An Audience, Not a Negotiation
I chose the audience chamber on the western side of the palace, not the grand conference room for the peace talks. A conference room is for negotiations; an audience chamber is for receiving visitors. That distinction was the first message conveyed by today's setting. Ethiopia would receive Italy's proposal not as a negotiating agenda, but as a mere visit. The space itself demonstrated the distance between those two concepts.
The audience chamber featured windows draped with curtains embroidered in golden imperial motifs, a table engraved with symbols of the Solomonic dynasty, and low chairs arranged on either side. Outside, the eucalyptus trees in the palace gardens swayed thickly, heavy with the rains of the wet season.
I sat in the place of honor, clad in imperial robes. Golden Solomonic emblems cascaded from my shoulders down to my ample bosom—a choice Ayenash had made for receiving the Italian envoy. Tafari stood to my left rear. Minister Habte Giyorgis to my right rear. And at the entrance to the chamber, four Mehal Sefari guards flanked the doors.
Creeeak—the door opened.
Luigi Amedeo di Savoia-Aosta, Duke of Abruzzi. Two attendants and an interpreter followed behind him.
But I, the Empress, did not rise to greet the visitor in the audience chamber.
"Duke of Abruzzi, you have traveled far."
I greeted him first in French. As the interpreter moved to translate into Italian, the Duke raised a hand to stop him.
"I will hear the Empress of Ethiopia's French directly."
He spoke in French as well. Fluently.
"Please, be seated."
He sat—without leaning back against the chair, spine ramrod straight.
"His Majesty the King and the Duce send their regards to Your Majesty."
I smiled. The smile of Adwa's saint—gentle, restrained, revealing nothing of what lay behind it.
"My thanks. I wish prosperity upon the Kingdom of Italy."
Of course, it was mere diplomatic rhetoric.
The Duke cut straight to the point.
"Your Majesty, Italy desires to advance its relations with Ethiopia to a new stage. We believe friendship and cooperation between our nations will benefit us both. To that end, the Kingdom of Italy proposes the conclusion of a treaty of friendship with the Ethiopian Empire."
One of his attendants produced an envelope and placed it on the table. I glanced at it but did not touch it.
"Would you briefly explain the treaty's duration and main provisions?"
"A term of twenty years. Based on the principle of mutual non-aggression, it includes trade cooperation and technical support in infrastructure. It also formally acknowledges Ethiopia's sovereignty and territorial integrity by Italy."
I sorted those words slowly in my mind as I listened. Mutual non-aggression: Italy's promise not to attack Ethiopia for twenty years. And vice versa—Ethiopia wouldn't touch Italian Eritrea or Somalia either. Trade cooperation: opening paths for Italian companies to access Ethiopian resources. Infrastructure technical support: that was the crux. I needed to probe what infrastructure, and in what manner. The railway concessions Italy had sought in the 1925 agreement were likely repackaged within this clause. Formal recognition of sovereignty and territorial integrity: already enshrined in the 1919 Treaty of Versailles. Redundant, but Italy's insistence on including it signaled their desire to appear as a nation extending goodwill to Ethiopia.
"Thank you," I said. "I fully understand the intent of the treaty of friendship. Ethiopia also hopes for stable relations with Italy. There are things accumulated between our nations since Adwa in 1896, but they need not persist eternally."
The Duke's eyes shifted subtly. A reaction to my invocation of Adwa. Reading it, I pressed on.
"However, a twenty-year treaty requires thorough review on Ethiopia's part. We must examine the details closely and consult the Ras Council. I cannot give an answer today."
I paused briefly, then continued.
"There is no reason to refuse friendship."
The corner of the Duke's mouth twitched upward. I read that smile: relief that Ethiopia hadn't rejected outright, mingled with the calculation that it wasn't full acceptance either.
"Of course, Your Majesty. Please take all the time you need."
"May I ask one more thing?"
He nodded.
"You are renowned as an explorer, Your Grace. Everest, Mont Blanc. I've heard you've visited Africa many times. I wonder what impressions you've formed arriving in Addis Ababa this time."
The question seemed unexpected. The Duke paused, then answered candidly.
"...It was different than I expected."
