the city.47 Walking from the Piazza del Popolo
down the Via Ripetta, Civico was struck by the sudden appearance of a
gaping hole: ‘The calm ceases suddenly, are we still on the Via Ripetta
or has the wave of a magic wand transported us far away?’48 This calm
was disturbed not only visually but aurally as well, as the sound of con-
struction filled the air. Civico experienced a similar disturbance strolling
down the Corso Umberto I; approaching the Via della Frezza, where
he suddenly exclaimed: ‘Via della Frezza is on the right … but, what

is this? Was not Via della Frezza also a calm, homogeneous crossing of
the Corso? Is there a breach in our memory? One side of the street has
disappeared and in a line moved back from the road a barricade which
still hides the new buildings in construction.’49 Civico’s apprehensions
were reflected in letters to the UT in 1938 from concerned Romans who
were greatly agitated by the heavy interventions into the landscape. Rup-
tured memory and shock were the effects that the changes to the city-
scape had caused for many, since the Master Plan had de-familiarized
the landscape.
In order to attenuate some of the shock of the rapidly changing city-
scape, the official journal of the Roman municipal government, Capito-
lium, began, as early as 1932, a regular column by Ermanno Ponti entitled
‘Roma Sparita’ (Lost Rome) alongside a photo essay showing Rome
before and after the demolitions. The articles invariably toed the fascist
line, using a sarcastic tone condemning what had been lost and mocking
those who lamented its passing. In the first article, which appeared in the
May 1932 edition of the journal, Ponti described what had once existed
in the Trajan Forum area quickly, dismissing any nostalgia for what once
was as a ‘pedestrian consideration’ before moving on to the ‘classical
and monumental zone surrounding it.’50 The photographs allowed sen-
timentalists to have one last look at what was lost, but the text assured
the reader that this was necessary and not to be regretted. For whatever
photographs could not convey, Ponti made sure that the text reminded
Romans of what they had lost. He recalled that Rome used to be a ‘som-
bre city with deserted streets.’51 The streets that no longer existed were
often the scene of bloody episodes of street crime.52 Lost Rome clearly
was not to be lamented.
Other writers in the pages of Capitolium also tried to convince Italians
that the demolitions were salutary. The regime, through the pages of
the Roman governor’s official journal, wanted to show that there was a
before and after in the Roman cityscape, and the divide was the coming-
to-power of the fascists. In order to define what pre-fascist Rome looked
like, Capitolium began using the term colore locale (local colour). One
such article published in 1935 used an old guide book of Rome to prove
that the regime had done the right thing in gutting the historic centre:
This is a Rome (the one in the old guidebook) that is beloved by the tourist
of the prewar era; a Rome that resembles the old postcards of the nine-
teenth century which bring up memories of the uncle in the zouaves or the
66 Roads and Ruins
uncle who was a legate to the papal court; a Rome filled with dilettantes’
watercolours; a Rome full of ruins, of potholed pavements, of scabby hous-
es nestled up against ancient monuments out of which grew grass, then
became shrubs and then trees. It’s always the same caricature: the barefoot
ragged children, the donkeys carrying wood … and in the picture some-
where a tourist with a tour guide whose hand is outstretched either asking
for money or demonstrating something.53
What was lost therefore was not worth missing, as it was the city associ-
ated with the previous century – the papal city that became a caricature
for foreigners. It was increasingly clear that the propaganda campaign
in the wake of the demolitions was targeted at the previous century, the
‘bourgeois century.’
The End of Bourgeois Rome
This effort to rid the city of the mediocrity of past centuries in order to
allow sun and light into the historic centre was not just a condemnation
of the Middle Ages, but was also directed at the Romantic sensibility of
the nineteenth century. The plan, according to the commission, would
attack the previous century’s ‘sentimental nostalgia’ for ‘little curiosi-
ties of bigotry’ while preserving the ‘real architectural, panoramic, and
atmospheric marvels’ which Rome had to offer.54 According to Marcello
Piacentini, the new Rome had no place for those who lamented the ‘sup-
pressing of a curb stone’; the fascist era rejected this ‘love for modest
things, the blind idolatry of things simply because they had been built
in other times.’55 The regime’s attack on the Romantic sensibility was
so successful that such foreigners as the French symbolist Paul Valéry
informed Antonio Muñoz of the view outside Italy that ‘Romantic Rome’
had been lost.56
The Romantic era in and of itself was considered unhygienic. Hygiene
was a dominant theme in the Master Plan. In his 1932 speech to the
Italian Senate promoting the Master Plan, Mussolini drew inspiration
from a nineteenth-century source, Hippolyte Taine, to make a connec-
tion between aesthetics and hygiene. For Mussolini, the ‘local colour’
of some of the older quarters of the city so much loved by nineteenth-
century romantics was, through the eyes of Taine, ‘indescribable, and
horrid, with infected alleys and slimy corridors.’57 This distaste for the
previous century’s Rome was echoed by senator and historian Ettore
Pais, who recounted that, as a youth, he was confronted by a city full of

‘lurid and indecorous places.’58
For the framers of the plan, the unhygienic nature of Rome’s medi-
eval quarters was suited to the nineteenth-century’s slack morality and
lax work ethic. Mussolini again relied on Taine to make the point that
Italians, especially Romans, needed to become an industrious people.
For Taine, as for Mussolini, it was time to move from the ‘epicurean and
speculative’ life to one of ‘militant industry.’ In Mussolini’s mind there
was an intimate connection between the ‘filthy’ aesthetics of nineteenth-
century Rome and the moral character of its people. This connection
was implicitly acknowledged in Antonio Muñoz’s book on the clear-
ing of the Capitoline Hill through a juxtaposition of two images of the
Roman Forum.59 One of the images, a lithograph from 1817, shows two
men lounging on the ruins of the Temple of Saturn encircled by playing
children. The second is a contemporary photograph showing the same
ruins, only this time surrounded by workers clearing the ruins from the
medieval houses around them. Intentional or not, Muñoz’s decision to
place these images opposite each other illustrates Mussolini’s contrast
between industrious, fascist Italy and the previous century’s decadence.
The general condemnation of a nineteenth-century Romantic sensi-
bility was accompanied by an equal distaste for Liberal Italy and its ideas
of urban planning. For some urban planners such as Arturo Bianchi, the
liberal regime had contributed to, rather than mitigated, the squalour
of Rome. In an article published in Capitolium, Bianchi linked aesthetics
and hygiene in the Master Plan’s work around the Piazza Bocca della
Verita and the Foro Velabro. He noted how this site was once the home
of dilapidated industrial warehouses from the nineteenth century which
had obscured the ruins of the Foro Velabro. Also included in this group
of buildings was a flophouse, which ‘housed the most miserable relics of
humanity and seemed purposely put there to show tourists a modern Ita-
ly full of beggars.’60 Fascist Rome, therefore, had to conceal these from
view and realign aesthetics in order to suit the aesthetics of the twentieth
century. Bianchi writes that two residents of the area understood this
perfectly and had remodelled their homes to conform to the classical
lines of the recently uncovered ancient temples. One factory owner had
even concealed his factory with a neo-classical façade in order to fulfil
the spirit of the Master Plan.
The role of the 1931 plan in displacing Liberal Italy’s notion of urban
planning was made forcefully by art historian Diego Angeli in the literary
68 Roads and Ruins
journal Nuova Antologia. Angeli, who was critical of the Master Plan, was
also a severe critic of the land speculation that passed for urban planning
in nineteenth-century Rome. The disastrous developments touched off
by the plans of 1873 and 1883 were the result of ‘artistic anarchy’ perpe-
trated by a ‘band of adventurers … that had descended on Rome from
every region … men of lowly origins and low culture’ whose greed had
resulted in the ‘greatest ruin of Rome.’61 For Angeli, this disaster was
reflected in aesthetic terms. Ugly row houses and half-finished demo-
litions had ruined the cityscape, especially in those modern quarters
designed by the liberal regime. Although far from perfect, the 1931 plan
had to demolish these ‘obscene houses displaying their intimate shame
and opprobrious rags’ and restore order to the city.62 Furthermore, such
unhygienic buildings as the orphanage in the Collegio Clementino had
to go as well despite their moral purpose.
According to Roman governor Boncompagni-Ludovisi, the poverty of
nineteenth-century planning was evident in the monotonous row houses
built by the liberal regime, which resembled ‘army barracks.’63 For Sena-
tor San Just, the new suburbs created to house Romans who had lost
their homes in the city centre would be filled with cheap houses that
were ‘large, well designed and with good architecture.’64 Ultimately, the
fate of the Romans who had lived in the city centre did not concern the
regime. It was important that they were gone, not just for security and
panoramic reasons, but also because the regime could now boast of hav-
ing revealed the mythical, primordial landscape of Rome.
Revealing Mythical Rome
De-familiarizing the Roman cityscape entailed revealing the primordial

look of the city. It suited the fascist movement’s hatred of the previous
century and all it stood for, and it also allowed the regime to engage in
the other fantasy of squadrismo: releasing the mythological impulses of
the Italian people through archaeological excavation. The elimination
of the memory of the nineteenth century was part of a larger plan that
was not concerned with understanding the historical development of the
Eternal City, but with annihilating the intervening centuries between the
mythical founding of Rome and the fascist regime. When the plan was
presented to him in 1930, Mussolini commented on its promise to reveal
the famous Seven Hills of Rome, then ‘submerged under the chaotic
constructions of past centuries.’65 The Master Plan was an act of scraping
away the layers of Italian history that did not suit the propaganda of the
regime, which was increasingly focused on romanità. The plan was also
a means for retrieving the primordial and thus making a link to the war
experience and squadrismo. It was no coincidence that Mussolini placed
an ex-quadrumvir, Cesare de Vecchi, in charge of the archaeological digs
on the Palatine Hill, where the objective was to find the settlements of
the first Roman and, hopefully, the domicile of Romulus and Remus
and the she-wolf. De Vecchi did not doubt the mystical implications of
his work: ‘Our archaeological activity is an act of poetry which digs into
the darkness of our millenarian consciousness.’66 The fascist-controlled
newspapers frequently repeated this refrain of digging through the crust
of the preceding centuries to reveal the essential: ‘Rome uncovers daily
its precious gems, many of which are still hidden beneath the encrusta-
tion accumulated after a long period of administrative mediocrity.’67
Fascist archaeology entailed bringing things to light not for their own
sake, but to restore the mythical landscape of the Eternal City. Archaeol-
ogy under fascism was an act of mythical exploration, not of scientific
enquiry. Antonio Muñoz, the man in charge of many of the archaeologi-
cal digs during the regime, rejected the idea that the past could be exam-
ined scientifically and objectively in Rome, since excavations did not
reveal enough. During the work around the Circus Maximus, of which
he was in charge, Muñoz claimed that the excavations did not turn up
anything of value, but this was ‘compensated for by a place rich in legend
that was more beautiful than cold, historical reality.’68 Muñoz’s point
reveals much about the fascist attitude towards archaeology. This was no
longer the nineteenth’s century approach, which sought to overcome
legend and myth, but a twentieth-century approach which saw myth as
more meaningful than objective historical research.
Muñoz’s attitude was especially evident in the works on the most
‘sacred’ of the Roman hills: the Capitoline. The Capitoline was the heart
of the historic centre. It rose above the forums and Piazza Venezia, cen-
tre of Mussolini’s Rome. Muñoz, director of the Fine Arts Division of the
Roman Governatorato and member of the Master Plan Commission, was
placed in charge of uncovering the hill. For him, the Capitoline needed
to be restored to its ancient grandeur, which required ripping away the
houses that surrounded it and revealing the ‘uncultivated and savage’
Tarpeian Rock, from which Rome’s ‘impure’ enemies were thrown.69
The original look of the Capitoline fascinated Muñoz, who spent many
hours poring over ancient maps of the site trying to imagine what this
once looked like before the centuries added unnecessary constructions
on it. The early Romans, noted Muñoz, did not build on the site, leaving
70 Roads and Ruins
the ‘pristine’ rock as a sign of the hill’s impenetrability. It was historical

development, he argued, which buried the hill’s grandeur. That devel-
opment, while leaving important structures like the Senatorial palaces
and the Church of the Aracoeli, also obstructed the hill from view. One
of these obstructions was the Vittoriano. Fascism, like the early Romans,
would not build on the Capitoline.
The work of revealing the primitive look of the Capitoline required
demolishing some buildings with a vaguely fascist connection, such as
the former home of Eleonora Duse, who had been D’Annunzio’s mis-
tress.70 It also involved some danger, as some of the rock faces proved
fissured and unstable when revealed. Still, the new Capitoline made a
deep impression on observers. Silvio Negri, war veteran and Vatican cor-
respondent for Corriere della Sera, wrote in 1941 that ‘while the rest of
Rome is filling up with houses, one spot has seen houses disappear and
virgin land appear.’71 Negri, like other Romans, was amazed at what the
demolitions revealed: caves, many created by men but others primordial
which once gave refuge to wolves, and, therefore, the myths particular
to Rome’s origins: ‘These caves, which for decades has been used as a
dumping ground for marble by the municipal government, could have
very likely given refuge not only to wolves but to prehistoric man as well.
It is stupefying that Rome could have such things and that we can con-
template the primordial and savage features of this cavern, here in the
heart of a great metropolis.’72 Negri was stunned that, in the middle of
Rome, the memory of the prehistoric peoples of Lazio were revealed
‘after millennia of obscurity and silence.’73 The Capitoline, for Negri and
Muñoz, had been rediscovered.
In boasting that the regime did not build on the Capitoline, Muñoz
ignored the fact that the regime did make one architectonic contribu-
tion to the place, an altar to ‘martyred fascists’ set in a clearing behind
the Aracoeli church and overlooking the ruins of the Forum. The altar
was a simple block of stone made of Egyptian granite. Once the pedestal
of Sallust’s obelisk, it had been left in a neglected state for centuries. The
regime hauled this stone from its storage in Via Volturno and placed it
on the Capitoline. The block added to, rather than took away from, the
primitive character of the Capitoline as celebrated by Muñoz. Measuring
roughly 9 cubic metres, the stone had no ornament apart from four vases
at the base of the rock which were subsequently removed.74 Chronicles
of squadrismo placed the Capitoline Hill at the heart of the blackshirt leg-
end. Domenico Maria Leva’s account of Roman squadrismo, published in
1943, recounted how the ‘altar’ of the Capitoline Hill had served to con-
secrate the fascist militias in December 1920, during a ceremony com-

memorating those who had died at the hands of ‘communist bestiality.’
During the ceremony, communists had rioted in the streets below, caus-
ing the fascists to ‘descend from the altar’ to deal with the demonstra-
tions.75 Thus, the sacred, primordial aura invested by the Capitoline Hill
had already been part of the fascist legend from the beginning.
A desire to find the primordial and sweep away intervening centuries
was seen also in the uncovering of the tomb of Augustus. A theatre over-
lay the ancient tomb and had been the site of important moments in fas-
cist history. It was here that the party held its first congress in November
1921. It was here too that the avant-garde scene flourished in the years
following the war, along with popular theatre. No one, claimed the news-
paper Il Lavoro Fascista, would miss these once the ‘pickaxe’ had done
its work.76 In May 1936 the last concert was held and the theatre came
down, along with many of the surrounding buildings, in order to create
a vast piazza around the revealed ruin. There was perhaps some disap-
pointment in the condition of the ruin, wrote Muñoz in Capitolium, but
this disappointment was not shared by archaeologists. Nor was it shared
by fascists and those who sought the primordial. A theatre was too nine-
teenth century for their tastes; better to show the naked ruins of Rome’s
greatest emperor, no matter how aesthetically ugly they were. That the
ugliness of the ruin did not matter was demonstrated in a plaster-cast
model of the ruin shown before the work was complete.
Return of Caesar
Making rubble and dust of the previous century was a central goal of the
Master Plan. This goal came, not from the academics and officials who
latched onto the fascist regime, but from the squadrista spirit embodied
by people like De Vecchi, Mussolini, and Bottai. Just as the blackshirts
had adopted his savage spirit from the arditi of the Great War, so now did
the obsessive desire to search for origins find its way into the regime’s
urban planning. Searching for the primitive was also a means of fulfilling
that great desire of Italian fascism: resurrecting the primitive sensibilities
of the Italian people.
When the dust cleared after the demolitions, Rome was transformed
from the densely populated, semi-rural city it had been to a massive
archaeological zone traversed by feverish traffic. The Master Plan had
made Rome into a city of panoramic views, whereas it had once been
a city of romantic flâneurs winding their way through narrow, tortuous
72 Roads and Ruins
streets. Previously one had to search for the ruins, now they could be
seen from afar. After years of continuous demolition, Rome seemed to
fit the dream that Mussolini had articulated in the 1920s: the Eternal
City as site of necessity and grandeur. Keeping to his promise of unveil-
ing ancient Rome, fascism could now boast of tracing a pedigree back to
the ancients.
A central feature of the Master Plan was the experience of demolition,
an experience that expressed the substance of the movement and its
approach to Rome. Demolition became a fact of life for Romans, and
a permanent spectacle for artists like Mafai. For thousands of Romans,
the demolitions meant dislocation and forced removal to unknown ter-
ritory after having lived nestled among the centuries-old ruins. The act
of demolition was the point of the Master Plan, exposing Romans to the
principle of transformation without end and rendering the city unfa-
miliar. A city traditionally defined as eternal, Rome resisted change by
absorbing different centuries into multiple layers, leaving the old Rome
visible while incorporating the new. Fascism changed this by obliterating
the layers of Rome’s past through a massive archaeological operation
that aimed at retrieving the primitive, mythical core of the city.
What remained was an empty centre, filled with ruins and rubble and
increasing traffic carried through by the new avenues constructed by the
regime. The modern and the mythical thus met in a strange juxtaposi-
tion, vitality circling around death in a way that captured the essence of
squadrismo. This was not the constructive synthesis between the tradition-
al and the modern which Mussolini had called for in the Master Plan.
Rather, the new Rome reminded Italians of the chaos of a battlefield.
The militarist tone brought to urban planning by fascism inserted
chaos and confusion into the Roman cityscape. This impression was best
captured by that astute observer of Rome’s changing landscape Mario
Mafai, in his Demolizioni paintings. Although these paintings provided
a realist portrait of the transformations the city was undergoing under
fascism, he was at the same time completing a mural for the Case Balilla
in Trastevere. Titled the Trionfo di Cesare, it is today hidden by plaster,
covered up by the postwar Italian state because of its bellicose and mili-
taristic tones. Depicting the return of Caesar’s triumphant legions, the
mural shows the Romans bringing back prisoners of war as slaves. The
style of painting is almost abstract, allowing Mafai’s supporters to argue
that Mafai was condemning the current Caesars in fascist uniform, yet
also with enough ambiguity to make the partisans cover up the painting
after the war.77
Mafai’s abstract interpretation was surprising considering the realist

Demolizioni he was working on at the same time. In an interview given to
Quadrivio in 1937, Mafai spoke of the mural, explaining that he depict-
ed the victors in the warm colours of reds, blues, and greens while the
defeated were in darker tones. Mafai used the interview also to denounce
the sterile debates and chatter his contemporaries indulged in. His tone
in the interview was fascist, resembling the similarly aggressive commen-
tary on the changing role of art in the late 1930s mentioned above. The
Rome of the fascist Master Plan thus found its interpreter and witness in
Mario Mafai. The Trionfo di Cesare and the Demolizioni, albeit in different
ways, captured the spirit and tone of fascist Rome. Not only was Mafai
intimately involved in the demolitions, losing his home and studio, but
he also mirrored the sensibility of his times around him. Fascism brought
the war time aesthetic to Rome in 1922, transforming the Eternal City.
Caesar’s armies needed roads such as the ancient Via Appia to return
home triumphant. In the Rome of the Master Plan, the regime construct-
ed new boulevards and avenues to carry the modern gladiators driving
automobiles into the centre.78 These roads were the real achievements
of the plan and the idea of moving chaotic traffic into the Eternal City a
desired result. Through the Master Plan, fascism brought a war aesthetic
to urban planning, attacking the cityscape of Rome in a way the black-
shirts had been unable to do in 1922. Now the old quarters with their
narrow laneways had been cleared away and obstacles removed.
Should anyone doubt that Rome had been conquered by a blackshirt-
ed army taking its inspiration from the Great War, the regime construct-
ed the Foro Mussolini at the foot of Monte Mario. Opened on the day
of the Decennale, the Foro Mussolini housed the offices of the Opera
Nazionale Balilla (O.N.B.), the fascist youth organization. Its purpose
was to create a space for physical development, a veritable ‘sports city’
where the fascist new man was to be trained.79 As such, it included an
indoor swimming pool and two stadiums, one of which, the stadio dei
marmi, was lined with 4-metre-high statues of athletes which idealized
the fascist superman. These statues reflected the Nietzschean influence
behind fascism and they predated the similar statues that Hitler would
later commission for Nazi Germany.
Although there were no ruins in the vicinity, the Foro made a direct
connection to Imperial Rome. According to Enrico Del Debbio, the
complex’s chief designer, the Foro Mussolini was conceived as an ‘archi-
tectonic complex of severe monumentality … The result is the emer-
gence of a monumental group which can be traced back to the greatest
74 Roads and Ruins
monuments of ancient Rome.’80 The forum also included a broad ave-

nue going from the Tiber River to a massive fountain consisting of a
marble orb set in a sunken pool. At the head of the avenue was raised a
30-metre obelisk made from Carrara marble, with the words Mussolini–
Dux carved into it. The odyssey of this obelisk from the mountains of
Carrara to Rome was well documented by the fascist press.81 Mosaics and
marble blocks depicting scenes of the fascist revolution filled the avenue
between the two landmarks.
The Foro Mussolini embodied everything that the fascist revolution
claimed to be. Specifically, it was heavy with associations of the Great
War. The predominance of stone and marble linked the two most impor-
tant historical associations of fascism: the Roman Empire and the war.
The obvious references to Rome, claimed fascist propagandists, made
the Foro Mussolini the living embodiment of the ‘Mediterranean spirit
and the Latin world at its best.’82 The rediscovery of the glorious ancient
past included the revival of the plastic arts, such as outdoor sculpture
and mosaic, thanks to Renato Ricci, the head of the O.N.B. and decorat-
ed war hero, who had requested them.83 The art of the mosaic especially
recalled the Roman heritage; it had since become a lost art to be found
only in the great Byzantine basilicas.84
Alongside this re-evocation of Ancient Rome were echoes of the Great
War and the March on Rome. The blocks alongside the avenue marked
important moments in fascist history, beginning with the intervention
in the First World War in 1915. On the mosaic pavement came depic-
tions of moments in that history. Here was the March on Rome, show-
ing squadristi in their 18 BLs. The new roads such as the Via del Mare
were also illustrated, as was the proclamation of the Ethiopian conquest.
The avenue was baptized the Piazzale dell’Impero, designed for marches
and parades.85 Not a place for sedentary contemplation, this piazzale,
designed by the Rationalist architect Luigi Moretti, was meant to symbol-
ize movement and conquest.
A closer reading of the Foro Mussolini reveals the pervasive influence
of the Great War experience on the fascist imagination. The new man,
transformed by the rocks of the Carso plateau, can be discerned in the
marble statues littering the complex. The mosaics, next to the marble
statues, are the most predominant forms of art. They fill the Foro, not
just in the piazzale but also on the walls of several buildings and the inte-
rior swimming pool. Not only did the Foro remind the fascists of ancient
Rome, but it raised immediate associations with the Italian front. The
mosaics in the Foro, made in the Friuli region, resembled modern ver-
sions of the mosaics of the Basilica of Aquileia.
The other structures of the Foro also carried connotations of the Great
War experience. The spherical fountain and the obelisk, along with the
unadorned square blocks, resembled the primitivism which dominat-
ed the war experience. The complex between the two landmarks was
referred to as the ‘spiritual focolare’ of fascist Rome which recalled the
primitive hearths of the Friuli region.86 This whole area was connected
to the other bank of the Tiber by a new bridge dedicated to the duke of
Aosta, the commander of the Third Army who was buried in a massive
granite block on the Carsican monument at Redipuglia. The crossing of
the Tiber into this zone overlooked by the Monte Mario resembled in
many ways the crossing of the Isonzo River to the Carso front.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘An uninterrupted racecourse’:

Fascism’s Roman Roads
Above the roar of the crowd in the piazza, where the most important deci-
sions of the Italian people are made, and from which the sound moves
upwards towards Him in waves, the voice of the Duce flies clearly and pre-
cisely like the iron of an arrow.1
.
This scene depicts Piazza Venezia on 10 June 1940. A mass of Romans

has crowded into every nook of the piazza to hear Mussolini announce
that Italy has entered the war. The author of the article in Capitolium,
from which the above quotation is taken, claimed that Italy in 1940 was
repeating the call to war made by Scipio against the Carthaginians dur-
ing the Roman Republic. This was a fulfilment of the regime’s policy of
romanità and proof, according to Capitolium, that history works in cycles.
Just as a small and devious mercantile empire had prevented the Repub-
lic’s claim to the sea, so now in 1940 a similar empire (Great Britain)
funded by ‘gold’ was doing the same thing. Once again, Rome had to
reclaim its spazio vitale.2
The notion of space dominated the LUCE newsreel of the event. The
vast, ‘oceanic’ crowd in Piazza Venezia was shown more than Mussolini
himself, who appeared to be dwarfed by the doorway leading onto the
famous balcony of the Palazzo Venezia. The real protagonist on that day
was the crowd, which not only filled the piazza, but also stretched along
the Via dell’Impero and filled the steps and terraces of the Vittoriano.
Long panning shots by the LUCE cameras gave the oceanic impression
so desired by fascist propaganda. In a remarkable sequence of shots,
the main squares of the other major Italian cities are shown, crammed
with Italians listening to Mussolini’s speech from loudspeakers. Genoa,
Turin, Milan, Venice, Trieste, Bologna, Forlì, Bari, Florence, Naples, and
‘An uninterrupted racecourse’: Fascism’s Roman Roads 77
then back to Piazza Venezia, where Mussolini concludes his speech with
a rousing call to victory (Vincere e vinceremo).3
As it turned out, this was to be the last of fascism’s great rallies in
Piazza Venezia. It followed a series of similar spectacles held in Rome
throughout the 1930s. These adunate oceaniche (oceanic rallies) were
often called on short notice, with trucks carrying loudspeakers rounding
up fascist party members throughout the city. The success of these rallies
was largely due not only to the organizing abilities of the party in Rome,
but also to the grand new boulevards built in the historic centre. Fascism
thus filled the vast open spaces it opened up in Rome, a testament to the
roads, all of which led to Piazza Venezia. Without the broad avenues laid
out by the regime, Piazza Venezia would have been more difficult to fill
in such a short period of time.
By 1940, Rome’s historic centre had been rendered unfamiliar. As
promised by Mussolini, the ruins of antiquity had been exposed and
emptiness reigned where once thousands had lived. Empty space now
surrounded the ruins, but this did not mean that Romantics could now
sit quietly and contemplate what had once existed. Instead, this empti-
ness was filled with noise emanating from the new boulevards crossing
the historic centre. The Via del Mare and the Via dell’Impero were just
two of the major roads that fascism laid out in the Eternal City. Roads
fulfilled Mussolini’s ‘necessity’ pillar for the Master Plan, allowing for
the circulation of increasing traffic and expressing the fascist regime’s
desire to fill the city with automobiles, symbols of modernity and speed.
These roads, as flat and straight as possible, not only heralded the mod-
ern, but they reminded Romans of the ancient past. Building roads was
the Roman skill par excellence, and the fascist regime, in its hope of
resurrecting the Roman Empire from beneath the ‘crust’ of intervening
centuries, made building roads its chief activity, not just in Rome but
throughout the country.
In the Eternal City, road building served many functions. Not only did
the roads move increasing volumes of traffic and remind Romans of the
new empire, they also recalled the days of squadrismo, when the black-
shirts made the roads of Italy their instrument of terror. The regime
enshrined this memory of the blackshirts in the Milizia della Strada, a
police force founded in 1928 to guard the roads of Italy. More than just
code enforcers, the Milizia was the incarnation of the fascist revolution,
according to Pietro Maria Bardi. In his 1936 novel celebrating the auto-
motive culture of Italy, Bardi claimed that the Milizia represented the
‘permanent uniform of the Revolution.’4 The Milizia, like the blackshirts
78 Roads and Ruins
before them, ‘race day and night on their motorbikes and cars. Their
passing is like a laxative which washes the intestines of all waste.’5 The
Milizia, too, had its martyrs and constituted, according to Bardi, the
‘innovative element of the Italian mind, the assiduous and authoritarian
regulator of the principles which form the fascist plan.’6
Roads were central in the fascist imagination and it was through them
that the fascist revolution was carried out. In Rome, the roads became
the landmarks of the fascist city. Not only did they transform the look of
the city, they also shaped how one looked at the city. This chapter will
explore the transformations of the Eternal City caused by the new roads
through the reconfiguration of the central feature of Italian cities: the
piazza. The Roman roads also played a key role in shaping fascist specta-
cle and in determining a new way of experiencing the city in a fascist key.
Critics
The Master Plan’s roads inevitably drew its share of critics. In order to
understand the innovative role played by the regime’s new roads through
Rome, it is instructive to examine the arguments put forward by these
critics. While no one condemned the plan outright, several urbanists,
such as Nestore Cinelli and Vincenzo Civico, rejected aspects of it, espe-
cially the configuration of the new roads. Cinelli and Civico, neither of
whom served on the Master Plan commission, provided the most persist-
ent critiques of the plan in various journals throughout the 1930s. Their
criticisms can be summarized as follows: The new roads did not move
traffic efficiently through the city centre; they entailed unnecessary dem-
olitions; they disfigured historic squares, and they took no notice of a
need for a reverential silence around the relics of antiquity and the tomb
of the Unknown Soldier in Piazza Venezia.
In short, the plan did not live up to its mandate, put forward in Musso-
lini’s city hall speech in 1926, of building a new Rome based on ‘necessity
and grandeur.’ Nor did the plan follow the example of European capital
planning laid out by Baron Haussmann in the nineteenth century, and
followed by liberal governments since Rome had become capital of Italy
in 1870. Furthermore, the ruins of antiquity were not being respected
by the new roads. Cinelli, who had been promoting his urban-planning
ideas since the turn of the century, was a strong advocate of building tun-
nels through the ancient centre. His argument was that tunnels would
avoid creating intersections (vie d’incrocio) which were the primary cause
for gridlock. The liberal regime had built such a tunnel underneath the
Quirinal Palace (the Traforo del Quirinale) in 1900, and Cinelli saw it as
the best means of moving traffic efficiently without causing any unneces-
sary demolitions.7
Peace and tranquillity needed to reign in the centre of Rome, but the
new roads proposed by the Master Plan would bring only traffic jams
and confusion, thus disturbing the noble character of some parts of the
city. For example, the new road linking Piazza Barberini and Via Veneto
argued Cinelli, ‘would waste the aristocratic character of this beautiful
road.’8 Moreover, the increased traffic in this area would transform the
Piazzale Trinità dei Monti (more commonly known as Piazza Spagna)
into a transit zone, thus ruining its character as a pedestrian area. In
Cinelli’s view, traffic congestion was the greatest evil that urban planning
had to combat, and he held up the Largo Tritone as the worst example
of gridlock in the city. Cinelli attacked the theoretical abstractions of the
Master Plan, pointing out that only by standing at the intersection could
one see the problems.9
Cinelli’s supporters argued that only a comprehensive system of tun-
nels could realize the dream of building an east–west artery through the
city. The surface roads proposed by the plan would only mean massive
demolitions and gridlocks. The master planners’ intention of revealing
the monuments of the city would be sabotaged by the demolitions which
would inevitably destroy famous landmarks. One critic proposed that a
tunnel through the Piazza Barberini could move underneath the Palazzo
Barberini, thus putting Bernini’s ‘sumptuous palace’ on display.10 Mean-
while, a tunnel through the archaeological centre of the city could pre-
vent traffic from accumulating into the Piazza Venezia, thus leaving the
Unknown Soldier in peace. Necessity and grandeur, according to these
critics, would best be served by a network of tunnels running underneath
the soil of Rome.
The roads proposed by the plan were denounced as dangerous since
they encouraged high speeds on sometimes steep gradients. The afore-
mentioned Largo Tritone, for example, apart from being a site of grid-
lock was also a death-trap for pedestrians.11 The traffic had increased to
such an extent here that by 1934 some felt it necessary to warn pedestrians
that ‘the road is for vehicles, and that it is dangerous to cross it.’12 Vener-
able archaeologist and master planner Corrado Ricci came to regret the
new boulevards, as they became the primary sites of major motoring acci-
dents, caused by drivers who persuaded themselves that the new roads
were an ‘uninterrupted race course.’13 One critic argued that the effect
of the new roads would transform Rome ‘into a race track.’14 Rather
80 Roads and Ruins
than contemplation and veneration of antiquity, the Master Plan’s roads

encouraged reckless driving. The nineteenth-century Romantic poet
would almost certainly end up as a traffic casualty in fascist Rome.15
These critics of the plan wanted the new roads to be functional, but
at the same time unobtrusive. Moving traffic quickly through the cen-
tre, while respecting as far as possible the topography of the city, was
the desired goal of any interventions into the cityscape. This view ran
counter, however, to the real intentions behind the Master Plan. In his
description of the plan, Marcello Piacentini rejected the notion that the
landscape could be completely preserved. Piacentini anticipated future
criticisms by condemning the ‘sentimental nostalgia’ which belonged to
the nineteenth-century mind.16 The fascist road belonged to the twenti-
eth century. It was not simply some unassuming highway meant to move
traffic efficiently, but a monument in and of itself. For this reason, tun-
nels were pointless because they did not highlight the road itself. In fas-
cist planning, the road became an instrument to shape the landscape,
not conform to it. Tunnels gave way to the cityscape; roads transformed
them, and it was this aspect of road building that appealed to the regime.
Roads as Platforms
Tunnels also missed another important function of the roads: to pro-

vide Romans a new means of looking at the new and strange landscape
of fascist Rome. This function was left to the boulevards built by the
regime, not just to act as conduits for traffic but also to act as observation
points. According to Piacentini, the new roads constructed by the plan
‘sometimes … offer the possibility of putting on show monuments that
had been suffocated, giving to citizens unexpected pleasures.’17 Shifting
perspectives and new frames on familiar landmarks, in order to disori-
ent the viewer, were central to the working of the Master Plan. Arturo
Bianchi wrote that the new road linking Piazza Barberini and Piazza San
Bernardo created a new frame on the modernist-style Teatro Barberini
designed by Marcello Piacentini in 1932. According to Bianchi, this mod-
ern, fascist structure was the perfect antidote for a part of the city used
to ‘idle gossip and frivolity,’ undoubtedly a criticism of the nineteenth-
century bourgeoisie.18 The demolitions and the new road would put the
theatre in full view.
Bianchi similarly applauded the recently completed Via del Mare for
producing some ‘unexpected views of magnificent monuments of differ-
ent eras grouped into one marvellous frame whose diverse styles seemed
to have found a new beauty.’19 The panorama offered by the Via del
Mare, for example, as one moved along it under the base of the Capi-
toline Hill towards Piazza Venezia, was so wondrous that it could not be
put into words: ‘The photographs shown here,’ wrote Bianchi, ‘illustrate
better than any arid description the characteristic detail of this part of
the Via del Mare.’20 The benefits gained by this sight far outweighed
the loss of Michelangelo’s ‘picturesque’ Piazza Aracoeli, which had to
be partially demolished in order to build this road. The Via del Mare’s
optical revolution was also celebrated by Silvio Negri, the Corriere della
Sera’s Vatican correspondent. Negri, in admiring the revealed Capitoline
Hill, remembered that previously, if one wanted to see ancient ruins, one
often had to knock on the doors of private residences and ask permis-
sion to view them. Now, with the Via del Mare, two other ‘illustrious rec-
luses,’ the Tarpaeian Rock and the Theatre of Marcellus, could be seen
frontally, without any obstacles from the new road, rather than close up,
which required one to look upwards.21
According to Diego Angeli, the importance of these surprising views
of Rome distinguished fascist urban planning from that of liberal Italy,
which had failed to ‘exploit superb perspectives’ in its own planning.22
Meanwhile, even the dean of Italian archaeologists, Corrado Ricci,
who was also critical of the new roads, had to admit that these pano-
ramas were necessary for Italians to finally ‘comprehend’ the greatness
of Rome.23 When it was suggested that houses be constructed on the
Via Imperiale, the road connecting Rome with the E42 project near
the excavations of Ostia Antica, the director of the excavations at Ostia
reminded the Ministry of Public Instruction that one of the ‘guiding
concepts behind the construction of the new road was access to, and a
full view, of the ruins.’24
The main innovation of the Master Plan of 1931 was optical, concerned
not just with the physical remaking of the city but also with reconfiguring
the gaze. The roads were central to this reconfiguration. Antonio Muñoz
celebrated the juxtapositions offered by the Via dell’Impero, noting that
the new Rome gave strange and uncommon views of the Eternal City.25
A similar justification served for the widening of the Via Flaminia as it
proceeded through the Porta del Popolo. This project, according to the
UT, was partly intended to provide a view of the Villa Strohl-Fern and
the Villa Balestra, the Pincio Hill’s Renaissance palaces.26 The new Via
Flaminia would thus reveal the Renaissance aspects of the famous hills of
Rome. In the zone around the Mausoleum of Augustus, the plan hoped
to capture in one frame the tomb of the first emperor and the Tiber
82 Roads and Ruins
River through the construction of a massive piazza around it – a view,

according to the UT, that had not existed for centuries.27
In presenting Romans with new and strange sights, the Master Plan
aimed to de-familiarize a once familiar setting and thus provide innova-
tive readings of the city’s history. These new views could only be appreci-
ated from the vantage point of the roads. According to Antonio Muñoz,
the merit of the Master Plan was its cultivation of Rome’s unique ability to
provide surprising palimpsests. In responding to critics who claimed that
the church of San Nicola in Carcere should have been demolished, as it
stood on some ancient temples, Muñoz claimed that leaving the church
was more interesting for the viewer riding along the Via dell’Impero, as
it combined in one frame the ancient, the medieval, the pagan, and the
Christian.28 This juxtaposition of republic and monarchy was typical of
the city’s character. Mussolini had noted in 1930 that the mixing of old
and new had given Rome a ‘paradoxical aspect,’ and it seems that, far
from solving this paradox, the Master Plan accentuated it.
The heart of the plan, apart from isolating monuments, was the con-
struction of grand boulevards, such as the Via del Mare and the Via
dell’Impero, designed to move modern traffic through the historic cen-
tre towards the Alban Hills and to provide spectacular views of Roman
monuments and ruins. The Via dell’Impero, for example, acted as a
viewing platform for the ancient fora by splitting the Republican and
Imperial Fora diagonally. Muñoz had celebrated the Via dell’Impero’s
revolutionary revelation of the fora by noting ironically that ‘it disorient-
ed even the most tenacious of advocates for the liberation of the fora.’29
This disorientation no doubt was due to the diagonal which the street
cut through the fora. Virgilio Testa had hinted at this dual function of
the new road when he argued that this solution to modern traffic would
not hinder, but augment, the artistic integrity of the city.30
Representative of this desire for the road as a lens onto the glory of
Rome was the plan’s refusal to consider Cinelli’s tunnels through the
historic centre. Traffic was an intrinsic part of the picture laid out by
the plan, as demonstrated in an article by Marcello Piacentini in the
pages of Illustrazione. The text, a summary of the Master Plan, was accom-
panied by several illustrations showing how the new roads would open
views onto the ancient monuments by showing gawking pedestrians and
black cars mixing with the columns and temples of the fora.31
The road’s function as a viewing platform was central to the work-
ing of the plan, a fact demonstrated in the debate over the access ramp
up the Capitoline Hill. Paolo Salatino, a member of the commission,
argued that this purely functional and seemingly mundane road, which
paled in comparison to the other grand boulevards built by the plan, was
considered by some to be too low and thus lacking a panoramic view of
the Roman Forum. The governor’s office, however, defended this lower
elevation, as it made ‘more evident the remains of the temples of Sat-
urn and Vespasian and the arch of Septimius Severus.’32 This increased
magnification of the two temples was preferable because it brought the
Forum ‘closer to the public.’ Furthermore, the road rendered visible
the rocks of the Mamertine Prison, where Sts Paul and Peter had been
held captive. A simple road, therefore, designed to move traffic up the
Capitoline Hill, could also provide at once a vision of Republican, Impe-
rial, and Christian Rome. Fascism’s new avenues became the privileged
platforms from which to see the new city, preferably from the seat of a
moving automobile. Antonio Muñoz criticized ‘romantic types’ who felt
that the Via dell’Impero would bring too much noise and modernity to
a zone that should be reserved for quiet contemplation: ‘If this be the
case, it is certainly not something to complain about,’ wrote Muñoz in
Capitolium; ‘it forces those who pass by minding their own business to
comprehend the grandeur of the past.’33
Thus, the avenues created by the Master Plan created new frames and
juxtapositions. Landmarks and monuments which had long been part of
the Roman landscape would now be seen in new ways. Even Cinelli, who
was opposed to many of the new roads, surmised that a new road built
alongside the Corso Umberto I would not only create a great traffic hub
with Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, but would also open up the medieval
quarter of the city to the modern eye as it moved on these new arteries.34
In this manner, ‘sumptuous palaces’ buried in the medieval fabric of
the Renaissance quarter would be revealed. While Cinelli was opposed
to constructing major boulevards through the ancient centre, he did
believe that some secondary roads would act as observation points for
meditating on the ancient ruins. His proposal for a new wide boulevard
slicing through the Renaissance Quarter was supported by L’Urbe, which
argued that such a road would not only do away with unimportant build-
ings, but would ‘reveal buildings of great worth currently obscured by
narrow and dirty laneways.’35 Although it rejected underpasses, the com-
mission for the Master Plan seemed to agree with Cinelli’s vision in this
case. The master planners pointed out that the new road constructed
next to Via Arenula would ‘liberate traffic from the Via Ripetta and Via
Scrofa, and will put into a dignified frame the Pantheon and Augustus
Mausoleum.’36 Even Corrado Ricci applauded the proposed road linking
84 Roads and Ruins
the Piazza del Parlamento and the Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, since it
permitted a vision of the dome of St Peter’s.37
Revealing the dome of the Vatican was, of course, central in Piacen-
tini’s Via della Conciliazione, the new, grand boulevard built to link the
Vatican with the rest of the city, a symbol of the new friendship between
the Holy See and the fascist state, although in this case the dome lost the
impact it once had over pilgrims, as noted by Governor Bottai.38 Before
the Via della Conciliazone was built, a pilgrim would find St Peter’s only
after having navigated the narrow, torturous streets around the Vatican.
Once he found the basilica, his gaze was met with wonder by the hulking
church. With the Via della Conciliazione, this optical effect was lost, as
the basilica was visible the entire distance of the road.
Another marvel of the Renaissance, the Palazzo Barberini, would also
benefit from the Master Plan’s roads. The UT reminded concerned den-
izens of the Ludovisi Quarter that art and hygiene could not be distin-
guished in the plan, and that the new road to be built served aesthetics
by providing a ‘complete view’ of the Palazzo Barberini, since it entailed
the demolition of ‘salubrious old houses.’39 The new roads, therefore,
played the role of revealing the sights of Rome and presenting them in
novel ways which served the ideology of the regime. No road was more
significant in this respect than the Via dell’Impero.
The Via dell’Impero
The Via dell’Impero, completed in 1932 in time for the celebrations

of the Decennale (tenth anniversary of the March on Rome), immedi-
ately became the symbol of fascist road building. The building of the Via
dell’Impero not only entailed massive demolitions of the medieval and
nineteenth-century houses between the Piazza Venezia and the Colise-
um, but also required the levelling of one of Rome’s hills, the Velia.40 This
radical reconfiguration of the landscape was greeted with great enthusi-
asm the day when the Coliseum became visible from Piazza Venezia. This
was an indication that the road served as an instrument of change in not
only the landscape, but in how one looked at the landscape.
Commission member Antonio Muñoz, future Minister of Arts and the
man in charge of the demolitions on the Capitoline Hill, became the
leading advocate of the Via dell’Impero as a transformer of the land-
scape. In a series of articles and books, Muñoz insisted that the Via
dell’Impero and its counterpart, the Via del Mare, defined the roles that
the roads would play in the new Rome. To be sure, the value of the Via
dell’Impero, argued Muñoz, was not to be found only in the ruins it

