[b]Awash River Basin, Ethiopia[/b] It was a scene that recalled old Ethiopia, and the world as it had been during the Era of Judges. Yaqob sat enthroned outdoors. An early-morning rain had made the rich African earth a muddy slosh beneath his throne, and filled the air with the fresh scent of grass and soil. The sky was also wet - not cloudy, but wet with a cool after-storm mist that made all the colors of nature vibrant and bright. To Yaqob's right was Ras Rais in starched military dress. Rais had joined them on his way back from a meeting with Hassan, heading toward Shewa in the entrenched highlands. To Yaqob's left was a ferengi black man from America: Fitawrari Bucephelus L. Scott, the leader of the International Sefari, wearing a blue kepi and a great-coat cape that recalled the war the Americans had fought over slavery. The Fitawrari Scott was leading the ferengi of his International Sefari to reinforce Hassan at Dire Dawa, and the Emperor thought it fitting to escort them some of the way. Yaqob's attendants held heavy, embroidered umbrellas above the heads of their Emperor and his companions. Mvulu stood below the throne in the ivory-and-cream dress uniform of the Imperial guard. The priest Zerihun Biruk stood in front of them all, dressed in black robes with a golden chasuble draped across his shoulders. He was leading a prayer, his hands stretched out across the field where a dozen riders in shammas and traditional clothing sat atop their horses. On the other side of the field was a mass of people, appearing as a sea of white robes and shammas peppered by the fatigue uniforms of the foreign soldiers. As Zerihun spoke, the people bowed their heads in prayer. All was silent except for his somber voice, and the distant turbulence of the Awash river at the bottom of the hill. [i]"O Lord my God, in Thee do I put my trust. Save me from all them that persecute me; and deliver me, lest they tear my soul like a lion, rending it in pieces while there is none to deliver. O Lord my God, if I have done this, if there be iniquity on my hands, if I have rewarded evil unto him that was at peace with me. Let the enemy persecute my soul and take it; yea, let him tread down my life upon the earth, and lay mine honor in the dust. Arise, O Lord, in Thine anger; lift up Thyself against the rage of mine enemies, and awaken for me the judgment that Thou hast commanded. So shall the congregation of the people compass Thee about; for their sakes, therefore, return Thou on high. The Lord shall judge the people: Judge me, O Lord, according to my righteousness and according to mine integrity that is in me. O let the wickedness of the wicked come to an end, but establish the just; for the righteous God trieth the hearts and reins."[/i] When the priest was done, a slow murmur came over the people. Zerihun found his seat just below Yaqob. Once all was still again, the horsemen saluted their Emperor. "Negusa Negast Yaqob the Second, Elect of God, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah and King of Kings of Ethiopia." their voices joined into one. Yaqob responded only with dignified silence. Once the pomp was finished, they spurred their horses and began to ride. They rode one way across the field, and then the other, and then back again, with hooves pounding heavy on the earth. Each rider had with him a number of long spear-like rods, which they grasped with one hand while holding the reigns with their other. Yaqob watched them, but he hardly saw them. There were other things on his mind. The Walinzi attempt to save his sister had failed, putting her in danger and giving the Tanganyikans all the evidence they need to prove the Ethiopian Empire was in the wrong. War had came through the Danakil and was nipping at the edges of his homeland. Everything worked to break his already fragile spirit. "What do you call all of this, your Imperial Majesty?" the Fitewrari Scott asked. He spoke a sporadic Amharic interlaced with English words to fill in the gaps. "Gugs. It is a game of war. You will see in a moment, when they get started." the riders were still riding, showing off their horsemanship and warming up. "I think the knights of the old dark ages used to do this." Scott noted. "These men do not fight like this, do they? I mean when they are on the battlefield, during the real war." "No." Yaqob smiled. "I suspect they kept their rifles with their families today." "I saw Ras Eba Gugsa ride in the gugs." Zerihun noted. His voice had a tiredness to it, as if he was worn down by the effort of remembering something from so far back. "When was this?" "Oh... so long ago that I cannot recall. Was I a boy, or a grown man?" he shook his head and smiled. "The past has all become one thing. Never mind that. I recall that the Ras was getting older. Filled with hate after the war. I remember he had a reputation for spurring his horse bloody." "Brutish man." Yaqob said. "Takes a certain kind of evil to take your problems out on a helpless horse." Scott berated the long-dead memory of the man he'd never met. Ras Rais still said nothing. He hadn't said anything since Yaqob greeted him, and even then their conversation had been formal. But that was who Rais was, and though it made it difficult to warm up to the man, it did not seem out of place or strange. He sat straight and stiff like a