The palace felt larger now than it had when Tafari had first arrived in the world, though in truth, only he had grown. At seven years old, his body was slender, still a child in the eyes of the palace, but his mind had matured far beyond what any tutor could measure. His small fingers traced maps and diagrams, his eyes absorbing patterns and relationships, while his heart carried the weight of centuries he had lived as Dawit Mekonnen.
The mornings began early, with the clatter of servants preparing breakfast and the distant echo of soldiers drilling in the courtyard. Tafari's day, however, was different. It began not with play, but with observation. He would sit beside his father, Ras Makonnen, watching how the adults maneuvered around one another—how words could be as sharp as swords, how a gesture could signal submission or defiance.
"Your Highness," said Abba Tekle, his tutor, one morning as Tafari finished tracing the northern provinces on a parchment map, "we will begin lessons in diplomacy and languages today. Knowledge of foreign tongues is as important as knowledge of one's own land."
Tafari's eyes lit up. Languages. Words are weapons, and I intend to wield them before I can even walk into a court.
As Abba Tekle began teaching Amharic, Tigrinya, and Italian, Tafari absorbed them rapidly, repeating words perfectly, mimicking intonation, tone, and cadence. His mind mapped them, connecting phrases with the intentions behind them: commands, requests, flattery, threats. By the end of the week, he could read simple Italian documents brought from the Emperor's archives, understanding not only the words but the subtle political nuances between them.
One afternoon, while the palace was unusually quiet, Tafari called the servant boy, his first follower, to sit beside him.
"Watch," Tafari gestured toward a set of letters from Menelik's court, "read the words carefully, not just the letters. See what is asked, what is expected, and what is left unsaid."
The boy nodded eagerly, and together, they began dissecting messages, noting which envoys were trustworthy, which provinces were loyal, and where subtle discontent might fester. Tafari's tiny fingers pointed to names, and the boy wrote down notes with the careful precision of a scholar.
Tafari's father watched from a distance, curious. "He teaches, even at this age," Ras Makonnen murmured. "He sees more than most men twice his age."
By the end of the week, Tafari had done more than memorize languages. He had created a small mental network, linking provinces, officials, and foreign envoys in intricate chains of cause and effect. Every move, every word, every decision could ripple outward, and Tafari already began calculating those ripples.
But boyhood was not only lessons and observation. Tafari began to test the limits of his small body. He ran through the courtyards, agile and careful, imitating the soldiers, learning the rhythm of their drills, noting weak points in formations. Though too young to hold a sword properly, he watched the handling of weapons, memorized the names of rifles and cannons, and even began to design rudimentary strategies on paper with the servant boy's help.
One afternoon, a visitor arrived—a young noble from a nearby province, barely older than Tafari, sent by his father to begin alliances for the future. The boy carried himself with confidence, not yet arrogant, and bowed politely to Tafari.
"My prince," he said, "I have come to serve and learn under your guidance, if you permit it."
Tafari observed him quietly, eyes sharp, reading the boy's posture, the sincerity in his tone, and the subtle pride that could either aid or hinder loyalty. He reached out his hand—a small, deliberate gesture—and the boy mirrored it, understanding immediately.
Another ally. Another mind aligned with mine, Tafari thought.
Over the following months, Tafari began to cultivate these young followers. He taught them observation, patience, and loyalty. He taught them the subtle power of influence—not through orders, but through understanding. Even at eight years old, he was orchestrating lessons, assigning tasks, and slowly building a miniature network that mirrored the court he would one day command.
Yet, the palace was not without its dangers. Some adults whispered that the prince was precocious, even unsettling. "A child who watches too much, who questions too much," one courtier murmured, "can be a danger if left unchecked."
Tafari's historian mind recognized the risk. Observation was power, but exposure could also provoke envy or fear. He learned to temper his display of intelligence, revealing insights only when necessary, letting the adults believe their decisions were their own, even when guided subtly by his unseen hand.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains and painted the palace walls gold, Tafari's mother found him kneeling beside his small group of followers. They were arranging stones on a map of Ethiopia, representing provinces, resources, and potential threats.
"Why do you spend so much time with them, Tafari?" she asked softly.
He looked up, his young face solemn. Though he could not yet explain the depth of his understanding, he gestured toward the map.
We are learning. We are preparing. Ethiopia's future depends on knowledge, loyalty, and foresight.
His mother nodded, sensing that this boy, though small, carried the weight of destiny in his eyes. "Very well, my little lion. But remember, patience must temper your ambition."
Tafari did not speak, but in his heart, he whispered: Patience is a tool, as important as strategy. But the world will not wait for me to grow. I must act wisely, even in these small ways.
Night fell, and the children were finally led to their quarters. Tafari lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He reflected on the day—the alliances, the lessons, the observation, the strategies he had begun to form. He imagined the Italy he had read about in the history of his past life, the ambitions of European powers, and the vulnerability of Ethiopia.
I will prepare them. I will teach them. And when the time comes, we will not be caught unready again. Not like last time. Not like history has always done to us.
And as the stars blinked above the highlands, the boy who carried the soul of an old man slept fitfully, dreaming of a nation that would rise under his guidance, beginning now, in the quiet corners of Ras Makonnen's palace.