The Shadow King

by Maaza Mengiste

  THE STORY THE ASCARO GUARD TELLS FUCELLI IS THIS: THE PRISONERS changed to jackals then helped the ambushing Ethiopians in the attack. They leapt past the cliffs and flew away. All of this happened before we could react. It was the work of the devil, outside of human capability to stop it, even for a man as great as Ibrahim. He rushed to help and did all he could, I am sure of it because I was there. He doesn’t deserve the whip, Colonello Fucelli. Per favore, he is our beloved leader, our sciumbasci.

  But this is what Fucelli says as he ties Ibrahim’s hands around the tree: Fascisti, we are fighting the army of Memnon, but we are the brave sons of Italy, offspring of those who fell in Adua nearly forty years ago. Didn’t the sons of Troy rise from the ashes to build the glorious empire of Rome? We don’t run, and every coward will be punished.

  Sons of Rome! Viva l’Italia! The shouts ricochet through the mountains.

  The ascari stay quiet.

  Fucelli shakes the horsewhip to test its pliancy. The echoes die away and a quiet anticipation sits on top of the suffocating heat. News of the ambush last night had traveled faster than Ettore could get to Fucelli’s office. He had not been sure how to explain to the colonel why the Ethiopians had left him inexplicably alive. But the colonel was ready for him.

  You fought them off, Fucelli said after he listened to Ettore’s account. They put the knife to your throat and tried to overpower you but you resisted and they knocked you unconscious and fled. They left the camera? The colonel had tensed at his confession that he lost his father’s letter. That’s a shame, Navarra, Colonel Fucelli said.

  They knocked me out, sir, he explained. I couldn’t stop them. How could Ettore have known what he was starting when he said, We searched all over for it.

  We? Fucelli stood from his chair.

  Ibrahim made sure I got here safely. He found me.

  And he didn’t fight them off? Fucelli asked. He let them come into my camp and let my prisoners escape? Just like he let those savages into my tent to attack me?

  We punish cowards, ragazzi, Fucelli says now, dragging the horsewhip in the dirt. An Italian is not a coward, an Italian fights and inspires others to do the same. You are an Italian, Navarra. Let’s show Rome and remind the others. This will go into your defense. Then he holds the whip for Ettore. Go on, Navarra, here’s the ascaro who let them attack you.

  A murmur grows, rolls into a fist-sized stone of noise that sinks into his head. Ettore grips his camera and automatically lifts it to his face. He is less than three meters from the colonel, almost the perfect distance to focus on him clearly. It would take a few steps backward then he could capture the lines of his arm, his shoulder, and blur everything else against a dizzying background.

  Sir?

  Fucelli shoves the whip into Ettore’s chest. He smiles, a muscle twitching in his eye. Prove which of you is Italian.

  Ettore glances nonsensically behind him as Fucelli slowly unbuttons his jacket, taking his time, aware of the dramatic performance that it is. The colonel then undoes the buttons of his shirt. He exposes the scar that extends from his shoulder and across his chest. It is thick, keloid. Skin has grafted back to itself. It is paler where it meets the old wound.

  Fucelli spreads his arms and turns to the other men. You’ve heard what happened to me in Libya, he says. There was a savage who came into my room and tried to kill me. I fought him off, soldati. I never gave up and I have the scars to prove it. Fucelli grabs Ettore’s wrist and pulls him forward, toward Ibrahim’s naked back and says, Do it, for your own sake.

  It is muscle that draws tight around the whip and keeps Ettore’s grip firm around it. It is the same set of ligaments that da Vinci illustrated with a series of threads. What is inside the body can be re-created outside of it. So when his arm moves up and still maintains its hold on that slender whip, Ettore looks and sees just a body in motion, obedient to its natural inclinations, separate from the man whose blood supports that rise and bend.

  Ettore follows the path of the whip as it sails through the air to sink into Ibrahim’s quivering back. He feels the impact of leather on skin and the tender slide into uncarved space. It is not his will that propels the graceful tool to lift and dig itself into tendon and muscle. It is the body in agreement with itself, splendidly engineered, tipping toward increased momentum and force. And he raises his arm again and the army roars and there is no word to express the exhilaration coursing through him and I hear them so clearly it could be your voice against my cheek, Father: Good, good, and what is broken is not skin, tendons have not been split, and muscles are not damaged, it is not bone that peeks through all that holds a human form together and makes us what we are. This is the miracle of man, Leo, you whom I will never know. It is there in Colonel Fucelli’s arms thrown open as if to embrace me while he speaks my name in repetition: Navarra, Navarra, well done, well done. Rome will be pleased.

