[b]Imperial Palace, Addis Ababa[/b]

Yaqob sat rigid at the end of the table. His chair was a throne of sorts, a dark ironwood monstrosity banded with patterned gold leaf who's shimmer made the wood seem darker. Its back was so tall that a man could have sat on Yaqob's shoulders and rested his head easily against the top. A golden lion crowned the chair, reclining on a sphere hung amongst a web of thick vines made of gold so pure that it looked like metallic butter. The table in front of him was large enough to seat eight people. A white cloth covered it, and each place was set with finely etched French Crystal wine glasses, pure-silver cutlery, and ivory-white porcelain plates.

"Ras Hassan reports that half of the population of Djibouti has been evacuated." Tilu said. Tilu Gidada was Yaqob's personnel assistant, a young man who had been born and raised in Addis. It had not been that long ago that Yaqob had many more assistants in his service, but he had dismissed many of them so they could return to their families in the towns and villages of rural Africa. 

Tilu Gidada belonged to the growing number of comfortable city-dwellers who pursued their entire education in Addis Ababa, all the way through University. When Yaqob had been school age, most people who could afford to educate their children sent them abroad to schools in Europe. Yaqob himself had received much of his schooling in Austria, before going to China to receive a military education. Tilu had graduated from the University of Addis Ababa only three years ago, entering government service as so many of the educated of his generation did.

"That means half are still in the city." Yaqob said glumly. He could not ignore that. Those people would be caught between the invading Spaniards and the trap Hassan was trying to lay for them along the Red Sea coast. Yaqob knew that the results would be bloody. Hassan had never been one to worry about innocent lives during war, and the invaders were out for blood.

Tilu said nothing. He was a professional young man, and not only because of his short-cropped hair or well-kept blue suits. He knew when to talk, and when not to talk. Yaqob appreciated that.

"Zenon Bie Bwana will be arriving soon." Tilu spoke again after a momentary silence. "Is there anything you will be needing."

Yaqob waved his hand. "Go to the door. Wait for him. I want to be alone for a moment, before our guest arrives."

Tilu did as he was asked. He left, and Yaqob was alone.

The Emperor of the Pan-African Empire leaned back in his chair, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep. He had woke up early that morning, to help console his frightened mother before they put her and most of his family on a plane to China. When that hard task was done, he had spent the day working, preparing for the war that he was certain would consume him and everything he had built. He wanted to flee, to find a corner of a palace where he could hide and just stay there. Hide, sleep, and forget about everything that weighed on him.

On the wall across from him hung a painting of himself sitting powerful in his throne, Azima by his side. It was their reign as it was meant to be. The painting had been commissioned shortly following their wedding, to replace the near-pornographic image of a nude woman curled up in a bed of red velvet that Sahle had kept there when he was Emperor. He and his wife looked regal in their painting. They were both dressed in white, he with a lion's pelt over his shoulder and a sword in his lap while she had been made to glow angelically. Looking at it, it was easy to forget that, when they had posed for it, he had been recovering from the sucking chest wound that had nearly killed him, delivered to him by a would-be assassins bullet.

His scar twinged sore. He took a deep breath and tried to forget. He tried to think about his family in China. He imagined them living in the mansion that Hou had lent to him and Akanni during their years in exile there. Those had been easier days, when he could give all his time to reading and writing. Being Emperor had been easy then, when it required nothing but dreams. Would his son grow up to read the same books that he had? Would he live a comfortable life, far away from the failures of his father?

"Sir" Tilu had entered back into the room. "May I present, Zenon Bie Bwana." Yaqob sat rigid again, and put on a welcoming smile as the writer entered the room.

Zenon was a middle aged man, his shape hidden by a thick, richly colored floral pattern robe. He wore a simple folded cap made from the same fabric as his clothes. His skin was the inky black of central Africa, the pock scars covering his cheeks giving the suggestion of childhood illness. Thin, wiry black hair clung to his head, and a small patch of facial hair sat just below his thin lips. When he saw the Emperor, his eyes seemed to glow, and he dipped into an exaggerated bow.

"Your Imperial Majesty" he said slowly, inhaling when he was done. "I am honored beyond my ability to speak. I have never dreamed of setting foot in your home, or sharing your food." Yaqob watched out of the corner of his eye as Tilu took a seat where he had a folding desk and typewriter ready to record the minutes of their meeting.

