The Gariboldi Affair

By D A Nicodemo

The characters & events of this story are fictional.

Colonel Emilio Gariboldi is a veteran of the Second Italo-Abyssinian War. An idealist as a young man, he had hoped to emulate his hero Italo Balbo and hence joined the Italian air force. A fatal encounter with an enemy intruder while camped with his unit on the heights of an elevated plateau near Axum changes his life forever.

The discovery of the body of a young black woman prisoner found in bed next to him cements his embroilment with a criminal organization involved in human trafficking. Almost two decades later, another young black girl is found dead at the foot of the Terzano Tower in Campobasso.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: May 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9781068846922

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Front Matter

Main characters

Supporting characters

Prologue

February 1954

Bird of prey

The funeral

Colonel Emilio Gariboldi

A stranger at the door

Villa Balbo

Undeclared aggression, October 3, 1935

Encounter near Axum, October 14, 1935

Meeting at Regina’s

Padre Lino

Matteo

A gypsy truck in Montorio

Corporal Pellegrini drops by

Bisrat Gupta

Sister Iphigenia

The nun’s nightmare

Images of a desperate time

Black Period, December 1935

Dejazmach Imru, December 26, 1935

Enzo’s sketch

The Colonel’s unease

Pia

Baldini in Montorio

Termoli, Gupta’s report

Renzo’s photos, July 1936

La Grotta

Naples, captains’ meeting

March 1954

The nun’s anguish.

Almaz’s distress, late July 1936

Danior’s report

Countess Ida Paltroni

Padre Lino’s confusion

The Colonel’s dilemma

Taitu’s capture, July 1936

The nun’s avowal

Motshan’s report

Sitota

Venting at La Grotta

Padre Lino’s dream

Sitota’s introduction

Emilio’s first visit, July 1936

Pellegrini’s update

Cardinal Rinaldo Bernardini

Momo

Chance meeting, Addis Ababa, July 1936

The Colonel’s early call

The case lurches along

Armando, July 1936

Gia

Death of a native girl, end of July 1936

Stakeout at Countess Ida’s

Emilio’s confession, August 1936

Eavesdropping at Countess Ida’s

Father Lino’s dilemma, August 1936

Chatting with the Corporal

General Pinna’s arrival

Emilio’s waning morals, August 1936

Emilio’s return, August 1936

Isle of Capri, the grotto

The dabqaad pot, August 1936

Isle of Capri, the show ends

Emilio’s madness surges, August 1936

Isle of Capri, the quarrel

Naples, Baldini’s update

Pinna’s scheme gains ground, September 1936

April 1954

The nun’s confrontation

Session at Regina’s place

Termoli, Emilio’s introspection

Toto’s dithering, Zucca’s meddling.

Message from the Colonel

Gondar, September 1936

Addis Ababa, October 1936

Another session at Regina’s place

The Colonel’s musings

Addis Ababa, Thursday, February 19, 1937

The Colonel and the nun

Giuseppe Russo

Matteo’s rage

Liberation Day

Ferrara, 3 days later

The nun’s disclosure

The Colonel’s reflections

Matteo’s frenzy

May 1954

Giacchino’s well

Ferrara, the next day

Vatican City

Toto calls on the Padre…

Matteo in Rome

Savoring tidbits with Pellegrini

Termoli, Emilio’s plea

Toto’s story, Regina’s inquiry

Sabine Hills

Campobasso, Vicolo Monticelli

Tuscan Hills, a fatal incident

Sforza’s eulogy

Il prete è morto!

Emilio at Vatican City

Intrusion at Villa Balbo

Donna Paola

Raggedy doll

Naples, Matteo’s departure

Port of Naples, the Capodimonte

Gupta’s message

Il Ciclope

The nun’s doubt…

The Cardinal’s sanctuary

Regina’s first interrogation

Matteo’s detention

News from the Corporal

Isle of Capri, Lash returns

Looking for the Cardinal

Isle of Capri, Cousin Ruggiero

Vicolo Monticelli

Sabine Hills, the Cardinal’s fate

Cilistinu

A rude awakening

The Colonel’s detainment

Paola has no phone…

June 1954

Rome countryside

The safe house

Brindisi, the Osiris

The End

Endnotes

Front Matter

Also_by

Title_page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Author_note

Main characters

Captain Gian Piero Baldini – Carabiniere at Questura in Campobasso

Cardinal Rinaldo Bernardini – Cardinal in Rome

Colonel Emilio Gariboldi – Colonel in the Italian Royal Air Force, retired.

