The Burning Sky

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

There was only one consolation for Jardine as he squatted in his empty tent: there was no sign they had caught Vince or Tyler Alverson, so he had a reasonable hope that they had got clear. He had already peered through the tied-up flap of his tent to see an armed guard there, pacing to and fro, wisely a couple of yards away — too far for him to be suddenly grabbed and subdued. Lifting the groundsheet and the bottom of the rear canvas had shown him the soles of another pair of moving sentinel boots, which meant that the sides of the tent were also covered by their criss-cross movement.

From outside came noise and a great deal of it: shouting, the sounds of lorries revving, reversing and driving off in low gear, of motorbikes popping as they departed, and the odd car as well, which he had to assume was the moving of the headquarters. That was a major operation, this being the central directing brain of an army several hundred thousand strong, which would require a vast amount of staff organisation.

Quite apart from the officers who planned every metre of movement, feeding and supply, there would be aides to the general officers, the heads of the various branches, a mass of clerks, telephonists plus radio operators, quartermasters, batmen, mess servants, military police, cooks and at least a headquarters company of infantrymen to provide perimeter security and guards.

When he was finally fetched out, the scene that greeted him was vastly different: the great marquees were gone, as were the vehicles and bikes from the motor pool, leaving only a few tents for the remainder of the pioneer company responsible for ensuring the site was clear and that nothing had been left behind. The men of that unit were now emptying the sandbags — which had formed the forward perimeter defence — into the dugouts of the latrines, filling the air with the smell of human filth. Wild dogs had started to root around the periphery looking for anything edible.

Of more import to Jardine was the escort of four infantrymen and an NCO designated to accompany him to Aksum. Between the encampment and that city, on a near-windless day, the dust hung in the air, the residue of the massive military movement. As they marched, the same peasants he had seen in the fields the day before were out again now, but instead of tending to their crop they were sadly surveying the ruin brought on by the invading army marching over their once-ploughed fields, the only redress to glare at the military police controlling the continuing stream of traffic.

The appearance of the marquesa on a white horse came as a real surprise. She looked imperious in a white cloak to keep off the dust, her blonde hair tied back, and she acted like that too, as she galloped over the Ethiopian peasants’ land with a total disregard for their presence, hooves kicking up great clods of what had been irrigated earth.

Spotting his party she hauled on her reins and came towards them, stopping before him with the sun at her back, which forced the now-stationary Jardine — his escorting NCO had called a halt and saluted — to narrow his eyes to even see her silhouette, his nose wrinkling, this time at the stable smell of the impatient mount, which was pawing and jagging its head, straining her grip on the reins.

‘They make you march like a common criminal?’ she asked, again with that slight impediment. Recalling the title d’Agostino had used, it suddenly came to Jardine she was possibly not Italian, but Spanish.

‘The major thinks me that.’

‘No,’ she replied, tugging to keep her horse still. ‘He can see you are a soldier, he has told me so.’ Then she reprised that throaty chuckle he had heard previously. ‘And I have observed you are a gentleman. Were you a soldier?’

‘Name, rank and number, Marquesa,’ he joked, ‘is all I am allowed to say.’

‘I am not interrogating you.’

‘Now that is a damn shame.’

‘For a man who is shortly to die you have a surprising lack of anxiety.’

The horse moved with such force she was obliged to let it spin, but she still had the sun at her back.

‘We all die at some time. Tell me, Marquesa, what is the rest of your title?’

‘De Alanatara.’

‘Spanish?’

‘Si.’

‘I am curious about your relationship with Major d’Agostino.’

‘Who is also the Count of Terni. But now you are interrogating me.’

The NCO, who had hitherto stood silently, now coughed, then barked at his men, not surprising given they were staring with a degree of interest at the marquesa, and also not at attention but slouching. Jardine ignored the hint he should shut up and move on.

‘Am I allowed to continue doing so?’

‘No. I think it best you go to your fate.’

‘Does the notion of that fate sadden you, at all?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘That is something; I would be disappointed if it pleased you.’