revealed, but also on the volume of traffic it could carry. In its first year,
Via dell’Impero had carried over 6 million automobiles, 700,000 trucks,
2.7 million horse-drawn carriages, and 14 million pedestrians, making it
a road that was ‘alive’ and not a ‘cemetery.’41 It was for this reason that
the road was not constructed as an overpass where one could get a bird’s-
eye view of the Roman ruins.42 The straight wide road proposed by the
Roman governor, Boncompagni-Ludovisi, was the most ‘practical’ solu-
tion since it avoided the engineering difficulties presented by bridges.43
The functional virtues of the Via dell’Impero, however, were not
enough to explain its importance. The road was a symbol of modernity,
drawing traffic to itself like a magnet and encouraging speed through
the ancient centre of the city. French modernist architect Le Corbusier,
an enthusiast of high-speed traffic, noted in an interview for Muñoz’s
journal L’Urbe that the new Rome did not allow for the contemplation of
ruins, which required ‘calm, solitude and time for reflection.’44 While Le
Corbusier lamented this fact, for Muñoz this was the point of the road –
to inject the dynamic qualities of modern life into a dead centre. The Via
dell’Impero lifted the ruins from the ‘dusty glass of a museum … The
passer-by who is rapidly traversing the archaeological zone, concerned
only with his own affairs, is suddenly, despite himself, forced to take a
look and listen to the voices of the past.’45 The road was a work of art
which not only provided a window on the past, but changed perceptions
of that past and forced the viewer to take stock of this new perspective.
Even the guide of the Touring Club Italiano had to change its descrip-
tion of the Foro Romano because of the road’s reorienting of one’s
perspective.46 The fact that the Via dell’Impero crossed the ancient fora
diagonally reinforced this notion that the road was not merely a window
on the past, but also a lens which distorted one’s view of the past.
The Road as Vector
It was on roads like the Via dell’Impero and the Via del Mare, vectors
which transformed the landscape, that fascism could truly express itself
as a movement of speed and danger. As Ricci feared, the new roads easily
became racing tracks. On the Via del Mare, Mussolini would often jump
on his motorcycle and race to his summer home in Ostia from the Pal-
azzo Venezia.47 The Mille Miglia motor race, begun in 1927, and eventu-
ally banned in the 1950s because of its high death toll among spectators,
used these new roads in its obligatory passage through the Eternal City.
86 Roads and Ruins
The racing cars entered Rome at high speed and not in parade forma-
tion.48 To depict the fascist road as being dangerous was not a criticism
but a compliment, as it highlighted the audacious nature of fascism.
With danger came death. An accident in the 1938 edition of the Mille
Miglia caused the death of ten spectators, including seven children.
Rather than point to the inherent danger of the event, the prefect of
Bologna blamed instead the ‘weak constitution and inexperience’ of the
driver who ploughed into the crowd.49 To be sure, the prefect was simply
trying to deflect responsibility, but the claim certainly had a fascist char-
acter. Death on the roads was acceptable to the fascist regime because it
suited the fascist view of the road. In Rome, the dead soldier who lay in
the centre of Piazza Venezia surrounded by traffic symbolized this view,
as did the demolitions around the tomb of the Emperor Augustus. The
plan proposed to demolish the theatre in order to reveal the tomb, and
to create a cavernous square around it through which traffic would flow.
The square served as part of the east–west axis of traffic through the city.
Mussolini, who inaugurated the work with his famous pickaxe ceremony,
announced that the roads of the Master Plan ‘were not roads used purely
for archaeological purposes, but great arteries where the imposing life of
the pulsating city can circulate.’50 In the middle of this dynamic life sat,
in the words of Muñoz, an ‘obscured and scarred’ mausoleum, symbol
of death.51 This juxtaposition of movement and stasis, life and death was
a major leitmotif of fascist road building, and nowhere was it more on
display than in Rome.
The roads as instruments of movement and life through a dead
cityscape motivated the assault on the most ubiquitous symbol of sta-
sis in Italian urban design—the piazza. In order to move traffic quickly
through Rome, and enhance the speed found on the new roads, squares
needed to be transformed, and in some cases obliterated. The square,
the centre of Italian social life through the centuries, was nothing more
than an obstacle to the fascist roads. Critics of the Master Plan pointed to
the manipulation of the squares as a major weakness of the plan, but this
misses the point. The disruption of historic squares was not an unfortu-
nate by–product of fascist urban planning, but its very purpose. Accord-
ing to fascist mythology, the square was a place of dark intrigue and the
preferred hideout of socialists waiting to ambush the fascists proudly
strutting on the open roads. As such, it had to be changed to reflect the
new age of fascism.
The voice of post-1922 squadrismo, Mino Maccari’s journal Il Selvag-
gio, continued this myth by launching a campaign against the traditional

squares of Rome. After the Matteotti murder in 1924, the paper urged
Mussolini to leave this city of ‘putrid, stagnant blood [which is] coagu-
lating in feces.’52 A favourite target of Il Selvaggio was the typical Roman
piazza and their, ‘banal obelisks, and ignoble statues.’ Many of these
squares were rendered even uglier after 1918 by the addition of war
monuments.53 These monuments were a ‘horrible residue of the now
demolished Italietta’ (little Italy) left behind by the war.54 The prolifera-
tion of war monuments in the squares of Italy caused an urban blight for
which there was only one solution: ‘Destroy without pity and with sacred
fury the masses of bronze, stone, marble, and Travertine which pollute
the squares of Italy … squadrismo has to rise against this ugliness … We
savages shout that it is not enough to deplore, we must destroy and sup-
press.’55 While the framers of the Master Plan did not put it so crudely,
they also came to condemn the traditional squares of Rome, especially
those in the popular quarters of the city as examples of ‘local colour.’56
The Via del Mare was especially instrumental in this process.
The building of the Via del Mare in 1928, overseen by Antonio Muñoz,
was responsible for destroying two historic squares at the foot of the
Capitoline Hill, the Piazza Montanara and the Piazza Aracoeli. The Via
del Mare, which overlaid the ancient Via Ostiense, was conceived as the
major artery linking Rome with the sea. The Piazza Montanara embod-
ied everything the fascist regime was trying to destroy in Rome. A meet-
ing place for farmers coming into the city to sell their products at the
market, the square was often full of livestock grazing on the slopes of the
Capitoline Hill. Part of the Jewish Ghetto, the square was known for its
folksy, popular character. It was a place full of osterie (pubs), one of which
had been made famous by Goethe.57 It was a square where residents left
their laundry out for all to see, and where local merchants operated out
of the arches of the ancient Theatre of Marcellus.58
In the fascist mind, the Piazza Montanara took on a sinister character.
One apologist for the demolitions recalled that the square was deserted
at night except for ruffians singing ‘bitter, fighting songs [and engaging]
in bloody fights.’59 Things were not much better during the day when
the square was full of fraudulent, itinerant merchants.60 A hint of anti-
Semitism also influenced some of the reactions to the loss of the piazza:
‘The ghetto is now gone,’ wrote F.P. Mulé in the pages of Capitolium,
‘there – where the Jews had practised, from father to son, their adventur-
ous commerce in junk, old irons, rags, and useless, second-hand items
88 Roads and Ruins
of every sort – now shines the sun.’61 The Via del Mare ensured that this
square was obliterated, and that the ancient monuments in the area, like
the Marcellus Theatre, were now in full view. Rather than being filled by
shopkeepers, the arches of the theatre were now vacant and in full view
of the fast-paced traffic coming in and out of the Piazza Venezia.
Close by the Piazza Montanara, the Piazza Aracoeli also fell victim to
the path of the Via del Mare. Despite their proximity, the two squares
differed in character. More upper class and surrounded by finer archi-
tecture, the Piazza Aracoeli served as an antechamber to the Piazza
Campidoglio at the top of the Capitoline Hill. Nonetheless, the regime
disfigured the square by demolishing one side of it in order to make
room for the widened Via San Marco, a short road which linked the Via
del Mare to the Piazza Venezia. An important church, San Rita da Cascia,
was dismantled and rebuilt down the road near the Marcellus Theatre.
Left standing was one side of the square and the fountain. Unlike the
demolition of Piazza Montanara, that of Piazza Aracoeli raised voices
of protest. ‘The thorny issue of the transformation of the Piazza Ara-
ceoli spilled much ink,’ wrote Muñoz. ‘There are those who think that it
should be restored, while others, whose eyes have become accustomed
to wide spaces, would reject enclosure.’62
The fate of the Piazza Aracoeli and the Piazza Montanara was shared
by the Piazzale Augusteo. The remaking of the Piazzale Augusteo, from a
medieval quarter surrounding a theatre into a vast traffic clearing house
in the 1930s, was a positive step for apologists of the Master Plan, as it put
an end to this ‘indecent neighbourhood.’63 It was not enough, though,
just to demolish the houses around the tomb, as the Master Planners
built a high-speed road passing between three historic churches previ-
ously buried among the houses. Because of this road, the churches of
San Girolamo, San Rocco, and San Carlo were now exposed to view.64
The road was the agent of transformation that brought these churches to
life, but also separated them from each other and left them isolated from
the square surrounding them. The churches were now just as isolated
and remote as the neighbouring Tomb of Augustus.
Unlike the Piazza Montanara, the Piazzale Augusteo was located in a
more affluent neighbourhood, and the changes wrought by the Master
Plan elicited sharp complaints from residents. For many in the neigh-
bourhood, the work of the Master Plan had rendered the square asym-
metrical and too large. This argument was met with little sympathy at the
technical office of the Master Plan, which pointed out that a wide-open
square was desirable since it reconnected the tomb with the Tiber River:
‘The creation of a grandiose backdrop on a wide space like the banks

of the Tiber will give to the new square a grandeur that could never be
achieved through a closed square.’65 The Piazzale Augusteo was no long-
er a piazzale, but a piazza similar to Piazza Venezia. Aerial photographs
make the square appear as a massive crater in the cityscape of Rome.
More vociferous and bitter complaints arose from the regime’s inter-
ventions in the Piazza Barberini, home of Bernini’s Palazzo Barberini
and fountain. The plan’s intent of widening the square in order to allow
a road linking it with Piazza San Bernardo raised the ire of some local
residents, concerned that the historic symmetry of the piazza would be
lost. Widening the square, the technical office pointed out to one resi-
dent, ‘would provide a complete visual of the palazzo from the square
[and] create a wider zone’ around an important monument.66 Render-
ing a square asymmetrical offended conventional urban design, but in
the fascist scheme it was perfectly acceptable. Marcello Piacentini would
later declare the Piazza Barberini a truly great square because of its ‘fan-
tastic irregularity created over time. One of those squares that is infinitely
suggestive, more plastic, and more human.’67 Respect for the traditional
order of a square had no place in fascist urban planning.
This vision was also evident in the reworking of the Piazza San Bernar-
do, where the Moses Fountain was to be moved in order to make it visible
from the widened Via XX Settembre. Moving the fountain destroyed the
proportions of the square, claimed one letter to the governor’s office.
The technical office responded that it did not matter where the fountain
was in the square, as long as it was still there.68 The important issue was
that it was now visible for someone travelling down the road. Perspective
from the road mattered more than the actual location of the fountain.
Such arguments demonstrated that, in the interests of transforming the
landscape, fascism was unwilling to respect the historic dimensions of a
square if other issues such as perspective were present.
Changes in Piazza Barberini drew sharp criticisms from the Master
Plan’s critics, who argued that the extent of demolitions far outweighed
the utility of the road, and that the result would be a square no long-
er fit to hold Bernini’s fountain.69 Another critic decried the damage
done to the square and also to the quaint Piazza Santi Apostoli near
Piazza Venezia. The character of Piazza SS. Apostoli was found entirely
in its intimate and closed setting, and this would be destroyed by a road
designed for high-density traffic.70 Closed, intimate squares were not
in keeping with fascist planning, however, which valued above all wide-
open spaces.
90 Roads and Ruins
Piazza Venezia: The Landscape of War
Piazza Venezia, located in the centre of the ancient city, became, in the
words of Mussolini, the ‘heart’ of the city, especially after he had moved
his offices there on 16 September 1929.71 Yet the move, from Piazza Col-
onna where the traditional residence of the prime minister was located,
to the Palazzo Venezia, the imposing fortress-like building next to the
Vittoriano, came with little fanfare.72 The move placed the centre of
the fascist regime in a square that the liberal monarchy had made into
the monumental centre of Rome, locating in it the Vittoriano and the
Unknown Soldier. Once Mussolini installed himself in the Palazzo Ven-
ezia, the fascist planners made its reconfiguration a top priority.
The regime’s appropriation of Piazza Venezia suggested that fascism
represented continuity with the previous regime.73 But unlike the liberal
monarchy, fascism did not have much enthusiasm for the Vittoriano,
which had been inaugurated in 1911 on the fiftieth anniversary of the
unification of Italy. A massive, colonnaded structure replete with classi-
cal symbols, the Vittoriano provided a discordant note in the urban tex-
ture of Rome. The criticisms rained down on the Vittoriano even before
it was completed. It was viewed by many as symbolic of the liberal monar-
chy’s failure to capture the hearts of Italians.74 After the war, leading art
critic Ugo Ojetti resigned his seat on the Royal Commission of Vittori-
ano, as he no longer saw the monument as relevant after the experience
of the war.75 Many fascists saw the Vittoriano as a vulgar monument to a
corrupted regime, and condemned it as the ‘apotheosis of the rhetoric
of Third Italy.’76 It represented in every way the values of liberal Italy with
its columns, statues, and classical allusions.
There were many who called for its demolition or removal. The futur-
ist painter Ardengo Soffici called for the demolition of the ‘ridiculous
and obscene’ Vittoriano in 1931.77 Others criticized the Master Plan’s
exaltation of the Piazza Venezia precisely because of the presence of
the Vittoriano. Even monarchists such as Leo Longanesi snubbed the
monument to Italy’s first king. Longanesi rejected Marcello Piacentini’s
claim that the square was the meeting place of all of Rome’s historical
associations. For Longanesi, Piazza Venezia was a prime site of artistic
decadence symbolized by the Vittoriano: ‘No love is ever born in Piazza
Venezia; it is the place where one loses all contact with Rome … Piacen-
tini’s plan will place Sacconi’s barracks in a squalid solitude.’78 Sacconi
was the architect of the monument. Longanesi argued that clearing out
Piazza Venezia would only serve to accentuate the ‘horrible’ Vittoriano.
For the regime, the only saving grace of the Vittoriano was the tomb
of the Unknown Soldier, which lay in the open underneath the statue
of Dea Roma and the equestrian statue of Victor Emmanuel II. The
problem with the Unknown Soldier for the regime was that it identi-
fied the sacrifice of the war too closely with the image of liberal Italy, as
it was intended to unite Italians around the liberal regime.79 When the
Unknown Soldier was moved to Rome from Aquileia in 1921, the uncov-
ered train car was greeted with solemn tribute by thousands of Italians
lining the route. The minister of war in 1921, Luigi Gasparotto, pro-
claimed that, for the first time in its history, Italy was united ‘morally.’80
The fascist newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia noted the ‘choked emotions’ of
Italians when the body passed through Florence.81 Although the fascists
tried to be enthusiastic about this symbol of the Great War, it was difficult
to separate the Unknown Soldier from the hated liberal regime which
organized the ceremony. Later, Mussolini claimed that the timing of the
March on Rome for late October was established purposely to ensure
that the next November 4th celebrations would take place under a fas-
cist government.82 Taking the Unknown Soldier away from the liberal
regime was central to the fascist cause.
Even after the March on Rome, Mussolini remained uncomfortable
about the imposing symbolism of the tomb. At the Fascist Party Congress
of 1925, held in the Augusteo theatre, Mussolini urged his followers to
forego the obligatory visit to the Unknown Soldier, a comment which
drew murmurs from the crowd. Mussolini explained: ‘We should not
give the impression that the Unknown Soldier has become an obligatory
stop on the Roman itinerary. Nowadays, everyone goes there, even those
responsible for sacrificing other unknown soldiers to the defeatism of
the prewar, war, and postwar era.’83
Rendering homage to the Unknown Soldier meant, inevitably, pay-
ing tribute to the legacy of the liberal regime, as it sat atop the so-called
Altare della Patria (Altar of the Fatherland) underneath the equestrian
statue of Victor Emmanuel II. The lingering echo of liberal Italy was
made manifest by the tomb’s presence on the Vittoriano. Mussolini,
like many other fascists, harboured a dislike of the Vittoriano in Piazza
Venezia. For him, it was the colour of the marble that disturbed him
most, as it was whiter than the surrounding marble.84 On the same day
that the commission of the Master Plan was installed in 1930, Mussolini
expressed to Marcello Piacentini a desire to repaint the monument.85
The delicate relationship between the tomb and the Vittoriano was
raised in 1924 when a group of war mothers and widows requested that
92 Roads and Ruins
the body of the Unknown Soldier be moved inside the monument. Fear-
ing that rain and time would damage the tomb, Mussolini considered
the possibility of placing the body in a crypt located beneath the statue of
Victor Emmanuel II.86 A combination of circumstances arose in March
1924 which brought the issue to the forefront. National elections were
around the corner, and Mussolini was anxious not to appear insensitive
to the requests of war widows. Also, the real statue of Dea Roma was
finally erected behind the tomb, replacing the replica which had stood
there since 1911. This work required the temporary removal of the body
into the crypt.
With the body already there, it was now possible to make this the final
resting place of the Unknown Soldier, as noted by Primo Acciaresi in an
interview given to Il Messaggero that spring. Acciaresi had worked with
the Vittoriano’s architect, Giuseppe Sacconi, and was considered the
custodian of the late architect’s wishes in all matters pertaining to the
monument.87 Acciaresi argued that an interior crypt was better suited
to the Unknown Soldier, not only because it was large enough to house
the body and build a chapel around it, but also because an interior crypt
was far more worthy of great men. No doubt, Acciaresi had in mind the
example of the Italian kings who were buried in the Pantheon. In April
Mussolini sent a clipping of the interview to the minister of public works,
Carnazza, along with a note urging the minister to take the matter under
serious consideration.88
In the end, Acciaresi’s argument was rejected by the government,
nominally on technical grounds, although there were deeper reasons as
well. Carnazza continued the vision of his predecessor in 1921 by argu-
ing that leaving the body outdoors allowed ‘for direct contact between
the glorious tomb and the public that venerates it.’89 In 1921, when the
body was placed on the monument, the committee administering the
monument had justified its decision for an outdoor tomb by stating that
this ‘obscure soldier, anonymous personification of popular virtue, has
to be in full view, illuminated by the sun of Rome, in perennial contact
with the people.’90 Critics of the proposal noted the spectacular effect
of thousands of people gathering in Piazza Venezia every November to
render homage to the tomb, and argued that this would be lost if the
body were moved indoors. Finally, the sight of people lining up to enter
the crypt, wrote one critic, ‘would be embarrassing.’91
The spectacle of thousands kneeling before the Unknown Soldier
foreshadowed the mass rallies of the future. Piazza Venezia now had a
purpose, to provide the setting for mass worship of the tomb on the Vit-
toriano. The surrounding buildings, noted one article, ‘grew new frames
made up of spectators who had clambered onto every available spot,
human crowds never imagined by the original builders. Every window
had become a grandstand.’92 Exposed to the Roman sun, the tomb could
now become the focus for the militarism fascism wished to introduce
to the Roman cityscape, something that Acciaresi had feared in a letter
written to one paper. The tomb, wrote Acciaresi, would only serve ‘cin-
ematography, shouts, and flag-waving’ rather than the reverential silence
that the Unknown Soldier deserved.93
Acciaresi clearly did not understand the fascist view of the Unknown
Soldier. Reverential silence was the last thing the tomb needed in the
eyes of the regime, and placing it inside the Vittoriano was out of the
question. Part of the appeal of keeping the tomb exposed was that it
would remain somewhat apart from the monument, whereas placing it
inside would allow the monument to engulf it. Placing the tomb inside
the crypt would mean losing the symbol of the Great War inside the ‘per-
manent scandal’ that was the Vittoriano.94 Silent reflection inside the
neo-classical structure of the monument meant losing the tomb to the
rhetoric of the nineteenth century. Rather, the tomb was to be exposed
to the swirling traffic and noise of the city, and become part of a land-
scape that was more reminiscent of the war and suited the fascist land-
scape.95 After the demolitions of the Master Plan, the tomb was part of a
landscape of broken rocks, ruins, and tree-lined roads which reminded
fascists of the battle-scarred Veneto. Added to the landscape were some
of the sounds of war. In 1923, during the first anniversary of the March
on Rome, the regime had a squadron of four hundred warplanes fly over
the tomb just as Mussolini was rendering homage to it.96
By keeping the tomb separate from the rhetorical architecture of the
Vittoriano, the regime expressed a desire to immerse the Unknown
Soldier into the implicit and explicit war associations presented by the
Piazza Venezia. The Palazzo Venezia, into which Mussolini transferred
his offices, had once been the home of the Austrian embassy before it
was seized by the Italian government as a war trophy in 1916.97 Milita-
rism oozed from the fortress-like palace’s architecture. The insurance
building opposite the palace imitated its militarist architecture. On this
building sat a giant image of St Mark’s lion, the symbol of Venice and
the Veneto. Adding to this Venetian association was the Corso Umberto
I, the major artery linking the Piazza Venezia and the Piazza del Popolo,
which was an extension of the ancient Via Flaminia, the consular road
linking Rome with Aquileia. On the Vittoriano, near the Unknown Sol-
94 Roads and Ruins
dier, sat several altars bearing the names of Italy’s ‘redeemed’ cities, and
a plaque inscribed with the text of Armando Diaz’s ‘victory bulletin’ of
4 November 1918.
Piazza Venezia resembled in many ways the landscape of that war.
The confluence of the Via del Mare, the Via dell’Impero, and later the
Via dei Trionfi, into Piazza Venezia and its surrounding area provided
a landscape for the regime’s militarism. The Via dell’Impero especially
became the regime’s preferred artery for military parades. The road,
linking the Piazza Venezia and the Coliseum, crossed through a field of
ruins which resembled the ruined landscape of the Veneto during the
war. The ruins were not simply a backdrop for the marching legions, but
a metaphor for the war experience. Adding to this effect was the newly
exposed Tarpeian Rock on the Capitoline Hill, from which enemies of
ancient Rome were usually thrown and which had become concealed
over time by vegetation. Demolitions carried out to build the avenues
had exposed the sheer rock face of the hill in a way that evoked the
Carso. Antonio Muñoz, the man in charge of the archeological work
around the hill, described it thus: ‘The Tarpeian rock [was rendered]
otherworldly and picturesque by the dark caves carved out at its feet, and
by the wild vegetation which had overgrown it.’98 The same caves which
reminded Silvio Negri of prehistoric Rome were also a recreation of the
Veneto battle zone of the First World War. Once again, primitivism and
war were associated.
Exedras built on either side of the Vittoriano added to the Veneto-like
appearance of the area around Piazza Venezia. Marcello Piacentini had
originally planned to build two monumental colonnades complimenting
the Vittoriano, but this was greeted by a chorus of protests from critics
who felt that the Piazza needed less, not more, neo-classicism.99 It was
Corrado Ricci’s idea to place an exedra of cypresses next to the Vittori-
ano matching those that lined the Via del Mare. While the effect of the
pine trees intermixed with ancient ruins excited classicists and archeolo-
gists, they also recalled the landscape of the war and the tree-lined routes
of the Veneto, which had provided soldiers with relief from the rugged,
scarred landscape of the Carso.
After 1929, Piazza Venezia was transformed into the fascist square par
excellence. It was pregnant with military symbols and suited the fascist
desire for a massive, wide-open space unencumbered by any fountains
or monuments in its centre. Even more appropriate to the fascist vision,
Piazza Venezia had always been a traffic hub. Before the advent of the
automobile, the square served as a terminus for the carriages of the
Roman aristocracy promenading the Corso Umberto. The northern ter-

minus, the Piazza del Popolo, had an obelisk and fountain at its centre,
but the Piazza Venezia had nothing, and was therefore never rated as
one of Rome’s picturesque squares. The Palazzo Venezia seemed more
foreboding than appealing. With the opening of the Vittoriano in 1911,
however, the square finally acquired some importance in the Roman
landscape, but even then the square did not lose its character as a place
of transience, especially when tramlines were laid out through the piazza.
These tramlines were eventually torn up by the fascist regime when it
built its roads in order to facilitate the passage of automobiles through
the square. In the 1930s, the intensity of traffic had become such that
Mussolini, half-jokingly, suggested the need for a study of the noise
caused by traffic at a session of the National Research Council.100 The
journal L’Urbe, normally an enthusiastic supporter of fascist urban plan-
ning, felt compelled to warn against taking the expansive square idea
too far in the Piazza Venezia, noting that historic buildings such as the
Palazzo Bonaparte were going to fall under the pickaxe. While it was
important for Piazza Venezia to become an ‘uninterrupted traffic artery,’
certain buildings had to be preserved for artistic and historic reasons.101
Neither of these warnings were taken to heart by the master planners,
however. The Master Plan of 1931 ensured that Piazza Venezia would
not only be the symbolic heart of fascist Rome, but that it would remain
a site of frenetic traffic. Fascist urban planning guaranteed that around
the tomb of the Unknown Soldier would swirl incessant, motorized traf-
fic instead of reverential silence. Those who framed the plan seemed
aware and even enthusiastic about introducing traffic into the heart of
the ancient city. One of the commission members, Gustavo Giovannoni,
was genuinely excited about the role automobile traffic could play in
fascist Rome, urging all Italians to buy automobiles so that this increased
traffic could become a ‘lifeblood’ flowing through the old city.102
Piazza Venezia played a crucial role in breathing this new life into the
city: ‘The great roads, which originate in the Piazza Venezia, at the foot
of the Vittoriano and the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, expand towards
the sea and the mountains … uniting the ancient and the modern.’103
Giovannoni’s description of the role of the new roads and the traffic on
them was reminiscent of war accounts which stressed the juxtaposition
of the modern and the ancient and the search for the infinite. Piazza
Venezia functioned literally as a heart, both receiving and pumping the
lifeblood represented by traffic. Not only motorized traffic would find
a home in the Piazza Venezia, but human traffic as well. The purpose
96 Roads and Ruins
the new roads was to link the outlying suburbs of the city with the cen-
tre, so that on special occasions, when the klaxon sounded, thousands
of Roman fascists would swarm into the square to hear Mussolini speak
from his balcony in the Palazzo Venezia.
Beginning in 1929, the fascist regime choreographed spectacular party
rallies in the vast space of the Piazza Venezia. Although much attention
has been paid to the discursive content of Mussolini’s speeches, little
has been written on the form of the rallies.104 The party rallies exem-
plified organized and focused movement from the newly populated
borgate to the empty centre. Moving thousands of fascists from the sub-
urbs to Piazza Venezia featured prominently in the Decennale celebra-
tions in 1932 to commemorate the ten-year anniversary of the March on
Rome, which featured the inauguration of the Via dell’Impero. A month
before the Decennale, on 23 September 1932, a major rally celebrating
the entrance of the Bersaglieri into Rome in 1870 was held, placing on
display the roads built by the regime. The focus of the celebration was
the opening of a museum and the unveiling of a monument to the Ber-
saglieri at the Porta Pia, the Michelangelo-designed gate through which
the Piedmontese army stormed in September 1870. Once the monu-
ment was unveiled, the Bersaglieri marched down the Via Nazionale to
the Quirinal Palace, where they received a salute from the king.
Until that moment, the rally was a celebration of the Risorgimento
and the liberal monarchy. From the Quirinal, the rally then moved to
Piazza Venezia, and it was here that people were met by a militarist spec-
tacle, capped with a speech by Mussolini from the balcony of the Pal-
azzo Venezia. In Piazza Venezia the Bersaglieri were met by thousands of
Romans, who spilled into the square ‘like a river.’105 The LUCE newsreel
depicting the event focused on the crowds rushing into the square fol-
lowing the Bersaglieri.106 Piazza Venezia was the culminating point of the
rally, while the sites of the liberal monarchy, such as Porta Pia, Quirinal,
and Via Nazionale, formed only stages, hurriedly bypassed by the crowd
in order to reach apotheosis in the fascist square. Only the new monu-
ment to the Bersaglieri in the Port Pia received significant attention.
Otherwise, the early part of the rally was virtually ignored in favour of the
spectacle in Piazza Venezia.
The rally for the Bersaglieri provided a model for future rallies in
Piazza Venezia, showcasing roads, crowds, and militarism. Events such
as the proclamation of war on Ethiopia in October 1935 provided occa-
sions for the so-called adunate oceaniche (oceanic rallies), where these
themes manifested themselves. ‘From the moment that the first sirens
rang,’ wrote the fascist newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia about the October
1935 meeting, ‘on every street of the centre and the suburbs … there
occurred an extraordinary movement of citizens, of vehicles of every
type … which transformed the face of Rome.’107 Il Popolo’s report was
typical of the accounts of mass rallies. The content of the rallies was less
important than the form of those rallies. The streaming crowds were
praised for their orderly procession through the streets of the city, while
loudspeakers played the fascist anthem Giovinezza, all accompanied by a
squadron of planes flying low over the city.
Sirens, trumpets, cheering, and drums filled the streets of Rome as
the roads built by the regime carried the crowds towards Piazza Venezia.
Memories of the March on Rome and of the war experience resounded
in these spectacles. Il Popolo wrote of old arditi songs filling the air. Asve-
ro Gravelli, editor of Ottobre, a journal which celebrated the memory of
squadrismo, described the plebiscitary elections of March 1934 as if they
were comparable to the March on Rome: ‘A special car equipped with a
megaphone rallied fascist who lived in outlying districts of the city to vote
in sections far away from their residences.’108 Just as the March on Rome
had brought fascists to Rome, so the party rallies brought fascists, in their
trucks, to Piazza Venezia.
The squares of Rome, many of which had been distorted out of all rec-
ognition by fascist urban planning, served as nothing more than rendez-
vous points for fascists moving towards Piazza Venezia. Romans streamed
through these squares as if they were an invading army pillaging a city.
The controlled chaos of these rallies evoked fond memories for some.
One old-guard fascist recalled fondly the rally held to announce the
founding of the Italian Empire in May 1936:
It was a moment of exaltation from which I could not remove myself. I

recall the squares with the megaphones, the streets full of flags. Mussolini’s
speech was constantly interrupted by a hurricane of applause. When it was
finished I witnessed a spectacle never since repeated: Via IV Novembre, Via
del Plebiscito, Via del Corso, Corso Vittorio Emanuele, Largo Argentina
were flooded by a sea of people drunken with enthusiasm.109
Elemental forces of fire and water awaited the crowds in Piazza Ven-
ezia, who were like ‘rivers’ emptying into the ‘sea of fire which cannot
be put out, a single flame which extends upwards into the sky.’110 Into
this sea of self-immolation came the fascists, into crowds that were fre-
quently described in the press as infinite and uncountable. ‘How many
98 Roads and Ruins
are there?’ asked La Stampa in its report of the rally of 10 June 1940,
when Mussolini, clad in black cap and uniform, announced Italy’s entry
into the Second World War: ‘We cannot even try to determine a number.
In the square there is no empty corner, and the crowd is crammed in the
mouth of the Via Battisti, the Via dell’Impero, and the Via del Mare.’111
The comparison of the crowds to the ‘sea’ was typical of fascist rheto-
ric. The roads of Rome promised the opportunity to lose oneself in the
infinity of the adunate oceaniche underneath the Duce’s balcony. Empire
and the sea suggested infinite expansion. In this way, the Via del Mare
linked two seas, the crowd in Piazza Venezia and the sea at Ostia. Thus,
fascist urban planning had created a city where the infinite, that great
desire of those who fought the Great War, was built into the heart of the
ancient city.
Critics of the Master Plan generally misunderstood the purpose of fas-
cism’s remaking of the Roman landscape. Those who hoped that the
Master Plan of 1931 would create a city in which traffic could move swift-
ly, and unobtrusively, through the historic centre, were left disappointed
by the volume of congestion witnessed in Rome in the late 1930s. Of
the plan’s critics, only Leo Longanesi, writing in the pages of Il Selvaggio
(which had supported demolitions in the 1920s but became critical of
them in the subsequent decade because of the presence of ‘rationalists’
on the planning commission), understood the true impulse behind the
Master Plan. As part of a general attack on non-Italian architecture and
urban planning, Longanesi accused Piacentini of transforming Rome
into a military city. Architecture in Italy, according to Longanesi, ‘has
never been militaristic. Squares and streets have never been intended to
be piazze d’armi (parade grounds). The military parade does not figure
in our history as our culture has never been militaristic. For Piacentini,
history does not seem to matter.’112 Not only was Piacentini ignorant of
Italian tradition, railed Longanesi, but his insistence on using the term
grandiose in the Master Plan committee’s report betrayed his German-
ness: ‘For the Germans, grandiose is colossal; it’s the same spirit!’113 Ital-
ians such as Bernini would have spoken only of harmony, not grandiosity.
The title of Longanesi’s polemic, ‘The Sack of Rome,’ purposely recalled
the barbarian invasion of the Roman Empire, as well as the Austrian sack
of Rome in 1527.
Unwittingly, Longanesi grasped the true significance of fascism’s
approach to the Eternal City. Taking its cue from the war and the March
on Rome, fascism under the guise of urban planning, reshaped the
Roman landscape into one of war and plunder. The Master Plan’s roads
were conceived as vectors slicing into and disfiguring the landscape. The
centre of Rome, rather than a place for living, became a vast, empty
amphitheatre, home to the transience of traffic and frenetic party ral-
lies. In the midst of this transience lay the Unknown Soldier, whom the
liberal regime had brought to Rome in order to heal the wounds of
the war. Under fascism, the Unknown Soldier became the foundation
stone for the recreation of the war experience found in the party rallies.
No longer a symbol of reconciliation, the Milite Ignoto became a means
of making present the experience of the war in the new Rome.114 This
project was furthered by the clamour and confusion created by traffic
and rallies. Far from being a silent place of contemplation, which the
liberal regime had hoped for, Piazza Venezia became an empty space
filled with the ‘aesthetics of disturbance.’115 Whereas liberal Italy sought
to contribute to the monumentalized landscape of Rome, fascist Italy
sought to disrupt it.
The emptiness of Piazza Venezia was not only necessary for party ral-
lies and traffic; it also suggested fascism’s modernist approach to the city
in opposition to the nineteenth century’s neo-classicism. Whereas the
liberal monarchy preferred the monumental by placing the Vittoriano in
the Piazza Venezia, the fascist regime introduced an aesthetics of empti-
ness and transience in opposition to the previous century’s solidity. The
meaning of Piazza Venezia came to be associated in the fleeting move-
ment provided by the roads and the empty space. The most solid symbol
was itself a symbol of emptiness: the Unknown Soldier. Fascism sought
empty space in the historic centre, where meaning was created and
improvised according to the changing priorities of the regime. Rather
than constructing, the regime deconstructed, the ancient centre around
Piazza Venezia, using roads as its instruments.
While cultural historians have focused on the rhetoric of the regime
in making meaning, the architectonic spaces were also effective. The
centre of Rome needed to be empty, devoid of uncomfortable historic
associations. Roads such as the Via dell’Impero and Via del Mare were
the key features in the new Rome. This was the point made by Corrado
Alvaro when he saw fascist Rome in 1933. Rome was ‘once a long Sunday
in the provinces of Italy,’ exclaimed Alvaro, now ‘this city has become a
capital.’116 What struck Alvaro the most were the roads, specifically the
black tarmac that was used by the regime, which differed greatly from
the old bluish paving of Roman streets. The effect of this, he pointed
out, was to accentuate in sharp relief the ancient monuments: ‘They [the
roads and the ruins] are two different worlds; yesterday’s world seems
100 Roads and Ruins
more remote on the shiny black surface … The familiar city has been
detached and estranged.’117 It was the new roads, therefore, that acted as
agents of transformation; they were the main protagonists of the fascist
cityscape and their purpose was not only to move traffic and provide sur-
prising views of the city, but also to transform Italians. Consider the fol-
lowing passage on the Via dell’Impero from the pages of Capitolium. Two
years after the road was opened, the journal of the Roman municipal
government praised it for being more than just a conduit for traffic: ‘It
traces a wider path for our thoughts, it comforts our spirit, brightens our
vistas; opens – amidst visions of real beauty and ideals – our mind and
soul to less material and egoistic concepts of life; it comforts and exalts
us; it refreshes and prods us towards new goals and greater destinies.’118
The Via dell’Impero was not simply ‘a point of arrival for sterile con-
templation of a great past, but a gathering place and start-off point
towards new horizons.’119 The caption of a photograph in the same
article shows the classic photograph of the Via dell’Impero through an
arch of the Coliseum: ‘In its short distance lies a route to the infinite.’120
Although the road was constructed by the regime, archaeological evi-
dence suggested that a prehistoric road once went through the same
area. Thus, the Via dell’Impero was itself revealed from the detritus of
previous centuries: ‘In it, and through it, we see again, along with the
rest of Rome, its most remote origins.’121 Even foreigners began to pic-
ture the Via dell’Impero in mythical ways. French writer and member
of the Académie Française Jacques de Lacretelle exclaimed that the
fascist New Man was forged out of the ‘moral victory’ that was the Via
dell’Impero: ‘A great space has been opened between the Coliseum and
the Palazzo Venezia.’122
This kind of veneration of roads was central to the image of fascist
Rome, and it can be traced back to the origins of the movement. The
road was a moral and mythological symbol before it was functional. Yet,
these roads were also required to shuttle increasing traffic through the
centre of the city. Myth and technology, the moral and the functional,
could not be separated in fascist Rome. The roads created new spaces
and new ways of seeing the city, and thus anything constructed on or
near the roads needed to respect their purpose. This included the con-
struction of the fascist party headquarters, the Palazzo Littorio. In 1934
the regime announced a competition to build this palace on the Via
dell’Impero, which raised unexpected controversy.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Palazzo and the Boulevard
In December of 1933, as large swaths of Rome fell to the pickaxe in the

demolitions for the Master Plan, the fascist regime announced a com-
petition for the Palazzo Littorio, or fascist party headquarters. Still bask-
ing in the glow of the Decennale (tenth-year anniversary of the March
on Rome) and enjoying some degree of consensus at home, the party
believed that now was the time to construct a monument to itself in the
heart of the Eternal City. This desire was increased by the great success of
the Exhibition of the Fascist Revolution held in the Palazzo delle Espo-
sizioni on the Via Nazionale.1 Owing to the massive crowds which con-
tinued to flow through the exhibition, the regime was confident that a
permanent exhibition was needed as well as an adequate office to house
the ever-expanding bureaucracy of the Fascist Party (PNF). The deci-
sion to build the Palazzo Littorio also celebrated that other work of the
regime inaugurated during the Decennale: the Via dell’Impero.
The competition announced that the Palazzo was to be constructed
on the Via dell’Impero next to the Coliseum, and across from the hulk-
ing ruins of the Basilica of Maxentius. The decision was, for supporters
of the regime long overdue, as Mussolini had yet to build an imposing
monument to fascism inside the historic centre despite the massive inter-
ventions on the Roman landscape since the late 1920s. To date, the only
significant building project undertaken by the regime had been the con-
struction of the Foro Mussolini, but this was outside the Aurelian Walls
at the foot of Monte Mario, north of the city. With respect to the ancient
centre, the fascist regime had demolished aplenty but constructed most-
ly roads and a few modest buildings. The Palazzo Littorio, therefore, was
to be the first fascist monument built inside the old city.
In this period, the PNF’s local headquarters, known as Case del Fas-
102 Roads and Ruins
cio, were sprouting up all over Italy, and in many a small town the mas-
sive party structure rivalled the local church for prominence. Some were
even considered architectural masterpieces, for example, Giuseppe Ter-
ragni’s Casa del Fascio in his hometown of Como, north of Milan. Ironi-
cally, only Rome was lacking a purpose-built headquarters. The choice of
location was obvious, since it placed fascism in the context of the splen-
dours of ancient Rome, a legacy that the regime was eager to exploit for
its policy of romanità.2 The question of what style was appropriate for a
building in the midst of antiquity inflamed public debate in 1934. Such
was the intensity of the debate that the competition committee could
find no outright winner. As a result, fourteen of the over seventy finalists
were sent to a second competition that was not held until July 1937. By
then the regime had changed the location of the building, deciding not
to build next to the Coliseum but out near St Paul’s Gate, near the Via
del Mare. By the time construction on the palazzo began, the location
had changed a third time, to the Foro Mussolini.3
The change of location has elicited no comment from the scholarship
on the Palazzo Littorio competition. Rather, the emphasis has gener-
ally centred on the architectural debate surrounding the project.4 This
debate was fought between classicists and modernists, or Rationalists,
which included internationally renowned architects such as Giuseppe
Terragni and Giuseppe Pagano. Of the many scholars who have studied
this debate, only Emilio Gentile has considered the wider symbolic impli-
cations of the project, noting that the palazzo was very much a part of the
regime’s ideological self-definition as a political religion.5 For Gentile,
the shrine to the fallen fascists was emblematic of the structure’s reli-
gious function and hence representative of fascist ideology, which aimed
at sacralizing politics. Gentile, however, fails to consider the palazzo and
its relationship to the surrounding landscape, which was at the heart of
the controversy.
This chapter will focus on the place that the Palazzo Littorio had in the
overall fascist plan to remake the Eternal City. In doing so, it will empha-
size a key feature of the controversy which the scholarship has generally
ignored, although it was present in the debates of 1934: how should the
palazzo fit into the surrounding area? Specifically, how was an architect
to design a structure that could sit next to monuments of antiquity such
as the Coliseum and the Basilica of Maxentius? Even more importantly,
where did the palazzo fit with respect to the landscape created by the
demolitions of the Master Plan, and with the Via dell’Impero? As we
shall see, the trajectory of the road seriously complicated thinking on
The Palazzo and the Boulevard 103
the palazzo from both a technical and an aesthetic perspective. The pal-
azzo’s uneasy place on this boulevard provided what one architect called
a ‘fascinating problem’ for aspiring architects, not only because of the
ancient monuments surrounding it, but also because of the properties
and functions of the road itself. This chapter will look at the Palazzo Lit-
torio competition as a moment in the regime’s encounter with the Eter-
nal City and with its own aspirations in remaking Rome in its own image.
What the following analysis will show is that the controversy over the
palazzo, and the subsequent moving of the project to the Foro Mussolini,
revealed that the palazzo had no place on the Via dell’Impero and did
not belong in fascism’s imagining of the Roman cityscape. The Palazzo
Littorio competition forced the fascist regime to confront its true vision
of the new Rome which ultimately forced it to abandon the original site.
The Competition
Placing the palazzo in the midst of ancient Rome’s ruins made sense
for a variety of reasons. The current Exhibition of the Fascist Revolu-
tion was very popular, but it was located in the wrong part of the city
for the fascist regime. The gallery was on the Via Nazionale, the broad
avenue built by the liberal monarchy after the taking of the city in 1870.
The Via Nazionale was the anti–Via dell’Impero. Although it too was
straight and relatively wide (yet nowhere near the Via dell’Impero in
this regard), the Via Nazionale embodied the hated nineteenth cen-
tury. The street was lined with fancy shops, with residences and hotels
above them. It was a street for the haute bourgeoisie and the flâneur, a
place close to the Quirinal Palace, where the pomp and ceremony of
the king’s court could be admired on a daily basis. Worse still, the Via
Nazionale was filled with hotels catering to the forestieri (tourists) who
descended on Rome every year. It was in one of those hotels that the
symbol of nineteenth-century Romantic nationalism, Giuseppe Verdi,
died in 1900. In other words, the Via Nazionale represented everything
that the iconoclastic squadristi had despised about liberal Italy. Memo-
ries of ancient Rome were rare. What’s worse, the Via Nazionale was
bookended by two monuments that characterized liberal Rome: the
fountain in Piazza Esedra and the Vittoriano, which was visible as the
traveller moved down the road. Furthermore, it was the link between
the centre of Rome and the Termini Station, which was particularly hat-
ed by many fascists.
The Via Nazionale formed the heart of liberal Italy’s Rome, an area
104 Roads and Ruins
that was mostly farmland when the Bersaglieri breached the Porta Pia in
1870; it was a place where the new Italian state could build without much
demolition. It could also build the archetypal liberal, nineteenth-century
city in the manner of Haussmann’s Paris and Vienna, cities characterized
by their broad, straight avenues lined by an unbroken façade of sturdy,
stone neo-classical buildings. The Palazzo delle Esposizioni was one such
building which included massive columns and elaborate decorations.
On the occasion of the Exhibition, the regime went to great lengths to
hide this façade with a modernist style using three massive lictors. The
result was a building that was completely incongruous with its surround-
ings. The lictors stood twenty-five metres high, with axes that were six
feet tall. The façade was an important part of the Exhibition itself and
was designed by two leading modernist architects, Mario De Renzi and
Adalberto Libera. There was little doubt that the façade was designed
to challenge and insult the surroundings, and also to inspire the crea-
tion of a fascist-style architecture. Margherita Sarfatti, Mussolini’s biog-
rapher and mistress, encouraged architects to learn the lessons of the
Exhibition when submitting projects for the Palazzo Littorio. She prayed
that the competition would not result in a ‘sea of false altars made of
parchment, or of a new false temple like the Sacconi’s monument, the
Vittoriano.’6
The regime, specifically the PNF, wanted its monument to be in the
ancient centre, where much of fascist propaganda was focused and the
revelation of which had been the crown jewel of fascism’s Master Plan.
Also, the PNF desired to leave its own, uncomfortable headquarters,
which had become too small and was also located in a part of the city
not exalted by fascist propaganda. The PNF offices were housed in an
eighteenth-century palace on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele in the Ren-
aissance quarter of the city, just a few blocks from Mussolini’s office
in the sixteenth-century Palazzo Venezia. Although physically close, it
was symbolically very distant from the piazza that had already become
the gathering place for fascist rallies. A central edifice dedicated to the
regime was, therefore, noticeably lacking in the symbolic city of the new
empire. The Palazzo Littorio was to house the permanent exhibition,
Mussolini’s office (complete with balcony for speeches), the PNF offices,
and a shrine to fallen fascists. In the spirit of the Master Plan of 1931, the
palazzo would be both functional and symbolic. It was to be a place of
both daily routine and spectacular rallies, a place for spiritual meditation
and frenetic pace.
The first task was to find an appropriate spot on the Via dell’Impero
that would allow for the palazzo to be a fitting monument while at the
same time respecting the archaeological integrity of the zone. For this
reason, not everyone greeted the announcement with enthusiasm, least
of all archaeologists and classicists such as Corrado Ricci who hoped
that the area would remain untouched once it was excavated. The Via
dell’Impero had already caused some consternation because it tampered
with the archaeological importance of the zone.
The competition for the palazzo was a significant stage in fascism’s
identification with the Eternal City. The importance of the project was
illustrated by the composition of the competition committee, presided
over by the secretary of the PNF, Achille Starace. It included the Roman
governor, Boncompagni-Ludovisi, Corrado Ricci, and two of Italy’s most
prominent architects, Marcello Piacentini and Armando Brasini. The
76-year-old Ricci, an expert on the site of the palazzo, had been the most
ardent promoter of the excavations of the Imperial Fora.7 By 1934, Pia-
centini was the leading architect in Italy, an important member of the
committee of the Master Plan and several other commissions, while Bras-
ini had also participated in the 1931 plan.8 These links to the Master Plan
of 1931 suggested that the palazzo was not simply an isolated monument
to fascism, but was to be integrated into the work of the Master Plan and
hence into the general vision of Rome held by the fascist regime. It was
to be a central part of the fascist landscape. Hence, its precise location
was crucial to the success of the palazzo within the broader framework
of the plan. With this in mind, article 1 of the competition rules fixed
the site in a triangular lot on the Via dell’Impero next to the Coliseum,
directly across from the imposing ruins of the Basilica of Maxentius. In
order not to be restricted by this lot, the competition called for a part of
the palazzo to extend over the Via Cavour where it intersected with the
Via dell’Impero. This overpass created a portal giving a ‘limited’ view of
the Imperial Fora while at the same time not ‘compromising’ the flow of
traffic in the area.9
Rationalists versus Traditionalists
Once the location was determined and the conditions for the competi-
tion released, the question of style emerged as the predominant issue.
The rules of the competition refused to specify the style of architecture
or the materials used, decreeing only that the colour of the palazzo har-
monize with its surroundings. The rest was left to the imagination of the
architects. This lack of direction on style, consistent with the regime’s
106 Roads and Ruins
policy of ‘aesthetic pluralism’ in the early 1930s, gave rise to a heated