Corporal Edoardo Pellegrini – Carabiniere at Questura in Campobasso

Countess Ida Paltroni – noblewoman, socialite

Father Armando – Cardinal Bernardini’s assistant

Father Lino – parish priest, Chiesa San Giorgio, Campobasso

General Ignacio Pinna – Italian Air Force

Gia – Countess Ida’s principal maid

Hamid – Colonel Gariboldi’s driver & manservant

Lash – Danior’s right-hand man in Naples

Matteo – Father Lino’s servant

Motshan - Romani man, works for Danior.

Paola – Duke Amadeo’s granddaughter (Colonel Emilio’s aunt)

Regina – Caporale Pellegrini’s fiancée, Carabiniere

Severino – local cobbler

Sister Iphigenia – Ethiopian nun

Taitu Abdi – Young Ethiopian noblewoman

Tenente Carlotta – One of Captain Esposito’s officers

Toto – Matteo’s friend

Supporting characters

Barsali Ventura – leader of Romani camp at Portocannone

Beniamino – proprietor at La Grotta

Birru – Dejazmach Imru’s trusted aide

Bisrat Gupta – friend of Hamid

Captain Emilio Esposito – Baldini colleague in Naples’ Questura

Cardinal Aldo Ruggiero – Countess Ida’s cousin (Duke Egidio’s nephew)

Danior – leader of Romani clan in Naples

Dejazmach Imru – father of Taitu, commander of one of the main Ethiopian armies

Donanto – metalsmith, gentleman farmer

Father Giacomo Rizzo – parish priest, Montorio

Francesca – Giuseppe’s wife

Giacobbe – Motshan’s man in Ferrara

Giovanna – local seamstress, Severino’s girlfriend

Giuseppe – local tavern proprietor

Jemal – Lieutenant Gariboldi’s guard at house in Addis Ababa

Kezia di Rocco – Romani clan leader, Rome

Maresciallo Sforza – Inspector in the Carabinieri

Maria – close friend of Michelina

Michelina – Donanto’s partner

Momo – one of Motshan’s informers

Pia Brunelli – friend of Sister Iphigenia, prostitute in Naples

Sebastiano – post office civil servant

Sitota – Ethiopian girl, victim of human trafficking

Svengallino – Severino’s cat

Tottino Di Marco – one of Captain Esposito’s police agents

Vittoria – owner of local pensione, Montorio

Zucca – client at La Grotta tavern

Prologue

Colonel Emilio Gariboldi is a veteran of the Second Italo-Abyssinian War. An idealist as a young man, he had hoped to emulate his hero Italo Balbo and hence joined the Italian air force. A fatal encounter with an enemy intruder while camped with his unit on the heights of an elevated plateau near Axum changes his life forever.

The discovery of the body of a young black woman prisoner found in bed next to him cements his embroilment with a criminal organization involved in human trafficking. Almost two decades later, another young black girl is found dead at the foot of the Terzano Tower in Campobasso.

February 1954

Bird of prey

Loud raspy caws echoed from above, the raucous noise overwhelming the earlier tranquility. As Michelina looked up, she noted their erratic flight pattern. Ahead of the two crows, the hawk took evasive action, tumbling feverishly to dodge the harassment. The crows were determined. They would stoutly chase the bird of prey from their territory.

Soon, the two were joined by a third who had responded to their alert-calls. Together they would pester the intruder. Only when the hawk reached the densely wooded area did the crows give up the chase and alighted on the top branches of the tall beech trees bordering the open field. A fourth crow joined the group; all perched on the highest branches. Together, they watched the hawk recede from view, and cawed smugly. They would wait a while longer before returning to feed on the bits of dry crusty bread.

The scatter of fluffy feathers beneath the feeders confirmed the attack. The wood pigeon had been startled, and its benumbing trepidation fatal. The elegant hawk, of slim silhouette, and relaxed in flight, save for the moment of attack, when it swooped with the speed and ferocity of its cousin, the peregrine falcon, had been a frequent visitor to the bird-feeder area. The Lanner falcon, chest of pinkish white finely dotted with black spots, henna-hooded head, black mustachioed, and yellow-feathered feet with pronounced black talons, is a raptor of non-negligible size. The crows, keen and intelligent corvids, have learned to harry this predator in numbers, although sightings of the lone intrepid crow pestering small raptors have been reported.

