[b]Addis Ababa: Capital of the Pan-African Empire[/b]

It was a hot. Taytu felt the cloth of her dress sticking to her skin despite that it hung loosely from her tall, bony build. It was white and embroidered with gold, though time had turned it a sandy tan, contrasting lightly with her dark-bronze skin and wiry black hair.. It was a cloudless day, and the orb of the sun was obscured by sharp rays of light, but Taytu felt as if the crowds in the street were making the worst of the heat. They were bottled in between the buildings of the city, which acted like walls directing the crowds from one part of the festival to another.

It was no holiday, simply a victory. War had came to Ethiopia and the Imperial clients that made up the larger Pan-African nation, and Taytu had been at the center of it. She was the Emperor's own sister, and she held the office of Adviser for Foreign Affairs on top of that. The Ottoman Empire had insulted them when Turkic terrorists bombed the Ethiopian Embassy in Armenia, and the Sultan had made no attempt to right that wrong. In his paranoia, he had even had the audacity to try to imprison her during a diplomatic meeting before declaring war outright. She had escaped, only to discover that the Turks had destroyed the Ethiopian navy.

The next few months had been a blur. In truth, they had not started a war, but were rather dragged into one that had been going on for half of a decade. Armenia had declared independence from the Ottomans, and soon half of the old Empire was doing the same. It had driven their Sultan mad, and in his growing fear he had made bad decisions one after the next. 

Despite their set backs, it was a war they had been destined to win. Their sudden war on Ethiopia had been a death rattle. Still, the people in the streets whispered the same idea - it was Ras Hassan. Hassan has led an army north out of Hejaz even as Turkish troops landed in Ethiopia. With them, he gave support to the Palestinian rebellion and helped them to officially declare an enforced independence. The Turks abandoned Africa all together, but it was too late. When the Sultan died of a heart attack a couple of weeks later, many in Ethiopia proudly said Hassan's victory had caused it. [i]A megalomaniac[/i] Taytu though, aghast that they would give him this one as well. [i]That monster will get rewarded for this one as well[/i]. She only had to look at her young Olivier to know why.

Just past his third birthday, Olivier was a quiet child. He was not truly hers - an adopted son, orphaned by civil war. He had been born of the Garenganze people of Bunkeya at a time when those very same people were at war with the Pan-African Ethiopian government. They had followed Marcel Hondo-Demissie - the infamous Rouge General and Ghost of Katanga that had lead the tribes of Katanga in an uprising that embarrassed the Ethiopian military. It was Hassan that had finally put the revolt down, and his methods would leave an effect that would be felt by Olivier and those like him more then anyone else. Hassan had gathered the Garenganze people into camps and, in an effort to draw their leader into open battle against the Rouge General's wishes, began to mutilate the children. As an infant, Olivier had lost an arm, and now he were an empty sleeve on his left that gave testament to it. It was partly for this reason that she had adopted him. What Hassan did could not be forgotten.

Their Imperial guards pushed through the crowd, making way for the women of the Imperial family. This had been Empress Azima's notion, Taytu's sister-in-law, and they had brought Taytu's mother Elani with them. Stress had caught up to the Empress-Mother, and her mind was failing alongside her health. She was only fifty eight, but she looked twenty years older. She dressed all in black and seemed to be losing her wits. The loss of a husband and a son, Taytu's own father and the former Emperor Yohannes, and her brother Sahle, had caused her to sink into a distant sourness. She rarely spoke, smiling bitterly and nodding in answer to most things, and she didn't seem to have any interest beyond the children.

"Look at this." Azima plucked a flower from a bin and showed it to Elani. Its purple pedals held a cold, sweet smell. "Wouldn't it be lovely to have a few of these in your room." Elani smiled weakly and shook her head. 

"I dun like flowa" Tewodros pouted in the Empress's arms. The young prince and Imperial heir was nearly two years old. Feisty, he had spent the week punching cats until he was caught and scolded earlier that morning. His mood had been sour ever since. 