debate in the press and specialized journals over what style suited this
important project.10
Those who advocated the modernist style, known as Rationalism in
Italy, immediately saw this competition as an opportunity to demonstrate
their style, viewing it as a chance to apply a modernist style to a building
that would be central in the fascist landscape. They took as their cue
words from Mussolini himself, who had declared that the Exhibition of
the Fascist Revolution had to be housed in a ‘modern, monumental con-
struction.’11 Pietro Maria Bardi, a leading art critic, journalist, co-editor
of the journal Quadrante, and sympathetic to the Rationalists, enthused
in a lead editorial: ‘We are faced with a great moment in the history of
Mussolini: He needs to have a building worthy of himself and the Revolu-
tion.’12 Mussolini was seen as a supporter of Rationalism. Istrian architect
Giuseppe Pagano hailed Mussolini as the ‘saviour’ of modern architec-
ture after Mussolini had received the architects of Sabaudia, one of the
new towns built on the reclaimed Pontine Marshes, at Palazzo Venezia.13
Furthermore, the predominantly rationalist style of the new cities and of
the winning project for the new train station in Florence gave modern-
ists reason to be hopeful that the new palazzo would belong to them.
Another sympathizer of the Rationalists, Carlo Belli, also in the pages of
Quadrante, reminded readers of the above-mentioned examples of mod-
ernist architecture and proclaimed ‘rationalist architecture as the only
style which can express the streamlined, profound, agile and powerful
spirit of fascism.’14 For Bardi, the Palazzo Littorio competition heralded
the ‘birth of fascist architecture.’15 Rationalism, exclaimed Bardi, reflect-
ed the hidden desires of important sections of the fascist party, whom he
called ‘the tendency within the tendency.’16
Whatever ebullience the Rationalists experienced was tempered by
the restrictions imposed on the dimensions of the palazzo. Owing to the
historical associations of the zone, the committee saw fit to decree that
the palazzo had to be at least twenty-five metres from the Via dell’Impero
in order not to impede the view of the Coliseum from Piazza Venezia.
Furthermore, the palazzo could be no taller than the Coliseum or the
Basilica of Maxentius across the road. Although the competition called
upon architects to take into account the ‘greatness and power that fas-
cism has impressed on the national life of Italy,’ these restrictions created
problems for some aspiring architects.17 This was especially problematic
for the Rationalists, as they were accustomed to projects which stood on
their own merits regardless of surrounding structures. A hallmark of the
Internationalist style, with which the Rationalists were associated, was a
lack of concern for adapting to place. In the project promoted by Quad-

rante submitted by the architects Banfi and Belgiojoso, the architects
pointed out that the ‘essential problem of the competition was building
a monumental palazzo on the Via dell’Impero, between the Basilica of
Massenzio and the Coliseum … making this the most challenging com-
petition in world architecture since the war.’18 For some modernists such
as Giuseppe Pagano, the challenges were too difficult and, although
enthusiastic about the project in the beginning, he declined to submit
a proposal. For the palazzo to be truly representative of the fascist era,
argued Pagano, it had to dominate its surroundings, but the rules of the
competition made this impossible. In the end, he contended, the Coli-
seum remained the dominant structure in the neighbourhood, and this
prevented the palazzo from having any significant impact.19
Despite these obstacles, and Pagano’s refusal to participate, many
Rationalists did submit designs, and when the seventy finalists were
announced in May 1934, the ire of traditionalists was raised owing to
the predominantly modernist tone of many of the submissions. A cel-
ebrated debate in the Chamber of Deputies ensued on the night of
the 26th before a ‘crowded gallery.’20 The debate pitted the notorious
squadrista Roberto Farinacci in defence of classicism against the architect
Alberto Calza-Bini, one of the few supporters of the Rationalists in the
chamber. The debate prompted Giuseppe Pagano to remark on the irony
of so-called ‘revolutionary’ fascists like Farinacci opposing revolutionary
architecture. For Pagano, Farinacci was an example of those who ‘live
incompletely’ between the ‘inert masses’ and the intellectual elites.21
A common argument made by proponents of the modernist style was
that the competition should reflect fascism’s cult of youth. Bardi remem-
bered that Giuseppe Bottai had viewed the competition as an opportu-
nity for ‘polemical youth’ who were a part of the Rationalist wars.22 The
desire for youth echoed in the pages of Roma Fascista, which promoted
the project submitted by the Gruppo Universitari Fascisti (GUF) because
it represented the future fascists in the university.23
Despite this exaltation of youth, the Rationalists were not entirely
satisfied with the results of the competition. Pagano’s idea that some
lived incompletely proved prophetic. The omnipresence of decaying
ruins made it difficult for ‘youthful’ participation, since the site placed
limits on what could be done. The palazzo had to negotiate this ten-
sion between the traditional and the modern found in the archaeologi-
cal zone. Pietro Bardi bitterly commented in Quadrante that the results
of the competition only proved that the ‘architecture of Giolitti,’ the
former prime minister who embodied, for the fascists, the corruption
108 Roads and Ruins
of the old liberal regime, was still alive and well in Italy: ‘The public was
given a reheated architecture of Giolitti at the same time that Mussolini
was telling the architects of Sabaudia and the train station at Florence
that he no longer wanted to see that.’24 Only Calza-Bini found the results
of the competition satisfying, while the other proponents of Rationalism
shared Bardi’s disillusionment. For some, youth was distinctly lacking
in the final results. Pagano noted that the reason for this was the pres-
ence on the commission of old men with old ideas, Piacentini being the
exception. In an act of brazen audacity, Pagano argued that the commis-
sion served the purposes of patronage rather than art.
The Rationalists found it difficult, if not impossible, to harmonize
their designs with the surroundings and the competition rules did not
help matters. While the guidelines called for a palazzo which had to ‘cor-
respond to the greatness and power which fascism has impressed on the
renewal of national life,’ they also insisted that the proportions had to be
limited so as not to block the view of the Coliseum from Piazza Venezia.25
In other words, the palazzo had to be both imposing and invisible. The
dilemma of creating a building that rested on its own merits while at
the same time respecting its environment proved impossible to solve for
many aspiring entrants to the competition. For some, such as the engi-
neer Massimo del Fante, there was no doubt that the location should
be made to conform to the palazzo. In a letter to the PNF, Del Fante
encouraged the commission to knock down a hill or two if required.26
The importance of the monument superseded the demands of the loca-
tion and Del Fante suggested that the lot be made rectangular rather
than its current triangular shape. That the location was too ‘preponder-
ant’ was noted by many.27 Urbanist Francesco Fariello, in his encourage-
ment of architecture for youth, noted that the palazzo had to be a focal
point for the ‘anarchy’ of the site, and urged young architects not to be
intimidated by the surroundings.28 It was the palazzo that would bring
order to the zone, just as fascism brought order to Italy.
Gastone Pesce, an architect based in Milan, suggested a change of loca-
tion since the site discouraged the erection of a modernist structure.29 A
letter published by the Popolo d’Italia, the official PNF newspaper, stated
the obvious when it argued that a monument must speak for itself and
that the restrictions placed on the project by its locations were obsta-
cles to full realization.30 Those who believed that fascism was a revolt of
youth argued that the palazzo, like fascist ideology, had to break from
the restrictions of the past. Despite this, some modernist architects such
as Giuseppe Terragni attempted to harmonize Rationalist architecture
with the ‘talking ruins’ surrounding the palazzo.31 Terragni was part of
a group of Milanese architects who called their design for the competi-
tion a ‘wall project’ because its façade was dominated by a massive wall
which resembled the ruins of the Basilica of Maxentius. The wall served
as a visual aid by creating a funnel pointing towards the Coliseum as
one looked from the Piazza Venezia.32 This solution used invisibility to
emphasize the surrounding ruins while at the same time giving the pal-
azzo a striking architecture of its own.
Terragni, however, was one of the few modernists who attempted this
harmonization of past and present. Others such as Giuseppe Pagano sim-
ply rejected the possibility of such a solution. In a 1934 article Pagano
explained to his readers why he had refused to submit a proposal. After
making several visits to the proposed site, Pagano realized that nothing
modern could be constructed among ‘illustrious cadavers.’ Ironically, as
Pagano tells it, ‘when I had some clear ideas, I had to quit.’33 Pagano’s
moment of clarity told him that any modernist style would open a ‘polem-
ical relationship with the ruins.’ The problem for the Istrian architect was
that the rules of the competition did not provide for a frontal view of the
palazzo from the Via dell’Impero, and he expressed great surprise that
many of the entrants did not recognize this problem, instead submitting
symmetrical designs which further rendered invisible the façade from the
street. Pagano did not share his younger colleagues’ indifference to the
surrounding ruins. Environment in this case was too powerful for a truly
modernist and fascist building to succeed on its own merits.
The traditionalists in the palazzo debate were almost invariably con-
cerned with the location rather than the monument itself. This concern
for environment was most clearly elucidated on the night of May 30,
1934, when the Senate debated the selections of the committee. For
Senators Gallenga, Cippico, and Colonna, the palazzo had to be tradi-
tional in design since it needed to harmonize with its surroundings. Gal-
lenga echoed the sentiments of many traditionalists when he argued that
modernist architecture was not terrible per se, only that it represented a
foreign style which had no place on Italian soil.34 If anything, modernist
architecture belonged in the suburbs, not the centre of Rome. Colonna
went further in his criticism, suggesting that the ‘Bolshevik’ style of mod-
ernism had no place amidst the monuments of ancient Rome.
The Site
How did the seventy finalists solve the problems of ambientazione? The rest
110 Roads and Ruins
of this chapter will analyse closely the challenges raised by the site and
how the entrants in the competition dealt with them. The future site of
the Palazzo Littorio was in the midst of the densest and most prominent
remains of the ancient city, but also, in typical Roman manner, included
significant vestiges of all of Rome’s history. The ancient, medieval, and
modern nestled against each other in an irregular pattern. Surrounding
the area were several medieval and baroque churches, and not far off, on
the Capitoline Hill, stood Michaelangelo’s Piazza Campidoglio and the
massive monument to Victor Emmanuel II which celebrated the Risorgi-
mento. The palazzo would stand at the intersection of the Via Cavour
and the Via dell’Impero, the former a product of liberal Italy’s urban
planning. With respect to the ancient ruins, imperial and republican
ruins intermingled. Flanking the palazzo along the Via dell’Impero were
the Imperial Fora, while the Republican Fora stood behind the Basilica
of Maxentius.
This bewildering patchwork of ruins and modern monuments formed
the context into which the Palazzo Littorio had to fit. Of all these relics,
the most prominent were the Coliseum, the Basilica of Maxentius, and
the Tor dei Conti. Each represented a different era of Roman history,
and all three were charged with historical associations with which the
architects had to contend. The Coliseum represented Imperial Rome at
its zenith under the Emperor Flavius, while the basilica was completed by
the Emperor Constantine in the fourth century, contemporaneous with
the official recognition of Christianity. Like the Coliseum, the basilica’s
ruins were massive and presented a daunting challenge to the future
palazzo. The Tor dei Conti was less impressive in stature, but represented
a challenge because it stood on the future site of the palazzo and would
somehow have to be integrated into the project.
Of the three landmarks the most famous and most important was
the Coliseum, whose sheer size was enough to discourage Pagano from
entering the competition. The Coliseum was not only the best-known
relic of the ancient empire; it was also a perfect metaphor for fascism
itself. Party rallies commemorating the March on Rome had been held
there, and its value as a place of spectacle resonated with the regime’s
own politics of spectacle. One of the Palazzo Littorio’s main functions
was to serve as a site for party rallies, and the Via dell’Impero had already
seen many military parades since its opening in 1932. Incorporating the
Coliseum into the Palazzo Littorio project, though, proved a difficult
challenge. The question was how to integrate the two structures without
hindering the visibility of either. Some followed Terragni’s lead by using
the triangular lot to create a kind of arrow pointing at the Coliseum.

Giuseppe Vaccaro provided a variation of this theme with the idea of
tilting the part of the palazzo that faced the Coliseum, ‘thus providing a
vista towards the monument.’35 The problem with this, though, was that
it put the Palazzo Littorio at the service of the Coliseum.36 De Renzi’s
project hoped to rectify this by using the arrow as a means of contrasting
the ‘finite linear’ structure of the palazzo with the ‘indefinite circular’
form of the Coliseum.37 One architect even conceived the palazzo as a
kind of wall which linked the Flavian Amphitheatre with the Markets of
Trajan. Probably the most fascist solution was the one proposed by Del
Debbio and Morpurgo, which incorporated a massive window in Musso-
lini’s office through which the Duce could gaze out at the Coliseum. The
diagrams for this project included an illustration of the Duce himself,
arms folded, contemplating the massive ruin which fills his window.
The Basilica of Maxentius was the second major landmark with which
the architects had to deal. The basilica had been excavated during fas-
cism’s archaeological digs in the Roman Forum, with the revelation of
cavernous ruins used subsequently for concerts and political rallies.
Many of the architects used the basilica’s tall ceilings and massive arches
as a model for the palazzo. As with the Coliseum, both classicists and
modernists found inspiration in the basilica, yet its sheer bulk and height
proved difficult to match. The best that some architects could do was to
provide a mirror image of it in the palazzo similar to Terragni’s design.
The third ruin which formed an integral part of the site was the Tor
dei Conti. Of the three ruins, it was the least famous, yet it was the one
closest to the palazzo, sitting as it did on the actual site of construction.
Only one project used the style of the tower to fashion turret-like fea-
tures on the palazzo.38 The project submitted by the architect Fasolo
used the tower as a link between the palazzo and the adjacent Fora of
Augustus and Trajan.39 Both this and Brunati’s project were exceptions,
however, as most projects paid little attention to the medieval structure,
a fact noticed by the journal Il Selvaggio when it remarked that the archi-
tects ‘tried their best to ignore’ the Tor dei Conti.40 One architect even
suggested demolishing the tower since it was a symbol of an ‘obscure era’
in Italian history.41
Thus, the ruins of antiquity posed difficult challenges to the entrants
of the competition and also to the regime, which could not decide what
style was appropriate for a zone that was full of historical significance.
One solution to this problem was to conceive the palazzo as a viewing
platform for the surrounding ruins. Some architects called for a light
112 Roads and Ruins
tower to illuminate the area, while others designed observation decks.

Mussolini’s reviewing stand was emphasized by many, as if to argue that
the purpose of the palazzo was to direct the gaze of Mussolini at legions
passing on the Via dell’Impero. Some architects put the reviewing stand
prominently on the street, disassociated from the palazzo itself. The
potential of having the palazzo as a window on the past was reinforced
when, in 1936, marble murals depicting the various phases of the Roman
Empire (including the present fascist empire) were erected on the wall
of the Basilica of Maxentius directly opposite the site.42 Observers could
use these maps as guides to the panorama of ancient ruins lying before
them. Converting the palazzo into a functional building used to contem-
plate antiquity thus seemed a plausible solution for integrating the PNF’s
headquarters into the fabric of the ancient centre, but there was another
landmark which posed a particularly difficult challenge.
The Via dell’Impero
Of all the monuments created by the regime in Rome, the one which
achieved the most celebrity was the Via dell’Impero. Its inauguration
was a central feature of the Decennale, with Mussolini cutting the ribbon
and riding down the road on his white horse. The intense propaganda
surrounding the Via dell’Impero made it a factor in the designs for the
Palazzo Littorio. Although much of the attention focused on the palaz-
zo’s historic surroundings, most of the entrants in the competition were
conscious of the importance of the Via dell’Impero. The success of the
palazzo depended greatly on its relationship to this monument of fascist
planning, and many of the architects found the Via dell’Impero just as
challenging as the ancient ruins. Indeed, in many ways, the boulevard
and the palazzo clashed in their essential functions. While the road was
designed to move traffic rapidly through the archaeological zone, the
competition required that the palazzo provide space for political rallies.
Since the Via dell’Impero was inadequate for the purpose, the palazzo
was required to be at least twenty-five metres behind the road to accom-
modate a small piazza. As the site was already limited by its triangular
configuration, this requirement made the site even more constraining.
Another difficulty was the solidity and monumentality of the palazzo
in the face of a zone that had become a place of constant movement.
With the road moving traffic at a rapid rate, the palazzo seemed out of
place. Unlike the Coliseum, around which the traffic swirled, or the Arch
of Constantine, which cars could pass around and through, the palazzo
seemed shunted off to the side. Traffic would only pass it by on its way
to either the Coliseum or the Piazza Venezia. Photographs of the road
always showed the street full of automobiles, cyclists, pedestrians, and
horse-drawn carriages when it was not holding a military parade. This
symphony of movement corresponded to the modernist impulses in fas-
cism. That the palazzo’s rallying point had to be off the road showed the
importance of not shutting down the Via dell’Impero for any occasion;
the symphony of the street had to keep playing even when the Duce
was addressing the crowds. This dichotomy between the palazzo and the
road seemed to reflect a tension within fascism itself which Mussolini
fondly described as an ideology of movement which often seemed mired
in bureaucracy.
Reconciling the constant movement of the Via dell’Impero with the
static monumentality of the palazzo proved the most difficult problem
for the architects who submitted designs for the competition in 1934.
Nonetheless, many of the submissions came up with novel solutions to
get around the restrictions imposed by the road. The most successful
solution, according to Pagano, who reviewed the results for his journal,
was the convex or concave façade which allowed for more space for
political rallies. Some projects designed a courtyard for the party rallies,
while some had the future palazzo facing the Piazzale Colosseo, with
Mussolini’s balcony facing the Coliseum. One project placed the piazza
at the intersection of the Via Cavour and Via dell’Impero as a means of
providing more space.43 Other projects designed the piazza around the
road. One architect erected arched walls crossing the via at right angles
and closing off the part of the boulevard that passed in front of the pal-
azzo, while another created a virtual square by placing four statues of
Roman emperors around a massive fountain on the edge of the road.44
Both projects, however, required the Via dell’Impero to be obstructed
and interfered with its function as a conduit for traffic.
The importance of the Via dell’Impero was recognized by those archi-
tects who tried to use the boulevard as the window for viewing the pal-
azzo. Calling to mind the reason for the road’s construction, that one
should be able to see the Coliseum unobstructed from Piazza Venezia,
many architects designed the palazzo according to the perspective of a
moving gaze on the road. In this way, the solidity of the palazzo would be
seen in passing rather than from a fixed position. This presented a chal-
lenge for architects, as the palazzo was meant to represent eternal, fixed
values that would stand for future generations.45
This sense of the eternal immediately put the palazzo in counterpoint
114 Roads and Ruins
to the Via dell’Impero and to the surrounding ruins. While the boul-
evard was about movement, the ruins attested to the transient charac-
ter of the zone. Furthermore, since the 1920s the neighbourhood had
been undergoing constant transformation which created an atmosphere
of the provisional. This characteristic of the zone around the palazzo
was attested to by the governor of Rome who, on an unrelated matter,
remarked on the value of using temporary billboards to masquerade
the public washrooms made visible by the demolitions. For the gover-
nor, the provisional nature of the area would suit the billboards and not
make them too conspicuous.46 Added to this lack of order was emptiness
caused by the demolitions that isolated the ruins in the midst of wide
open spaces of detritus. The Via dell’Impero’s dimensions only added
to this sense of openness – a fact noted by Corrado Ricci, who was one
of the few opposed to the construction of the grand boulevards.47 In its
celebration of the Via dell’Impero, Quadrante praised the road for pass-
ing over an area that had once been filled with ‘lurid and pest-ridden’
houses and which was now filled with ‘air and light.’48
Into this zone of open spaces, scattered ruins, and fast-moving traffic
would fit the Palazzo Littorio, which spoke of permanence. The compo-
nents of the palazzo reinforced this monumental solidity by housing the
permanent exhibition of the Fascist Revolution, the offices of the highly
bureaucratic PNF, and a shrine to fascist martyrs. All spoke of solidity.
The shrine completed this monument to permanence by displaying the
names of martyred squadristi. That many of the architects included Chris-
tian symbols in the shrine served to reinforce the notion of the eternal.49
Thus, in a place defined by the passing of time, typical of the Roman
landscape, fascism hoped to build something that would resist time. This
monument, it was hoped, would not become just another ruin in some
distant future.
Placing a monument to the eternal in a place of change proved a
great challenge to the architects who submitted designs in 1934. Many
of the designs included scenes of swirling traffic and ruins as a means of
accentuating the solidity of the palazzo. Plastic models which showed the
palazzo in great detail but displayed the ruins in generic forms had the
effect of emphasizing the palazzo as the focal point of a neighbourhood
filled with shapeless relics. The architects Ridolfi-Cafeiro-La Padula-
Rossi described their palazzo as ‘one solid, granite block’ based on a
style of ‘clarity and sobriety.’50 Those who viewed their projects as coun-
terweights to the anarchy of the zone were invariably the classicists in the
architectural dispute noted earlier. Del Debbio’s project (a version of
which would ultimately win the competition in 1937) called for a gate to
separate the ‘sacred’ (the shrine) from the ‘profane’ found in the streets
surrounding the palazzo.51
The Rationalists had a more nuanced view of the problem. While the
traditionalists saw the palazzo as a statement in opposition to the site,
modernists attempted to incorporate ideas of transience and movement
in their designs so as to create what Terragni called a dialogue between
the palazzo and its surroundings. Analysis of the designs shows that
three general solutions were used to put the palazzo in harmony with
the road: the conduit, the straight-line façade, and the historical march.
The ruler-straight façade was a popular choice for many of the archi-
tects, not simply because it typified the Rationalist style of architecture
but also because it suited the direction of the Via dell’Impero. Giuseppe
Vaccaro pointed out that a straight-line façade was crucial because the
palazzo would be the only structure on the Via dell’Impero to possess
it, thus conforming to the boulevard.52 For some, the ‘rhythm’ of the
via could only be guaranteed by a flat surface, because it did not act as
a distraction like the arch over the intersection of the Via Cavour and
Via dell’Impero.53 Those architects who pushed for this solution saw the
boulevard as the key feature of the site and not the ruins. The palazzo
thus served to emphasize the movement of traffic on the street.
Giuseppe Pagano rejected this solution, arguing that it prevented one
from getting a fully frontal view of the palazzo from the Via dell’Impero,
but he may have been missing the point. The key idea for these archi-
tects was to view the palazzo, not standing from a stationary point across
the street, but sitting in the seat of a passing automobile. Creating a
flat façade not only conformed the palazzo to the rhythm of the Via
dell’Impero, but for many of the submissions the Palazzo Littorio was
conceived as a kind of conduit like the road itself. An example of this
was the arrow shape which conformed to the dimensions of the site. It
was used by several architects to act as a pointer to the Coliseum, thus
directing traffic towards the area’s most imposing monument.54 Another
idea that two architects proposed for the palazzo as a conduit was to
conceive the PNF headquarters as a ship. The architect Palanti called his
proposal La Nave (the ship), shaping the building to resemble an ocean
liner.55 He even gave it a motto, navigare necesse. Likening the palazzo to
a mode of transportation informed the designs for the project, which
included traffic and planes flying in formation. In this way, the palazzo
would be an integral part of modern transport and not an immobile
structure; the PNF headquarters in Palanti’s vision would embody speed
116 Roads and Ruins
and motion. The ship motif was also adopted by the architect Liani, who
called his palazzo the ‘Duce’s anchored ship’ in the Imperial Fora.56 In
doing so, Liani may have found the perfect metaphor for the palazzo.
Not only was it a form of transport, but it was anchored as well, embody-
ing motion and concreteness. While life and history moved around it,
this ship would remain at anchor, a rock of stability that was also a power-
ful mode of movement in the stormy seas of the history of Rome.
The third means of incorporating transience in the permanence of
the Palazzo Littorio was through the depiction of history on the build-
ing. Several projects called for historical adornments around the pal-
azzo. Some placed statues of Roman emperors around the site, while
one even used saints as a means of linking the fascist present with Rome’s
Christian past.57 The more innovative projects, however, called for the
march of fascism to be depicted on friezes or murals along the length of
the palazzo. The Ridolfi project planned for the straight-line façade to
have a frieze, 100 metres long, depicting Italian history from the Great
War to the March on Rome.58 Vaccaro’s project placed massive murals
next to the windows of Mussolini’s office, while Mario Baratto hoped
that a series of bas-reliefs on the Via dell’Impero depicting Italian history
would lead to ‘unity among Italians.’59 Enrico Rinaldi’s project took as
inspiration the surrounding zone by planning for a series of bas-reliefs
showing Italian history from the ancient empire to the present. Although
all these projects included the permanent Exhibition of the Fascist Revo-
lution, these architects used the exterior of the palazzo as a kind of can-
vas in order to present a teleological unfolding of Italian history which
had an appropriately fascist conclusion.
The placing of bas-reliefs, friezes, and murals along the façade allowed
passing motorists to view history as a film-strip as they moved along the
Via dell’Impero towards the Coliseum. The motorist could now march
with fascism. This was the same direction that military parades took, thus
allowing history to move along with the columns of marching troops. In
these proposals, the Palazzo Littorio became a metaphor for the Eternal
City, a rock which witnessed the movement of history and the passing
of civilizations while remaining eternal. The fascist revolution was pre-
sented as a dynamic movement, offsetting the static implications of the
palazzo itself and making the palazzo a spiritual counterpart to the his-
tory around it.
The most innovative of solutions, and the one that most suited the
spirit of fascism’s passion for the road, were those that integrated the
palazzo with traffic. The competition rules called for a parking garage
to be included in the palazzo, and several of the projects used this as

an opportunity to integrate the palazzo and the Via dell’Impero. Some
used roads within the complex to move traffic, while others created mas-
sive, ground-level entrances that allowed cars to turn in directly from the
via.60 One project extended the boulevard via a ramp that led directly
into the palazzo, thus making it possible to have a military parade march
directly into the PNF headquarters. Road and party would therefore be
in perfect symbiosis.61
Despite these varied attempts to reconcile the Palazzo Littorio project
with the challenges of the site, when the second competition was held in
July 1937 the fascist regime changed the location, not once, but twice.
At first, it was decided to put the palazzo near the St Paul’s Gate at the
edge of the old city, but ultimately the winning project by Del Debbio
was moved to the Foro Mussolini. Why the change? In the three years
which elapsed between competitions, the regime’s views towards Rome
and its place in it had changed. Since 1935, the regime had fought and
won a war in Ethiopia, and the area around the St Paul’s Gate reflected
this new reality more than the zone around the Via dell’Impero. The
Ministry of Italian East Africa was built here and the Obelisk of Axium,
war booty taken from Addis Ababa, had been erected in front of it. By
1937, the symbols of the new fascist empire seemed more current than
those of the Roman Empire.
Furthermore, since the Ethiopian conquest, the regime had become
more strident and ideological, moving closer to Nazi Germany and inter-
vening in the Spanish Civil War. This new militancy made the vestiges
of the Roman past stifling, and the restrictions placed on the Palazzo
Littorio no longer suited the new confidence of the regime. Rather than
please the older establishment, which preferred the Roman heritage,
the new site fit the style of the new context. There were practical reasons
for the changes as well. The policy of autarchy, compounded by the stag-
nation of the Italian economy in the Depression, made it less feasible
to undertake the massive demolitions required to construct the palazzo
next to the Coliseum.
Ultimately, though, not even this site was maintained, as the regime
put the final product at the Foro Mussolini, at the foot of the Monte
Mario. This decision suited the new orientation towards city planning
taken by the regime around 1936. That year, the Master Plan of 1931 had
effectively come to an end when the decision was made to construct the
new Rome out in the Tre Fontane area southwest of the city, towards the
sea. Building inside the historic centre posed too many obstacles and the
118 Roads and Ruins
regime now wanted to build cities, like those in the Pontine Marshes, on
virgin land.62 The Foro Mussolini represented an early attempt to build
a fascist space on virgin land. Its location was close to the Ponte Milvio
and the Porta del Popolo, where the fascist squads had entered the city
in 1922. The Foro Mussolini, which included two stadiums and head-
quarters of the Balilla movement, was associated with sport and youth,
features missing in the original location of the Palazzo Littorio.
Constructing the Palazzo Littorio in the Foro Mussolini gave the
regime a greater control over the immediate surroundings for its own
symbols and myths. The decrepit state of the ruins in the original loca-
tion added a touch of temporality and mortality that no longer suited
the millennial ambitions of fascism by the late 1930s. It also pointed to
an increasing self-referentiality of fascist ideology, no longer content to
gain legitimacy from Rome’s historical antecedents. Thus, it appears that
the Rationalists’ aim of constructing a palazzo without reference to the
‘cadavers’ that surrounded it had won the day, as now the PNF headquar-
ters could sit nestled within a fascist, triumphalist space. More important-
ly, the Foro Mussolini allowed the regime to build what Sigfried Giedion
called the architecture of ‘volumes in space,’ a salient feature of mod-
ern architecture.63 Significantly, this modernist feature resurrected the
ancient method of building. The Palazzo Littorio, on its own surrounded
by ruins and the open spaces of the forum, would have represented too
closely a nineteenth-century style of monument. Better that it be placed
within a space surrounded by other fascist-style buildings where it could
create a new forum based on ancient principles.
To construct such an imposing monument in its original location also
obscured the significance of the Via dell’Impero. Although the ruins
were imposing and intimidating for any architect, it was the road that
mattered most. The fascist road could not have any imposing building
built alongside it for fear of imitating the hated nineteenth century.
Concerns about falling into the bad architectonic habits of liberal Italy
affected any major projects planned for the new boulevards of fascism.
After the winners of the first round were announced, Rationalist Carlo
Belli, in the pages of Quadrante, was concerned that another ‘monster
like the Palazzo della Giustizia’ could find itself on the Via dell’Impero.64
Edmondo Del Bufalo, the man responsible for designing the Via Impe-
riale, the major boulevard which linked Rome with the E42 and the sea,
had to reassure critics that his road would not become the home of ‘mas-
tadonic nineteenth-century style buildings.’65 More than any other mon-
ument, the Via dell’Impero was fascism’s statement in the historic centre.
The real debate had not been between modernism and classicism, but
between movement and stasis, embodied in the Via dell’Impero and the
Palazzo Littorio. Fascism’s dialogue with the ruins of antiquity was better
served by the road, not the palace. The sense of movement and transi-
ence and the regime’s control over the meaning of the ruins worked
from the perspective of the Via dell’Impero. Constructing a monumen-
tal party headquarters and its symbols of immobility – shrine, bureauc-
racy, and permanent exhibition – sounded a discordant note in a zone
noted for its constantly changing character.
Furthermore, it seemed to hint at the traditional Roman habit of living
alongside ruins rather than the fascist impulse of moving traffic through
them. In 1937 Gustavo Giovannoni had written about how the flow of
traffic would give new life to the ancient centre.66 Del Bufalo was con-
vinced that his Via Imperiale, ‘a road; a simple road, without sidewalks,
flanked by hiking trails, crossing the archaeological park with intense
traffic, would transform the ruins in the manner desired by the regime;
transforming the area from an archaeological museum to something
pulsing with life.’67 A palazzo, by contrast, would reintroduce the static
contemplation of antiquity dear to the Romantics of the nineteenth cen-
tury; better that it stand in a fascist forum rather than amidst the ruins
of antiquity. The very word palazzo reminded Italians of the past, not
the future: ‘The word “palazzo” brings us back four centuries, reminding
us of a conventional world, which is very distant from the great energy
of our own time.’68 According to Pietro Bardi, it did not help matters
that the rules of the competition placed too many restrictions on the
project beginning with the site itself: ‘It seemed Giolittian this idea of
placing Mussolini’s Palazzo in an awkward triangle (triangolaccio) … The
plans were bureaucratic, worried only about keeping the Palazzo con-
fined to Procustes’ Bed designed for “reasons of environment.”’69 A
road, on the other hand, could be kept alive by the increasing amount of
traffic that the future would bring.
The Via dell’Impero acted, therefore, as the true monument of fascism
in the shaping the space around it. The Touring Club Italiano called it
the ‘master road and heart’ of the city’s renewal.70 Massimo Bontempelli,
writer and co-editor of Quadrante, called himself a ‘fanatic of the Via
dell’Impero,’ and claimed that it was the ‘centre of the world’; he argued
that the Coliseum had now come to life, whereas previously it had been
hidden way.71 Bontempelli too feared that one day replicas of ancient
statues would be placed on the road, ruining its profound impact. The
Via dell’Impero was the new Via Sacra and would act as the stage for
120 Roads and Ruins
triumphant military marches in the same way that its ancient predeces-
sor had served the Romans. It was the Del Debbio project, eventually
triumphant in the competition, which stated in its 1934 proposal that
the Imperial zone contained no ‘traditional environment,’ but one that
was created ‘yesterday, via a fascist stamp.’72 The proposal was referring
to the Via dell’Impero, which had been fascism’s true stamp on Roman’s
ancient urban text. It accentuated the vast open spaces created by the
Master Plan, while the palazzo would have rested in a restricted space.
‘After slicing the Via dell’Impero through we can’t stop at the side of
the road,’ argued one Rationalist critic of the competition, ‘in order to
construct, brick by brick, a wall against the arid pavement of the road.’73
Keeping the palazzo away from the zone around the Via dell’Impero
also allowed the regime to remain faithful to its impulse to reveal the
ruins of antiquity unobstructed. This landscape of resurrection was to
be preserved especially as the regime increasingly engaged in a struggle
with that other custodian of the Roman cityscape: the Catholic Church.
CHAPTER SIX
Resurrecting a Pagan Landscape
‘Could fascism be the principle of the anti-European restoration?’ Thus

began Julius Evola’s short book Imperialismo pagano, published in 1928 by
the obscure Ar publishing house.1 The Sicilian, Roman-born aristocrat
had been hovering around the margins of fascism since it came to power
in 1922, contributing articles to such leading fascist journals as Bottai’s
Critica Fascista, but he never joined the party out of disappointment at
the regime’s compromises, the most important being the impending
agreement with the Vatican in the Lateran Accords. Evola belonged to a
group of intellectuals and artists who called themselves ‘traditionalists,’
inspired by the French thinker Rene Guenon.2 These men hoped that
Italy, under fascism, would return to the pagan ideals of Imperial Rome,
ideals that had been lost since the advent of Christianity.
Thus far, Evola had been disillusioned by the fascist regime: ‘Fascism
was born out of the depths, out of confused exigencies and brutal forc-
es unleashed by the war. Since then, fascism has fed on compromises,
rhetoric, and small men and things … For better or for worse, fascism
has created a body but one without a soul.’3 Yet, fascism remained a pos-
sibility for the traditionalist renewal despite its failures: ‘Fascism came
essentially from the forces of youth, decisive, ready for anything, alien
to abstract doctrines, alien to the “malady” of culture. This is the living
nucleus of fascism.’4
Intellectual historians such as A. James Gregor have minimized the
importance of Evola in fascist Italy, arguing that the esoteric religion of
traditionalism never found favour with the fascist regime.5 To be sure,
the regime remained sceptical of any kind of esoteric mysticism and
Evola never joined the Fascist Party, yet he did find potential in fascism.6
He did see, in Mussolini’s exaltation of ancient Rome, the chance of
122 Roads and Ruins
a return to the primitive, pagan ideals of Italy.7 Although the regime

signed the Lateran Accords with the Vatican in 1929, much to Evola’s
disgust, the following decade witnessed a subtle but growing fascination
with pre-Christian Rome, especially in the regime’s urban interventions.
This chapter will demonstrate how the transformation of Rome under
the Master Plan contributed to a revival of the pagan landscape after cen-
turies of Christianity, a fact which coincided with the Vatican’s increas-
ing use of the words pagan and neo-pagan to describe the ideology of
fascism. Throughout the 1930s, Mussolini and his counterpart in the
Vatican, Pius XI, would engage in a tense struggle to win the souls of Ital-
ians. While at times friendly and working in harmony, the fascist regime
and the Vatican would often be in direct opposition over such issues as
Catholic Action, the Racial Laws of 1938, and fascism’s evolving friend-
ship with Nazi Germany. Underlying these periodic clashes, however,
was a growing conflict over the meaning of the Roman landscape. While
the Master Plan transformed the Eternal City, the church and the state
clashed over the archaeological and historical understandings of Rome.
Clashing Religions
It was only inevitable that fascism’s remaking of the Roman landscape

would lead to a conflict with the Vatican. In previous chapters we have
seen how the Master Plan was often directed at the legacy of liberal Italy.
The church’s Rome was also a target but in a more careful, and subtle,
fashion. Very few people would have lamented the destruction of liberal
Rome; not so with papal Rome, which had a longer and more profound
history behind it. The Roman cityscape was largely the work of the popes
who had ruled the city for over a thousand years. Mussolini was often
compared to Pope Sixtus V, who, in the late sixteenth century, had been
a road builder connecting the major shrines of Rome with wide boul-
evards. The popes, like the fascist regime, had not been averse to dis-
mantling and destroying parts of the city in order to remake it.
By the twentieth century, the papacy, especially Pius XI, who was elect-
ed to the papal throne in February 1922, was more concerned with pre-
serving ecclesiastical Rome from the pretensions of the secular Italian
state, which had seized the Eternal City in 1870. The construction of the
Vittoriano by the liberal monarchy, completed in 1911, raised the pos-
sibility of the secular state ‘sacralizing’ itself by calling the monument
the Altar of the Fatherland. This tendency towards political religion has
become a leading thread of scholarship on fascism. Leading the way is
Resurrecting a Pagan Landscape 123
Emilio Gentile’s Sacralization of Politics in Fascist Italy, which argues that

fascism constructed a political religion, borrowing its rituals, ceremonies,
and liturgies from Catholicism.8 The result was a political ideology that
presented itself as a new religion to rival the old. The essentially religious
nature of fascism has garnered increasing attention in the last decade as
a result of Gentile’s work.9 Some historians, such as Michael Burleigh,
have gone so far as to claim that fascism and Nazism attempted to elimi-
nate Christianity, aiming to replace the values of ‘obsolescent Christi-
anity … whatever their tactical accommodations with the Churches.’10
Although this may be an exaggeration for the Italian case, as Mussolini
could never seriously have hoped to eliminate the church’s influence
and, in fact, came to depend upon the church for social peace, he no
doubt resented it.
Whether the regime was positioning itself as a rival religion or not
falls outside the scope of this book, although it is clear that fascism was
attempting to revive the mythological potential of the Roman cityscape.
It was Pius XI, though, who increasingly began to refer to fascism as
pagan. In the midst of the dispute over Catholic Action, which frequently
erupted into violent clashes between the blackshirts and Catholic Action
members in the spring of 1931, Pius released the encyclical Non abbiamo
bisogno (We have no need), which denounced the level of violence and the
actions of the fascist regime in attempting to suppress Catholic Action.
Although not an unequivocal condemnation of fascism or its leader, Pius
did condemn the growing tendency to worship the state in fascist Italy:
‘And here We find Ourselves confronted by a mass of authentic affirma-
tions … which reveal beyond the slightest possibility of doubt the resolve
to monopolize completely the young … for the exclusive advantage of a
party and of a regime based on an ideology which clearly resolves itself
into a true, a real pagan worship of the State – or “Statolatry.”’11
This was the first time that Pius used the word pagan to describe the
politics of the fascist regime. He would use the term on many occasions
to define Nazi Germany in subsequent years. Although the conflict over
Catholic Action was settled, an uneasy peace descended on Vatican–Ital-
ian relations in the 1930s. Despite areas of common interest, such as the
Ethiopian War, Pius continued to view the developments in Italy and
Germany as pagan, especially in the summer of 1938 when the Italian
regime, basking in the glow of the new-found friendship with Hitler’s
Germany, promulgated the Racial Laws. It was the work of the Master
Plan in Rome, however, that kept relations between the church and the
fascist state in a state of constant tension. Although diplomacy could
124 Roads and Ruins
often be cordial, the ‘battle’ waged on the cityscape of Rome demon-

strated that the two powers had very different interpretations of Rome
and its meaning.
For the Vatican, fascism’s interventions in the Roman cityscape con-
firmed its pagan tendencies. In labelling fascism (and Nazism) as pagan,
Pius was echoing the views of several other religious and non-religious
thinkers of the 1930s. A sociological study of civic education by the Uni-
versity of Chicago in 1929, for example, argued that the fascist regime
was inventing itself as a pagan religion, complete with pagan-like festivals
such as the burning of debts in October 1927.12 Arnold Toynbee, in a
1937 article in the Christian Century, declared fascism as a ‘rival religion’
that was essentially pagan in its exaltation of human organization and
power.13 Catholic thinkers such as Christopher Dawson and Aurel Kolnai
also had little doubt that the emphasis on the supremacy of the state in
Germany and Italy was pagan in inspiration.14
What did paganism mean in this context? In several allocutions and
speeches, Pius XI used the term paganism to denote three essential
features of the policies of Italian fascism and Nazism. The first was the
rejection of universalism in favour of ideologies which exalted either a
particular race or a nation above all others.15 The Roman pontiff had
established this theme in his first encyclical, promulgated in December
1922, Ubi Arcano Dei Consilio (On the Peace of Christ in His Kingdom),
where he identified nationalism and ultra-patriotism as a source for
instability in international affairs.16 Not only did they threaten interna-
tional stability, but these beliefs could also lead to a cult of the state.17 A
second feature of paganism, according to Pius XI, was the exaltation of
the material world, especially the sacralization of the built environment.
In the 1930s Pius specifically identified as pagan the desire to build mar-
vellous works, a sly reference to fascism’s vast public works projects such
as those found in the Master Plan of 1931. A third feature of paganism
was a specific view of history which differed from Christianity’s inter-
pretation of the past. The rivalry between Pius XI and Mussolini would
revolve mainly around this feature of paganism. The Roman landscape
became the site on which the fascist and Christian conceptions of history
would be defined, especially in the wake of the Master Plan. It was the
latter two characteristics of paganism, as defined by Pius XI, that directly
related to the emergence of the fascist landscape in Rome.
The Two Romes
Pius XI and Benito Mussolini both took possession of Rome in the year
1922. Cardinal Achille Ratti became Pope Pius XI in February, just eight
months before Mussolini’s blackshirts marched on the city. When Ratti
was elected pope, fascist violence was gripping the city, especially in the
working-class San Lorenzo quarter, where fascists and socialists often
engaged in bloody battles. Pope Pius XI placed the city of Rome at the
top of his agenda from the moment he was elected by the College of
Cardinals. From the beginning, Pius XI had taken seriously his position
as the Bishop of Rome.18 For Ratti, the city was central to the mission
of the Catholic Church, and he made this known when he became the
first pope in over fifty years to venture out of the Vatican after the sign-
ing of the Lateran Accords in 1929. On that occasion, he was greeted by
thousands of Romans on the streets of the city.19 On his election Pius XI
also revived the tradition of the Urbe et Orbi blessing, a ceremony which
required him to appear on the balcony of St Peter’s Basilica, serving
notice that Rome belonged to the church.20 At the heart of Pius XI’s
renewal of the Roman mission was nostalgia for the ecclesial Rome he
had first seen in 1879, and which was quickly disappearing under the
heels of modernity and as capital of the Italian state.21 Pius XI’s biogra-
phers often compare him to Pope Sixtus V.22 Like Sixtus, but on a smaller
scale as he only had jurisdiction over the Vatican and not all of Rome,
Pius became deeply involved in restructuring the papal city, giving it a
new train station and modern means of communication, such as the
founding of Vatican Radio.23 Outside the Vatican he presided over the
refurbishing of several basilicas and churches, as well as the building
of new seminaries and colleges. Restoration work was often done with
the assistance of the Italian government, as in the case of the Basilica of
St Paul-outside-the-Walls, which was in the care of the monarchy until
1929.24 Despite this example of collaboration, Pius XI continued the
policy of Pius IX, the self-proclaimed ‘prisoner of the Vatican,’ who had
called for the building up of ecclesial Rome as a means of defying the
liberal state. If the Vatican could not retake Rome by force, then it could
build an alternative city within the Italian capital.25
Pius’s concern for ecclesial Rome found its way into the Lateran
Accords of 1929, which emphasized the ‘sacred character of the city.’
Article 10 stated: ‘No building open to worship can be demolished for
any reason, unless previously agreed upon with the competent ecclesi-
astical authority.’ Article 33 claimed the catacombs or ‘subsoil’ of Rome
as Vatican patrimony.26 The protection of ecclesiastical property was one
of Pius XI’s strongest motives for signing the Concordat owing to a fear
of violence against church property – a fear which was realized in 1931
at the height of the conflict between the Vatican and the regime over
126 Roads and Ruins
Catholic Action, when blackshirts often attacked churches. In May 1931