Povero piccione, thought Michelina.

She had felt particularly saddened by the fact that this pigeon, creamy white of body, and with smooth caramel-colored wings, was a twin to his look-alike counterpart. The two had made regular visits to her feeding area; always seen together, feeding on the various seeds and bits of dried corn which had fallen to ground. The brutal attack had dampened her spirit.

It had been a beautiful day. The sky, a wondrous blue over fields blanketed in frosty white, a blazing winter’s sun radiant above. The vegetation, frigid in the embrace of frozen vapor. Only the sonorous din of the gathered plumed congregation accompanied the quietude and serenity of the eloquent scenery. The falcon’s strike had shattered this peace.

‘Era di nuovo il Lanario,’ she informed Donanto as she entered the small cabin. ‘It attacked one of the twins. You know, the creamy white wood pigeons with soft-brown wings. I’m deeply saddened. I can only imagine the anguish of his twin. It must be terrible for him.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it. I also had a special interest in those piccioni,’ responded Donanto. ‘They seemed so much more elegant and princely next to the others; but also, more vulnerable somehow. I do hope the remaining twin will keep visiting the feeders.’

‘I’m sad, but apprehensive as well,’ said Michelina. ‘You may think me superstitious, but this attack on such a splendid winter’s day feels ominous, foreboding evil. Something bad will happen,’ she added, as a chilling shiver ran down the length of her spine.

‘Don’t unduly upset yourself, Michelina. These things happen. It’s Nature’s way. After all, the hawk has also to eat.’ And after a short hesitation, ‘I only wish it had chosen another pigeon; but Fate dictated otherwise. There’s nothing for it. We can but continue feeding the others, the living.’

At that moment, the grating noise of rusty hinges shrieked grimly; someone had opened the wooden gate at the front footpath.

‘You will have to grease those hinges, Donanto. I cringe every time.’

Michelina then moved towards the cabin door and opened it. Maria, her dear and close friend, was marching towards her with a determined step. At the sight of Michelina, Maria yet quickened her pace. She seemed eager. Her heavy calf-length woolen skirt hugged the contours of her ample thighs as she strode forward; heavy shawl wrapped about her head and shoulders, tightly held, arms crossed over broad bosom. Surprisingly, her large forearms were bare and reddish-cold, with the sleeves of her blouse and cardigan rolled together to her elbows, as though she had been washing her laundry in the chilled waters of the creek the village women would use.

‘Micha! Micha!’ she yelled. ‘I have sad news. Sister Betti has died! She gave her last breath not more than an hour ago. Poor woman. May the good Lord have mercy on her soul.’

‘Maria! Calm down! Come inside! Come in before you catch your death of cold. It’s freezing out there,’ uttered Michelina, as the morning’s violent predatory attack came to mind.

Inside, the cabin was pleasantly warm. Stewing over the hearth fire was a pot of chicken broth to which Michelina had added sea salt and bits of onion, garlic, carrot, cabbage, mushroom, and a variety of dried herbs: parsley, rosemary, oregano, and fennel. Save for the sea salt, the ingredients were from her garden patch, meticulously preserved and stored for the winter season. The aroma filled the room with its fragrance. Maria’s nostrils quivered at the scent; the warmth and perfume naturally inviting.

‘Sit here, Maria. I’ll prepare a bowl of this broth. It will warm you up.’

Sister Betti was well into her eighties. She had served the local parish priest, Father Giacomo, for several years now. The abbess at the Poor Clares monastery in Montalto delle Marche had given her permission to come to Montorio to assist the local priest. It had been her last wish to be at the side of Father Giacomo for the remaining days afforded her on this earthly passage. None of the townsfolk were aware of the nun’s lifelong secret, her unique relation to the priest. In fact, Father Giacomo was the nun’s son. Sister Betti had never revealed this truth to him. To this day, the priest is unaware of her real identity.

The nun had been heinously raped while unconscious; the aggressor, none other than the now deceased former Archbishop of Milan, Vittorio Alonso Orsini, as a young student of eighteen; at the time, ten years her junior. Giacomo, and Pierluigi, his twin brother, had been the undesired outcome of that horrendous assault.

‘Another bowl, Maria?’

‘Well. I shouldn’t, but, if you insist, then yes. I will. It did warm me up nicely, and it’s so delicious!’

