At ten years old, Tafari's days became more structured. Mornings were spent in the courtyard, observing soldiers as they drilled in preparation for campaigns across the northern provinces. Though he was still small, he studied the formations, memorized the names and functions of every weapon, and noted the efficiency—or inefficiency—of every commander.
"Prince Tafari," said Abba Tekle one morning, "today you will accompany the soldiers. Watch, and try to understand why they move as they do. A general must see both the forest and the trees."
Tafari's eyes sparkled with anticipation. As they approached the training grounds, the clatter of hooves and the metallic ring of swords filled the air. He crouched low, studying each maneuver, noting the rhythm, the timing, and the communication among ranks. Every misstep, every hesitation, became a lesson.
A young officer approached, slightly annoyed at the presence of a child. "Prince, this is dangerous. You should not be here."
Tafari looked at him steadily, the weight of centuries in his gaze. Danger is observation, and observation is power. The officer hesitated, sensing the depth of awareness in those small eyes. Without speaking, Tafari gestured toward a formation flaw he had noted. The officer paused, then adjusted the line. The soldiers moved more efficiently, as if guided by an unseen hand.
By mid-afternoon, Tafari returned to his chambers, where his first follower waited with fresh maps and parchment. Together, they drew diagrams of troop formations, supply lines, and potential battlegrounds. The boy was now skilled enough to interpret Tafari's subtle gestures, transforming ideas into written plans.
"You understand," Tafari thought silently, "that knowledge without action is wasted. Strategy is useless if it cannot be communicated."
His mother entered quietly, observing the two boys. "Tafari," she said softly, "you spend so much time with plans and soldiers. Do not forget the people themselves. They are the heart of Ethiopia, not just maps and armies."
Tafari nodded. Though he could not yet express the thought aloud, he understood. Strength comes from both the sword and the heart. A kingdom cannot survive with only one or the other.
In the weeks that followed, Tafari's education expanded further. Tutors arrived to teach mathematics, history, and geography in greater depth. They marveled at his capacity to memorize every detail, not only of Ethiopia but of surrounding regions, foreign powers, and European military tactics. Tafari would quiz his first follower on the names of foreign generals, the location of ports, and the strengths of neighboring armies. By doing so, he ensured that knowledge was not idle but shared, creating a network of minds aligned with his vision.
One afternoon, a delegation from the southern provinces arrived. The local chiefs were anxious, worried about taxation and military levies. Ras Makonnen greeted them with dignity, but Tafari observed keenly. He noted the way the chiefs avoided eye contact, the subtle hesitations in their speech, the pride that prevented them from admitting weakness.
Tafari gestured quietly to his first follower, pointing to names on a map and signaling likely allies among the chiefs. The boy nodded, recording observations carefully. Later, Tafari would use these notes to suggest strategies to Ras Makonnen—not through words, but through gestures and subtle indications.
"Prince Tafari has noted a detail that might aid our discussion," Ras Makonnen said one evening, holding up the parchment the boy had copied. "Even at his age, he teaches us to see what we overlook."
The nobles exchanged glances. Some were impressed, others wary, sensing that this boy carried influence beyond what was proper. Tafari's historian mind cataloged this too: Power draws attention. Attention draws envy. Subtlety is survival.
As months passed, Tafari's body grew stronger alongside his mind. He practiced horseback riding, archery, and basic swordsmanship. He learned to understand terrain, weather, and logistics—factors that could tip the scales in any campaign. Yet, all physical lessons were paired with mental exercises: mapping enemy movements, calculating supply needs, and predicting outcomes of diplomatic encounters.
By the age of eleven, Tafari had become a quiet force within the palace. Adults deferred to his observations more often than they realized, while the children he mentored began carrying small insights into the wider court. His first follower was now his trusted lieutenant in miniature operations, capable of acting independently under Tafari's direction.
One evening, after a day of observing troop maneuvers and reviewing provincial reports, Tafari sat on the balcony overlooking the highlands. The stars were bright, cold, and distant, yet to him they were reminders of Ethiopia's place in the world—vulnerable, watched, yet proud.
I have learned much, he thought. But there is still so much to understand. Strategy, loyalty, diplomacy… all must be mastered before Ethiopia can rise again. I will prepare. I will wait. And when the time comes, my people will follow.
He glanced at his first follower, who sat quietly beside him, holding maps and notes. One mind joined to another can multiply power. Loyalty must be nurtured, understanding must be shared. This is the beginning of what will be Ethiopia's strength.
In that quiet moment, Tafari understood something crucial: leadership was not in titles or commands, but in foresight and subtle guidance. His boyhood, though marked by the limitations of youth, was the foundation of a lifetime dedicated to Ethiopia's survival and greatness.
And so, the young prince, a historian reborn in the body of a boy, continued his preparation—mind, body, and network all sharpened—knowing that one day, Ethiopia would face challenges that only he, armed with knowledge across time, could navigate.