been put into his hands back in 1922. He had an almost psychic power
to detect subterfuge, and to place a finger squarely on malingerers or
lack-guts.
They said his justice was swift and merciless.
The shock to the Count's system was considerable. He had been singled
out from thousands of brother officers to face this ogre's wrath for he
could not convince himself that the small deviations from reality, the
small artistic licences contained in his long,
illustrated reports to De Bono had not been instantly discovered. He
felt like a guilty schoolboy summoned to dire retribution behind the
closed doors of the headmaster's study. The shock hit him squarely in
the bowels, always his weak spot, bringing on a fresh onslaught of the
malady first caused by the waters of Chaldi Wells, from which he had
believed himself completely cured.
It was twelve hours before he could summon the strength to be helped by
his concerned underlings into the RollsRoyce and to lie wan and palely
resigned upon the soft leather seat.
'Drive on, Giuseppe,' he murmured, like an aristocrat giving the order
to the driver of the tumbril.
On the long hot dusty drive into Asmara, the Count lay without interest
in his surroundings, without even attempting to marshal his defence
against the charges he knew he must soon face. He was resigned, abject
his only solace was the considerable damage he would do this upstart,
ill bred peasant, once he returned to Rome, as he was certain he was
about to. He knew that he could ruin the man politically and it gave
him a jot of sour pleasure.
Giuseppe, the driver, knowing his man as he did, made the first stop
outside the casino in Asmara's main street.
Here, at least, Count Aldo Belli was treated as a hero, and he perked
up visibly as the young hostesses rushed out on to the sidewalk to
welcome him.
Some hours later, freshly shaven, his uniform sponged and pressed,
his hair pomaded, and buoyed UP on a fragrant cloud of expensive eau de
cologne, the Count was ready to face his tormentor. He kissed the
girls, tossed back a last glass of cognac, laughed that gay reckless
laugh, snapped his fingers once to show what he thought of the peasant
who now ran this army, clenched his buttocks tightly together to
control his fear and marched out of the casino into the sunlight and
across the street into the military headquarters.
His appointment to meet General Badoglio was for four o'clock and the
town hall clock struck the hour as he marched resolutely down the long
gloomy corridor, following a young aide-de-camp. They reached the end
of the corridor and the aide-de-camp threw open the big double mahogany
doors and stood aside for the Count to enter.
His knees felt like boiled macaroni, his stomach gurgled and seethed,
the palms of his hands were hot and moist, and tears were not far
behind his quivering eyelids as he stepped forward into the huge room
with its lofty moulded ceiling.
He saw that it was filled with officers from both the army and the