Maria had a huge appreciation for her friend’s culinary prowess. She never failed to avail herself of Michelina’s table offerings. In particular, she favored the lemon cake Michelina would serve with coffee when visiting. It was an old recipe handed down from Donanto’s mother, Antonella.

‘I imagine she will be exposed at Michele’s,’ ventured Donanto.

‘No. Father Giacomo wishes to have her laid out in his office. He wants to be near for the vigil. Michele will, however, see to the arrangements. I will be part of the group of women who will sit with Sister Betti through the night. The funeral Mass will be at eight o’clock, tomorrow morning.’

The funeral

Pirlo, who, other than working at the local pharmacy, served as altar boy, carried the ponderous crucifix at the head of the funeral procession. Father Giacomo followed behind. A second altar boy, equally in black cassock and white surplice, walked beside the priest, to his right, carrying the aspergillum used to sprinkle holy water. They moved slowly, reverentially, as if in deep prayer, the priest mumbling some inaudible words.

A grey donkey pulled the cart upon which was placed the simple wooden coffin. It had been covered with a black pall for the funeral Mass; but the cloth was removed at the end of the service, before exiting the church. It was now graced with a pair of red roses. Barsali, chieftain of the Romani camp in Portocannone, had placed them on top of the coffin. Kezia, his aunt, had previously instructed him to do so should the nun pass on. The two had been close friends. Sister Betti’s sudden passing had made it impossible for Kezia to be at the funeral.

Barsali and Tonio, the local baker, walked along with the cart on one side; Giuseppe and Broca, the local butcher, were on the other side; four men were amply sufficient to cope with the insubstantial corpse. Then followed a small group: Donanto and Severino, together with Michelina, Giovanna, Francesca, and Maria. The rest of the townsfolk strolled along haphazardly in assorted groups; some talking to each other softly, others mum and introspective. A few were rather louder than the occasion commonly allowed.

Among the throng of mourners, moving discreetly with muted demeanor and wearing a simple brown tunic knotted at the waist with a rough-hewn cord, was a nun; eyes cast earthward, face girdled in the freshly laundered cloth of a white wimple, and head covered with black veil. Her unassuming comportment belied her obvious beauty and noble bearing. She was tall, and dark-skinned, but with undertones of a coppery brown; irradiant when, on occasion, she would lift her head - long, thin, and oval - towards the morning sun. Her eyes, almond-shaped and dark, were keen, intelligent; and betrayed a strength of character which is typically built upon incessant trials - adversity, hardship, suffering, the overcoming of terrible events.

The funeral procession neared the cemetery. Michele stood by the open niche of the columbarium wall; made of concrete, brick, and stone, and livened with assorted flowers. The opening would be secured with a bronze plaque, engraved with the nun’s name, year of birth, and year of death. Donanto had worked late into the night to have the plaque ready.

It was during the priest’s homily that the Carabinieri vehicle was heard approaching the cemetery. Captain Baldini, along with Corporal Pellegrini, who was now permanently stationed at the Questura, the police headquarters in Campobasso, had come to pay their respects. They climbed the low winding slope which led to the cemetery and then moved towards the group of mourners, closing on Severino.

‘Unfortunately, I was unable to be here sooner. Another tragic event,’ said Captain Baldini, not elaborating further. ‘I hope the good Sister will forgive me.’

Later, once the service was over, the two officers joined the group of close friends who had gathered at Giuseppe’s, the local tavern.

‘I’ve always had a deep respect for that woman,’ said Baldini. ‘Her memory will remain dear to me. I was privileged to have had occasion to speak with her several times over the last several months. She seemed quite well when last we spoke, not so long ago. Of course, at her advanced years, one should expect such news; still, I was surprised. I will miss our talks.’

‘Yes, she will be missed,’ rejoined Severino. ‘It was only recently that we all got to know her somewhat more intimately… something of her background and some truly extraordinary events she lived through. She was an exceptional human being, a formidable woman.’

‘Yes indeed, she was,’ responded Baldini. And after a slight pause, ‘I would have liked to stay longer and talk some more about our dear Sister Betti; but unfortunately, my friends, the Corporal and I must be getting back to Campobasso. Hopefully, we will have occasion to see each other again soon.’

Colonel Emilio Gariboldi

‘Un attimo, Colonnello,’ uttered Severino, as he looked up from his workstation and saw that it was Colonel Gariboldi who had been vigorously knocking against the glass of the cobbler’s shop. He rose from his workbench and sauntered towards the front door.