the Vatican’s newspaper L’Osservatore Romano dedicated most of its front
page to reporting incidents of these attacks throughout Italy, especially
in Rome.27
The protection of church property became especially important in the
1930s, when the fascist regime embarked on its ambitious scheme to
remake the Roman landscape. The demolitions required by the Mas-
ter Plan at times threatened the religious patrimony of the city. To be
sure, the Vatican actively collaborated with some of the fascist schemes,
including the construction of the Via della Conciliazione, the wide boul-
evard linking St Peter’s with the Tiber River. Other parts of the sprawl-
ing Master Plan, however, caused friction. Several pontifical institutes,
churches, and colleges wrote to the Roman municipal government and
Mussolini claiming that some provisions of the plan directly threatened
the pastoral mission of the church in Rome. The planned demolition of
some churches also raised objections. The director of the San Lorenzo
Choir, for example, protested that his choir would cease to exist without
even a ‘piece of bread’ left if their church was demolished.28 The rector
of the Conservatory of St Eufemia, an orphanage run by the church,
demanded financial compensation for the fifteen to twenty orphans
under its care, claiming that the state was demolishing four hundred
years of social assistance carried out by the conservatory.29 Meanwhile,
the rector of the Germanic-Hungarian Pontifical College openly accused
the regime of violating the concordat by demolishing its church in order
to widen a road.30
Violation of the concordat had possible international repercussions
in the case of the Armenian Pontifical College, which served as a place
of asylum for Armenians. The delicacy of the situation forced the Ital-
ian foreign minister, Dino Grandi, to intervene in the matter. Not only
was the church a refuge, according to the vicar general of the Arme-
nian patriarchate, but it was also a place where Armenian culture was
preserved.31 Another pontifical college that was threatened by the Mas-
ter Plan was that of St Jerome in the Piazzale Augusteo. The sacristy of
the church was slated for demolition during the excavations around
Augustus’s tomb. The exchange of words between the Apostolic Nun-
cio to Italy, Borgongini Duca, and the Italian foreign minister, Grandi,
is revelatory of the antithetical views of the Roman landscape held by
both sides. In a letter dated 21 January 1932 to Grandi, Borgongni Duca
wrote: ‘The Honourable Commission responsible for this project, while
concerned with traffic and the imperial monuments of the area, has
ignored other structures of equally important artistic and historic associ-

ations.’32 According to Borgongini Duca, the college was one of the most
important monuments of Christianity, a fact recognized by international
agreements. It was not enough to preserve just the church:
To remove from a temple its annexed buildings, reducing it to the four walls
of the church, means to deprive the church of an essential and integral part
of its functioning. The sacristy is important not only as a gathering place for
the celebrants, but also as safe place to store the sacred vessels, which are
often of great value and necessary for the Mass. It is also an artistic crime,
as the sacristy is designed by architects to be part of the whole church … A
church without a sacristy, therefore, is a mutilated body.33
Grandi responded to this by demonstrating that only a few rooms of the

building were used by the church, while the rest were rented apartments
and shops on the ground floor.34 Clearly, both sides had different opin-
ions as to what constituted the sacred.
Controversies over the pontifical colleges added another important
dimension to the struggle over Rome: the involvement of foreign gov-
ernments. St Jerome’s College was actively supported by the Yugoslav
legation to the Holy See.35 Similarly, the French ambassador sent a note
enquiring about the French College, which also faced expropriation.36
Pius XI made it a point during his pontificate to restore and build for-
eign colleges, not only because of the importance of missionary work,
but also because it gave him a semblance of international support, as
opposed to the nationalistic projects of fascism. The foreign dimensions
of these colleges were also important for Pius in reaffirming the role of
Catholic Rome in spreading the faith throughout the world. For Pius,
Rome was caput mundi, and these colleges were central to that identity.
Borgongini Duca emphasized the role of St Jerome’s College in spread-
ing the faith beyond the Adriatic.37 The fact that many of the provi-
sions of the Master Plan affected international colleges sharpened the
belief that two Romes were emerging in the 1930s: one was dedicated to
an international church, while the other wanted to establish Italian
primacy.
Other pontifical institutions were affected by the Master Plan as well.
The most prestigious was the Pontifical Agricultural Institute at Vigna
Pia. Located on the Via Portuense, near the St Paul’s Gate, the land on
which the institute stood was slated to become a public park in keeping
with Mussolini’s dictum to open up Rome to air and sunlight. Founded
128 Roads and Ruins
by Pope Pius IX, the Institute’s mission was to train poor Roman youths
in the art of agriculture. The superior general of the Order of the Holy
Family, which ran the facility, wrote an impassioned plea to Mussolini in
1930, arguing that the institute did not need to be replaced by a park
since it was already providing the ‘healthy fresh air’ which the Duce had
called for in his installation of the Master Plan.38 The institute’s case was
also pleaded by the vicar general of the Roman archdiocese, Cardinal
Pompili, to the Roman governor, Boncompagni-Ludovisi. After giving
a brief history of the institute and the order which administered it, the
cardinal proceeded to remind the governor that the subsoil of the insti-
tute contained catacombs. Not only was this an efficient and modern
institution tracing its heritage to the scientific advancements of the nine-
teenth century, but the zone provided an important historical connec-
tion to the early Christian martyrs. For this reason, argued Pompili, the
institute should not become the victim of demolition, but rather be seen
as a site that could be preserved and built upon: ‘Here is not the place
to demolish, but to amplify and perfect.’39 The institute, according to
the cardinal, had produced great works of civic education, both moral
and intellectual, and was now threatened by the Master Plan. Pompili’s
support for amplifying and perfecting expressed succinctly the Catholic
approach to the Roman landscape. The ideal was to build upon past
eras, or progress to a more perfect order, not subvert and destroy what
had come before. This too, as we shall see, was the basis for the Christian
approach to history.
The potential danger to the catacombs was an especially sensitive issue
between the two sides. The Lateran Accords had assured the Vatican
that the catacombs would be respected, but the regime’s projects such as
the Via Imperiale threatened to undermine the arrangement. This road,
designed to link Rome with the E42, was to pass near the Catacombs of
San Callisto. Its chief architect, Edmondo del Bufalo, had argued that
the route could not be avoided, as any other option would have forced
the road through densely populated suburbs – the same suburbs popu-
lated by those Romans who had lost their homes to the Via dell’Impero.40
Designed to be a city road with highway qualities, the Via Imperiale was a
total of 25 kilometres in length, with an average width of 50 metres.41 As
with all the fascist roads, the Via Imperiale was designed to move traffic
quickly, link Rome with the sea, and provide panoramic views of ancient
Rome. Part of the road had been modified slightly to respect the archae-
ological zone in the south end of the city near the Caracalla baths.42
As soon as the plans for the Via Imperiale were released, the Vatican
through its Apostolic Nunzio protested the road and asked for deviations
to respect the catacombs. It was the Commission for Sacred Archaeol-
ogy that first alerted the Secretary of State to the possible vandalism to
the catacombs, urging the Vatican to make an ‘energetic and resolute’
protest.43 In order to sway the regime, Borgongini Duca tried to convince
the undersecretary of foreign affairs, Buffarini Guidi, that the ancient
Romans had often made new roads bend to respect important tombs,
and these tombs of San Callisto contained the bodies of martyrs and
popes.44 The response of Buffarini Guidi was to simply deny that any
problem existed. The controversy came at a difficult time in Italian–Vati-
can relations, as the Hitler visit was only days away and the pope was
angered by the elaborate ceremony that awaited the German leader.
The angry reaction of the Commission on Sacred Archaeology came
at a time when the Vatican and the fascist regime were developing two
very different approaches to archaeology. Pius XI was increasingly con-
cerned throughout the 1930s that fascist archaeology was attempting to
resurrect the long-buried pagan past of Rome. Speaking to a congress of
doctors in 1935, Pius expressed the concern that topics in the congress
included eugenics and sterilization, blaming the popularity of these top-
ics on the rise of the Third Reich and its attempts to restore ‘full pagan-
ism’ in the lives of both individuals and the community.45 A key element
of the pagan view of history, and one which Pius XI returned to in his
various addresses, was the retrieval of an ideal past and its re-creation
in a modern form.46 Addressing Catholic Action members in 1933, Pius
warned of a new paganism ‘with its horrors and errors,’ accompanied
by ‘material splendour’ like that of ancient Athens and Rome.47 This
veiled reference to the fascist regime’s attempts to revive the grandeur
of ancient Rome was further alluded to in another address to university
students, wherein he condemned scientists who shed too much light on
the ‘creature rather than the creator.’48 This was a form of archaeology
which ignored the intervening centuries. Addressing a congress of Chris-
tian archaeologists in October 1938, five months after Hitler’s visit to
Rome, Pius XI warned of an ‘erroneous archaeology’ which digs only for
‘what is ancient and not what is sacred.’49 Rather than explore the divine
ways of God in history, argued Pius XI, the modern archaeologist looks
for the lost paganism and its heroes, such as Adolf Hitler’s idol, Julian
the Apostate.50
Mussolini’s vision of archaeology was diametrically opposed to that of
the pope. Speaking to the Royal Society of National History in 1927,
Mussolini called for the ruins of antiquity to be liberated from the ‘accu-
130 Roads and Ruins
mulated ugliness of the centuries of abandonment.’51 Only when the

monuments of antiquity are uncovered, argued the fascist dictator, can
one kneel before them in reverence. Mussolini’s ‘pagan’ view of history
was revealed in this desire to retrieve what had been lost in the interven-
ing centuries. The past could be elusive and forever lost, claimed Mus-
solini, who called for discoveries to be photographed immediately since
they could disappear in the light of day.52
Mussolini did not hide the fact that this archaeological vision was an
attack on the Christian heritage of the city. During the work on the Mas-
ter Plan, the fascist dictator had shown impatience at the discovery of
lost Christian churches, brushing them off as irrelevant.53 He also joked
to a local priest that he would lose parishioners as a result of the demo-
litions and the forced eviction of thousands of Romans from the city’s
centre.54 During his feud with Pius XI over the Racial Laws of 1938,
Mussolini often used an archaeological motif to threaten that he would
‘scrape away the crust that envelops Italians and return [them] to their
anticlericalism. The Vatican is composed of men who are mummified
and out of touch.’55 Mussolini’s brother, Arnaldo, had already served
notice to the Vatican in 1927 that the pope would have to get used to a
new Rome ‘which reveals the ancient Roman temples to the admiration
of the world and shows a Rome that will be the centre of new doctrines
appropriate to modern states.’56 Discovering pre-Christian temples was a
goal of fascism’s archaeological excavations in Rome. Speaking in 1928
to an audience of war invalids visiting from Bolzano who had stopped at
the Palazzo Venezia (Mussolini’s headquarters in Rome) before going to
St Peter’s, Mussolini urged them to visit the pagan temples discovered
in the Largo Argentina near the Vatican.57 After all, in the Roman land-
scape, St Peter’s was just one temple among many.
History
At the heart of the dispute between archaeological visions were two dif-
ferent ways of interpreting history through the Roman cityscape. Pius
XI’s well-known love of history was a product of the Romantic nine-
teenth century. Not only was he a great lover of Manzoni’s historical fic-
tion, his understanding of history was also informed by Dante Alighieri’s
Divine Comedy, a work that was ignored until the Romantic nationalists of
the 1800s.58 Long before he became pope, when he ran the Ambrosian
Library in Milan, he had also published several papers on historical top-
ics.59 Pius XI’s view of history was that of a Romantic but also, naturally,
a Christian one, seeing the Incarnation as the moment which abolished

the ‘life without grace’ associated with the pagan world.60 Rome stood at
the heart of this Christian view of history.
Rome’s history, as the centre of Christianity, was one marked by conti-
nuity. In 1925, a year Pius XI had declared as a Holy Year, the pope had
told a group of pilgrims from Cremona that Rome was the ‘motherly
home’ of all Christians, a site which offered a chain of monuments lead-
ing back to Christ through the Apostles, who had made Rome a ‘sacred
soil’ of catacombs on whose foundations were built the great basilicas.61
In Pius XI’s view, the most important moment in that history was the
arrival of the Apostles, especially St Paul, whose work had transformed
Rome from a ‘temporal to a spiritual power.’62 With the arrival of the
Apostles came the transformation of paganism into Christianity. What
was lost in this transformation was, and should be, lost forever in the face
of the transforming power of the Apostles and the martyrs. Pius had no
regrets about the loss of that pagan world, which he described as a ‘mis-
erably degraded society based on the domination by a powerful minority
of the slave-like majority’ that was swept away by the efforts of the Apos-
tles, such as St Paul.63 In other words, what was buried should remain
buried unless it testified to the transforming power of Christianity.
The fear that fascism was attempting to resurrect paganism was con-
firmed by the various letters which came into the Vatican’s Secretariat
of State during the 1930s. As part of the Master Plan, the regime aimed
to restore the ancient Curia Julia in the Roman Forum, which served as
the Senate House for the Roman Republic. Excavating and restoring
the Curia entailed the demolition of the church of San Adriano, which
rested on top of it. The Bishop of Luni, Giovanni Costantini, wrote the
Secretary of State, Eugenio Pacelli, in 1933, recounting how he had tried
to convince the Ministry of National Education that the church symbol-
ized the victory of Christian thought over paganism.64 The demolitions
in and around the Roman Forum, especially during the building of the
Via dell’Impero, had raised fears that the regime would destroy all the
churches and convents in the area, either by outright demolition or by
forcing nearby churches to stay closed during the work. One priest was
concerned that if churches were closed for a period of time, the congre-
gation would not return once they were reopened: ‘We must remain firm
in demanding respect for historic churches … These noble churches
have marked the glorious pages of the history of Papal Rome … Historic
churches must be preserved; the rights of the Church and the Concordat
must be respected.’65
132 Roads and Ruins
On the occasion of the signing of the Lateran Accords, Mussolini

made it clear where he stood on the position of Rome and Christian-
ity, announcing that it was Rome that transformed an obscure Jewish
sect into a universal religion, and not Christianity that sanctified Rome
– a claim which provoked an angry response from the pope.66 Musso-
lini’s interpretation of history closely resembled that of Hitler in that
he saw the grandeur of Rome as independent of Christianity.67 For Hit-
ler, Christianity was an intrusion that ‘set itself systematically to destroy
ancient culture.’68 Hitler compared Christianity to Bolshevism in its role
as destroyer of culture, an opinion he would express during his visit to
the Diocletian Baths Museum during his Roman tour in May 1938.69 Hit-
ler was convinced that the Catholic Church would eventually die out
through the force of evolution. History, in this sense, was nothing more
than the story of civilizations and epochs which rise and fall, a view con-
trary to the Christian, teleological notion of history.
Hitler claimed that Christianity’s destructiveness was mainly due to a
‘Jew,’ Saul of Tarsus, or St Paul, who had distorted Christianity by deny-
ing the ‘Aryan Jesus.’70 It was precisely over the role of St Paul that Hit-
ler’s, Mussolini’s, and Pius XI’s views of history clashed in the days of
the Hitler visit. Whereas Hitler denounced St Paul as the first religious
propagandist, Pius XI saw the apostle as the one responsible for convert-
ing the pagan Romans. Both Hitler and Pius XI agreed that St Paul was
the central figure in transforming ancient Rome, but they disagreed on
the meaning of that transformation.
These interpretations of St Paul were set against the backdrop of a
renewed interest in the apostle in pilgrimages made by the faithful to the
Eternal City in the 1930s. The Jesuit journal Civiltà Cattolica ran a series
of articles on the apostle, noting in one case how the tombs of Saints
Paul and Peter had become major attractions for modern pilgrims. The
Catholic journal thought this significant as the tombs were not ordinary
monuments, appealing simply to curiosity, nor were they only shrines
attracting Catholic devotion. Instead, the tombs ‘attested to the primacy
of Rome’ in turbulent times.71
In 1940, Pius XI’s successor Pius XII, formerly Eugenio Pacelli, the
Secretary of State, began his own search for origins similar to fascism’s
desire to find and resurrect the pagan past. For Pius XII, the goal was to
find the remains of the first pope, St Peter, buried somewhere near the
altar of the Basilica of St Peter. Searching for the bones of Peter symbol-
ized the importance of reaffirming the Apostolic tradition in Rome in
the face of fascism’s desire to return to the pre-Christian city. The last
two years of Pius XI’s pontificate had been marked by a renewed hostility
between the Vatican and the fascist regime over such issues as the Racial
Laws and the evolving friendship between Mussolini and Hitler. Beneath
the surface of these disputes lay the tension over the meaning of Rome.
The Master Plan of 1931 and other fascist projects in the Eternal City
had done great damage to relations between Mussolini and Pius XI.
Both men fantasized about Rome and remaking it in their own image.
For Pius, Rome had to reaffirm itself as a Christian city tracing itself in a
continuous line to the transformative work of the Apostles, an idea that
the church traced back to the era of Pope Leo I and the Iberian writer
Paolo Orosio in the fifth century.72
Mussolini and the fascist movement, by contrast, had an archaic view
of Rome’s historic landscape. Its pre-Christian origins were buried rather
than transformed, waiting to be liberated by the regime. The primordial,
buried underneath the layers of Christianity, needed to be exposed to
the light. For the Christian, part of the charm of Rome was to search for
hidden shrines and small churches built over pagan sites, but some of
these were lost to the pickaxe of the fascist regime, which used archaeol-
ogy as a means of cutting through the ‘crust’ of Christianity to get at the
pagan. Christianity, like the nineteenth century, was an obstacle to the
realization of the fascist landscape. It shared the nineteenth century’s
view of history as progressive, as one epoch building atop another as
it moved towards a definite end. For fascism, salvation lay not in wait-
ing for the end of time, but in the active resurrection of a long-buried
primitivism. The fascist vision was akin to what Mircea Eliade described
as the archaic view of the past. According to Eliade, ‘archaic (or primi-
tive)’ societies seek to repeat past archetypes in an eternal present, thus
eliminating historical time. Christianity, by contrast, which was based on
the messianic vision of Judaism and on the writings of Saints Irenaeus,
Basil, Gregory, and, finally, Augustine, adhered to a ‘linear concep-
tion’ of history. For the Church, history only made sense in the light of
eschatology. Significantly, Pius XI reinforced this eschatological vision in
December 1925 with the encyclical Quas Primas, which established the
feast of Christ the King. According to the Book of Revelation, Christ will
return as king at the end of time. Not only did this encyclical reaffirm the
Church’s linear, eschatological vision; it also made clear who ultimately
ruled on earth. This vision of history seemed behind the times, however.
Linear conceptions of history, argued Eliade, reached their zenith in the
nineteenth century, while the twentieth century, under the influence of
Nietzsche, saw a return of the archaic notions of history.73 The struggle
134 Roads and Ruins
over the Roman landscape between fascism and the Vatican reflected
this general struggle between two visions of history.
Thus Julius Evola, who shared Eliade’s views, by the end of the 1930s
could feel somewhat vindicated. In 1938, when the fascist regime issued
the Racial Laws, which he agreed with, he was giving lectures to the S.S.
in Germany on esoteric traditionalism, which appealed to the Nazi hier-
archy more than it did to Mussolini.74 Evola’s stay in Germany coincided,
however, with the growing affinity between Nazi Germany and fascist
Italy and the possibility of one of Evola’s great dreams: the restoration
of the Ghibelline alliance against the Guelphs. This period of medieval
history seemed on the verge of resurrection through the Rome-Berlin
Axis. What made this possibility more compelling was consecration of
the Axis, much to the horror of Pius XI, on the fascist landscape of Rome
in May 1938.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Return of the Roman
I had been in the capital only a few months [and] that sudden encounter
with the triumphalism of the regime and of a capital overcoming its tra-
ditional inferiority with respect to Germany left my fragile youth with my
heart in my throat. I believed in everything. I believed that the two revo-
lutions were forged into a common destiny; that indissoluble ideological,
political, and military links existed between the two leaders and that their
concordance would sweep away the old democracies.1
Thus wrote Nino Tripodi, a future supporter of neo-fascism, on witness-

ing the triumphal visit of Adolf Hitler to Rome in May 1938. That week,
Italy and the world were treated to an unprecedented spectacle. Rome,
the Eternal City, city of popes, was transformed into a stage ready to greet
the dictator of Germany. Although the German leader would visit Flor-
ence and Naples during his week in Italy, Rome was his base to which he
would return, spending the majority of his time there. For the occasion,
the fascist regime spared nothing in its decoration of the Eternal City,
filling the streets of Rome with thousands of swastikas and fasces. Light
standards were placed on all of Hitler’s routes, and the monuments of
Rome were floodlit, giving Rome an unprecedented illumination. A new
railway station, the Stazione Ostiense, was constructed to greet Hitler. No
expense was spared in transforming Rome into a fascist spectacle.
Not only was Hitler to see the adornments and flags put in place for
the occasion, but he was also to experience the new shape of Rome
after nearly a decade of the fascist regime’s massive transformation of
the Eternal City. For several days, Hitler would crisscross the city on the
regime’s new boulevards, feast his eyes on the isolated ruins of antiquity,
and gaze upon the Rome of the Master Plan. More than a stage, Rome
136 Roads and Ruins
became the leading protagonist in this orgy of fascist spectacle. This was
the opportunity for Mussolini to show that he was a new Caesar, that
Imperial Rome was once again resurrected, and that the massive demoli-
tions of the preceding years had revived a Rome that was seemingly lost
to history.
Retrieving a buried past constituted one of the goals of fascism’s
remaking of Rome. The Catholic writer G.K. Chesterton noted in a visit
to Rome in the 1930s how the Eternal City was witnessing one of its occa-
sional ‘resurrections,’ this one under the fascist regime: ‘What I saw writ-
ten across Rome was resurgam.’2 Chesterton was convinced that fascism
represented the ‘return of the Romans.’ This was a city ‘where the dead
are alive … where the past can actually return to the present.’3 Through-
out his visit, Chesterton was haunted by the ‘sense of secret things thrust-
ing upwards from below.’4 Chesterton saw the fascist project of retrieving
the pagan past as central to its interventions on the Roman cityscape.
This is what distinguished it from the Catholic Church, which had always
built on top of paganism, thus transforming the pagan past into some-
thing new. Christianity could shine a light on paganism, argued Chester-
ton, and could afford to place a cross on top of an obelisk, as in Piazza
del Popolo, and build churches atop pagan temples in the knowledge
that it was a ‘superior religion.’ Hence, a church could be named Santa
Maria sopra Minerva (St Mary atop Minerva).5
While gazing at Rome from the Pincio gardens overlooking Piazza del
Popolo, Chesterton turned his thoughts to the Great War and its role in
resurrecting Rome. If the Romans had returned in the guise of fascism,
then the war was the agent for turning Europe back on its head after
centuries of being ‘upside down.’ History was no longer about progress
in the postwar world, it was about a return to origins: ‘What has really
happened in the world since the War … is the reawakening of old places
and the return to old shrines.’6 ‘A wind of death is coming,’ predicted
Chesterton, ‘in which only the very old will not die … Modern madness
and treason and anarchy have brought forth, not ancient Roman statues,
but ancient Romans.’7
The chronicler of Roman fascism, Domenico Maria Leva, would cer-
tainly have agreed with Chesterton. Published the year of Mussolini’s
fall from power, Leva’s book on the history of the movement in Rome
claimed that the Italians were the people best suited for resurrecting
pagan glories as they were the ‘possible heirs of the refugees from Atlan-
tis.’ Italians were a people, therefore, from the depths of the sea, which
explained Mussolini’s appeal to the ‘deep and mysterious currents’ of
the Italians.8
Return of the Roman 137
Chesterton, like many of his contemporaries, was fascinated by the

return of the ancients in modern forms, and it was in fascist Rome that
this feeling came to be strongest. Proof of this came in Mussolini’s black-
shirts, with their Roman salutes and carrying of lictors. In France many
leading intellectuals, including those on the left such as Georges Bataille,
were also increasingly enthralled by the spectacle of new regimes such
as the Nazis reviving mythology for the purpose of ‘rejecting history
and exalting origins’ in order to create a ‘new mysticism.’9 The spectre
of returning Romans, of things long suppressed surging to the surface
in the late 1930s, haunted the imagination of Simone Weil, the frail,
French-Jewish philosopher who wrote in early 1940 that the Nazis were
not the embodiment of the ancient German barbarians, but nothing less
than a reincarnation of the Imperial Romans. She claimed that the Nazis
had rediscovered the ‘peculiar art of the Romans … of imposing submis-
sion by terror and prestige rather than by effective power.’10 Prestige was
the central pillar of fascist spectacle, especially in the Hitler visit of 1938,
which aimed at exalting the power and prestige of Nazism and fascism,
two ideologies which appeared to be at the pinnacle of success in the late
1930s. For Weil, the Nazis and the Italian fascists were simply continu-
ing what the ancient Romans had started in their wars over Poland and
Albania. Barbarism, Weil warned, has always existed beneath the illusion
of progress and civilization, and is a ‘permanent and universal human
characteristic, which becomes more or less pronounced according to the
play of circumstances.’11
Dreams of a return of the long-suppressed past inflamed the support-
ers of a Nazi-fascist alliance in 1938 in the days of the visit. For those
hoping that fascism would finally reach its potential of restoring Impe-
rial Rome, such as Julius Evola, a new Ghibelline alliance was at hand.
In his lost cantos written in 1944, the eccentric, pro-Axis, American poet
Ezra Pound envisioned the Second World War as a reincarnation of the
Guelph-Ghibelline struggles of the thirteenth century. Mussolini, for
Pound, was a new Ezzelino da Romano to Hitler’s Frederick II.12 Pound
dreamed that a new Ghibelline alliance would ‘revive pagan vitality and
beauty after their millennial suffocation by Hebraized Christianity.’13
Pound’s fantasies of a neo-Ghibelline alliance were no doubt stoked
by the spectacle of the Hitler visit of 1938. It was here that fascism made
its claim on the city of the Catholic Church, capping the long struggle
shown in the previous chapter. The hopes, fantasies, and fears that Nazi
Germany and fascist Italy had resurrected a long dormant past, wheth-
er it was that of Imperial Rome or the Ghibelline alliance against the
papacy, could be found in the days Hitler spent in Rome in May 1938.
138 Roads and Ruins
The lavish spectacle presented to him during the event accentuated the
landscape of the city. More than Hitler, however, Rome was the star of
the show.
The spectacle surrounding Hitler’s visit only confirmed these fears and
hopes – depending on the political sympathies – of those who saw in the
dictators a return of the repressed. Whatever the visit was supposed to be,
it was clearly intended as something beyond traditional diplomacy. The
visit was given a surreal quality by the mystical atmosphere which greeted
Hitler’s arrival on 3 May in the new, purposely built railway station, the
Stazione Ostiense. Arriving at night, Hitler was greeted with a ‘phan-
tasmagoric’ Rome illuminated by floodlights and candles. Although the
visit was diplomatic, Hitler’s arrival had nothing of the diplomatic about
it. It was conceived rather as spectacle cum religious ceremony. This was
not simply a meeting between two statesmen, as had occurred in Venice
in 1934 when the Duce and Führer met for the first time. The German
dictator’s visit to Rome was similar to the spectacle that had greeted Mus-
solini in Germany the previous September. It was on the way back from
that visit the Mussolini decided to treat Hitler to a similar spectacle, only
this time with the Eternal City as the stage.
More than a stage, however, Rome became in the first week of May
1938 the protagonist. When Pius XI called the preparations for the visit
an ‘apotheosis,’ he was pointing out the obvious fact that the German
dictator was transformed by the Roman landscape from a foreign head
of state to a world-historical figure.14 The agent for this apotheosis was
not the fascist regime, but the city of Rome. If Rome had made Christi-
anity, according to Mussolini, then Rome would also make Hitler and,
hopefully, the new Axis. Fascist Rome, its roads and ruins, was the land-
scape which transfixed the gaze of the German dictator. This chapter
will show that the Hitler visit was not mere diplomacy, but a religious
spectacle played out on that most religious of cities: Rome.
The fascist press portrayed the visit as such, focusing on the role played
by the Eternal City as the site of a new destiny forged between the two
nations, and treating the visit as a sacred rather than diplomatic event.
The dominant motifs of the visit were not agreements or diplomatic pro-
tocols, but history, monuments, roads, crowds, and motion. Il Giornale
described the historic centre as a massive theatre to which thousands of
Romans came from all parts of the city in order to partake of the ‘festi-
val.’15 From the moment it was decided that Hitler was to visit the Italian
capital, the fascist regime designed it as an example of fascist spectacle.
There were several reasons for doing this: first, to imitate the spectacle of
Mussolini’s visit to Germany in September 1937; second, to masquerade

some of the less flattering sections of Rome that would be visible from
Hitler’s train; and third, to impress the German leader with the vitality
and force of fascist Italy. Finally, the spectacle was designed to emphasize
that this was an ideological, not a diplomatic, visit.
Preparations for Hitler’s visit began as soon as Mussolini returned from
his visit to Germany in September 1937. On that occasion, the Duce had
been impressed by the image presented to him of the Reich.16 Speaking
to the Frankische Zeitung on his return to Italy, Mussolini noted that this
visit was not a typical diplomatic visit where, despite much fanfare, ‘eve-
rything remained exactly as before.’17 Determined that Hitler’s return
visit would not be an ordinary visit where nothing changed, Mussolini
appointed a planning commission in January 1938 chaired by Foreign
Minister Galeazzo Ciano which included, among others, Fascist Party
secretary Achille Starace, and the minister of popular culture, Dino Alfi-
eri.18 That this was not to be an ordinary state visit was proved by the
depth of planning and detail involved. As soon as Hitler crossed into
Italy at the Brenner Pass, an impressive machinery of organization was
to take over every minute of the visit. One American journalist did not
exaggerate when he reported that ‘along every inch of Hitler’s route he
will get an eyeful of the new Italy at its proudest.’19
In the months preceding the visit, commission members inspected dif-
ferent sections of the railroad tracks between the Brenner Pass and Rome
and between Rome and Naples. Security was a main concern for these
inspections but even more significant were the aesthetics. Commission
members were especially concerned about signs of urban degradation.
The section of track between Rome and Naples was troublesome in this
respect. No fewer than sixteen trouble spots were noted on this line, the
worst being an industrial dump near the town of Torricola. ‘Indecorous
houses’ also lined the track between the villages of Campoleone and
Cisterna.20 The track between Rome and Florence was similarly flagged
because of a series of ‘non-aesthetic’ buildings.
Special attention was given to the approaches to Termini Station in
Rome. On his first night, Hitler was to arrive in the newly constructed
Ostiense Station to the southwest of the city, but on his trips to Naples
and Florence his train would use the Termini Station. Generally disliked
for its garish architectural style, Termini was also inconveniently located
at the point where the working-class San Lorenzo quarter met with the
nineteenth-century quarter. Neglected by the regime because of its left-
wing character, San Lorenzo had become a slum, while a part of it had
140 Roads and Ruins
been demolished to make way for the University of Rome. The commit-
tee that inspected this section of the track urged the city of Rome to
clean up the five to six kilometres leading into the station. According to
the committee’s report, Rome had to eliminate ‘the contrast between
the grandiosity of the ancient ruins and the ugly look of certain rundown
houses and of some façades devoid of colour and reduced to desolate
mosaics of cracking plaster.’21
With time running short, the commission proposed different aesthetic
solutions to these problems. The worst cases of degradation had to be
masked by billboards which carried either propaganda or advertising.
The latter solution was preferred, as private companies would cover the
expense. In less dire cases, owners were told to repaint their houses to
make them worthy of Hitler’s gaze. No expense was spared to show Hit-
ler and the Germans an Italy of order and cleanliness. In this way, the
preparations for the visit were an extension of the Master Plan of 1931,
with its obsessions over hygiene. The link between the Hitler visit and
the remaking of the Roman landscape by fascism were hinted at clearly.
Another means of masquerading unpleasant sights was the abundant
use of flags, which lined the entire train route. The commission pains-
takingly detailed the position of every flag on the route, with ‘artistically
placed’ banners adorning every building in Hitler’s line of sight.22 The
commission planned for 11,671 Italian flags and 11,264 German flags
to be flown along the route.23 The near identical number of German
and Italian flags sent a clear message of unity between the two nations.
Significantly, the only place where Italian flags clearly outnumbered the
swastika was in the Tyrolian capital of Bolzano, a city which contained
a high number of ethnic Germans. The number of flags was important
in the symbolism of the visit. Diplomats had made note of the great
number of flags used for the Yugoslav prime minister’s visit to Berlin the
year before, and the great sea of flags that had decorated Vienna in the
days of the Anschluss.24 As with the flags, a precise number of people were
decreed for each station, leaving the local prefects with the responsibility
of rounding them up. The presence of cheering crowds at all the sta-
tions at which Hitler’s train stopped amplified this impression of unity.
The commission wanted Hitler to see at least one million Italians on the
route.25 The traditionally left-wing city of Bologna was asked to provide
the largest crowd, 60,000, while fascist-friendly Florence was asked for
only 15,000.26 The hope was that this mass of people would offer Hitler
‘the spectacle of one uninterrupted manifestation of enthusiasm and
cordiality.’27
The ubiquity of the swastika along the route dispelled any sense of
border or frontier between the two countries and presented to Italians
and Germans the image of an unbroken axis. The train route, which cut
through the Tyrol, was the physical manifestation of the axis between the
two countries, thus rendering this disputed region a non-issue. The Tyrol
was a site of tension in the days leading up to the visit as a result of the
Anschluss. Riots broke out in the region on the occasion of Hitler’s birth-
day, 20 April, while Italians were afraid that the fascist regime was about
to hand over the Tyrol to the German Reich during the visit. German
diplomatic archives show that the Germans were sensitive to the problem
and that the Italians had to receive assurances of the inviolability of the
Brenner frontier.28 The symbolism of the visit went further than this,
however. The sense of a frontier or border was eliminated altogether,
and the fact that the duke of Pistoia, and not Mussolini, met Hitler at the
Brenner suggested that the border was less important than the ultimate
destination in Rome, where Mussolini would greet the German leader.
Another important reason for the exaggerated spectacle was simply to
impress Hitler. Mussolini had known for years that Hitler had an obses-
sion with Rome. Even before Hitler was appointed chancellor in 1933,
Mussolini was made aware of the Austrian’s Roman dreams through his
contact with Hitler, Giuseppe Renzetti. In 1931 and 1932 Renzetti trans-
mitted to Mussolini Hitler’s requests to visit the Duce in Rome. Hitler, in
fact, had requested a visit in July 1932, just days before the German presi-
dential elections. In his description of Hitler, Renzetti laid the founda-
tions for the 1938 visit: ‘Hitler is a vegetarian and he does not drink wine.
He adores music and would like to visit, if it is not too hot, the monu-
ments and museums of Rome. He is very impressionable and a warm
welcome could leave a lasting effect on him. He speaks only German.’29
Clearly, leaving a lasting effect on Hitler was of paramount importance
for the fascist regime, and his days in Rome were carefully designed to
cater to his own tastes. In later years, Hitler recalled fondly the visit to
Italy, expressing a desire to live there in anonymity as a painter.30 During
the visit he frequently commented on ‘sunny Italy’ and the elegance of
the ladies walking on the Via Veneto.31 ‘Rome captivated me,’ recalled
Hitler.32 Urbanist Antonio Muñoz saw Hitler as a German artist following
in the footsteps of Goethe, coming to Italy for inspiration.33 The tradi-
tion of Germans coming to Italy was a favourite theme of Mussolini’s. On
the occasion of Goethe’s centenary in 1932, Mussolini delivered a speech
to the Institute of Italo-Germanic Culture in which he spoke of Goethe’s
need to ‘descend into the depths of his soul to discover his vocation.’34
142 Roads and Ruins
Italy was necessary for the German, said the director of the Institute in
a follow-up speech, as the nostalgia for Italy was innate in the German
soul. During the visit Hitler saw himself in the same way, as irresistibly
drawn to Italy. Reminiscing about his visit in the 1940s, Hitler blamed
the Jews for preventing the natural alliance between Germany and Italy.35
The German, argued Hitler, had always looked south rather than east for
inspiration.36 Hitler then was not just an ordinary visitor, but the latest in
a long line of German travellers longing for Italy. The fascist regime was
ready to transform Hitler into a new Goethe admiring the Eternal City.
This time, however, it was not papal city that would welcome these Ger-
man travellers, but the city built by Mussolini.
The Itinerary
The LUCE documentary made for the visit opens the account of Hitler’s
first full day in dramatic fashion; it shows his motorcade blasting out of
the Quirinal Palace at full speed.37 The message was clear, that Hitler was
in Rome not as a tourist but in a manner fitting for the arditi. The itiner-
ary of his first day resembled an expedition of the squadristi for its speed
and intensity. It was Balbo’s ‘ring of fire’ without the fire. Appropriately,
the day began with a stop at one of Rome’s most prominent ancient
monuments, the Pantheon, where the German leader laid a wreath at
the tomb of King Victor Emmanuel II. Hitler was far more interested in
the architecture of the building and the fact that Raphael, the painter,
was buried there.38 When he made a second, private, visit to the Pan-
theon later in the visit, the newspapers remarked how he lingered for an
extended period of time at the tomb of the painter.39 The fact that the
Pantheon was also a church was hardly remarked upon. The next stop
was the monument dedicated to Victor Emmanuel in Piazza Venezia,
where another wreath was laid at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. A
visit to the Fascist Party headquarters on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele
and the monument to fascist martyrs completed Hitler’s wreath-laying
duties for the day. The morning ended with a private meeting with Mus-
solini in the Palazzo Venezia.
The structure of the itinerary carefully followed the fascist interpre-
tation of Italian history, beginning with unification and ending with
fascism via the Unknown Soldier. The tour began with homage to the
Italian king who united the country and ended in the Duce’s office –
the supposed centre of power in the new Italy. This ideal tour through
Italian history was continued in the afternoon, when Hitler was taken to
the airfield in Centocelle (a suburb south of Rome) to assist at a massive

parade of fifty thousand fascist youth.40 In order to reach the airfield,
Hitler was taken along the ancient Roman Appian Way, the route used
by triumphant Roman armies marching back from distant conquests. In
one stroke, Hitler moved from the current leader of fascist Italy to its
future via the frame of Rome’s ancient glory. This was a masterful use by
the regime of Rome’s various historical associations.
War loomed large during Hitler’s Italian stay. On 5 May, the visit’s sec-
ond full day, Hitler witnessed an impressive display by the Italian navy
in Naples Bay. The next day, back in Rome, Hitler reviewed a colossal
parade of over thirty thousand by the combined armed forces on the
Via dei Trionfi, one of the boulevards constructed by the regime at the
foot of the Palatine Hill underneath the ruins of the Emperors’ palaces.
The parade included Libyan cavalry, in keeping with the theme of Africa
which pervaded the entire visit.41 The next day at Furbara, outside Rome,
Hitler watched a display by the Italian air force where actual bombs were
dropped on the empty field by three hundred airplanes.42 Later that day
he was taken to another field at Santa Marinella to watch an infantry
exercise, which also involved actual artillery fire and assaults on fixed
positions: ‘Artillery, mortars, and machine guns will use real bullets,’
exclaimed the official guide for the visit.43 Designed to show Italy’s mili-
tary might, these exercises undoubtedly appealed to Hitler’s fascination
with war.44
The military exercises caught the attention of the foreign media,
something that the regime was keen to do. Bianchi Bandinelli, the Ital-
ian art professor assigned to be Hitler’s tour guide, noted how Mussolini
was conscious of foreign opinion during Hitler’s stay.45 Because of the
visit, Rome had become the centre of international attention.46 After the
event concluded, Life magazine published a photo spread of the naval
and military exercises. The exercises were impressive for their ‘realism’
and for demonstrating the ‘awful patterns of death and destruction that
thousands of men and hundreds of guns can paint on a field of battle.’47
While remaining sceptical of Hitler’s popularity among Italians, the
New York Times remarked upon the military exercises, which seemed like
‘dress rehearsals, more terrifying as they become more perfect.’48 The
Times had already realized that the Hitler visit was ‘not merely show’ and
that the impressive retinue of military officials who accompanied Hitler
was an ominous portent.49 A demonstration of power was a key motif
of the visit. The journal of the GUF, Roma Fascista, predicted that Italy
would offer Hitler a Nietzschian demonstration of its ‘will to power.’50
144 Roads and Ruins
Hitler’s other great love, art, also figured prominently in the visit.
Although Mussolini had little love for art, he knew of Hitler’s passion
for it and ensured that the German leader was provided with a full tour
of Rome’s artistic heritage. While in Rome, Hitler took in the Borghese
Museum and the Museo delle Terme, located in the bowels of the Dio-
cletian baths. Hitler was also shown the Capitoline museums next to the
city hall. The Bernini fountains and palazzi, designed by Michelangelo,
filled his days as well. The guidebook given to Italian and Nazi officials
for the visit amply outlined the archaeological and artistic artefacts that
confronted Hitler. Even while reviewing the military parade on the Via
dei Trionfi, the Nazi leader’s gaze would be met, according to the guide,
by the ‘frontal view of the Palatine Hill’ and its majestic ruins.51 Thus, art
and war merged seamlessly.
The art that most appealed to Hitler, architecture, filled his gaze.
Not only did Hitler see the ruins of antiquity, but he was also shown the
present architectural and urban accomplishments of the regime. Dur-
ing his final day in Rome, Hitler saw the Foro Mussolini, the complex
of buildings and sport stadiums built at the foot of Monte Mario dedi-
cated to the March on Rome. Inaugurated in 1932, the Foro Mussolini
included an obelisk with the words ‘Mussolini Dux’ emblazoned on it.
His motorcade route on the final day ensured that Hitler also had a
look at the Marcello Piacentini–designed University of Rome in the San
Lorenzo quarter. Together, the Foro Mussolini and the university pro-
vided the best examples of fascist architecture in Rome. Hitler’s itiner-
ary made extensive use of the new roads built by the regime under the
Master Plan of 1931. At various times during the visit, he saw the recently
excavated Teatro Marcello, the Tomb of Augustus, and the Imperial and
Republican fora.
The Via del Mare, Via dell’Impero, and Via dei Trionfi provided the
highways and theatres for the visit. Hitler, who had a great love for open
roads, no doubt appreciated these wide boulevards carved out by the
regime amid the ruins of antiquity.52 He saw the autobahns of Germany
as ‘aesthetic monuments.’53 The roads also allowed Hitler to indulge in
his favourite pastime, riding in an automobile.54 He came to the right
place in 1938. Road building was fascism’s art par excellence and Hitler’s
entourage was made to see every kilometre of road built by the regime
in Rome. These were the real attractions of the visit. So prominent were
the roads that Hitler spent most of his time in the car. He would later
comment that he regretted not being able to linger at the city’s monu-
ments; ‘regrettably I saw the monuments only fleetingly.’55 His beloved
Mercedes-Benz would log hundreds of kilometres during his stay, keep-

ing him far from the crowds and better able to focus on the monuments.
Hitler’s guide, Bianchi Bandinelli, would later write how Hitler was fur-
ther removed from the crowds during his time in Rome because of the
wider boulevards compared to Florence’s.56 The substantial time spent
on the boulevards made Hitler nervous about potential threats from the
crowds. The king would later confide to Marshall Enrico Caviglia about
Hitler’s fears on the Via dell’Impero:
When Hitler came to Rome he must have been very worried about his safety
and his life. Naturally the police had taken all precautions. Yet, while mov-
ing along the Via dell’Impero, near the ruins of Servius Tullius, he saw
some girls and young women who had their eyes fixed on us. Hitler never
let them out of his sight, looking at them suspiciously as if he feared an
attack from them. He was very agitated.57
Hitler feared an ambush just like the blackshirts before 1922, for the
open road was a place of triumph but also one of possible death. Bianchi
Bandinelli almost fulfilled this threat when he later wrote that the enor-
mous amount of time spent on Rome’s boulevards gave him the possibil-
ity of making slight modifications to the itinerary by suggesting a pause
at some monument or panorama, and thus setting up Hitler for assas-
sination. This was possible because Bianchi Bandinelli was never placed
under surveillance before the visit, even though he claimed to associate
with anti-fascists.58
The Duce’s Rome
The morning after Hitler’s arrival, the fascist party’s newspaper, Il Popolo
d’Italia, exclaimed that the German leader had seen the ‘Rome of Mus-
solini, which is masculine and warrior-like.’59 Although Hitler indeed
came to see Mussolini’s Rome, protocol for the visit demanded that the
king play a prominent role. In later years, Hitler remarked on the sour
note provided by the king and the aristocracy during the Italian visit.60
He was never comfortable in the king’s presence and was contemptu-
ous of the courtiers.61 Mussolini also recalled with some discomfort the
fact that Hitler rode with the king during his triumphant entrance into
Rome. After Mussolini greeted the Nazi leader at the train station, he was
forced to take the back roads of Rome through the working-class Testac-
cio neighbourhood in order not to interfere with Hitler’s procession
146 Roads and Ruins
through the historic centre. It was a bitter pill for Mussolini to swallow,
knowing that it was the king escorting Hitler on fascism’s boulevards,
while he had to speed through the narrow, jagged streets of the Testac-
cio. Mussolini took comfort in the fact that the ‘Führer intended to visit
the Duce’s Rome above all.’62
The omnipresence of the king and his court provided a constant
reminder of the liberal Rome that fascism had tried hard to eradicate.
Hitler’s entourage would also acquire an intense dislike of the monarchy,
describing the institution throughout the visit in terms that recalled fas-
cism’s description of liberal Rome. Ribbentrop told Ciano at one point
that the monarchy was a ‘mouldy’ institution that disliked revolutionary
regimes such as the fascist one and ‘parvenus’ such as Hitler.63 Rudolf
Hess and Heinrich Himmler compared the atmosphere of the Quirinal
Palace to an ‘old film set’ in contrast to the ‘air of revolution’ sweeping
through Palazzo Venezia.64 Ciano would express frustration in his diary
at the tendency of the king and his courtiers to gossip about Hitler and
his alleged drug use and other strange goings-on while they were staying
at the Quirinal Palace. Ciano was convinced that the king was telling
tales about his unwanted guest in order to undermine the impact of the
visit.65 In all this there were echoes of the intrigues of liberal Italy.
The Hitler visit raised uncomfortable memories of liberal Italy and
made Mussolini conscious of the restrictions that the presence of the king
placed on his regime. Not surprisingly, the regime began to move against
the monarchy in the months following the visit. The PNF secretary, Achille
Starace, who choreographed the fascist party rallies, was the instrument
behind these manoeuvres after May 1938.66 The Hitler visit was a catalyst
for this, as Nazi Germany was increasingly the model the fascist regime
looked towards. Giuseppe Bottai remarked in his diary in July 1938 that
‘Nazi Germany appears to have become the benchmark for our fascist
faith. A trip to Germany is a feather-in-the-cap for party functionaries hop-
ing to advance.’67 As early as June, Bottai wrote that the ‘problem of the
relationship between king and Duce has taken on a certain vogue.’68 This
development was also noticed by monarchist and fascist sympathizers out-
side the government. Luigi Federzoni, a monarchist and former cabinet
minister, became increasingly disillusioned with the regime in 1938 when
it began moving against the monarchy.69 The lingering presence of liberal
Rome thus pushed the regime to rediscover the iconoclastic fervour of its
early years. Hitler’s presence in Rome also raised tensions with that other
custodian of the Roman cityscape, the Vatican.
Not the Cross of Christ
Decorating the streets of Rome with swastikas made a profound impact