statue in Egypt. But it was in Yaqob's nature to bring the man into the conversation. He figured it was this way for most people in politics. A man unaddressed was an opportunity missed. "How did you find Ras Hassan on the front?" he turned to face Rais. "He is in his element on the battlefield. In the face of war he is determined." "As always. I have faith our forces will pull forward in this thing." "Faith." Zerihun said approvingly. "That is the important thing." The riders began their spectacle in earnest. Hooves kicked up fat clods of dirt and horse shit. They formed into two groups, one chasing after another, with the pursuers tossing their rods and the pursued doing their best to dodge or deflect them. Back and forth they went, pursuers becoming the pursued once they reached the end of the field. "This is an affair. One heck of an affair." the Fitawrari Scott looked amused. "If only war were this pretty." Yaqob replied. "If only." Scott said. "I have seen war. I saw it in Tennessee and Cascadia. I didn't think I would be seeing it again." "This is your third war?" Yaqob asked. For him, it was easy to forget how much had happened in America. "I might just have lost count." Scott smiled grimly. "Such a strong person, to have went through all that and still saw it fitting to join in our war." "Come from strong people." "I have heard these things, about the Negroes of America. I suppose you have been through more than I can know." "Not as much as you would think. I grew up easy." The conversation lapsed for a moment when they were distracted by the fighting. Two horses crashed into each other and brayed like harpies, but the riders held on tight. "I was directed to think that Africans had it hard in America." Yaqob continued their talk. "Most do." Scott continued. "Oh, I've been called by a few mean words in my time, but I can walk right by and forget about it. See, my grandpa owns a tool and dye shop in Alexandria, Virginia. Across the river from Washington DC. We have money, so we don't have too much trouble. It is those poor Negroes in old dixie that see the worst of it. Horrible things go on down there." "Satan is in too many places." Zerihun injected. All there was to do was to agree, and be silent. The ceremonies came to an end, but the crowds did not disperse. The warriors prepared to move, as did Yaqob's entourage and the foreign soldiers, but the villagers did not go. Instead they shouted words of encouragement and prayers. They hung religious charms on the necks of some of the men, both the shiftas and the ferengi. And they shouted to him, their Emperor, sending him a volley a prayers and praise, and making requests he could never promise to fulfill. He walked with Ras Rais and put on a strong face like that of a great war leader, though he hadn't felt prepared for the tasks ahead of him since this war began. He saw, in the crowd beyond his Imperial Guards, women with children clinging to the skirts of their white dresses, and old men who looked sorry to be past their prime now that their world was threatened. There were steely-eyed boys, manliness swelling in their skinny chests as they watched the shifta warriors walk tall with rifles and swords. The young boys would search for the war so long as it was going on, and when the opportunity came, they would become a part of it. These were his people; the people who suffered in his name, because a far away enemy chose to hate him. Could he save the nation by sacrificing himself? Was that an option open to him? He almost wanted to. To take up a cross and martyr himself for his people. But he knew it wouldn't work, that truth stood invincible at the back of his mind. If he surrendered, it would mean losing any real opportunity to be helpful, and to work for his people. But had he even worked for them at all? That question nagged at him. When they reached Ras Rais's staff car, the general turned around and bowed. "Your Imperial Majesty, be safe on your travels." Yaqob smiled. "I hope that the next time we meet, it will be in victory." "Yes." Rais said, smiling limply. "If you are in need of any assistance in evacuating Addis Ababa, I will send what I can." "I suspect you will need all of your equipment to defend our capital." Rais looked somewhat uncomfortable. It was an unusual look for him, so in seemed to translate as a look of pain. "I fear I will not have the opportunity to defend the capital. If Hassan fails at Dire Dawa, my forces will be the only thing between Spain and the rest of the country." "I am not a military man, so I will not contradict your orders, but is the capitol not priority?" "The capitol can move to Gondar. Most of it already has. And now it is cut off from the coast, Addis Ababa makes a poor industrial city. If I were to move my forces into the Awash valley, then I would be drawn into a fight where I and the enemy are on equal footing. The highlands are more defensible." Yaqob felt as if he had been struck down by Rais's words. "I will confer with Hassan when I get a chance." he waved. "The Chinese have offered to help with the evacuation. We will work out what part the military shall play when it comes time to do it." Rais bowed again and climbed into the car. Yaqob watched it go down the road, wheels spinning in slick mud. The wet coolness in the air was beginning to feel