"Fine." Azima put it away. Elani's reaction worried her more.

Azima was young and pretty, with bronze East African skin and a narrow face. Her pointed Arabic features and smooth black hair made her look like Hassan, her father. Her relationship with the Ras was distant, but it still made Taytu wonder. Sometimes, things that Azima said reminded Taytu of the same coldness that had made Hassan so inhuman.

The crowd was awash in a sea of white, the color of the wrapped robes that most of the people wore. Colorful floral dresses and modern outfits consisting of shirts and belted pants broke the monotony of color, as did rugs hanging from racks and thick velvet parasols that protected stalls as well as the individuals wealthy enough to have their own. When a rare breeze broke the stale air, the smell of injera cooking in clay ovens or the rich scent of ginger-laced berbere mixed teasingly together. But traditional food wasn't all there was available. Fried fish served in banana leaves came from the Congo, and egg rolls held in easy to carry palm leaf dishes gave a hint of their ally to the far east. For the first time in her life, Taytu tried one of the fried Chinese foods, but found that she did not like the cabbage-heavy flavor. 

"I wonder what it is like in China?" Azima asked as she cautiously ate at the hot egg-rolls. 

"I don't know." Taytu replied. "I've met people from there, but they have been diplomats and they've always been straight to business. Yaqob would know better. He has actually been there."

"Yaqob has told me some." Azima admitted, "But he was in the army, and after that he just lived in some mansion hidden away from the rest of the country. He said they were very cautious about letting foreigners around their country. It sounds suspicious to me. Like they are trying to hide something. Do you think China is actually a horrible place and they are keeping it under wraps."

"If we listened to Spain, I suppose we'd have to assume that all the Chinese are slaves." Taytu mused. "But if we listened to Spain, we'd have to assume we are slaves to your husband as well." Azima laughed.

There were hints of Spain as well. Even though the Spanish pretended Ethiopia was one of the leaders of evil in the modern world, there was no lack of Spanish goods in the country. Their magazines were full of full page ads, glossy and in color, selling everything from cars to socks. 

Photo stands were especially popular. They sold images related to the war - soldiers on the front, images from Hassan's entry into Palestine, banners waving over this battle field or the next, a lone priest leaning against a cross proudly holding the green, yellow, and red of the Ethiopian flag, and many many more. 

And then there was the paintings of the Emperor. A young man, he sat demurely on a wicker chair, a warm smile on his face as youthful strength in his eyes. His skin was the same dusky color as hers, and he wore his hair in a natural afro. Loose fitting tan robes flowed over white. He wore no badge of office - no crown or collar, nor jewels or military badges. It was his face alone that told you who he was, a face that everyone knew the instant they saw it. For the rare person who wouldn't know, a small tag on the bottom of each frame identified him.

"His Imperial Highness Yaqob II." Taytu's brother and Azima's own husband. 

As they met with the main road, the crowd became an endless sea of cluttered loud bodies. The dusky people of East Africa were not the only ones present in the number; the olive-skinned Arabs of Sudan and Somalia, and the Nubian blacks with skin as dark as oil muscled by each other as countrymen. Among them, the rare blotchy pink of European tourists stuck out like flies in pudding. In some places, the new towering skyscrapers of white and steel helped shade the people below, but in others the glass of these towers sent directed rays of light that made things worse. Skyscrapers were rare in Addis as well, and most buildings were simple structures that clung closely to the ground. 

The sound of drums from far off told them that the time was near. Officers in their khaki uniforms began to clear the street as much as they could. "It is getting late." Azima blustered. "We will be expected."

