Cry Wolf

and sesame seed, an aroma that blended in an interesting fashion with

the fragrant clouds of the Count's perfume. The Count's legs could no

longer stand the strain, they almost collapsed under him. He had to

grab wildly at the General to prevent himself falling. This threw both

of them off balance, and they reeled across the ceramic floor, locked

in each other's arms, in a kind of elephantine waltz,

while the General struggled to free himself.

He succeeded at last, and backed away warily from the Count,

straightening his medals and reassembling his dignity while one of his

officers began to read out a citation from a scroll of parchment and

the applause faded into an attentive silence.

The citation was long and wordy, and it gave the Count time to pull his

scattered wits together. The first half of the citation was lost to

him in his dreamlike state of shock, but then suddenly the words began

to reach him. His chin came up as he recognized some of his own

composition, little verbal gems from his combat reports "Counting only

duty dear, scorning all but honour" that was his own stuff, by the

Virgin and Peter.

He listened now, with all his attention, and they were talking about

him. They were talking of Aldo Belli. His caved chest filled out, the

high colour flooded back into his cheeks, the turmoil of his rebellious

bowels was stilled, and fire flashed in his eye once more.

By God, the General had realized that every phrase, every word,

every comma and exclamation. mark of his report was the literal truth

and the aide-de-camp was handing the General a leather-covered jewel

box, and the General was advancing on him again albeit with a certain

caution and then he was looping the watered silk ribbon over his head

so that the big enamelled, white cross with its centre star of emerald

green and sparkling diamantine, dangled down the front of the Count's

tunic. The order of Irish St. Maurice and St. Lazarus (military

division) of the third class.

Keeping well out of his clutches, the General pecked each of the

Count's flushed cheeks and then took a hasty step backwards to join in

the applause while the Count stood there puffed with pride, feeling

that his heart might burst.

You will have that support now," the General assured him, scowling

heavily to hear how his predecessor had grudged the Count sufficient

force to win his objectives. "I pledge it to you." They were seated

now, just the three of them General Badoglio, his political agent and

the Count in the smaller private study adjoining the large formal

office. Night had fallen outside the shuttered windows and the single

lamp was hooded to throw light down on the map spread on the table

top,

and leave the faces of the three men in shadow.

Cognac glowed in the leaded crystal glasses and the big ship's decanter

on its silver tray, and the blue smoke from the cigars spiralled up

slow and heavy as treacle in the lamplight.

"will need armour," said the Count without hesitation.

The thought of thick steel plate had always attracted him strongly.

"will give you a squadron of the light CV.3s," said the General,

and made a note on the pad at his elbow.

"And I will need air support."

"Can your engineers build a landing-strip for you at the Wells?" The

General touched the map to illustrate the question.

"The land is flat and open. It will present no difficulty," said the

Count eagerly. Planes and tanks and guns, he was being given them all.

He was a real commander at last.

"Radio to me when the strip is ready for use. I will send in a flight

of Capronis. In the meantime, I will have the transport section convoy

in the fuel and armaments I shall consult the staff at airforce, but I

think the 100-kilo bombs will be most effective. High explosive, and

fragmentation."

"Yes, yes," agreed the Count eagerly.

"And nitrogen mustard will you have use for the gas?"

"Yes, oh yes, indeed, said the Count. It was not in his nature to

refuse bounty, he would take anything he was offered.

"Good." The General made another note, laid aside his pencil, and then

looked up at the Count. He glowered so ferociously that the Count was

startled and he felt the first nervous stir in his belly again. He

found the General terrifying, like living on the slopes of a

temperamental Vesuvius.

"The iron fist, Belli," he said, and the Count realized with relief

that the scowl was directed not at him, but at the enemy.

Immediately the Count assumed an expression every bit as bellicose and

menacing. He curled his lip and he spoke, just below a snarl.

"Put the blade at the enemy's throat, and drive it home."

"Without mercy, said the General.

"To the death," agreed the Count. He was on his home ground now,

and only just hitting his stride; a hundred bloodthirsty slogans sprang

to mind but, recognizing his master, the General changed the

snowballing conversation adroitly.

"You are wondering why I have put such importance on your objectives.

You are wondering why I have given you such powerful forces, and why I

have set such store on you forcing the passage of the

Sardi Gorge and the road to the highlands." The Count was wondering no

such thing, right now he was busy coming a phrase about wading through

blood, and he accepted the change of theme reluctantly, and arranged

his features in a politely enquiring frame.

The General waved his cigar expansively at the political agent who sat

opposite him.

"Signor Antolino." He made the gesture and the agent sat forward

obediently so that the lamplight caught his face.

"Gentlemen." He cleared his throat, and looked from one to the other

with mild brown eyes behind steel-framed spectacles. He was a thin,

almost skeletal figure, in a rumpled white linen suit. The wings of

his shirt collar were off-centre of his prominent Adam's apple and the

knot of the knitted silk tie had slid down and hung at the level of the

first button. His head was almost bald, but he had grown the remaining

hairs long and greased them down over the shiny freckled plover-egg

scalp.

His mustache was waxed into points, but stained yellow with tobacco,

and he was of indefinite age over forty and under sixty with the dark

malarial yellow tan of a man who has lived all his life in the

tropics.

"For some time we have been concerned to design an appropriate form of

government for the captured ah the liberated territories of

Ethiopia."

"Come to the point," said the General abruptly.

"It has been decided to replace the present Emperor, Baile

Selassie, with a man sympathetic to the Italian Empire, and acceptable

to the people-"

"Come on, man," Badoglic, cut in again. Verbal backing and filling

were repugnant to him. He was a man of action rather than words.

"Arrangements have been completed after lengthy negotiation, and I

might add the promise of several millions of lire,

that at the politically opportune moment a powerful chieftain will

declare for us, bringing all his warriors and his influence across to

us. This man will in due course be declared Emperor of Ethiopia and

will administer the territory under Italy."

"Yes, yes. I