An Elegant Asura Field
December 25, 1918, Versailles Palace.
The day said to mark the birth of Jesus Christ in this world... but there wasn't even a trace of "holy" Christmas in the conference hall. Beyond the windows of the side hall in Versailles Palace, a full month had slipped by, and December had settled in. Low-hanging clouds. A hesitant moisture—not quite drizzle or snow—wetted the glass panes, and the boxwood hedges in the garden looked simply black under the leaden sky.
I thought of the dry-season winds in Addis Ababa. Crisp and clear, the kind of air that filled your lungs with the invigorating spirit of the highlands. The atmosphere in this conference room was utterly different. The breaths exhaled by dozens of diplomats and their aides, the dry heat from coal-fired boilers, and the peculiar tension radiating from people who pretended nonchalance while something simmered beneath the surface.
I sat ramrod straight before the Ethiopia nameplate at the assistant seat, holding the documents on the table. Holding them, but not reading. I was reflecting on what the past month had been like.
Ah, total shitshow. Just in my head.
The Paris Peace Conference had truly kicked off toward the end of November. Representatives from 32 nations converged on Versailles, engaging in elegant verbal sparring over who would take what. France's reclamation of Alsace-Lorraine from Germany was a done deal. Britain obsessed over mandates in the Middle East. U.S. President Wilson pushed the League of Nations with his Fourteen Points.
On the surface, orderly diplomatic language. Beneath, blatant clashes of desire. Marshal Park Young-ho had been right. Agreements weren't forged in the conference hall but at dinner banquets, in corridors, in private audiences—and the hall speeches merely formalized them.
I knew the structure, yet I had to sit in the assistant seat. Assistant seat. Every time that phrase rolled through my mind, my fingers unconsciously folded and unfolded the edge of the document. Today, I decided to stop. Showing emotion was a skill I didn't need to learn here.
"We will reconvene the session."
The voice of the French protocol officer filled the room. Today's agenda had been announced since morning: Discussions on the Postwar Realignment of Spheres of Influence in East Africa and the Red Sea Region. The title said it all. Italy had pushed it forward. And where it was headed.
The Italian delegation seized the floor almost simultaneously with the agenda's tabling. Delegation leader Sidney Sonnino rose from his seat. The same man who had called Ethiopia an "entertainment" last time. The moment I saw his face, something inside me hardened.
I still remembered that frozen expression when I'd asked if the blood spilled at Adwa had already dried. A month later, it lingered vividly.
Sonnino opened his mouth. Fluent, polished French.
"Italy bore immense sacrifices as a member of the Entente in this Great War. At the Isonzo River alone, we lost hundreds of thousands of soldiers. Italy has not secured adequate postwar compensation in Europe commensurate with those sacrifices."
Someone on the British side lifted a document to cover their mouth, but I caught the slight twitch at the corner of their lips. Lloyd George's camp. They had anticipated this Italian outburst.
"Therefore, Italy seeks reconfirmation of its legitimate interests in Africa at this conference. Specifically, full Italian sovereignty over Eritrea, Libya, and Somalia, along with..."
Sonnino paused briefly—and I knew that pause was deliberate.
"...the establishment of Italy's exclusive sphere of influence in East Africa, including Ethiopia."
The room fell silent. I'd learned the flavor of that silence over the past month. The hush before gauging neighbors' reactions—agreement or opposition. The 2-3 seconds of great powers checking each other.
Sonnino pressed on.
"Ethiopia claims independent modernization, but in reality, it remains mired in a medieval feudal structure. If European civilization contributes there, it will benefit the African peoples as well."
Territory in need of civilization. He hadn't used the exact words, but the intent was crystal clear.
I tapped the table once with my finger, then released. Various things bubbled up inside, but reacting impulsively here wasn't wise.
Sonnino was watching me. Waiting for an emotional outburst. That was their goal: paint the Ethiopian emperor as an ignorant petty monarch.
I lowered my gaze and slowly turned a page. Nothing registered, but I could pretend.
As Sonnino finished, the chair called the next speaker. British representative Balfour rose slowly.
"Britain fully acknowledges Italy's wartime contributions. However, establishing an exclusive sphere in East Africa may conflict with the independence principles of sovereign states there. A more cautious discussion is..."
His words said one thing, but I read the intent in his phrasing. Not opposition—delay. Blocking Ethiopia's issue from the agenda now while soothing Italy's grievances.