"That is kind of you to say." Yaqob replied politely. The writer's behavior reminded him of his Grandfather's court, when old customs were still held and the Emperor was treated as something close to divine. He remembered how his grandfather had referred to himself in third person, using 'We' instead of 'I', and 'Our' instead of 'My'. Yaqob had been a child then, and the strange way his grandfather spoke had made it difficult to keep track of what he was actually saying. Most of those customs had died with his father, however, who thought the Emperor should act more like a leader than a god.

Zenon chose a seat at the side of the table, Yaqob noted. Not at the end, where he would be in a place almost equal with Yaqob's. What he reading too much into this? The writer's exaggerated introduction had caused Yaqob to look at him as a sycophant, and he was quick to see little signs of worship. 

"I have read some of your work." Yaqob said politely. "[i]The Kingdom of Africa.[/i]. And [i]Black Ba'al[/i]. You are a persuasive writer, Mr Bie Bwana."

"I thank you." Zenon said. "I dedicated [i]The Kingdom of Africa[/i] to your reign. The dream that you and your father has realized means a lot to the African people."

"That is good to hear." Yaqob replied. Did his man's visit have a purpose? He wanted to sleep now, more than anything else. He wanted to be alone. "I am curious, how have your works been received by the more traditional academics?"

"Traditional academics." Zenon smiled knowingly. For a man so polite, it struck Yaqob as almost insolent. What was this man, a flatterer or a snake? "They are white, of course, and they support white ideas. The concept that a great civilization of old could have been black African is foreign to them. In some ways, they act like it is an insult."

"And you still stand by it? Unwaveringly?" 

"Unwaveringly." Zenon sounded firm. Yaqob heard something charismatic in his voice. This was a military man, he remembered, and a leader of the militia.

Their food was brought in then. They were served roast beef so red in the center that it looked bloody, and a milky cream sauce on the side garnished with mint and chive. Yaqob studied Zenon for a reaction, convinced that the Pan-African scholar would be disappointed for the lack of African fare. He thought he saw a slight droop in his guest's eyes, but it was hard to tell. Several bottles of wine were presented to Yaqob for choice. The Emperor picked a Galician Valdeorras, taking a bitter humor from the origin of the drink. Zenon chose to have the same.

"A Spanish vintage." the Pan-African said. "That is a topical choice."

Yaqob smiled. "When I was in China, they taught me to know my enemy." he quipped. 

"Quite good." Zenon replied. "This is the only way I would like to know them."

"You will be knowing them in the battlefield, though." Yaqob sliced a forkful of roast from his plate and bit into it. The beef was tender, and it seemed to melt and become juice in his mouth. 

"Yes." Zenon replied. "I am no stranger to the battlefield, I am afraid." he had fought in the war against the Arabs, Yaqob knew. He earned no citations of honor or distinction during that fight, however. As far as Yaqob could tell, he had been little more than an average soldier.

"I am funding the Legion volunteers around Kinshasa." he explained.

"You are one of their officers." Yaqob added. "This is what my friend Akanni told me."

"Yes." Zenon acted abashed then, but Yaqob wondered if he was feigning being humble. "I think my money bought me that. Though I have taken an interest in military history."

"Akanni told me this as well." Yaqob said. This had been the reason Yaqob had invited this man here, to be sure, but it would be rude to say this, or event to allude to it. He watched the older man dip a bite of meat in the cream soup and nibble at it like a bird pecking at seed. "I always had a fondness for academics. I wanted to be one myself, when I was younger. Of a sorts at least."

"I have read your essays." Zenon replied. "It was the Platonic school that argued for the reign of Philosopher-Kings, and I think there is merit to that. Politicians rule by dumb popularity, and warlords rule by brutality. It's only the Kings that can rise above and become something... enlightened."

That was slightly annoying. Yaqob had not called a dinner to hear himself praised. "How kind." he said, taking another bite of meat. "I am curious. As a military historian, what is your thoughts of this war?"

