by Wilbur Smith
voiced precisely the Count's own feelings, feelings which had over the
last few weeks" desperate adventures, become deep-seated convictions.
He struggled up on one elbow, lifted his noble head with its anguished
brow and looked at the little sergeant.
"Gino," he said. "You are a philosopher."
"You do me too much honour, my Count."
"No! No! I mean it. You have a certain gutter wisdom, the
perceptions of the streets, a peasant philosopher." Gino would not
himself have put it quite that way, but he bowed his head in
acquiescence.
"I have been unfair to my brave boys," said the Count, and his whole
demeanour changed, becoming radiant and glowing with good will,
like that of a reprieved prisoner. "I have thought only of myself my
own glory, my own honour, recklessly I have plunged into danger,
without reckoning the cost. Ignoring the terrible risk that I might
leave my brave boys without a leader orphans without a father." Gino
nodded fervently. "Who could ever replace you in their hearts, or at
their head?"
"Gino." The Count clapped a fatherly hand to his shoulder.
"I must be less selfish in the future."
"My Count, you cannot know how much pleasure it gives me to hear it,"
cried Gino, and he trembled with relief as he thought of long,
leisurely days spent in peace and security behind the earthworks and
fortifications of Chaldi camp.
"Your duty is to command!"
"Plan! said the Count.
"Direct!" said Gino.
"I fear it is my destiny."
"Your God-given duty." Gino backed him up, and as the Count sank down
once more upon the cot, he fell with renewed vigour upon the injured
shoulder.
"Gino," said the Count at last. "When last did we speak of your
wages?"
"Not for many months, my Count."
"Let us discuss it now," said
Aldo Belli comfortably. "You are a jewel without price. Say, another
hundred lire a month."
"The sum of one hundred and fifty had crossed MY
mind, murmured Gino respectfully.
The Count's new military philosophy was received with unbounded
enthusiasm by his officers, when he explained it to them that evening
in the mess tent, over the liqueurs and cigars. The idea of leading
from the rear seemed not only to be practical and sensible, but
downright inspired. This enthusiasm lasted only until they learned
that the new philosophy applied not to the entire officer cadre of
the
Third Battalion, but to the Colonel only. The rest of them were to be
given every opportunity to make the supreme sacrifice for God, country
and Benito Mussolini. At this stage the new philosophy lost much
popular support.
In the end, only three persons stood to benefit from the rearrangement
the Count, Gino and Major Luigi Castelani.
The Major was so overjoyed to learn that he now had what amounted to
unfettered command of the battalion that for the first time in many
years he took a bottle of grappa to his tent that evening, and sat
shaking his head and chuckling fruitily into his glass.
The following morning's burning, blinding headache that only grappa can
produce, combined with his new freedom, made the Major's grip on the
battalion all the more ferocious. The new spirit spread like a fire in
dry grass. Men cleaned their rifles, burnished their buttons and
closed them to the neck, stubbed out their cigarettes and trembled a
little while Castelani rampaged through the camp at
Chaldi, dealing out duties, ferreting out the malingerers and
stiffening spines with the swishing cane in his right hand.
The honour guard that fell in that afternoon to welcome the first
aircraft to the newly constructed airfield were so beautifully turned
out with polished leather and glittering metal, and their drill was so
smartly performed, that even Count Aldo Belli noticed it, and commended
them warmly.
The aircraft was a three-engined Caproni bomber. It came lumbering in
from the northern skies, circled the long runway of raw earth, and then
touched down and raised a long rolling storm of dust with the wash of
its propellers.
The first personage to emerge from the doorway in the belly of the
silver fuselage was the political agent from Asmara, Signor Antolino,
looking more rumpled and seedy than ever in his creased, ill-fitting
tropical linen suit. He raised his straw panama. in reply to the
Count's flamboyant Fascist salute, and they embraced briefly, the man
stood low on the social and political scale before the Count turned to
the pilot.
"I wish to ride in your machine." The Count had lost interest in his
tanks, in fact he found himself actively hating them and their
Captain. In sober mood he had refrained from executing that officer,
or even packing him off back to Asmara. He had contented himself with
a full page of scathing comment in the man's service report, knowing
that this would destroy his career. A complete and satisfying
vengeance, but the Count was finished with tanks. Now he had an
aircraft. So much more exciting and romantic.
"We will fly over the enemy positions," said the Count, at a
respectable height." By which he meant out of rifle shot.
"Later," said the political agent, with such an air of authority that
the Count drew himself up in a dignified manner, and gave the man a
haughty stare before which he should have quailed.
"I carry personal and urgent orders from General Badogho's own lips,"
said the agent, completely unaffected by the stare.
The Count's stiffly dignified when altered immediately.