Next to the door, crouched menacingly upon the window shelf, muffled growls churning, tail twitching back and forth, and with ears flattened horizontally, Svengallino fixed the intruder, yellow-tinted eyes glaring about narrowed unblinking dark slits.

The cobbler lurched towards the shelf and snatched the wiry black feline in his arms.

‘Calmati un po’ Svenga! Come, I have your favorite treat in the back.’

Once the cat was safely secured in the back room, Severino opened the front door. As the Colonel walked in, the shop’s bell tinkled clamorously above him, piercing the remnant quietude of the early hour with its jangle. Not only do I have to endure his jarring knock, but this bell sounds twice as loud at this ungodly hour, thought Severino.

‘I doubt very much that Svengallino will ever accept me as a friend. It’s been more than six months. You would think that he’d be at ease with my presence by now. What is wrong with that cat?’

‘Svengallino is rather peculiar, I agree. But do not take it personally, Colonnello. He acts similarly with most of my clients. Very few will appease him, and then only at the cost of acceptable treats. Very finicky he is.’

The Colonel places the oversized leather bag he was carrying on the cobbler’s counter.

‘I’ve brought my military parade boots,’ says the Colonel, smoothing his greying Balbo beard with his left hand and following this gesture with his right palm brushing his hairless crown.

It is a somewhat singular gesture with which Severino has become well acquainted. One that the Colonel has often repeated during his many visits to the cobbler’s shop; ever since that very first visit, last year, late in the month of May, on a Wednesday morning, very early.

A stranger at the door

Severino had just come down to begin his workday. Svengallino had remained upstairs, in the cobbler’s apartment; he had not yet finished his early meal. The man was at the door, peering into the shop, hands cupped about his face, scanning the hushed interior; the early morning light only sluggishly penetrating the indolent darkness inside.

The unexpected presence had startled Severino; the incipient dawn light beyond the man’s hunched shoulders giving him a wraithlike quality. Once inside, the stranger’s human features were more readily accessible. It was not a malevolent spirit, but a man, a man of average height and thin frame; possibly in his middle fifties, and with prominent angular facial features - protruding cheekbones sculpt tight; blue-grey steely eyes deep and narrow, eyebrows peppered, straight, and thick; long thin nose ridged with a sharp dorsal hump, nostrils loud over trimmed floating mustache, greyish beard wrapped about the lower lip and flaring beyond the chin along chiseled lines of jaw.

He had stood with his back ramrod straight, shoulders upright; his military bearing obvious. And then he stroked his beard with his left hand, and subsequently lifted his right hand towards his denuded crown and proceeded to brush the non-existent hair backwards with his palm.

‘My name is Gariboldi, Colonnello Emilio Gariboldi; retired, and formerly with the Regia Aeronautica. I was informed that your work is of excellent quality, and I am in dire need of a cobbler.’

---------∞∞∞---------

It was thusly that the man presented himself to Severino. Apparently, his previous cobbler had passed away not long before. Over the course of the last several months, the Colonel had come to the cobbler’s shop regularly; and always at dawn, in the very early hours. ‘My military training,’ he would say. He was a punctilious man; attentive to details, and diligent with the care and maintenance afforded his shoes; scrupulously so with regards to his military service boots. He was always insistent on personally handing them over to the cobbler; the Colonel’s manservant waiting outside in the Aurelia B-10.

It was also during those many visits to Severino’s shop that the Colonel, voluble when in the mood, recounted some of the exploits relating to those military campaigns in which he participated. In particular, he would often speak of his time in Ethiopia; where, in late 1935, he had taken part in the Italian East Africa Campaign - the second Italo-Abyssinian War; when, as he reiterated on more than a few occasions, Italy had finally regained its pride1.

‘Do you think they could be ready for Saturday morning?’ asked the Colonel in reference to his military boots.

‘Yes, I will have them good as new,’ replied Severino.

‘Excellent!’ And after a slight pause, ‘By the way, Severino… earlier, on our way here, I noticed a nun walking along the road, moving unhurriedly in the opposite direction. I saw her clearly as we crossed each other. Our eyes met fleetingly. What surprised me, other than it being so early in the day, was the fact that she was colored, dark-skinned. It seemed so unusual, a black nun, here, in such a small town. What are the chances? I’m curious, do you happen to know of her?’