  That is the miracle.

  Then Fucelli says, Tell the ascari to help you take him down, soldato. And the morning light becomes an unforgiving glare across Ibrahim’s torn back, exposing the tremulous space that separates the living from the dying.

  Ettore drops the whip and looks down at his clothes, splattered with drops of blood, evidence of that deed that deserves no name. His wrists are sore. His arms ache. He is sweating and short of breath. He feels his weakness in these small signs, and so it is no surprise that when he tells the ascari to untie Ibrahim and take him away, the native soldiers stand at attention and stare ahead. They do not even give him the courtesy of a salute. They do not yell the customary Abet, to acknowledge they received an order. Fucelli lights a cigarette and watches him through narrowed eyes. Ibrahim is slumped against the tree, his head bent low. His breaths are labored, dragged from someplace that rubs against torn flesh.

  Tell them again, Navarra. Fucelli lets the cigarette burn down between his lips, the red glow turning black then ashen before falling. Rome will hear of this and let you go.

  Ettore repeats his order while Fucelli taps the pistol at his waist, traces the line of the single belt there. The colonel shifts between Ibrahim and the ascari, between the ascari and his soldati, between his bodyguards on one side of him and Ettore on the other.

  He’ll stay there until one of you decides to get him down, Fucelli says to the ascari. He spits on the ground. Navarra, you don’t leave until he does. Then he walks back into his office and lets the bodyguards shut the door behind him.

  WHAT IS IT that unites men of extraordinary strength, Papa? What immortal breath sweeps through taut muscle and dense bone to fill a chest with a god’s sacred power? There is no rational law, Father, for what I am seeing. There is no sensible rule to explain what beats beneath Ibrahim’s stubborn heart as his ascari gather in silent support. Ettore watches, transfixed. Ibrahim has refused to allow his ascari to untie him. Now, he collapses completely against the tree, his body sagging, so elastic that it is only his painfully angled head that balances his full weight. He presses so hard against the tree that bark has scraped the skin off his cheeks. His eyes are swollen from the pressure. The crook of his neck is covered in bruises and cuts. His men drop to their knees to plead. They shout to get his attention, but he rejects their assistance with a grunt, too weak to do more than work an unsteady finger under the rope binding his hands, a short fingernail scratching feebly at the surface.

  IBRAHIM IS A SORROWFUL FIGURE propped on a stool forced beneath his knees for support. His men have not left him alone since the day before, and a new day is about to start. They have taken turns holding him up to keep him from choking. They have laid large leaves across his back and spoken gentle words that sounded like prayer. They have done the best that they could, some weeping, broken by this dogged determination that is at once stunning and agonizing. A small boy in a ragged T-shirt whom he has never seen, one that they call Abdul, has kept his own vigil next to the man.

  Ettore raises the camera to his face, leaning against a rock that is several paces away. It is impos
sible to photograph what is unfolding. There are only the increasingly pronounced movements of Ibrahim’s right arm, his greater mobility: a bird preparing to climb through the air then soar. Through the viewfinder it is nothing, but Ettore takes the picture anyway and keeps shooting as the ascari bend and heads bow and hands lift in benedictions. He keeps taking photos as Ibrahim releases a long, painful moan before his hands hang to the ground. He tumbles sideways and his men rush around him, visibly shaken, unafraid to reveal what no words can possibly express: that something greater than they know has been killed. That something they do not understand yet has taken its place.

  THIS: A HUMAN FORM staring down from the hilltop, a slender figure sheltered by trees and fog. There is a hand, not impossible to discern from such a distance, stretching forward as if to cup the rays of an early sun. It is a gesture both imperial and merciful, arrogant and generous: to hold the heaven-sent beams of light, to suspend them before they tumble down and add new punishment on an anguished man’s bleeding back. Below the hilltop, ascari surround Ibrahim. They are grim, so trapped in righteous fury and stubborn obedience that it is only Ibrahim himself, with a quivering finger raised in pain, who signals toward the hilltop and that human form: a shadow of a king, and the ruler of his own invisible kingdom.