A simple brown land rover picked them up. It was a utility vehicle belonging to the Imperial Guard, but Azima had insisted they take it instead. It was easy to forget, but she herself had been an Imperial Guard before she was Empress. When Hassan had started the war to overthrow the elder brother Sahle for the younger brother Yaqob, his daughter had served as an agent in the Walinzi - the national intelligence of Ethiopia. He had transferred her from there to be Captain of the Imperial Guard once Yaqob had gained his throne, and their following affair would become serious when Yaqob was almost assassinated in the streets. She was a tough woman - likely tougher then the delicate-hearted Yaqob - but it was easy to lose sight of that amongst the plush dresses and her motherhood.

They arrived on the steps of the Imperial Palace. The Palace wasn't truly a Palace at all, but rather a sprawling complex of government headquarters and offices. A wide street led to its front, where a gallery of cream-colored steps led up to a columned mutlistory building. It was here that the government had turned out, building an artificial stage along the steps where seats could be prepared. And here, they would recognize the heroes of the short-lived war with the Turks.

Taytu followed Azima and Elani up to the royal box, where a golden awning protected plush chairs from the sun. They were greeted by the Emperor himself, who stood up as their feet met the clapboards of their box.

This was not the Yaqob of the painting in the shops. He was paler, his skin the color of creamed coffee, and there was a tiredness in his eyes that made him look older than his twenty seven years. He stood slightly hunched over, pale red robes falling around the cream robe underneath., and he had a dour look on his face that only grew warm when he saw his son. "Tewodros." he said as Azima put the boy on the ground. He waddled over toward his father and fell into his arms. Yaqob took a deep, hollow breath and picked the boy up. "How was the market?" he asked.

"We enjoyed ourselves." Azima answered. "I think Elani liked getting off the grounds."

Yaqob looked up at his mother, and Taytu could see the dark clouds of his constant worry enter his eyes again. "Mother, did you enjoy the market?" he asked sincerely. 

She looked at him, smiling blankly. "I enjoyed the market." she echoed with a nod. 

The drums grew louder, indicating that the parade was nearly there. Taytu sat in her place in the corner, holding her Olivier on her lap. "Those drums are loud." he said meekly.

"I know, sweet one." she kissed him on the cheek. "If they are too loud, cover your ears." He followed suit, but for only a moment. Soon enough, curiosity had pulled his hands back down.

At first came a line of bands, their members so numerous that they could have filled several orchestras. They played old European marching songs alongside new African ones. The anthems of the nations that had fought against the Turks in the war could be heard as well, from Armenia to Greece to Syria. And then, louder than any of the others, came the Ethiopian anthem. The thumping of drums and blare of trumpets echoed through the streets and allies of Addis.

Next came a line of men wearing white tunics with leopard skin robes draped over them and rope sandals on their feet. Each man carried a banner with a captured Turkish flag. Some were bloodied and torn, while others were pristine. As the band melted down the roads behind the buildings, the banner carriers approached the stairs in front of where the Emperor sat. Amongst their number, men blew horns as each banner carrier dipped the crescent moon flags with their bloody crimson before tossing them to the ground and bowing. These were not Turks, Taytu noted. There were rumors that Hassan had murdered his prisoners of war, though when asked he simply insisted he had turned them over to the Palestinians.

Soon enough, a pile of red flags lay in inglorious heaps right below the Emperor, and the next wave of the parade came up.

The parade itself was actually the marriage of several. They had wound separately down the main streets of the city until they came to the plaza-like road in front of the Imperial Palace. Here, they came together into one massive procession. In some places, the union was obvious. Acrobats, jugglers, and men in colorful dress walked in columns one next to the other. A man dressed in womans clothing ran around with a shortened toy gun and play-attacked random people in the street, only to be chased away by several more clowns with swords in their hands. More bands joined them, with the same music as before with a playful tinge in the back. 

Following them came the soldiers. Some wore the drab green of the field, while others were decked in Khaki dress uniforms. They marched in step, following tanks laden with wounded soldiers and long pieces of artillery whose polished barrels seemed to be on phallic display. 