‘Sister Iphigenia? Yes. I don’t know much about her; but yes, she’s been here for several weeks now, possibly close to two months. She came to help Sister Betti, Father Giacomo’s aide, who, sadly, departed this life on Tuesday last. The funeral was yesterday. I imagine that the good nun will be assisting the local parish priest on her own from now on.’

‘I see,’ said the Colonel. ‘And do you know where she is from?’

‘Well, from what I understand, she was last from Naples, with the Capuchin Poor Clares. As to anything else, I’m not sure; but I might inquire if you like.’

‘No. No. It’s nothing. I mention it because of my interest in Ethiopia. She reminded me of some of the native women there. But no. No, think nothing more of it.’

Villa Balbo

The Lancia Aurelia B-10 stopped in front of a tall double-leafed ironwork gate fixed to moss-covered brick-and-stone pillars capped with pyramidal capitals. Hamid, the Colonel’s manservant got out of the vehicle, unlocked the heavy gate, and then wheeled it open. Once past, he stopped, closed the gate, and locked it. He then drove along the Cypress-lined path until he reached the small, but stately villa overlooking the Adriatic. Villa Balbo was a short coastal distance north of the port city of Termoli.

‘Hamid. Would you see to the fire, please. And then bring me a glass of wine.’

‘Si, Colonnello.’

Later, the Colonel was to be found seated in the library, wrapped in the comfort of his favorite soft-cushioned armchair, large bulbous glass filled with red wine by his side, and facing the warm glow of the fire. A small rectangular-shaped cloth-covered bundle lay on his lap, the cloth held in place with a ribbon. He stared vacuously at the package, as if not sure what he should do with it. After a prolonged moment, he took hold of one end of the knotted ribbon - pink, and crisscrossed orthogonally over the small package - and, with hesitant fingers, pulled it loose. Meticulously, he unfolded the piece of cloth.

The photographs were neatly stacked together, sepia-tinted, and with aged white crenellated border. The Colonel picked up the top photograph, stared blankly, and then set it aside. He picked up the next photograph and, again, set that one aside. He did so similarly with the following four images until he came upon the seventh one; at which point, unwittingly, the Colonel raised his right hand to his left upper arm and began to knead the knotted ridge of the scar; a cruel remnant of that harrowing encounter one late evening while encamped near the northern Ethiopian town of Axum, those many years ago.

Undeclared aggression, October 3, 1935

They had crossed the river Mereb from Eritrea on the Thursday; close to one-hundred and twenty-five thousand soldiers – Italian Army regulars, Alpine Divisions, Fascist Blackshirts, and Eritrean Askaris; all under the command of Marshall Emilio De Bono; the aggression undeclared. The covert acquiescence and, to all intents and purposes, complicity of England and France, both seeking the support of Mussolini against the mounting German belligerency; together with the inefficacy and weak response of the League of Nations to the Abyssinian Crisis2 and to Italy’s blatant military build-up on the borders of Italian Eritrea to the north, and Italian Somalia to the south, had emboldened Mussolini to pursue his dream of a new Fascist empire. He would connect the two Italian colonies in the Horn of Africa with the unjustified aggression and occupation of Ethiopia. General Rodolfo Graziani, commander of the smaller southern forces, had later noted that The Duce will have Ethiopia, with or without the Ethiopians.

The humiliating Italian defeat in 1896 at Adwa, had never been stomached by the likes of Francesco Crispi, Italian prime minister at the time, and Benito Mussolini later. In the interval, Italy had modernized their military; and in the late fall of 1935, the Ethiopian forces, save for the odd obsolete fighter plane and a limited number of antiquated artillery and machine guns, were basically equipped with the same weaponry which they had previously used at Adwa in 1896. Essentially, many fought sandaled or barefooted, wrapped in loose white desert clothing, and equipped with outdated rifles, swords, bows, and spears. They were no match for the superior arms of the aggressor. Also, the brutal and unbridled use of illegal poisonous gas facilitated the iniquitous decimation of the indigenous forces.

Adwa fell on the 6th of October, a few days after the onset of violence.

The strength of the Ethiopian forces lay with its people; with the power animated by the conviction of justly fighting against an unprovoked existential threat. They were fighting for their homeland, for their culture, for their children, for their future. It was this power that sustained the Arbegnoch resistance movement, those many patriots answering the emperor’s call to fight the foreign perpetrator.