  No one else but Ibrahim, still struggling with that knotted rope, spies Hirut and Aster in uniform, standing and watching his humiliation below while a spark of light freezes then skims across the sloping valley. It is only Ibrahim who will later tell his men: I saw the emperor in the hills, and it is he who freed the women. It is only Ibrahim who understands the warning behind that advent of light and a fog-shrouded form. Only Ibrahim who chooses not to give Fucelli time to prepare. Only Ibrahim who alerts his ascari instead and says to them: Leave me here and go when I loosen my ropes, run to the hills and wait for me.

  BY THE TIME ETTORE HEARS HIS NAME, IT IS TOO LATE. THERE IS NO chance to do anything but look at the other soldati hunched over their coffee outside their tents and call out, Did you hear that?

  He sets his cup down and turns on his stool slowly, raking his eyes across the field of tents. He listens, his heart beating loudly. His name comes again, followed by the colonel’s: Navarra. Fucelli. And when the names ricochet once more through the hills and light skips across the valley, all Ettore has time to do is rise to his feet and confirm to himself an awful truth: The Ethiopians have come for us. And they come for us in daylight.

  And even after Ettore grabs his rifle and helmet, even after he recognizes that it is, indeed, his name tumbling and snapping above his head, even after he races with the other soldati to get into position behind stone barricades, he still cannot comprehend what exactly is happening. There is something so strangely amiss that even a valley shifting with frantic soldati looks unnaturally empty. He is certain of something both hidden and illuminated by sunlight: a photographic negative that reveals everything and nothing at once.

  Ettore crouches behind the barricade. As the men wait for Colonel Fucelli’s orders, the urgent whispers begin to settle around him: The prisoners are looking for Ettore and Fucelli, then they’ll kill the rest of us. He looks up into the hills. Rebels are rushing toward them, armed. And then above them all, flanked by two soldiers Ettore is certain are Hirut and Aster: the emperor. Haile Selassie sweeps into view on a sunlit horse, the jewels braided into the animal’s mane flashing like a thousand eyes. It is only the sight of Fucelli running toward them in full uniform, throwing himself in front of the barricade, in front of them all, and aiming his rifle at the enemy that keeps Ettore and the rest of the soldati rooted in place, held firm by loyalty and training.

  The colonel shakes his head and gives the order to wait. He is alone, unprotected, but he does not seem to care. Don’t shoot until I tell you, he shouts to them. Don’t let them scare you like this, ragazzi! Your leader is here!

  And then from behind them all, from the hills that the ascari should be guarding, a new set of voices and war cries, a thousand Abyssinians and a thousand more rushing undeterred directly toward them. Ettore realizes at the same time as the rest of the Italians what has been a blindingly plain fact all along: the ascari are gone. They have simply disappeared.

  And then the enemy is rushing down to Carlo and the rest of his men, led by that man whose name he refuses to utter. Carlo watches their approach through binoculars, as calm as he has ever been. He will fight to the last man. He will fight even if every soldato gives up.

  My place is here, Fucelli says softly to himself. Then they will bury me at home and I will live again as a hero.

  He feels the ground give as the Abyssinians get closer. Then the splatter of rocks and snapped twigs as the enemy splits into two and then three, then begins to separate some more. Right flank. Left flank. A rear guard is surely pushing through forest and brush to leap on his men from behind. Not long from now, they will be completely surrounded.

  There is no way but through it, Fucelli shouts to his men. There’s no escape but forward!

  He turns briefly to look at them, these boys who have grown into men under his command, who stare back at him now while sunk low behind their barricade. He knows that Kidane will divide his army into smaller groups. They will spread themselves across the Italian lines and attack from multiple positions. Unimpeded by an ascari army that has vanished, they will try to force his men to scatter, to disintegrate into frightened mayhem, and then simply surrender. Carlo steels himself for the clash and looks into the hills, ready.

  And then there he is: the ghostly figure of that runaway emperor, a spirit solidified into human form: Haile Selassie, charging down at them on a vivid white horse, a chorus of women’s voices whipping at his back like a thick, royal cape. He is moving deftly, flanked by female soldiers that Carlo Fucelli identifies immediately as Hirut and Aster. The rest of the emperor’s troops are racing alongside the two women, swift and astonishingly agile. The emperor: It is him. He has returned. He never left. He is here. The King of Kings. The miracle of all miracles. The impossible made flesh.