like a numbing chill. The Emperor met with Mvulu, Zerihun and the Ferengi Fitawrari. They climbed on horses - easier to see the country from, and more inspiring to the people who lived near the Awash. It had been Yaqob's idea a first; a gimmick that would look royal to the average peasant, and would allow them to truly drink in their surroundings. When the Fitawrari Scott explained that he had never once rode a horse, they found him a mild pony that required very little guidance from the rider. Troop trucks carried the the Ferengi Internationals, while Zerihun, Scott, Mvulu, and Yaqob rode on ahead along with Yaqob's Imperial Guards. Mvulu's peg-leg was strapped to his saddle by a device he had made custom for the job. They rode over the descending savanna of the Awash valley as it faded toward the Danakil. This was a place of rolling grassland and sparse acacia trees. It was still not unheard of to see wild asses grazing in the shade of those trees, though most wildlife had been scared away by the Ethiopian caravan so that Yaqob saw nothing but some birds and lizards. "What is your faith, Fitawrari Scott?" The Priest spoke. "Methodist. Born and raised in the Hunting Creek 1st Methodist Church." "American Protestant. We are brothers in one faith then. Our church and your church shares one God." "I suppose it does." "Tell me then, what part does your churches play in the racial fighting in your land?" The Fitawrari grinned wide. "Every part on God's big old earth. The Black churches fight the good fight. We send food and money down to the southern black churches so they can help their people. My pastor met with your countryman on a march in Jacksonville commemorating the race strikes from back when Dixie was a country." "Our countryman?" Zerihun questioned. "An Ethiopian?" "[i]The Ethiopian[/i] is what they call him. I do not know much about the man." "I have heard of him." Yaqob spoke up. "A good man, putting his all into a good cause. If I had a legion of such men, this war would be over before the rivers dry up." Yaqob did not speak the whole truth. He could not tell him how the Walinzi had warned Yaqob of the man who called himself the [i]'Ethiopian'[/i], and how his continued crusade for Negro rights in America could ruin US-Ethiopian relations. It had been their recommendation he write a letter to the President of the United States denying Pan-African support for this "Ethiopian." The letter had never been written, but that did not mean Yaqob hadn't seriously considered it. He wondered again if he was the right leader for his people. "We'll find another way to end this war then. Even if we have to fight us some fights in dry rivers." Yaqob smiled, but he found it hard to say anything. His mind was still overwhelmed by the news of his sister, and what Ras Rais had said about abandoning Addis Ababa if Hassan fails. The war had hung heavy on his every moment for months, stinging at his chest and dragging down his thoughts. Now it was extremely urgent. He could hear the sound of the axe swinging above his head, and it was coming down on all their necks. "There are churches in the south that help persecute southern negroes." Scott said. "It was two years back I read about a church that lynched itself few young boys for an supposed crime against one of their daughters." "Vigilante justice. Shifta justice." Zerihun reflected. His eyes glazed as if he were turning his vision inward. "They were twelve. Both of them were. Brothers. Twins I reckon. They hung them from the steeple. Your Imperial Majesty, that is why I am here. If I went down to be some sort of hammer of justice in the south, its would cause trouble for my kin back home. Feds would snoop around my granddad's shop. And what type of fight could I give? If John Brown's ghost don't rise up with the banner of the Lord's vengeance in his hand, then fighting violent ain't going to get anybody nowhere. That's a battle for lawyers and politicians, and men like that "Ethiopian" who can fight that way. I know the soldier way of fighting. And I can do that here, against the type of injustice I know how to fight. Shoot the bastards, leave'em in the field, and shoot me some more." "Then we count you as our brother, Fitewrari Scott." Yaqob said. "And I am glad to be your brother, your Imperial Majesty." -- They slept at the edge of the southern highlands, under tents like the nomad kings of history. Kilometers on horseback had worked Yaqob's thighs sore. He struggled to sleep. Sometime after midnight a light rain fell on their camp. He could feel the air get colder within moments, and the patter of rain on canvas made it harder to sleep. But it was not just the climate that kept him awake. He was consumed by a tingling inevitability, like victory was an impossible thing he chased because he had no other option. It was all in vain. He thought of the wrong he had done: overthrowing Sahle, looking the other way as Hassan mutilated children in far away Katanga, presenting the head of the Rouge General at a banquet in a fit of fevered zeal. He had always meant to do right, but circumstances never let him. That was no excuse. There were no excuses; sin was sin. What would the priest say about that? Could the judgement of God be pulled back? Or was it too late? Once dead, the executed man couldn't be stitched back together. Even