"They would know, of course?" murmured Jake.
"I fear that they might be informed." The Prince turned to him.
"And if we tried to go back the way we came?"
"Through the desert on foot?" the Prince smiled.
"We might use a little of the gold to buy camels," Jake suggested.
"I fancy you might find camels hard to come by, and somebody might inform the Italians and the French of your movements to say nothing of the Danakil tribesmen who would slit the throats of their own mothers for a single gold sovereign." They watched the Ras send the great sword humming six inches over the heads of the bass drummers, and then turn a grotesque flapping pirouette.
"God!" said Gareth. "I took you at your word, Toffee. I mean word of honour, and old school-" "My dear Swales, these are not the playing fields of Eton, I'm afraid."
"Still, I never thought you'd welsh."
"Oh, dear me, I am not welshing. You can have your money now this very hour."
"All right, Prince," Jake interrupted. "Tell us what more you want from us. Tell us, is there any way we get out of here with a safe conduct, and our money?" The Prince smiled warmly at Jake, leaning to pat his arm.
"Always the pragmatist. No time wasted in tearing the hair or beating the breast, Mr. Barton."
"Shoot," said Jake.
"My father and I would be very grateful if you would work for us for a six-month contract."
"Why six months? "demanded Gareth.
"By then all will be lost, or won."
"Go on, "Jake invited.
"For six months you will exercise your skills for us and teach us how best to defend ourselves against a modern army. Service, maintain and command the armoured cars."
"In return? "Jake asked.
"A princely salary for the six months, a safe conduct out of Ethiopia, and your money guaranteed by a London bank at the end of that time."
"What is fair wages for putting one's head on the butcher's block?
"Gareth asked bitterly.
"Double another seven thousand pounds each, "said the Prince without hesitation, and the men on each side of him relaxed slightly and exchanged glances.
"Each?" asked Gareth.
"Each,"agreed Lij Mikhael.
"I only wish I had my lawyer here to draw up the contract," said Gareth.
, "Not necessary," Mikhael laughed, and shook his head and drew two envelopes from his robes. He handed one to each of them.
"Bank-guaranteed cheques. Lloyds of London. Irrev(.)cable, I assure you but post-dated six months ahead. Valid on the first of February next year." The two white men examined the documents curiously.
Carefully Jake checked the date on the bank draft 1st February, 1936 and then read the figure fourteen thousand pounds sterling only and he grinned.
"The exact amount the precise date." He shook his head admiringly.
"You had it all figured out. Man, you were thinking weeks ahead of us."
"Good God, Toffee," Gareth intoned mournfully. "I must say I am appalled. Utterly appalled."
"Does that mean you refuse, Major Swales?" Gareth glanced at Jake, and a flash of agreement passed between them. Gareth sighed theatrically. "Well, I must say that I did have an appointment in Madrid. They've got themselves this little war they are working on, but-" and here he studied the bank draft again, "but one war is very much like another. Furthermore, you have given me some fairly powerful reasons why I should stay on." Gareth withdrew the wallet from his inside pocket and folded the draft into it. "However, that doesn't alter the fact that I am utterly appalled by the way this whole business has been conducted."
"And you, Mr.
Barton?" Lij Mikhael asked.
"As my partner has just remarked fourteen thousand pounds isn't exactly peanuts. Yes, I accept." The Prince nodded, and then his expression changed, became bleak and savage.
"I must urge you most cogently not to attempt to leave Ethiopia before the expiry of our agreement justice is crude but effective under my father's administration." At that moment the gentleman under discussion lifted the sword high above his head and then drove the point deep into the earth between his feet. He left it there, the blade shivering and gleaming in the firelight, and staggered wheezing and cackling to his place between Jake and Gareth.
He flung a skinny old arm around each of them and greeted them with a hug and an affectionate cry of "How do you do?" and Gareth cocked a speculative eye at him.
"How would you like to learn to play gin rummy, old son?" he asked kindly. Six months was a lot of time to while away and there might yet be further profit in the situation, he thought.
The sound of the drums woke Count Aldo Belli from a deep, untroubled sleep. He lay and listened to them for a while, to the deep monotonous rhythm like the pulse of the earth itself, and the effect was lulling and hypnotic. Then suddenly the Count came fully awake and the adrenalin poured hotly into his bloodstream. A month before leaving Rome he had attended a screening of the latest Hollywood release, Trader Horn, an African epic of wild animals and bloodthirsty tribesmen. The sound of tribal drums had been skilfully used on the sound track to heighten the sense of menace and suspense, and the Count now realized that out there in the night the same terrible drums were beating.
He came out of his bed in a single bound with a roar that woke those in the camp who were still asleep. When Gino rushed into the tent, he found his master standing stark-naked and wild-eyed in the centre of his tent with the ivory-handled Beretta in one hand and the jewelled dagger clutched in the other.
The instant the drums began beating, Luigi Castelani hurried back to the bivouac, for he knew exactly what " reaction to expect from the colonel. He arrived to find that the Count was fully uniformed, had selected a bodyguard of fifty men and was on the point of embarking in the waiting Rolls. The engine was running and the driver was as eager to leave as his august passenger.
The Count was not at all pleased to see the bulky figure of his Major come hurrying out of the darkness with that unmistakable swaggering gait. He had hoped to get clear before Castelani could intervene, and now he immediately went on the offensive.
"Major, I am returning to Asmara to report in person to the General," shouted Aldo Belli, and tried to reach the Rolls, but the Major was too nimble for him and interposed his bulk and saluted.
"My Colonel, the de fences of the wells are now complete," he reported.
"The area is secure."
"I shall report that we are being attacked in overwhelming force," cried the Count, and tried to duck around Castelani's right side, but the Major anticipated the move and jumped sideways to keep belly to belly.
"The men are dug in, and in good spirits."
"You have my permission to withdraw in good order under the enemy's bloodthirsty assault." The Count attempted to lull the man with the prospect of escape, and then lunged to the left to reach the Rolls but the Major was swift as a mamba, and again they faced each other. The entire (officer corps of the Third Battalion, hastily dressed and alarmed by the drums in the night, had assembled to watch this exhibition of agility as the Count and Castelani jumped backwards and forwards like a pair of game cocks sparring at each other. Their sentiments were heavily on the side of their Colonel, and they would have enjoyed nothing more than the spectacle of the retreating Rolls.
They would then have been free to follow in haste.
"I do not believe the enemy is present in any force." Castelani's voice was raised to a level where the Count's protests were completely drowned. "However, it is essential that the Colonel takes command in person. If there is to be a confrontation, it will involve a value judgement." The Major pressed forward a step at a time, until his chest was an inch from the Colonel's and their noses almost touched.