[b]Port Said, Suez Canal[/b]

The searing hiss of a rocket passed over her head. Everything was burning. The smell of scorched gasoline and charred flesh hung in her nostrils. The gravity of what it was she had just witnessed sunk in. The first shots of the war. There had been years of posturing and near misses. Now it was here. Her training kicked in. It was time to survive.

Men were falling back. They were covered in soot and blood, the whites of their eyes pristine and wide beneath masks of filth. There was shouting in the chaos, and the wails of the wounded. The Spanish rounds struck the ground like fists, each shot sounding heavier than the last. She was certain that they were getting closer, and that any moment a chance shot would rip through her and kill her. But she sat still. If she ran, they would get her, and this ditch felt safer than any amount of fleeing could. 

"We can't fucking fight them with cars." she muttered to herself. She wondered where her partner had went. Elias had been next to her one moment, and gone the next. "We can't fight with..." someone nearby fired a rifle, an its report stung her ears. "Trucks!" That was a stupid plan. Now they were stuck. It occurred to her that this could have been a suicide mission all along. The orders they had been given about how to proceed after this fight could have been nothing more than a comforting ruse to keep them from knowing that they were meant to die here. She heard a pained shriek above the sound of the battle, so sharp that a chill went through her body. They were going to die here.

[i]Thwump[/i]. She heard the soft sound of mortars [i]Thwump.[/i] She looked to see the mortar team taking their positions, finding any piece of protected flat ground that they could. Their captain, as skeletal and sickly as he looked, was barking orders like a mad dog, though she could not hear what it was that he was saying. She felt the sudden peculiarity of her status. This captain was not Walinzi, not like her, but she felt as if he belonged to some higher class of warrior. It felt strange to think that she was somehow more well trained. She had dined with the Emperor. She had killed a Shah. But this mortar team and their captain, this battlefield was their world, and they knew it better than she did.

"You" he pointed at her with a knuckly finger. "Get the fuck out! Get back!" She didn't argue. She waited for the mortars to fire, and then she ran. 

Once out of her ditch, she was much more aware of all the gunfire and where it came from. When the Spanish opened fire with their deck guns, she felt their report reverberate in her chest. Any moment, a stray shot could kill her. She counted to herself as she ran in an effort to maintain her focus, and she was surprised to find it had only taken her twenty two seconds to make it to the next set of buildings. It had felt like ten minutes.

"I'm going to die here." she heard a man rambling. She looked down and saw him. His shoulder had been liquified, only strands of red and pink holding his arm to his body. Blood soaked his shirt, and his skin, and it coagulated in his hair. She realized that he was telling the truth. "What a waste."

"You..." she tried to think of something to say, but this was new to her. "Your country will remember your sacrifice."

He took a long, rattling breath. "Fuck... that." he struggled. He tried to say something else, but the words wouldn't come out. Leyla left him there.

From inside the city, something big exploded. At first, she thought it was the bombs. She looked toward the canal and realized that all of the buildings near it were still intact. Was that Spanish ordinance? It happened again. It was coming from the canal. She held her breath.

A third boom. This one came with a cheer. An [i]Ethiopian[/i] cheer. She understood. The Aksum had entered the battle. She wondered if its guns could even reach the Spanish ships. Besides that, it was hardly armed. It had traveled with very little ammunition so that it could carry the explosives that lined the inside of its hull. How many times would it fire? She heard a second salvo.

She heard African mortars and the Aksum. She could hardly hear the Spanish response. For a moment, she thought that maybe they had a chance. Maybe. If they turned the Spanish back here, what a story that would be. A golden page for the history books. Her hope was brief, and it was shattered when Spanish firepower sent hunks of concrete tearing from a building nearby. She ducked her head and prayed.

The mutter of a truck engine made her look up. More men on their way to the fight. Did they think they could repel battleships with automobiles? A turret gunner stood in the back, swaying with the motion of the truck. His hands were wrapped tight around the handles of a long barreled fifty cal. He was stoic. Tense. How many shots would he get out before he died? Would he kill before he was killed?

