Audience with the King of Wollo
Tafari Mekonnen and Ras Mikael. March 2, 1917. Addis Ababa. I wasn't thrilled about having to meet him at this hour. I, Tafari Mekonnen, took a short, deep breath. Even from the corridor, the scent of Wollo was already wafting—not a metaphor. Ras Mikael's chambers were imbued with the distinctive pine resin aroma unique to the northern highlands. It was probably because the incense he used in Addis Ababa differed from that of us Shewans. Even after years bound to Shewa lands, he never changed this one atmosphere, which somehow felt deliberate.
The attendant opened the door. Inside the room, he sat on a low chair by the window. Every time I encountered him in the flesh, I felt it anew: for his age, his build was remarkably solid. Well past sixty, yet his back didn't stoop, and the way he rested his arms on the armrests looked natural—yet somehow like a lion at rest. I couldn't help thinking that the man who had driven an Italian brigade into a gorge at Adwa and annihilated them shouldn't have a physique like this, but the image kept overlapping.
I sat down and spoke first. "It's been a while, Negus."
Calling him by the title of Negus was intentional. Even after Zenebework's ascension, we had never officially stripped him of his kingship, nor had he relinquished it himself. Not everyone was comfortable using the title, but I was. In fact, it was more convenient for negotiations to clearly define where the other side stood.
Mikael looked at me. "Ras Tafari." His voice was low and heavy. It didn't feel at all unrealistic that this voice had once commanded tens of thousands of soldiers.
"You've come about the Italian consul today, I presume."
He knew, of course. I kept my expression unchanged. "I've received reports of a private meeting with Giuseppe Colli di Felizzano."
Instead of answering, he briefly turned his gaze toward the window. The early spring light of Addis Ababa was dyeing the room yellow. "It happened."
He didn't deny it. It was an admission so matter-of-fact it bordered on indifference. I prepared my next question, but he continued first. "And I refused."
...Refused.
"Did they propose a plan to restore Iyasu V to the throne?"
"Yes."
"And you refused that."
"Ras Tafari." Mikael looked me straight in the eye. "I didn't orchestrate a coup to put my daughter on that seat."
...As expected.
"The Italians wouldn't have known that."
"Probably not." Mikael let out a short laugh—soundless, but laced with scorn. "How well do the Italians think they know my daughter to come with such a proposal? They must believe Zenebework ascended the throne of her own accord as a step toward reviving Iyasu."
I inwardly agreed with the precision of his analysis but didn't show it. The Italian consul's logic was likely this: With Iyasu's deposition, Ras Mikael had secured an indirect foothold to the throne through his daughter Zenebework, and they calculated he'd cooperate in a restoration coup once conditions aligned. If that was their scenario, he saw it as flawed from the premise onward. And whether that premise was truly wrong... I wasn't 100% certain myself.
I pressed on deliberately. "So, Negus, does that mean you support Her Majesty the Empress's current rule?"
Ras Mikael looked at me. A long silence. "I do."
Short words. "Zenebework knows this country better than any monarch I know. Since that child took the throne, my own treatment has improved, and above all..." He glanced out the window again. "Addis Ababa is changing, bit by bit. I've heard the arsenal is operating again. And road construction has begun."
I listened quietly.
"Iyasu had no interest in such things." I couldn't tell if those words held anger, resignation, or mere fact-stating. Perhaps a father's judgment of his son was always like that.
I paused briefly before speaking. "The Italians may approach again."
"I know."
"Will your answer be the same then?"
Mikael looked at me. "If they ask me to cooperate in a coup that shakes my daughter's throne, my answer won't change."
Clear enough. I nodded. As I started to rise, Mikael added, without changing his tone, " Ras Tafari."
"Yes."
"Zenebework hasn't married yet."
... I paused mid-rise and heard it again. "Her Majesty's marriage is—"
"I'm worried."
