Turning the First Page
August 2, 1928. Addis Ababa, Menelik Palace grand conference hall.
After the treaty signing, the celebration feast unfolded in the palace square. The resounding beat of kebero drums, the scent of honey wine, the aromas of doro wat and kitfo. Ethiopia's traditional banquet was in full swing on a grand scale.
The citizens of Addis Ababa filled the square in front of the palace's main gate, their cheers rolling in like waves from afar. I gazed down at the scene from the balcony. My father, Ras Mikael, sat to my right. Even at feasts, he was the quiet type, but today he was especially subdued. Ever since losing Iyasu, his words had grown fewer, but this was different.
"It turned out well."
Ras Mikael murmured low. It sounded like he was talking to himself.
"Italy won't touch our land for twenty years."
I didn't reply. I didn't want to shatter his relief.
Glancing toward the square, I saw Ras Kassa Haile and Ras Hailu Tekle Haymanot toasting with honey wine cups, laughing over something. Ras Seyum Mangasha was engaged in diplomatic chatter with the Italian consul's entourage. Ras Lul Seged was focused on his food. The rases were toasting to peace. It was only natural.
For their generation, which remembered Adwa, the name Italy meant war. With Italy signing a treaty promising to stay away for twenty years, they had every reason to feel genuine relief. I couldn't tell them that relief was misplaced.
Then I sensed footsteps. Two paces away. Low, measured steps. It was Tafari Mekonnen.
He placed a hand on the balcony railing to my left and looked down at the square alongside me. He said nothing. Just stood there.
When this man simply stood there, it meant one of two things: he was thinking, or timing his question. I didn't speak first.
"Your Majesty."
A moment later, he said softly.
"Congratulations."
"Thank you."
My curt reply ended it there. We both just stood gazing at the square. Below, the drums thundered, and the crowd's cheers rose and fell like waves. The August night air in Addis Ababa carried the highland chill. Even if the days were hot this season, the nights brought a change in the air.
I cast my gaze beyond the balcony railing, far into the distance. To the east of the palace, far off, a building glowed with lights. The arsenal. On nights with shift changes, the lights stayed on like that. Even now, inside, ammunition was being produced, anti-tank rifle parts machined. The anti-tank gun mass-production line was churning toward its goal of four units this month. The arsenal hadn't stopped even on the day of the treaty signing ceremony.
"Tafari."
"Yes."
"See those lights?"
He turned his gaze in the direction I was looking. The glow from the eastern arsenal.
"I see them."
"That's the real answer today."
Tafari said nothing. But after a pause, he spoke.
"Don't put too much faith in that scrap of paper."
His voice was low and calm. But I knew what lay beneath it.
I turned my head toward him. Tafari Mekonnen. The man who, in original history, would be etched into the books as Haile Selassie. A man hiding vast ambition and cold calculation behind his small frame. A man who loved this country as deeply as I did, yet expressed that love differently. Today, what burned in his eyes was clearer than ever. Vigilance. And beneath it, the unease we shared.
"I know."
I said.
"That paper won't stop bullets."
Tafari glanced at me briefly, then turned back to the square. Another cheer rose from the crowd below. Calling for the Saint of Adwa. Calling for Empress Zenebework.
"That's why those lights are more trustworthy than that paper."
He gestured again toward the eastern arsenal.
I took his words, feeling the corner of my mouth lift slightly. He too had been doing the same calculations as I, watching those lights today.
"Exactly."
I withdrew my hands from the railing and said,
"And... Tafari."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I chose my words carefully, then spoke plainly.
"I won't marry."
A brief silence followed, but he wasn't surprised. He merely bowed his head a touch more. As if he'd expected it.
"I'll live as a bachelor. The era of binding the nation through political marriages... I want to end it in our generation."
A light breeze stirred my robes. Still gazing into the darkness, I continued.
"Instead, I've thought about succession."
Only then did Tafari's gaze flicker ever so slightly.
