The Burning Sky (23 page)

‘Handsome?’ the major barked.

She pouted. ‘Not as handsome as you, my sweet.’ One strap she slipped off her shoulder, which exposed the rising mound of the top of her breast, making the clerk’s blood flow a little stronger: she was stunning even if he thought her a horror. ‘But let us torture him a little.’

That appealed and d’Agostino smiled, his head waving slightly. ‘Spinetti, take us to the wretch.’

‘Sir,’ he replied, picking up a lantern as the
marquesa
slipped off her shoes and dropped her clutch bag on the trestle desk.

‘Perhaps I will do for him a little Spanish dance.’

‘Save that for me, my sweet,’ the major growled.

Not a man to miss showing off his authority, Spinetti was loudly lambasted for the gimcrack way the door was secured, a raised voice which meant that when they entered the windowless cellar Jardine was standing up. Unshaven, still with the dust of his march to this place of confinement, it would have been generous to say he was handsome: he looked, given his clothing was grimy too, like a bit of a vagrant, that is if you excluded the way he held himself, which was defiant.

‘Come to gloat, have you, Major?’

That made d’Agostino blink: it was as if Jardine had overheard their conversation in the room designated as his office. ‘I have come to tell you that you will die tomorrow, as soon as the general has completed his victory parade.’

‘Victory? He didn’t have to fight anyone. Still, you Italians love comic opera.’

‘You dare to insult General De Bono.’

‘Take me to him and I’ll do it to his face.’

‘See, Umberto,’ the
marquesa
said, executing a spin that made her dress flare, ‘he is a brave man and he is handsome, is he not?’

‘Stop that!’

‘No, let me dance, let me show our Scotsman—’

‘Scotsman!’ d’Agostino barked, his dark eyes flitting angrily from her to Jardine. ‘Are you a—?’

‘Yes he is, he told me.’

‘When?’

‘Today.’

‘You sought him out?’

‘Oh,’ she replied, her face mock-sad, ‘Umberto is jealous.’

‘He is not,’ d’Agostino hissed.

The mock-sad look went, to be replaced with one that was cross, and the voice mirrored that. ‘Then you should be. Maybe you should go and leave me with my gallant Scotsman and I will send him to meet God as a happy man.’

‘Stop it, Francesca.’

‘What a nice name,’ Jardine said; he was enjoying this and it showed.

‘Thank you, Scottishman. You see, Umberto,
caro
, he knows how to pay a lady a compliment.’

‘How I would love to pay you more than that,
Marquesa
.’

The major went white. ‘How dare you. If I had my pistol I would shoot you now like the murdering dog you are.’

Her eyes were wild now. ‘Do it, Umberto, get a gun and shoot him.’

‘I will accept that gladly for a kiss,
Marquesa
.’

She started to sashay towards Jardine but was dragged rudely back, which had her rounding on her major with spitting fury. In order to avoid her anger d’Agostino lurched towards Jardine, fists clenched, but he stopped when he saw that he was about to get into a fight: far from seeking to withdraw, his prisoner looked as if he was ready to engage, and in the Italian’s eyes there was a sudden flash of doubt that told Jardine he expected he would lose.

The risk to his dignity stopped him and he worked to get a sneer in his voice that matched the one on his face. ‘Perhaps I will have you flogged to death, or have your skin stripped off with hot pincers. But know this, for the insults you have heaped on me this night your death will be more, much more, painful than even you can imagine.’

He took the
marquesa
’s hand and dragged her out, the lantern in the other, with her pleading that he should not be angry, that it was only a silly game. The sound of their dispute took a long time to fade.

Sitting in the dark, unable to sleep, Jardine spent a long time wondering if he had been wise to bait the man. What price would he pay for his jibes? Noises came, of drunken, singing soldiery, then died away until there was no sound at all, leaving him with his troubled thoughts, and time lost any meaning. The door opening suddenly, and a little light from a tallow wad entering his cellar had him on his feet; had the bastard come back armed?

‘Who’s there?’

There was no reply and he moved gingerly towards the door, hands ready for a fight, because if he was going it was not about to be quietly. His foot kicked something and he looked down to see his Colt Automatic pistol alongside the loaded clip. Bending down he found his passport and his kitbag, which when he lifted it, by its weight, seemed to have everything he possessed inside. Lifting the canvas he sniffed at it, registering the odour of expensive perfume, and that made him smile. What a clever game the
marquesa
had played!

