The Birth of the Ras Council
Ras Council, October 11, 1916. Tekemt 1 by the Ethiopian calendar. The grand audience hall of the imperial palace carried a distinctive scent. A unique blend of incense smoke, aged leather, and the mingled sweat and myrrh from dozens of nobles—something I'd never smelled anywhere else. Maybe I'd caught a whiff of something similar in a museum or historical reenactment in my past life, but right now, it stung my nose vividly.
I sat on the throne, inhaling that aroma as I slowly scanned the room. Fifteen ras from across the Ethiopian Empire sat in rows to my left and right. My father, Ras Mikael, in the first seat to my right. Tafari Mekonnen directly opposite him in the first seat to my left. The rest arrayed behind them in order of rank. Kassa Haile, Seyum Mangasha, Hailu Tekle Haymanot, Lul Seged... I ticked off their names silently one by one, keeping my expression steady.
"Thank you all for gathering here today."
Amharic. The most elegant courtly diction. My voice low but clear.
"The Ethiopian Empire accomplished in Adwa in 1896 what no other African nation has: we shattered a great power's army on the field of battle. That was the work of those present here—and your fathers."
Ras Mikael sat motionless, his right hand resting on his knee. Tafari was quiet as a still lake, while the other ras wore varied expressions. Kassa Haile watched me with arms crossed; Hailu Tekle Haymanot pretended to gaze out the window but kept his ears open.
Talking the same language wouldn't sway these men. Lords are convinced in a lord's way. Stroke their pride, but show them the practical benefits.
"I believe that victory was possible for one reason."
I rose from my seat. Here, standing to speak was the better choice than sitting.
"Ethiopia was united. Soldiers from the north and south fought together under the emperor's banner. That was all it took."
Ras Seyum's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. I watched closely for a Tigrayan's reaction to mention of the north.
"Europe is now deep in war. When it ends, the world will change. The strong will grow stronger; the weak will vanish from the map. I want Ethiopia to survive in whatever world emerges."
"Is that why you've summoned us?"
The voice came from Ras Hailu Tekle Haymanot of Gojjam. His aged face held no malice, but his eyes gleamed with cynicism.
"If the imperial house means to meddle in provincial administration..." He paused, then continued. "That would be another matter entirely."
Ah, right there. I knew exactly what these men feared most: the imperial house touching their domains. That was their instinctive red line.
I nodded. "A fine point, Ras Hailu."
A measured pause. "What I propose is the opposite of the imperial house interfering in your domains' affairs."
Ras Hailu's eyebrows rose slightly.
"This council is a place for you to participate directly in state affairs. Tax systems, road construction, commercial regulations. Your regional voices must shape those discussions—not receive unilateral edicts from the emperor alone."
The air in the room shifted subtly.
"The ras of Gojjam knows Gojjam's needs best. The ras of Tigray knows Tigray's. I have no desire to discard that knowledge."
Ras Seyum slowly uncrossed his arms.
I pressed on. "If the emperor decides everything and the ras merely execute, then a single wrong decision burdens the whole nation. I lack the confidence to bear that risk alone."
Half of that was sincere. I'd studied history, but I'd never ruled feudal lords—even in my past life. My knowledge came from books; these men knew the ground reality. The other half? Pure calculation.
If the emperor admits weakness, the ras lower their guards. Lowered guards lead to participation. Participation makes it mine.
Tafari sat still to my left, unreadable, but his fingers slowly flexed once on his knee. His way of saying, keep going.
That sparked the real debate. Ras Kassa Haile spoke cautiously. "A parliament, you say?"
"Something like it. If the Western term bothers you, call it an elders' council. The name doesn't matter."
"The name does matter, Your Majesty."
Kassa Haile's tone was polite but firm. "Names create structures; structures create precedents."
Sharp one. I could see why history called him Tafari's lifelong ally.
