Still a Long Way to Go
1917 March 1st. According to the resolution of the Ras Council near Addis Ababa, today was the day the nobles' sons from each province were to arrive. I was supposed to hold a birthday banquet, but I canceled it and came out early in the morning myself.
The site designated for the training ground had originally been nothing but bare red soil. Since last month, I'd assigned laborers to build barracks and lay the foundations for a firing range. Inside the barracks were simple beds, tables, and copies of the school regulations I'd drafted in Korean before translating them into Amharic, pasted on every wall. It didn't have an official name yet. The Ras Council documents simply called it the "Modern Military Education Program." But in my mind, it already had a name: Menelik Military Academy. Right now, it was just wooden barracks on red dirt, but it was a great name.
The first wagon arrived well after morning. It was from Gojjam—the nephew of Ras Hailu Tekle Haymanot. The young man who stepped down from the wagon looked about twenty... Ah, the problem came after that. Three servants followed him...?
"...Huh?"
I stood there silently for a moment, watching the scene. One servant held a bag, another carried bedding, and the last one clutched some kind of food bundle. Then came the nephew of Ras Kassa Haile from Selale, who brought no fewer than five servants. One of them wasn't even a servant—he was the family doctor. He brought his personal family doctor?
Next was the eldest son of Ras Seyum Mangasha from western Tigray. He was relatively modest: two servants.
I quietly drew in a breath and let it out. Inside, I was like, damn, this is really... But on the outside, I just stood there with my arms crossed.
Sergeant Kebede, whom I'd assigned to manage the barracks at the training ground entrance, glanced at me nervously and approached.
"Your Majesty..."
"I know."
But I spoke first and walked straight toward the entrance. The young men stood awkwardly in front of the barracks. All twelve of them. One from each province, the first class agreed upon by the Ras Council. Ages sixteen to twenty-three. Mostly eldest sons or nephews from noble families. Behind them, servants stood holding the luggage.
I stepped in front of the young men. I wasn't wearing imperial ceremonial robes. I had no intention of doing so from the start. My hair was simply tied back, and I wore modest formal attire. But my gaze—I knew how to control that.
"You've come a long way."
I spoke first. My voice low and even, but loud enough for all to hear.
"I know how long it took you to get here from your provinces. Your bodies must be weary, and this unfamiliar place uncomfortable. That's to be expected."
A few of the young men stared at me quietly. They hadn't anticipated the Empress coming out in person.
I didn't pause.
"But let me make one thing clear from the outset."
I shifted my gaze to the servants behind them, then back to the young men.
"There are no servants here."
Silence.
"Only soldiers of the Empire."
The reaction came faster than expected. Abbebe from Gojjam spoke first.
"Your Majesty, however..."
He trailed off, unable to continue. He couldn't directly contradict the Empress, yet his pride wouldn't let him simply acquiesce.
I read his eyes. She thinks this is funny. She came up with 'modern military education' without even knowing what it is.
Well, I'd anticipated that. From the Ras' perspective, this was just sending their sons for a short stint to humor the imperial court. Not real combat, not a true training camp. Just a new toy made by the young Empress.
I walked toward Abbebe. Slowly. Without stopping. I halted two paces from him.
"Abbebe."
I called his name. I saw his eyes widen slightly.
"In your father's province, how many soldiers die each week in training from misfires caused by poorly maintained rifles?"
He shut his mouth.
"What percentage of your family's cavalry suffer injuries from falls during marches because their horses lack proper shoes?"
"..."
"If you don't know, that's fine. That's why you're here to learn."
I turned my gaze from him, facing the group.
"What you'll learn here isn't just how to fire a gun. You'll learn how to move an army. Where to source soldiers' food, procure bullets, evacuate the wounded, transmit intelligence. All of it."
"We respect the imperial command."
This time, it was the young man from Selale. He looked two years older than Abbebe, his speech more refined.
"But the servants were assigned by our families before we departed. Sending them back arbitrarily..."
"I'll write the letters."
I said.
"To each family. With my seal, explaining why the servants are being returned. If your families complain when you get back, I'll explain it myself. A letter from the Empress—they won't have much to say."
It drew a precise line between threat and consideration. I didn't care which way it landed.
While the servants unloaded luggage and waited outside the barracks, I read the school regulations aloud myself, pointing to the documents on the walls. Twelve articles in total. Ones I'd written through the night and had Ayenash copy out.
