The late afternoon sun cast long shafts of amber light across the polished marble floor.
Dust motes drifted lazily in the still air, disturbed only by the shuffle of boots and the rustle of crisp paper.
King Victor Emmanuel III stood at the head of a broad table strewn with staff maps and intelligence briefs.
His uniform was immaculate, the light catching on his array of medals; tokens of old wars from a bygone era.
But his eyes were tired, darker than even the heavy circles beneath them.
Around him clustered his senior staff: Marshal Badoglio with his sharp-boned hawk's face, the stooped Chief of the General Staff who toyed nervously with a pen, and the Minister of War who kept dabbing sweat from his upper lip despite the cool palace air.
A junior aide read from a typed dispatch, voice tight.
