Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 133: "Our war will arrive like prophecy."

1st October 1935.

Inside the high-walled war room of Palazzo Venezia.

Benito Mussolini stood before the great operations map of East Africa.

"Operazione Orestiade begins on the third," he declared.

Around the long oak table sat Marshal De Bono, General Pariani, Marshal Badoglio, and air force representatives.

Mussolini’s finger jabbed at the map just below Adigrat.

"You De Bono will open from the north. Eritrea is ready. Roads are cleared. The Mareb will be behind you by dawn."

De Bono nodded once and received the sealed directive silently.

He didn’t need to open it.

Everyone in the room already knew what it said.

General Pariani leaned in. "Chemical stockpiles have been secured in both Asmara and Mogadishu. Marked as agricultural compounds. No outside detection so far."

Mussolini’s eyes narrowed. "They will remain sealed. Unless I say otherwise. We don’t want the world crying ’gas’ before they’ve even had a taste of war."

Air Marshal Valle added, "Our final reconnaissance flights will be completed by sundown. Fiat CR.20s and IMAM Ro.1s are sweeping the ridgelines. Ethiopian formations are scattered mostly irregulars, lightly dug-in."

"Let them dig," Mussolini said. "They’ll find nothing but their graves."

Then he paused, pressing his hands on the table, leaning toward his generals.

"This invasion... this Oresteia... it is a ritual. Tragedy turned into empire. And the world? They will do nothing. Mark my words."

He glanced toward Ciano. "Prepare the press. October is to be a month of destiny. I want poems, headlines, parades."

Ciano nodded, silently taking notes. "Understood, Duce. Our war will arrive like prophecy."

On the other side of the frontier, Ethiopian scouts raced through the highlands, dusty and breathless.

At a northern outpost near Adwa, Ras Seyoum Mengesha was handed a smudged dispatch.

"Movement," the scout said, panting. "Across the Mareb. Armored trucks. Aircraft overhead. They haven’t crossed yet, but they will."

Ras Seyoum read it without blinking.

"Pull our lines back two days’ march. Let them come further. Let the rocks do some of our fighting."

An adjutant hesitated. "The men are asking... if we’re prepared."

"We aren’t," Seyoum said plainly. "But neither were our fathers at Adwa."

He walked toward the trench edge and looked down at the slope of the mountain.

"Sharpen the stakes. Bless the bullets. And tell the priests we’ll need them again."

In Addis Ababa, the Emperor’s command room was with activity.

Telegraphs ticked.

Messengers moved like currents between rooms.

Haile Selassie stood at the center of it all, draped in a black cloak.

"Your Majesty," Ras Kassa reported, "Our scouts confirm the Italians have completed their road to Adigrat. They’ll move the moment the rains break."

"Are they moving now?"

"Yes. Observation aircraft have passed the Mareb twice since dawn."

Selassie turned to his intelligence chief. "And the chemical stockpiles?"

"Confirmed. Stored in Asmara. Our scouts saw drums marked ’coolant’ stacked beside fuel."

The Emperor stared at the map table. "They will not fight us with courage. They will fight with powder and plague."

There was silence.

Selassie stepped forward and said, voice steady: "Then let them. We’ve faced plague before. We have not bowed yet."

A young officer approached, hesitating. "The Americans have released a statement."

"And?"

"They are... concerned."

Selassie shook his head. "Concern does not stop bullets."

In Washington, President Roosevelt stood behind his desk as Secretary of State Cordell Hull finished reading the official line.

"The United States Government expresses deep concern at the deteriorating situation in East Africa. The preservation of peace remains a vital concern to all civilized nations."

Roosevelt exhaled slowly.

"That’s it?"

"It’s all we can say. The Neutrality Acts are clear. Congress won’t authorize even a whisper of commitment."

Roosevelt walked to the window.

"And what of Harlem?"

Hull paused. "Prayer vigils. Sermons. Letters by the hundreds. The Black press is printing editorials every day. W.E.B. Du Bois called our silence... complicity."

Roosevelt tapped the glass pane.

"Then let history remember we blinked. But only once."

In Harlem, the Abyssinian Baptist Church stood packed beyond the doors.

Men in Sunday suits and women in hats stood shoulder-to-shoulder under flickering lights, the air electric with sorrow and defiance.

Reverend Adam Clayton Powell Sr. rose to the pulpit.

"They have told us to be silent," he began. "But we will not be silent while Africa is under siege."

Applause rang out.

Du Bois sat in the front pew, nodding solemnly.

Powell raised a telegram.

"This came today from Addis Ababa. The Emperor asks for prayer. But he also asks for strength."

He paused.

"We give both. Tonight, and every night after."

A girl of twelve led a hymn.

A man in the back raised his fist in silence.

In the hallway, young men added names to a sign-up sheet volunteers for public rallies, fundraising, even those willing to go.

In Berlin, the Völkischer Beobachter splashed bold headlines across its morning edition:

"Italy Restores Civilization to the Wild"

Inside the Chancellery, Hitler dropped the paper onto his desk, smirking.

"They call it savagery," he said. "But the real savages wear smiles in Geneva."

In Moscow, the Comintern published a fiery editorial in Pravda.

"Fascism marches on Africa while the West sips wine and signs papers."

Outside the Italian embassy, communist youth marched, chanting:

"Hands off Ethiopia! Death to imperialism!"

Inside the Kremlin, a senior official drafted a memo recruitment begins for international brigades.

The same template that would be used later in Spain was pulled from the shelves.

"This time," he said to his aide, "we send fighters before the graveyards are full."

As night fell in Ethiopia, Ras Seyoum stared across the valley.

The horizon was quiet but he knew better.

He turned to his adjutant. "Tell the men. Sleep in boots tonight. Pack light. And carry your grandfathers’ prayers in your belts."

In Asmara, De Bono who just rushed here stepped out of his tent still tired of the travel he coded the directive tucked in his breast pocket.

An aide saluted. "We’re ready, General."

De Bono didn’t reply immediately.

He listened.

He finally said: "Tomorrow, we walk into someone else’s memory."

War has Began.