"Yes." Zenon paused as he finished a bite. Yaqob saw his eyes light up, and knew this was the question he had been waiting for as well. How easier it would have been if they could have forgotten the niceties and gotten straight to business. That was something he liked about working with Hassan. He was a simple man, and blunt. That was a rare trait in Imperial business.

"I think the key is in oil." Zenon explained. This was not a new idea to Yaqob. The relative vulnerability of Nigerian oil had been discussed near endlessly. They had heard news earlier that day of an attack by Legion militia's crossing over and harassing Spanish officials. It had been a lowly accountant that suffered in that attack, but this was the first day of open warfare. More would happen, he knew. Yaqob stayed quiet, signalling for Zenon to go on.

"The collapse of the Ottoman Empire has put a stop to most oil-production in the old Empire. Persia is hoarding barrels now, in protest to the fighting in the Suez, and partly as a defensive measure. The other major oil-producing nations have came out against Spain's war, and I have no doubt trade relations are getting frosty as a result. This would hurt our enemy if it wasn't for the oil sitting next to our borders. On the Ivory Coast, and in Tunisia."

"Tunisia?" That was far outside of Ethiopian reach.

"Carthago." Zenon smiled. "Across the Sahara desert."

"We had discussed bombing runs in that area." Yaqob admitted. "But it was deemed unfeasible. They patrol it with aircraft. There is no sneaking across the desert."

"I disagree." Zenon said. Yaqob was surprised at how quick the writer had presumed, but this was too interesting a thought to interrupt with hollow offense. 

"Soldiers on the ground could be brought across the desert. The Tuaregs... the desert is filled with Spains enemies, and they know how to hide and where."

"How to hide an army?" that seemed ridiculous.

"Hiding does not mean burying in the sand. Hiding means making so that they can cross the desert. It is true that one column could not sneak through the deserts unnoticed, but multiple columns could. This is how I envision it. Split your forces again and again, make allies with the natives, and bring everything across the desert piecemeal. The Spaniards are used too desert caravans in much of the Sahara."

"Not near their lands though." Yaqob noted. "The Tuaregs are not welcome in the heart of Spanish oil country, if my intelligence is to be believed."

"It is." Zenon agreed. "But once across, these same small forces can hit and flee. The Spanish have not fortified their soft underbelly here. I believe they can be driven out."

"This sounds like a plan to lose my men in the desert." Yaqob questioned. "I do not understand its principle measures. How do you handle the logistics? Men on camels?"

"Precisely." Zenon answered.

Yaqob leaned back, forgetting about the food going cold in front of him. He tried to imagine it. Hundreds of caravans spread across the brown immensity of the Sahara. It seemed absurd. Supplies would have to continue being brought across the wastes so long as there were forces fighting in Tunis, and once the Spanish knew they were there it would take them little effort to stop the flow and sit back as the Ethiopian invasion starved far away from home.

"That's not realistic" Yaqob finally replied. 

"It has been done before." Zenon had stopped playing the sycophant. Now he was an academic in debate, and Yaqob couldn't help but notice the faith in his voice. He had a strong voice, deep and certain as if it came directly from his soul. This was a man who would be able to convince people that his plan could work, even if the Emperor would not be one of those people.

"Hannibal Barca crossed the Alps with similar problems. The logistical problems faced by a force crossing mountains is not so different from those faced in the desert."

"Sempronius did not have air support." Yaqob mused. "And besides, they could live off of the farms of the Po valley once they were across. We are crossing into more desert."

"We are crossing into land where Spain has enemies. You do know that the Tuaregs of the desert still move in those parts, even when the Spanish try to keep them away?"

That was true enough. He had been right before; officially, they Tuaregs were not allowed in certain parts of Spanish Tunisia. Early on in his reign, Hassan had brought him evidence that the Spanish had committed mass-killings of Tuareg tribes who lived in around the oil fields of Tunisia, and reports of the stories the surviving natives told all but confirmed it. 

"We do not know what sorts of resources these desert peoples can bring us." Yaqob answered. He began to cut off another slice of beef and promptly forgot about it. "I do not doubt that the Tuaregs would be willing to help, but willing does not mean able."

For a moment, nothing was said. Tilu's typing died away and a still silence replaced it. Zenon stared blindly into the air, deep in thought. Yaqob felt as if he had won this discussion, but it was a bitter victory. What had he succeeded in doing here, after all? All he had done was affirm what he already feared. He had proven that they were hopeless.

