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.
