Maaza Mengiste’s The Shadow King is certainly no Abyssinian Andy McNab

In 1935 the troops of Benito Mussolini’s sinister-clownish Roman Empire II invaded Ethiopia, in large part out of spite for Italy’s embarrassing defeat there 40 years earlier.

Initially largely uncontested — thanks both to Emperor Haile Selassie’s desperate faith in international brotherhood and to a hearty dose of Quislingism from his leading nobles — when ‘war’ eventually did break out it was so one-sided that Ethiopian women were gathering spent bullet casings for reuse while Italian planes (the older Ethiopians believing these were dragons) dropped poison gas on them. Selassie, meanwhile, fled to England.

The conflict inevitably degenerated into guerrilla tactics on the one side and terrible reprisals on the other. Step forward Ettore Navarra in Maaza Mengiste’s novel, ‘an earnest young Venetian who has come into [the] army with a camera’, and whose colonel now instructs him to document the founding of this new Etiopia italiana. (Stand by for ‘shooting’ tropes.)

Step forward also Hirut, a highland servant girl, and other women from all levels of Ethiopian society, who reject their traditional wartime roles as nurses and corpse-buriers, and together manufacture the illusion — ‘shadow king’ — that the emperor has not abandoned his people and his country after all.

This being the story of an unremembered war, bedecked with referential trimmings of Old Testament, Homeric myth and Verdian opera, and book-ended by Victorian and Cold War military contexts, I had expected to enjoy The Shadow King a lot more. Alas, although it hardly frames itself as Abyssinian Andy McNab, this tale of ‘what it means to be a woman at war’ is overwhelmingly more about the former than the latter.