[b]Addis Ababa, Ethiopia[/b] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WpIAc9by5iU]Action Tiem Music For Playing And Reading[/url] When Yaqob was told that his wife and child were still alive, he received a second wind. He remembered that there was a war to fight and he became involved. He even did something that no Emperor had done since Menelik II. Yaqob went to church. He stood in the back, dressed in humble white robes, and listened to the first liturgy, where hymns were sung in low somber tones coming together like the sound of a medieval choir. The church was decorated with golden crosses, and gold-framed portraits of ancient saints. Richly covered tapestries covered the walls behind the alters, while the walls themselves were brightly painted with religious scenes. He felt... something, though he didn't know what. Yaqob's grandfather had been Muslim, and his own father had payed lip service to the Islamic faith, but Yaqob was barely involved in any of that growing up. He felt as if he was outside of religion, with only a vague sense of God in his thoughts. But the church had an effect on him none the less. Perhaps it was in the beauty of the building itself, or in the haunting hymns that echoed between the hard stone walls. Perhaps it was being part of something so old; a faith that had brought his people together since the days when the Romans still ruled Europe. Or maybe there was something more to it all. Maybe the religions were right. When the first liturgy was over, the unbaptized were asked to leave. Yaqob knew that the priests would have loved to make an exception for him, but Yaqob politely followed the traditional laws of the church and left. He heard the tap-tap-tapping sound of Mvulu's peg-leg as his guards fell in around him. His mind was still swimming with thoughts and impressions about religion when he was ambushed outside by journalists. They had been descending on the Ethiopian capital for weeks, men and women from all over the world. They came from the United States and Brazil, France and Prussia, and all other places where the national media could afford to keep their employees in an overseas war zone. The Italians garnered the most suspicion from Yaqob's guards, who eyed the ferengi for any sign of a threat. It was not that Italy had tried to conquer Ethiopia once before; that had happened ninety years ago and very few held grudges about that conflict anymore. Rather, the Walinzi had reported that many of the so called 'Italian' journalists were actually disguised Spaniard reporters. It was difficult to blame them for hiding their identities. There was already a seething animosity toward white people in Ethiopia, but Spain was especially hated. If somebody was open about their Spanish nationality, they would be a target for the frustrated masses. Yaqob's advisers had insisted that he place more limits on the foreign journalists, and kick out any who were not being completely honest or open handed with their official papers. Yaqob refused. He wanted as many stories and photographs leaving the country as possible. He wanted the rest of the world to know who his people were, and what they were up against. He wanted the world to know what was at stake. And so they followed him down the streets, dozens of foreign men babbling in broken Amharic, or in their own native tongues. "Do you think that the rest of the world will come to your aide?" A Brazilian reporter blurted. "I hope so, for the sake of my people." Yaqob answered. A Chinese correspondent for the NPN spoke next. "If the Pan-African Imperial Union is cut off completely from the sea, will she be able to produce enough grain to feed her people, or do you think the Spanish war-effort will cause a famine?" he remarked in clear Amharic. "Africa is a large continent, and we produce most of our food at home." Yaqob replied. "We hope the Spanish won't stoop to such low tactics, but we are stockpiling in case of such an event." "Have you considered stepping down to save your people?" an Italian shouted, forcing his way through the crowd. "The Spanish Empire declared war on us without any provocation, there was no ultimatums or backroom diplomacy involved. I am convinced that Spain is in this for blood, and the suddenness of the invasion seems to prove it." Yaqob eyed a Prussian journalist for a long time, expecting him to speak. He looked as if he was formulating a question, but the words never came out. Instead, a Persian spoke up. "The 'Good Green Book'" the Persian journalist started, "That many of the youth carry around your capital now, it has some quotations that I think are interesting and relevant..." "You read the entire thing?" The Chinese corespondent interrupted. "I have read it three times." The Persian pulled a thin green book out of his pocket and waved it around. "It is small, and reading is not that difficult if you try." Everyone who understood the exchange laughed, and Yaqob smiled. "But as I was saying." The Persian continued. "It has some quotations from you that I think are interesting. Here you said, at your coronation, that [i]'It is our duty not to participate in the wars, but to do everything peaceful within our power to effect peace on earth. This is no easy task, and I recognize that the average man can not accomplish such tasks. I do not ask you to all gather and stand directly in the way of conflict.