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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Anxious in Ancona (2) The Doge has apportioned a fleet for his use, but is proving an Indian giver. A pope with a navy (and with a screw loose) is no-one’s idea of chopped liver, so Venice, delaying and playing obtuse, is selling the pope down the river. A Christian army, devoted to God, is what Pius imagines he’s shaping, but this one is riding distinctly rough-shod: Ancona’s awash with the scrapings of Europe: and here, where the Caesars once trod, they are busily looting and raping. There ain’t going to be any ardent crusade, and Pius is dying, for certain. They’ve all came to nothing, those plans that he laid, and his project has gone for a burton. To stop him from seeing his “army”, his aide has fastened the litter’s gauze curtain. He thought to have fought at the head of a host: but reality isn’t like that. We babble and squabble, we brag and we boast, but our fantasies always fall flat. Poor Pius was no Alexander. At most, he was sort of an Anwar Sadat. We curse our ill fortune and, wringing our hands, we wail at our undeserved lot. But is it so rare, as we formulate plans, to end up with diddly squat? If that’s how it goes with the Number One man, what chance have the rest of us got?
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