"In what way, particularly?"
"The roads from the railway station to the palace were well-maintained. And beside the station, there was a building that appeared to be an educational institution."
"The military academy building. The university site is a bit further north."
The Duke glanced at me briefly.
"Ethiopia is very different from what I knew."
"The world changes."
Whether he meant it that way or not, I took the words at face value.
"Ethiopia is changing too."
The Duke of Abruzzi left the audience chamber after a little over an hour. Only then did I lean back against the chair for the first time. The weight of the silk robes settled on my shoulders. Was the garment heavy, or was it the weight of these breasts? Both, probably.
"Your Majesty."
Tafari spoke quietly. His low, steady voice—the voice of someone who had known me long.
"How long do you envision for the review period?"
I thought for a moment.
"Three months."
"Will Italy wait?"
"They will."
I said. "Rome's hardliners aren't thrilled with this treaty proposal. Mussolini has sided with the moderates for now, but that won't last forever. For the treaty to succeed means Mussolini can show the hardliners, 'I'm playing the long game strategically.' In other words, Rome needs this treaty to go through too."
Tafari looked at me briefly, then spoke after a pause.
"Understood."
August 2, 1928. Addis Ababa, Menelik Palace grand conference room.
Flashes erupted. Not just once—continuously, relentlessly. France, Britain, the Korean Empire, America. Foreign correspondents who had arrived in Addis Ababa up to yesterday filled one wall of the conference room. Their cameras were all trained on us.
Amid that barrage of flashes, I managed my expression. Gentle, restrained, an aloof smile. The face of Adwa's saint. Honed since 1916, it came automatically now.
Two sheets of parchment lay on the table. The Treaty of Friendship between the Ethiopian Empire and the Kingdom of Italy. Twenty-year term. Mutual non-aggression, trade cooperation, mutual recognition of territorial integrity. Three months of review had concluded; today was signing day.
I glanced down at the parchment briefly. It was a beautiful object. The quality spoke of Italy's care in preparation—national emblems in gold leaf, borders intricately engraved with laurel motifs. No one was ignorant that poison could lurk within pretty things, but appearances alone couldn't reveal it. That was the very definition of a poisoned chalice.
I took up the pen. I signed slowly. No need to rush. The dozens of cameras in the room captured every motion, and the slower I wrote, the more shots they secured. Photos destined for the front pages of Paris, London, and New York tomorrow morning were being taken right here.
The Empress of Ethiopia, Africa's last independent kingdom, signing a twenty-year treaty of friendship with the European power Italy. I knew how that image would be read.
Ethiopia is now treated as a civilized nation.
Civilized nation. The term Western powers had used since the nineteenth century to judge non-European states. Finally, it would apply to Ethiopia too. Humiliating? Honestly, complicated. But in this moment, I couldn't ignore the tangible effects that word would bring.
Invading a nation recognized as civilized would make the invader the uncivilized one. Whether that logic held in 1935 was uncertain, but even if it didn't, the record would remain.
I finished the last letter and set down the pen. Then the Italian signatory approached.
Giuseppe Colli di Felizzano. The Duke of Abruzzi had visited Ethiopia for the negotiations; protocol dictated that the resident consul in Addis Ababa handle the formal signing.
Even accepting that, sitting at the same table with this man again stirred a certain sentiment. It had been that way since I first saw him right after Iyasu V's deposition in 1916. Versailles in 1919. The 1925 letter agreement. The Mehal Sefari garrison in Addis Ababa in 1926. And Geneva. We'd seen each other's faces across quite a span of years.
Colli di Felizzano finished signing. He extended his hand toward me. A handshake.
I took it. Cold and dry. Yet it trembled—ever so faintly.
The moment I felt it, I schooled my expression. Impenetrable.
His eyes faced forward, his camera-conscious demeanor composed. But that subtle quiver in the hand clasping mine couldn't be hidden. Fear? Anger? Or both mingled.
Low, very low—so only we two could hear—I said,
"Twenty years is a long time, isn't it."
His fingers stiffened minutely. I continued.
"Please watch how much stronger our empire becomes in that time."
The handshake ended. The cameras flashed once more in unison.
Click!