on Pope Pius XI. The pontiff was not insulted by Hitler’s visit to Rome
but by the adornment of the Eternal City to greet the German leader. It
was the physical appearance of Rome during the visit that deeply offend-
ed Pius and brought to a head the increasing divide between the Vatican
and the fascist regime over the Roman cityscape. It also sharpened rela-
tions between the papacy and the Nazi government that began when
Pius XI issued his encyclical Mit brennender Sorge (With Burning Sorrow)
the previous year, an encyclical that condemned the racial policies of
the Nazi regime. What angered Pius XI in the spring of 1938 was the
presence of the swastika on all the major streets of Rome. For the pope,
the extent to which the fascist regime went in displaying a cross that was
‘not the cross of Christ’ was tantamount to an apotheosis of the German
visitor.
The pope’s anger at the flags was piqued when the Roman newspapers
announced that the Via della Conciliazione was included in one of the
itineraries and that both public and private buildings on the road had to
display the flags of Italy and Germany. The Via della Conciliazione was
the great boulevard built by the regime to commemorate the signing
of the Lateran Accords of 1929 and included several pontifical institu-
tions. Pius instructed his secretary of state to refuse the request, adding
that Mussolini be given the following message from him: ‘It would cause
great displeasure to the Holy Father who was once assured that nothing
would ever be done to cause him displeasure. His Holiness would like
to know if the apotheosis granted to this sworn enemy of the Catholic
Church [Hitler] is not a violation of Article 1 of the Concordat and of
common sense.’70
The Apostolic Nunzio to Italy, Borgongini Duca, would repeat the
charge about Hitler in a meeting with the fascist undersecretary of the
foreign affairs, Buffarini Guidi: ‘I told him that the man for whom such
great festivities are being organized is the greatest persecutor of the
Church. I told him in confidence that the Holy Father had recently been
driven to tears by events in Germany and Austria.’71 Clearly, the Roman
cityscape’s role in celebrating Hitler caused the pope great discomfort,
as the Eternal City was being used to exalt an anti-Catholic statesman.
The fascist regime agreed to drop the Via della Conciliazione from
the visit, but insisted that it be well lit. Pius XI’s response was to leave the
148 Roads and Ruins
city for the duration of the German leader’s stay. In the months preced-
ing the visit, the Vatican had expressed a willingness to set up a meeting
between Hitler and the pope, but the Germans refused, arguing that the
purpose of the visit was an ideological one and that a meeting would be
‘impossible.’72 Not all Catholics were happy with the pope’s decision.
One anonymous letter to the Secretariat of State in the Vatican urged
Pius XI to stay in the Eternal City and not leave the city to the exaltation
of ‘anti-Christian and anti-Latin Germanism.’73
Acknowledging the vexed relations with the Vatican, Hitler’s Roman
itineraries studiously ignored Papal Rome. Not mentioned once in the
official guide was the dome of St. Peter’s, even though Hitler’s car passed
close to it on several occasions. In fact, very few churches made it on the
tour guide and the few that did were there only for artistic, not religious,
reasons. Hitler did not visit the interior of any church in Rome except
for the Pantheon which had been converted to a church and a mauso-
leum for the royal family. All this did not go unnoticed, eliciting com-
ment especially in the French press. Louis Gillet wrote, ‘One could enter
any parish and listen to the long prayers of the Rosary offered in repara-
tion of this outrage.’74 Ignore it he might, but Hitler was surrounded by
Christian iconography everywhere he turned. The Quirinal Palace, for
example, was full of Christian imagery. Now the residence of the king,
the Quirinale was, before 1870, a residence of the pope. Religious paint-
ings hung on the walls of Hitler’s apartments, leading Gillet to write glee-
fully in the Revue des Deux Mondes of ‘the revenge of piety on paganism.’75
Prophet, Priest, God
Adolf Hitler was meant to see a specific landscape, the landscape cre-
ated by the fascist regime since 1922. The regime did not use the visit as
an opportunity to sign new treaties, which confirmed its purpose as pri-
marily ideological rather than diplomatic. What then was the meaning
of this spectacle? Why did the regime go to such extraordinary lengths
to welcome a leader who was not generally popular among the Italian
public, and raised potential problems with the Germans who lived in the
Tyrol? The reason for such an effort was to display the new Rome and to
inaugurate the Eternal City as the new caput mundi, whose purpose was
to spread the gospel of fascism. Long before the event the newspaper of
the fascist unions, Il Lavoro Fascista, exclaimed that the visit was creating
a new political and moral conception of history: ‘Hitler and Mussolini
have revealed to all … a profound and, let us say, religious concept of
life.’76 Mussolini and Hitler were not merely politicians, continued the
editorial; ‘their wills converge in an absolute solitude of spirit, their goals
are on the distant horizon, their decisions irrevocable.’77 Even foreign
observers such as Gillet could not help but notice the religious aura that
surrounded the visit. Trying to explain how Hitler, a visiting head of
state, did not meet with the pontiff while in Rome, Gillet concluded that
the German leader was no mere leader and that the problems he had
with the pope were not the usual conflict between secular and religious
leaders: ‘What complicates the issue is that this is a quarrel between two
spiritual powers. Mr Hitler is a religious personality. He is more than a
prophet; he is a founder of a religion. He is a priest. He is a god. For him,
the Pope is a rival for souls. A god is by nature jealous. He will not share
with other gods. He will never allow competition from other gods. To
him alone is owed everything.’78 The visit seemed to consecrate the new
religion of fascism and the person of Adolf Hitler, a process that began
as soon as the German leader set foot on Roman soil.
Hitler’s entry into Rome resembled that of a conquering hero, leading
some to see him as a reincarnation of the Holy Roman emperor Charles
V, who made an equally triumphant entrance through St Paul’s gate in
1536.79 Leo Longanesi wrote in his memoir that this was the greatest
greeting given to any foreign leader since that visit. Mussolini, like Pope
Paul III in the sixteenth century, wanted to amaze this German leader by
knocking down houses and opening up grand boulevards.80 The import
of the occasion was noted in Galeazzo Ciano’s diary entry for 3 May 1938,
which simply stated, ‘Arrival of the Führer.’81 It was the only entry for the
day – the only one that mattered. That night, Hitler’s train steamed into
the new Ostiense Station purposely built for the visit. The station, an
example of architectural modernism, was located outside the St Paul’s
Gate, to the southwest of the historic centre. The site was ideal, as it
allowed Hitler the chance to ride along the new imperial avenues built
by the fascist regime through the centre of the city. After detraining at
Ostiense, Hitler rode into the city in a horse-drawn carriage accompa-
nied by King Victor Emmanuel III. The New York Times noted with some
irony that ‘Chancellor A. Hitler, exponent of the airplane and automo-
bile, will return to the horse and buggy era.’82 The fact that Hitler had
to enter the city in a manner which suited the monarchy was compen-
sated for by the entry point and itinerary of that first night in Rome. The
choice of this entrance gave the regime the opportunity to show Hitler
a fascist view of the city. Had Hitler entered via the Termini Station, he
would have seen the less inspiring nineteenth-century quarter of Rome
150 Roads and Ruins
built by the liberal monarchy in the years following the Risorgimento.83

What Hitler saw instead was the imposing St Paul’s Gate flanked by the
massive Pyramid of Caius Cestius. Once through the gate, Hitler was sud-
denly confronted with the Obelisk of Axium, stolen by the regime after
the conquest of Ethiopia, followed by the majestic ruins of the imperial
palaces on the Palatine Hill. Now, on the avenues that fascism built, the
Via dei Trionfi and the Via dell’Impero, Hitler went under the Arch of
Constantine, then past the Coliseum and the Imperial Fora. Thus, in
his first minutes in Rome Hitler was immediately shown the imperial
grandeur of the Eternal City, both of the recent fascist empire and the
ancient Roman one.
What elevated the entrance to mystical, religions status was the use of
lighting. According to Il Messaggero, some 3500 kilowatts of light pour-
ing out of 300 candelabra awaited Hitler’s carriage as it entered the
city.84 The results stunned even Romans, long accustomed to political
and papal pageantry. Leo Longanesi noted years later the impact of the
entrance on Romans who were shown the familiar landscape of Rome
in a new way. Longanesi’s description of the scene is worth quoting in
full:
Rome was transformed into a vast operatic stage so that, at night, the Führer
could admire a spectacle worthy of Nero: the Coliseum launched flames
from its falling arches, the pines radiated green and yellow lights which
made them appear crystalline, the Arch of Constantine appeared phos-
phorous, and ruins of the Forum emanated reflections of silver. Coloured
vapours of magnesium and mercury rose up to the sky, and red gas flames
flickered atop large plaster tripods. All the resources of cinema and theatre
were put into operation. Romans, with mouths wide open, surrounded the
wide, imperial avenues, incredulous at the richness of their city, and admir-
ing its splendour.85
Foreign observers were taken aback by the spectacle as well. Louis

Gillet was especially amazed by the massive candelabra which lined the
avenues. He wrote that this lighting created a ‘powerful effect in truly
Roman style.’86 Hitler was similarly impressed by the ‘magical spectacle
of the Coliseum in flames reflecting off the ruins of the Forum.’87 His
entourage was amazed at the sight which unfolded before them. As Hit-
ler’s horse-drawn carriage passed through the St Paul’s Gate, his inter-
preter Paul Schmidt noted the ‘fairytale’ image presented to him by the
Pyramid of Caius Cestius. The intense lighting on the Via dei Trionfi
made it appear as if it was daytime, and the Coliseum ‘looked on fire.’88

The impact of these pyrotechnics was to give the event a transcend-
ent and mystical feel. Mino Maccari, in Il Popolo d’Italia, claimed that
Rome had been magically transformed.89 For Paul Schmidt, everything
seemed unreal; only the faces of friends reminded him of reality during
the days of the visit.90 The New York Times exclaimed how, in the daylight,
the preparations looked ‘garish and unreal as an empty stage in daytime.
Tomorrow night, when Hitler arrives … it will be quite different.’91 The
distinction between the real and the unreal was a common theme of
the visit, and the ceremony to welcome Hitler blurred that distinction.
Longanesi’s alchemical description of the scene reinforced the religious
and mystical tone of the night, but it was the Roman cityscape which
provided the necessary backdrop. The lighting display also served as a
reminder of the war experience. Antonio Gibelli has shown how serving
on the front during the war exposed soldiers to lighting displays from
explosions and flares that caused perceptual shocks. Lights, according
to Gibelli, ‘gave a theatrical quality to the battlefield [they] made things
seem new and different.’92
The choice of St Paul’s Gate as the entry point for Hitler’s visit to
Rome was central in providing such a scenography. The area around
the gate had been the focus of intense development in years preceding
1938. It was here that the regime chose to concentrate the symbols of
Italy’s new empire, the Obelisk of Axum and the Ministry of Italian East
Africa. Through the gate, located near the Via del Mare, was the route
to the E42 and, beyond, to Ostia and Mare Nostrum. Thus, the gate was
the most important link between the new and old Rome, a fact empha-
sized by the modernist Stazione Ostiense, which kept Hitler from using
the nineteenth-century Termini Station and its adjoining Piazza Esedra,
an example of the ‘heaviness of the 1800s,’ according to the magazine
of the Touring Club Italiano.93 In order to further stamp a modernist
tone on the area around the gate, the regime had constructed a massive
gasworks structure in the hope of promoting the industrial development
of the city.94
The zone around St Paul’s Gate also included ruins which reminded
the visitor of the primordial origins of Rome. Straddling the gate was
the massive pyramid, the tomb of a Roman senator who had a love for
things Egyptian and whose style suited the African motif favoured by
the regime. The pyramid also reminded observers of the eastern influ-
ences on the Romans.95 In this manner, Christianity was minimized as
just one of many religions to find a home in the Eternal City. This was
152 Roads and Ruins
emphasized by the so-called Protestant cemetery, just inside the gate,

burial place of the Romantic poets Shelley and Byron, and dedicated to
those who did not share enthusiasm for Catholic Rome. Carlo Cecchelli,
in an article on Hitler’s route in Capitolium, called this cemetery ‘sacred
ground,’ a description guaranteed to raise the ire of the Vatican.96 Hit-
ler’s entrance, already shrouded in mystical suggestion, took on extra
significance in the context of the regime’s tensions with the Church. It
was a bitter irony for the Vatican that Hitler should use the gate named
after the apostle whom the German leader disdained and blamed for the
destruction of ancient, pagan Rome.
Urbe et Orbi
The Hitler visit of 1938 served as fascism’s Urbe et Orbi message. While the
fascist regime had staged many spectacles over the years, most notably
Mussolini’s declaration of empire in May 1936, nothing compared to this
prolonged festival of fascism. For nearly a week, Rome emitted a message
of solidarity between the two regimes. Anti-fascist journalist Max Ascoli,
writing from his exile in New York City, noted that although there were
important differences between the two ideologies, they ‘understood
each other.’97 Ascoli suggested that a fusion of sorts had occurred during
the visit between Berlin and Rome, and a tendency to copy each other
was now the case in both capitals.98 Rome was the place where the des-
tiny of the two nations was forged, and it was not a coincidence that the
fascist regime accelerated its process of radicalization in domestic and
foreign policy, especially against the monarchy, after the visit.99 The trip
was clearly designed to send a message to the rest of the world about the
character and destiny of fascism. It was in keeping with Mussolini’s visit
to Germany the previous September, which was, according to the literary
journal Nuova Antologia, a ‘spectacle of force’ between two compatible
nations.100 Coming as it did in a triumphant period in fascist history,
the visit reinforced the notion of fascism as the avant-garde of political
movements.
Hitler’s Roman visit was a consecration of the Axis, and its effect was
to send a message to the world that Rome was once again the centre of
a missionary religion. The word ‘apotheosis’ used by Pope Pius XI to
condemn the event was adopted by the fascist newspapers as well. ‘It is an
apotheosis!’ exclaimed Silvio Petrucci in the pages of Il Popolo d’Italia.101
The most pro-Nazi of the Roman newspapers, Telesio Interlandi’s Il
Tevere, used the term several times during the visit in headlines such as
the following: ‘Apotheosis of the Empire and Its Formidable Instruments

of Power.’102 Just before Hitler’s arrival, as Mussolini prepared to greet
him at the station, a headline in Il Tevere announced the ‘Beginning of
the Apotheosis.’103
The subject of this apotheosis was Hitler, who was transformed into
several different archetypes during the visit. On one level, he was the
German Romantic of the nineteenth century, coming to Rome to con-
template the ruins of Mediterranean civilization. He was a new Goethe.
Like so many Germans in previous centuries, Hitler had come to Rome
to take in Italian culture. On his third night in Rome, Hitler was treated
to a concert in the Roman city hall atop the Capitoline Hill. There, he
listened to selections from Rossini, Verdi, and Puccini. Later that night,
at the Piazza Siena he was treated to more Verdi and his own musical
hero, Wagner.104
At other times, especially during his entrance into Rome, Hitler
appeared as the reincarnation of the old Holy Roman Emperors. Like
the emperors of the Middle Ages, Hitler needed to come to Rome to
receive his consecration. This was a re-enactment of the medieval Rom-
fahrt. No doubt Hitler, like many Germans of his generation, had read
the German historians of the nineteenth century who had written exten-
sively on the subject.105 A common theme of the Romfahrt was the dream
of glory and power that could only be conferred by Rome.106 The Ital-
ians reinforced this impression with descriptions of the event such as
the one in Nuova Antologia, which depicted Hitler as the ‘German who
will shortly cross the Alps and will see up close this Imperial Italy, full
of peaceful projects but also filled with arms under the Latin sun.’107
Whereas the Holy Roman emperors had often come to a Rome that only
gave glimpses of its once glorious past, the fascist regime was determined
to show this new emperor a restored Pax Romana under the new Augus-
tus, Mussolini.
Hitler as war veteran also constituted an important theme of the visit.
His visit to the Unknown Soldier was a focal point of the trip. The Great
War was an omnipresent shadow during throughout the event. The fact
that the two nations had been enemies during the war was forgotten;
what united them were the war experience and the sense of grievance
and injustice that both countries felt in 1918. Hitler, like Mussolini, had
come from the trenches. Georges Bernanos claimed in the late 1930s
that Hitler was the German Unknown Soldier.108 Nowhere was this more
evident than in Rome, where this unassuming figure was feted in a way
that reminded Romans of the day in November 1921 that the Unknown
154 Roads and Ruins
Soldier was brought to Rome. The spiritual and sacral aura that sur-
rounded the visit gave the impression that Hitler was a new god, a sha-
man, coming to transform Romans and unite the German and Italian
peoples. Like the Milite Ignoto, there was a sense of divinity around this
exceptional figure who had entered the Eternal City.
When Hitler left Italy, the memory that remained of the visit was not of
Hitler and Mussolini, but of the cityscape which served as the backdrop
for the event. One witness to the events remembered that the ‘echo of
the manifestations’ lasted long after the visit ended.109 The vast majority
of the articles in newspapers and journals focused on the Roman scenario
(setting). The enigmatic Hitler was rarely analysed with any depth; he
was for the most part a wide-eyed spectator taking in the sights of the
Eternal City just like the thousands of Romans who lined the streets. Ber-
nanos described Hitler as a kind of ‘phantom,’ and this was certainly true
of his days in Rome.110 But Hitler was hardly just a guest. As this chapter
has shown, he was very much a part of the play, only that the scenario was
the part responsible for transforming the protagonist. Even Mussolini,
the king, and the fascist gerarchi were treated as nothing more than walk-
on characters in this drama.
The key to the spectacle was the fascist landscape, its roads and its
open spaces. Hitler’s visit marked the high point of fascism’s encoun-
ter with the Eternal City. It seemed as if all the demolitions and road
building of the previous eight years had culminated in this one fascist
spectacle. With this religious rite complete, Rome could now begin trans-
mitting the message of the Fascist Revolution to the world. The Hitler
visit marked the official announcement that Rome had been conquered.
This process began in 1922, when the blackshirts entered the city during
the March on Rome; it continued in the guise of urban planning, when
the cityscape of Rome was transformed in the fascist image; and it was
consecrated in May of 1938, when the new Holy Roman Emperor was
welcomed as conquering hero. The conflation of the Germanic and the
Latin which began on the plateau and the plain of north-eastern Italy
during the Great War found its ‘apotheosis’ in the days of Adolf Hitler’s
triumphal visit.
CONCLUSION
The Cinematic City
During his visit of May 1938, Adolf Hitler spent most of his time in his
high-powered Mercedes-Benz travelling on the Eternal City’s fascist
boulevards. Hitler experienced what thousands of Romans had lived
with throughout the 1930s; they had seen the city transformed before
their eyes from the viewing platforms provided by the roads. This experi-
ence of the Roman cityscape was captured a year later by urban planner
Gustavo Giovannoni, who had been part of the 1931 Master Plan com-
mission: ‘We who live in this era are almost oblivious to the immense
transformations which are occurring in front of our eyes … It is almost
like watching a speeded-up film which does not allow one to grasp the
fleeting image.’1 Giovannoni grasped the essence of fascist Rome as a
city that was built for the benefit of the moving eye. Because of this,
Romans were forced to rely on that most modern way of seeing known as
the gaze, an unfocused awareness defined by James Elkins: the ‘paradox
of seeing is that the more forcefully [one] tries to see, the more blind
[we] become.’2
Looking back on the Master Plan, Giovannoni was astonished at the
profound changes wrought by the fascist regime on Rome. Giovannoni
was never a devoted fascist. His experience and reputation as an urban
planner predated the regime, and he was known to be opposed to some
of the more comprehensive demolitions planned by the regime. Yet,
like so many caught up in the regime’s encounter with the Eternal City,
Giovannoni ended up supporting the radical transformation of the city.3
The transformation was profound. By 1940, little remained of the his-
toric centre that fascism had inherited in 1922. Thousands of people had
been moved to the shanty towns on the peripheries of the city; scores of
156 Roads and Ruins
buildings including churches and ancient landmarks were erased from

memory, as were medieval streets. In their place remained isolated ruins
and wide boulevards. It was Giovannoni who saw in this seemingly bleak
landscape the promise of a new, de-urbanized Rome. In a series of arti-
cles and books published between 1934 and 1939, during the high point
of fascism’s transformation of the Eternal City, Giovannoni explained
the significance of the regime’s encounter with Rome. As the demoli-
tions disfigured the historic landscape of the Eternal City, Giovannoni
noted the centrifugal forces unleashed by the regime’s urban planning.
Rather than draw life into the historic centre, Giovannoni called for a
city that pushed outward along the radial axes of the regime’s boule-
vards. The new Rome, in the eyes of Giovannoni, was to be a city of not
one, but multiple centres.
What Giovannoni perceived in the development of Rome was a city
that was paradoxically de-urbanizing. In the push out into the country-
side along the regime’s roads, such as the Via del Mare, Romans were
being re-introduced to a rustic lifestyle. They could now live in houses
surrounding by land rather than the overcrowded tenements of the his-
toric centre. Thus, the new Rome represented a return to the land, to
the ancestral homes of the ancient Romans. This desire to de-urbanize
was a main pillar of the fascist Weltanschaung, as the modern city was con-
ceived as part of modernity’s decadence. De-urbanization also signified
a return to the pre-Christian roots of the Roman Empire. Arrigo Solmi,
senator, historian, and minister of justice under the regime, wrote in a
volume edited by Giovannoni that the city was responsible for the rapid
diffusion of Christianity in the Roman Empire, and that those who lived
in the countryside had remained faithful to pantheism.4 Solmi, like Gio-
vannoni, viewed this return to pre-Christian primitive Rome as a positive
development.
Ironically, this could only be accomplished through modern tech-
nology. The new pagans would live in large, spacious houses powered
by electricity. Electric light, argued Giovannoni, promised a mystical
atmosphere: ‘Come the night, everything will be illuminated by thou-
sands upon thousands of lights. White bands of light from the tops of
the hills and airport towers pierce the black horizon, providing a marvel-
lous vision of life in its most modern and beautiful forms. It is poetry of
light.’5 Giovannoni’s acknowledgment of an airport demonstrated that
his neo-pagan village was to be fully modernized, a fact reinforced by his
desire to have wide roads and traffic as the lifeblood of the new Rome.
Wheels and wide roads were the key to returning Romans to their pagan
origins. Giovannoni, who was born long before the invention of the auto-
mobile, celebrated the automobile and the possibilities it held for fas-
cism’s de-urbanization policies. ‘The automobile,’ he wrote in 1936, ‘has
already become the normal, fast, and autonomous system of commu-
nication.’6 Thanks to the automobile, Romans could now live far away
from the centre, leaving the historic centre to the newly exposed ruins.
The car did more than relieve Rome of urban density, however. Its true
impact was on how Romans viewed the city. Giovannoni, like many of
the fascists seen in this book, celebrated the revolution in the gaze. The
newly exposed ruins were no longer the object of Romantic solitude, an
attitude associated with the hated nineteenth century, but now became
‘part of our fervid city life.’7 The ruins were brought to life by the pulse
of traffic swirling around them and not by human habitation, as had
been the case before fascism came to power. Adopting organic meta-
phors, Giovannoni described the automobile as the ‘blood which runs
through the arteries and nurtures everything in its path.’8 More tellingly,
this traffic had the effect of an archaeological excavation, revealing the
city in new ways. ‘There is no longer an obstacle to breaking through the
crust of the city … and out into the open. Owing to the automobile, the
static city is transformed into the cinematic city.’9 Like electricity, traffic
promised to bring a new, fantastic vision of the city and its ruins.
In keeping with the spirit of fascist urban planning, Giovannoni used
military metaphors in describing this new Rome. Traffic, he exclaimed,
would circulate arditamente around the city, echoing the role of the ardi-
ti in defining fascism’s encounter with Rome. Giovannoni also argued
that a densely populated city such as Rome would suffer terribly dur-
ing a bombardment. What is striking about his conclusion, though, is
that such an event might prove to be salutary: ‘Then perhaps … the
fearful spectre of a war of destruction will have been useful to civiliza-
tion and peace, since it would free men from the problems produced by
the exasperation of artificial city life,’ wrote Giovannoni. ‘From death
comes life.’10 Remarkably, for a man committed to the science of urban
planning, war was a useful instrument in de-urbanization. After such a
war, argued Giovannoni, ‘one will return to the peasant life in the quiet,
healthy, natural green spaces away from the dust, smoke, and corruption
of the city.’11 Gustavo Giovannoni perfectly expressed the fascist urban
impulse that was born in war and sought to return to a myth of origins.
He had nothing to do with squadrismo, had not fought in the Great War,
nor was a fascist of the first hour, yet he understood the implications of
fascism on the landscape of the Eternal City.
158 Roads and Ruins
The White City
Giovannoni’s mythical approach to the Eternal City’s urban planning,

his desire to revive Rome in the countryside around the old city, found
an echo in the regime’s decision to build the new Rome, or E42, out
in what Marcello Piacentini called ‘virgin territory,’ between Rome and
Ostia.12 In deciding to construct the new Rome ex nihilo the regime, as
noted by Mia Fuller, was following a precedent already established on the
Pontine Marshes and in the colonies.13 The inspiration for the E42 came
in 1936 from then Roman governor, squadrista, and ardito Giuseppe Bot-
tai, who was, in turn, influenced by French architect Le Corbusier, whom
he had met that year. In an interview published in Antonio Muñoz’s jour-
nal L’Urbe, Le Corbusier urged Romans to build outside the ancient walls
so that there wouldn’t be any unnecessary competition from the ancient
monuments. A truly modern city, urged Le Corbusier, should not sit on
the ruins of the past.14 With the E42, Italian architects and urban plan-
ners could indulge their whims without a repeat of the polemics sur-
rounding the Palazzo Littorio competition.
The construction of the E42 bears out what Roger Griffin has called the
regime’s ‘programmatic modernism.’15 The cover of Griffin’s book Mod-
ernism and Fascism shows the massive arch, designed by Adalberto Libera,
that was supposed to span the grounds of the Esposizione Universale but
never built because of the war. This arch was, according to Griffin, the
symbol of the ‘ancient capital of Rome translated into the discourse of
aesthetic modernism.’16 Like many of fascism’s other projects, however,
this one was doomed to fail because of the war. The E42 was left incom-
plete, only to be revived by the Italian Republic after 1951. Like the Via
del Mare, which continues as a busy road and embodies many of the
contradictions and cultural impulses of fascism, the E42 also continues
as the EUR suburb of the Eternal City. Though the project was a symbol
of fascism’s shattered dreams, the Republic revived the regime’s desire
to attach Rome to the sea through the EUR. Instead of a monumental
zone, however, the Italian postwar state hoped it would become a suburb
of new homes, government offices, and businesses. What it inherited was
a zone of half-finished monuments, buildings interspersed with weeds,
and abandoned construction materials.
The reinvention of the E42 is best captured in a 1953 documentary
made for LUCE by Enrico Franceschelli called Città Bianca (White City).
Franceschelli’s documentary begins with the following narrative: ‘The
white city is no longer the fruit of dreamers aiming to create a phan-
tasmagoric world exposition. The goal of the present government is to

restore the buildings and structures in order to give to the Capital a
vast area of expansion so as to bring Rome closer to its sea’ (italics are
mine).17 Although the new EUR is represented as a rejection of fascist
spectacle, the desire to unite Rome to its sea was a clear echo of fascism’s
dreams of Mare Nostrum. In a striking opening sequence of shots, the
viewer is introduced to the E42 through the windshield of a fast-moving
automobile on the Via del Mare. The following words are pronounced
by the narrator during this scene: ‘The automobile moves quickly on
the road which links Rome to the sea … and from the greenery of the
countryside appears to the observer a white edifice which formed part of
the E42.’18 Franceschelli’s documentary goes on to demonstrate how the
E42 had become, in the words of its narrator, an ‘abandoned and dead
city.’ Franceschelli’s shots bear some resemblance to the LUCE docu-
mentaries of the 1930s which showed the demolitions of the Master Plan.
The fascist encounter with the Eternal City is also mirrored by the docu-
mentary’s point that the war had left the E42 in ruins: ‘The war, time,
and men have not respected or had much pity on what was raised by fas-
cism.’19 While these words are spoken, Franceschelli’s camera lingers on
the broken friezes, statues, and bullet-ridden columns of the unfinished
buildings of the E42. Fascism’s new Rome eerily resembled the destroyed
city of Aquileia after Attila’s Huns destroyed the city.
Halfway through the documentary, however, the resemblances to fas-
cism’s LUCE documentaries and newsreels end. In February 1951 the
Italian government announced a restoration of the E42. Franceschelli’s
documentary uses this moment to change its tone from one of loss to
one of hope. Workers are shown in a manner similar to those of the
1930s, only here the workers are builders, not demolishers. Rather than
chasing out the original inhabitants, as fascism did in the historic centre,
people are being invited to populate the EUR suburb. Also, instead of
isolating the fascist ‘ruins’ so that they are surrounded by open space,
the Republic constructed modernist-style apartments and offices inter-
spersed with green spaces around the fascist buildings. In its plans for
the E42, the Republic reconstructed the layered cityscape that had once
defined the historic centre. Different eras now coexisted, and the fascist
buildings and monuments, with their Novecento-style arches and col-
umns became part of a multitextured urban fabric that has made the
EUR one of the most desirable, and vibrant, suburbs of Rome.
More than a landscape of juxtaposition, however, the E42 was devel-
oped organically in a manner that resembled the nineteenth century’s
160 Roads and Ruins
approach to history. Like the Christian landscape of Rome, the E42, now
the EUR, was a place where historical epochs not only coexisted but were
built in a synthetic manner. The new Republic built atop the fascist city,
taking the fascist structures and giving them a new look that befitted
the return of liberal democracy to Italy. In its synthetic approach to the
EUR, the Republic maintained the original functions of some of the fas-
cist buildings, such as the Museum of Ancient Rome, which houses the
gigantic plastic miniature of Augustus’s Rome used during the Augus-
tinian bimillinary celebrations of 1938. The museum was no longer an
instrument of propaganda, however, but of education and tourism.
The new, liberal democratic imprint on the EUR was also reflected in
the completion of the suburb’s most prominent monument: the Basilica
of Saints Paul and Peter, designed by Arturo Foschini. Commissioned
as part of the original E42 project, the church was not as prominent as
Libera’s arch. The latter was never built, however, which left the church
as the predominant landmark of the EUR, next to Piacentini’s Palazzo
della Civiltà, plainly visible from the Via del Mare. Clearly, the Catholic
landscape took precedence in a postwar Italy dominated by the Christian
Democrats.
Return to the Carso
With the transformation of the E42 into the EUR, this new suburb of
Rome became a showpiece for the Italy of the Economic Miracle and a
sign that Italy had moved into a democratic, post-fascist era. Yet, despite
this de-fascistization of the E42, traces of that past remain. Not only can
they be seen in the style of the architecture, sculptures, reliefs, and obe-
lisks that remain, but traces of fascism’s founding experience, the Great
War and the region associated with that war, are also present. Travelling
along the Via Laurentina, one of the three major roads that run through
the suburb (the other two being the Via Cristoforo Colombo and the
Via Ostiense) south past the Archivio Centrale dello Stato, one enters
a neighbourhood known as the Quartiere Giuliano-Dalmata, an area
named after the refugees from Istria and Dalmatia, given to Yugoslavia
after the war, who fled the Communist forces of Tito. Thousands of Ital-
ians left the region and flocked into refugee camps throughout Italy.
It was a process that reminded many of the thousands of Italians from
the Veneto who fled the advancing Germans and Austrians in 1917. The
difference is that these refugees never returned home. Many would emi-
grate to North America and Australia, but most would remain to trans-
form these camps into permanent settlements. Several of these places,
such as the Quartiere and Fertilia in Sardinia, were uncompleted fascist

cities.20 In the case of the EUR, the refugees used the workers’ pavilions
(villagio operaio) and other administrative structures that had been com-
pleted before the war.
The Quartiere Giuliano-Dalmata in the EUR is full of memories of the
Great War.21 A large number of the residents came from places such as
Fiume and Pola, two cities that had been desired by Irredentists. Several
streets in the area have names which are reminders of that war, such as
the Via Canzone del Piave. Some of the landmarks are more revealing,
however, recalling not only the Great War, but the link between the war
experience and fascism’s encounter with Rome. At the end of the Via
Oscar Sinigaglia, which runs off the Via Laurentina, one reaches a cul-
de-sac which includes a playground on one end and, on the other, a
church which prominently displays the Lion of St Mark, symbol of Ven-
ice. Next to the church, however, is a remarkable stele on top of which
is the mythical she-wolf being suckled by Romulus and Remus. This, of
course, is the symbol of Rome, and a plaque informs the viewer that it
once stood next to the Arena (Roman amphitheatre) of Pola. In the
middle of the stele is a visible crack, the result of a terrorist attack by left-
wing activists who consider the promotion of the memory of the esodo a
right-wing cause.
This monument to romanità and its extension into the Irredentist prov-
inces now found a home in fascist Rome. But there is an even more
revealing monument, erected in 1961, though it is easier to miss. Along
the Via Laurentina, where it intersects the Via Oscar Sinigaglia, unno-
ticed by the volumes of heavy traffic which rush by it every day, stands a
large, misshapen rock set back from the street. Upon it are bronze letters
which read: Ai Caduti Giuliani e Dalmati (To the Julian and Dalmatian
Fallen). It is not clear if the fallen are soldiers of the Great War who died
for the Irredentist cause or the civilians who died at the hands of Tito’s
forces, thrown into the cavernous pits (foibe) of the Carsican landscape.
In either case, the monument is striking because it comes from the Car-
so, that lunar-like, rocky landscape which shaped the interior landscapes
of those soldiers who joined the fascist cause after the war. It was the
Carsican landscape which informed fascism’s desire to blast the narrow
streets and confines of the Eternal City and create the large, open spaces
around the monuments of Imperial Rome. It is on the Carso where one
finds the origins of fascismo di pietra. Nowhere more than in this lowly
monument, however, do the unintended consequences of fascist urban
planning speak eloquently about the essence of the fascist movement.
Notes
Preface: Death on the Via del Mare
1 Manuella Campitelli, ‘Via dalla Via del Mare,’ CartaQui 6 (September 2006):
6.
2 Domenico Secondulfo, ‘Le Stragi del Sabato Sera,’ La Voce dei Bancari 54,
no. 2 (2002), at http://www.fabi.it/pubblicazioni/voce/voce2/2002/02/
dati_02_02/consumi&simboli.htm (accessed 3 January 2008).
3 Antonio Muñoz, Via dei Monti e Via del Mare (Rome: S.P.Q.R. Governatorato
di Roma, 1932), 36.
4 Emil Ludwig, Colloqui con Mussolini, trans. Tomaso Gnoli (Milan: Monda-
dori, 1950), 31.
5 N.A., ‘La Via ad Ostia,’ Capitolium 7 (1928), 402.
6 Sigfried Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition,
4th ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963), 140.
7 Lewis Mumford, ‘The American Way of Death,’ in Intepretations and Forecasts:
1922–1972, ed. Lewis Mumford (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,
1979), 372–4.
8 N.A., ‘La Via del Mare,’ Capitolium 7 (1928), 233.
9 Marshall Berman, ‘Robert Moses: The Expressway World,’ in Autopia: Cars
and Culture, ed. Peter Wollen and Joe Kerr (London: Reaktion Books Ltd.,
2002), 246.
10 Justin J. Lorentzen, ‘Reich Dreams: Ritual Horror and Armoured Bodies,’ in
Visual Culture, ed. Chris Jenks (London: Routledge, 1995), 166.
11 George Mosse, The Fascist Revolution: Toward a General Theory of Fascism (New
York: Howard Fertig, 1999), x.
12 Walter Laqueur, Fascism: Past, Present, Future (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1996), 6.
164 Notes to pages xv–7
13 Susan Sontag, ‘Fascinating Fascism,’ in Under the Sign of Saturn (New York:
Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1980), 73–105.
14 Pier Paolo Pasolini, ‘Il fascismo secondo Pasolini,’ http://www.pasolini.net/
ideologia_ppp_e_fascismo.htm, accessed 3 January 2008.
15 Dario Bellezza, Il poeta assassinato (Venice: Marsilio Editori, 1996), 56.
Introduction: Rome and Fascism
1 Emilio Gentile, Fascismo di pietra (Bari: Laterza, 2007), vi.

2 Antonio Cederna, Mussolini urbanista: Lo sventramento di Rome negli anni del
consenso (Rome: Laterza, 1979), vii.
3 Daniele Manacorda and Renato Tamassia, Il piccone del regime (Rome:
Armando Curcio Editore, 1985), 79–80.
4 Spiro Kostoff, The Third Rome, 1870–1950: Traffic and Glory (Berkeley, CA:
University Art Museum, 1973).
5 Andrea Giardina and André Vauchez, Il mito di Rome: Da Carlo Magno a Mus-
solini (Rome: Laterza, 2000), 234–5.
6 Borden W. Painter, Jr, Mussolini’s Rome: Rebuilding the Eternal City (New York:
Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), xv.
7 Gentile, Fascismo di pietra, 257–8.
8 Leading the way was Stanley Payne, who rejected previous definitions of fas-
cism, such as those of Ernst Nolte, because they did not recognize the ‘posi-
tive content of fascist philosophy and values.’ Fascism, argues Payne, was not
a nihilistic movement but one based on the Nietzschean ideal of ‘creative
destruction.’ See Stanley Payne, A History of Fascism, 1914–45 (Madison:
University of Wisconsin Press, 1995), 5.
9 Paolo Nicoloso, Mussolini architetto: Propaganda e paesaggio urbano nell’Italia
fascista (Turin: Einaudi, 2008), xvi.
10 Emily Braun, Mario Sironi and Italian Modernism (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2000), 7.
11 Ruth Ben-Ghiat, Fascist Modernities: Italy, 1922–1945 (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 2001).
12 Margaret Kohn, Radical Space: Building the House of the People (Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 2003).
13 Ibid., 158.
14 Ibid., 16.
15 Paul Corner, ‘La mémoire de la Grande Guerre et le Fascisme Italien,’ in
J.-J. Becker, ed., Guerres et Cultures (Paris: Armand Colin, 1994), 329.
16 Max Ascoli and Arthur Feiler, Fascism for Whom? (New York: Norton, 1938), 320.
17 Renzo De Felice, Interpretations of Fascism, trans. Brenda Huff Everett (Cam-
bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977), 103.
Notes to pages 7–8 165
18 The most important exponent of this thesis is Zeev Sternhell. Recently, Wal-
ter Adamson has argued that the true origins of Italian Fascism occurred
before the war. See Zeev Sternhell, The Birth of Fascist Ideology: From Cultural
Rebellion to Political Revolution (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994);
and Walter Adamson, ‘The Impact of World War I on Italian Political
Culture,’ in European Culture in the Great War: The Arts, Entertainment, and
Propaganda, 1914–1918, ed. Aviel Roshwald and Richard Stites (London:
Cambridge University Press, 1999), 308–29.
19 Even though squadrismo was directly related to the war experience, the
scholarship on Italian Fascism still lacks a fronterliebnis thesis akin to that of
German Nazism. Many of the studies on squadrismo focus on its relationship
to local elites. Squadrismo as a phenomenon in itself has also lacked atten-
tion, although there are signs of this changing. See Martin Clark, ‘Italian
Squadrismo and Contemporary Vigilantism,’ in The Legacy of Fascism: Lectures
Delivered at the University of Glasgow, ed. Eileen A. Millar (Glasgow: University
of Glasgow, 1989), 23–47; Roberta Suzi Valli, ‘The Myth of Squadrismo in
the Fascist Regime,’ Journal of Contemporary History 35, no. 2 (2000): 131–50;
Mimmo Franzinelli, Squadristi: Protagonisti e tecniche della violenza fascista,
1919–1922 (Milan: Mondadori, 2003). On the importance of the war experi-
ence on Nazism see Klaus Thewelait, Male Fantasies, 2 vols. (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1987); Eric Leed, No Man’s Land: Combat and
Identity in World War I (London: Cambridge University Press, 1979); and
Modris Eksteins, Rites of Spring: The Great War and the Birth of the Modern Age
(Toronto: Lester & Orpen Dennys, 1989).
20 Antonio Gibelli, La Grande Guerra degli Italiani, 1915–1918 (Milan: Sansoni,
1998). Angelo Ventrone, La seduzione totalitaria: Guerra, modernità, violenza
politica, 1914–1918 (Rome: Donzelli editore, 2003).
21 Renzo De Felice, Intervista sul fascismo, ed. Michael Ledeen, 2nd ed. (Bari:
Laterza, 1997), 40.
22 Angelo Ventrone, La seduzione totalitaria: Guerra, modernità, violenza politica,
1914–1918 (Rome: Donzelli editore, 2003), xi–xv.
23 George Mosse, Fallen Soldiers: Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars (New
York: Oxford University Press, 1990).
24 Roger Griffin, Modernism and Fascism: The Sense of a Beginning under Musso-
lini and Hitler (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007); Mark Antliff, ‘Fas-
cism, Modernism, and Modernity,’ The Art Bulletin 84, no. 1 (March 2002),
148–69.
25 Luisa Passerini, Mussolini imaginario: Storia di una biografia, 1915–1939
(Rome, Bari: Laterza, 1991), 5.
26 Benito Mussolini, ‘La Nuova Roma,’ Opera Omnia, vol. 22: 47–8.
27 Walter Benjamin, ‘The Destructive Character,’ in Reflections: Essays, Apho-
166 Notes to pages 9–12
risms, Autobiographical Writings, ed. and intro. Peter Demetz (New York:
Schocken Books, 1978), 301.
28 Edward Soja, ‘History: Geography: Modernity,’ in The Cultural Studies Reader,
ed. Simon During (London: Routledge, 1994), 136.
29 Aristotle Kallis, Fascist Ideology: Territory and Expansionism in Italy and Germany,
1922–1945 (London: Routledge, 2000), 48–52.
30 Enzo Traverso, The Origins of Nazi Violence, trans. Janet Lloyd (New York: The
New Press, 2003), 90.
31 Giuseppe Ungaretti, ‘Zona di Guerra (Vivendo con il popolo),’ in Vita d’un
uomo: Saggi e interventi, ed. Mario Diacono and Luciano Rebay (Milan: Mon-
dadori, 1974), 6.
32 Griffin, Modernism and Fascism, 223.
33 Claudio Fogu, The Historic Imaginary: The Politics of History in Fascist Italy
(Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2003), 10.
34 Ibid., 193.
35 Christopher Coker, War and the 20th Century (London: Brasseys, 1994), 8–18.
36 This approach was famously articulated by Sigmund Freud, who compared
Roman topography to the human psyche, or a place where the past never
completely disappeared. Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents (New
York: W.W. Norton & Co., 1961), 17–19.
37 Claudia Lazzaro, ‘Forging a Visible Fascist Nation,’ in Donatello among the
Blackshirts, ed. Claudia Lazzaro and Roger J. Crum (Ithaca, NY: Cornell
38 Griffin, Modernism and Fascism, 74.
39 George Mosse, The Fascist Revolution: Toward a General Theory of Fascism (New
York: Howard Fertig, 1999), 109–10.
40 Ettore Pais, Rome dall’Antico al Nuovo Impero (Milan: Ulrico Heopli, 1938),
204.
41 Giuseppe Bottai, ‘La carta marmorea dell’Impero Fascista,’ L’Urbe 1 (1936):
3–4.
42 Giardina and Vauchez, Il mito di Roma, 215. See also Gentile, Fascismo di
pietra, chap. 1.
43 ACS, MCP, b. 36, f. 249: ‘Visite del Duce.’
44 Coker, War and the 20th Century, 178–9.
45 Hayden White, ‘The Forms of Wildness: Archaeology of an Idea,’ in Tropics
of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1978), 168–70.
46 Ibid., 171.
47 Simone Weil, ‘Reflections on Barbarism,’ in Selected Essays, 1934–1943, trans.
Richard Ress (London: Oxford University Press, 1962), 143.
48 Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory (New York: Vintage Books, 1996),
7–10.
49 James Donald, Imagining the Modern City (Minneapolis: University of Min-
nesota Press, 1999), 55.
50 Ceccarius, ‘L’isolamento della Mole Adriana,’ Capitolium (1934): 209–10.
51 Pietro Maria Bardi, La strada e il volante (Turin: Edizioni Scriptorum, 1994),
83.
52 Ibid., 84.
53 Quoted in Attilio Brilli, La vita che corre: Mitologia dell’automobile (Bologna:
Mulino, 1999), 107.
54 Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (New York:
McGraw-Hill, 1964), 185.
55 Jörg Beckmann, ‘Automobility – A Social Problem and Theoretical Con-
cept,’ Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 19 (2001): 598.
56 Mikita Brottman and Christopher Sharett, ‘The End of the Road: David
Cronenberg’s Crash and the Fading of the West,’ in Car Crash Culture, ed. M.
Brottman (New York: Palgrave, 2002), 203.
57 Scipione Tadolini, ‘Una strada veloce da Piazza Barberini a Piazza SS. Apos-
toli: Proposta per il sottopassaggio di via Quattro Fontane,’ L’Urbe 3, no. 11
(November 1938): 31
58 Siegfried Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition,
4th ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963), 719–20.
59 Ibid., 720.
60 Tim Benton, ‘Rome Reclaims Its Empire,’ in Art and Power: Europe under the
dictators 1930–45, ed. Dawn Ades, Tim Benton, David Elliot, and Iain Boyd
White (London: Hayward Gallery, 1995), 121.
1. The Landscape of the War
1 Aristide Calderini, ‘Aquileia: Un centenario e un decennale,’ Le Vie d’Italia

37 (July 1931), 524.
2 Chino Ermacora, Piccola patria: Nel X° anniversario della liberazione del Friuli
(Udine: Edizioni de ‘La Panarie,’ 1928), 118.
3 Curzio Malaparte, Viva Caporetto! La rivolta dei Santi Maledetti, ed. Mario
Biondi (Florence: Vallecchi Editore, 1995).
4 Auro D’Alba, ‘Dal diario alpino di Stefano,’ in Antologia degli scrittori fascisti,
ed. Mario Carli and G.A. Fanelli (Florence: R. Bemporad & Figlio, 1931),
202.
5 Giuseppe Bottai, Diario 1935–1944, ed. Giordano Bruno Guerri (Milan: Riz-
zoli, 1994), 37.
6 Chino Ermacora, Il Friuli: Itinerari e soste (Udine: La Panarie, 1938), 25.