Leyla took a deep breath, harshened by the petroleum and gunpowder fog. She ran further into the war-marked city. There was, in ditches and foxholes, the mingling bodies of Ethiopians and Egyptians. In places, the ground was slicked with blood. She could smell it, like rot and metal. She needed to link up with Elias, and with the rest of the Walinzi. They would be near the canal. She turned toward it, and toward the sound ofthe Aksum opening her guns.

The Africans were retreating. The sound of small arms fire was petering out. They were rushing the wounded back. Men with less severe injuries limped on their own, or were supported by others. Was this a rout? The subtleties of success and failure blurred in battle. She saw men taking up new positions, but maybe that happened in retreats too? She turned a corner, cautious, expecting to find Spanish soldiers on the ground around the corner. Instead, a hollow thwump. Mortars. Their captain was pointing at a gap in the cityscape, where the hazy steel hulk of a Spanish ship was visible on the murky green sea. She saw a flash of fire come from its deck, followed by the delayed sound of exploding munition in the city. It was like watching lightning and waiting for the thunder. 

"Agent Masri" she heard her name shouted. It was faint, but familiarity cut through the gunfire. She turned and seen Elias beckoning for her. He was alive. Thank god for that. Her mind snapped back toward their mission. She sprinted across the road.

"We are ready here." he said, glancing to a six story tenement on the cusp of the canal. "We need to move some of these teams. Hard to tell what will happen here. You know how it works. We want safety on the battlefield."

She nodded. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Keep them from driving through here." he responded, pointing south down the road. "Don't let them argue. You're Walinzi, remind them." He clasped her on the shoulder. "Lets just get this done so we can move on to the next."

She nodded. Focus burned through the chaos. She jogged across the plaza, cutting a line through the smouldering asphalt and stone tiles. The battle was far away, the pounding gunfire and sharp rifle reports on the other side of an invisible wall in her mind. She focused on an armored car. The gunner didn't seem to notice her. He was staring into the distance, his eyes obscured by sunglasses. She thought she saw a cigarette hanging from his mouth, but when she came closer she noticed that it was a stick that he had pulled from a tree. She held her hand out, palm forward and facing the truck. It stopped. The driver clamored out. 

"We need to move here, woman." he grouched. "We're going to extract the Aksum's crew."

"This plaza is blocked. She responded calmly. "Walinzi business. You will have to find another route."

"Walinzi..." he muttered. She could see him thinking. She could feel the tension.

He nodded and climbed in the car. As they began to pull away, the gunner looked down at her. He pulled the stick from his mouth and saluted her with it. 

"Come now." she heard Elias' voice behind her. "We need to take cover. It's going to happen at any moment now." 

The found a spot to hide behind a stone-brick dividing wall. Elias pulled a cigarette from his pocket and offered it to her. She shook her head. He lit it and tucked it into his lips. 

"Is your gun loaded?" he asked. She unholstered it and replaced the clip. A Spanish shell whistled through the air before it struck something that Leyla could not see. She watched Elias. He was focused on tenement. His cigarette flickered. Leyla marked the passing of time with each flicker. One. Two. Three. Four.

There was an sudden clap. Several explosions, adding together to create a larger explosion. It felt like the air was being sucked out of her lungs. Dust cascaded from the bottom floors. Small jets of debris shot from the windows. The bottom stories gave in. She could hear the snapping of steel and cracking of cement as it began to fall. Another set of explosions started, small and scattered like the popping on loose-firing ammunition. It was falling to its side. It was falling into the canal. 

Elias was grinning. "And..."

Another implosion sounded off. That one surprised her. She knew it had been the plan all along, but the Spanish were moving quicker than she had expected them to. She had thought that they had failed to get a team to the other side. They watched as the second building tumbled into the river. Rubble struck the water with heavy splashes. 

"And now we wait for the next set." Elias said.

