Bright Faces, Distant Threats
Time passed as we left the market district and entered the eastern alleys, where the scenery shifted. This was the residential area, lined with newly built houses stretching out in rows, children playing between the alleys, and chickens perched atop the walls. I walked slowly, scanning the state of the homes. Roofs. Walls. Windows or no windows. There was a world of difference between reading statistics in the palace and seeing them with my own eyes. We still had a long way to go. Basic medical infrastructure remained inadequate in some areas, and literacy rates fell far short of what I wanted.
While establishing the Menelik Military Academy and Addis Ababa University, I'd mentioned expanding basic education, but budget and manpower shortages meant it would take time to reach the provinces.
I've got to push the university establishment budget through parliament again this spring.
Gebru Desta, noticing my internal note-taking, spoke quietly. "Compared to last year, this district has changed, Your Majesty. The water channel project in the northern Addis Ababa sector was completed last year, greatly reducing the distance people have to walk for water. We've also added two more night lights in the market area this time."
"I know. I read the reports."
"Seeing it with your own eyes is different, though."
He was right, so I nodded. Well projects. Night lighting. Small things. On the scale of all Ethiopia, they were tiny changes. But to the people navigating these alleys, they weren't small at all. Shorter water-fetching times meant time for other things. I kept walking without stopping.
At the alley's end, we emerged into the square, where the crowds thickened. The daytime scene in the plaza. Merchants bustling about, women carrying loads on their backs, children running around. Their faces were mostly bright. Compared to when I ascended to this position in 1916. Four years—what had they etched into these faces? Or was it just the good weather? I couldn't say for sure. But the faces of the starving and the fed were different. That distinction was clear even after just four years of reforms.
Yes. This is the real metric.
Not statistics, but the faces of the people passing through this square.
On the way back, I asked Gebru Desta, "How far along is the site review for the university hospital?"
He paused thoughtfully before replying. "The northeastern sector is the frontrunner. It's a suitable distance from the palace with room for future expansion. However, with the budget not yet finalized, official site designation is on hold."
"The Ras Council will handle it by spring," I said, and Gebru Desta nodded.
If the military academy turned noble sons into soldiers, the university hospital would train doctors and nurses. Without it, Ethiopia would keep relying on foreign advisors. Needing a doctor meant calling in a foreigner, and the money flowing out—that structure had to change. The budget could combine Maria Theresa thalers secured through Sarkis and part of the gold mine revenues. If we pushed it through this parliamentary session, construction could start within the year.
As we entered the main road back to the palace, the grand gates came into view in the distance. The afternoon sun of Addis Ababa slanted westward, bathing the palace walls in orange light. The Mehal Sefari honor guard stood before the main gate. Their rifle postures were impeccable. I knew what those rifles were. I'd designed them.
Two months locked in the study, burning through dozens of blueprints, rewriting them, factoring in the arsenal workers' machining limits, dialing in the chamber dimensions. And now those rifles guarded the palace gates. I paused for a moment, taking in the sight.
...It's done. Really done.
This wasn't the first time the thought had struck me. When the rifle blueprints were finished. When the prototype fired its first bang. When Minister Habte asked, "Ethiopian-made?" But this sensation, seeing it now, felt different. Not the solitary triumph in the study, but something in the guards' postures.
Pride, maybe.
The soldiers' shoulders might have seemed squarer only in my imagination. But if not—if real—then it was something numbers couldn't measure.
"Your Majesty, you've returned?"
Tafari was waiting just inside the palace gates. I knew he wasn't the type to simply wait without verifying my notified outing... but whatever.
"No issues while I was out?"
Low, calm voice. I knew that question carried two more: official concern, and confirmation of what I'd seen today.
"No issues."
I answered curtly. Tafari nodded and fell into step beside me down the corridor.
"Reports of increased commercial transactions from the market district came in this month."
"I saw. Textiles are starting to come in."
"It aligns with the Ministry of Industry report on stabilized loom operations in Harar."
I mentally sorted what I'd seen today as we walked. University site. Roads. Market trade. And the honor guard at the gates.
"Tafari."
"Yes."
"In the spring parliament, we'll prioritize the university hospital budget. Prepare accordingly."
The rustle of papers as he unfolded documents. He was already jotting notes.
"Specific budget scale?"
"I'll have a draft to you next week. I got the site status from Gebru Desta on-site today. We'll lock in the northeastern sector."