"A glass of wine, then," he said affably, and took the " man's arm
leading him to the waiting Rolls.
The General stands now before Ambo Aradam. He has the main
concentration of the enemy at bay upon the mountain, and under heavy
artillery and aerial bombardment. At the right moment he will fall
upon them and the outcome cannot be in doubt."
"Quite right," nodded the Count sagely; the prospect of fighting a
hundred miles away to the north filled him with the reflected warmth of
the glory of Italian arms.
"Within the next ten days, the broken armies of the Ethiopians will be
attempting to withdraw along the road to Dessie and to link up with
Baile Selassie at Lake Tona but the Sardi Gorge is like a dagger in
their ribs. You know your duty." The Count nodded again, but warily.
This was much closer to home.
"I have come now to make the final contact with the Ethiopian Ras who
will declare for us, the Emperor-designate of Ethiopia our secret ally.
It is necessary to coordinate our final plans, so that his defection
will cause the greatest possible confusion amongst the ranks of the
enemy, and his forces can be best deployed to support your assault up
the gorge to Sardi and the Dessie road."
"Ah!" the Count made a sound which signified neither agreement nor
dissent.
"My men, working in the mountains, have arranged a meeting with the
Emperor-designate. At this meeting we will make the promised payment
that secures the Ras's loyalty." The agent made a moue of distaste.
"These people!" and he sighed at the thought of a man who would sell
his country for gold. Then he dismissed the thought with a
J wave of his hand. "The meeting is fixed for tonight. I have brought
one of my men with me who will act as a guide.
The place arranged is approximately eighty kilometres from here and we
will move out at sundown which will give us ample time to reach the
rendezvous before the appointed hour of midnight."
"Very well, the Count agreed. "I will place transport at your
disposal." The agent held up a hand. "My dear Colonel, you will be
the leader of the delegation to meet the Ras."
"Impossible." The Count would not so swiftly abandon his new
philosophy. "I have my duties here to prepare for the offensive." Who
knew what new horrors might lurk out in the midnight wastes of the
Danakil?
"Your presence is essential to the success of the negotiations your
uniform will impress the-" My shoulder, I am suffering from an injury
which makes travel most inconvenient I shall send one of my officers.
A Captain of tanks, the uniform is truly splendid."
"No. "The agent shook his head.
"I have a Major a man of great presence."
"The General expressly instructed that you should lead the delegation.
If you doubt this,
your radio operator could establish immediate contact with Asmara."
The
Count sighed, opened his mouth, closed it again, and then regretfully
abandoned his vow to remain within the perimeter of Chaldi camp for the
duration of the campaign.
"Very well," he conceded. "We will leave at sundown." The Count was
not about to plunge recklessly into danger again. The convoy which
left Chaldi that evening in the fiery afterglow of the sunset was led
by two CV.3 cavalry tanks, then followed four truck-loads of
infantry,
and behind them the remaining two tanks made up a formidable rear
guard.
The Rolls was sandwiched neatly in the centre of this column. The
political agent sat on the seat beside the Count, with his feet firmly
on the heavy wooden case on the floorboards. The guide that the agent
had produced from the fuselage of the Caproni was a thin, very dark
Galla, with one opaque eyeball of blue jelly caused by tropical
ophthalmia which gave him a particularly villainous cast of features.
He was dressed in a once-white sham ma that was now almost black with
filth, and he smelled like a goat that had recently fought a polecat.
The Count took one whiff of him and clapped his perfumed handkerchief
to his nose.
"Tell the man he is to ride in the leading tank with the
Captain," and a malicious expression gleamed in his dark eyes as he
turned to the Captain of tanks. "In the tank, do you hear? On the
seat beside you in the turret." They drove without lights, jolting
slowly across the moon-silver plains under the dark wall of the
mountains.
There was a single horseman waiting for them at the rendezvous, a dark
shape in the darker shadows of a massive camel-thorn. The agent spoke
with him in Amharic and then turned back to the Count.
"The Ras suspects treachery. We are to leave the escort here and go on
alone with this man."
"No," cried the Count. "No! No! I refuse - I simply refuse." It
took almost ten minutes of coaxing, and the repeated mention of General
Badoglio's name, to change the Count's stance. Miserably, the Count
climbed back into the Rolls, and Gino looked sadly at him from the
front seat as the unescorted, terribly vulnerable car moved out into
the moonlight, following the dark wild horseman on his shaggy pony.
In a rocky valley that cut into the towering bulk of the mountains,
they had to abandon the Rolls and complete the journey on foot. Gino
and Giuseppe carrying the wooden case between them, the
Count with a drawn pistol in his hand, they staggered on up the
treacherous slope of rocks and scree.