Rise time. Bedtime. Training schedule. Personal equipment maintenance duties. Firing range safety rules. Barracks cleaning rotations. Restrictions on leaving base. Addressing each other by military rank and name, not titles. A few young men reacted subtly to the last one. Naturally. Ethiopian noble society staked its life on honorifics. Calling the "son of a Ras" just "Abbebe" could feel like an insult.
I'd included it knowing that.
"Here, you are not sons of provinces. You are officer candidates of the Empire. Rank and position are the only honorifics that matter."
No one replied. That didn't mean there was no resistance. I could read every expression: acceptance, resentment, disbelief, cautious agreement. All different.
Beyond the training ground fence, I spotted a few retainers sent by the Ras, watching from afar to report back on how their young charges were being treated. I ignored them too.
As the sun began to set, unexpected guests arrived. Well, not entirely unexpected—I'd foreseen it. Just not today. The French military advisory team. Not from Joseph Vitalian's line, but a separate attachment from Consul Charles Brice. An extension of the negotiations bundling military advice with the Djibouti railway concessions. Three of them for now. The leader wore a major's insignia. Renault, was it? Tall, with a mustache neatly trimmed to fashion.
A captain and an interpreter followed.
Major Renault swept his eyes over the training ground and spoke through the interpreter.
"Is this all the training facilities?"
I caught the nuance. Primitive setup in African backwoods. Obediently follow what we teach.
"We're at the foundational stage."
Knowing that, I replied directly in French. Major Renault's expression shifted subtly. He hadn't expected fluent French without the interpreter.
"Major. What we need to discuss isn't facilities—it's the curriculum. Specifically, what to teach, in what order, to what level."
"That's for our advisory team to decide."
Perhaps flustered, Renault replied. Now directly to me in French, bypassing the interpreter. His tone still carried superiority. We're the experts. You're the ones being instructed.
I looked at him steadily for a moment. In my past life, studying history, I'd read papers on World War I. French army tactical doctrine. Offensive spirit, assault-first, the virtue of the charge. And the results. The Somme. July 1, 1916. British alone: 57,000 casualties on day one. French assault doctrine, élan vital. Sending soldiers into wire and machine guns to break enemy lines. I knew right now his army was clinging to that, grinding hundreds of thousands at Verdun alone.
"Major."
I said, still in an even tone.
"What's the French army's average daily casualties on the Western Front right now?"
Renault's face hardened.
"That's—"
"It's been eighteen months since fighting began."
I didn't wait.
"Stalemate, right? Trenches span the entire front. An assault advances 100 meters, only for one machine-gun nest to wipe a company in half a day. You want to teach that tactic here?"
For the first time, bewilderment crossed Renault's face. No one ignorant of the front could speak like that. Not reciting from a map, but mixing numbers and structural analysis.
The captain exchanged a quick glance with Renault.
"How do you know the front situation so precisely?"
Renault murmured lowly. Irritation still led, but something else mixed in.
"I read."
I said.
"French newspapers. Excerpts from British War Office reports. And I judge."
I didn't avert my eyes.
"Major, I respect France's military tradition. I know how much the artillery manuals imported from France before Adwa contributed to Ethiopian gunnery training. But what this country needs now isn't 1915 European front doctrine."
Renault fell silent.
"This land isn't France's plains. Mountains, canyons, semi-arid zones. How to fight in that terrain. How to hold two weeks without supply lines. How to maintain a defensive line with few troops. That's what I intend to teach."
"..."
"Your advisory team's experience and knowledge are needed. But how that knowledge is applied? That's decided by this country's Empress."
Renault said nothing for a long while. Not agreement, but a silence where he couldn't instantly refute, though he hated admitting it.
The captain murmured lowly to Renault in French. I caught it. She mentioned the Somme. Those aren't public figures yet.
Renault glanced at me briefly, then tilted his head slightly in reply. I know that too.
I stood receiving their stares, expression impassive.
Finally, Renault spoke one last word through the interpreter.
"The curriculum will be decided through further consultation."
Consultation. Not full concession, but he'd entered the framework I wanted.
I bowed politely without a word, then stood alone briefly at the training ground entrance. The sun dipped west, casting long shadows over the red dirt. Inside the barracks, the candidates were unpacking their own luggage for the first time. The servants would return to their provinces on the first wagons tomorrow morning. The Ras' retainers watching from beyond the fence were dispersing one by one.
Of course they'd feel conflicted. They were probably all wondering if they'd really sent their sons here. I understood. For the nobles of an Orthodox Empire, sending their children to an "imperial training camp" to cook without servants could feel like an insult.
That's why, in the First Industrialization Plan running until 1922, I had to change all of it over the next six years.