Tafari finished noting and said, "Some Ras may oppose the budget. Especially if it overlaps with the second light industry equipment import budget—they could push back harder."
"I know. That's why we'll debate priorities directly in parliament."
That wrapped the conversation. At the study door, I paused one last time to think. The faces in the square today were all bright. But Italy's invasion was still 15 years away. To keep those faces bright for 15 years, I knew the work piled up like mountains. Hospitals, steel mills, weapons development, military training, diplomatic diversification, currency issuance. And the international deterrence frameworks to build before Mussolini seized power.
No time like the present.
I quietly opened the study door. Ayenash had prepared coffee on the desk. Strong and hot, Ethiopian beans brewed in the traditional way. Cupping it in my hands, I glanced out the window. The evening sun of Addis Ababa was painting the western ridges red. The hue spreading over the city roofs somehow resembled a Seoul Han River sunset.
Don't forget what you saw today.
I quietly told myself, opened my notebook, and began slowly recording the day's notes.
[March 2nd. Market district inspection complete. Confirmed increase in textile trade. University budget to top spring parliament agenda.]
[Faces in the square were bright. This is the true indicator. 15 years left.]
I closed the notebook, picked up the documents again before the coffee cooled, and dove back in.
November 3, 1922, Rome. Prime Minister's office.
The appointment letter from Vittorio Emanuele III still carried the scent of fresh ink. Benito Mussolini stood by the window without even unfolding it. Beyond the glass lay Rome's streets. Just two days ago, tens of thousands of blackshirts had marched through them. Now... not peaceful, but appearing so.
Mussolini knew the difference. Peace and the appearance of peace. At thirty-nine, the youngest prime minister in Italian history, he never confused the two.
"Duce." A voice from behind. His secretary cracked the door. "The War Minister is waiting."
Mussolini, eyes still on the window, said, "Send him in."
Armando Diaz. The man who rebuilt the Italian army after Caporetto's humiliation. Who brought the Austro-Hungarian Empire to its knees at Vittorio Veneto. The first cabinet post Mussolini had offered when forming his government. Winning over the military—that was the basic rule of this game.
Diaz's footsteps were heavy and steady. A soldier's gait.
"Duce, congratulations on your appointment."
Mussolini turned then. Diaz was in full dress uniform, medals marching across his chest, posture ramrod straight. Even past sixty, his back didn't bend.
Mussolini extended a hand for a shake. Firm grip. Proper warmth.
"Sit, Minister. What's the business today?"
Mussolini had disliked wasting time on ceremony from day one, so Diaz pulled a bundle of documents from his leather case.
"African sector status report, sir. A summary of what we've lost since Versailles."
Mussolini took the papers, skimmed them quickly. Eritrea. Libya. Somalia. And Ethiopia.
"Ethiopia?"
Diaz hesitated briefly. "Duce, the key link to complete our East African colonial territories is ultimately Ethiopia. Reclaiming the interior connecting Eritrea and Somalia—it's a chance to make up for what we attempted and failed in 1896."
Mussolini looked up from the document. Diaz met his gaze with the eyes of a man certain he was right.
He wasn't wrong. Mussolini knew it too. Ethiopia. The highland kingdom on Africa's east. Now ruled by an empress, they said. Somewhere in the Foreign Ministry archives in Rome, there'd still be records of that empress rubbing Adwa's blood in Sonnino's face at Versailles.
When he'd first heard, Mussolini had laughed. An African empress reminding an Italian diplomat of their 1896 defeat—that ridiculous, humiliating scene. But now, hearing Diaz here, he didn't laugh.
He set the papers on the desk and turned his gaze back to the window. Rome. The city still hadn't erased the scars of war. Unemployment overflowed the streets, factories ran at half capacity, and the leftist-rightist political chaos had persisted right up to his March on Rome.
Could he send an army to Africa in this state? The answer was clear. No.
"Minister," Mussolini said. "I know you want to address the Ethiopia issue. And that it's Italy's historical duty. But for now..."
He trailed off. When he'd first gotten the financial reports from Stefani, Mussolini had been stunned. War debts piled like mountains, public bond interest payments in arrears. Projecting military power abroad was a pipe dream.
"We bide our time."
Diaz nodded, eyes understanding the weight.
"Of course, Duce. But my judgment is we must begin preparations now."
Preparations. Mussolini rolled the word in his mouth.
"Who's the Intelligence Chief?"
"Colonel Marcetti."
"Bring him."