"Well said." I inclined my head to him. "That's why I propose this: those gathered here today decide the body's name. Not imposed by the emperor, but agreed upon by participants."
Kassa Haile drew a slow breath. I mentally scored a point. He's persuadable.
The next hurdle came quickly. "Staying in Addis Ababa for regular meetings means..."
Ras Lul Seged of Shewa—one of the factions that backed the deposition. "Leaving our domains empty."
"Yes."
"What if the imperial house dispatches overseers in our absence?"
I answered before he finished. "No overseers."
"Can you guarantee that?"
"Appoint your own proxies in each domain. They'll be the liaison with the imperial house. We won't create a structure for direct imperial interference in internal affairs."
Not right now, anyway. I kept that unspoken. Voicing it would end the talks.
Eyes darted among the ras—silent communication. The quiet gauging of feudal nobles honed by decades of politics.
I waited.
Then Father moved. "I'm in."
Ras Mikael's voice was low and heavy, filling the room. "I support the empress's will."
Tafari followed from the left, and the atmosphere shifted instantly. Wollo's military might and Shewa's political clout declaring together left the others few options.
This wasn't my planned setup—probably something the two coordinated last night. I didn't know when, but the timing worked.
Heads began nodding one by one. By afternoon, the Ras Council was officially founded, with the first regular meeting scheduled. Legislative review powers were specified: tax systems, road construction, commercial regulations, slavery issues, industrial development, regulations on foreign residents. Even clauses for council review in noble treason trials and provincial disputes.
Of course, the emperor's veto power was explicitly reserved—and I wrote that clause myself.
As the ras dispersed after the declaration ceremony, I stood by the window overlooking Addis Ababa.
One step.
I mentally checked off a list item.
"Your Majesty."
Tafari approached. His footsteps echoed softly in the emptying hall.
"Well done."
"Persuading Ras Hailu was key. Once he set the direction, the rest followed."
"Quick on the uptake."
"Praise?"
"Fact."
Warm, for Tafari's praise. I brushed it off.
"And the first agenda item has arrived."
"I know." I'd anticipated it. "The British consul Thesiger sent documents this morning. Demands from the Entente—and concessions."
The Great War intervention resolution. Expected. Of course it was.
We'd touched on it at the banquet, and I knew they wouldn't back off. The irony: this newborn central noble council's first decision would debate joining the great powers' war.
I exhaled softly. October 1916. In Europe, the Somme was still a muddy slaughter. I knew what shoving this nation into that daily meat grinder of thousands dead would mean.
Or, more precisely, what not shoving us in would mean.
"Ras Tafari. Bring the documents. I'll read them tonight."
"Understood."
He withdrew after answering, and I turned back to the window.
Nineteen years. No—eighteen years and some months left. One of the tasks for that time had just become the council's first item.
"I'm back..."
I returned to my chambers after the day's work. On the table, chief maid Ayenash had set a coffee cup and a document envelope sealed with wax bearing the British royal crest.
Before opening the envelope, I pulled open the drawer.
My Model 1900. I hefted the pistol once, then set it down.
No time to disassemble today. Just wanted the weight.
I set the gun aside and opened the envelope. French text. Thesiger's handwriting was neat and easy to read.
The gist:
• Ethiopia joins the Entente or at minimum declares neutrality.
• In return: dispatch of military technical advisors, small arms supplies, guaranteed support for League of Nations membership postwar.
• Ethiopia's territorial sovereignty and current borders guaranteed even after Entente victory.
I read that last line twice.
'Current borders guaranteed.'
The document's footer noted that Italian consul Giuseppe Colli di Felizzano had cosigned—meaning Italy agreed to this guarantee.
Italy was bleeding on the Isonzo right now. I knew what that signature would mean after the war.
1935. Mussolini comes.
I folded the document and placed it on the table. Knowing this signature would mean nothing, my role was to make it matter. Give it weight. Multiply international witnesses.
...Pile up the evidence to paint that nation as liars.