[/i]' do you think this could be interpreted in reverse, as a request for other nations to stay out of the African war?" "As an aggressor or a defender?" Yaqob asked. "Either way." The Persian replied. "On the Ethiopian side or the Spanish." "I was young when I said that." Yaqob replied. "And perhaps too hopeful. The Spanish invasion shows that there are evils in this world that cannot be stopped by non-violent righteousness alone. I have been Emperor through trying times, and I have seen the truth." "If this is a war of evil versus good." another Italian spoke up. "Then how do you explain the violence in Hejaz? It is my understanding that the rebels were not well treated there." "The Hejaz Arabs were treated fairly. The rebels are violent men, but they are only a few, and their violence does not represent the whole country. Besides, if Spain had been worried about the welfare of the Hejazi Arabs, they would have came to talks rather than declared a war of invasion. Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have came this far for a reason. You are welcome to join me, but I cannot answer any more questions for now. The grueling walk through the city, and the suffocating press of people that surrounded him as he went by, caused his old chest-wound to ache. He put on a brave face and endured it, knowing that the whole world was looking at him. The thought of his beautiful wife and their brave son safe in China gave him the energy to hide his discomfort. -- The refugee camp sat in the shadow of Negus Mikael General Hospital. It was a small tent city, where the Walinzi worked alongside international charities to assist civilians fleeing the war zone. Yaqob was here to help in the kitchen, but the cluster of his bodyguards made him feel that he was only getting in the way of the real aid workers. Mvulu was not happy with Yaqob's decision to come here, and the doubled number of guards was his cautious response. They stood like alert blockages, placed just in the way of the human traffic as aid workers tried to carry pots full of steaming stew or dirty dishes on their way to be cleaned. The Imperial Guard had once been a lax duty during the reign of Yaqob's father, but Yohannes' death and the attempt on Yaqob's own life changed all that. They stood wearing gilded white coats and pith helmets with ostrich feather cockades, like a dandy battalion of Victorian soldiers on parade. Swords dangled by their sides, and they held stubby assault rifles in their hands. Still, these were picked men. Mvulu, their commander, stood with a Walinzi agent in the shade of a Eucalyptus tree and observed the crowd suspiciously. Yaqob inhaled deeply and took in the spicy smell of the wat he was stirring. It was incredibly simple, consisting mostly of lentils and the mix of onion, butter, and spice that started any proper Ethiopian wat. Still, this meal was so humble that he felt almost foolish for his moping. When he got home, he would be able to chose from any number of professionally cooked meals. For the refugees however, it would be a dry-smelling stew outdoors in the heat. He couldn't excuse himself his emotions either. It was true he had thought his family murdered at sea, but most of the refugees had known people burned alive during the Spanish assault of Djibouti. There were reports trickling in from the airmen flying missions over the city and the soldiers skirmishing on the front line. Djibouti, and all who had been in it, were black ash. It was being said the canals were so polluted with ash that Spanish attempts to drain them were leaving behind trails of caustic lye. It was also being said that people had crawled into wells trying to get away from the fire, and their corpses now poisoned the water supply. "Your Imperial Majesty." an elderly volunteer approached him. "Is the wat ready? We need more for the far table." Yaqob smiled and sniffed it again. "Yes, I think it is done. Wait here, don't worry about taking it." the Emperor motioned to one of his guards. "Carry this pot for the young lady. Careful, don't spill it." The guard did not look excited about his task, but he wasn't the kind of man who disobeyed a monarch. The volunteer smiled and gave them both a light bow. "What would you have me do now?" Yaqob asked her, cleaning his hands on a towel. "I would not presume to question my Emperor." The old woman replied. "But if you can prepare onions for the next soup, I would be grateful." Yaqob winced in his mind, careful to show nothing but courtesy. This was not a republic, and he did not need to worry about reelection, but working here was still a political move meant to inspire loyalty in his people and respect abroad. Crying in public, even an artificial onion cry, might be taken by the journalists as having another meaning. They were kept out of the crowd and distant enough that they could not question Yaqob, but they had cameras. An onion cry would make an inopportune photo. Yaqob borrowed a combat knife from one of the guards and made a show about handling the onion, hoping it would deter any awkward media tales. He spun it in his hand like a Shakespearean actor handling a skull. When his eyes leveled with the street he saw a couple of Walinzi hurrying from a staff car to the agent with Mvulu, and he wondered what they had to say. Yaqob made the first slice into the onion slowly. It felt as if him and the onion were both virgins, and he was trying so prudently to be gentle that he was getting nothing done. On the second slice, the onion vapor started to irritate his eyes. "Your Imperial Majesty." he heard Mvulu's voice, and when he looked up his Captain of the Guard was standing in front of him with the Walinzi in tow. "We need to... are you