In a hidden saucer of rock, around the rim of which were posted the
shadowy, hostile figures of sentries, was a large leather tent.
Around it were tethered scores of the wild, shaggy ponies and the
interior was lit by smoky paraffin lamps and crowded with rank upon
rank of squatting warriors. Their faces were so black in the dim light
that only the whites of their eyes and the gleam of their teeth showed
clearly.
The political agent strode ahead of the Count, down the open aisle, to
where a robed figure reclined on a pile of cushions under a pair of
lanterns. He was flanked by two women, still very young, but
full-blown heavy-breasted, and pale-skinned, dressed in brilliant
silks, both of them wearing crudely wrought silver jewellery dangling
from their ears and strung about their long graceful necks. Their eyes
were dark and bold, and at another time and in different circumstances
the Count's interest would have been intense.
But now his knees felt rubbery, and his heart thumped like a war drum.
The political agent had to lead him forward by the arm.
"The Emperor-designate," whispered the agent, and the Count looked down
on the bloated, effeminate dandy who lolled upon the cushions, his fat
fingers covered with rings and his eyelids painted like those of a
woman. "Ras Kullah, of the Gallas."
"Make the correct reply,"
instructed the Count, his voice hoarse with strain, and the Ras eyed
the Count with apprehension as the agent made a long flowery speech.
The Ras was impressed with the imposing figure in its sinister black
uniform. In the lamplight, the insignia glittered and the heavy
enamelled cross on its ribbon of watered silk blinked like a beacon.
The Ras's eyes dropped to the jewelled dagger and ivory-handled pistol
at the Count's belt, the weapons of a rich and noble warrior and he
looked up again into the Count's eyes. They also glittered with an
almost feverish fanatical light, the Count's regular features were
flushed angrily and a murderous scowl furrowed his brow. He breathed
like a fighting bull. The Ras mistook the signs of fatigue and extreme
fear for the warlike rage of a berserker. He was impressed and awed.
Then his attention was drawn irresistibly away from the Count, as
Gino and Giuseppe staggered into the tent, sweating in the lamplight,
and bowed over the heavy chest they carried between them. Ras Kullah
hoisted himself into a kneeling position, with his soft paunch bulging
forward under the sham ma and his eyes glittering like those of a
reptile.
With an abrupt command, he cut short the agent's speech, and beckoned
the two Italians to him. With relief they deposited the heavy chest
before the Ras, amid a hubbub of voices from the dark mass of watchers.
They pressed forward eagerly, the better to see the contents of the
chest, as the Ras prised open the clips with the jewelled dagger from
his belt, and lifted the lid with his fat pale hands.
&
nbsp; The chest was closely packed with paper-wrapped rolls, like white
candles. The Ras lifted one and slit the paper cover with the point of
his dagger. There was a silent explosion of flat metal discs from the
package. They cascaded into the Ras's ample lap, glittering golden and
bright in the lantern light, and he cooed with pleasure, scooping a
handful of the coins. Even the Count, with his own vast personal
fortune, was impressed by the contents of the chest.
"By Peter and the Virgin," he muttered.
"English sovereigns," the agent affirmed. "But not a high price for a
land the size of France." The Ras giggled and tossed a handful of
coins to his nearest followers, and they fought and squabbled over the
coins on their hands and knees. Then the Ras looked up at the Count
and patted the cushions, grinning happily, motioning him to be
seated,
and the Count responded gratefully. The long walk up the valley and
his fevered emotions had weakened his legs. He sank down on the
cushions and listened to the long list of further demands that the Ras
had prepared.
"He wants modern rifles, and machine guns," translated the agent.
"What is our position?" asked the Count.
"Of course we cannot give them to him. In a month's time, or a year,
he may be an enemy not an ally. You cannot be certain with these
Gallas."
"Say the correct thing."
"He wants your assurance that the female agent provocateur and the two
white brigands in the Harari camp are delivered to him for justice as
soon as they are captured."
"There is no reason against this?"
"Indeed, it will save us trouble and embarrassment."
"What will he do with them they are responsible for the torture and
massacre of some of my brave lads?" The Count was recovering his
confidence, and the sense of outrage returned to him.
"I have eye-witness accounts of the terrible atrocities committed on
helpless prisoners of war.
The wanton shooting of bound prisoners justice must be done.
They must meet retribution." The agent grinned without mirth. "I
assure you, my dear Count, that in the hands of Ras Kullah they will
meet a fate far more terrible than you would imagine in your worst
nightmares," and he turned back to the Ras and said in Amharic, "You
have our word on it. They are yours to do with as you see fit." The
Ras smiled, like a fat golden cat, and the tip of his tongue ran across