Eyes of Calculation
The diplomatic mission from the Korean Empire arrived as the afternoon sun began tilting toward the west. I knew Addis Ababa's May afternoons well. The highland sunlight was intense, but the dry air made it instantly refreshing in the shade—an oddly pleasant weather.
Three carriages passed through the palace's main gate. The man who stepped down from the lead carriage was the chief envoy. He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties. Of medium build, with East Asian features typical of the region, he was dressed in the neat, formal attire of a diplomat. A Western-style suit. It didn't look awkward or ill-fitting; there was a natural ease to it, like someone who had worn such clothes for a long time.
Yeo Un-hyeong stood before the palace gate and saw me for the first time. In his eyes, I read not bewilderment or awe, but calculation. The gaze of a proper diplomat. I liked that.
After completing the formal greetings per palace protocol, I had him escorted not to the grand audience hall, but to the small reception room adjoining my study. Public ceremonies could wait; right now, we needed to talk.
In the reception room were just me, Tafari, Yeo Un-hyeong, and his chief secretary. Once seated, Yeo spoke first. His French was fluent.
"Your Majesty, I come here representing the Foreign Ministry of the Korean Empire. The Marshal has sent a personal letter."
He pulled out an envelope and offered it with both hands. I accepted it. Inside was a short letter. In Korean. As I read it, I felt the corners of my mouth twitch upward slightly. The Marshal's style was concise, like a soldier's—no excess words. It stated the dispatch of the envoy to implement the agreement, and ended with a brief line.
Please take good care of this.
I folded the letter and slipped it inside my sleeve. Yeo Un-hyeong watched the motion, his eyebrow twitching ever so slightly. An Ethiopian empress receiving, reading, and privately storing a Korean letter. I didn't know how that looked to him, but there was no need to explain now.
"Did you learn Amharic before coming, Envoy?" I asked in French.
"Only the basics. I'll make up for any deficiencies here on the ground."
"We'll provide a language tutor from the imperial household."
Yeo bowed his head. "Thank you."
I glanced at Tafari. He sat quietly, listening to the exchange. As always, his eyes alternated between Yeo and the secretary—silent calculation.
"Your first purpose here is to confirm implementation of the agreement."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"We'll start detailed consultations tomorrow. Today, rest from your journey."
"Your consideration is too generous."
After a brief farewell, as Yeo and his entourage were led away, I rested my elbows on the table and closed my eyes for a moment. Another piece connected. A diplomat from the Korean Empire had come to Addis Ababa. Two sovereign nations outside Europe, now linked through official channels.
Outside the window, the afternoon sun of Addis Ababa slanted westward, stretching tree shadows long to the east.
"Tafari. Tomorrow's first agenda: surplus equipment purchases. We have a list of machine tools probed through Brussels and Antwerp brokers. Check if Envoy Yeo's side can secure brokerage routes."
Tafari jotted notes as he replied. "Specific items?"
"Machine tools and looms first. Budget from customs revenue and Korean capital inflows."
"Where to deploy the looms?"
"Harar. Closest to coffee lands, reasonable distance to cotton regions. Starting textile production there diversifies exports."
As I explained, Tafari noted it down and said, "Report to the Ras Council?"
"Next regular session, bundled with the Paris report."
"Understood."
Finished with notes, Tafari looked at me briefly. His gaze was slightly different. Like he wanted to ask something but held back. I waited quietly, and he spoke.
"I heard you met the Korean Marshal in Paris."
"Word travels."
"Not officially confirmed."
"I did."
He fell silent a moment. "What kind of man was he?"
I turned the question over in my mind. What kind of man? How to answer.
"Someone like you," I said.
Tafari's eyebrow twitched faintly. "Capable, cool-headed, truly loves his country. And..." I paused. There was no other way to describe that soldier. "A man who's fought alone for a long time."
Tafari added nothing, but his silence was his answer.
Papers flew across the desk. Thwack! With a dull thud, the final draft of the Versailles Treaty scattered across the marble floor. But the man didn't pick them up. He left them.
The low ceiling of the Italian Foreign Ministry looked down on the scene. Sidney Sonnino. Acting Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs of the Kingdom of Italy. Chief negotiator at the Paris Peace Conference. And the man most broken by these talks.
He walked to the window. May in Rome was dazzling. Beyond the Tiber River, St. Peter's Basilica's dome rose against the white sky, and people moved peacefully through the squares. The scene of a city after war. But for the capital of a victorious nation, it felt oddly desolate.
