Politics from the Moment of Ascension
September 27, 1916. The 17th of Meskerem by the Ethiopian calendar. It had taken fifteen days. Exactly fifteen days from the moment of the coup to the instant Abuna Mateos placed the crown upon my head.
The sensation of Solomon's crown, engraved with the golden cross motif, pressing down on my skull was, frankly speaking, an entirely different beast from the museum photos I'd seen in my past life. As the cold metal seeped into my scalp, a stray thought crossed my mind for a fleeting second. It's heavy. No, really heavy.
"Negus Negest."
Abuna Mateos's voice echoed beneath the dome of St. George's Cathedral. Queen of Kings, Empress. That was my title now.
The knees of the nobles filling the cathedral thudded against the stone floor in unison. The rustle of silk robes, the clink of metal ornaments—all of it sank into silence at once. I fixed my gaze straight ahead and exhaled slowly.
The one who should have been sitting in this seat in history was Zewditu. Yet here I was in her place. Princess of the Mikael line of the Solomonic dynasty, Saint of Adwa, and a dead history nerd from some Seoul studio apartment who missed the 24-hour seolleongtang joint nearby. At this rate, I might never taste gukbap again.
The coronation banquet unfolded in the palace square. Ethiopian feasts are boisterous affairs. Great drums and kebero percussion thrummed on, honey mead and sorghum beer made the rounds, and platters of doro wat and kitfo kept coming without end.
I sat at the head table, surveying the scene below.
"Congratulations, Your Majesty."
I turned at the voice. It was Zewditu. Daughter of Menelik II, and by my father Ras Mikael's side, practically my aunt. The one who should have been in my seat by the original timeline. She was far older than me—exactly forty now, which meant she'd eaten twice as much rice-cake soup in her lifetime as I had. Her face, tempered by Orthodox fasting and prayer, was etched with deep wrinkles, but her eyes were quiet and clear.
I started to rise from my seat. She raised a hand to stop me.
"Please, sit."
Telling an empress to sit was a gesture in itself, an odd one. But I sat. Because I knew what kind of woman she was, from memories of my past life.
"Zewditu."
"My place..."
"No."
She cut me off gently. "I have no need of the throne. What I want is prayer."
A brief silence fell. I tried to read her eyes, but there was no resentment. None at all, it seemed.
"If Your Majesty protects this nation, that will be the future of the House of Solomon as well."
In response, I bowed my head to her. Not the gesture of an empress to a subject. But in that moment, it felt right.
Zewditu returned to her seat without another word.
"...Your Majesty."
Ah, right—Ras Tafari was seated beside me. In the original history, he would have held real power from this very position, but now I occupied the throne. It made for a strange dynamic.
"Where's the Fitawrari?" I asked in a low voice.
"Over there, in the nobles' section."
Tafari replied just as softly, his gaze flicking across the banquet hall. I couldn't tell what those silent, lion-like eyes were reading, but he was surely calculating more than I was.
"Rest today," Tafari said. "Tomorrow, the handover of administration begins."
"I know."
Truth be told, the very concept of rest felt foreign to me now. I'd died of overwork in my past life, and here I was, drafting reform plans every night. Clearly, some deep-rooted affliction.
That was when it happened.
"Pardon?"
A stir rippled from the banquet hall entrance. I looked up. A palace attendant hurried over and whispered to my chief maid, Ayenash. Her eyebrows arched slightly.
"Your Majesty." She bowed low. "The foreign envoys request an audience."
...During the banquet? Startled, I set down my cup and glanced at Tafari beside me. He said nothing, but I knew his silence meant I expected this.
Even so, right after the coronation...? Anyway. I spoke first.
"Escort them to the council chamber."
Tafari, Ras Mikael, and I took our seats in the council chamber. Calling my father was a calculated move. With his Wollo forces not yet fully disbanded, having him at my side sent a clear message to the diplomats: Behind this empress stands the lion of the north. Diplomacy is, after all, a stage where power clashes with power.
The door opened, and the envoys entered. The man in front was as expected: Wilfred Thesiger, the British consul. Tall, with a neatly trimmed beard. A seasoned diplomat with experience in Indian colonial administration. He'd been one of the most vocal critics of Iyasu V's pro-Islamic policies and had tacitly supported—essentially endorsed—the deposition.
