The Poisoned Chalice
July 21, 1927. Addis Ababa, Menelik Palace.
A year had flown by in the blink of an eye. This was the eleventh time I'd faced the rainy season, when the scent of damp earth, eucalyptus, and rainwater trickling down the stone walls seeped even into the palace depths. At first, I'd missed the smell of asphalt during Seoul's monsoons, but now this was just the smell of home. "Familiar" might explain it best.
I leaned my elbows on the study window sill, watching raindrops patter on the eucalyptus leaves in the palace courtyard. Reports towered like mountains on the desk: this month's arsenal production figures, Aleesa steel mill raw material inventory, minutes from the second Blue Nile River committee meeting. And the urgent telegram Sarkis had brought yesterday afternoon from Madrid.
[Italian envoy en route to Addis Ababa.]
I held the paper, staring out the window for a moment. The rain poured harder, unrelenting.
"Your Majesty, I've brought your coffee."
I turned at Ayenash's voice. Ethiopian beans, brewed the traditional way. A rich, heavy aroma filled the room.
"Thank you." I took the cup and turned back to the reports.
Sometimes I wondered how to sum up the past year. The League of Nations Council resolution in Geneva had passed last June. Thirteen months later, the world's gaze on Ethiopia had shifted—not through numbers first, but a gut feeling. Articles from Paris had changed. Phrases like "Africa's backwater" or "kingdom surviving imperialism's cracks" faded. Instead, "Africa's rising industrial power" or even "the Ethiopian model" started slipping in.
Ironically, Italy's Geneva speech had backfired. Their claim that we lacked capacity to manage our territory handed us the stage for rebuttals. Rifles, machine guns, steel mills, university hospitals—the figures entered official records and spread worldwide. When Rocarella said it, I silently thought, Thank you.
In numbers: Aleesa steel mill crossed the "domestic high-end demand self-sufficiency" line for annual output. Joint metallurgy upgrades with Korean Empire tech teams bore fruit from late last year. Not yet British or German special steel quality, but we could produce our own for arsenal cannon parts. That mattered.
The Blue Nile development pact with Britain was signed last November. Ethiopia set water resource priorities; Britain provided tech and funding via a joint committee. Crucially, we gained formal recognition as a Nile upstream stakeholder. Tough terms, five months of talks—I met Russell three times. He explained the river's role in Egyptian and Sudanese agriculture; I countered with its meaning to our highlands. Conclusion: neither side could yield. So, uneasy coexistence.
And today: the Italian envoy arrives. Sarkis's wire named him: Luigi Amedeo di Savoia-Aosta, Duke of Abruzzi. Cousin to King Vittorio Emanuele III.
I read it again. They're sending royalty. Rome's packaging was clear. Not some diplomat—this signaled a "special relationship," blood of the House of Savoy.
I knew what that "special relationship" meant. Unofficial info from the Korean Empire's Rome legation via envoy Yeun Hyung painted the picture. Post-Geneva, Italy split: hardliners wanted pressure now via Eritrea and Somalia before we grew too strong. Logical, but moderates noted Italy wasn't ready—WWI debts unpaid, alienating Britain and France for an African push was suicide. So, befriend Ethiopia, buy time, strike in 20 years.
Mussolini chose moderation—for now. He knew proposals could mask inner thoughts. Offering a friendship treaty meant stalling; what they prepared meanwhile was separate.
A poisoned chalice.
Refuse, and we give them pretext—Ethiopia rejects peace. Hardliners gain. Accept, and we grant time. In 20 years, I knew what they'd prepare.
Both bad, but the play was accept—on my terms.
I set aside stray thoughts, back to reports. Arsenal July summary: rifles topped 150,000 cumulative; machine guns over 10,000. New line: anti-tank rifle trial production started, 50/month. Sh-37 anti-tank gun mass production ready, initial goal 10 units.
I traced those lines with my finger. The anti-tank rifle was Alemou and his team's design. When Ras Balcha raised it, I said our rifle and MG vets could handle it—bigger caliber, reinforced chamber, recoil absorption. Give direction; experience did the rest. They took five months total.
The anti-tank gun was mine. Similar approach to rifles/MGs, but harder—chamber pressure incomparable, structures to withstand it. Ballistics, breech, recoil. Past-life memories had limits; history and engineering majors don't deep-dive artillery. Ten months.
First prototype firing: I watched from a hill near the arsenal, eyeing scrap plates. Penetration confirmed—my hands shook. It worked. Really worked.
Monthly output: 4 guns. Slow, but eight years to 1935. Enough to stockpile against Mussolini's planes and armor. Top of my checklist.
And while we prepare, Italy's envoy brings a friendship treaty.
I set down the coffee quietly. Both sides buying time, offering it mutually. Honest, in a way.
"Your Majesty."
A knock came as afternoon tilted west.
"Come in."
Herui, Foreign Ministry chief.
"The Italian envoy's party reached the rail station. At the palace in an hour."
"Understood."
Herui paused mid-file sort, eyes on me—more to say.
"Speak if you have something."
"...The envoy's rank is higher than expected, Your Majesty."
True. Duke of Abruzzi, king's cousin.
"Rome sees this as important."
"Yes. Sending royalty impresses the king's intent directly—not mere diplomacy. It pressures us to match the weight."
I pondered. Match the weight: Empress receives personally. And decides nothing.
"Exactly."
Herui's brows rose slightly.
"No acceptance or refusal today?"
"Treaty's 20 years. Natural we need review time. Besides..." I glanced out. Rain easing—rainy season's intermittent rhythm. "Today, I decide what the Duke sees to report to Rome."
Herui met my eyes, nodded.
"Understood, Your Majesty. I'll prepare."