7 Scipio Slataper, Il mio Carso, 6th ed. (Florence: Vallecchi Editore, 1943), 7.
8 Antonio Gibelli calculates that, by 1917, 1 million Austrians faced 2 million
Italians on the Carso. Both sides would leave some 1 million dead there by
the war’s end. Antonio Gibelli, La Grande Guerra degli Italiani, 1915–1918
(Milan: Sansoni, 1998), 100. On the place of the Carso in Italian memory,
see Mario Isnenghi, ‘La Grande Guerra,’ in I luoghi della memoria: Strutture ed
eventi dell’Italia Unita, ed. Mario Isnenghi (Rome: Laterza, 1997), 273–309.
9 Slataper, Il mio carso, 8.
10 Luciano Fabi, Sentieri di guerra: Le trincee sul Carso (Trieste: Edizioni Svevo,
1991), 137.
11 Mario Puccini, Come ho visto il Friuli (Rome: La Voce, 1919), 153.
12 An example is the poet Giuseppe Ungaretti in his letters to Giovanni Papini.
Ungaretti spent two years as an infantryman on the Carso. In a letter dated
December 1916, Ungaretti writes, while on leave in Florence, that he feels
‘absent’ there as if he was ‘up there.’ On the day he leaves Florence on
5 January 1917 he once again refers to the Carso as ‘up there.’ Giuseppe
Ungaretti, Lettere a Giovanni Papini 1915–1918, ed. Maria Antonietta Terzoli
(Milan: Mondadori, 1988), 80, 84.
13 Leo Pollini, Le veglie al Carso (Milan: Casa Editrice Ceschina, 1931), 19.
14 See Attilio Frescura, Diario di un Imboscato (Milan: Mursia, 1981), 116; and
Ermacora, Piccola patria, 120. Puccini described the Carso soil as ‘sacred’
and predicted that ‘on the site of the massacres will grow grass and crosses.’
Puccini, Come ho visto, 120. Pollini describes the road up the Carso as a Via
Crucis which ends up in Calvary. Pollini, Le veglie al Carso, 20.
15 Pollini, Le veglie al Carso, 99, 102.
16 Pollini quoted in Lucio Fabi, Sentieri di guerra: Le trincee sul Carso (Trieste:
Edizioni Svevo, 1991), 23.
17 Puccini, Come ho visto, 60.
18 Carlo Delcroix, ‘Nella bolgia del Carso,’ in Antologia, ed. Carli and Fanelli,
250.
19 Emilio Lussu, Un anno sull’Altipiano (Turin: Giulio Einaudi, 1945 and 2000),
13.
20 Margarita Sarfatti, Dux (Milan: Mondadori, 1928), 180, 184.
21 Malaparte, Viva Caporetto! 71.
22 Sarfatti, Dux, 181.
23 Giuseppe Steiner, ‘La Canzone del morto del Carso,’ in Antologia, ed. Carli
and Fanelli, 573.
24 Pollini, Le veglie al Carso, 21, 122. The ‘troglodyte’ world of the First World
War has also been discussed at length in Paul Fussell, The Great War and
Modern Memory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975), chap. 2.
25 Letter by Ungaretti to Papini (7 April 7 1917) in Lettere, 116. Antonio Gibelli
has argued that owing to the Great War, work and war went through a simi-
lar industrial transformation. See Gibelli, L’officina della guerra: La Grande
Guerra e le trasformzioni del mondo mentale (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 1991),
14–15.
26 Frescura, Diario di un Imboscato, 131.
28 Ibid., 76.
30 Pollini, Le veglie al Carso, 180–1.
31 Fussell, Great War and Modern Memory, 40–1.
32 Pollini, Le veglie al Carso, 146.
33 Ungaretti, San Martino del Carso (Valloncello dell’Albero Isolato il 27 agosto 1916):
‘Di queste case non è rimasto che qualche brandello di muro / Di tanti che
mi corrispondevano non è rimasto neppure tanto / Ma nel cuore nessuna
croce manca / È il mio cuore il paese più straziato.’ Giuseppe Ungaretti,
Vita d’un uomo. Tutto le poesie, ed. Leone Piccioni (Milan: Mondadori, 1971),
51.
34 Ibid. The poem is inscribed on a stone tablet where one enters the village of
San Martino today.
35 Paola Montefoschi, Album Ungaretti (Milan: Mondadori, 1988), 40.
36 This link is prominently made in the poem I Fiumi (The Rivers), wherein
Ungaretti identifies the Isonzo River as the river into which the other rivers
of his life flow. See Ungaretti, Vita d’un uomo, 43–5.
38 Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, Taccuini 1915–1921, ed. Alberto Bertoni (Bolo-
gna: Società editrice il Mulino, 1987), 121.
39 Puccini, Note, 43, 48.
40 Frescura, Diario di un Imboscato, 116–17.
42 Gibelli, L’officina, 201–2.
43 Quoted in Christopher Coker, War and the 20th Century (London: Brasseys,
1994), 163.
44 Mario Puccini, Caporetto: Note sulla ritirata di un fante della III Armata, ed.
Francesco De Nicola (Gorizia: Editrice Goriziana, 1987), 50.
45 F.T. Marinetti, ‘Il discorso di Marinetti al ‘Convegno Italiano per la difesa
del paesaggio.’ Capri, Settembre 1926,’ in Manifesti, proclami, interventi e
documenti teorici del Futurismo, comp. L. Caruso (Florence: Coedizioni SPES–

Salimbeni, 1980), doc. 26.
46 Luciano Fabi, Sentieri di guerra: Le trincee sul Carso (Trieste: Edizioni Svevo,
1991), 107.
48 Giuseppe Ungaretti, ‘Zona di guerra (Vivendo con il popolo),’ in Vita d’un
uomo, 6.
49 Ibid., 8.
51 Giorgio Rochat, Gli Arditi della Grande Guerra (Milan: Feltrinelli Economica,
1981), 12.
52 Gibelli, L’officina, 6.
54 G. A. Chiurco, Storia della Rivoluzione Fascista, vol. 5, part 2 (Florence: Vallec-
chi Editore, 1929), 106.
55 Lussu, Un anno sull’Altipiano, 48–9.
56 Ermacora, Piccola patria, 49.
57 Ardengo Soffici, I diari della Grande Guerra, ed. Mario Bartoletti Poggi and
Marino Biondi (Florence: Vallecchi Editore, 1986), 338.
59 Ibid., 73.
60 Denis Winter, Death’s Men: Soldiers of the Great War (Hammersmith, UK: Pen-
guin Books, 1985), 75–6.
61 Ibid., 78.
62 Rochat, Gli Arditi della Grande Guerra, 35.
63 Giovanni Comisso, Giorni di guerra, 3rd ed. (Milan: Longanesi & C., 1987),
23.
64 Ungaretti, ‘Zona di guerra,’ 6.
65 Malaparte, Santi maledetti, 77.
67 Soffici, Diari, 369–70.
68 A government commission in 1919 determined that 632, 200 inhabitants of
Friuli fled the Austrian advance. See Elpidio Ellero, ‘La rotta di Caporetto:
L’esodo della popolazione friulana (ottobre 1917),’ in Gustavo Corni, ed.,
Il Friuli. Storia e società. Vol. 3: 1914–1925. La crisi dello Stato liberale (Udine:
Istituto Friulano per la Storia del Movimento di Liberazione, 1998), 187–8.
69 The analogy is Ellero’s. Ibid., 198.
70 Puccini, Caporetto, 48.
71 Ibid., 63.
72 Mussolini, ‘La battaglia del Friuli,’ Il Popolo d’Italia, 2 November 1917.
73 Ibid.
74 Soffici, Diari, 281.
75 Ibid., 320.
76 Ibid., 271.
77 Frescura, Diario di un Imboscato, 278–9.
78 Ibid., 271–2.
79 Soffici, Diari, 350.
80 Comisso, Giorni di guerra, 167.
81 Mario Isnenghi and Giorgio Rochat, La Grande Guerra, 1914–1918 (Milan:
RCS Libri, 2000), 433.
82 Frescura, Diario di un Imboscato, 117–18. According to the myth of the arditi,
these crack troops were created purposely to break the German style of war-
fare imposed on the Italians. ‘From the beginning, it seemed that German-
ism had descended, compact, leaden, heavy, and dark, like a winter without
end, on the Latins. They would impose their style of warfare: collectivism
without relief, the annihilation of the individual, ferocious sacrifice without
glory.’ Mario Carli, L’arditismo (Rome: Edizioni ‘Augustea,’ n.d.), 6.
83 Puccini, Caporetto, 14.
84 Ibid., 67, 69.
86 Ibid., 271.
87 Malaparte, Santi maledetti, 126.
88 Ibid., 123.
89 Puccini, Come ho visto il Friuli, 175.
91 Stéphane Audoin-Rouzeau and Annette Becker, 14–18: Understanding the
Great War (New York: Hill and Wang, 2002), 17.
92 Ungaretti to Papini, undated letter. Ungaretti, Lettere, 234.
93 Mussolini often chastised journalists or academics who promoted regional-
ism. ACS, SPD, Mat. Cart. Ord. B. 375, fasc. 135.071.
94 Ermacora, Piccola patria, 4.
95 Ibid., 13.
96 Ibid., 125.
97 Ibid., 132–3.
2. Roads to Rome: The Blackshirts and the città nemico
1 Domenico Maria Leva, Cronache del Fascismo Romano (Perugia: Società Tip,
1943), 245.
2 Ibid., 248.
3 G. A. Chiurco, Storia della Rivoluzione Fascista, vol. 5 (Florence: Vallecchi

Editore, 1929), 106.
4 Curzio Malaparte, Viva Caporetto! La rivolta dei Santi Maledetti, ed. Mario
Biondi (Florence: Vallecchi Editore, 1995), 126.
5 Ibid., 128.
6 Ibid., 136.
7 Ibid., 121, 123. Gibelli, L’officina della guerra, 6.
9 Ibid., 112.
10 Ibid., 143.
11 Giuseppe Bottai, Diario 1935–1944, ed. Giordano Bruno Guerri (Milan: Riz-
zoli, 1994), 37.
12 To be sure, not all arditi were fascists. A substantial number of those who
became involved in political activity after the war were involved in left-wing
movements like the Arditi del Popolo. Of those arditi who supported the
fascists, many would leave after fascism’s turn to the right in 1920. Michael
Ledeen, ‘Italy: War as a Style of Life,’ in The War Generation: Veterans of the
First World War, ed. Stephen Ward (London: Kennikat Press, 1975), 117–18.
On the general role played by veterans in the early fascist movement see
Salvatore Lupo, Il Fascismo: La politica in un regime totalitario (Rome: Donzelli
editore, 2000), 41–53; Emilio Gentile, Le origini dell’ideologia fascista (Bari:
Laterza, 1975), 133–87; and Adrian Lyttelton, The Seizure of Power: Fascism in
Italy, 1919–1929 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1973), 48.
13 Ledeen, ‘Italy,’ 114. Known as the ‘Battle of April 15, 1919,’ this assault on
the newspaper’s head office would later become the stuff of fascist mythol-
ogy. Giorgio Rochat, Gli Arditi della Grande Guerra (Milan: Feltrinelli Eco-
nomica, 1981), 170.
14 Mario Piazzesi, Diario di uno squadrista toscano, 1919–1922 (Rome: Bonacci
Editore, 1980), 48.
15 Quoted in Rochat, Gli Arditi, 79.
16 Ibid., 166.
17 F.T. Marinetti, ‘The New Religion – Morality of Speed,’ in Marinetti, Selected
Writings, ed. and trans. R.W. Flint (New York: Farrar, Strauss and Giroux,
1972), 94–5.
18 Piazzesi, Diario, 133.
19 Ibid., 135.
20 Claudio Segrè, Italo Balbo: A Fascist Life (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1987), 101.
21 Italo Balbo, Diario 1922 (Milan: A. Mondadori, 1932), 109.
22 Ibid., 142.
23 Ibid., 211.
24 Ibid., 82.
26 Gennaro Vaccaro, ed., Panorami di realizzazioni del Fascismo, vol. 2, I grandi
scomparsi e i caduti della Rivoluzione Fascista (Roma, 1939), 161. Vaccaro’s
volume gives the biographies of all the fascist ‘martyrs’ as well as a collection
of death photos. Baldini’s account is one example among many of marching
fascists killed in ambushes.
27 Eros Francescangeli, Arditi del Popolo: Argo Secondari e la prima organizzazione
antifascista,1917–1922 (Rome: Odradrek, 2000), 268. Some sources claim
there were only 10,000 fascists at Parma. Mimmo Franzinelli, Squadristi:
Protagonisti e techniche della violenza fascista 1919–1922 (Milan: Mondadori,
2003), 386.
28 Balbo, Diario 1922, 115.
29 Ibid., 126–7.
30 Vaccaro, Panorami di realizzazioni del Fascismo, 199.
31 Malaparte, Viva Caporetto! 163, 214.
32 Ibid., 122.
33 Ibid., 69.
34 Gabriele Cruillas, ‘Dalla Mostra alle Corporazioni,’ Capitolium (1934), 517.
35 Emilio De Bono, ‘Diario di campagna,’ in Marcia su Roma, ed. Asvero Grav-
elli (Rome: Casa Editrice ‘Nuova Europa,’ 1934), 31.
37 Mario Isnenghi, L’Italia in piazza: I luoghi della vita pubblica dal 1848 ai giorni
nostri (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2004), 30.
38 In later years, the fascists celebrated the identification of fascism with move-
ment. ‘The road is movement solidified,’ boasted Il Popolo in 1934. Bruno
Corra, ‘Le strade di Mussolini,’ Il Popolo d’Italia, 2 May 1934.
39 Francesco Giunta, quoted in Franzinelli, Squadristi, 33.
40 Giuseppe Bottai, ‘Roma contro Roma,’ Capitolium 17 (1942), 334.
41 Robert Wohl, The Generation of 1914 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson,
1979); Walter Adamson, Avant-Garde Florence: From Modernism to Fascism
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993); and John Thayer, Italy
and the Great War: Politics and Culture, 1870–1915 (Madison: University of
Wisconsin Press, 1964).
42 Curzio Malaparte would attack the ‘representative men’ who pandered to
the weaknesses of Italians as opposed to ‘reverse heros,’ such as Mussolini,
who urged Italians to go against their ‘servile and mediocre’ natures. This
rhetoric would later become prominent in fascist discourse. Malaparte, Viva
Caporetto! 163–5.
43 The Exhibition of the Fascist Revolution in 1932 claimed that Rome was
the centre of a ‘certain mentality,’ while Milan was the centre of the fascist
movement, ‘where unanimity was reached within the movement.’ ACS,
Mostra della Rivoluzione Fascista (MRF), B. 95, f. 162, s.f. 7, ‘Targhe della
Marcia su Roma.’
44 ACS, MRF, B. 95, f. 162, s.f. 4, ‘Targhe 1920.’
45 ACS, MRF, B. 274, f. 1350, ‘Il Popolo d’Italia.’
46 ACS, MRF, B. 274, f. 1350, ‘Il Popolo di Trieste,’ 16 ottobre 1922.
47 ACS, MRF, B. 95, f. 162, s.f. 4, ‘Targhe 1920.’
48 Giuseppe Bottai, ‘Introduction,’ in Leva, Cronache, 14.
49 Marinetti, ‘Let’s Murder the Moonshine,’ in Selected Writings, 47.
50 Carli along with Bottai would found the Roman chapter of the Fascio di
Combattimento in April 1919. Leva, Cronache, 58.
51 Significantly, an ardito revival in Italy would occur in the period 1932–5,
which corresponded exactly to the peak years of the Master Plan. During
those years, the arditi association, the FNAI, would open several local offices
throughout Italy. In Rome, the FNAI would move into new offices right in
the middle of the ruins of the Fori Imperiali. These offices, surrounded
by barbed wire to give them an authentic war look, would become known
as ‘lairs.’ Rochat, Gli Arditi della Grande Guerra, 168–9; and Archivio LUCE,
Giornale LUCE, B. 1085, ‘L’albergo dell’Orso e la Torre dei Conti,’ 28 April
1937.
52 ‘I ruderi,’ Roma Futurista, 20 October 1918.
53 Mario Scaparro, ‘Il monumento alla Vittoria,’ Roma Futurista, 9 February
1919.
54 Enrico Rocca, ‘Epistoli ai Romani,’ Roma Futurista, 17 August 1919.
55 V. Morello, ‘La Roma del Fascismo,’ Capitolium 3 (1927): 5. Ironically, the
Palace of Justice was the creation of Marcello Piacentini, who would become
the regime’s leading architect in the 1930s.
56 Mario Carli, ‘Vulcanizziamo le grandi città,’ Roma Futurista, 14 September
1919.
57 Ibid.
58 Ibid.
59 Renzo de Felice, Mussolini il fascista, vol. 1, La conquista del potere, 1921–1925
(Turin: Giulio Einaudi editore, 1966), 100–202. De Felice provides a full
account of the congress.
60 Francescangeli, Arditi del Popolo, 265.
61 Chiurco, Storia della Rivoluzione Fascista, 3: 585.
62 Ibid.
63 Franzinelli, Squadristi, 357; and Francescangeli, Arditi del Popolo, 265.

65 Ibid., 199.
66 Francescangeli, Arditi del Popolo, 265.
67 Alessandro Pavolini, ‘Enrico Toti. L’Italiano piu’ epico della sua generazi-
one,’ Il Carroccio 36, no. 5 (October 1934): 455.
68 Ibid.
69 Leva, Cronache, 173–4.
70 Ibid., 200.
71 Il Popolo d’Italia, 25 May 1922.
72 Leva, Cronache, 200–1.
73 Gaetano Polverelli, ‘Il quartiere e la nazione,’ Il Popolo d’Italia, 25 May 1922.
74 Quoted in Leva, Cronache, 201; Benito Mussolini, ‘L’Azione e la dottrina
fascista dinnanzi alle necessità storiche della nazione,’ Opera omnia, vol. 18,
ed. Edoardo and Diulio Susmil (Florence: La Fenice, 1964), 411–21.
76 Ibid., 358. The speech at Udine would later be commemorated during the
Decennale in 1932 by the laying of a memorial tablet at the city hall. Archivio
LUCE, Giornale LUCE, A1010: ‘La lapide del discorso del settembre 1922,’
10 January 1932.
77 Il Popolo d’Italia, 20 September 1922.
79 The quadrumvirs were Emilio De Bono, Cesare de Vecchi, Italo Balbo, and
Michele Bianchi. It is curious that Perugia was chosen, as the city was largely
inaccessible, which caused the four quadrumvirs many problems in com-
municating with the three columns of blackshirts stationed in the towns of
Santa Marinella, Tivoli, and Monterotondo. Antonio Répaci, La Marcia su
Roma (Milan: Rizzoli Editore, 1972), 561–2.
81 Ulisse Igliori, ‘La colonna Igliori,’ in Répaci, La Marcia su Roma, 100.
83 Ibid., 96.
84 Dino Perrone Compagni, ‘La colonna Perrone,’ in Répaci, La Marcia su
Roma,115.
85 Lischi’s account is similar to other those of squadristi in noting the variety
of vehicles pulling into Pisa carrying blackshirts. Dario Lischi, La Marcia
su Roma con la colonna ‘Lamarmora’ (Florence: Società Editrice ‘Florentia,’
1923), 14–19.
86 Ibid., 25.
87 Ibid, 58–9. The march’s mythology also included the account of Cesare De
Vecchi driving his high-speed car past the cordon at the Ponte Milvio,
‘breaking the silence of Rome which was devoid of traffic.’ Répaci, La Mar-
cia su Roma, 940.
89 Lischi, La Marcia su Roma, 43.
90 After the war, Giuseppe Bottai admitted that the March was purposely
delayed by Mussolini in order to facilitate the negotiations in Rome. The
March was always intended to be symbolic. Interview with Giuseppe Bottai
in Répaci, La Marcia, 923.
91 Gian Gaspare Napolitano, ‘A Roma, per la Tiburtina,’ Nuova Antologia 67,
no. 1455 (1 November 1932): 38–45.
92 Alessandro del Vita, ‘La Marcia su Roma,’ Il Selvaggio 4, no. 24 (December
30, 1927): 3.
93 Gabriele Cruillas, ‘La Marcia su Roma,’ in Mario Carli and G. A. Fanelli,
eds., Antologia degli Scrittori Fascisti (Florence: R. Bemporad & Figlio, 1931),
196.
94 Bottai, ‘Roma contro Roma,’ 332.
96 Percival Phillips, The ‘Red’ Dragon and the Black Shirts: How Italy Found Her
Soul (London: Carmelite House, n.d.), 57.
97 Giuseppe Bottai, ‘Colonna Bottai,’ in Répaci, La Marcia su Roma, 85.
98 Ibid.
99 The Borgo Pio would be subjected to heavy demolition in the 1930s for the
building of the broad Via della Conciliazione linking the Vatican with the
city. See Chiurco, Storia della Rivoluzione Fascista, 5: 218, 227.
100 Leva, Cronache, 241.
101 Ibid., 1–2.
102 In Maccari’s definition, the selvaggi were those tribal peoples who lived
close to the land and were distinct from the ‘bureaucrats’ of the city.
Walter L. Adamson, ‘The Culture of Italian Fascism and the Fascist Crisis
of Modernity: The Case of Il Selvaggio,’ Journal of Contemporary History 30
(1995): 561.
104 Sarfatti, Dux, 261.
105 Carleton Beals, Rome or Death: The Story of Fascism (New York: The Century
Co., 1923), 291.
106 Ibid., 298–9.
107 Ibid., 299.
108 Ibid., 300.
109 Curzio Malaparte, ‘Italia barbara,’ in L’Europa vivente e altri saggi politi-
ci,1921–1931, ed. Enrico Falqui (Florence: Vallecchi Editore, 1961), 599.
3. Demolitions: De-familiarizing the Roman Cityscape
1 Claudia Salaris, La Roma delle avanguardie: Dal futurismo all’underground

(Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1999), 155.
2 Mario Mafai, ‘La mia pittura,’ in Mafai: Scritti editi e inediti di Mario Mafai, ed.
Valentino Martinelli (Rome: Ente Premi, 1969), 31–2.
3 Ibid., 31.
4 Archivio della Scuola Romana, at http://www.scuolaromana.it/opere/
ope101.htm.
5 Valerio Rivosecchi, ‘Rome entre les deux guerres,’ in École Romaine 1925–
1945, ed. Les Musées de la Ville de Rome (Paris: Paris musées, 1998), 16.
6 Archivio della Scuola Romana, at http://www.scuolaromana.it/opere/
ope117.htm.
7 Ibid.
8 Benito Mussolini, ‘Per la cittadinanza di Roma,’ in Opera omnia, ed. Edoardo
and Diulio Susmil (Florence: La Fenice, 1964), 20: 234–6.
9 Mussolini, ‘Il Piano Regolatore di Roma,’ Opera omnia, 24: 269–70.
10 Antonio Muñoz, ‘La sistemazione del Campidoglio,’ Capitolium 6 (Novem-
ber 1930): 528.
11 Fondo Piacentini, ‘Relazione-programma a S. E. il Capo del Governo sul
progetto del Piano Regolatore di Roma’ (1930).
12 Virgilio Testa, ‘L’Urbanistica e il Piano Regolatore di Roma,’ Capitolium 8,
nos. 1–2 (January–February 1932): 175.
13 Archivio LUCE, GL B0562: ‘Inizio delle demolizioni per l’isolamento del
Mausoleo di Augusto.’
14 Archivio LUCE, GL A0911: ‘Via dei Fori Imperiali’ (1932); and GL A0910:
‘Il Foro Romano’ (1932).
15 The amplification of sound in its purest form seemed one of the goals of
the master planners. Capitolium praised the clarity of automobile sounds
one could pick up in the Passeggiata Archeologica, a massive archaeological
park south of the Coliseum. C.M.S., ‘La Passeggiata Archeologica,’ Capito-
lium 11, no. 2 (February 1935): 84.
16 Antonio Gibelli, L’Officina della Guerra (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 1991),
164–72.
17 David Bordwell and Kristin Thompson, Film Art: An Introduction (New York:
McGraw-Hill, 1993), 196.
18 Archivio LUCE, ‘Il Foro Romano.’
19 ACS, Senato del Regno, vol. 143, doc. 7.A, legislatura XXVIII, prima sessione,
1929–32, tornata del 18 marzo 1932.
20 Ibid.
21 ASC, Governatorato di Roma, Deliberazioni del Governatorato, anno 1931,

terzo semestre: del. no. 5448, ricorso no. 2.
22 Ibid., anno 1932, terzo semestre: deliberazione no. 5391, Ricorso Ammi-
raglio Guilio Valli, Piazzale Flaminio, 19.
23 One individual, identifying himself as ‘un osservatore qualunque’ (a
common observor), pointed out that the plan was failing in its mission to
provide superb panoramas, noting that Turin was the master city in this
regard, and that in Rome everything was going in the opposite direction.
ACS, PCM, b. 1959, f. 7, no. 2/208/4: ‘Piano Regolatore: Reclami, richieste,
ecc. Per modifiche, espropriazioni, indemnizzi, ecc. Lettera ‘un osservatore
qualunque.’’
24 A group of merchants sent a petition to Mussolini claiming that ‘millions’
would be lost to the Roman economy if the Master Plan went ahead, and
that the plan itself was shrouded in mystery. ACS, PCM, Lettera Leonilde
Lombardi e altri, 11 July 1930.
25 The woman in question, Giuseppina Gemito, hoped that the Governatorato
would reimburse her for her loss soon in order for her to ‘regain her lost
tranquillity.’ Ibid., Lettera Giuseppina Gemito, 19 January 1933.
26 Antonio Muñoz, ‘Le Corbusier parla di urbanistica romana,’ L’Urbe 1, no. 2
(November 1936): 28.
27 ASC, Governatorato di Roma, Deliberazione del Governatorato, anno 1932,
primo semestre: del. no. 312, Ricorso Provenzani Ranieri, Maria–via Tre
Cannelle, 26.
28 Ibid., terzo semestre: del. no. 5391, Ricorso Virgilio Fratoddi, via Flaminia,
16.
29 Ibid., primo semestre: del. no. 312, Ricorso Tordi Matilde ved. Parisi.
30 The scale of expropriations was such that the National Fascist Federation
of Building Owners requested that a special office be commissioned for
the purpose of dealing with expropriations. ACS, PCM, b. 1959, f. 7, no.
2/208/2: ‘Piano Regolatore: Reclami, richieste, ecc. Per modifiche, espro-
priazioni, indemnizzi, ecc. Lettera Federazione Nazionale Fascista della
Proprietà Edilizia.’
31 ASC, Governatorato di Roma Deliberazione del Governatorato, anno 1932,
primo semestre: del. no. 312, Ricorso Provenzani Ranieri, Maria–via Tre
Cannelle, 26.
32 Ibid., primo semestre: del. no. 312, Ricorso barone Andrea Torella di
Romagnano.
33 Ibid., terzo semestre: del. no. 7704, ricorso no. 2.
34 Ibid.: del. no. 4421, Ricorso Rag. Luigi Ansolini, quale amministratore del
Patrimonio Eredi Dandini de Sylva, via Fabio Massimo, 95.
35 Ibid.: del. no. 5391, Ricorso Santagostino-Baldi, Mario via Flaminia, 56.
36 The UT received several letters from small business owners fearful that the
Master Plan would destroy their enterprises. One man wrote directly to Mus-
solini, pleading that the plan was sowing ‘uncertainty and hence suffering’
on his family, and tried to remind the Duce of an autographed photograph
that Mussolini had sent to him in 1928 with following inscription: ‘To the
beautiful and Roman family of Antonio Egidi.’ ACS, PCM, b. 1959, f. 7, no.
2/208/4, ‘Piano Regolatore: Reclami, richieste, ecc. Per modifiche, espro-
priazioni, indemnizzi, ecc. Lettera Antonio Egidi.’
37 One man, a certain Isaia Levi, was worried that some old trees on his
property would be demolished, so he recommended that the road, the Via
Salaria, be widened at the expense of a house of ‘semipopular character’ on
the other side of the road. ACS, SPD – Carteggio Ordinario 1922–43, busta
312, no. 104.113/14, ‘Abattimento di 4 alberi di un Viale di Lecci della Villa
Giorgia di Isaia Levi.’ Another example came from the Mons. Giovanni
Naslian of the Armenian Pontifical College, who suggested a variance of the
plan in his zone which entailed the demolition of other buildings but not
his. ACS, PCM, b. 1959, f. 7, no. 2/208/8, ‘Piano Regolatore: Pontificio Col-
legio Armeno.’
38 ASC, Governatorato di Roma, Deliberazione del Governatorato, anno 1932,
terzo semestre: del. no. 5391, Ricorso Ammiraglio Giuilo Valli, Piazzale
Flaminio, 19.
39 Ibid., anno 1934, terzo semestre: del. no. 7405, Ricorso Amalia Dominici
ved. Ronci, domiciliata al Lungotevere Mellini 17, scal 2e, interno 10.
40 Ibid., anno 1936, terzo semestre: del. no. 3262, Ricorsi Vaccari, Carlo and
Comm. Pozzi Pietro.
41 One member of a prestigious Roman family accused the regime of ‘immo-
bilizing and swallowing up, through an iniquitous procedure, a significant
part of the fortune left me by my father.’ ACS, PCM, b. 1959, f. 7, no. 2.
3856, ‘Piano Regolatore: Roma – Foro Mussolini. Lettera Maria Caffarelli
Carreggia,’ 15 July 1936.
42 ACS, PCM, b. 1959, f. 7, no. 2. 3856, ‘Piano Regolatore: Roma – Foro Mus-
solini. Lettera Francesco D’Antonangelo.’
43 Corrado Alvaro, Itinerario italiano (Milan: Bompiani, 1995), 8.
44 Gustavo Giovannoni, Lineamenti fondamentali del Piano Regolatore di Roma
Imperiale (Rome: Istituto di Studi Romani, 1939), 4.
45 Ibid.
46 Mussolini, ‘Un colpo di piccone,’ Opera Omnia, 27: 25.
47 Vincenzo Civico, ‘Strade di Roma: Via Viminale – Via Babuino,’ Capitolium
13, no. 1 (January 1938): 18.
48 Civico, ‘Strade di Roma: Via Ripetta – Via della Scrofa,’ Capitolium 13, no. 3
(March 1938): 125.
49 Civico, ‘Strade di Roma: Corso Umberto,’ Capitolium 13, no. 9 (September
1938): 433–4.
50 Ermanno Ponti, ‘Roma sparita tra Foro Traiano e la ‘Salaria Vecchia’ (In
tema di demolizioni nella zona sub Capitolina),’ Capitolium 8, no. 5 (May
1932): 394.
51 Ermanno Ponti, ‘Roma sparita tra la Pedacchia e Macel de’Corvi,’ Capito-
lium 7, no. 10 (October 1931), 477.
52 Ibid., 486–7.
53 Carlo Magi-Spinetti, ‘Colore locale,’ Capitolium 11, no. 1 (January 1935), 23.
54 Fondo Piacentini, ‘Relazione.’
55 Marcello Piacentini, ‘Roma Mussoliniana: Il progetto del Piano Regolatore
della Roma,’ L’Illustrazione Italiana 9 (1March 1931): 314.
56 Antonio Muñoz, ‘Con Paul Valéry a Santa Sabina e sulla Via Appia,’ L’Urbe
2, no. 4 (April 1937): 38.
57 ACS, Senato del Regno, vol. 143, doc. 7.A. Legislatura XXVIII, prima sessione
1929–2, tornata del 18 marzo 1932, speech by Benito Mussolini.
58 Ibid., speech by Sen. Ettore Pais.
59 Antonio Muñoz, L’Isolamento del Colle Capitolino (Rome: S.P.Q.R., 1943),
table 19.
60 Arturo Bianchi, ‘La sistemazione di Bocca della Verita e del Velabro,’ Capito-
lium 6 (December 1930): 581.
61 Diego Angeli, ‘Il Piano Regolatore di Roma,’ Nuova Antologia 282, no. 1440
(16 March 1932): 194.
62 Ibid., 202.
63 ACS, Senato del Regno, vol. 143, doc. 7.A, legislatura XXVIII, prima sessione,
1929–2, tornata del 18 marzo 1932, speech by Governor Boncompagni-
Ludovisi.
64 Ibid., speech by Sen. Saint-Just.
65 Mussolini, ‘Il Piano Regolatore di Roma,’ Opera omnia, 24: 269–70.
66 Antonio Muñoz, ‘S.E. De Vecchi parla degli scavi del Palatino,’ L’Urbe 1
(1936): 10.
67 ‘Sorgono e si rinnovano le città,’ Roma Fascista, 28 October 1934, 2.
68 Antonio Muñoz, La via del Circo Massimo (Rome: S.P.Q.R., 1934), 8.
69 The Capitoline Hill was also the supposed site of the mythical ‘tesoro del
Campidoglio.’ Rumours were flying around Europe, according to a certain
‘Father Salza,’ that the treasure had been found. ACS, PCM, 1928–30, f. 5.2,
no. 5609, anno 1932-X: Roma-Campidoglio-Esistenza du in tesoro aureo –
Rivelazione del rabdomante MERMET.
70 Gustavo Brigante Colonna, ‘L’Isolamento del Campidoglio. Demolizioni e

ricordi,’ Capitolium 15 (1940): 530–8.
71 Silvio Negri, ‘Il Campidoglio ritrovato,’ in Roma, non basta una vita (Venice:
Neri Pozza Editore, 1962), 115.
72 Ibid., 116.
73 Ibid., 117.
74 Ing. R. Bonfiglietti, ‘L’ara dei caduti fascisti eretta sul Campidoglio,’ Capito-
lium 7 (1928): 418.
75 Domenico Maria Leva, Cronache del Fascismo Romano (Perugia: Società Tip,
1943), 108–9.
76 ‘L’isolamento dell’Augusteo nelle sue fasi intermedie,’ Il Lavoro Fascista, 13
February 1937.
77 For the pro-Mafai interpretation, see Maurizio dell’Arco and Valerio
Rivosecchi, eds., Mafai (Rome: De Luca, 1986), 19.
78 Marshall McLuhan described the automobile as a ‘war chariot’ attacking the
‘aggressive stronghold’ of the city. While driving a car, the motorist is trans-
formed into a ‘superman’ encased in a ‘protective and aggressive shell.’
Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1964),
184; and McLuhan, The Mechanical Bride: Folklore of Industrial Man (New
York: Vanguard Press, 1951), 221, 224–5.
79 Borden Painter, Mussolini’s Rome: Rebuilding the Eternal City (London: Pal-
grave Macmillan, 2005), 40.
80 Enrico Del Debbio, ‘Il Foro Mussolini in Roma,’ Architettura 12 (February
1933): 81–4.
81 Painter, Mussolini’s Rome, 41.
82 Carlo Magi-Spinetti, ‘Il Foro Mussolini,’ Capitolium 13 (1934): 91.
83 Ibid., 97.
84 Carlo Magi-Spinetti, ‘Nuove opera al Foro Mussolini,’ Capitolium 16 (1938):
205–6.
85 Luigi Moretti, ‘Il Piazzale dell’Impero al Foro Mussolini in Roma,’ Architet-
tura (September–October 1941): 347.
86 Ibid., 199.
4. ‘An uninterrupted racecourse’: Fascism’s Roman Roads
1 N.A., ‘10 giugno XVIII,’ Capitolium 15 (1940): 685.

2 Ibid., 686.
3 Archivio LUCE: ‘10 giugno XVIII’ (1940).
4 Pietro Maria Bardi, La strada e il volante (Turin: Edizioni Scriptorum, 1994),
78.
5 Ibid., 75.
6 Ibid., 78–9.
7 There was also talk in 1920 of building a tunnel underneath the Foro
Romano as a means of extending Via Cavour to Piazza Venezia. ACS, Min.
LL. PP., Div. 5, b. 5, f. 68: ‘Commissione per la sistemazione del Campidog-
lio. Seduta del 29 gennaio 1920.’
8 ACS, PCM, b. 1959: ‘Piano Regolatore.’ Nestore Cinelli, ‘Osservazioni e
proposte sul Piano Regolatore di Roma,’ 12–13.
9 ACS, PCM, b. 1959: ‘Piano Regolatore.’ Cinelli, ‘Osservazioni sulla proposta
presentata dalla commissione speciale per lo studio del Piano Regolatore di
Roma, per una strada di comunicazione tra Via Vittorio Veneto e la stazione
di Termini,’ 18.
10 ACS, PCM, b. 1959: ‘Piano Regolatore.’ Dagoberto Ortensi e Pompeo Villa,
‘Uno studio di piano regolatore di Roma basato sulla soluzione dei sottopas-
saggi.’ Estrazioni.
11 Vincenzo Civico, ‘Strade di Roma: Via del Babuino – Vie due Macelli,’ Capi-
tolium 7 (July 1938): 352.
12 Asveldo Gravelli, ‘La viabilità a Roma,’ Ottobre, 7 March 1934.
13 ACS, Senato del Regno, 145, Leg. XXVIII, Sess. Unica, 1929–32: Discus-
sioni, tornata del 18 marzo 1932.
14 Leo Longanesi, ‘Il sacco di Roma,’ Il Selvaggio, 15 May 1931.
15 Before the advent of fascism, a commission looking into the reworking of
the area around the Vittoriano considered building a massive park on the
model of the Parks Movement of the nineteenth century. It was hoped that
a more magnificent park than Hyde Park in London, or the Tiergarten
in Berlin, would rise there, thus allowing one to contemplate the ruins.
ACS, Min. LL. PP., Div. 5. Edilizia, f. 69: ‘Commissione presieduta dal Sen.
Lanciani per la sistemazione del Campidoglio, etc. Relazione di Rodolfo
Lanciani al Ministro,’ 31 January 1920.
16 Marcello Piacentini, ‘Roma Mussoliniana. Il progetto del Piano Regolatore
della Roma,’ L’Illustrazione Italiana 9 (1931): 312.
17 Ibid.
18 Arturo Bianchi, ‘Attuazioni di Piano Regolatore: Le nuove arterie di allacia-
mento con Piazza San Bernardo,’ Capitolium 6 (September 1930): 443.
19 Arturo Bianchi, ‘Il centro di Roma: La sistemazione del Foro Italico e le
nuove vie del mare e dei monti,’ Architettura 12, no. 3 (March 1933): 138.
20 Ibid., 153.
21 Silvio Negri, ‘Il Campidoglio ritrovato,’ in Roma, non basta una vita (Venice:
Neri Pozza Editore, 1962), 115.
22 Diego Angeli, ‘Il piano regolatore di Roma,’ Nuova Antologia, anno 67, f.
1440 (16 March 1932): 196.
23 ACS, Senato del Regno, vol. 143, doc. 7.A, legislatura XXVIII, prima ses-
sione 1929–32, tornata del 18 marzo 1932: speech by Corrado Ricci.
24 ACS, Min. della PP. II., AA. BB. AA, Div. II, 1934/40, b. 40/707: ‘Ostia
Antica. Strada panoramica attraverso gli scavi.’
25 Antonio Muñoz, ‘Marcello Piacentini parla di Roma e di architettura,’
L’Urbe, 2, no. 5 (May 1937): 20.
26 ASC, Gov. di Roma: Deliberazioni del Governatorato, anno 1932, terzo
semestre: deliberazione no. 5391, Ricorso Comm. ROSA ORESTE, via G.
Ferrari, 11.
27 Ibid. Ric. Rossi, Vincenzo fu Domenico, Lungotevere in Augusta, 7.
28 Antonio Muñoz, ‘La Via dell’Impero e la Via del Mare,’ Capitolium 8, no. 5
(May 1932): 556.
29 Antonio Muñoz, L’Isolamento del Colle Capitolino (Rome: S.P.Q.R., 1943), 6–7.
30 Testa, ‘L’Urbanistica e il Piano Regolatore di Roma,’ Capitolium 8, no. 1–2
(January–February 1935): 175.
31 Piacentini, ‘Roma Mussoliniana,’ 316.
32 Paolo Salatino, ‘Il congiungimento dei Palazzi Capitolini,’ Capitolium 6 (Feb-
ruary 1930): 97–103.
33 Muñoz, ‘La Via dell’Impero e la Via del Mare,’ 538.
34 Nestore Cinelli, ‘Osservazioni e proposte sul Piano Regolatore di Roma,’
ACS, PCM, 1934–6, b. 1959.
35 Mario Gai and Ermanno Natale, ‘Trasversale nel quartiere del Rinascimen-
to,’ L’Urbe 2, no. 1 (January 1937): 18.
36 Fondo Piacentini, ‘Relazione–programma a S.E. Capo del Governo sul pro-
getto del Piano Regolatore di Roma’ (1930).
37 ACS, Senato del Regno, vol. 143, doc. 7.A, legislatura XXVIII, prima ses-
sione 1929–32, tornata del 18 marzo 1932: speech by Corrado Ricci.
38 Giuseppe Bottai, Il rinnovamento di Roma (Rome: Reale Accademia dei Lin-
cei, 1937), 15.
39 ASC, Gov. di Roma: Del. Del Governatorato, anno 1932, terzo semestre, Ric.
Societa Anonima ‘Aedificato,’ via Dora, 2.
40 Antonio Muñoz, La Roma di Mussolini (Milan: S.A. Fratelli Treves Editori,
1935), 194. According to Muñoz, levelling the Velia Hill required the
removal of some 280,000 cubic metres of earth and the demolition of 5500
buildings.
41 Ibid., 108.
42 In an interview with Muñoz in 1936, the French architect Le Corbusier
called for bridges to link the hills of Rome as the best solution for looking at
ancient Rome while leaving it untouched by modernity. Antonio Muñoz, ‘Le
Corbusier parla di Urbanistica romana,’ L’Urbe 14 (November 1936): 35.
43 Antonio Muñoz, ‘La Via dell’Impero e la via del Mare,’ Capitolium 8, no. 5
(May 1932): 524.
44 Muñoz, ‘Le Corbusier parla,’ 32.
45 Antonio Muñoz, ‘La Via dell’Impero,’ Emporium 39, no. 10 (October 1933):
242.
46 ‘Roma nella terza edizione della guida del Touring,’ Vie d’Italia 39, no. 11
(November 1933): 874.
47 Emil Ludwig, Colloqui con Mussolini (Milan, 1950), 31.
48 The Mille Miglia was a one-day event which began and ended in the Lom-
bard city of Brescia. The race passed through Rome. For a complete history
of the race and its place in the fascist regime see Daniele Marchesini, Cuori e
motori: Storia della Mille Miglia (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2001), 67–127.
49 Ibid., 202–3. The prefect admittedly may have been trying to deflect atten-
tion away from his own mistakes, but it is a fact that the annual death toll
wrought by the Mille Miglia did not become a public scandal until the
1950s. Only after the 1957 edition, which saw two drivers and several specta-
tors killed, did the Italian government ban the race.
50 Antonio Muñoz, ‘La sistemazione del Mausoleo di Augusto,’ Capitolium 13,
no. 10 (October 1938): 492.
51 Antonio Muñoz, ‘La Via dell’Impero,’ 244.
52 Zarathustra, ‘Mussolini e Roma,’ Il Selvaggio, 27 January 1925.
53 Libeccio, ‘Oscena Monumentomania’ Il Selvaggio, 23–30 June 1925.
54 Carlo Carrà, letter to the editor, Il Selvaggio, 3 March 1927; and Mino Mac-
cari, ‘Mostruosità e rovine,’ Il Selvaggio, 30 March 1927.
55 Libeccio, ‘Oscena Monumentomania,’ Il Selvaggio, 23–30 June 1925.
56 Il Selvaggio became a platform for critics of the Master Plan of 1931 because
of the presence of Marcello Piacentini as the leading member of the com-
mission. In a series of articles by Leo Longanesi, the plan was condemned
for aiming to make Rome a monumental city in the modernist style of
Piacentini. Leo Longanesi, ‘Bandiera gialla. Pt. 1: Piacentini,’ Il Selvaggio, 15
April 1931); and Longanesi, ‘Il sacco di Roma,’ Il Selvaggio, 15 May 1931.
57 Gustavo Brigante Colonna, ‘L’isolamento del Campidoglio. Demolizioni e
ricordi,’ Capitolium 15, no. 1 (January–February 1940): 521. Brigante Col-
onna also noted that a house demolished near the Piazza Montanara once
belonged to the actress and former mistress of D’Annunzio, Eleanora
Duse.
58 Ermanno Ponti, ‘Le memorie di Piazza Montanara,’ Capitolium 8, no. 1

(January 1931): 29.
59 Ermanno Ponti, ‘Roma sparita tra la Pedacchia e Macel de’ Corvi,’ Capito-
lium 7, no. 10 (October 1931): 486–7.
60 Muñoz, ‘La Via dell’Impero,’ 244.
61 F.P. Mulé, ‘Aspetti di Roma: Il fascismo e Roma – Isolamento del Campidog-
lio e Teatro Marcello – Il Ghetto – Storia e leggende – Il Foro d’Augusto –
Un sorriso del Rinascimento,’ Capitolium 6 (May 1930): 232.
62 Antonio Muñoz, Via dei Monti e Via del Mare (Rome: S.P.Q.R., 1932), 36.
63 Ermanno Ponti, ‘Come sorse e come scompare il Quartiere attorno al Mau-
soleo di Augusto,’ Capitolium 11, no. 4 (April 1935): 235.
64 N.A., ‘La sistemazione del Mausoleo di Augusto,’ Capitolium 11, no. 4 (April
1935): 252.
65 ASC, Governatorato di Roma: Deliberazione del Governatorato, anno 1935,
IV Trimestre, del. no. 7405, ‘Ricorso Rossi, Vincenzo fu Domenico, Lun-
gotevere in Augusta 7.’
66 Ibid., anno 1934, III Trimestre, del. no. 4421, Ric. Ing. Luigi Ansolini.
67 Marcello Piacentini, letter to the editor, ‘Il Piano Regolatore dell’Urbe e il
problema del ‘non finito’ nel pensiero di Marcello Piacentini,’ La Tribuna,
10 April 1940.
68 ASC, Governatorato di Roma: Deliberazione del Governatorato, anno 1936,
Primo Quadrimestre, del. 1143, Piano Regolatore 1931, Ric. Luigi Capri
Crucini, via XX settembre 98 – G.
69 Francesco Fariello, ‘In merito al progetto della strada per il congiungia-
mento di Piazza SS. Apostoli con Piazza Barberini,’ L’Urbe 3, no. 10 (October
1938): 39–40.
70 Scipione Tadolini, ‘Una strada veloce da Piazza Barberini a Piazza SS. Apos-
toli: Proposta per il sottopassaggio di via Quattro Fontane,’ L’Urbe 3, no. 11
(November 1938): 40.
71 ACS, Autografi del Duce, ‘Cassetta di Zinco,’ b. 4, f. 6.1.12: ‘Discorso del
Duce ai rurali d’Italia, 3 novembre 1928 – VII.’
72 Italo Insolera and Francesco Perego, Archeologia e città: Storia moderna dei Fori
di Roma (Bari: Editori Laterza, 1983), 68.
73 Sergio Bertelli, ‘Piazza Venezia. La creazione di uno spazio rituale per
un nuovo Stato-nazione,’ in La chioma della Vittoria: Scritti sull’identità degli
italiani dall’Unità alla seconda Repubblica, ed. Sergio Bertelli (Florence: Ponte
alle Grazie, 1997), 170–209.
74 In fact, the monument was seldom used by the liberal monarchy until it
became the home of the Unknown Soldier in 1921. Catherine Brice, Le Vit-
toriano: Monumentalité publique et politique à Rome (Rome: École Française de

Rome, 1998), 308–10.
75 ACS, Min. LL. PP., Div. 5, b. 31, f. 67: ‘Rampe di accesso al piazzale del Campi-
doglio. Lettere da Ugo Ojetti a Ivanoe Bonomi, Min. LL. PP.,’ 9 March 1919.
76 Mario Tinti, ‘Civiltà Italiana,’ Il Selvaggio, 15 December 1927.
77 Ardengo Soffici, ‘Architettura razionale,’ Il Selvaggio, 30 May 1931.
78 Leo Longanesi, ‘Il Sacco di Roma,’ Il Selvaggio, 15 May 1931.
79 Bruno Tobia, L’Altare della Patria (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1998), 71.
80 Vito Labita, ‘Il Milite Ignoto: Dalle trincee all’Altare della patria,’ in Gli
Occhi di Alessandro: Potere, sovrano, e sacralità del corpo da Alessandro Magno
a Ceausescu, ed. Sergio Bertelli and Cristiano Grottanelli (Florence: CEF
Gruppo, 1990), 132.
81 ‘Il viaggio glorioso,’ Il Popolo d’Italia, 4 November 1921.
82 Benito Mussolini, ‘Preludi della Marcia su Roma,’ in Storia della Rivoluzione
Fascista, vol. 1, ed. G.A. Chiurco (Florence: Vallecchi Editore, 1929), 5.
83 ASC, Autografi del Duce, ‘Cassetta di Zinco,’ b. 3, f. 3.1.4: ‘Giugno 22, 1925
– III: Discorso del Duce al Congresso Fascista tenuto all’Augusteo.’
84 A white marble from Rezzatto near Brescia was chosen rather than the
blonder Travertine marble that was typical of Roman buildings. Tobia,
L’Altare della Patria, 58.
85 ACS, S.P.D., C.O., b. 59: ‘Lettera di M. Piacentini al Capo del Governo, del
16 giugno 1930.’
86 Letter from Mussolini to the Minister of Public Works, 14 March 1924.
ACS, Min. LL. PP., div. 5, b. 39, f. 107/218: ‘Sepoltura del Soldato Ignoto
sull’Altare della Patria.’
87 Tobia, L’Altare della Patria, 38.
88 ACS, Min. LL. PP., div. 5. b. 39, f. 107/218: ‘Letter from Mussolini to Car-
nazza, 29 aprile 1924.’
89 Ibid.: ‘Letter from Carnazza to Mussolini, 30 aprile 1924.’
90 Ibid.: ‘Letter from the Sotto Commissione Tecnico-Artistica per il monu-
mento nazionale a Vittorio Emanuele II in Rome to Luigi Gasparotto,
Minister of War,’ 18 August 1921.’
91 Bach, ‘Il Milite Ignoto va posto dov’era,’ Il Giornale d’Italia, 19 March 1924.
92 ‘Il milite ignoto deve tornare nella sua tomba,’ La Tribuna, 3 April 1924.
93 Acciaresi, letter to the editor, Il Giornale d’Italia, 21 March 1924.
94 ‘Il milite ignoto deve tornare nella sua tomba.’
95 Muñoz, La Roma di Mussolini, 432. Muñoz tells the story of an American
tourist who refused to stay in Rome any longer because of the incessant
noise of traffic. ‘We cannot accommodate him,’ concluded Muñoz.
96 ACS, PNF, b. 50, f. 121: ‘Primo Anniversario della Marcia su Roma.’