Why she was doing this he did not know, and there was no denying a tickle to his vanity as he sifted through the possible motives. Whatever, the way was clear in front of him, all he had to do was get out of Aksum. Gingerly, Colt and magazine now combined, he walked up the stairs that led to the ground floor, hearing snoring from one of the rooms he passed. Having been here before, he knew the way out, though the door to the street had to be opened slowly, given it creaked.

Then he was out in the Stygian, moonless night, with not even starlight because of overhead cloud. There would be a curfew in place, that was standard military practice in a newly captured town, but Callum Jardine was in his element. With soft footfall and his senses tingling he moved through the town, silent but for the occasional barking of dogs. If there were patrols out they were far from diligent, for he did not see one. Even then it took hours to get out into open country, where finally he had a line of Italian pickets to get through, which had him crawling on his
belly, hoping he did not come across a snake or a nest of scorpions.

Long before Jardine got clear and could stand and walk normally, using pinpricks of light from Aksum to guide him south, Arturo Spinetti had gone into the cellar and sprayed around a great deal of the
marquesa
’s expensive and distinctive fragrance, which he hoped was strong enough to last until the morning, when the bastard of a major would find out his prisoner had escaped.

There would be hell to pay, but of course he, like the three NCOs, had been sound asleep and had heard or seen nothing.

‘W
ell, I can sure as hell say this Spanish lady saw something I have missed.’

Corrie Littleton said that with feeling, to a rested, washed and breakfasted escapee, who had endured a long and wearying three-day walk south and was now enjoying a cup of excellent coffee in the lounge of the Gondar hotel.

‘Then thank the Lord you have not been looking,’ Jardine replied.

‘I am looking now, buster, and I am still mystified.’

‘Put it down to charm, luv,’ Vince Castellano proposed. ‘Must have been love at first sight. Italians call it the “thunderbolt”.’

The dismissive sound the American girl made riled Jardine, while he was aware that she was not alone in her reaction. Vince had been delighted to see him and had appreciated how close a call it had been, but when Jardine
explained how he had got away, who was responsible and why, the bland look of obscured disbelief was too obvious to miss.

Tyler Alverson had only opined with a doubt-filled aside that stranger things had happened in his life, while Ma Littleton, the only one not still present in the hotel – she had gone back to her previous archaeological digs – had been of the view that this Spanish lady was no better than she ought to be.

‘I just hope she is not in trouble for it.’

Alverson’s slow drawl was filled with irony. ‘Now, in a movie, Cal, you would strap on your weapons, put your hat firmly on your head, set your square jaw and, ignoring the pleas of your friends to show some sense, head out on your trusty steed to rescue her, backed by swelling music …’

‘Not swelling enough to fill that head, Tyler,’ Corrie Littleton cracked.

‘What are you still doing here?’

‘And what business, Jardine, is that of yours?’

‘You’re annoying me.’

‘Then leave.’

‘He would if he knew where to go, honey.’

‘Nothing stopping us now, guv,’ said Vince, backing Alverson up.

‘I thought you wanted to report on the war, Tyler?’

‘I do, Cal, but I guess I kinda think I dropped you in enough shit for one fight.’

‘You shouldn’t swear in front of ladies, Mr Alverson,’ complained Vince.

‘He didn’t,’ Jardine said, glaring at Corrie Littleton, seeing her tongue again.

The commotion outside distracted them all at the same time, the sound of a number of noisy vehicles arriving at once surprising them all equally. They got to their feet as
Ras
Kassa Meghoum, with several junior military officers on his heels, strode into the hotel lounge, his eyes fixed firmly on one man.

‘Captain Jardine, I was told you were here.’

‘Can I say I am surprised to see you, sir?’

‘My being here is not something I expected either, Captain,’ Kassa replied, nodding in turn to the others, ‘but my emperor has been betrayed and I have come to shore up an event that should never have happened. Haile Selassie Gugsa, the Lion of Judah’s own son-in-law, has deserted to the Italians, which has left a gaping hole in our front lines, the size of which we are uncertain.’

‘How important is this Gugsa feller?’ Alverson asked, which made the
ras
look at him hard, in a way that indicated he was disinclined to answer. ‘You can tell me, sir, or I can find out another way, given, even if it is a secret now, it won’t be that for long.’

‘It is not something I would want the world to know, Mr Alverson.’

‘Then I suggest you figure out a way to shoot every journalist the Italians have with them, and I am reliably told they brought along near two hundred. The Rome papers will spread this story fast and use it to make out the whole of Ethiopia is falling apart.’

‘Which it is not!’

‘That was my next question, and if that is true, it is a story you have to get out and damn quick. How have the Italians reacted?’

