The dry season deepened, and with it came the caravans. From the east, merchants brought salt and cloth. From the north, camels carried spices and coffee. But hidden among the goods and traders were whispers — of Italians moving with greater boldness, of envoys sowing gold like seed among restless nobles.
Tafari heard it first not from a noble or soldier, but from the kitchen servants. They spoke while carrying baskets of injera, their voices lowered but urgent.
"They say the Italians have met Wolde in secret," one whispered.
"Always Wolde," another replied bitterly. "He loves their silver more than his own soil."
That night, Tafari replayed their words. He remembered from his first life how foreign powers had not only fought Ethiopia but weakened her from within. Italy had failed at Adwa, but they had not given up. They had learned the art of patience, of buying loyalty one noble at a time until Ethiopia became a lion caged by its own sons.
He could not wait until betrayal grew too strong to cut.
The following week, his father held council again. Tafari noticed Wolde's smug smile, the way his gold-trimmed robe gleamed more richly than usual. His laughter was louder, his words bolder. It was clear: Italian coin had lined his purse.
During the meeting, Wolde proposed openly what others dared only whisper.
"The Italians," he said, raising his cup of tej, "offer friendship. Why should we resist? Let us trade with them freely. Rifles for grain, protection for loyalty. What harm is there in friendship?"
Several nobles murmured agreement. Others looked uneasy but said nothing.
Ras Makonnen's brow furrowed, but before he could reply, Tafari spoke.
"Friendship with a serpent is not friendship at all. It is waiting for the bite."
The hall fell silent. Wolde turned sharply to the boy. "And what do you know of serpents, young one? You still live under your father's roof."
Tafari met his eyes without flinching. "I know this: the Italians who claim friendship today will demand obedience tomorrow. Do you think they offer rifles for nothing? Ask the chiefs of Somalia how their friendship ended. Ask the Sudanese how much their British 'friends' left them free."
A ripple passed through the council. Some shifted uncomfortably, for they knew he spoke truth. Others narrowed their eyes, resentful of his boldness.
Ras Makonnen let the silence stretch, then finally said, "My son speaks harshly, but not falsely. Ethiopia must trade, yes, but never surrender. We are no one's servant."
Wolde's smile returned, though thinner. "You teach your son well, Ras. Perhaps too well."
That night, Makonnen confronted Tafari privately.
"You placed yourself in the path of a powerful man today," he warned. "Wolde has friends. He will not forget your words."
"I do not want him to forget," Tafari answered. "I want him to know I am watching."
Makonnen studied him, then shook his head with a weary smile. "One day, Tafari, you will be either the salvation of Ethiopia or its doom. Perhaps both."
But the boy's mind was already elsewhere. He lay awake, thinking of Wolde, of Italian gold, of history yet to come. He remembered the day Haile Selassie — his future self — would be dragged from his palace, humiliated by soldiers of the Derg. He remembered famine and foreign pity. He remembered the price of failing to act early.
No more.
The next morning, Tafari summoned Abebe. They walked beyond the palace walls, out to the cliffs overlooking the plains. Tafari's eyes burned with quiet intensity.
"Abebe, the Italians are moving in shadows. They are buying men with coin. I cannot stop them openly — not yet. But I need eyes and ears, men I can trust. Will you help me?"
Abebe frowned. "You want spies?"
"I want truth," Tafari said firmly. "If we do not know who sells Ethiopia piece by piece, we will wake one day to find the whole land gone."
Abebe hesitated, then nodded. "I will find those who are loyal to you, Tafari. Quiet men. Careful men. We will listen where others only speak."
It was the first step — the planting of a network not of soldiers, but of watchers. Tafari knew from history that information was more valuable than swords. Empires did not fall only to armies; they fell when leaders were blind.
As the sun set over Harar, Tafari stood on the cliffs, the wind tugging at his robes. He could feel the storm gathering — Italians with their promises, nobles with their greed, the fragile unity of Ethiopia trembling.
But unlike before, this time he would not let history repeat itself.
"This time," he whispered into the wind, "I will cut the serpent's head before it coils around us."