‘For an Englishman, you are more forward than many I have met.’

‘You obviously have met too few Scotsmen.’

‘You are Scottish?’ Jardine nodded. ‘Do they die with more bravery than Englishmen?’

‘No. When it comes to that we are the same carefree bunch.’

‘I will be interested to see if that is true.’

Her heels moved and she hauled on the reins, the horse breaking into an immediate trot. The NCO, hitherto indifferent, was now obviously cross, because he pushed Jardine to get him moving.

If breaking up an army camp involved much organisation, the relocating of one was just as chaotic. An advance party of staff officers had entered Aksum on the heels of the fighting men to secure the buildings that could be used for what, in the British army, would be called the various GSO branches — the best accommodation, of course, secured for the commanding general, with his chief of staff next, in a pecking order that supposedly designated quality in strict order of rank.

Arturo Spinetti found himself in a two-storey sort of inn, run by a fat fellow of hand-wringing obsequiousness, overseeing the unloading, from a lorry, of the filing cabinets that went everywhere with the department of which he was a part. Major d’Agostino had no hand in the setting up of his branch HQ, he was too busy trying to ensure himself, and who Spinetti thought of as his aristocratic blonde tart, a decent billet in which to eat and sleep, this place not being to his mind of a standard he felt was his due.

There were also two lieutenants of the SIM attached to De Bono’s HQ, but they had just told their NCOs to get on with it, before setting off to find out if there was a decent brothel in Aksum. Those non-commissioned officers, a sergeant and two corporals, were more intent on finding a place to drink than actually performing their duties, so, as the only private soldier around, Spinetti had been left to curse the Italian army, Benito Mussolini, the Fascist Grand Council and the Horn of Africa, while, as he saw it, being left holding the bambino.

He needed to sort out an office for the major, the best room and coolest, of course, with another for himself close enough to be at the bastard’s beck and call. That had to be capacious enough to contain the filing cabinets full of intelligence reports, most of them of no use whatsoever, which would mean an argument with the lieutenants.

They would complain, when it came to an office, he had looked after himself, not them; like d’Agostino they would sleep elsewhere — living above the place of work was not to be tolerated if one wanted a decent night’s sleep, a woman as company and the ability to begin work at an hour of one’s own choosing.

He had sorted out a shared billet for the NCOs, a secure room for the English prisoner and, last but not least, a place for him to lay his head, and all the while his enforced host was dogging his heels, rubbing his hands with worry and asking in very broken Italian how he was to be paid for the services he was providing.

Jardine, who arrived with his escort, got a dank cellar, a place with a stout door which would have to be secured by a baulk of wood jammed against it in the temporary absence of a lock or a padlock and hasp. Asked to continue guarding him, the escorting NCO furiously refused: his orders were to fetch the prisoner to this place, then rejoin the headquarters company. Spinetti had to beg him for an hour so he could sort out the rest of what was needed, given he feared to leave Jardine without anyone to guard him.

That included the securing and laying of a field telephone as well as a visit to the quartermaster to indent for the supplies to sustain the whole unit, plus one prisoner. There he found such chaos, he was told to make the inn owner feed them for now; a padlock and hasp would be delivered to him when they could find one, a promise he did not believe for one second. Back at the inn, with the escort gone, Spinetti, the least martial of men, was obliged to touch the pistol in his holster to get Jardine some food and drink, then he had to deliver it.

‘You lived in London.’

‘I studied there, yes,’ Spinetti replied, ‘and I got a degree.’

He took off his steel-rimmed glasses and wiped them on a handkerchief, his face doleful. ‘Not that it has served me much, just to have chosen England over an Italian university is seen as a crime in my country — unpatriotic.’

‘Conscripted?’ The clerk nodded. ‘I wonder if you could do me a favour and ask the owner something.’ That got a suspicious look. ‘It’s a simple question. There was a party of Americans here, I just wonder if they have left.’

The young man, in appearance a studious type, stood thinking. Lean to the point of being spare, he had a pallid face, though not an unattractive one. Spinetti looked gentle and Jardine thought he would smile a lot if his life were not, to him, so rotten.