crying, your majesty?" "Onions." Yaqob wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "What is it?" "These men would like to speak to you privately." Mvulu answered. "We should return to the palace." "Is it the Spanish?" Yaqob asked. Had they broke through Djibouti already? He was preparing himself for the day the enemy would continue their advance, but he had not thought it would happen so soon. "No." Mvulu answered. "It is about your sister, the Princess Taytu." "Taytu?" Yaqob sniffed wetly. "Has she reported in? I want to know why it took her so long." "We should talk..." Yaqob stopped. "Is she dead?" he said flatly, staring at the agent. "No." the agent replied. "No, but she is not safe." "We can talk here then." Yaqob answered. He felt worry swell in his chest again, but that was normal now. He was beginning to get acclimated to constant emergency. "The Confederation of Tanganyika and Mozambique are withdrawing their support for us. Both countries have agreed to this" one agent said. "It was a bilateral move. We haven't heard and hints of dissent in either executive branch." the other agent added. "And Taytu is, in talks? Perhaps she can reverse this... situation." Yaqob finished an onion and pushed the slices to the side. He began to dice another. "Well, she has been imprisoned. Your majesty." "Imprisoned?" he put down the knife. "For what?" "They say they do not trust our intentions. We suspect they were unprepared for her visit and panicked." one agent said. "That suggests to us that this withdrawal from the war is unpopular there. At least in the cities." the other added. Yaqob pondered it. "They were afraid she could overthrow their governments with a few of our agents and the help of their people. They are not threatening to execute her, are they?" "No. Not at all. That would be an even stupider thing to do. Still, we need to get her out of the country before it becomes and embarrassment." Yaqob balled his fists and bit his lips. It was beyond insulting. Locking up the Foreign Affairs Advisor, his own sister? What could they be thinking? He couldn't lose his temper here, not in public with the world's media watching on. "If we had the manpower, I would see both governments burning in a ditch somewhere between Dar es Salaam and Mombasa." he muttered so only Mvulu and the agents could hear. "I would force them to feed their own genitals to the hyenas. But..." He paused for a moment, killing the rage he was building up with vengeful talk. "Are we capable of extracting Taytu right now, agent?" "We are struggling to make contact with agents in the country." the agent said blankly. "If it wasn't for the war, this would be easy. We have one-third of all our field agents in Spanish West Africa, and what we have close to home are occupied with preparing the country for war." "Do not do anything that will endanger her life too severely, not if you can avoid it. And for now, let us pretend we do not know they have betrayed us." Yaqob said. "Yes, that is wise." Mvulu nodded. "Alerting them will just embarrass them and put them on the defensive." The agent nodded. "Yes. I will give these instructions right away, your majesty." -- The Emperor spent the rest of the day meeting with his people and inspecting the capital's defenses. Anti-Aircraft batteries had been installed near most government buildings, and on the top of several hills. There were several on the side of Mount Entoto, half a mile from where Emperor Menelik's palace stood. Yaqob had insisted on that distance despite the objections of Hassan's officers. They wanted the guns nearer to the palace, where they would have a better view of the countryside. To Yaqob, it didn't seem tactically vital to have the anti-aircraft guns further down the hill. It certainly wouldn't be enough to lose them a battle. The loss of the old palace, however, would be the loss of their national heritage. It would be like using the underground churches at Lalibela as trenches. There were things too sacred to be risked by war. The sun was beginning to set when Yaqob arrived at the makeshift stage constructed in front of the University of Addis Ababa. The University was hosting foreign volunteers who had came to Ethiopia to fight. Many of the students had volunteers for military service themselves, leaving empty dorms that could be converted into temporary barracks as the foreign battalions organized. The few remaining student were mostly women, or men not fit for service, though some able bodied men had got deferments due to the importance of their academic work. These students offered their services in different ways, helping to prepare the defenses of the city, working in the refugee camps, and doing what they could to entertain the foreign volunteers. Here, they were putting on a play, and they had invited the Emperor to attend the performance. It was a good opportunity for Yaqob, a chance for him to show his appreciation for the international supporters of Ethiopia, and to support the people who were working so hard to prepare the capital's defense. He stood on the makeshift wooden stage and smiled at the crowd as they applauded him. Streamers in Ethiopian colors hung from the stone posts of the imposing iron-wrought fence that surrounded the campus. He saw that many of the students in the crowd were growing their hair out so that men who would have once been clean cut now wore bushy afros and unkempt beards, and women did their hair in the styles they remembered their grandmothers wearing. Traditional clothing was popular now as