"It is a risk." Zenon admitted. "War is about risks. Is there an alternative?"

"An alternative?" Yaqob asked.

"Yes. Is there a way to keep your men from dying for Africa? It is true they may die if this invasion of Tunisia is attempted, but if we fail to bring the Spanish to the table, those same men will die anyway."

"They may live." Yaqob argued. "If Spain wins this war."

For a brief moment, Yaqob saw disgust in Zenon's eyes. It washed over the man like a wave. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and, as quick as he had left it, he was back to his cold academic pose. "That is a horrifying notion." Zenon said.

"It is." Yaqob agreed. It was the most horrifying notion the Emperor had ever considered, and it seemed like it was going to be a reality.

"And besides that, I wonder how many will accept that life? The return of colonial slavery. That is more horrifying than dying in the desert, your majesty."

"Your imperial majesty" a subservient voice called out from a doorway. "A message had arrived for you."

"A message?" Yaqob looked up. His heart sank, but he did not know why.

"Yes." the servant replied. "It is urgent."

"I will be back." Yaqob smiled at Zenon. "This will only take a moment. The war always finds a way to take my moments."

"I understand, your Imperial Majesty" the academic smiled. "I will like the time to consider what we have talked about."

Yaqob beckoned to Tilu. "Come with me. I might need you."

They were out in the hallway when the Emperor tapped his assistant on the shoulder. Tilu looked confused for a moment. "Your majesty?" he asked quietly.

"I want you to destroy the records of the meeting with Zenon." Yaqob asked quietly, leaning his head in.

"Your majesty?" Tilu repeated uncertainly.

"I want to discuss these plans with Hassan. There might be some merit in what the writer says, but I could not say. Until then, I don't want this information falling into Spanish hands. We should do what we can to keep our enemies from even considering this plan as a possibility, and that means no record should exist. Burn it, and we will speak no more about this."

Tilu nodded and followed the Emperor to where a servant was waiting with a Walinzi agent.

_

Tilu reentered the room where Zenon waited. The academic was poking at his food with a fork when he saw the Emperor's assistant join him.

"Where is the Emperor, may I ask?" Zenon said, uncertain.

"Something has came up." Tilu answered. "We will have to conclude this meeting early. Our Imperial Majesty sends his regrets."

Zenon looked at him knowingly, and Tilu wondered how much his face was revealing. He was no actor, he knew. Still, he attempted to remain as cold and professional as he could.

"Send the Emperor my regards then." Zenon said warmly. "Do I see myself out?"

"There is a guard outside the door. He will help you." Tilu replied. He stood stoically and waited until Zenon was out of the room. When he was finally alone, he took a deep breath and dropped his courtesy. A horrified shutter shot down his spine as he remembered where he had left the Emperor.

When they told Yaqob the news, the Emperor had dropped to his knees and began to sob. Tilu's heart had stopped for a moment then, as had time. It had felt like the lingering defeat the Emperor had been dreading had finally arrived. What came next nobody could say, but Tilu could do nothing but fear it.

He went to his small, portable typewriter and ripped out the page he had been working on when they were interrupted. There were several other pages laying face down on the desk. He took those too, and when he had them all in hand he pulled a lighter from his pocket and fumbled with it. 

This was the Emperor's request, he reminded himself. This was the last thing Yaqob had asked for before grief had brought him to his knees. It took several tries before he managed to get fire. One at a time, he set the pages alight and held them as they burned. The smoke smelled rough and tickled as his throat. By the time he had burned all of the pages, a thin sheet of smoke hung in the air.

Tilu sat down for a moment. He dreaded going back to his Emperor now. Yaqob had lost his entire family, everyone except for the Princess Taytu on her way to Tanganyika. Tilu was uncertain if he would ever recover from this. The loss of his wife, and his mother...

...and his son. Part of Tilu said this was the end, that he should run. But that was silly. The Emperor help now more than ever, and besides that, where was he supposed to go? If this was truly the end, only the remote places of the Empire would be safe for a loyal servant of the Imperial government. His place was here, and he would have to accept it as they all drowned in the Emperor's grief.