Ras held secretively to his bosom, his hand was slapped away angrily,
and a storm of Amharic burst about him. Gregorius was justly put out
of countenance by this, for he was, after all, his grandfather's
interpreter. He complained to Gareth, who squatted opposite the Ras
holding his own cards carefully against the front of his tweed
jacket.
"He does not want me to help him any more," protested Gregorius. "He
says he understands the game now."
"Tell him he is a natural." Gareth squinted around the smoke that
spiralled upwards from the cheroot in the corner of his mouth. "Tell
him he could go straight into the salon priva at Monte Carlo." The Ras
grinned and nodded happily at the compliment, and then scowled with
concentration as he waited for Gareth to discard.
"Anyone for the ladies?" Gareth asked innocently as he laid the queen
of hearts face up on the inverted ammunition box that stood between
them, and the Ras squawked with delight and snatched it up. Then he
hammered on the box like an auctioneer and began laying out his hand.
"Skunked, by God!" Gareth's face crumpled in a convincing display of
utter dismay and the Ras nodded and twinkled and drooled.
"How do you do?" he asked triumphantly, and Gareth judged that the
Christmas turkey was now sufficiently fattened and ready for
plucking.
"Ask your venerable grandfather if he would like a little interest on
the next game. I suggest a Maria Theresa a point?" and Gareth held up
one of the big silver coins between thumb and forefinger to illustrate
the suggestion.
The Ras's response was positive and gratifying. He summoned one of his
bodyguard, who drew a huge purse of lion skin from out of his
voluminous sham ma and opened it.
"Hallelujah!" breathed Gareth, as he saw the sparkle of golden
sovereigns in the recesses of the purse. "Your deal, old sport!" The
controlled dignity of the Count's bearing was modelled aristocratically
on that of the Duce himself. It was that of the aristocrat, of the man
born to command. His dark eyes flashed with scorn, and his voice rang
with a deep beauty that sent shivers up his own spine.
"A peasant, reared in the gutters of the street. I am amazed that such
a person can have reached a rank such as Major. A person like
yourself-" and his right arm shot Out with the accusing finger straight
as a pistol barrel, you are a nobody, an upstart. I blame myself that
I was soft-hearted enough to place you in a position of trust. Yes, I
blame myself. That is the reason I have until this time overlooked
your impudence, your importunity. But this time you have over reached
yourself, Castelani. This time you have refused to obey a direct
command from your own Colonel in the face of the enemy. This I cannot
ignore!" The Count paused, and a shadow of regret passed fleetingly
behind his eyes. "I am a compassionate man, Castelani but I am also a
soldier.
I cannot, in deference to this honoured uniform that I wear, overlook
your conduct. You know the penalty for what you have done, for
disobeying your superior officer in the face of the enemy." He paused
again, the chin coming up and dark fires burning in his eyes. "The
penalty, Castelani, is death.
And so it must be. You will be an example to my men. This evening, as
the sun is about to set, you will be led before the assembled battalion
and stripped of your badges of rank, of the beloved insignia of this
proud command, and then you will meet your just deserts before the
rifles of the firing squad It was a longish speech, but the Count was
a trained baritone and he ended it dramatically with arms spread wide.
He held the pose after he had finished and watched himself with
gratification in the full-length mirror before which he stood. He was
alone in his tent, but he felt as though he faced a wildly applauding
audience. Abruptly he turned from the mirror, strode to the entrance
of the tent and threw back the flap.
The sentries sprang to attention and the Count barked, "Have Major
Castelani summoned here immediately."
"Immediately, my Colonel," snapped the sentry, and the Count let the
flap drop back into place.
Castelani came within ten minutes and saluted smartly from the entrance
of the tent.
"You sent for me, my Colonel?"
"My dear Castelani." The Count rose from his desk; the strong white
teeth contrasted against the dark olive-gold tan, as he smiled with all
his charm and went to take the Major's arm. "A glass of wine, my dear
fellow?" Aldo Belli was enough of a realist to see that without
Castelani's professional eye and arm guiding the battalion, it would
collapse like an unsuccessful souffle, or more probably like a
dynamited cliff upon his head. Passing sentence of death on the man
had relieved the COUnt's feelings, and now he could feel quite
favourably disposed towards him.
"Be seated," he said, indicating the camp chair opposite his desk.
"There are cigars in the humidor." He beamed fondly, like a father at
his eldest son. "I would like you to read through this report and to
place your signature in the space I have marked." Castelani took the
