Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 128: "The world forgets what Rome was. We will make them remember.”

Chapter 128: "The world forgets what Rome was. We will make them remember.”

The corridors of Palazzo Venezia were unusually quiet.

Inside his study, Benito Mussolini sat at a heavy wooden desk under the flickering light of a desk lamp, writing by hand in neat, pointed strokes.

A glass of red wine rested beside him, untouched.

The words spilled out with absolute clarity.

"This war will restore the grandeur of Rome. Abyssinia shall be crushed. Not for mere conquest, but to teach the world that Italy, once trampled, now commands."

He stopped for a moment.

Then continued.

"The world forgets what Rome was. We will make them remember."

He signed it.

Folded it.

Slid it into an envelope marked Privato.

Per uso del Duce.

A knock came at the door.

Ciano entered.

"They’ve refused again," he said.

Mussolini looked up.

"The Ethiopians?"

"No, the British. The Emperor’s appeal. Downplayed in the Foreign Office. They’re saying it’s a League matter."

Mussolini stood and walked to the map mounted on the far wall.

Red pins marked key Italian ports.

Blue pins traced supply routes in Eritrea and Italian Somaliland.

He tapped one pin, just north of Addis Ababa.

"They will not stop us. They lack will. They lack pride."

Ciano approached. "Rome is with you. The newspapers, the students, even the old monarchists. All calling it destiny."

"It is destiny," Mussolini said. "Not colonialism. Correction. Empire, not expedition."

He turned away.

"Send the next division. Reinforce Badoglio. And tell the press start using the word ’liberation.’ Make it sound holy."

In Addis Ababa, the courtyard behind the Imperial Guard barracks rang with the sharp noise of commands.

Old Enfield and Mauser bolts being pulled, locked, and fired.

Blanks, mostly.

A dozen Imperial Guardsmen moved through a drill under the sun.

Their uniforms were clean but worn, their rifles polished but antiquated.

French 1916 helmets rattled loosely on heads too young for the next war.

Colonel Abebe Aregai watched from the shade with his arms folded. "At least they’re fast."

Captain Desta Zelleke nodded. "They’re motivated. But they’re using rifles older than their fathers. We have fifty rounds per man. Most don’t know how to field-strip a bolt."

Abebe squinted toward the drill line. "We’ll train them anyway. Better they die trained than confused."

"Artillery?"

"Six Krupp pieces, one French 75. Wheels rusted, sights misaligned."

"And planes?"

"Selassie saw one crash last week. French biplane engine choked before takeoff. He just stood there."

Desta looked down. "No one’s coming, are they?"

Abebe didn’t answer.

Inside the Menelik Palace, Haile Selassie sat in the Map Room surrounded by letters French, British, Belgian, Swedish.

All carefully phrased.

All meaningless.

Foreign Minister Tekle Hawariat stood before him, looking defeated.

"No offers. Not even ammunition. Just sympathy."

"Did Geneva answer?" Selassie asked quietly.

"Only Avenol. He wants more meetings."

"While the Italians want more terrain."

Selassie leaned forward.

"We are asking for rifles. Bullets. Gas masks. The League gave us a charter. Now they hand us condolences."

An aide entered with a message intercepted Italian reports showing increased radio chatter near Massawa.

Another regiment en route.

Selassie looked up.

"We must raise the reserves. The Guard alone cannot hold the highlands."

Hawariat hesitated. "We’ll need the nobility to contribute men."

"Then remind them," Selassie said coldly, "that the crown falls with the country."

In Paris, Laval entered the Ministry of War flanked by two aides.

He was met by General Gamelin and several senior staff officers.

A single map lay across the center table the Red Sea and surrounding French possessions.

Gamelin didn’t wait.

"If Italy takes all of Ethiopia, they consolidate their southern flank. They control access through Eritrea, and from Italian Somaliland they’ll threaten Djibouti."

One officer pointed at naval charts. "Their naval expansion could flank us from the south. It exposes our Red Sea logistics and cuts lines into Indochina."

Laval exhaled slowly. "The British hold the Suez. They’ll contain them."

"They won’t act," Gamelin snapped. "They’re watching Geneva stumble over itself while Mussolini digs trenches."

Laval turned. "So we act?"

"Not openly," Gamelin replied. "But we must reinforce Djibouti discreetly. Rotate in artillery. Expand the Legion’s presence."

Another general added, "And increase aerial patrols. Italy is watching us as much as it’s watching Ethiopia."

Laval folded his arms. "Quiet reinforcement. No provocation. The last thing I need is Mussolini broadcasting French hostility."

He looked at the map again.

"I thought Rome was supposed to be our partner in Europe. But it seems we have to revoke our promise of not interfering."

Gamelin muttered, "They’re building a colony in Africa while pretending it’s Versailles 2.0."

Meanwhile, in Geneva, League of Nations Secretary-General Joseph Avenol stared across the long mahogany table in Room 17 of the Palais Wilson.

Two aides sat beside him.

In front of him, an Italian diplomat and an Ethiopian envoy.

Both men had spoken for over an hour.

Nothing was resolved.

"I suggest," Avenol said finally, "we draft a framework. A mediation panel. Two Italian delegates, two Ethiopian, one neutral. The goal is not confrontation, but understanding."

The Italian delegate sipped water. "Rome does not recognize the need for mediation. There is no war."

The Ethiopian delegate leaned forward. "Then why do your troops build roads into our land?"

"They are not your roads," the Italian replied.

Avenol held up his hands. "Please."

But it was already unraveling.

The Ethiopian stood. "We will not beg for sovereignty."

The Italian rose too. "Then prepare to protect it."

The door closed behind them.

Avenol rubbed his face with both hands.

"God help us all."

Back in Addis, a convoy of wagons carrying crates of captured ammunition from the last civil war arrived at a depot near the capital.

Each crate contained a mix of old shells, mismatched rifle rounds, and some rusted bayonets.

Abebe opened one and spoke in grief. "This is our arsenal?"

Desta nodded.

"God help us."

And in Rome, Mussolini returned to his private notebook that evening.

"The world talks. But only steel moves borders. Let the Ethiopians train with their spears. I will show them what it means to inherit Rome’s thunder."