97 Giuseppe Cuccia, Urbanistica, edilizia, infrastrutture di Roma Capitale, 1870–
1990 (Bari: Editori Laterza, 1991), 131.
98 Muñoz, L’Isolamento del Colle Capitolino, 19.
99 Arturo Bianchi, ‘Il centro di Roma: La sistemazione del Foro Italico e le
nuove vie del mare e dei monti,’ Architettura 12, no. 3 (March 1933): 138.
100 ACS, Autografi del Duce, ‘Casetta di Zinco.’ B. 10, f. 12.1.1, discorsi 1934.
‘March 8, 1934–XII: Discorso del Duce, a Palazzo Venezia, per la seduta
plenaria del Consiglio Nazionale delle Richerche.’
101 ‘Giù le mani!’ L’Urbe 3, no. 7 (July 1938): 2.
102 Gustavo Giovannoni, Lineamenti fondamentali del Piano Regolatore di Roma
103 Gustavo Giovannoni, I piani regolatori e la fondazione di nuove città (Rome:
Tipografo della Reale Accademia dei Lincei, 1937), 13.
104 Ettore Scola’s 1977 film Una giornata particolare (A Special Day) captures
the spectacle of fascists in an apartment block in the outlying districts of
the city organizing themselves to move towards the centre to take part in
a military parade honouring Adolf Hitler. For a comprehensive list of ral-
lies and speeches held in Piazza Venezia, see Italo Insolera and Francesco
Perego, Archeologia e città, 74.
105 ACS, Autografi del Duce, ‘Casetta di Zinco,’ b. 9, f. 10.1.5: Clipping from Il
Messaggero, 19 September 1932.
106 Archivio LUCE, GL, B0142, ‘Roma. Adunata nazionale dei bersaglieri.’ 23
September 1932.
107 ‘Tutto il popolo Italiano intorno al suo Capo. Lo storico discorso del Duce
alla Nazione ed al Mondo. Indescrivabile manifestazione a Roma. Entusias-
tiche dimostrazione nell’intero Paese,’ Il Popolo d’Italia, 3 October 1935.
108 Asveldo Gravelli, ‘Il popolo romano ha risposto SI,’ Ottobre, 27 March 1934.
109 Aldo Grandi, I giovani di Mussolini: Fascisti convinti, fascisti pentiti, antifascisti
(Milan: Baldani & Castoldi, 2001), 231.
110 ‘La manifestazione a Piazza Venezia per la seduta del Gran Consiglio,’ La
Tribuna, 4 October 1932.
111 ‘Oceanica adunata di popolo in Piazza Venezia,’ Il Messaggero, 11 June
1940.
112 Leo Longanesi, ‘Il sacco di Roma,’ Il Selvaggio, 15 May 1931.
113 Ibid.
114 On the theme of making the ‘past present’ in fascism, see Claudio Fogu,
The Historic Imaginary: Politics of History in Fascist Italy (Toronto: University
of Toronto Press, 2003), 21–51.
115 I am indebted to Ed Whitley’s postmodern analysis of the Beatles’ White

Album for this term. Ed Whitley, ‘The Postmodern White Album,’ in The
Beatles, Popular Music and Society: A Thousand Voices, ed. Ian Inglis (London:
Macmillan Press Ltd, 2000), 107.
116 Corrado Alvaro, Itinerario italiano (Milan: Bompiani, 1995), 11.
117 Ibid., 13.
118 G. Marchetti Longhi, ‘La via dell’Impero nel su sviluppo storico, topografi-
co e nel suo significato ideale,’ Capitolium 10, no. 2 (February 1934): 54.
119 Ibid., 56.
120 Ibid., 54.
121 Ibid., 60.
122 Jacques de Lacretelle, ‘L’Esempio di Roma,’ Capitolium 11 (September
1935): 426.
5. The Palazzo and the Boulevard
1 Marla Stone, ‘Staging Fascism: The Exhibition of the Fascist Revolution,’

Journal of Contemporary History 28 (1993): 215–43; and Jeffrey Schnapp,
‘Epic Demonstrations: Fascist Modernity and the 1932 Exhibition of the
Fascist Revolution,’ in Fascism, Aesthetics, and Culture, ed. Richard Golsan
(Lebanon, NH: University Press of New England, 1992): 1–37.
2 Much has been written on fascism’s exploitation of the ancient legacy. See
A. Giardini and A. Vauchez, Il mito di Roma: Da Carlo Magno a Mussolini
(Bari: Editori Laterza, 2000); Romke Visser, ‘Fascist Doctrine and the Cult
of the Romanità,’ Journal of Contemporary History 27 (1992): 5–22; and Frie-
demann Scriba, ‘The Sacralization of the Roman Past in Mussolini’s Italy:
Erudition, Aesthetics, and Religion in the Exhibition of Augustus’ Bimilli-
nary in 1937–1938,’ Storia della Storiografia 30 (1996): 19–29.
3 Known today as the Farnesina, it houses the Italian foreign ministry.
4 See Giorgio Ciucci, Gli architetti e il Fascismo: Architettura e citta 1922–1944
(Turin: Einaudi, 1989); Richard A. Etlin, Modernism in Italian Architecture
1890–1940 (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1990); Carlo Cresti, Architettura e Fascis-
mo (Florence: Vallecchi Editore, 1987); Enrico Mantero, ed., Il Razionalismo
Italiano (Bologna: Nicola Zanichelli Editore, 1984); and Fabrizio Brunetti,
Architetti e Fascismo (Florence: Alinea Editrice, 1993).
5 Emilio Gentile, Il culto del littorio (Bari: Laterza, 1993), 215 and passim.
6 Margherita Sarfatti, ‘Architettura, arte e simbolo alla Mostra del Fascismo,’
Architettura 12 (January 1933): 13.
7 Despite his distinguished record and career, much of which predated
fascism, Ricci was considered one of the arch-villains of Fascist urban

planning and found a place in Antonio Cederna’s rogue gallery of sventra-
tori along with Piacentini, Brasini, and others. See Antonio Cederna, Mus-
solini urbanista (Rome: Laterza, 1979), xviii.
8 On the place of prominent architects within fascism see Paolo Nicoloso, Gli
architetti di Mussolini (Milan: Franco Angeli, 1999).
9 ‘Il nuovo Palazzo del Littorio e della Mostra della Rivoluzione sorgerà, per
volontà di Mussolini, sulla Via dell’Impero,’ Il Corriere della Sera, 28 Decem-
ber 1933.
10 Marla Stone, The Patron State: Culture and Politics in Fascist Italy (Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998), 6. On fascism’s policy of ‘creative
freedom’ see Emily Braun, Mario Sironi and Italian Modernism (Cambridge,
UK: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 4.
11 Etlin, Modernism in Italian Architecture, 426.
12 Pietro Maria Bardi, ‘Il concorso del Palazzo del Littorio,’ Quadrante 16/17
(August–September 1934): 1.
13 Giuseppe Pagano, ‘Mussolini salva l’architettura Italiana,’ in Architettura e
città durante il fascismo, ed. Cesare De Seta (Bari: Laterza, 1976), 21.
14 Carlo Belli, ‘Atto di Fede,’ Quadrante 16/17 (August–September, 1934), 10.
15 Cresti, Architettura e Fascismo, 185.
16 Brunetti, Architetti e Fascismo, 253.
17 ‘Il nuovo Palazzo del Littorio e della Mostra della Rivoluzione sorgera, per
volonta di Mussolini, sulla Via dell’Impero,’ Il Corriere della Sera, 28 Decem-
ber 1933.
18 G.L. Banfi, L.B. di Belgiojoso et al., ‘Relazione al progetto del Palazzo del
Littorio,’ Quadrante 16/17 (August–September 1934), 17.
19 Giuseppe Pagano, ‘Palazzo Littorio. Atto primo, scena prima,’ in Architettura
e città, 29.
20 ‘Il progetto per la Casa Littoria nell’Urbe,’ Il Popolo d’Italia, 27 May 1934.
21 Pagano, ‘Mussolini salva l’architettura Italiana,’ 19.
22 Brunetti, Architetti e Fascismo, 253–4.
23 Francesco Fariello, ‘La Casa Littorio,’ Roma Fascista, 3 January 1935.
24 Pietro Maria Bardi, ‘Il concorso del Palazzo su via dell’Impero,’ Quadrante
18 (October 1934–5), 13.
25 Il Nuovo Stile Littorio: I progetti per il Palazzo del Littorio e della Mostra della
Rivoluzione Fascista in Via dell’Impero (Milan, Rome: S.A. Arti Grafiche Ber-
tarelli, 1936), 73.
26 ACS, PCM 1934–6, b. 1959: ‘Letter from Massimo del Fante to Edmondo
Rossoni.’
27 Brunetti, Architetti e Fascismo, 271.

28 Fariello, ‘La Casa Littorio.’
29 ACS, PNF, b. 1504, f. 73.4.13: ‘Letter from Gastone Pesce to Dir. PNF.’
30 Ibid.
31 Ciucci, Gli architetti e il Fascismo, 148.
32 Etlin, Modernism in Italian Architecture, 432–3.
33 Pagano, ‘Palazzo Littorio,’ 28.
34 ACS, Legislatura XIX, 1 Sessione, Discussioni, session of 30 May 1934.
35 Il Nuovo Stile Littorio, Progetto Vaccaro, 91.
Rossoni.’
37 NSL, Progetto De Renzi, 25.
38 NSL, Progetto Brunati-Simoncini, 165–6.
39 NSL, Progetto Fasolo, 35.
40 ‘Dal Vecchio al Nuovo Testamento,’ Il Selvaggio, 30 September 1934.
Rossoni.’
42 Giuseppe Bottai, ‘La carta marmorea dell’Impero Fascista,’ L’Urbe 1 (1936):
3–4.
43 NSL, Progetto Cro, 187.
44 NSL, Progetto Mancini, 272.
45 NSL, ‘Il Bando di Concorso,’ art. 1.
46 ACS, SPD-Mat., b. 379, f. 137.307/4: ‘Letter from Paribeni to Boncompag-
ni.’
47 Speech by Sen. Corrado Ricci. ACS, Senato del Regno, vol. 143, doc. 7.A, legis-
latura XXVIII, prima sessione 1929–32, 18 March 1932.
48 Pietro Maria Bardi, ‘Corsivo n. 112,’ Quadrante 11 (March 1934): 20.
49 The original sacrario in the Exhibition of the Fascist Revolution included a
massive cross at the centre of the shrine.
50 NSL, Progetto Ridolfi-Cafeiro-La Padula-Rossi, 73.
51 NSL, Progetto Del Debbio-Foschini-Morpurgo, 9–11.
52 NSL, Progetto Vaccaro, 91.
53 NSL, Progetto Cuzzi-Levi-Montalcini-Pifferi, 193–4.
54 The most prominent of these was the project submitted by the Arch. De
Renzi. NSL, Progetto De Renzi, 27–34.
55 NSL, Progetto Palanti, 59–66.
56 NSL, Progetto Liani, 259.
57 NSL, Progetti Crescini e Cro, 183–4, 187–92.
58 NSL, Progetto Ridolfi-Cafiero-La Padula-Rossi, 73–8.
59 NSL, Progetto Baratto, 127–32.
60 NSL, Progetto Montanini e Artoni, 106.

61 Sigfried Giedion may have been thinking of these designs when giving his
1938 Norton Lectures, wherein he argued that modernist architecture was
effecting ‘a hitherto unknown interpenetration of inner and outer space;
an interpenetration of different levels above and below the earth brought
about by the effect of the automobile, which has forced the incorporation
of movement as an inseperable element of architecture.’ Sigfried Giedion,
Space, Time and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition, 4th ed. (Cam-
bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1963), xlviii.
62 Riccardo Mariani, Fascismo e ‘città nuove’ (Milan: Feltrinelli, 1976).
63 Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture, xl–xli.
64 Carlo Belli, ‘Pericolo del nulla,’ Quadrante 18 (October 1934–5): 17.
65 Edmondo del Bufalo, La Via Imperiale e il suo significato storico e politico
(Rome: Istituto di Studi Romani, 1940), 6.
66 Gustavo Giovannoni, I piani regolatori e la fondazione di nuove citta (Rome:
Tipografo della R. Accademia dei Lincei, 1937), 9.
67 Del Bufalo, La Via Imperiale, 6.
68 F. Mansutti, ‘(Il Palazzo Littorio) Tre punti fondamentali,’ Quadrante 20
(December 1935): 5.
69 Bardi, ‘Il concorso del Palazzo su via dell’Impero,’ 14.
70 ‘Roma nella terza edizione della guida del Touring,’ Vie d’Italia 39, no. 11
(November 1933): 873.
71 Massimo Bontempelli, ‘Proposta per Via dell’Impero,’ Quadrante 18 (Octo-
ber 1934–5): 21.
72 NSL, Progetto Del Debbio-Foschini-Morpurgo, 9–11.
73 Mansutti, ‘Il Palazzo Littorio,’ 5.
6. Resurrecting a Pagan Landscape
1 Julius Evola, Imperialismo Pagano: Il Fascismo dinanzi al Pericolo Euro-Cristiano

(Padua: Edizioni Ar, 1978), 13.
2 Mark Sedgwick, Against the Modern World: Traditionalism and the Secret Intellec-
tual History of the Twentieth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004),
98.
3 Ibid., 13.
4 Ibid.
5 A. James Gregor, Mussolini’s Intellectuals: Fascist Social and Political Thought
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005), 191–221.
6 The Ministry of Fine Arts rejected a request by a well-known Florentine
astrologist to engage in an independent archaeological dig in 1934 because
it had no ‘scientific value.’ ACS, AA. BB. AA, Div. II, 1934–40, b. 1. In 1941
the Ministry of Popular Culture was informed of a German biography of
Mussolini that used esoteric imagery to describe the Italian leader. The min-
istry dismissed the book as a ‘strange mixture of oriental fantasy and Nordic
sensibility, which is far removed from the clear and positive Latin spirit.’
ACS, Miniculpop, b. 36.
7 Sedgwick, Against the Modern World, 101.
8 Emilio Gentile, Il culto del littorio: La sacralizzazione della politica nell’Italia
fascista. (Bari: Laterza, 1993).
9 See Michael Burleigh, The Third Reich: A New History (New York: Hill and
Wang, 2000); Hans Maier, ed., Totalitarianism and Political Religions. vol. 1:
Concepts for the Comparison of Dictatorships (London: Routledge, 2004).
10 Burleigh, The Third Reich, 10.
11 Pope Pius XI, Non Abbiamo Bisogno (29 June 1931), art. 44: http://www
.papalencyclicals.net/Pius11/P11FAC.HTM.
12 Herbert W. Schneider and Shepard B. Clough, Making Fascists (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1929), 73–4.
13 Arnold J. Toynbee, ‘The Menace of the New Paganism,’ The Christian Centu-
ry (March 1937): http://www.religion-online.org/showarticle.asp?title=476.
14 Christopher Dawson, ‘The Recovery of Spiritual Unity,’ in Christianity and
European Culture: Selections from the Work of Christopher Dawson, ed. Gerald J.
Russello (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 1998), 246;
Aurel Kolnai, The War against the West (London: Victor Gollancz Ltd, 1938),
236–48.
15 ‘Germanesimo razzista e Romanesimo Cattolico,’ Civiltà Cattolica 89, no. 2
(1938): 289–92.
16 Pius XI, Ubi Arcano dei Consilio (23 December 1922), art. 25: http://www
.papalencyclicals.net/Pius11/P11ARCAN.htm.
17 G. Messina, S.J., ‘L’Apoteosi dell’uomo vivente e il Cristianesimo,’ Civiltà
Cattolica 80, vol. 3 (1929): 514.
18 Luigi Fiorani, ‘Un vescovo e la sua diocese: Pio XI, ‘primo pastore e par-
rocco’ di Roma,’ in Achille Ratti. Pape Pie XI, ed. École Française de Rome
(Palais Farnèse, Rome: École Française de Rome, 1996), 428–30.
19 Ibid., 426.
20 According to contemporary observers, the declaration by the pope caused
‘great emotion’ among those present. D.A. Binchy, Church and State in Fascist
Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), 78.
21 Ibid., 423.
22 Zsolt Aradi, Pius XI: The Pope and the Man (New York: Hanover House,
1958), 165; Cardinal Carlo Confalonieri, Pius XI: A Close-Up (Altadena, CA:
Benziger Sisters Publishers, 1975), 29. Sixtus V (1585–90) was known for his
public works projects in Rome, including road building.
23 In his book on the Vatican’s finances, John Pollard has argued that Pius’s
ambitious building schemes were aimed at ‘re-asserting the visibility of the
papal ‘presence’ in Rome’ in the face of fascism’s urban planning. John Pol-
lard, Money and the Rise of the Modern Papacy: Financing the Vatican, 1850–1950
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 134–5.
24 ACS, AA. BB. AA., b. 195. The basilica and its restoration were handed
back to the Vatican after the signing of the Concordat in 1929. The man in
charge of the restoration work, Arnaldo Foschini, would later design the
Basilica of Sts Peter and Paul in the E42 (the new Rome, outside the city;
now called the EUR).
25 Andrea Riccardi, ‘La Vita Religiosa,’ in Roma Capitale, ed. Vittorio Vidotto
(Bari: Laterza, 2002), 273.
26 John Pollard, The Vatican and Italian Fascism, 1929–1932: A Study in Conflict
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 206, 212.
27 ‘Le violenze contro l’Azione Cattolica si estendono a persone e ad edifici
ecclesiastici,’ L’Osservatore Romano, 31 May 1931.
28 ACS, PCM 1934–6, b. 1959, f. 7.2.208/10: ‘P.R.: Chiesa russa cattolica a San
Lorenzo ai Monti.’
29 Ibid., f. 7.2.208/9: ‘P.R.: Espropriazione di un palazzo di proprietà del Con-
servatorio di S. Eufemia.’
30 Ibid., f. 7.2.208/12: ‘P.R.: Pontificio Collegio Germanico-Ungarico.’ The
conflict was eventually resolved, but only after difficult negotiations. Arturo
Bianchi, ‘La via XXIII Marzo,’ Capitolium 15, no. 3 (March 1940): 592.
31 Ibid., f. 7.2/208/8: ‘P.R.: Pontificio Collegio Armeno.’
32 ASV, AES Italia, pos. 851, fasc. 536: Letter from Borgongini Duca to Dino
Grandi, 21 January 1932.
33 Ibid.
34 Ibid.: Verbal note from Dino Grandi to Nunzio, 9 April 1932.
35 Ibid.
36 ASV, AES Italia, pos. 851, f. 537: Letter from F. Gentil to Msg. Pizzardo, 29
March 1933.
37 ASV, AES Italia, pos. 851, f. 536: Letter from Borgongini Duca to Sec. of
State Pacelli, 8 January 1936.
38 ACS, PCM 1934–36, b. 1959, f. 7.2.208/14: ‘P.R.: Istituto Agricolo di Vigna
Pia. Letter from A. Crisio to Mussolini, October 14, 1930.’
39 Ibid., ‘Lettera Card. Pompili al Governatore,’ 14 July 1930.
40 Edmondo del Bufalo, La Via Imperiale e il suo significato storico e politico
(Rome: Istituto di Studi Romani, 1940), 4–5.
41 G. Corsetti, ‘Il sistema delle strade di accesso all’Esposizione Universale del

1942,’ Capitolium 12, no. 14 (1939): 402–4.
42 Ibid., 405–6.
43 ASV, AES Italia, pos. 1052, f. 727: Letter from the Commission of Sacred
Archaeology to the Administration of the Property of the Holy See, 28
March 1938.
44 Ibid.: Letter from Borgongini Duca to Buffarini Guidi, 23 April 1938.
45 Pius XI, ‘Al Congresso degli Ospedali: Verità e Bene,’ in Discorsi di Pio XI,
ed. Domenico Bertetto (Turin: Società Editrice Internazionale, 1959), 3:
331–2.
46 Thomas Molnar, The Pagan Temptation (Grand Rapids, MI: Wm. B. Eard-
man’s Publishing Co., 1987), 42.
47 Pius XI, ‘Ai giovani di Azione: La cultura religiosa,’ in Discorsi di Pio XI, 2:
998.
48 Ibid., ‘A giovani universitari: Scienza, fede, e formazione cristiana,’ 29.
49 Pius XI, Discorsi, ‘Agli archeologi cristiani: Dio regolatore degli eventi,’ 3:
842.
50 Adolf Hitler, Hitler’s Table Talk 1941–1944 (London: Weidenfeld and Nichol-
son, 1973), 253–4.
51 ACS, Autografi del Duce, ‘Casetta di zinco,’ b.4, f. 5.1.2: ‘1927 discorsi:
aprile 9, 1927 – V: Discorso all R. Società romana di storia patria (Scavi di
Ercolano – Navi di Nemi).’
52 The elusiveness of the past was captured by the Italian filmmaker Federico
Fellini in his 1972 film Roma. There is a scene where a Roman villa is discov-
ered during excavation of the Metro. As soon as the chamber is opened, the
frescos fade away. This scene, according to Edward Murray, was symbolic of
a past lost to the march of progress. Edward Murray, Fellini the Artist, 2nd ed.
(New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., 1985), 209.
53 ACS, PCM 1928–30, f. 5, n. 2/4293: ‘Roma – Scavi nell’Aula Senatoria –
Campidoglio – Conservazione della Chiesa di S. Adriano.’
54 ‘Mussolini acclamato dagli operai visita le grandi opera romano del primo
Decennale,’ Il Lavoro Fascista, 7 October 1932.
55 Galeazzo Ciano, Diario 1937–1943 (Milan: Rizzoli, 1980), 166.
56 ACS, Autografi del Duce: ‘Casetta di zinco,’ b. 6, f. 5.6.16, all. 3: ‘Il Popolo
di Roma’ (18–19 October 1927).
57 Ibid., b. 6, f. 6.1.7: ‘2 luglio 1928 – VI: Discorso del Duce ai mutilati Altoat-
esini.’
58 Zsolt Aradi, Pius X: The Pope and the Man (New York: Hanover House, 1958),
42.
59 Philip Hughes, Pope Pius the Eleventh (New York: Sheed & Ward, 1938), 23.
60 Pius XI, ‘Ai giovani di Azione Cattolica Italiana,’ 2: 998.

61 Ibid., ‘Al pellegrinagio cremonese: L’efficacia della parola Divina,’ 1: 347–8.
62 Ibid., ‘Al congresso giuridico internazionale: I rapporti tra il diritto romano
e quello canonico,’ 3: 236.
63 Ibid., ‘Al congresso degli ospedali: Verità e bene,’ 3: 330.
64 ASV, AES Italia, pos. 851, f. 537: Letter from Bishop Costantini to Cardinal
Pacelli, 1 November 1933.
65 Ibid., f. 536: Letter from the Prefect of Apostolic Ceremonies to Sec. of AES,
29 February 1932.
66 Pollard, The Vatican and Italian Fascism, 71–2. Mussolini repeated this argu-
ment to Emil Ludwig. See Ludwig, Colloqui con Mussolini (Milan: Monda-
dori, 1950), 174.
67 Hitler’s anti-Christian views are a constant theme in his Table Talks. Richard
Steigmann-Gall has recently raised questions about this interpretation, sug-
gesting that Hitler’s views were more ambiguous. Steigmann-Gall, The Holy
Reich: Nazi Conceptions of Christianity, 1919–1945 (Cambridge, UK: Cam-
bridge University Press, 2003), 252–9.
68 Hitler, Table Talk, 88–9.
69 Ibid., 143. Renuccio Bianchi Bandinelli, Hitler e Mussolini 1938:Il viaggio del
Fuhrer in Italia (Rome: E/o, 1995), 26–7.
70 Ibid., 76, 143.
71 ‘Sulle memorie e i monumenti dei SS. Apostoli Pietro e Paolo a Roma,’
Civiltà Cattolica 86, no. 2 (1935): 247.
72 Andrea Giardina and André Vauchez, Il mito di Roma: Da Carlo Magno a Mus-
solini (Bari: Laterza, 2000), 26–7.
73 Mircea Eliade, Cosmos and History: The Myth of the Eternal Return (New York:
Harper & Row, 1959), 142–8.
74 Sedgwick, Against the Modern World, 106–7.
7. Return of the Roman
1 Nino Tripodi, Fascismo così: Problemi di un tempo ritrovato (Rome: Ciarrapico,

1984), 279.
2 G.K. Chesterton, The Resurrection of Rome (New York: Dodd, Mead & Co.,
1930), 16.
3 Ibid., 15.
4 Ibid., 12.
5 Ibid., 126.
6 Ibid., 192.
7 Ibid., 193–4.
8 Domenico Mario Leva, Cronache del Fascismo Romano (Perugia: Società Tip,
1943), 2, 4.
9 Daniel Lindberg, Les années souterraines (1937–1947) (Paris: Éditions la
Découverte, 1990), 62.
10 Simone Weil, ‘The Great Beast: Some Reflections on the Origins of Hitler-
ism,’ in Selected Essays, 1934–1943, trans. Richard Rees (London: Oxford
11 Ibid., 143.
12 Robert Casillo, ‘Fascists of the Final Hour: Pound’s Italian Cantos,’ in Fas-
cism, Aesthetics, and Culture, ed. Richard J. Golsan (London: University Press
of New England, 1992), 108.
13 Ibid., 109.
14 Pius XI, ‘Al Sacro Collegio Cardinalizio: Il Nunc Dimittis del Papa Pio XI,’ in
Discorsi di Pio XI, ed. Domenico Bertetto (Turin: Società Editrice Internazi-
onale, 1959), 3: 871.
15 ‘Giubileo di una città,’ Il Giornale, 5 May 1938.
16 On Mussolini’s return to Italy, his foreign minister, Galeazzo Ciano, told
Giuseppe Bottai that Mussolini needed to be restrained ‘because of his
proclivity to be lit with enthusiasm over the spectacle of German military
organization.’ Giuseppe Bottai, Vent’anni e un giorno (24 luglio 1943) (Milan:
Garzanti, 1977), 112.
17 ACS, MCP, b. 36, f. 249: ‘Viaggi del Duce – Germania.’
18 ACS, PCM. 1937–8, b. 2405, f. 4.11.3711: ‘Lettera da Ciano a Medici.’
19 ‘Der Fuhrer to Meet Il Duce in a More Wary Rome,’ New York Times, 2 May
1938.
20 ACS, PCM. 1937–8, b. 2405, f. 4.11.3711: ‘Visita del Fuhrer in Italia, relazi-
one no. 2.’
21 Ibid.
22 Ibid., ‘Predisposizioni circa la visita del Fuhrer in Italia.’
23 ACS, PCM, 1937–8, b. 2405, f. 4.11.3711/5–2: ‘Statistica delle bandiere.’
24 Ministero degli Affari Esteri, ed., I Documenti Diplomatici Italiani (DDI),
ottava seria, vol. 8: ‘Il Console Generale a Vienna Rochira, al Ministro degli
Esteri, Ciano,’ 2 April 1938, 507–8.
25 ACS, PCM. 1937–1938, b. 2405, f. 4.11.3711: ‘Predisposizioni circa la visita
del Fuhrer in Italia.’
26 The prefect of Littoria was asked for some 50,000 people on the route
between Rome and Naples, perhaps to further masquerade the unaesthetic
houses. Ibid., ‘Rilievi fatti lungo il percorso ferroviario Roma–Napoli.’
27 Ibid., ‘Visita del Fuhrer: Relazione sull’ispezione di 22 marzo della linea tra
il Brennero e Roma.’
28 Documents on German Foreign Policy 1918–1945. From the Archives of the German
Foreign Ministry, series D (1937–45), vol. 1: From Neurath to Ribbentrop
(September 1937–September 1938), no. 745.
29 ACS, JAJA, Job 170, Mussolini’s Secretariat.
30 Adolf Hitler, Hitler’s Table Talk (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson), 10–11.
31 Renuccio Bianchi Bandinelli, Hitler e Mussolini 1938: Il viaggio del Führer in
Italia (Rome: E/o, 1995), 32.
32 Hitler, Hitler’s Table Talk, 268.
33 Antonio Muñoz, ‘Gli artisti tedeschi a Roma,’ L’Urbe 4 (April 1938): 1–31.
34 ACS, Autografi del Duce, ‘Cassetta di Zinco,’ b. 9, f. 10.1.2: ‘Aprile 4,
1932 – X: Discorso del Duce per il centenario di Wolfgang Goethe,
all’inaugurazione dell’Istituto di Cultura Italo-Germanico.’
36 Ibid., 289.
37 Archivio LUCE, D312: ‘Il viaggio del Fuhrer in Italia: Dal Brennero a
Roma.’
38 The Pantheon, which Hitler saw as an architectural marvel, would serve as
a model for his own architectural dreams for Germany. See Alex Scobie,
Hitler’s State Architecture: The Impact of Classical Antiquity (University Park:
Pennsylvania State University Press, 1990), chap. 1; and Albert Speer, Inside
the Third Reich (New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., 1970), 153.
39 ‘Al sepolcro di Raffaello,’ Il Messaggero, 8 May 1938.
40 ACS, MCP, b. 63: ‘Viaggio del Fuehrer in Italia: Itinerario,’ 19.
41 Ibid., 37.
42 Ibid., 45.
43 Ibid., 46.
44 Overall, the German military observers were not impressed by the Italian
armed forces. Denis Mack Smith, Mussolini’s Roman Empire (London: Pen-
guin, 1976), 129.
45 Bianchi Bandinelli, Hitler e Mussolini, 32.
46 ‘Roma e il Fuhrer,’ Roma Fascista, 5 May 1938. Awed by the spectacle of the
visit, the foreign press recognized the scepticism some Italians held towards
the German visitors. Life magazine remarked on the lack of conviction and
enthusiasm among the workers installing the light standards for the visit. A
caption noted that the body language of the workers was proof that fascism
had failed to regiment Italians. ‘Fascism: A new street – Viale Hitler,’ Life 9
(May 1938): 41.
47 ‘Pattern of War,’ Life 10 (June 1938): 30–1.
48 Anne O’Hare McCormick, ‘Uncertain Future Drives All Nations to Pile up
Arms,’ New York Times, 7 May 1938.
49 ‘Rome Thinks Visit Will Oil the Axis,’ New York Times, 2 May 1938.
50 ‘Heil Hiter,’ Roma Fascista (28 April 1938), 2.
51 ACS, M.C.P, b. 63, ‘Itinerario.’
53 Frederic Spotts, Hitler and the Power of Aesthetics (London: Hutchinson,
2002), 386.
54 Ibid., 387.
55 ‘Le giornate romane del Führer,’ L’Urbe 3, no. 5 (May 1938): 40.
57 Enrico Caviglia, Diario: Aprile 1925–marzo 1945 (Rome: Gherardo Casini
Editore, 1952), 225–6.
59 ‘Fascino di Roma,’ Il Popolo d’Italia, 4 May 1938.
60 Hitler, Hitler’s Table Talk, 268–9.
61 Coming out of the opera in Naples, Hitler was embarrassed to be seen next
to the king, who was in full military regalia while he was in a tuxedo. See Ian
Kershaw, Hitler 1936–1945: Nemesis (New York, W.W. Norton, 2000), 98.
62 Benito Mussolini, Storia di un anno (Florence: La Fenice, 1984), 127.
63 Galeazzo Ciano, Diario 1937–1943 (Milan: Rizzoli, 1980), 132–3.
64 Ibid., 134.
65 Ciano, Diario, 134.
66 Emilio Gentile, ‘Fascism in Power: The Totalitarian Experiment,’ in Liberal
and Fascist Italy 1900–45, ed. Adrian Lyttleton (London: Oxford University
Press, 2002), 157.
67 Ibid., 123–4.
68 Ibid., 122.
69 Luigi Federzoni, Italia di ieri. Per la storia di domani (Milan: Mondadori,
1967), 222–38.
70 ASV, AES Germania, pos. 735, f. 353.
71 ASV, AES Germania, pos. 735, f. 353: Report from the Apostolic Nunzio, 27
April 1938.
72 DDI, ott. oer., vol. 8: ‘Il Consigliere dell’Ambasciata a Berlino, Magistrati, al
Ministro degli Esteri, Ciano’ (15March 1938), 380–1.
73 ASV, AES Germania, Pos. 735, f. 353, 28 April 1938.
74 Louis Gillet, ‘Hitler à Rome. Choses vues,’ Revue des Deux Mondes, 1 June
1938: 683.
75 Ibid., 676.
76 ‘Fedeltà alla nuova storia,’ Il Lavoro Fascista, 2 March 1938.
77 Ibid.
78 Louis Gillet, ‘J’ai vue le Saint-Père dans sa villa de Castelgandolfo,’ Paris

Soir, 10 May 1938.
79 Luigi Bottazzi, ‘Hitler in Italia: Gli ingressi trionfali dell’Urbe,’ Vie d’Italia,
May 1938: 610. For an account of the imperial symbolism shown Hitler see
David Atkinson, ‘Hitler’s Grand Tour: The Triumphal Entrance to Fascist
Rome,’ Royal Holloway University of London Geography Department
working paper, no. 8 (1997), 1–25.
80 Leo Longanesi, In piedi e seduti, 1919–1943 (Milan: Longanesi & C., 1968),
211.
81 Ciano, Diario, 132.
82 ‘Hitler Will Get a Ride behind Horses in Rome,’ New York Times, 3 May
1938. In later years, Hitler remembered with contempt ‘the badly slung
carnival carriage, which hobbled along in a lamentable fashion.’ Hitler,
Hitler’s Table Talk, 268.
83 Bottazzi, ‘Hitler in Italia,’ 607.
84 ‘Dalla stazione Ostiense al Quirinale,’ Il Messaggero, 4 May 1938.
85 Longanesi, In piedi e seduti, 211–12.
86 Gillet, ‘Hitler à Rome, ‘ 670.
87 ‘Le giornate romane,’ 42.
88 Paul Schmidt, Hitler’s Interpreter (London: Heinemann, 1951), 81.
89 Mino Maccari, ‘Nel cuore di Roma imperiale,’ Il Popolo d’Italia, 4 May 1938.
90 Schmidt, Hitler’s Interpreter, 81.
91 Frederick T. Birchall, ‘Gilded Rome Is Set to Dazzle Hitler,’ New York Times,
3 May 1938.
92 Antonio Gibelli, L’officina della guerra (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri, 1991),
182.
93 Bottazzi, ‘Hitler in Italia,’ 607.
94 Giornale LUCE, b. 1013: ‘L’edificazione del più grande gazometro d’Italia
fuori Porta San Paolo a Roma’ (1936).
95 Carlo Cecchelli, ‘Itinerario imperiale,’ Capitolium 13, no. 4 (April 1938),
169.
96 Ibid., 170.
97 Max Ascoli, Fascism for Whom? (New York: Norton, 1938), 25.
98 Ibid., 25.
99 Magregor Knox, ‘Conquest, Foreign and Domestic, in Fascist Italy and
Nazi Germany,’ Journal of Modern History 56 (March 1984): 47.
100 Nicolò Castellino, ‘Il Duce e il Führer al Campo di Maggio,’ Nuova Antolo-
gia 72, no. 1574 (16 October 1937), 362.
101 Silvio Petrucci, ‘L’arrivo alla Stazione Ostiense,’ Il Popolo d’Italia, 4 May 1938.
102 ‘Apoteosi dell’Impero,’ Il Tevere, 7 May 1938.