"Your child."
This time, the silence stretched longer. A distant dog's bark echoed and faded.
"Your Majesty, those words..."
"This nation must be tied by blood, but it doesn't have to be my blood."
I turned slowly to face him.
"What matters is someone who understands this country, can protect it, and... sees the same direction as I do."
Tafari's eyes gleamed clearly even in the dark. Complex emotions swirled within: loyalty, calculation, and a subtle wariness.
"I trust you."
I said firmly.
"So, your child... I can trust as well."
He was silent for a long while. Then, at last, in a very low voice,
"...This is trust beyond my worth."
"No."
I shook my head.
"This isn't trust. It's a choice."
I turned my gaze back. Far off, the arsenal's lights burned steadily. The future hadn't arrived yet. Nothing was set in stone.
Yet Solomon's bloodline would continue. Only the method of succession would change.
It was deep into the night when the feast ended and I returned to my study. Ayenash had lit the lamps and prepared coffee. Sitting down, I opened my well-worn Hangul notebook and jotted the date.
1928 August 2
20-Year Treaty of Friendship with Italy signed. Got the paper. The clock doesn't stop.
After writing, I set down the pen and closed my eyes briefly.
August 2, 1928. In history, Italy invaded Ethiopia on October 3, 1935. The history I'd studied in my past life. The day Mussolini's armies crossed the Eritrean border.
Of course, this world had already diverged from original history. My very existence was a change, as was the survival of the Korean Empire, and the Ethiopian clause in the Paris Peace Treaty.
But assuming Mussolini's ambitions had changed was dangerous optimism. The hardliners still held sway in Rome. Even today, as Ethiopia received "civilized nation" treatment, someone in Rome was likely drawing arrows on a map of the Eritrean border.
The treaty was signed. Twenty years etched on paper. But my clock was set to a different date.
October 3, 1935. The treaty's twenty years meant nothing against that countdown. Even if Italy intended to honor it, I had no reason to halt preparations. If they planned to break it, all the more reason not to stop.
I opened my eyes and added another line to the notebook.
Time Remaining: 7 years.
I stared at the number 7 years. Rifle design had begun in 1919—nine years ago. In those nine years, Ethiopia had mass-produced thousands of rifles and light machine guns, started steel mills, opened university hospitals, and spread academy graduates throughout the Imperial Army.
But seven years remained. Ways to counter aircraft and armored cars. Gas defense measures. Slowing mechanized advances.
...And turning Ethiopia's rugged terrain into a defensive asset.
The checklist was still half untouched.
I closed the notebook and took a sip of coffee. Ethiopian beans. Rich, heavy aroma. One of the things I'd grown to love in this country.
Still miss Korean pork soup and iced Americano, though.
I murmured internally, the corner of my mouth twitching up. Outside the window, Addis Ababa's night deepened. The palace square, feast over, lay quiet. Only the eastern arsenal's lights still glowed far off.
Those lights would burn tomorrow too. On treaty signing days, on days the world called Ethiopia a "civilized nation," on days the rases celebrated peace.
Those lights never stopped.
I opened a new page and began writing in Hangul.
Aircraft Acquisition Plan. Contact Bristol Aeroplane Company possible. Purchase Bristol biplane fighters and pilot training program. Budget covered by 3 months' gold mine revenue.
Time Remaining until October 3, 1935: 7 years, 1 month, 1 day.
I set down the pen, staring at that number. The kebero drums of the celebration, the crowd's cheers, Giuseppe Colli di Felizzano's trembling hand, the arsenal lights I'd watched beside Tafari.
Everything from today's chaos settled into place in my mind. The signature on paper. It bought time. Time Italy promised to buy, time I'd agreed to sell.
Who would use that time to greater advantage—whether Italy or I—would only be known after seven years.
But I knew the outcome. I knew how it went in original history.
That's why it had to change.
There is no 'later.'
Seven years left. Now was the time for true iron and blood.