[b]Addis Ababa, Ethiopia[/b]

Through his robes, Yaqob gently rubbed the webbing scar on his chest. It was only a dull ache, but it reminded him of worse pains he had felt. He could see the city outside the painted arch of the turret window. It was calm, palm fronds flitting in the breeze above the thin-spread capital. He rarely came here, to this corner of the palace. He was drawn here now because it faced the northeast, toward the coast of Eritrea where the Spaniards would launch their attack. How long would it be? Months? Weeks? They had never been tested like this before, not here. Not, at least, since Adwa. That had happened in a different century. In many ways, a different Ethiopia. How would it play out this time? Yaqob had little hope that it would end well this time.

The turret-room was small. Dark wood paneling covered the walls, and a darker wood covered the floors. A mahogany end-table stood next to a faded leopard print canvas chair, completing the room's sparse furnishing. Above that hung a traditional painting of a saint done colorfully on animal hide. And then there was Hassan. He stood motionless in the corner, Yaqob's patient General and loyal friend.

"Do you think we can keep them in the Red Sea?" Yaqob asked. He knew the answer, but he hoped for the military brilliance his General had shown in Katanga with the stroke of a hand. 

"No." Hassan answered bluntly. There was a caution in his voice, Yaqob noted. Not the caution of a supplicant who didn't know how to talk to an Emperor. No. This was the sound of a man who knew how to choose his words, and knew that obvious confidence often sounded like disrespect. Whether he wanted to be or not, Hassan was a politician. He continued. "I propose to move our navy into the Mandeb Straight. We might catch them being lazy, and they might not move any further than that. That is the only naval strategy we have right now. They know they can do whatever they want. If they decide that taking control of the southern coast simply isn't worth the expense of pushing through the Mandeb, we might be able to keep some ports open. That is my advise, my Emperor."

"They will push through." Yaqob said. "They fear China. Open ports on the eastern coast would threaten them." A part of Yaqob doubted this. African foreign policy had constructed on top of an assurance that China would intervene. But what if it didn't? African politics had adopted the old European desperation for alliance. But what of China? Yaqob had lived there. They had let him exist in exile there during the war that overthrew his brother, but they had not intervened any more directly than that. And Spain? The thought occurred that Sotelo [i]wanted[/i] to face China. It would be an enormous gamble for them, but the reward was extreme power."

Hassan was silent for a moment. "That is most likely true." he said, accepting the thought that Yaqob inwardly questioned. "We should move forward under the assumption that we will not have access to the sea."

Yaqob felt his chest throb again. It was an assumption they should make. He knew this. Why did he never hear hope? "We should discuss evacuations then."

"I'm not leaving." Hassan said. "With respect, the battlefield is where I belong. We can't take them down on the sea, but I know I can destroy them on the land. Africa is vast. This land is rough. And... our people do not want them here." 

That much was true. His people had little faith in their government, but they had no faith in Europe. Africa still remembered her colonial past, and Ethiopian pride was centered on how they had avoided European hegemony. That same pride had destroyed Sahle. If the Spanish were not cautious, it would destroy them. 

"Azima wants the royal family to evacuate." Yaqob said. She was worried about Tewodros most of all, but she wanted them all to go. Yaqob was torn. Would he go back to China defeated? He was no soldier, of course. There was no use for him here. But leaving felt wrong. It felt like abandonment. Taytu had offer to stay behind, to take charge of the guerrilla government while Yaqob rallied for communist support. There was some sense there. Yaqob was known in China, and a living Emperor could be a potent symbol. He knew that she had other intentions, however. She wanted to spite Hassan. Would she work with him? They were repelled by each other. Perhaps he could find somebody else to rule in his stead. Even Hassan himself...

"We should make preparations then." Hassan said. "Before we get news from the Suez. A flight would be best, through Persia to Beijing."

"If I go, could you govern?" Yaqob asked. He turned around to see his General. Hassan looked like he was choking back the honor. It seemed strange, he had never been the humble sort, but Yaqob could tell he was struggling with the thought. "I could, your Imperial Majesty." he said. "But I can't recommend you to leave."

Had he wanted to flee so much that he had been blind to what it meant? His scar ached. "I think I would be more useful in China than I would be on the battlefield." he explained.

"Yes." Hassan replied. "I agree. You aren't a soldier, but you are a symbol."

Yaqob nodded. He understood this. He had thought about it. What did it look like when the Emperor ran? 

