Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 130: “Let Adwa bleed again, if it must. But it must not kneel.”

Chapter 130: “Let Adwa bleed again, if it must. But it must not kneel.”

The War Ministry in Rome full of people.

Italy’s top brass were assembled.

Marshal Pietro Badoglio, General Emilio De Bono and the heads of engineering, rail logistics, and the air force.

Benito Mussolini entered.

He didn’t sit.

He rarely did.

"We strike in October," he declared. "Before the rains end. Before the League meets again. The world will debate. We will move."

Badoglio cleared his throat, deliberately.

"If I may October gives us six weeks. Eritrean roads are only partially graded. We’ve cleared 62 kilometers south of Asmara, but most heavy artillery is still in Naples."

"Then finish the roads by September," Mussolini snapped. "No more excuses. The Roman Empire didn’t wait for paved paths."

Badoglio tapped a field report with two fingers.

"Southern sector is still a mess. Rains in Jubaland have washed out the supply paths. We lost two truck convoys."

"Then use bulldozers. Dynamite. Camels. I don’t care. If terrain resists, crush it."

De Bono folded his arms. "The League may call an emergency session. There’s diplomatic pressure building."

Mussolini’s grin was tight. "The League is a lounge for impotent diplomats."

He walked to the wall-sized map and jabbed his finger at Adwa.

"This time, we take it. Not just with rifles, but with meaning. That soil humiliated Italy. I want it paved in our steel."

He turned toward Galeazzo Ciano, who stood silent in the corner.

"Launch the October campaign. Quietly. I want the press to start romanticizing the season. October as rebirth. As reckoning. Not war. Just readiness."

"Cultural conditioning," Ciano nodded. "Poems. Columns. Radio hints. No overt declarations."

"Good. Let them fall in love with victory before they even smell blood."

The Adwa plateau was dry and hard, carved into ridges by centuries of wind and war.

The men rebuilding trenches here remembered the names of their grandfathers’ commanders.

Remembered when Italy last tried and failed to take this ground.

Ras Seyoum Mengesha, Governor of Tigray, stood among his nobles on a rocky area, a worn rifle slung across his back.

They looked out over peasants and volunteers stacking stone, digging lines into the earth with bare hands.

"We’ve seen this before," Seyoum said. "But this time, the enemy has learned."

"They come with more now," muttered an elder. "Gas. Trucks. Planes."

"And we have rock. Height. And time."

A younger noble, face still soft from city life, frowned. "We don’t have enough bullets."

Seyoum turned to him. "Then every bullet must carry two lives, the one you save and the one you avenge."

Another elder nodded. "Let Adwa bleed again, if it must. But it must not kneel."

There were nods.

Quiet determination.

In Dessie, Emperor Haile Selassie stood in a command room, formerly the governor’s dining hall.

Maps lined the walls.

Men whispered over telegraph lines and signal flags fluttered outside in the wind.

Captain Desta Zelleke entered with a telegram and a troubled face.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing. "Ras Kassa confirms Wollo and Shoa fronts are ready. He requests more cavalry for the Afar escarpments."

"Send them," Selassie replied without looking up.

"There is... another matter." Desta handed over the telegram.

The Emperor read it slowly, expression hardening. "Partition?"

"Yes, Majesty. The British and French a draft plan. Italy to receive two-thirds of Ethiopia. You retain rule in a central corridor, perhaps access to Djibouti."

Selassie walked to the large window.

Outside, young recruits were practicing marching drills with outdated rifles and wooden sticks.

"They offer me a hallway. A narrow one, through the body of my country."

Desta said nothing.

"They call it peace. I call it surrender without the courtesy of a fight."

In London, the private room beneath the Foreign Office was quiet.

Samuel Hoare and Laval sat across from each other over a table spread with maps and coffee.

"It’s not pretty," Hoare said. "But it’s functional."

"Two-thirds of a nation handed over to appease a maniac," Laval muttered. "What’s next? The Alps?"

"We preserve the Emperor’s dignity. Offer him a corridor. Avoid war in Europe."

Laval traced a line through the shaded region with a pen. "This will never be accepted in Addis."

Hoare sighed. "No. But it won’t be offered. Not at first. Just floated. Whispered."

"You’re gambling."

"I’m delaying. Sometimes delay is the only weapon diplomacy has."

In Berlin, Hitler stood by the window of the Chancellery, arms behind his back as Ribbentrop laid out a folder on the table.

"Our Prague contacts are in place. Arms shipments can begin labeled as farm equipment. No Wehrmacht stamps. No trace to us."

"Good," Hitler said.

"Mussolini still acts independently. He doesn’t know we’re behind these channels."

"He doesn’t need to," Hitler replied. "Let him think his empire was born by his own hand. That’s when the debt becomes unconscious."

Ribbentrop looked up. "And if Britain uncovers this?"

"They won’t. Not because they can’t, but because they don’t want to."

Back in Addis Ababa, Selassie held council with bishops, nobles, and generals.

"They’re dividing us in pencil," the Emperor said quietly. "So they don’t have to divide us in steel."

A bishop frowned. "The people still have faith. But they need more than sermons."

General Balcha said, "If they offer you a corridor, take it. Only as a place to regroup."

Selassie looked at him. "And then what? Rule over a corridor like a hotel manager?"

There was silence.

"We will not accept division from people who never stood on our soil," Selassie continued. "If they want to betray us, they will have to do it publicly."

Captain Desta stepped forward. "Shall we respond?"

Selassie nodded. "Send a message to Geneva. Not a plea. A statement. Let the record show Ethiopia does not agree to be traded."

Ithe Adwa front, a dust-covered scout arrived in Ras Seyoum’s camp.

He knelt, breathing hard.

"They’re building a bridge over the Mareb," he said. "Engineers. Italian officers. Not Eritreans. Full logistics crews."

Seyoum nodded.

"Invasion is coming soon"

The young noble from earlier asked, "Will we hold?"

Seyoum didn’t answer directly.

"We won’t run."

That night in Geneva, Joseph Avenol sat alone with the latest dispatches from Africa.

Another message from Ethiopia.

A sealed note from London.

A report from French consular staff in Djibouti.

His aide asked, "What do we do?"

Avenol folded the Ethiopian message.

"We circulate the letter. Then we wait."

"Is that enough?"

"No," Avenol said. "But it’s what the League does best."

In Dessie, just before midnight, Selassie looked out across the valley from his command post.

Rain had started to fall.

In the dark, thousands of his people were preparing digging, marching.

Desta approached quietly.

"The message has been sent."

"Thank you."

Selassie didn’t turn.

"They will say we were foolish to resist," he murmured. "That we should have made a deal. But they will never say we didn’t try to live free."