August 2, 1935.
Rome had never felt hotter.
The windows of Palazzo Venezia were flung open.
Maps covered the long central table, some pinned, others hastily unrolled.
Benito Mussolini stood at the head of the table, gloved hands resting on a coastal operations chart.
His face, flushed and tense.
Marshal Pietro Badoglio stood opposite him, jaw clenched, hat under his arm.
"Massawa reports another five thousand unloaded today," Badoglio said.
"Assab is slower terrain's still too rough for motor traffic, but the convoys are pushing through."
Mussolini didn't look up. "And the Blackshirts?"
"Three divisions ready by the 12th. But they're eager. I've had to keep two companies from crossing the border prematurely."
Mussolini smirked. "Good. Let the Ethiopians sweat."
Badoglio hesitated. "Speaking of them Haile Selassie's diplomats filed a formal protest in Geneva. Again. Border violations. Skirmishes."
"And?"
"They're calling for League arbitration."
