Encounter with Korea
November 20, 1918, Versailles.
The conference hall in the Palace of Versailles was colder than I'd expected. Paris in November was nothing like Marseille. There was no trace of the Mediterranean's blue skies. A fog settling over the Seine had draped the entire city in a thin gray veil, and the road leading to Versailles was lined with street trees faded to a dull green.
It wasn't the Hall of Mirrors—not the real one, anyway. This was a side hall, smaller than the famous room, repurposed as a temporary meeting space during the war. The ceiling was high, the windows large, and the heating abysmal.
The Ethiopian delegation had been shown to seats deep inside the hall. Calling it the corner felt too blunt... but honestly, it was the corner.
The tables were arranged in an oval facing the center of the room. At the top of that oval sat nameplates for the United States, Britain, France, the Korean Empire, and Italy, in that order. They'd started appearing in European newspapers under the label "Big Five" once the Paris Peace Conference got underway in earnest.
Our nameplate was on the auxiliary row farthest from that oval. The moment I saw it, I didn't react. Or rather, I couldn't. I'd seen it coming.
Expected it, sure, but seeing it in person still pisses me off.
Secretary Matteo murmured lowly from my right. "Your Majesty, the seating..."
"I know."
I cut him off short, and Matteo fell silent. The French protocol officer had already vanished elsewhere. Once he'd confirmed we'd found our seats, his job was done.
We sat. Next to the nameplate on the table sat neatly arranged bundles of documents and pens. The formalities were observed. They hadn't just shoved us in a corner without pretense.
The hall wasn't fully seated yet. Delegations from various nations were still entering, their glances occasionally flicking our way.
That's when the Italian delegation arrived. Three or four in their party. The man in front wore the crisp suit typical of diplomats, looking to be in his mid-forties.
But they spotted me first. I knew what that look meant in under a second. Interest. And beneath it, a faint contempt. From Africa. A woman. Those two ingredients made that gaze.
I overheard him muttering in French. "...She looks like the heroine from Aida. We've got a sideshow now."
Exotic opera heroine. Sideshow.
I heard the words carry through the air, and the low chuckle from one of his entourage.
The protocol officer gestured for the Italians to head to the auxiliary seats. But the diplomat waved him off.
"One moment. Wouldn't it suit Her Majesty the African Empress better to sit inside here?"
Fluent French, laced with amusement.
The hall went quiet. I rose slowly from my seat as I heard it. No rush. With the poise drilled into me at the palace, my chair scraped silently against the floor.
Then I turned to the Italian diplomat.
"If I may."
I spoke in French. Low, deliberate. Every eye in the room turned our way.
"Has the blood of Italian soldiers spilled at Adwa already dried?"
Silence crashed down. The diplomat's face hardened. The amusement vanished in less than a second.
"At that time, Italian forces crossed our border with guns in hand. Ethiopia met them and crushed them."
I continued.
"The world marveled to see your army annihilated on Ethiopian mountains. That was twenty-two years ago. And now, I sit here as Emperor of Ethiopia. As the sole independent sovereign nation in Africa. Not to provide your entertainment."
The diplomat's face flushed red. One of his entourage started to mutter something low, but he silenced him with a raised hand.
"Remember this, Italian delegation."
I finished.
"If those guns turn toward Ethiopia's border again, the outcome will be the same."
Then I pulled my chair back and sat.
Quiet. The Italian stood frozen for a moment before following the protocol officer to his seat. His footsteps struck the floor hard. Anger? Embarrassment? Or both.
I could feel Matteo beside me holding his breath.
Damn, I was really trying to just sit quietly.
But what could I do? He started it.
Soon after, the conference opened, and before moving to the first agenda, a short recess was called. I saw British and French officials murmuring low to the Italian diplomat—warnings, no doubt. Italy hadn't performed well enough in the war, and their position at the table was weaker than the other Big Four. Starting a scene right at the outset was shooting themselves in the foot.
