"A bond?" and Jake laughed, a brief harsh bark of laughter, but then stopped and thought about the Prince's words. The man had even greater perception than Jake had at first realized. He had a knack of turning over unrecognized truths.
"Yes. A bond," said the Lij. "Fire and ice. You will see." They were silent for a while, standing high on the steel turret of the car, bare-headed in the sun, each man thinking his own thoughts.
Then the Lij roused himself and turned to point into the west.
"There is the heart of Ethiopia,"he said. "The mountains." They both lifted their heads to the soaring peaks, and the great flat-topped Ambas that characterized the Ethiopian highlands.
Each table land was divided from the next by sheer walls of riven rock, blue with distance and remote as the clouds into which they seemed to rise, and by the deep dark gorges that looked to split the earth like the axe-stroke of a giant, plunging thousands upon thousands of feet to the swiftly raging torrents in their depths.
"The mountains protect us. For a hundred miles on each side no enemy may pass. "The Prince swept his arms wide to encompass the curving blue wall of rock that faded both north and south into the smoky distances where they merged with the paler bright blue of the sky.
"But there is the Sardi Gorge. "Jake saw it cleave the wall of mountains, a deep funnel driving into the rock perhaps fifteen miles across at its widest point, but then narrowing swiftly and climbing steeply towards the distant heights.
"The Sardi Gorge," the Prince repeated. "A lance pointed into the exposed flank of the Lion of Judah." He shook his head and his expression was troubled and once again that haunted, hunted look was in his eyes. "The Emperor, Negusa Nagast, Baile Selassie, has gathered his armies in the north.
One hundred and fifty thousand men to meet the main thrust of the Italians which must come from the north, out of Eritrea and through Adowa. The Emperor's flanks are secured by the mountains except here at the gorge. This is the only place at which a modern mechanized army might win its way to the high ground. The road up the gorge is steep and rough, but the Italians are engineering masters.
Their road making wizardry dates back to the Caesars. If they force the mouth of the gorge, they could have fifty thousand men on the highlands inside of a week." He punched his fist upward towards the far blue peaks. "They would be across the Emperor's rear, between him and his capital at Addis Ababa, with the road to the city wide open to them. It would be the end for us and the Italians know it. Their presence here at the Wells of Chaldi proves it.
What we encountered there today was the advance guard of the enemy attack which will come through the gorge."
Yes, "Jake agreed. "it seems that is so."
"The Emperor has charged me with the defence of the Sardi Gorge, said the Prince quietly. "But at the same time he has ordained that the great bulk of my fighting men must join his army which is now gathering on the shores of Lake Tona, two hundred miles away in the west. We will be short of men, so short that without your cars and the new machine guns you have brought to me, the task would be impossible."
"It isn't going to be a push-over, even with these beaten-up old ladies."
"I know that, Mr. Barton, and I am doing everything in my power to improve the betting in our favour. I am even treating with a traditional enemy of the Harari to form a common front against the enemy. I am trying to put aside old feuds, and convince the Ras of the Gallas to join us in the defence of the Gorge. The man is a robber and a degenerate, and his men are all shifta, mountain bandits, but they fight well and every lance now arms us against the common enemy." Jake was conscious of the faith that the Prince was placing in him; he was being treated like a trusted commander and his newly realized sense of involvement was strengthened.
"An untrustworthy friend is the worst kind of enemy."
"I don't recognize that quotation?" the Prince enquired.
"Jake Barton, mechanic. "Jake grinned at him. "Looks like we've got ourselves a job of work. What I want you to do is pick out some of your really bright lads. Ones that I can teach to drive a car or men that Gareth can use as gunners."
"Yes. I have already discussed that with Major Swales.
He made the same suggestion. I will hand-pick my best for you."
"Young ones, "said Jake. "Who will learn quickly." The Ras sat crouched like an ancient vulture in the strip of shade thrown by Gareth's car, the Hump; his eyes were narrowed like those of a sniper and he mumbled to himself. drooling a little with excitement.
When Gregorius reached out and tried to view the fan of cards that the 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.