God's judgement, at some point, had to be counted as irrevocable. When the night seemed deepest and the rain coldest, he thought he heard airplanes in the distance. A soft hum barely audible above the rain. Pain danced in his chest, just below the scar. He needed to let it all go. It was still dark when the Emperor found the priest's tent. Zerihun stirred easily. He lit a match, and then a candle. A vulnerable light filled that simple tent. The Emperor sat down on the floor. He was struggling to keep his emotions in check. "I am doing wrong, father. People die and I am to blame." Zerihun's face was protective in the flickering light. It was a look that made Yaqob feel like a little boy, and the tears trickled in spite of him. "The enemy says that I am all they want. That it is what I have done... my policies, that is what they come to destroy. I fear what it would mean for me if I surrendered myself. But it would be easier for this country." "No, child." Zerihun spoke. The familiarity of his speech both stung at Yaqob's pride and made him feel warm. He said nothing, and Zerihun continued to speak. "The easy path is not the best path to take. This is true with one person, and it is true with many. What is difficult is worth doing. Think of the first man who thought to sow a crop. His neighbors would have said [i]'What a fool you are. Grain grows in the summer, and we can eat our fill. That people must starve in the winter is unavoidable, that is the way it has been since the beginning of time. Do not try to capture the grain, but pray with us for the return of the good days in our ancestors time when fewer starved.'[/i] But the man planted seeds, and he learned by his mistakes. He did not, when the first crop failed, say [i]'This is the end of my endeavor, because this thing cannot be done.'[/i] He tried again. And in trying, he made the world a better place. Men have to struggle for their world to improve. And so do Emperors. Surrendering is easy, but it wouldn't do any good for your people." It was what Yaqob had hoped to hear, and he wept openly. Zerihun prayed with him until dawn. When the sun came over the hillside, and the Ethiopians were awake, they set off again. Yaqob did not feel at peace, but that was fine. He would do as he had done in Addis Ababa before Ras Rais had told him the bad news. He would take his discomfort and put it to work. If he had been a bad leader in the past, then he would leave that in the past. He would not dwell. Instead, he would use his fear as wind for his sails. The countryside was dusty and brush-scattered. Villages built from mud and twig stood quiet between dry river beds. One village they passed had a Mosque built out of bundled sticks, with a minaret that looked like the spindled finger of a jungle forest God pointing at a dry desert sky. Near midday, they passed a copse of trees near a trickling river bed. Flakes of white covered their leaves like a dusting of European snow. An Imperial guardsman hopped from his horse to inspect the strange material. He brushed a finger across the top of a leave, inspected it, rolled it with his thumb, and then licked it. "Ash." he said. Zerihun looked knowingly. "It is silent now, but on a typical day a dry wind prevails south across the Danakil." Yaqob understood. "Djibouti is just north of here." "Nearly." They all looked at the trees uncomfortably; the guardsman with the ashen finger most of all. There was no wind now, and the trees were silent as granite. The caravan pressed on. The world became ominous to them after the trees. A thin haze filled the sky, like the smog left by city life. The air smelled smokey. There were times, not often, where a faint rumble could be heard in the distance. It sounded like thunder in the desert. Storms were rare in the Danakil, but they were not unheard of. But there was also war out there, they all knew that, and each time the sound was heard, battle was all anybody could imagine. "I do not know what America is like." Zerihun broke the uncomfortable silence with the American Fitewrari. "But I hear it is a green land. This must all look horrible to you." "It got it's own kind of beauty." The Fitewrari said. "The Afar is where they unearthed the oldest human skeletons ever found." Yaqob noted. "Humanity might have very well started in this place." "My momma told me man came about in Eden." Scott replied. "This don't look like any kind of garden I've seen." "This land has changed." Zerihun "The deserts have not always been deserts. Even gardens wilt, my friend." "Now father, are you telling me that God done let paradise wilt?" Scott teased. "I suppose he must have." Zerihun replied. "Where else could it have gone?" The smell of smoke grew thicker as morning became afternoon. The haze was heavy on the air now, like a film of dust on glass. There were flashes flickering to the east, and the occasional disembodied sound of battle. Yaqob had never experienced these things. Battle, for him, had always been a distant idea. He had no interest in entering it, but he had made up his mind that he would get close enough to see it. Was it honor that drove him? Or curiosity? He couldn't tell. "You Imperial Majesty, I think we should prepare to turn back." Mvulu asked anxiously. "Not until it is time. I will decide when I am ready." "That is very good, your