"I will think about it." the Emperor responded.

Hassan nodded and left Yaqob to his thoughts.

This thing felt like a march into fate. He did not see any options. This would take place, and he would be caught in the middle of it. He thought back to his time in China, and to his military training there. He knew then that he was not made for war. The immediacy, the snap decisions, they did not come to him. He was a thinker, not a soldier. What use would he be? A symbol. That was it. It was imperative for him to stay for no other reason but that they needed his presence. Not for his skill, but just so nobody accused him of running. He shook his head and left the room.

The halls of the palace were decorated with the artifacts and baubles that he loved to collect. They were items of art, and of history. They were swords and shields, statues and idols, paintings and icons. Most were from Africa or China. The rest were from across the world, spanning history as well as geography. To be surrounded by humanity's history was to be submersed in the past itself. When he saw a painting, he wondered about the world that had raised its artist. What had life been like for the man who crafted the early Aksumite Amphora that stood guard in the hall near the door to the turret room? He strolled, moving leisurely through the hall and brushing the artifacts with his hands. He felt the rough chainmail of an old Byzantine hauberk, and the smooth porcelain of Chinese china. How long would this last? Once the Spanish landed, it was inevitable that they would march south and take the capital. They were going to take everything from him. Most likely, his life as well. His collection, and his life.

Despair was the ache in his chest. It felt heavy there. The decor of these halls only reminded him of the flow of history. The same flow he was caught in. He felt like laying down. He passed the war masks, and the mummified cat that stood guard near the phone. When he reached the next room, he was surprised to find he had company.

The priest was an older man, dressed in glittering red cloth over simple white, and a cloth wrap on top of his head. His beard was long and grey, and he had a face that was soft and gentle. One of Yaqob's guards stood watch in the room, and he did not look bothered by the guest. Yaqob wondered. Was he scheduled to meet this man?

"Your Imperial Majesty." he bowed, "I am sorry to come unannounced." He paused, and there was realization in his eyes. "They told me they were going to fetch you."

Yaqob smiled. "I am here." he said. "Sit down." 

The old man bowed and found his seat.

"May I ask who it is that you are?" Yaqob inquired, sitting across the table from his guest.

"Zerihun Biruk" he answered politely. Yaqob's eyes wandered to the thick silver cross that hung across his chest. It was geometric - a neat fractal of diamond-shapes branching from themselves. And Ethiopian cross. "I have traveled from Aksum to speak to you." 

The formality of the old priest set Yaqob's mind along the ancient processes of conversation. Niceties ruled here, turning the choice of words and actions into a game of chess. Each action had set rules, and each sentence carried centuries of tradition. It cleared his mind, and set it to the task at hand. His next move became clear.

"Would you like coffee?" 

The old man nodded. Yaqob snapped his fingers and listened as the guard left the room. This was a delicate moment. If this man was an assassins, this was his chance. Yaqob watched him carefully, looking for any twitch that told of an attack. The old man sat still, wrapped in his own robes. No motion. 

"How is it in the north?" Yaqob asked. 

Zerihun's smile went flat. There was a flicker of sadness in his expression. "Our people worry, oh my Emperor. I do not leave my place in this world often, but I have seen it. Old men bury their wealth and flee to the south with their wives and daughters. Young men buy guns and machetes and boast about how many Europeans they will slay."

The guard returned to his post. That was a relief. The time had past, and this priest was no assassin.

"What do you come south for, my friend?" Yaqob asked.

"I will tell you." the priest answered. "After we have coffee."

Yaqob nodded. "How have you found the capital?" he asked.

"This is a big place." The priest boasted. "I have not left the country, but could a bigger city be dreamed of? When I was growing up, my people lived in a village. I think one of your apartment housings could have held ten tribes the size of mine." he smiled, revealing crooked white teeth. 

"We have grown." Yaqob said politely. Addis Ababa was not a large city by the standards he had seen while traveling the world. It sprawled further than the old towns of Europe, but it was a shadow of the immensity that was Beijing. To a priest from the highlands, however... it was easy for Yaqob to forget how simple his people could be, and how truly mammoth his African Empire looked from their perspective.