We won. Participated as a member of the Entente, fought a dozen battles along the Isonzo, suffered over a million casualties. Swallowed the humiliation of Caporetto, held to the end. Germany raised the white flag, but... why did Rome feel like the capital of a defeated nation?
'Vittoria mutilata.' He rolled the word in his mouth. Mutilated victory. Asked for Dalmatia, got half. Asked for Fiume, Wilson blocked it with self-determination. Sought confirmation of influence in Africa, and that 'Eastern war god' intervened.
What had Italy gained from the war, in the end?
The Foreign Ministry's eyes recalled April's events vividly. Fiume. When Prime Minister Orlando declared he'd pack up over that one small port city, he had honestly agreed. Standing in the conference hall was just being extras at a feast where Britain, France, and America divided the spoils. Italy's voice hadn't been heard from the start. So they left. And that was the mistake.
In the three days they were absent, what happened in that subcommittee? He learned on the train leaving Paris. The Ethiopia clause.
"The territorial integrity of the Ethiopian Empire is under the protection of the League of Nations, and all unilateral military actions without Council approval are permanently prohibited."
When he first read that phrasing, he read the document twice. Then three times. Thinking he'd misunderstood. Italy's name wasn't there. It applied to all signatories. But no one in that negotiation hall was unaware of what it targeted—who had ambitions in East Africa.
He knew that phrase was a chain binding Italy. Opening the path to Ethiopia from Eritrea and Somalia. That was Italy's East African strategy. A foothold in Africa for Mediterranean hegemony. Decades of preparation, now sealed by a single clause in an international treaty.
He stared at the scattered papers on the floor. Felt anger rising. But with the anger came another sensation. Shame.
The Foreign Ministry looked again at the papers. "What did Italy gain from this treaty? Not even a chicken wing."
Trento and Trieste returned. South Tyrol secured. Some Dalmatian coast too. But Fiume remained undecided, and in East Africa, hands were tied instead. Mutilated victory. This, after losing hundreds of thousands.
And Rome was boiling. On the train back from Paris, reports of protesters gathering in Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. The cabinet shook. New voices rose outside parliament. Benito Mussolini. He'd first seen the name in the papers last year. Agitator, ex-Socialist. Shouting for a strong Italy with 'fascism' on his lips. Rallying war veterans, smashing leftists, marching in black shirts. He turned the name over in his mind briefly, then set it aside. No thought yet to gather the scattered papers.
Instead, he opened a drawer and pulled out another bundle. Ethiopian armaments status report. From intelligence before Paris. Collected by the Foreign Ministry's African colonial desk.
He flipped pages. Eyes scanned rapidly. Spanish Mauser rifles, about 20,000 imported. Hotchkiss machine guns, 400. Schneider 76mm mountain guns, 60. Ammunition: 7mm Mauser rounds, 10 million. And more.
Addis Ababa arsenal expansion. Ammunition production begun. Menelik Military Academy established.
More pages. Ammunition self-production. Over 100,000 rounds monthly.
There, the Foreign Ministry paused. They make ammo. But not guns. That simple fact stood out sharply.
Ethiopia's arsenal stamped out bullets, but lacked facilities for rifles. Machine gun domestication was out of the question. Every gun they held was imported. Spanish Mausers. He read the words slowly again. 20,000 rifles to Ethiopia. Supplied by Spain.
Spain, neutral in the world war. Diplomatic ties with Ethiopia, but the deal via brokers.
He tapped the desk once with a finger. Ethiopia makes ammo. Not guns. And Spain is practically their only rifle supplier now.
The solution was simple. "We need to pressure Spain."
Italy-Spain relations were decent. Latin kin. Catholic nations. Royal intermarriages. Spain's domestic unrest—shaky monarchy, unstable cabinets—meant no one wanted diplomatic friction.
Directive: Cease arms exports to Ethiopia.
Reasons aplenty. For League of Nations entry, restrain arms to African hotspots. Cite regional instability around Ethiopia. Or tie directly to Italian trade cooperation. Carrot and stick.
If Spain halted rifle exports, Ethiopia's 20,000 guns—however many—were far short of arming the whole army. Even peacetime wear demanded more. Block that path.
He stood, pulled memo paper from a drawer. Took a fountain pen. Wrote briefly.
Contact Italian envoy in Madrid. Negotiate halt to Ethiopian arms exports. Unofficial channels.
This was what he could do now. Couldn't erase the treaty clause. Couldn't undo the Korean Empire's statement. Couldn't forget the Foreign Ministry's frozen face when that African woman brought up Adwa.
But he could block gun supplies. Ammo without guns was useless. Slow Ethiopia's arming. That was diplomacy.