Behind him came Charles Brice, the French consul; Giuseppe Colli di Felizzano, the Italian consul; Boris von Geyking, the acting Russian consul; and John Q. Wood, the American consul. Five in total.
I kept my expression neutral. As they took their seats, I scanned each one. Flashes from my past-life studies raced through my mind: who they were, what they wanted.
Thesiger moved for British interests: the African traverse policy, Sudan border issues, the Nile. Brice's priority was safeguarding the Djibouti railway concessions. Colli di Felizzano hid his designs on the Eritrea-Somalia corridor behind a smiling face. Civilized plunderers, as Tafari had aptly put it.
Thesiger spoke first, in fluent French—the lingua franca of Ethiopian diplomacy, a sign he knew it well.
"We sincerely congratulate Your Majesty on your ascension."
As Tafari moved to translate, I replied in French myself.
"Thank you, Consul."
Thesiger's eyebrow twitched ever so slightly. We both knew they hadn't interrupted the banquet just for pleasantries. I waited.
Thesiger exchanged glances with the others, then turned back to me.
"Your Majesty," he said. "Europe is presently in the midst of an unprecedented great war. The German Empire and Ottoman Empire have already begun agitation in Africa."
All true so far. I listened silently.
"Iyasu V's pro-German, pro-Ottoman policies have stirred unrest among the Muslim forces surrounding Ethiopia. Britain worries for stability along the Sudan border and Somali front, while France shares concerns over Djibouti sea lanes."
Brice nodded quietly, and Thesiger continued.
"We request that Your Majesty join the Entente Powers in this great war..."
The chamber fell silent.
Here it comes. Calculations whirred in my head. 1916. With the Somme raging, Britain and France were pinned on the Western Front, desperate for any breathing room. Unrest among local Muslim forces was a real threat—Iyasu's Ottoman contacts and Somali Dervish links were historical fact. And Britain needed Ethiopian military might.
But.
Ras Mikael drummed his fingers on the armrest. Slowly, rhythmically. A sign he was suppressing something within.
Tafari's face remained impassive, but I sensed a razor edge in his eyes.
I met Thesiger's gaze.
"Consul," I said slowly in French. "In 1896, Ethiopia crushed the Italian army at Adwa. No European power had ever suffered a field defeat to an African force on this continent."
I paused.
"One key to that victory was Ethiopia's prudent choice of engagements. Not reckless expansion of fronts, but wars to defend our sovereignty."
I could feel Thesiger grasping my intent.
"Your Majesty's point is—"
"I've been on the throne less than a day." I pressed on. "Stabilizing Ethiopia internally and solidifying the new imperial rule is our utmost priority. Surely you recognize this aligns with the Entente's interests as well."
Thesiger stared at me for a long moment. He was sharp—classifying whether I'd refused, deferred, or left room for negotiation.
"Of course," he said, cautious yet unyielding. "However, the matter is urgent. We hope Your Majesty will review it thoroughly and provide an answer."
"I will review it thoroughly."
"But for that review, we require specifics. Submit in writing what the Entente can offer Ethiopia: military technology support, arms supplies, and guarantees for our postwar international status. Then we can consider it positively."
Colli di Felizzano shifted in his seat. The Italian consul's eyes flickered. Of course. You think I don't know how your four nations view Ethiopia?
Thesiger nodded.
"We shall convey it, Your Majesty."
Once the envoys withdrew, I finally exhaled.
Ras Mikael spoke. "Join the war? Hmph."
His voice was low and heavy.
"It's been nearly three years already. If those bastards were winning, they wouldn't need to come begging us."
Sharp analysis.
"Exactly, Father," I said. "Britain and France are stuck on the Western Front right now. If Somalia or Sudan flares up, they lack the bandwidth. That's why they're here."
Tafari added softly, "We can't outright refuse, either. Rejection risks the Entente seeing Ethiopia as an extension of Iyasu's pro-German, pro-Ottoman stance. We'd end up disadvantaged at the postwar peace conference."
Through the window, evening settled over Addis Ababa. The highland sunset dyed the palace roofs red, and absurdly, it reminded me of the Han River glow in Seoul. Gukbap.