A cook wheeled in a cart dressed with everything that would be needed for the coffee ceremony. There were porcelain cups painted with the lion of Judah, and a clay coffee pot shaped like an amphorae. A bowl of green coffee beans sat on the edge of the cart, and on the other end was a kerosene-powered stove. Wordless, the cook began to roast the beans in a steel pan.

"I had my first coffee with my grandmother." the priest said. "In nineteen twenty nine." he began to laugh. "That sounds so long ago! It really isn't, but it sounds like a lot of time!" 

Yaqob grinned. The priest's laugh was warm and alive. His joy was contagious. For a moment, Yaqob forgot that there was a war.

The smell of the roasting coffee beans began to fill the room. It was strong and thick, more like a rich meal than a drink. There was so much good about this moment that Yaqob wondered what could be solved by bringing his enemies, and his friends, to experience the coffee ceremony with this priest. Was Sotelo as evil as they said, that he would deny a moment like this one and continue with his war? 

Such naive thoughts. This was too horrible of a world for that sort of bucolic simplicity. He felt his old wound tinge numb, but he ignored it.

The cook grabbed the pan full of sizzling coffee beans from the stove and held it in front of them. The priest inhaled deeply and smiled. "Those are good beans that you have, my Emperor." he said. "Very excellent."

Yaqob followed, taking a deep whiff. It was a heavy smell - earthy. It smelled like morning in a village, or breakfast with his father in Dessie, looking out toward the brown-stone rises of the mountains and the rich blue sky above them. He nodded. "That is very good." he agreed. "Very good."

"I remember when you were born." the priest said. "I was not a young man. No. I was younger, but I was not a young man. I was an exorcist, and I lived in Adwa. There were a lot of foul things... demons created by the battle there, and buda. That was a strange time. Some of my teachers thought that the Germans were buda, and they would say 'See how the Germans make factories with the men who work with metal? We know the metal workers are buda. Who else would work with them like the Germans do?' " 

The smell of coffee mixed with the thick floral tones of incense as the cook began to light sticks of it. The priest began to laugh his cheerful laugh. "I don't know about any of that, now. But there were evil things in the north back then. I think we fought them off, but now they are coming back again."

The cook served the coffee. Yaqob watched as the priest took a sip and closed his eyes. "This is very good. Very good." He gestured his approval. 

"They are coming back." Yaqob felt the hot drink with his lip and supped carefully. "The Spanish, you mean."

The priest nodded. "That is what I have came down here to say. I am not an exorcist anymore. Oh no. I am the guardian of the true [i]tabot[/i], the holy thing that my life is devoted to."

Yaqob paused. "You are the guardian of the Ark of the Covenant?" he asked. "I thought you were committed never to leave its temple?"

"This is true. But this is a special circumstance." the priest said. The sun had was now shining through the window and casting yellow light across the table. In it, Yaqob could see incense smoke. "Aksum will fall to the Spanish. We cannot lose the Ark."

"We will protect our relics." Yaqob assured. "If you want, we could have it flown to China."

"No." The priest interrupted. His voice was panicked and abrupt. Yaqob stopped. What was happening here.

"The true tabot, it has a strength we cannot let the evil ones have. I am told that Emperor Menelik had plans to hide it if the Italians had succeeded. There are safe places here, but they are in [i]this[/i] country."

"The evil ones." Yaqob repeated. "China has ever been our friend and ally."

"They are foreign ones." the priest argued. He was afraid now - Yaqob could see how worried he looked at the idea that China might hide the ark. "They do not know it. If you do not know it, you do not know the danger. If there is evil in China, they could not see it because they do not believe."

"I don't understand..."

"We wish for your cooperation. If you do not understand, we can fight the danger, but we need your help. There is more to the tabot. To the law. Ahh. Yes. It has qualities you cannot understand unless you have known it. I have known it and I love it."

"We will help." Yaqob said cautiously. "As much as we can. My soldiers will be needed for soldiering. For the war. I cannot promise anything exact, only that we will try."

"Do more than try." the priest replied. "Succeed or we will all suffer.