103 ‘Inizio all’apoteosi,’ Il Tevere, 3 May 1938.
104 ACS, MCP, b. 63: ‘Viaggio del Fuehrer in Italia: Itinerario,’ 39.
105 Giardina and Vauchez, Il mito di Roma, 5.
106 Ibid., 5.
107 ‘Hitler a Roma,’ Nuova Antologia 73, no. 1587 (1 May 1938), 3.
108 Georges Bernanos, ‘Les enfants humiliés,’ in Essais et écrits de combat, vol. 1,
ed. Michele Estève (Paris: Gallimard, 1971), 857.
109 Ruggero Zangrandi, Il lungo viaggio attraverso il fascismo (Milan: Feltrinelli,
1963), 137.
110 Bernanos, ‘Les enfants,’ 852.
Conclusion: The Cinematic City
1 Gustavo Giovannoni, Lineamenti fondamentale del Piano Regolatore di Roma

2 James Elkins, The Object Stares Back: On the Nature of Seeing (New York:
Simon & Schuster, 1996), 210.
3 Antonio Cederna, Mussolini urbanista: Lo sventramento di Roma negli anni del
consenso (Rome: Laterza, 1980), xviii.
4 Arrigo Solmi, ‘La funzione della città nella storia Italiana,’ in L’Urbanistica
dall’Antichità ad Oggi, ed. Gustavo Giovannoni et al. (Florence: Sansoni,
1943), 6.
5 Giovannoni, Lineamenti fondamentale, 25.
6 Gustavo Giovannoni, L’Urbanistica e la deurbanizzazione (Rome: Società Ital-
iana per il Progresso delle Scienze, 1936), 14.
7 Gustavo Giovannoni, I piani regolatori e la fondazione di nuove città (Rome:
Tipografo della Reale Accademia dei Lincei, 1937), 13.
8 Giovannoni, Lineamenti fondamentali, 12.
9 Giovannoni, L’Urbanistica, 14.
10 Ibid., 9.
11 Gustavo Giovannoni, L’espansione di Roma verso i colli e verso il mare (Rocca S.
Cacciano: L. Cappelli, 1934), 16–17.
12 Marcello Piacentini, ‘Roma nel 1942,’ Il Giornale d’Italia, 27 November
1938.
13 Mia Fuller, ‘Wherever You Go, There You Are: Fascist Plans for the Colo-
nial City of Addis Ababa and the Colonizing Suburb of EUR ’42,’ Journal of
Contemporary History 31, no. 2 (April 1996): 403.
14 Antonio Muñoz, ‘Le Corbusier parla di Urbanistica Romana,’ L’Urbe 1, no.
2 (November 1936): 32.
15 Roger Griffin, Modernism and Fascism: The Sense of a Beginning under Mussolini
and Hitler (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 235–8.
16 Ibid., 236.
17 Archivio LUCE, ‘La Città Bianca,’ dir. Enrico Franceschelli (1953).
18 Ibid.
19 Ibid.
20 For an extended discussion of these camps, see Gianni Oliva, Profughi. Dalle
foibe all’esodo: La tragedia degli italiani d’Istria, Fiume e Dalmazia (Milan: Mon-
dadori, 2005), 170–90.
21 An excellent on-line presentation on the Quartiere and its history, the crea-
tion of Roberta Fidanzia of the University of Rome, can be found at http://
www.giuliano-dalmata.it/storia.swf.
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Index
Acciaresi, Primo, 92, 93 arrow shape, in Palazzo Littorio

actualism, 8 design, 115, 190n54
Adamson, Walter, 165n18 Ascoli, Max, 6, 152
adunate oceaniche (oceanic rallies), Asiago plateau, 25
xiii, 76–7, 96–8 Augusteo (theatre), 44, 55, 71, 86
Alfieri, Dino, 139 Augustus Mausoleum, 55, 71, 81, 86
Alvaro, Corrado, 63, 99–100 autobahn, 144
Amber Way, 19 automobiles: as blood of city, 157;
Angeli, Diego, 67–8, 81 de-urbanization and, 156–7; fanta-
Anschluss, 141 sies of, 14; McLuhan on, 181n78;
Antliff, Mark, 8 mental transformation caused by,
Apostles, arrival of in Rome, 131 13–14; as militaristic substitutes,
apotheosis: Hitler’s visit to Rome as, 14–15
138, 147, 152–3; Vittoriano rheto- autostrade (highways), 13
ric of Third Italy, 90
Aquileia, 16–17, 33 Balbo, Italo: on assault on Parma, 39;
archaeology, fascist: motives of, 129; Diario 1922, 37–8; on March on
revealing mythical Rome, 68–71; Rome, 48; on piazza vs. organized
scientific inquiry secondary to, 69 fascist action, 40; as quadrumvir,
architecture, fascist, 144 175n79
Arch of Constantine, 112 Baldini, Franco, 39
arditi: Bottai on, 11, 36; in Caporetto Balkan Hotel, torching of, 41
retreat, 29; as fascists, 172n12; Bandinelli, Bianchi, 143, 145
influence on squadrismo, 36, Banfi, G.I., 107
172n13; mystique of, 14 Baratto, Mario, 116
arditismo, 24, 174n51 barbarians: fascists as, 11–12; myth
Armenian Pontifical College, 126 of, 11; soldiers as, 30–1, 171n82
218 Index
Bardi, Pietro Maria: on mental trans- Bologna, Italy, 140

formation caused by automobile, Boncompagni-Ludovisi, Francesco,
13–14; on Milizia della Strada, xiii, 60, 68, 85, 105, 128
77–8; on Palazzo Littorio competi- Bonichi, Gino (Scipione), 54
tion, 106, 107–8, 119 Bono, Emilio De, 40; as quadrumvir,
Basilica of Maxentius, 105, 110, 111, 175n79
112 Bontempelli, Massimo, 119
Basilica of Saints Paul and Peter, 160 borgate (shantytowns), xiii, 60, 96
Basilica of St Paul Outside the Walls, Borghese Museum, 144
xii, 125, 193n24 Borgo Pio quarter, 51, 176n99
Bataille, Georges, 137 Bottai, Giuseppe: on ambivalence
Battle of 15 April 1919, 36, 172n13 of blackshirts in March on Rome,
Baudrillard, Jean, xiv 50; on arditi, 11, 36; on conflict
Beals, Carleton, 52 between fascist and liberal Rome,
Beckmann, Jörg, 14 41; on construction of E42, 158;
Belgiojoso, L.B. di, 107 on dome of Vatican, 84; on fas-
Bellezza, Dario, xvi cism in Rome, 42, 43; on Great
Belli, Carlo, 106, 118 War, 18, 35; marching column
Ben-Ghiat, Ruth, 6 through San Lorenzo quarter, 51;
Benjamin, Walter, 8 on Mussolini’s delay of March on
Benton, Tim, 15 Rome, 176n90; on Nazi Germany
Bergamas, Maria, 16 as model for fascist regime, 146; on
Bernanos, Georges, 153 Palazzo Littorio competition, 107
Bernini fountains, 144 Brasini, Armando, 57, 105
Bersaglieri rally (1932), 96 Braun, Emily, 5
Bianchi, Arturo, 67–8, 80–1 Brottman, Mikita, 14
Bianchi, Michele, 175n79 Burleigh, Michael, 123
billboards, 140 Bussi, Giovan Battista, 19
blackshirts (squadristi): ambiva-
lence of, in March on Rome, 50; Calza-Bini, Alberto, 107, 108
Capitoline Hill in legend of, 70–1; Capitoline Hill, xi, 69–71, 82–3,
in fascist Rome, 6; Fiat 18BL as 180n69
transportation for, 37; formation Capitolium (journal), 13, 43, 64, 65
of, 7; as heroic Italian warriors, 34; Caporetto retreat: archaeological
landscape of war and, 35; myth- nature of, 32; Carso occupying
making and, 14; as new pagans, 17; plain in, 27–8, 29; demolishing
quadrumvirs, 48, 175n79; as reincar- boundary between pre-modern
nation of fante, 48; resurrecting and modernity, 31; Friuli refugees
Imperial Rome, 137; as savage and in, 170n68; March on Rome as
primitive invaders of Rome, 51–2 concluding act of, 34–5; new bar-
Index 219
barism of, 30–1, 171n82; nostalgia Rome and establishment of, 132;
for Carso and, 23; return of barbar- Rome’s history as centre of, 131.
ians and, 27–33; soldiers as neo- See also Catholic Church
primitives, 28; soldiers’ behaviour Ciano, Galeazzo: on Hitler’s entry
during, 29–31 into Rome, 149; on monarchy’s
Carli, Mario: as arditi commander, 36; attitude towards Hitler, 146; plan-
on remaking of Rome, 41, 43–4; ning commission for Hitler’s visit,
Roma Futurista and, 42–3 139, 196n16
Carnazza, Gabriello, 92 Cinelli, Nestore, 78–9, 83
Carso plateau, 18–24; as battle front, Cinini, Tolemaide, 39
16; burial on, 20–1; landscape of, Cippico, Antonio, 109
18–21; as origin of new Italian, 24; Circus Maximus, 69
postwar return to, 160–1; as prehis- Città Bianca / White City (Franc-
toric migration route, 19; roads on, eschelli), 158–60
20; rocks on, 20–1; ruins of, 22–3; Civico, Vincenzo, 64–5, 78
soldiers’ identification with, 22–3; Coker, Christopher, 9
soldier’s life on, 20–1; as symbol of Coliseum, 12, 107, 110–11
Great War, 18–24; symbolic world Colonna (senator), 109
view of, 22 Colonna, Brigante, 184n57
Casa del Fascio, 101–2 colore locale (local colour), 65–6
Casa del popolo (socialist headquar- ‘column of fire,’ 38
ters), 6, 40–1 Comisso, Giovanni, 26–7, 29–30
Caselli, Piola, 51 Commission for Sacred Archaeology,
catacombs, 128–9 129
Catholic Action, 122, 123, 126, 129 Compagni, Dino Perrone, 49
Catholic Church: building on top conduit, in Palazzo Littorio design,
of paganism, 136; Chesterton on, 115–16
136; conflict with fascist regime, Conservatory of St Eufemia, 126
122–4; eschatological approach to Constantini, Giovanni (Bishop of
Roman history, 10; Hitler’s attitude Luni), 131
towards, 132; protection of church Corner, Paul, 6
property, 125–6. See also Pius XI Corradini, Enrico, 9
(pope) Corso Umberto I (road), 93
Caviglia, Enrico, 145 Critica Fascista (journal), 121
Cecchelli, Carlo, 152 crowds, oceanic rallies and, 76–7,
Cederna, Antonio, 3, 15, 189n7 96–8
Chesterton, G.K., 136–7 Cruillas, Gabriele, 40, 50
Chiurco, Giorgio A., 46, 51 Curia Julia, restoration of, 131
Christianity: Hitler’s visit to Rome
minimizing importance of, 151–2; D’Alba, Auro, 17
220 Index
D’Annunzio, Gabriele, 70 E42 (new Rome), xii; incomplete fas-

Dante Alighieri, 130 cist construction of, 158; postwar
Dawson, Christopher, 124 reinvention of, 158–60; recon-
Dea Roma (statue), 92 struction as layered cityscape, 159;
Del Bufalo, Edmondo, 118, 119 roads moving traffic towards, 15;
Delcroix, Carlo, 20 transformation into EUR, 160; Via
Del Debbio, Enrico: design for Imperiale and, 81, 118
Palazzo Littorio, 111, 114–15, 117, Eliade, Mircea, 133
120; on Foro Mussolini, 73–4 Elkins, James, 155
Del Fante, Massimo, 108 ENI-Casa housing projects, xiii
Del Vita, Alessandro, 50 Ermacora, Chino: on Aquileia,
demolitions: citizen protests against, 16–17; on Caporetto retreat, 32–3;
61–2, 178nn24–6, 179nn36–7; on Friuli plain, 25; Piccola patria, 32
destruction of churches around Ethiopian War, 123
Roman Forum, 131; displacement EUR (Esposizione Universale Roma).
of citizens, 60–3; experience of, 72; See E42 (new Rome)
in fascist Rome, 8; LUCE newsreels Evola, Julius, 121–2, 134, 137
of, 58–60; Master Plan as façade Exhibition of the Fascist Revolution
for, 3, 72; memory disruptions (1932), 101, 103, 174n43, 190n49
and shock of, 64–5; as military
operation, 59–60; as pointless and Fara, Gustavo, 49
counterproductive, 61; revealing Fariella, Francesco, 108
ancient Rome, 68–71; revealing Farinacci, Roberto, 107
hidden landscapes, 12–13; reveal- Fasci di Combattimento, 36
ing primordial look of city, 68–71; fascism: arditi and, 172n12; conflat-
shock and disrupted memories, ing time and space, 9; conflict
64–5; sounds of, 59; as spectacle, with Catholic Church, 122–4;
54, 58–63; threatening religious continuing fascination with, xv;
patrimony of city, 126; transforma- cult of speed and danger, xiv;
tion of cityscape, 54–6 culture of, xiv–xv, 5, 164n8; cult
Demolizioni / Demolitions (Mafai), of youth, 107; fascists as Romans
54, 72, 73 and Barbarians, 11–12; Futurism
De Renzi, Mario, 104, 111 and, 10; Great War and rise of,
de-urbanization of Rome, 156–7 6–7, 17–18, 165n18; ideological
De Vecchi, Cesare, 69, 175–6n87 pretensions of, 3; as ‘lived experi-
Diario 1922 (Balbo), 37–8 ence,’ 6–12; Milan as stronghold
Divine Comedy (Dante), 130 for, 42; as movement vs. regime,
Duca, Borgongini, 126–7, 129, 147 7; Nietzschean influence on,
Duke of Pistoia, 141 73; obsession with mobility, 38,
Duse, Eleonora, 70, 184n57 173n38; oceanic impression of
Index 221
propaganda, 76–7, 96–8; open ing landscape, 13–15; transforma-

space myth of, 8; paganism and, tion of, 155–7; urban planning vs.
10–11, 121–34; in Parma, 173n27; culturalist approaches to, 3. See also
piazzas as threat for, 41–2; as politi- Hitler’s visit to Rome (1938); Mas-
cal religion, 102, 122–3; roads and ter Plan for Rome (1931); urban
mythology of, 15, 38–9, 78; thanatos planning, fascist
and, xiv Fasolo (architect), 111
Fascismo di pietra (Gentile), 4, 5 Federzoni, Luigi, 146
Fascist Modernities (Ben-Ghiat), 6 Felice, Renzo De, 6–7
Fascist Party (FNP): Casa del Fascio, Fellini, Federico, 194n52
101–2; Palazzo Littorio as Roman Fiat 18BL, 37
headquarters, 101 First World War. See Great War (First
Fascist Party Congress (1921), 44–5 World War)
Fascist Party Congress (1925), 91 I Fiumi / The Rivers (poem, Unga-
fascist Rome: acceptability of traffic retti), 169n36
deaths, 86; aesthetic pluralism of, flags, Hitler’s visit to Rome and, 140
106; city centre as empty amphi- Florence, Italy, 140
theatre, 98–9; as city of panoramic Fogu, Claudio, 9
views, 71, 155; cityscape as back- Foro Boario, xii
drop for Hitler’s visit, 154; conflict Foro Mussolini, 73–5, 101, 117–18,
with Vatican, 125; demolitions, 144
see demolitions; de-urbanization Foro Velabro, 67
of, 156–7; as enemy city, 42–3; Foschini, Arturo, 160
friendship with Nazi Germany, Foucault, Michel, 9
122; king and court as reminder Franceschelli, Enrico, 158–60
of liberal Rome, 146; landscape of, freedom, as movement, 26
12–13; liberation by Americans, Frescura, Attilio: on Caporetto
52–3; military metaphors for, 157; retreat, 29, 30–1, 171n82; on
mythical view of, 133; open space Carso, 21, 23
in, 8; prestige as central pillar of Freud, Sigmund, 166n36
spectacle, 137; remnants in EUR, Friuli plain (pianura): blurring
160–1; as resurrection of Impe- boundaries between civilized and
rial Rome, 136; as resurrection of non-civilized, 33; contrast with
pagan landscape, 121–34; rivalry Carso plateau, 25–6; landscape
with Milan, 41; road building in, see of, 24–7; as nightmare for military
roads and road building; as spatial defence, 26–7; roads of, 26–7; as
and architectonic consciousness of symbol of civilization, 18, 24–5. See
blackshirts, 6; spreading gospel of also Caporetto retreat
fascism, 148–9; swastikas as street Fuller, Mia, 158
decorations, 141, 147; traffic defin- Fussell, Paul, 21, 22
222 Index
Futurism, 10, 36, 43 165nn18, 19; transformative

process of, 21–2, 35–6; Western
Gallenga (senator), 109 Front, 22, 23, 26. See also Unknown
Galleria Cometa, 54 Soldier
Gasparotto, Luigi, 91 The Great War and Modern Memory
gasworks (Rome), xii (Fussell), 21
gaze, 155, 157 Gregor, A. James, 121
Gentile, Emilio: on fascism as politi- Griffin, Roger, 8, 9, 10, 158
cal religion, 123; on fascist trans- Gruppo Universitari Fascisti (GUF),
formation of Rome, 4–5; on myth 107
of Romanità, 4–5; on symbolism of Guidi, Buffarini, 129, 147
Palazzo Littorio, 102 Guttuso, Renato, 55
Germanic-Hungarian Pontifical Col-
lege, 126 Hadrian’s Tomb, 43
Germany. See Nazi Germany Haussmann, Baron, xiii, 8, 78
Ghibelline alliance, 134, 137 Hess, Rudolf, 146
Giardina, Andrea, 3 Himmler, Heinrich, 146
Gibelli, Antonio, 24, 35, 169n25 history: archaic vs. linear views, 133;
Giedion, Sigfried, xiii, 15, 118 elusiveness of past, 130, 194n52;
Gillet, Louis, 148, 150–1 fascist vs. Christian views, 130–4
Giolitti, Giovanni, 41 Hitler, Adolf: archetypes of, 153–4;
Giorni di Guerra (Comisso), 26 on autobahns as aesthetic monu-
Giovannoni, Gustavo: on automobile ments, 144; on Christianity, 132,
and de-urbanization of Rome, 195n67; fear of ambush on open
156–7; commission for Master Plan roads, 145; on German liking for
and, 57; on traffic, 95, 157; on Italy, 141–2; Italian monarchy and,
transformation of Rome, 64, 155–7 145, 146, 198n61; obsession with
Givelli, Antonio, 7 Rome, 141; personal characteris-
Gorizia (city), 19 tics, 141; protection from crowds
Gradisca (town), 20 in Rome, 145; as reincarnation of
Grandi, Dino, 126, 127 Holy Roman Emperors, 149, 153;
Great War (First World War): Aqui- as religious personality, 148; as
leia and, 16–17; Foro Mussolini Roman reincarnate, 12; transfor-
reflecting experience of, 74–5; mation in Rome to world-historical
industrial nature of, 21, 169n25; figure, 138; as war veteran, 153–4
landscape of, 16–33; memories of, Hitler’s visit to Rome (1938), 135–54;
in Quartiere Giuliano-Dalmata, as apotheosis, 138, 147, 152–3;
161; rendering hidden things vis- arrangements for cheering crowds,
ible, 32; resurrecting Rome, 136; 140, 196n26; as catalyst for fascist
rise of fascism and, 6–7, 17–18, movement against monarchy,
Index 223
146; choice of entry for, 149–50; Interventionist Crisis (1914–15), 7

cityscape as backdrop for, 135–7, Isnenghi, Mario, 40
154; as consecration of Axis, 152–4; Isonzo River, 19
elimination of borders during, Italian Front, 6, 18
141; entering Rome in King’s
horse-drawn carriage, 149, 199n82; Jones, David, 23
as fascism’s urbe et orbi message,
152–4; fascist Roman landscape Kallis, Aristotle, 9
as focus of, 148; flags and, 140; Kohn, Margaret, 6
foreign opinion of, 143–4, 197n46; Kolnai, Auriel, 124
ignoring Papal Rome, 148; inflam- Kostoff, Spiro, 3, 15
ing hopes for Nazi-fascist alliance,
137, 138–9; itinerary of, 142–5; Lacretelle, Jacques de, 100
lighting and mystic spectacle of, Landscape and Memory (Schama), 12
149–51; military exercises during, land speculation, nineteenth century,
143–4; minimizing Christianity, 68
151–2; as official announcement of Laqueur, Walter, xv
Fascist Revolution, 154; omnipres- Largo Tritone, 79
ence of monarchy during, 145–6, Lateran Accords (1929): as fascist
198n61; Pius XI on preparations compromise, 121; protection of
for, 138; preparations for, 139–42; catacombs, 128–9; protections for
as religious spectacle, 138–9, 149; church property, 125–6; signing of,
resembling squadristi expedi- 122, 132; Via della Conciliazione
tion, 142; roads central to, 144–5; commemorating, 147
Rome’s artistic heritage in, 144; Il Lavoro Fascista (newspaper), 71, 148
security and aesthetics of, 139–40; Lazzaro, Claudia, 10
as spectacle for impressing Hitler, Le Corbusier (architect), 13, 85, 158,
139–41; swastikas as street decora- 183–4n42
tions, 141, 147; train route of, 141 lebensraum, 9
horses, dead, 29 Leo I (pope), 133
Huxley, Aldous, 14 Let’s Murder the Moonshine (Mari-
netti), 42
Idroscalo (hydroport), xiii Leva, Domenico Maria: on Capito-
Igliori, Ulisse, 48 line Hill and squadrismo, 70–1; on
imboscati (shirkers), 14, 34–5 fascist resurrection of pagan past,
Imperial Fora, 105, 110 136; on March on Rome, 34; on
Imperialismo pagano (Evola), 121 primitivism of fascists, 51; on sedi-
In Parenthesis (Jones), 23 tion in San Lorenzo quarter, 46, 47
Internationalist style (architecture), Libera, Adalberto, 104, 158
106–7 liberal Rome. See Rome, liberal
224 Index
lighting, as mystic spectacle, 149–51 rumvirs, 48, 175n79; San Lorenzo

Lischi, Dario, 49 quarter as battleground in, 51;
Longanesi, Leo, 90; on Hitler’s symbolism of, 176n90; transporta-
entry into Rome, 149; on lighting tion for, 48–9, 175–6n87; Udine
of Hitler’s entry into Rome, 150; speech by Mussolini inspiring,
on Piacentini’s transformation of 47–8; war experience in narratives
landscape, 98 of, 47, 49–50
LUCE newsreels and documentaries: Marinetti, Filippo Tommaso, 23,
Bersaglieri rally, 96; Città Bianca / 36–7, 42
White City, 158–60; demolitions, Master Plan for Rome (1931): as act
58–60; Hitler’s visit to Rome, 142; of violence, 15; art and hygiene
space dominating, 76 indistinguishable in, 84; attack-
Lussu, Emilio, 20, 25 ing legacy of Liberal Italy, 58,
67–8, 122; citizen protests against,
Maccari, Mino, 51, 87, 151 61–2, 178nn24–6, 179nn36–7; as
Mafai, Mario: Demolizioni paintings, compromise solution, 57–8; as
54–6, 72, 73; loss of home to demo- continuation of March on Rome,
lition, 54–5; Trionfo di Cesare mural, 55; criticism of, 78–80, 184n56;
72, 73 defamiliarizing familiar settings,
Malaparte, Curzio: on American 82; destructiveness of, 4; disruption
liberation of Rome, 52–3; on black- of historic squares, 86–9; ending
shirts and landscape of war, 17, 35; of, 117; Gentile on, 4–5; grand
on Carso, 20; on danger of piazza, boulevards as heart of, 82; hygiene
40; on fante as primordial Italian, in, 66–7; Mafai as interpreter and
51; on Friuli plain, 25; on infinite witness to, 73; militarist tone of,
space, 27; on March on Rome, 72; Novecento influence on, 56;
34–5, 52; mythical fante of, 46; on obliterating layers of Rome’s past,
representative men vs. reverse 71; opening spaces in cityscape,
heroes, 173n42; on transformation 9, 62–3; optical innovation of, 81;
of soldiers by war, 21, 24; on true Painter on, 4; planning commis-
Italian as street fighter, 48 sion, 57; preparations for Hitler’s
Mamertine Prison, 82–3 visit as extension of, 140; reconcil-
Manacorda, Daniele, 3 ing art and traffic, 56; rejecting
march of history, in Palazzo Littorio romantic sensibility, 66–7; remak-
design, 115, 116 ing Roman landscape, 59, 64, 98–9;
marching, freedom of, 26 rendering Rome unfamiliar, 63–6;
March on Rome, 17, 47–52; choreog- revealing primordial city, 68–9;
raphy of, 47–8; as concluding act reviving pagan landscape, 122; as
of fascist revolution, 34–5; Master search for origins, 71; threaten-
Plan as continuation of, 55; quad- ing religious patrimony of city,
Index 225
126; Ufficio Tecnico disregarding as German artist, 141; images of

citizen concerns, 61–3, 178nn24–6, Roman Forum, 67; on levelling
178n30, 179nn36, 41. See also of Velia Hill, 183n40; as L’Urbe
demolitions; roads and road build- founder, 61; on Master Plan, 56; on
ing; urban planning, fascist panoramas created by new roads,
material world, pagan exaltation of, 81; on surprising palimpsests in
124 Master Plan, 81; on Tarpeian Rock,
Mazzini, Giuseppe, 41 94; on traffic of Via dell’Impero,
McLuhan, Marshall, 14, 181n78 83; on transformation of Piazza
Il Messaggero, 150 Arceoli, 88; on Via dell’Impero,
Milan, Italy, 41 84–5; on Via del Mare, xii
Milite Ignoto. See Unknown Soldier Museo delle Terme, 144
(Milite Ignoto) Museum of Ancient Rome, 160
Milizia della Strada, 77–8 Mussolini, Arnaldo, 130
Mille Miglia motor race, 85–6, Mussolini, Benito: on aesthetics and
184nn48–9 hygiene, 66–7; announcing entry
Ministry of Italian East Africa, 151 into Second World War (1940),
Il mio Carso (Slataper), 18 76–7, 98; architectural interests
Mit brennender Sorge / With Burning of, 5; as automobile driver, 38; on
Sorrow (Pius XI, 1937), 148 Caporetto retreat, 28; comparison
Modernism and Fascism (Griffin), 158 with Pope Sixtus V, 122; conscious-
modernity, soldiers as carriers of, 31 ness of foreign opinion, 143;
monarchy, Italian: omnipresence cult of Duce, 8; dependence on
during Hitler’s visit to Rome, 145– church for social peace, 123; on
6, 198n61; as reminder of liberal fascist responsibility for Unknown
Rome, 146; Vittoriano identified Soldier, 45, 91; founding of fasci di
with, 90, 185–6n74 combattimento, 36; on Friuli plain as
Monte Nero, 25 battleground, 170n72; on Germans
Moretti, Luigi, 74 coming to Italy, 141–2; March on
Morpurgo, Vittorio, 111 Rome and, 17, 34, 47–8; motorcy-
mosaics, of Foro Mussolini, 74 cle riding by, xii–xiii, 85; move of
Moses, Robert, xiv, 8 prime minister’s residence to Pal-
Moses Fountain, 89 azzo Venezia, 90; on necessity and
Mosse, George, xiv–xv, 7, 10–11 grandeur in Master Plan, 56, 72; as
movement: fascism and, 173n38; new Caesar, 136; Pacification Pact,
freedom as, 26 44; pagan view of history, 130; on
Mulé, F.P., 87–8 paradoxical aspects of Rome, 81;
Mumford, Lewis, xiv, 14 pickaxe as symbol of reworking of
Muñoz, Antonio, 66; archaeological cityscape, 59–60; on preparations
excavations of, 69–70; on Hitler for Hitler’s visit to Rome, 139,
226 Index
196n16; as prime minister, 34, 50; L’Osservatore Romano (Vatican newspa-

regime’s movement against monar- per), 126
chy, 146; rivalry with Pius XI, 124; Ostia, as termination of Via del Mare,
on Roman tradition of destruc- xiii
tion, 11; Romanità and regime of, Ostiense Station. See Stazione
4–5; on Rome’s transformation of Ostiense (Ostiense Station)
Christianity, 132; as supporter of
Rationalism, 106; visit to Germany Pacelli, Eugenio (Pius XII), 131, 132
(1937), 152 paganism: fascist identification with,
Mussolini architetto (Nicoloso), 5 10–11, 122; fascist regime resur-
Mussolini’s Rome (Painter), 4 recting, 121–34, 136; Pius XI on
pagan politics of fascism, 123–4;
Nazi Germany: fascist regime’s transformation by Apostles into
friendship with, 122; as model for Christianity, 131
Italian fascist regime, 146; Musso- Pagano, Giuseppe: on Mussolini and
lini’s visit to, 152; Pius XI on pagan Rationalism, 106; on Palazzo Lit-
nature of, 123. See also Hitler, Adolf torio designs, 113, 115; as Rational-
Nazism: Aryan fantasies of, 10; as ist, 102; refusal to submit proposal
reincarnation of Imperial Rome, for Palazzo Littorio, 107, 109
137; as threat to Christianity, 123 Painter, Borden, Jr, 4, 5
Negri, Silvio, 70, 94; on Via del Mare, Pais, Ettore, 11–12, 67
80–1 Palanti, Mario, 115
New Man, fascist, 24, 100 Palatine Hill, 69, 150
The New Religion – Morality of Speed Palazzo Barberini, 84
(Marinetti), 36 Palazzo della Civiltà, 160
Nicoloso, Paolo, 5 Palazzo delle Esposizioni, 104
Nolte, Ernst, 164n8 Palazzo Littorio, 100, 101–20; archi-
Non abbiamo bisogno / We Have No tectural challenges of original
Need (Pius XI, 1931), 123 site, 109–12; as ‘architecture of
Novecento movement, 56 Giolitti,’ 107–8; as birth of fascist
Nuova Antologia (journal), 68 architecture, 106–8; Coliseum and,
110–11; competition committee,
Obelisk of Axium, 150, 151 105; competition rules, 105–6, 109,
oceanic rallies (adunate oceaniche), 112; design competitions, 101,
xiii, 76–7, 96–8 117; finalists for, 107; functional
Ojetti, Ugo, 90 and symbolic nature of, 104–5; as
open space, in fascist Rome, 8–9 future site for party rallies, 110;
Opera Nazionale Balilla (O.N.B.), 73 integration into Master Plan,
Orosio, Paolo, 133 105; integration with traffic, 115,
Index 227
116–17, 191n61; location changes, 80; on sentimental nostalgia for

101–2; as metaphor for Eternal nineteenth century, 80; on traffic
City, 116; as monument to Fascist in Master Plan, 82; University of
Party, 101; Rationalist vs. tradition- Rome design, 144
alist designs, 102, 105–9; relocation Piave River, 27
to Foro Mussolini, 117–18; sense of piazza (square): Master Plan’s assault
the eternal in, 113–14; ship motif on, 40–1, 86–9; open space as
for, 115–16; solidity and monu- threat to fascists, 41–2, 86
mentality of, 112–13; symbolism Piazza Aracoeli, xiv, 80–1, 87, 88
of, 102; traditionalist concerns Piazza Barberini, 89
with location, 109; transience and Piazza Bocca della Verita, 67
movement in Rationalist designs, Piazza Campidoglio, 88, 110
115–16; uneasy fit into Master Piazza Colonna, 90
Plan, 102–3; Via dell’Impero and, Piazza Esedra fountain, 103
112–20; as viewing platform for Piazzale Augusteo, 88–9
surrounding ruins, 111–12 Piazzale dell’Impero, 74
Palazzo Venezia, 90 Piazzale Trinità dei Monti (Piazza
palingenesis, 9 Spagna), 79
Pantheon, 142, 148, 197n38 Piazza Montanara, xiv, 87–8
Papini, Giovanni, 32, 168n12 Piazza del Popolo, 95
Paris, Haussmann’s transformation Piazza San Bernardo, 89
of, 8 Piazza Santi Apostoli, 89
Parma, battle of, 39, 173n27 Piazza Venezia, xii; aesthetics of
Pasolini, Pier Paolo, xv–xvi, 60 disturbance in, 99; as focus for
passatista (lover of the past), 33 militant fascism, 93, 94; as heart
Passerini, Luisa, 8 of Rome, 90; landscape of war in,
Paul, St, 131, 132 90–100; oceanic crowds in, 76,
Pavolini, Alessandro, 46 77; party rallies in, 96–8; regime’s
Payne, Stanley, 164n8 appropriation of, 90; tomb of
Pesce, Gastone, 108 Unknown Soldier and, 92–3; as
Petrucci, Silvio, 152 traffic hub, 94–5
Piacentini, Marcello, 91; criticism Piazzesi, Mario: falling in love with
of, 98; on the E42, 158; Master machine gun, 52; on motorized
Plan commission and, 57; Palazzo squadristi expedition of 1921, 37;
Littorio competition committee on role of arditi in squadrismo, 36;
membership, 105; on Piazza Bar- on San Lorenzo quarter, 45
berini, 89; plans for Piazza Venezia, Piccola patria (Ermacora), 32
94; rejection of romanticism, 66; Pincio Gardens, 136
on roads as viewing platforms, Pius IX (pope), 125
228 Index
Pius XI (pope), 122; as Bishop of Protestant cemetery, 152

Rome, 125; condemning racial Proust, Marcel, 14
policies of Nazi regime, 147; Puccini, Mario: on Caporetto retreat,
construction projects of, 125, 28, 30, 31; on Carso ruins, 23, 24,
193nn23–4; election of, 125; on 168n14; on city of Gorizia, 19; on
fascism as pagan, 123–4; on fascist soldiers’ attachment to Carso, 23
archaeology, 129; on history as Pyramid of Caius Cestius, 150
continuity, 130–1; hostility between
Vatican and fascist regime, 133; quadrumvirs, 48, 175n79
Non abbiamo bisogno (1931), 123; Quartiere Giuliano-Dalmata (EUR),
offended by swastikas as street dec- 160–1
orations, 147; on pagan features of Quas Primas (Pius XI, 1925), 133
fascist and Nazi policies, 124; on Quirinal Palace, 34, 79, 96, 103, 142,
paganism as degraded society, 131; 146, 148
on preparations for Hitler’s visit to Quo Vadis? (church), 53
Rome, 138; preservation of eccle-
siastical Rome from secular state, Racial Laws (1938), 122, 123, 130, 133
122; protection of ecclesiastical Raphael (painter), burial place of,
property, 125–6; revival of Urbe et 142
Orbi blessing, 125, 192n20; rivalry Rationalism, 106–8
with Mussolini, 124; similarities to Ratti, Achille (Cardinal). See Pius XI
Sixtus V, 125 (pope)
Pius XII (pope), 132 refugees, Friuli, 170n68
Pollard, John, 193n23 regionalism, 32–3
Pollini, Leo: on Carso, 21–2, 23; on Renzetti, Giuseppe, 141
crossing Isonzo River, 19–20; on Republican Fora, 110
Friuli roads, 27 Ribbentrop, Joachim von, 146
Pompili (Cardinal), 128 Ricci, Corrado: fascist urban plan-
Ponte Milvio, 118 ning and, 188–9n7; on location for
Ponti, Ermanno, 65 Palazzo Littorio, 105; on openness
Pontifical Agricultural Institute, of Via dell’Impero, 114; Palazzo
127–8 Littorio competition committee
Il Popolo d’Italia (newspaper), 28, membership, 105; on panoramas
46–7, 91, 97, 108, 145 created by new roads, 81; plans for
Il Popolo di Trieste (newspaper), 42 Piazza Venezia, 94; support for new
Porta del Popolo, 118 roads, 83–4; on traffic accidents on
Pound, Ezra, 137 new roads, 79
primitivism and fascism, 10–11 Ricci, Renato, 74
primordialism, 10 Ridolfi-Cafeiro-La Padula-Rossi
propaganda, fascist, 76–7, 96–8 (architects), 114, 116
Index 229
Rinaldi, Enrico, 116 metaphor for liberal politicians

road rage, 14 and clergy, 43
roads and road building: accept- Romantic sensibility, fascist condem-
ability of traffic deaths, 86; as nation of, 65, 66–7
agents of transformation, 99–100; Roma Sparita / Lost Rome (Ponti), 65
as architectonic expressions, xiii; Rome, ancient: demolitions reveal-
assault on piazza, 86–9; creating ing, 68–71; historical association
new frames and juxtapositions, with war, 74; paganism in, 10;
83–4; criticism of, 78–80; as fascist soldiers as destroyers and crea-
landmarks, xiii, 78, 144; functions tors, 11; synchronic vs. diachronic
of, 77–8; lack of respect for ruins approaches to, 10, 166n36. See also
of antiquity, 78; landscape transfor- Roman ruins
mation by, 11–13, 85–9; militarism Rome, fascist. See fascist Rome
of, 14; as movement solidified, Rome, liberal: liberal vs. fascist urban
173n38; as necessity for Master planning, 81; Master Plan attack-
Plan, 77; noise of roads, 77; as race ing legacy of, 58, 67–8, 122; monar-
tracks, 85–6; reminding Romans chy as reminder of, 146; ruins as
of ancient past, 77; shaping fascist metaphor for liberal politicians
spectacle, 78; shifting perspectives and clergy, 43; Unknown Soldier
of, 80; straight roads ignoring identified with liberal regime, 91;
aesthetics and history, 62–3; threat Vittoriano identified with liberal
of ambush on, 145; as viewing plat- monarchy, 90, 185–6n74
forms, 80–4; violence of, 14 Rome, post-fascist: fascist imprint on,
rocks, on Carso plateau, 20–1 4; rivalry with Milan, 41; ‘traffic
Roma (film, Fellini, 1972), 194n52 and glory’ ideology shaping, 3
Roma Fascista (journal), 143 Rome-Berlin Axis, as restoration of
Roma Futurista (journal), 42–3 Ghibelline alliance, 134
Roman Catholic Church. See Catholic Romfahrt, 153
Church Rossi (Archbishop), 30
Roman Empire. See Rome, ancient
Roman Forum, 67 Sacconi, Giuseppe, 90, 92
Romanità, xi; controlling crowds with, ‘The Sack of Rome’ (Longanesi), 98
3; declaration of war as fulfilment Sacralization of Politics in Fascist Italy
of, 76; fascist propaganda and, (Gentile), 123
68–9; Gentile on, 4–5; ideological St Jerome’s College, 126, 127
pretensions of fascism in, 3; monu- St Paul’s Gate, 117, 150, 151
ment in EUR, 161; as primordial- Salatino, Paolo, 82–3
ism, 10 Sallust’s obelisk, 70
Roman ruins: excavation of, xii; San Carlo (church), 88
fascist attitude towards, 3, 10; as San Girolamo (church), 88
230 Index
San Just, Senator, 68 Soffici, Ardengo: on Caporetto

San Lorenzo quarter (Quartiere San retreat, 28–9; on Friuli plain, 25;
Lorenzo): as battleground in March on Friuli roads, 27; on Vittoriano
on Rome, 51; demolition of, 47; demolition, 90
fascist hostility towards socialist soldiers, as primitives, 31–2
population, 44–7 Solmi, Arrigo, 156
San Martino del Carso (battlefield), The Song of the Dead on the Carso
22 (poem, Steiner), 21
San Martino del Carso (poem, Unga- Sontag, Susan, xv
retti), 22, 169n33 sounds: amplification as goal of Mas-
Sanna, General, 24 ter Plan, 177n15; of demolitions,
San Rita da Cascia (church), 88 59; noise of roads, 77
San Rocco (church), 88 spatial transformation, 6
Santa Maria sopra Minerva, 136 speed: as act of violence, 13–14; as
Sarfatti, Margherita, 20, 52, 104 fascist value, xiv; Marinetti on,
Saturday Night Massacres (Stragi del 36–7; Via del Mare design encour-
Sabato Sera), xi, xii aging, xiv
savages (selvaggi), 176n102 squadrismo (early fascist movement),
Schama, Simon, 12 xiv; arditi influence on, 36; ‘column
Schmidt, Paul, 150, 151 of fire,’ 38; landscape of, 36–41;
Scipione (Gino Bonichi), 54 landscape of war in, 18, 37–8;
Scola, Ettore, 187n104 objection to transition to political
Scorza, Carlo, 36 party, 44; revealing mythical Rome
Scuola Romana (neo-expressionist through archaeology, 68–71; on
movement), 54, 55 Rome as enemy city, 42–3; straight
Second World War: Mussolini roads in imagination of, 37–8; war
announcing entry into, 76–7, 98; experience and, 7, 165n19
as reincarnation of Guelph- squadristi. See blackshirts (squadristi)
Ghibellien struggles, 137 square. See piazza
seeing, paradox of, 155 Starace, Achille, 105, 139, 146
selvaggi (savages), 176n102 Stazione Ostiense (Ostiense Station),
Il Selvaggio / The Savage (Maccari), xii, 135, 138, 149–50, 151
51, 87, 98, 176n102, 184n56 Steiner, Giuseppe, 21
Seven Hills of Rome, excavation of, 68 Sternhell, Zeev, 165n18
shantytowns (borgate), xiii, 60, 96 La strada e il volante (Bardi), 13–14
Sharrett, Christopher, 14 Stragi del Sabato Sera (Saturday Night
Sironi, Mario, 5 Massacres), xi, xii
Sixtus V (pope), 122, 125 straight-line façade: in Palazzo Lit-
The Skin (Malaparte), 52–3 torio design, 115
Slataper, Scipio, 18–19 Sunken Harbour (Ungaretti), 22
Index 231
swastikas: as street decorations, 141, of Christ in His Kingdom (Pius XI,

147 1922), 124
Udine, Italy, 18, 47–8
Tadolini, Scipione, 15 Ufficio Tecnico (UT), 61–3, 81–2, 84,
Taine, Hippolyte, 66–7 179n36
Tamassia, Renato, 3 Una giornata particolare / A Special
Tarpeian Rock, xi, 69, 94 Day (film, Scola), 187n104
Teatro Barberini, 80 Understanding Media (McLuhan), 14
Termini Station (Rome), 139, 151 Ungaretti, Giuseppe: on Carso, 23–4,
La Terra (Cruillas), 50 168n12; I Fiumi (poem), 169n36;
Terragni, Giuseppe, 102, 108–9, 110, on Italian desire for the infinite,
115 27; San Martino del Carso (poem),
Testa, Virgilio, 58, 82 22, 169n33; on soldiers as labour-
Il Tevere (newspaper), 152–3 ers, 21; on war experience, 9; on
Theatre of Marcellus, xii war’s unleashing of barbarism, 32
time: palingenesis vs. actualism, 8 universalism, 124
Tor dei Conti, 110, 111 University of Rome, 47, 139–40, 144
Toti, Enrico, 44, 45–6 Unknown Soldier (Milite Ignoto): fas-
Toynbee, Arnold, 124 cism claiming responsibility for, 45;
traditionalism, 121, 191n6 Hitler’s visit to tomb, 142, 153–4;
traffic: acceptability of deaths to identification with liberal regime,
fascist regime, 86; as archaeologi- 91; paying homage to, 91; recreat-
cal excavation, 157; around tomb ing war experience, 99; restoring
of Unknown Soldier, 95; defining bond between Aquileia and Rome,
fascist Roman landscape, 13–15; 16–17; traffic around tomb of, 95;
as evil of urban planning, 79; Vittoriano as home for, 16, 91–3
Master Plan reconciling art with, urban planning, fascist: aesthetics
56; Palazzo Littorio integration of emptiness and transience, 99;
with, 115, 116–17, 191n61; on Via disruption of historic squares,
dell’Impero, 85 86–9; liberal Italy planning vs., 81;
tramlines, 95 militaristic reshaping of Roman
Trionfo di Cesare (mural, Mafai), 72, landscape, 98–9; traffic around
73 tomb of Unknown Soldier, 95; traf-
Tripodi, Nino, 135 fic congestion as greatest evil of,
tunnels: as alternative to Roman 79. See also Master Plan for Rome
roads, 78–9, 80; Master Plan refus- (1931)
ing to consider, 82 urban planning, nineteenth century:
Tyrol, 141 as land speculation, 68
L’Urbe (journal), 61, 95
Ubi Arcano Dei Consilio / On the Peace Urbe et Orbi: blessing of Rome by
232 Index
pope, 125, 192n20; Hitler’s visit to tion of, xii–xiii; as ‘killer road,’
Rome as fascist message, 152 xi, xii–xiv; Piazza Venezia and,
UT (Ufficio Tecnico), 61–3, 81–2, 84, 94; reframing of antique ruins by,
179n36 80–1; route of, xii–xiii; as thrill
ride, xii
Vaccaro, Gennaro, 173n26 Via Nazionale, 103–4
Vaccaro, Giuseppe, 111, 116 Via Ostiense, xii, 87, 160
Valery, Paul, 66 Via San Marco, 88
Vatican: domination of Rome, 42; Via dei Trionfi, 94, 143, 144
new roads revealing dome of, 84 Victor Emmanuel II monument (Vit-
Vatican Radio, 125 toriano): as apotheosis of rhetoric
Vecchi, Cesare de, 175n79 of Third Italy, 90; fascist dislike of,
Vecchi, Ferruccio, 24, 36 59–60, 90–1; Futurist dislike of,
Velia Hill, levelling of, 84, 183n40 43; as home for Unknown Soldier,
Veneto region, 17 16, 91–3; liberal monarchy and,
Ventrone, Angelo, 7 90, 185–6n74; obstructing view of
Verdi, Giuseppe, 103 Capitoline Hill, 70; proposed park
Via della Conciliazione, 84, 126, 147 surrounding, 182n15; as sacralizing
Via Flaminia, 81, 93 of secular state, 122; Via Nazionale
Via Imperiale, 119, 128–9 and, 103
Via dell’Impero, 77, 144; inaugura- Victor Emmanuel III (king of Italy),
tion of, 96, 112; as monument of 34, 149. See also monarchy, Italian
fascism, 118, 119; mythical views of, Vittoriano monument. See Vic-
100; as new Via Sacra, 119; open- tor Emmanuel II monument
ness of, 114; Palazzo Littorio and, (Vittoriano)
105, 112–20; as preferred route for Vittorio Veneto, battle of, 34
military parades, 94; as symbol of
fascist road building, 84–5; traffic war and de-urbanization, 157
carried by, 85; as viewing platform, war experience: Foro Mussolini
82, 83, 113 reflecting, 74–5; as myth, 7–8
Via Laurentina, 160 war monuments, 87
Via del Mare, 77, 144, 158; as cultural War and the 20th Century (Coker), 9
phenomenon, xiv–xv; demolition Weil, Simone, 12, 137
of neighbourhoods for construc- Western Front: enchantment of, 23;
tion, xiv; design encouraging marches as pleasure on, 26; sym-
speed, xiv; destruction of Piazza bolic ruins of, 22
Montanara and Piazza Aracoeli for, White, Hayden, 11
87–8; fascist ideology in construc- Winter, Denis, 26

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The Symbolic Landscape of Fascist Rome

Roads and Ruins

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS

Printed on acid-free, 100% post-consumer recycled paper

Toronto Italian Studies

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Baxa, Paul, 1968–

1. Fascism – Italy – Rome. 2. Fascism and culture – Italy – Rome. 3. Roads –

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the ﬁnancial assistance to its

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the ﬁnancial support for its

Introduction: Rome and Fascism 3

1 The Landscape of the War 16

2 Roads to Rome: The Blackshirts and the città nemico 34

3 Demolitions: De-familiarizing the Roman Cityscape 54

4 ‘An uninterrupted racecourse’: Fascism’s Roman Roads 76

5 The Palazzo and the Boulevard 101

6 Resurrecting a Pagan Landscape 121

7 Return of the Roman 135

Conclusion: The Cinematic City 155

Many people, too numerous to mention, have contributed to this project

Ave Maria, Florida

Death on the Via del Mare

Ideology, however, was present in the road’s construction, as it was

chapters, fascism will be viewed as part of a cultural phenomenon ema-

Rome and Fascism

A central premise of these urbanist assessments of fascist Rome is the

Ruth Ben-Ghiat has demonstrated, in her book Fascist Modernities, that

Fascism as ‘Lived Experience’

of war which inﬂuenced fascism’s later approach to urban spaces. One

It is not in Haussmann’s nineteenth century that we ﬁnd the inspira-

continuity and progress was no longer tenable after the experiences of

Roads and Ruins

The multiple mythologies of fascism and their complex interactions can

tects like Le Corbusier.49 Demolitions, just like war, revealed a hidden

Bardi’s account of Filiberto’s exhilarating ride on the Milan–Turin

course of his amazing race.’52 To be sure, railway travel had introduced

and ruins are central to the ‘spatio-temporal compressions’ of moder-

The Landscape of the War

The Landscape of War

fronts between the Italians and Austro-Hungarians was established

crucis leading to a Calvary.14 Pollini described in vivid terms the sudden

rocks was a shock to Italians who, after centuries of Catholicism, could

Carso,’ wrote the futurist F.T. Marinetti, ‘broken ground, tormented,

can trenches encouraged immobility and stagnation, the plain promised

the Friulan roads, Comisso took pleasure in the ‘geometrical proportion

Caporetto and the Return of the Barbarians

In late October 1917, after two years of futile battles, an Austro-German

Mussolini, in this editorial, displayed the type of rhetoric that he would

the roads: ‘Menacingly, the soldiers were ready to defend themselves.

The Landscape of Squadrismo

Founded in March 1919 by the ex-socialist newspaper editor Benito Mus-

ry of the March on Rome, Balbo’s diary revealed important elements of

picture of the heroic, marching blackshirt, head high, being attacked

row medieval quarters or in the piazze. The centrepiece of Italian town

popolo (socialist headquarters) and printing houses. Before torching the

Rome against Rome

Squadrismo brought its war-inspired landscape to the March on Rome in

its birthplace, as the representative city of a working Italy.43 Celebrating

A Neighbourhood versus the Nation