Among them were the young men issued from the privileged classes - the nobility, and the elite members of their society. These young men were educated, unlike most of the local populace. They were privy to the political situation of the time, and intimately aware of the unjustified and treacherous nature of the aggression. They were awake to their interior rage and resentment towards the foreigners. They readily joined the ranks of the growing popular resistance movement.

As for the young native women, very few girls were accorded the privilege of education; most were instructed in the skills required to fulfill the tasks associated with their expected future role as wives. Women who chose a religious vocation were instructed within the church or monastery. But, for the young women issued from the privileged class, particularly those of noble birth, there was another option. Some of these women were permitted to attend courses at the palace of Emperor Menelik II, where the École Imperiale Menelik II had been established, and where education of a more secular nature was provided. These women also, were alive to the impertinence.

One of these young women was Taitu Abdi, youngest daughter of a local Dejazmach, a highly regarded commander of one of the main Ethiopian armies.

Encounter near Axum, October 14, 1935

The late evening hour upon the elevated plateau was chill. All seemed quiet beneath the brilliantly dark and crisp sidereal night-sky. Dome-shaped hills stood as sentinels about the military encampment. The gurgle of ephemeral streams, a gratifying solace; the day had been arduous.

Tomorrow… Axum, thought Emilio while stroking his beard, modeled after his hero Italo Balbo, the famous Italian aviator. He did this with his left hand and used his right palm to then brush his balding pate; the hairline receding and thinning prematurely. He had decided to take a bit of air by himself, alone, away from his comrades. Their chatter and proximity weighed heavily upon him. He yearned the vastness outside and the familiar touch of his Caproni 133 3.

Will we be needed tomorrow, do you think, Berti? He had chosen the name Berti for his fighter aircraft after Francesca Bertini, one of the first divas of Italian cinema. She had played Lucretia Borgia in the 1912 Caserini-Lo Savio film about the noble medieval house of Borgia.

Lieutenant Emilio Gariboldi, pilot with the Italian Regia Aeronautica, was at ease in this silent, virginal expanse; bare country thinly scattered with temperate grasses and shrubs, succulent cactuses, the few venerable Junipers, and the Myrrh - desperately clinging to the dry rocky slopes, gnarled, and stunted… prostrate. He casually laid back against Berti’s tolerant flank and retrieved the matchbox from his shirt pocket. He then struck the stick-match head against the phosphorous-soaked abrasive strip and, hands cupped about the flare, cautiously brought the flame to the tip of a previously rolled cigarette, now dangling from his thin dry lips.

It was the precise moment at which he had caught the trace of a sweeping and dimly reflected light; but an instant too late; the blade even then catching him across the upper left arm as he desperately tried to avoid its inerrant trajectory. A dark shape had nimbly lurched towards him from the shadows, black-cowled cloak swirling gracefully in a macabre pas de deux as the curved blade of the saber glowed overhead.

Emilio ducked beneath Berti’s taut underbelly and rolled to the other side, closing towards the barracks; all the while rending the brisk night air with desperate cries for help.

‘Aiuto! Aiuto! Aiuto!’

Meanwhile, the infiltrator - ‘…senza dubbio una spia’ 4, they would later say - had moved to pursue the startled pilot and was closing on its target; arm raised and poised to strike again.

‘Cosa c’è? Cosa è successo?’

Several men had come rushing out of their quarters, door burst open wide; warm, clammy air billowing vaporously into frigid night-air; the interior brightness instantly finding its path to the dramatic scene before them. Emilio, their comrade, lay sprawled as this darkly cloaked demon flourished its Gurade 5 sword above him.

‘Una Donna!’ snarled Emilio, indignant but also intrigued, and somewhat enchanted. The sudden irradiancy had captured the infiltrator’s youthful womanly facial features; angular, coppery, and smoothly oblong; the eyes fierce, dark, and almond shaped; cowled dark hair unruly.

Within the interval of two angry heartbeats, Taitu had caught Emilio’s bemused gaze before abruptly veering to scamper towards the darkness beyond Berti.

Meeting at Regina’s

‘Welcome Captain, come in,’ greeted the slender young woman. It had been decided that the three would meet at Regina’s small apartment situated in Vicolo Monticelli on the lower edges of the central mountain; Captain Baldini, Regina, and her fiancé, Corporal Edoardo Pellegrini - all members of the Carabinieri and work colleagues at the Questura, the police headquarters in Campobasso. This way they could work casually, without the arrogant and abusive presence of Maresciallo Sforza lurking nearby. Sforza, their superior officer, would not long tolerate his people working on cases he considered inconsequential.