‘Americans?’

‘Yes. If they are still here, I need them to know I am a prisoner.’

‘I could get into trouble.’

‘Call it the wish of a dying man.’

‘Infamita!’ he spat, before looking at Jardine. ‘You should be tried by a court, even if it is a military one.’

‘If my Americans are still around, maybe I will be.’

Odd that he felt uncomfortable lying to this young fellow; he really wanted to know if Alverson and Vince, as well as the Littletons, had got away, which would be some small solace for what he was about to face.

‘Then I will ask.’

‘I also need something to sleep on, maybe the bedroll on my donkey?’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Jardine pushed at the door when the clerk left: given he was no soldier he might not have secured it properly, but it would not budge. Looking at the food he had been brought, he surmised the owner to be limited in his culinary skills: it was the same meal he had eaten before going out to spy on the Italians. He had barely got halfway through when the clerk returned carrying, disappointingly, a straw-filled paillasse.

‘Your Americans left in a big car, two ladies and two men.’

‘Thank you, Arturo.’

The use of his name made him smile. ‘Mr Jardine, I am not part of this, I hope you know that.’

‘You don’t hide it very well.’

That seemed to please him, producing a sly smile.

* * *

Major Umberto d’Agostino had been drinking and so had his blonde mistress, though not, it appeared, as much as him, for he was actually unsteady. Spinetti registered he was in his dress uniform, unarmed, having attended a celebratory meal held for the senior officers; she, his guest, was wearing high heels, a loose black dress with two very thin shoulder straps, a set of pearls round her neck and a clutch bag in her hand, while her hair had been expertly dressed by someone; maybe Aksum was not such a backwater after all.

Spinetti, trying to sort out his office, knew from experience the major was a man who liked his wine and brandy; indeed, thanks to his CO’s batman he had tasted quite a bit of the personal stores d’Agostino insisted went everywhere he did: not only wine, but whole Parma hams, good olive oil, various kinds of wheat to make good bread and fresh pasta, cheeses which taxed the ingenuity of all to keep them fresh.

He was not alone in this: it seemed every officer in the Italian army wished to have some home comforts along, and to accommodate those, certain things an army might need had been left in Asmara to provide the space. A stern commander would have stopped such actions if he had not been one of the worst culprits himself, and Emilio De Bono had his fawning staff officers to care for him as well — sleek, well-connected aides who saw to it that whatever bed he slept in was comfortable and that he was allowed a proper night’s rest, free from his military concerns. Naturally, their own comfort was not ignored.

‘The prisoner is secure?’

‘I have done my best, sir. The door lock is broken and there are no padlocks in the quartermaster’s stores, sir; I asked.’

The major rolled his eyes, the clerk thought for effect, to impress his mistress. ‘Spinetti, are you an idiot? Go out and find one. There must be a shop in Aksum which sells them.’

‘I cannot find the petty cash tin and that is the reason I cannot pay the owner of this place for the food he has given the prisoner and I.’

‘Pay him! Tell him if he asks to be paid he will be shot! And if you find a shop with a padlock and hasp just take it and tell the owner to come and fit it or I’ll have his head off too. Now, fetch a lantern and take me to the prisoner.’

‘Can I come?’ the marquesa asked, rubbing d’Agostino’s cheek.

‘What for?’ he demanded, suspiciously.

Spinetti looked away and waited for the explosion: these two had a fiery relationship, especially when the major had been drinking, given the marquesa was such a flirt. In an army of Italian officers never shy of showing their gallantry, that led to a great deal of tempestuous dispute, which only exposed the innate jealousy of d’Agostino’s nature and the delight his mistress took in playing on that. He hated to see men pay her compliments, and she sought them out on purpose to torment him.

‘He’s going to die tomorrow, Umberto. Let him see your woman before he goes so he will know what he is giving up. He is, after all, a handsome fellow and, I think,’ she dug him in the ribs, then, ‘he is quite a man for the ladies.’

‘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.