Even French leader Clemenceau held his tongue entirely. France's interests in African discipline were tangled. From their vantage with the Djibouti railway concession, they didn't want Ethiopia too strong—but handing all East Africa to Italy threatened Djibouti port rights too. So Clemenceau watched. Letting Britain and Italy wear each other down.
Cowardly bystanders. The curse formed in my head, but stayed there.
I recalled the letter I'd sent Brice last night. Our channel from Djibouti days: an unofficial line via French capital running the Djibouti-Addis Ababa railway, bridged between him and me. I'd leveraged it properly here in Paris for the first time. The reply contained two requests.
One: formally table an agenda item on the Eritrea border dispute and prohibiting unilateral military action against Ethiopia.
Two: notify the chair in advance so Ethiopia could submit an agenda proposal.
Brice's response came at dawn. Short. Two sentences.
"Direct support is difficult in the current situation. Tacit permission is possible."
Tacit permission. That meant something. If France didn't block, the agenda could survive. The problem was Britain.
Balfour droned on. His point boiled down to this: Ethiopia wasn't for this conference; prioritize Italy's compensation claims first.
As he ended, Sonnino raised his hand for rebuttal. His eyes flicked to the assistant seats—toward me.
I read the message in that gaze precisely.
You can do nothing here.
Wordless, through his eyes.
I met it head-on, lightly nudging the document on the table with my finger. My agenda submission request. Ten pages I'd drafted myself, including Eritrea border guarantees and a military non-aggression clause. Ready for the chair.
But I knew what happened if an assistant-seat nation tabled it amid British dismissal, French inaction, Italian opposition. It'd be recorded, then shunted to the next session without debate. That was how this conference handled small powers.
Timing was key.
I signaled Abuna Mateos. He gave the tiniest nod. Ready.
Just as Sonnino began his second speech.
"The Ethiopian delegation requests the floor."
Mateos's voice rang out quietly but clearly in French. The room hushed again.
The chair glanced between Sonnino and the Ethiopia plate. His eyes asked: Is this the right moment?
I stood. Neither rushed nor slow. The weight of imperial regalia pressed my shoulders—garb Ayenash had packed from Addis Ababa, worn virtually daily since the conference began.
"Ethiopia requests official agenda submission today," I said in French. Low and clear. "As the directly affected party in discussions of Italy's exclusive East African sphere, Ethiopia claims its right to speak. Per the Hague Conventions and this peace conference's basic principles, the sovereign representative holds speaking rights in territorial sovereignty matters."
Sonnino's face stiffened. Balfour pondered behind raised papers. Clemenceau half-lowered his eyes.
"Ethiopia formally objects to expressions in Italy's remarks—namely, that Ethiopia is a 'region needing civilization.'"
I continued.
"The Ethiopian Empire repelled European imperialist military invasion by its own strength at the Battle of Adwa in 1896—the only African nation to defeat a European power in the field. Twenty-two years later, today, Ethiopia seeks official confirmation of its sovereign status at this peace conference."
Sonnino raised a hand to interject.
"Mr. Chairman, the assistant-seat representative..."
"Speaking."
The chair cut him off quietly. I seized the moment. The chair permitted continuation. Tacit permission in action. Brice had pulled strings beforehand.
I pressed on.
"Ethiopia requests formalization of two clauses in the peace treaty. First: international guarantee of the current border between Ethiopia and Italian Eritrea. Second: a clause prohibiting unilateral military action against Ethiopia's sovereignty and territorial integrity by all signatories, including Italy."
Silence gripped the room as I finished.
Sonnino spoke again.
"This request bears no relation to the main agenda. Ethiopia contributed nothing to this war..."
"A neutral nation."
I cut in. Sonnino's eyes narrowed.
"Ethiopia formally declared neutrality per the 1916 Hague principles. All negotiating powers, including yours, accepted this at the conference. A neutral state's territorial protection request aligns with international law basics."
Sonnino flushed red. Balfour coughed softly.
"Of course, Ethiopia's remarks will be recorded. But agenda tabling requires Big Five prior consensus. Not today..."
"Consensus exists."
The room's air shifted. I knew the voice's source without turning. Marshal Park Young-ho quietly set down his documents. No grand or swift motion—just placing papers. Yet it drew every eye. A testament to the weight his name carried here after a month.
The war god who annihilated an Allied million. The myth of the East.
Marshal Park Young-ho rose slowly.
"The Korean Empire supports Ethiopia's agenda tabling."