‘They are still in Aksum, as far as I am aware, making preparations to move on to Mek’ele.’

‘He should have done that days ago,’ Jardine said. ‘Stopping in Aksum was madness.’

‘For De Bono read De Bonehead.’

‘I was told you acquired a car, Mr Alverson.’

‘I did.’

‘Then perhaps you will use it to follow Captain Jardine and I while I go forward to assess the damage.’

‘I’ll get my kit,’ Jardine said, before looking towards a curious-cum-concerned Vince. ‘You don’t have to come.’

‘What? Leave you, guv, the trouble you get yourself into?’

‘Can I come?’ Corrie Littleton asked.

‘Why?’ Jardine demanded.

‘To annoy you, that’s why.’

‘Really.’

‘Beats sitting on my butt round here.’

‘If you’re sure you want to, honey,’ Alverson drawled, ‘there’s room in the Rolls.’

‘Tyler, it could be dangerous.’

‘Good,’ Corrie Littleton spat back at Jardine. ‘Do I get a gun,
Ras
?’

‘Why would you want a gun, Miss Littleton?’

‘There’s a Spanish broad up north very short on brains who needs to be put out of her misery.’ Seeing the confusion on the older man’s face, she added, ‘I’ll explain later.’

They went in convoy, on a road now free of any traffic, apart from a few supply columns that were rapidly shifted by a blaring klaxon, the
ras
in front in a Dodge with Alverson behind, he followed by several of the limited number of trucks in the Ethiopian army. They were carrying the escort, those same Shewan warriors that had accompanied them from the coast, and all armed with a portion of the weapons they had helped bring in. Jardine had asked Vince to go in the open-topped Rolls and keep his eyes peeled for aircraft, while he used the time to quiz
Ras
Kassa about what he thought would happen now.

‘For the moment our problem is nothing is happening in the way we anticipated, and that is due to De Bono, for he will not advance except at the pace of a snail. Information is coming in from those in Italy who are sympathetic that Mussolini is losing patience with him and he may be replaced.’

‘Would it not be better to hope he remained?’

‘No, Captain Jardine, it would not. We must fight these devils, and the longer our forces stay in the field, the greater the strain on our resources and morale. We need our people to see that it is possible to take on the Italians, and soon. Then we need them back on their land growing food.’

What the older man was not saying, and Jardine could understand why, was that the defection of the emperor’s own son-in-law was a blow that might have repercussions: Gugsa would not be the only Ethiopian aristocrat with flaky loyalty, while some tribes like the Galla, according
to what he had learnt, were outright in opposition, openly supporting the Italians.

The double sound of the klaxon behind indicated to Jardine that Vince had spotted a plane, which led him to suggest that they pull off the road and get out of the vehicles. He had been wondering where the Italian air force was, because if he had been in command of the
Regia Aeronautica
this road would have been shut to traffic in daylight, and it was not.

The Ethiopians did have some anti-aircraft capability but not enough to trouble an Italian air force said to run to nearly a thousand planes. Perhaps they wanted their enemies before them in the mass and had no desire to stop them – foolish to his mind because he had seen what aircraft could do to a marching army, and it was devastating.

‘It may be friendly, Captain. I asked for reconnaissance so I could be kept informed.’

So it proved, with a biplane landing on the road before them. Jardine suspected before he knew that it would be de Billancourt and he was disappointed to be proved right, though the information the Frenchman brought was positive. Most of Gugsa’s men had stayed loyal and the front seemed secure, which left Alverson with a dilemma: it was a scoop and he wanted that story out before it got back to Addis and became general knowledge, a point he put to a pensive
Ras
Kassa while Corrie Littleton allowed her hand to be drooled over once more, that was until the Frenchman was called over to the
ras
.

‘Take Mr Alverson to the headquarters of
Ras
Seyoum and ask, from me, that he be given access to the telegraph
line through to the Sudan. Just this once, Mr Alverson, we will do this, for it is important, but it is not something which will happen again, I fear.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Alverson replied, before addressing de Billancourt. ‘No dogfights, pal, I get airsick.’

‘It’s goin’ to be just you an’ me in the Rolls, miss.’

‘You can’t win them all, Vince,’ Jardine said in a voice larded with deep sympathy.

None of them had ever known how powerful
Ras
Kassa Meghoum was, but you did not have to be at the main tactical HQ of the Ethiopian army behind Mek’ele to realise he was a man who had the ear and the trust of the emperor. He was not deferred to in an obsequious way, but the attention paid to his words by the field commanders showed they took what he said seriously. After a conference lasting several hours, from which the people he had fetched along were excluded, he emerged and took Jardine aside.