well, and people wore mutely colored robes that looked like togas or dresses with fine patterns decorating the fringe. He saw in the front rows evidence of the Pan-Africanist elephant badges that had become so common in the capital. When the applause slowed down, Yaqob spoke into a microphone. "People of Africa." he started, "I have not come here to speak to you about our troubles. Every one of you understand what we are facing, and you have stepped up to the challenge. I see before me the faces of an enduring Africa, a continent that will not see itself in the bonds of slavery ever again. I do not need to express how powerful your courage is, or how impregnable our continent's spirit. I do not need to express these things because the world is expressing it right now, out there beyond the borders and across the sea, where millions of people all across the world join their voices to sing praises for the mother continent! We are starting a fire here that will burn away tyranny across the globe!" "And so." he paused, waiting for the cheers and enthusiastic shouts of 'Lee-lee-lee!' to slow down. "And so we, the grateful peoples of Africa, are here to sing praises of the men and women who come to us from across the world to fight the evils of colonial invasion. I am honored and humbled to be the first to introduce a man who has seen war in his lifetime. He is a veteran of both North American Wars. This man is Corporal Bucephelus L. Scott." There was a cheer among the crowd that sounded like a war-cry. A man came up from among the quietly gathered foreigners and approached the Emperor with what Yaqob sensed as an uncertain dignity, like a fish out of water trying to look natural on land. Corporal Scott was a tall man, not quite reaching Yaqob's lanky height but tall enough that very few Ethiopians managed to dwarf him. He was dark-skinned, a black descendant of former slaves, and the way he dressed recalled the painful memories of America's first civil war. He wore a smashed old Union uniform kepi, so old that its original blue hue was faded to black. He also wore the detached cape of an old Civil-war era great-coat, which he draped over his fatigues. He sported a wiry van-dyke beard, though he lacked the mustache to compliment it. When Bucephelus Scott reached the Emperor, he fell down on one knee like a medieval squire preparing to be knighted. Yaqob had not expected that. Bowing in the Imperial presence was still common, but not in the way that this American did it. He politely tapped the Corporal on his shoulder and smiled at him beamingly as he rose. "Corporal Scott." Yaqob said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I am told you fought on the front line during both North American Wars." "Yes sir." American said in broken Amharic. "On the western front. I fought the Canadians when they invaded, sir, and I figure I am well suited for fighting invaders. When they told me Spain was invading the mother land, I thought to myself that you might make use of my abilities, Mr. Emperor." "The African people cannot thank you enough for the sacrifice you have made coming here, Corporal. The experience you bring us cannot be undervalued. That is why, with the support of my advisers, I have chosen to give you the title 'Fitawrari' and present you with command of the First International Sefari!" there were more cheers, and more war cries. The newly made Fitawrari Scott grinned as he shook the Emperor's hand. "Thank you, sir. Thank you indeed. But, I was reading about this country when I came here." he said smiling. "And I read that the old Sefari's used to be named after places." "Yes." Yaqob confirmed, unsure what the American was getting at. "That is true." "Well then sir, with your permission, I would like to call this Sefari you have been kind enough to lend me the 'Andalusia Sefari', because my boys will whip Sotelo's army quick enough that I will be setting up headquarters in Andalusia before next's years snow falls in Chicago!" The audience renewed their battle cries with even greater fervor than before, their emotions pouring out in bloodthirsty shouts and screams. Yaqob laughed and shook the American's hand once again. "Well of course, Fitawrari. You can call them whatever you want, just win us some battles." The media was invited to take photos near the front of the stage, drowning the momentum of the ceremony in volley after volley of flash photography. Yaqob's part in the events ended then, and he took his place in a raised private booth that had been constructed in the back. As he sat down, he saw from the corner of his eye a student leader walking up to the stage. "Brothers and Sisters of Africa!" The speaker started. To Yaqob, the speaker seemed over the top. He was chewing through his words like an overconfident new actor. "His Imperial Majesty. I invite you all to experience a gift brought to us from across the chopping sea, in Italy where the evil influences of Spain can still be felt. From there comes the Society of the Modern Gracchi; Italian Communists who fled the oppression of the evil Batista. They lived in Greece for a time, until murderous war was brought to the crystal shores of beautiful Africa! They saw glory in our plight, and they have came to aid us in our hour of need. When I met with them last Saturday to help prepare their applications for citizenship, they told me of a play one of their own had written before he was executed by Batista's hounds. It is the story of Caesar as it has never been told before. When I first read it, I cried." Yaqob heard