majesty. But I must remind you that your guard cannot protect you from a Spanish army." "We will not get that close." Yaqob promised. "But if I turn back now, I will feel incomplete." They were near enough now that the throb of big guns could be felt. Small-arms fire could be heard just below the gentle purr of the wind. The air smelled unnatural - chemical, and metallic, with the haze of smoke now so oppressive that it made him feel hemmed in. Mvulu sent some of the guard to scout ahead, accompanied by a couple of the Shiftas in their party. Planes flew overhead. Yaqob did not know who they belonged too, but they made everybody nervous. "Your majesty." Mvulu said as the horses whinnied and stamped. "I cannot protect you from enemy planes. We should turn back now." "These horses cannot outrun aircraft." Yaqob replied. "We must trust in our fates." The other men said nothing. There was a sense, shared among them all, that speaking might attract the enemy. It wasn't realistic - the enemy was still far away - but the feeling was enough to make everyone silent. It was the horses, not too proud to snort and cry at the sinister atmosphere, and the burly hum of diesel engines, that made all the noise for them. But those were paltry sounds compared to the nearby battle. The riders returned and told them that there was a makeshift field-hospital just over the rise. They were on the very edge of the war now. Yaqob quickened the pace of his horse. He wanted to see this thing and be done with it. He climbed the precipice of the hill. What he saw on the other side was the ugliness he had expected. Dirty, ragged, and broken scattered on the open ground. On the far horizon was fire and choking-black smoke "Oh god." the Emperor said. The words felt like a whisper in his throat, but it had been loud enough for the priest to hear. "Shall the sword devour forever?" Zerihun murmured in a voice that was thoughtful and somber. They rode down the hill. [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jm3LEmFFj2g](Optional Music)[/url] Yaqob could see in the distance a valley filled with smoke and fire. Dire Dawa was only a shadow in the fog of war. His first face-to-face image of war was hideous, but it wasn't far away battle that took his attention. Once he started to process everything he was seeing, it was the people in the camp below him that he saw. Wounded, broken, and used up, they leaned against smashed tanks and armored trucks shot up so bad they were near unrecognizable. The women and old men of a nearby village had arrived on the scene with buckets of water, which they served to the wounded in humble clay bowls. The women were ripping at the hems of their skirts to create makeshift bandages. All of them, the soldiers and the villagers, looked up at him one by one with faces confused and hesitant. When they realized he was their Emperor, their countenance changed. There was awe, and shame, and fear, and the tired looks of men who had given up. Others looked prideful or rejuvenated, the sight of their nation personified in the flesh waking them up from their defeat. Yaqob began to weep, but this time he did not weep for himself; He wept for his people. "I think we can take it from here, your Majesty." the ferengi Fitewrari said. He looked stoic, calm, and his dignity gave strength to Yaqob. The Internationals started to unload and form up. What happened to them now Yaqob did not know. He saw the Shiftas heading in their own directions. Yaqob was now alone, with his guards, and the damaged men surrounding them. "Could we use the trucks to move them?" Yaqob asked. "I don't think we can do much." Mvulu explained. "We might be looking at deserters. I don't know." Yaqob took a slow, deep breath. "Maybe. Lend them the trucks though. We have no need of them." He rode out among them. There were bloodied soldiers, and those with no noticeable wounds. Some burned, others marked by ash. They all looked to him with their own personal forms of curiosity. It was situations like this, the powerful moments, where Yaqob did best. His heart was stirred. He spoke. "I am so very proud of you all!" he said. The words came slowly as he thought about what he would say. "Seeing what you will do, I have faith our people will survive until the last days of the world!" "We are losing this battle, your majesty." an anonymous voice shouted out from among the people. Losing. That stung at Yaqob's confidence, but he could not let his people see it. He was silent for a brief moment, where only the thumping artillery could be heard. "You have lost one great battle, but that does not mean you have lost everything. You enemies and your friends have seen what you can do. If your ancestors could see what you have done for your country, they would crawl from their graves at Segale, and Adwa, and Magdala, and they would shout your names join you on the battle line! Be proud of yourselves, my sons. Remember what I said today when you witness the last invader leave our continent forever. Our children, and our children's children, will remember you all as the generation that saved the world!" There was a weak cheer and ululation, weak because the wounded themselves were weak, but it gave Yaqob a surge of hope. No one defeat was total defeat. He was confident his country would be in this fight until the end.