‘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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘Well, I can sure as hell say this Spanish lady saw something I have missed.’
Corrie Littleton said that with feeling, to a rested, washed and breakfasted escapee, who had endured a long and wearying three-day walk south and was now enjoying a cup of excellent coffee in the lounge of the Gondar hotel.
‘Then thank the Lord you have not been looking,’ Jardine replied.
‘I am looking now, buster, and I am still mystified.’
‘Put it down to charm, luv,’ Vince Castellano proposed. ‘Must have been love at first sight. Italians call it the “thunderbolt”.’