somebody take a seat behind him. "Your Imperial Majesty." he heard the familiar voice of Zerihun Biruk. He was the elderly priest who had once attended the Ark of the Covenant, before it was slated to be moved to China. Now Yaqob kept him around as a personal adviser. When Yaqob nodded at him, the priest spoke again. "They are putting on Julius Caesar for an Emperor? That is a risky choice" "It was written by a dead man." Yaqob replied. "I wouldn't have taken you for the sort of man who learned his European history." "A priest who doesn't know who Caesar is?" Zerihun responded. "Well, I have met men like that, but I know things. They don't let the least of us attend the Holy Tabot." "I am sorry that it was lost, Zerihun." Yaqob replied. "I know it was important." On the stage, the actors were beginning to take their places. Some were the Italian Communists, while others were Africans. They wore bed-sheet togas, but otherwise the play used very few props. "I do not weep for God's tabot." Zerihun answered. "It will survive as long as God wills it to, and it will cease as quick as God's will changes. No, I weep for the soul of the man who shot the plane that carried it. They will open the darkest pit in hell just for him." "Good." Yaqob said simply. "I can't weep for the soul of a man who murdered my mother, and tried to murder my wife and child." "If you cannot weep for him." the priest replied. "You do not appreciate how dark his pit in hell will be." On the stage, Caesar was giving alms to the poor. It was a strange move for communists living under a dictatorship that hated them to portray a dictator as a communist. It was only when Caesar talked that Yaqob understood the writer's intent. There, in a scene that supposedly took place in Caesar's house, the dictator told Antony that "The issue dear comrade is not in a God - helping or not - but in the ability of man." Those words, Yaqob knew, had came from Hou. Gaius Julius Caesar was speaking with the voice of Hou Sai Tang "I went to church today." Yaqob told the priest. "The first time I have been in one for a long time." "Have you found God?" "I have found church. That is all I can say. God... I confess, I don't understand what that means." "You do not understand what God means? It is a heavy thing to explain. I can tell you the things you expect to here from me, about love and omnipotence and the creation of the earth, but I know that you know all of that. What does God mean, though? I cannot explain it if you cannot feel it." "I don't know what I feel." Yaqob replied. "It never mattered before. How I grew up... it never mattered." "Your family has been detached from the church for a long time." "I think it is heritage that brought me back." Yaqob admitted. "I have been thinking a lot about that, about who I am." "Perhaps that is why you don't feel God." the priest responded. "You worry about heritage rather than your soul, you understand everything through books. You did not learn to [i]feel[/i] the world until you were too old to be natural at it." Caesar was speaking to the Plebs now, who had gathered in the forum to hear him. "Send out the Optimates and the Bourgiese" He said. "Make our homeland pure and revolt against their decadence. The Republican image of the nation is outdated and passed. We will someday usher in the new path. The new society." Yaqob paused and tried to remember where that particularly Hou quote was from. He could not recall, so he forgot about it and turned back to the priest. "I used to pray, when I was a child. I had saw my mother pray to herself, and she taught me how. But it didn't work, so I stopped." "It didn't work? You did not get what you wanted?" "No." Yaqob sighed. "It seemed pointless." "It would be, if you saw it like an order. To stop praying because you don't get what you want would be like... divorcing your wife because she does not do as you command. Things like this should mean nothing when it comes to love." "I got no answers" Yaqob insisted. "It isn't like communication with people. I can speak [i]with[/i] my wife, but I can only speak [i]to[/i] God. If I never saw, or touched, or talked to my wife, and if all I could do is send her messages of which I could never know whether or not she received, then could we be said to be married at all?" "I have seen men talk to the graves of family members who were long dead. I have met women who love their unborn children with more ferocity than they have for themselves. And... I have been in a room with the Holy Tabot." "But that is different." Yaqob grimaced. "That is nostalgia, and... biology." The priest smiled. "You talk in data, like a man who thinks reading is understanding." "I try to understand." Yaqob replied. "That is all I have ever tried to do, I think." "That is good." the priest replied. When the play reached the death scene of Caesar, night had fallen and the stage was lit by spotlights. There he stood, an Italian actor dressed in bright red robes surrounded by senators wearing black and gold. The senators were wielding knives and circling for the kill, but Caesar had his last words to say. There was no 'Et Tu', or 'Then fall, Caesar.' Instead, the actor gave a line that seemed to be the thesis of the entire play. "When the freedom of the senator is built on the misfortune of the plebian, the republic deserves to crumble." Yaqob did not recognize Caesar's final phrase. It had not been a quote from Hou, or anyone else as far as he could tell. It seem that finally, at the end of the story, the playwright used his own words.