‘I have been asked to take over the remainder of Gugsa’s forces and a whole sector of the army, which will be reinforced and brought up to its previous strength. I would consider it an honour if you would agree to become an advisor to my command.’

‘You know what my advice would be, as I have told you many times: don’t fight, withdraw and harry the enemy.’

‘That was strategic advice, which I cannot take, nor would I want to, and besides, the decision resides with my emperor. But we must have a battle soon and I expect the forces I command to be part of that. I would value your tactical advice in such a situation.’

‘Do you intend to hold your present positions?’

‘We do, and De Bono must come towards us and take a risk, eventually.’

‘Might be an idea to goad him by launching some raids.’

‘That is what you would suggest?’

‘He must have disgruntled inferiors, sir, officers eager to engage with you. All the pressure will not just be coming from Rome, and it is a bad idea to leave him to choose his own time to do whatever he wishes. You said your men were good night fighters, and a few slit throats …’

‘These men I brought with me are the ones you were training and I know they respect you.’

‘You want me to lead them?’

‘I am to be in command of forty thousand warriors. It is not something I could do, much as my spirit wishes it.’

‘Where are we based?’

‘I think it is time, Captain Jardine, that I let you see a map of where the emperor’s forces are.’

Accustomed to European quality maps it was sobering to see the paucity of detail on the Ethiopian equivalents, but the main thrust of their approach was obvious. Their forces were in three divisions arced behind Mek’ele, covering the two routes to Addis: the one they had come by, via Gondar and the side of Lake Tana, the second more easterly route passing through Lalibela. One flank was protected by the Simien mountains and the eastern one by the waterless Danakil Depression. If those two features canalised the Italian advance it was still a broad front to defend.

By pulling back from the kind of flat terrain that favoured a mechanised army into more broken country they had blunted the enemy hopes. De Bono, if he wanted to make progress, would have to beat them in the hills and valleys that confined his armour, but which allowed for the lateral movement of foot-bound spearmen. They could not avoid facing tanks, but the Ethiopians could limit their exposure while making life difficult for the Italian artillery. That still left the air force as a problem, and there was no doubt they would suffer from aerial bombing.

Jardine’s problem was one of command – there was no way he was going to go forward with completely untrained troops – quite apart from, for him, his lack of language; he needed an interpreter, not necessarily at the point of contact with the enemy, but at all points in between, and especially when it came to outlining his intentions. Such training would not be speedy, weeks would be required, and these were points he put to
Ras
Kassa and they were accepted.

‘But let us hope the Italians do not grant you the time.’

‘I also need to do some air reconnaissance to look for opportunities. And since, if we do raid the Italian lines, it will be at night, can we get them to wear black
shammas
instead of white?’

In the end it was the two rulers who decided the next phase, Mussolini by removing De Bono just after he had occupied Mek’ele, promoting him to
Maresciallo d’Italia
to soothe his pride, and replacing him with the reputedly more aggressive Marshal Pietro Badoglio. He certainly
seemed more active, using his air force, with many more reconnaissance flights and bombing raids on the supply routes, forcing the Ethiopians off the roads, yet that exposed one of the values of a peasant army: they could operate cross-country.

Likewise Haile Selassie, given a new and untried enemy commander, set his mind on attacking the Italians as quickly as an offensive could be mounted, rank folly to Cal Jardine, but it was unmistakeable the enthusiasm such a notion – not to mention his imperial presence – engendered in the forces under his command, and even he had to accept that in war, with nothing being certain, it might just work.

Not that Haile Selassie was personally impressive, excepting he had the power of his monarchical office. He was a small, rather insignificant man, bearded, and he arrived on his various visits to his troops on a donkey, with even his truncated height leaving his feet perilously close to the ground. If, to Western eyes, it appeared absurd, it did not do so to his subjects, and Tyler Alverson, who had now established himself as a sort of special correspondent, was given permission to report on his arrival and even allowed to send out photographs, scooping the whole tribe of journalists still stuck in Addis Ababa.

Jardine and Vince, having spent weeks in training groups of warriors, were encouraged to speed up their instruction, which meant trying to get some order and tactical nous into what was the usual form of warfare in this part of the world, based on brio and sheer weight of numbers. Proper weapons were so limited they had to be shared – if you
left out spears, which every warrior carried and seemed to favour – and communication was slow, since everything had to be translated by a young man called Shalwe, a
one-time
teacher who knew a fair amount of English.