His voice was calm. Quiet, low, stating a fact. "She's over twenty. It's not easy for the Emperor of the Empire to hold this seat without marriage. That child knows it too. But she keeps finding excuses to dodge every match I propose."
So he was the one pushing the marriage talks himself. And Zenebework Her Majesty was evading them all. As I sorted this in my mind, I also registered a strange sensation. Ras Mikael sat there now as a father concerned for his daughter's marriage. The King of Wollo, who had led tens of thousands from Segale and swept through Adwa, was discussing his daughter's wedding in this narrow chamber. The gap felt uncanny. No, "uncanny" wasn't quite right. I tried briefly to define the sensation, but it eluded me. Not dissonance exactly, yet not something to brush off either.
Why was Zenebework avoiding marriage talks? She must know that an emperor over twenty without marriage would raise succession issues within the Empire. That was a political vacuum. I'd known of it for a long time, and so did she—yet she pretended otherwise. What was her calculation? Or was it not a calculation at all?
I set the thought aside for now. "The marriage is Her Majesty's decision."
"I know that." Mikael said curtly. "But a father has his worries. That's all."
I had nothing more to add on the topic. I stood. "Thank you for your words today, Negus."
He nodded briefly. As I left his chambers and walked the corridor, I organized two things.
First: Ras Mikael had refused the Italian consul's proposal. This was the expected outcome. I'd reconfirmed he wouldn't cooperate in a coup to shake Zenebework's throne. The fact that the Italians approached in ignorance proved their intelligence network inside Ethiopia was simpler than thought. Even "civilized" plunderers were just scarecrows without knowledge.
Second wouldn't sort easily: Zenebework Her Majesty's marriage issue. I hadn't expected to hear it directly from Ras Mikael's mouth. Nor that he was proposing matches and she was dodging them all. What did this mean? Strategic considerations? No suitable partner? Or did she not want marriage at all? Either way, it was outside my purview.
July 15, 1918, Addis Ababa. The morning air was unusually cold. That was July on the highlands for you. Once the rainy season truly began, mist would settle over the red earth, and the eucalyptus trees in the palace gardens would soak up rainwater, turning an even deeper green. In my memories from my previous life, this was one of Ethiopia's most beautiful seasons. But I had no leisure now to appreciate the beauty.
On the desk in my study sat three stacks of documents. The Mehal Sefari organization completion report, the status of ammunition production facilities, and my industrialization planning notebook filled densely with notes in Korean script. Since no one could read it, it served as diary, strategy document, and soliloquy all in one.
[1 Year 5 Months. Mid-Checklist Review]
Mehal Sefari: 1 division organization complete.
Menelik Military Academy: 1st graduating class produced.
Ammunition production facilities: Operations begun.
Light industry facilities: Introduction commenced.
Doing well. But is this pace right?
I set down my pen and picked up my coffee cup. The hot coffee aroma teased my nose. It wasn't hand-dripped, but this country's beans were better than—or at least equal to—those in my previous life's high-end cafes. At least in this, Ethiopia was truly world-class. But man, I miss iced Americano...
...No. Focus. The war needs to end. In the history I originally knew, World War I concluded on November 11, 1918, with the German delegation signing in a train in the Compiègne Forest. Four months left. Mountains of things to do before then.
Once the war ended, the Paris Peace Conference would convene. Ethiopia had to be there. Diplomatic efforts for League of Nations membership, reopening the Eritrea issue, and above all, technology imports and foreign investment for full-scale industrialization. I had the plans. Just not enough time.
I was about to flip open the notebook and review the phased goals up to 1922 when—
Knock knock— The door was rapped.
"Come in."
In walked Tafari Mekonnen. His signature silent entrance: door opens, small frame slips in quietly, and the air in the room subtly shifts. Being near him sometimes felt like sitting beside a lion.
"Your Majesty." His voice was still low and composed. Refined courtly speech, impossible to tell if emotion colored it. "I have something to report."
I eyed what he held in his hand. A newspaper. A French one. Le Soir.