The Italian said nothing more. I quietly took it all in, tapping the table once with my finger.
Situation handled. Confirmed they had no power here to shove me further into the corner.
That was the bare minimum achievement for this morning.
The real issue wasn't now—it was later. Ethiopia wasn't one of the Big Five. Hell, we weren't even mid-tier; we were auxiliary seats. We couldn't lead agendas. Requests to speak could be ignored.
In original history, this conference was the Western powers divvying up the globe among themselves. To shift that board, I'd have to move outside this hall.
And those moves needed partners.
I stood.
"Matteo, find out where the Korean Empire delegation is."
Matteo looked up, startled. "Your Majesty? During recess?"
"It'll be quick. Just check."
He hesitated, then headed for the hall door. Meanwhile, I scanned the room quietly.
Big Five seats. Top of the table. The Korean Empire nameplate sat between Britain and Italy. The placement said it all: fully recognized as an equal between two European powers.
And the man seated there. Military uniform. Korean Imperial Army dress uniform—the same lineage as the Taegeuk flags I'd glimpsed through binoculars on the Guangwu above the Mediterranean. Plenty of stars on his epaulets.
Marshal. Korean Imperial Army Marshal Park Young-ho.
The name I'd read in newspapers lingered in this hall.
I watched him briefly. Mid-forties, by the look. Not a large build. But his seated posture was solid, and his scanning gaze was calm yet constantly calculating.
A soldier, through and through.
Obvious, but seeing the real thing made it fresh. Not a black-and-white photo, but flesh and blood sharing this air.
Korean War of Independence. Combined Arms Tactics. Capture of Aachen. All tied to this man somehow.
Matteo returned. "Your Majesty, hard to track their full route, but some of the delegation headed toward the north waiting room."
"Got it."
I headed out. Matteo hurried after. "Your Majesty, without escort...!"
"Just a moment."
North corridor. Versailles' halls had high ceilings and marble floors. November's chill seeped right into the stone. My heels echoed louder than expected.
Two Koreans in uniform stood guard at the waiting room entrance. I stopped before them.
They looked at me. Blank-faced. No protocol in their heads for a lone Black woman in Ethiopian imperial robes approaching.
I spoke to them. In Korean.
"Could you request a meeting with Marshal Park Young-ho? I am Emperor Zenebework Mikael of Ethiopia."
Silence first. One guard's eyes widened. Honestly, the most genuine reaction I'd seen on this whole trip.
"...Did you just speak Korean?"
"Yes."
I answered curtly.
"Please wait a moment."
One went inside. I waited in the hall, but the door opened promptly.
"Come in."
The waiting room was small. Unlike the hall's grandeur, just practical wooden tables and a few chairs.
Marshal Park Young-ho stood at one end of the table, still in his uniform from the hall. But his stance differed from when seated. He was flustered. Hiding it, but I could tell.
In the hall, he'd sat like nothing could surprise him. Here, that poise was slightly off-kilter.
An African Empress requesting a meeting in Korean? Enough to rattle anyone.
I stood opposite him and gave a short bow.
"Forgive the sudden visit, Marshal."
His eyes changed as I spoke Korean. He watched me a moment—wary at first, then appraising. Then he quietly pulled out a chair.
"Please, sit."
Korean.
I took the seat opposite.
"That the Emperor of Ethiopia speaks Korean..."
Park Young-ho said. Low, quiet voice. Military precision without roughness. Like a man who'd thought long and hard.
"...is something I've never heard of."
"Since something unprecedented happened, here I am."
I spoke slowly.
"Ethiopia sits in the auxiliary seats at this conference. You saw that today, Marshal. I am the emperor of a small power. Ethiopia alone has no voice at this table."
Park Young-ho listened quietly.
"So I've come to ask for your help."
I said.
The room fell still. He stared at me for a long while. Something brewed in that gaze. Calculations already running before I explained.
After a moment, he spoke.
"...I'll arrange a meeting."