This perplexing case involved the tragic murder of a young black girl, whose body had been found at the foot of the popular Terzano Tower, which, ironically, carried its own legend of ill-fated young love and death. The girl had been viciously beaten. The horrific incident had captured the indignation and curiosity of the city folk. All were perplexed as to who this girl was, and where she came from. Other than dark-colored zingari, few had seen people of dark skin as was the case here. More than likely, the girl was African.

Regina had prepared some coffee. They sat upon chairs round a small folding table, set up temporarily within the miniscule kitchen; knees touching inevitably in the cramped quarters. Regina and Edoardo would normally sit on stools at a narrow counter fixed along the short wall.

‘So Regina, have you found anything of interest about this girl?’ asked Baldini.

‘Unfortunately, very little. Other than what we’ve already learned from the coroner, very little so far. No one seems to know this girl. She is a total stranger,’ replied Regina.

Edoardo, twirling his coffee cup musingly, expanded upon his fiancé’s reply.

‘We know that she was killed elsewhere and that her body was later dumped at the foot of the Terzano Tower. It’s likely that she had been dead for several hours before being discovered early on the Monday morning, and not long after the body was discarded. The street sweeper who found the girl’s body mentioned hearing the screeching noise of a motor vehicle’s brakes only minutes before his gruesome discovery. This was confirmed by one of the local shopkeepers who was unlocking his security shutters at the time. He too mentioned the shrill noise.’

‘The fact that the girl was likely dead well before being discarded at the foot of the tower gives rise to the possibility that the murderer, or murderers, could have come from outside the city. Who knows from where? But if they were traveling for hours, then it could mean that they might have come from quite far away, many kilometers away,’ added Regina.

‘Yes, and that would include a fair number of municipalities, Regina. It will certainly be a challenge to find this vehicle. Nevertheless, you might start with our colleagues at the Polizia Stradale. See if anything unusual has been reported during the relevant time span. One can never tell.’

‘Yes, Captain.’

‘Oh! And ask them to pay special attention to any vehicles which may have originated from the Naples area. Also, get Enzo6 to come up with his best guess as to what this unfortunate girl might have looked like before the brutal beating she received. Have some copies distributed within the nearby rural areas, as well as villages and towns within a few hours’ drive.

‘Edoardo. Bring some copies to our friends in Montorio. I’m sure they will appreciate the gesture.’

‘Yes, Captain.’

Padre Lino

‘Padre Lino! Che sorpresa!’ said Regina. ‘But what are you doing here? It’s not often you take the time to visit us.’

‘No indeed, my little Regina. I prefer to spend my time amongst my parishioners, or in prayer. But I would like to speak with the Maresciallo if he’s available.’

‘Maresciallo Sforza? I’m not sure he’s free right now. But please, have a seat. I’ll go see if he has time to receive you. I won’t be long.’

Father Lino was a tall man but reduced somewhat by the pronounced stoop of the shoulders and the fact that his long and gangly neck angled steeply forward. Together with his thin frame, beaked nose, close-set eyes, protruding ears, and balding forehead, the overall impression was that of a rapacious bird, much in the manner of a vulture; but mercifully, this harsh impression was softened by an ever-present generous smile, somewhat imbued with a touch of naiveté, such that many found him rather endearing.

Then again, the inward bend of his little fingers, and overlong fingernails did not help; neither did his ungainly walking gait – knees raised unduly with each step, elongated neck undulating, and arms gesticulating spasmodically.

The old Padre was not graced with an excess of elegance; but other than the redeeming and somewhat endearing quality of his smile, always full and seemingly genuine, his general good humor also weighed significantly in his favor when time came to evaluate the worth and appreciation of the man.

Also, in certain quarters, it was rumored that the clergyman was the bastard son of a local duke; many, for obvious reasons, alluding to Duke Amadeo, although there were a few who adamantly denied this gossip, insisting that the duke’s younger sibling was the rascal culpable of the dastardly deed. Regardless, in the eyes of many, this private scandal had a redemptive quality. It gave the Padre some stature in the community; much in the way that an infamous personage might appeal to the masses. Many enjoyed bragging about the fact that they were friends with the son of a duke, bastard, or no.

‘The Maresciallo will see you in a few minutes, Padre Lino,’ says Regina. ‘Meanwhile, would you