Chapter 124:

Words : 1058 Updated : Sep 17th, 2025

Chapter 124: "It will be remembered as the moment Europe decided who was human and who was not.”August 4, 1935. The sun in the northwestern highlands of Ethiopia felt harsher than usual that morning. There was no shade in the Walqait region only red dust, scattered thornbrush. But from a ridge above the Mareb River, a light of binocular lenses broke the horizon. Lieutenant Marco De Luca dropped to his belly, pressing into the scrub. Behind him, four Italian soldiers crouched with him. "You’re sure this is the line?" De Luca asked without turning. Sergeant Cortese, older, sunburnt, pointed to a half-buried cairn of stones. "Last marker reported by the scouts. Ethiopian patrols were spotted southeast two nights ago. But they didn’t engage." "Orders were to observe, not provoke," De Luca said, wiping his brow. "We’re not provoking, sir. We’re just walking with maps." De Luca smirked. "Maps and rifles." He lowered his binoculars. Across the valley, smoke curled lazily from a few distant huts. "Small settlement. No military post." "Civilians?" "Possibly. Herdsmen." "Orders, sir?" De Luca hesitated. Then zipped up the map case and stood. "We walk the ridge. Ten minutes. No contact." They moved quickly but quietly, boots crunching on dry earth. Their olive-grey uniforms blended into the hillside. Below them, two farmers tending goats paused and watched. Then, from behind a boulder up ahead, a figure stood. Thin. Robed. Rifle across his back. De Luca froze. S~eaʀᴄh the NôvelFire.nёt website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. The man didn’t move. His skin was leathery and dark, his face lined with age or sun or both. One hand was raised not in greeting, not in threat. Just raised. The sergeant lifted his weapon, but De Luca hissed, "No." The old man pointed to the soldiers’ boots, then at the ground beneath him. Then he spoke. "መንገድ አይደለም," he said firmly. "This is not your road." De Luca didn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear. "He knows we crossed," Cortese muttered. De Luca stepped forward slowly, his voice firm but calm. "Siamo soldati. Non siamo qui per combattere." We are soldiers. We are not here to fight. The man didn’t move. "Let’s go," De Luca said after a pause. "We got what we came for." As they pulled back, the old man turned and disappeared over the crest. But that night, reports of the incursion would reach Addis Ababa and the Emperor. In Rome, the bells of Saint Peter’s rang at noon mass, echoing over the Tiber. Inside the Apostolic Palace, the hallways of the Vatican remained cool and quiet, despite the August heat that roasted the rest of the city. Pope Pius XI sat in his study, flanked by two senior clerics, the blinds half-drawn. A telegram lay open on his desk. He had read it three times already. "Walqait. The Italians crossed it again," he said. Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli, the Secretary of State, nodded slowly. "Reconnaissance, they claim." Pius glanced at him. "And if an Ethiopian battalion entered Sicily under the same justification?" The second priest, Monsignor Pizzardo, shifted uneasily. "With respect, Holy Father, this is not a symmetrical war. Ethiopia is... undeveloped. It lacks schools, hospitals..." "Civilization is not measured in concrete," the Pope said. "It is measured in soul." Pacelli stepped forward. "The Duce believes it is Italy’s responsibility to bring order to Africa." Pius narrowed his eyes. "That’s the same phrase Napoleon used when he marched on Rome." Pacelli folded his hands behind his back. "Do you wish to issue a statement?" "I am considering it." "Such a declaration would antagonize the regime. And the Church’s position in Italy..." "Is not to flatter men with medals," the Pope interrupted. "If we remain silent, we become witnesses who bless the act by omission." He stood and walked to the window, gazing out over the Vatican gardens. "I do not speak lightly, Eugenio. But if this war proceeds, it will not be remembered as conquest. It will be remembered as the moment Europe decided who was human and who was not." There was a silence. Pizzardo stepped forward carefully. "And what of the faithful? The soldiers? The Catholic men now in Eritrea?" The Pope turned. "I will pray for their souls. And I will pray harder for their consciences." He walked back to his desk and picked up the telegram. "File this under observation. But keep a record. The Church must remember what others will try to forget." Meanwhile, in Addis Ababa. Haile Selassie stood before his generals, the latest border report trembling in his hand. "They crossed at Walqait. No exchange of fire. No casualties. But they entered. Deliberately." His voice was even. But the line of his jaw was like stone. "Was it an ambush?" asked Ras Imru. "No," replied the intelligence officer. "A scouting mission. Observed by civilians. Identified as Italians by their boots and helmets." The Emperor folded the paper. "They wanted to be seen." Heads nodded. The Minister of War stepped forward. "This is the second violation this week. With your permission, Majesty, we shall reposition units from Gondar and dig in along the northern escarpments." "And that is precisely what they want," Haile Selassie said. The generals stared at him. "They want us to fortify. To appear aggressive. Then they will say we provoked them. That we forced their hand." "Then we do nothing?" "No. We document. We prepare. But we do not give them their excuse." There was silence. Then the Emperor added, "I will speak. Publicly. Let the world know what happened today. And if they do nothing, then they shall share the stain that follows." That night, in the quarters of the Italian colonial command in Asmara, Badoglio sat with a map and a cigarette. General Graziani entered without knocking. "You saw the report?" "I did," Badoglio said. Graziani poured himself a drink and laughed. "They act like it’s a red carpet. One foot over the line and the whole continent starts screaming." "They know what’s coming." "Then let them scream louder. It won’t matter." Badoglio took a drag, then looked at Graziani. "You know Rome wants a clean narrative. That means no firefights. No corpses in newspapers." Graziani shrugged. "Then we wait." Badoglio muttered, "And pray they throw the first stone."

Chapter 124:

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