The survivors of the Battle of the Red Sea were next. They rode up in trucks, those who could stand hanging over the backs and waving. More banner-men accompanied them as well, holding white banners that plainly listed the battle's dead.

Following all of this came Ras Rais, riding on the back of a walnut horse. He was surrounded by one hundred men of the 1st Somali, the regiment he had started his career in. Ras Rais was a thin man. His brown dress uniform was baggy on his skeletal frame, and he wore sunglasses to hide eyes that many deemed too harsh. Drums followed him, and they pounded a heavy beat that was half marching and half artillery shells.

And following him came Hassan.

The same sorts of bannermen who had delivered the Ottoman flags, but these carried long poles with torches on top. Hassan himself carried a final banner in his arms as he rode in on horseback, and he was surrounded by a dozen men in plain army drab with keffiyahs wrapped around their faces.

Hassan was a thickly built man. In his youth, this would have meant broad shouldered and muscly, but his middle years had also added a gut. He was dressed in drab olive fatigues and a similar green side cap. His skin was the same dusky bronze as most east Africans, but his features had a pointed Arabic look to them. Hit hair was black tinged with grey, and he wore a days worth of stubble on his chin. As he arrived at the foot of the stairs and took his place next to Rais, the lightly colored line that ran down the side of his face became noticeable - a scar from his early years. 

"Who are those men in the checkered face-masks?" Taytu heard somebody whisper.

"Palestinians." she answered quietly.

She had heard a rumor of these Palestinians. Hassan's intervention in Palestine had made him a hero to their people, and it had created a group of men who had grown up in the rebellion. They knew nothing about the world outside of war, and they had been scarred for it. Some of these men had offered their services to Hassan, and he had accepted them in turn. A hero at home as well, few questioned the great Ras Hassan acquiring personal soldiers. [i]He launched a coup before.[/i] the thought niggled at the back of Taytu's mind. [i]Why wouldn't he launch another one for himself?"[/i]

The bands went silent, and suddenly it was quiet. Taytu noticed the wind whistle passed her ear for a moment, and she heard muttering in the crowd that filled the streets. 

"Your Imperial Majesty!" Ras Hassan shouted up. His horse shied away from the steps and the flags that covered them. "I have brought you the tokens of a fallen Empire. They attacked you and they insulted you by imprisoning your blood." 

Taytu cringed at the memory. Being captured by the Turks in Port Fuad had been one of the most frightening moments in her life. They had broken protocol so thoroughly that she had not been certain what would happen next. It was only by chance that a runaway musician and his friends had managed to save her and help her escape to Hejaz. 

"I have answered their insults by bringing them down low!" Hassan continued the charade. "Accept this as a gift." 

Yaqob stood up and approached a microphone in front of him. "This is good." he answered loudly. In front of a microphone, the sour young Emperor came alive. "The Ottoman Turks dared to declare war on my people and they answered for it. They had seceded from the world when they denied Armenia its due, and they were treated justly. I take your tokens knowing that we, the people of Africa, have answered injustice with swift correction."

Hassan nodded. The torchbearers and Palestinians fell around him and he began to climb the stairs on horseback, banner in hand. As he passed over the pile of flags, the torch bearers lit them on fire. Taytu twitched at the sight of the burning Turkic flags. She had been firmly against it, and she had argued to the Emperor that it would do nothing but make peace even harder than it already was. There was still a Turkish nation, Ottoman or not, and they would see this stupid ceremony as an insult to their already wounded country. It was like pulling a new scab and grinding salt into the cut. But Hassan had insisted, and Hassan had got his way.

Still on horseback, Hassan reach the royal platform and handed the remaining Ottoman flag over to the Emperor. Taking it in one hand, Yaqob fumbled with it until he held it firm. Hassan cleared the way, and Yaqob thrust the flag into the air in triumph. "We have won!" he said. The crowd in the street cheered, and for once Taytu truly felt like their Empire was finally in one piece.

"We have won!" Yaqob repeated. "We are invincible!"