The road to Addis Ababa was long, winding through valleys and over hills that seemed to touch the sky. Tafari rode close to his father's retinue, his companions left behind in Harar. It was his first extended journey away from the city of his youth, and anticipation pressed against his chest like a tightening drum.
Ras Makonnen rode ahead, stately and commanding, his presence drawing respect at every stop. Soldiers saluted him, priests sought his blessing, and peasants bent low at his passing. Tafari watched closely, memorizing every gesture, every word. His father's authority was not born of force alone — it was a mixture of dignity, wisdom, and restraint.
"Observe everything," Ras Makonnen told him one evening by the campfire. "In court, silence often speaks louder than words. Men reveal themselves not when they are speaking, but when they believe no one is watching."
Tafari nodded, though inside he felt the pull of excitement. For the first time, he would step into the halls where Ethiopia's future was shaped.
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Addis Ababa
The city was young but restless, a capital carved from the highlands by Emperor Menelik II only a few decades earlier. The scent of smoke and cattle mingled with incense from the churches. Merchants shouted in the markets, selling salt, ivory, and cloth. Soldiers patrolled the streets, their rifles glinting in the sun.
At the gates of the palace, Tafari felt the weight of history pressing down on him. These walls had seen both triumph and betrayal. The echoes of Adwa still lingered here, but so too did whispers of rivalry.
When they entered the audience hall, Tafari's eyes darted across the room. Nobles in fine robes bowed to Menelik, their faces masks of devotion — yet their eyes glittered with ambition. Advisors leaned close to one another, muttering in hushed tones. Servants moved silently, but Tafari could sense the currents shifting beneath the surface.
He understood instinctively: this was not merely a court. It was a battlefield, though the weapons were words, alliances, and hidden daggers.
During one council session, Ras Makonnen spoke on matters of trade with the French. His voice was calm, his arguments precise. Yet Tafari noticed a noble named Ras Wolde Giorgis narrowing his eyes, whispering to another man. The words were too soft to hear, but the intent was clear: opposition cloaked in politeness.
Afterward, Tafari asked his father, "Why did they glare at you? Was your argument not strong?"
Makonnen chuckled, though without mirth. "Strength of argument does not matter when ambition blinds the ear. Giorgis does not seek truth; he seeks to weaken me, so that he may rise higher. Remember this, Tafari: not all who smile at you are friends. Many will clasp your hand while measuring the length of the knife they could place in your back."
The lesson sank deep. Tafari thought of Gebru, his cousin who had betrayed him months earlier. It was the same principle, only magnified.
In the days that followed, Tafari walked the palace corridors quietly, speaking little. He watched who lingered near whom, who bowed deeply and who barely inclined their head, who offered warm greetings and who withheld them.
He noticed patterns. Those aligned with Ras Makonnen often met subtle resistance — delayed messages, forgotten courtesies, rumors whispered in the market. Even in victory, Ethiopia's nobility fought among themselves, each man guarding his pride more fiercely than his country.
One evening, as Tafari returned to his quarters, he found two servants bickering in the shadows. One accused the other of passing gossip about which noble favored which foreign power. Tafari did not intervene, but he listened. When he later told his father, Makonnen nodded gravely.
"You see? Even the servants are drawn into the games of power. If you would lead, Tafari, you must see not only the lords and generals, but the web that binds even the lowest man to the highest throne."
That night, Tafari opened his leather-bound book and wrote by the faint glow of a candle.
"The court is like a field of hyenas circling the same carcass. Each seeks to tear away flesh for himself. My father stands tall among them, yet even he is not free of their envy. If Ethiopia is to be great, it must first be free of this rot. I must learn the game of the court, not to join its corruption, but to master it. For only mastery can protect what is pure".
He paused, his hand trembling slightly. He was still young, still untested, but he felt the pull of destiny in his bones.
The historian within him stirred, whispering: This is the beginning. You must see, listen, and remember. For one day, these men will either kneel to you or seek your ruin.