  Colonel Fucelli rises from his position and steps in front of the charging army, in front of the emperor on that splendid horse. The colonel strides forward, a solitary figure, foolhardy and brave. At the base of the hill, in the gaping mouth of the rushing beast, Colonel Carlo Fucelli, famed conqueror of Benghazi, son of Italy, kneels and aims his rifle at the emperor’s chest. He lifts a hand to stay any urge by his soldati to protect him from the approaching Ethiopians. He knows the figure he makes: A lone man framed against a bleached morning sun. An irrepressible soldier silhouetted against a vast, unforgiving land. We can remake ourselves anew, Carlo Fucelli whispers as he taps his heart beating loud beneath his jacket. This, too, is another way. This, too, is a resurrection.

  Carlo turns to his men staring stark-eyed and shocked at him. Tell them about this, he shouts. Tell them what I did. Then he turns to find himself facing Aster, her rifle aimed perfectly not for his heart, but for the tender flesh of his stomach. She races toward him, pauses, and for a moment, they are locked together in her spiteful gaze. She pulls the trigger, shouting a name like a command: Seifu. The bullet is a fist in his gut. He gasps, uncertain of her generosity, of this gift of life she is offering him, until he sees another man further behind her, holding a picture while screaming a name like a benediction: Tariku, the man shouts, Tariku.

  THEY MOVE WITH the effortless grace of an oncoming storm, a growing rumble in the morning light. Hirut’s new uniform tugs as she runs, the shirt pulling across her shoulders as she takes a deep breath, then another, and sprints ahead. She folds herself into the driving momentum of the soldiers around her, all of them surging forward in leaps, one foot flying in front of the other. If you turn to your side during battle, Aklilu told her, if you look at just the right time, you’ll see angels running beside you, flicking bullets away with their wings. She steals a quick glance and sees only the emperor galloping ahead on the horse, Adua. She sees Marta and in front, Ast
er is throwing herself down the hill, charging toward the singular figure of Fucelli kneeling with his rifle aimed at Minim. On the other side of her, Seifu and Kidane, Abebech and Nardos push the others faster, their arms rising and falling in synchronized signals, keeping rhythm with the flashes of light skidding across the valley, playing across Italian helmets, pausing on the opposite hill where another unit of men and women, led by Hailu and Amha, waits for the order to rise and then attack.

  Hirut lifts her face to the sky, no longer afraid of warplanes. Behind her, the army roars, the shouts like the knotted end of a whip slicing through the wind, cracking against the hills, the blast so full of rage that her chest gives under the pressure.

  We’ll protect each other, Aklilu said to her as they prepared for the ambush. Together we’ll stand up and fight. You’ll lead with me, and they’ll never forget your name. The children of Ethiopia won’t forget that you fought when it was hardest. This is our war for our country. Your leader is the man who fights beside you, the woman who will die next to you, the patriot who sings of Ethiopia. Take my hand, Hirut, my love, yene fikir, stand with me and we’ll fight, and win.

  Above them all, Worku’s trumpet is a relentless wail across the valley. Around Hirut are men she has known and strangers recruited from regions distant and near. There are women in dresses and uniform, carrying knives and raising their arms to swing down in the method taught to her long ago in that other life by the cook. There are priests who have emerged out of their caves, their Bibles tucked against their chests like added armor. And as the army runs with Hirut, she feels their strength. She feels the spirits of the dead seep into her bones and steady her like steel. And for a moment, she looks away from the valley in front of her and gazes, transfixed, at the hills in the horizon, as if she can see Fifi rushing away from the camp, helping the cook carry Ibrahim farther from Fucelli’s army and closer to his waiting ascari. She stares as if she knows exactly what it is that the cook will whisper to Ibrahim once the women reunite him with his men, as if she comprehends the many meanings in the older woman’s words: They’ll try to make us useful, and we must be free of them. We must find our own way to live. Hirut gazes ahead, her body moving of its own accord, until she slowly comes back to herself. And here is Hirut: wondrous soldier in the great Ethiopian army, daughter of Getey and Fasil, born in a blessed year of harvest, racing toward the enemy, unafraid.