At fourteen, Tafari was no longer treated as a boy in the household of Ras Makonnen. His tutors now addressed him with the deference owed to a young noble, and his presence in the hall was expected, not indulged. Yet with his rising stature came greater risk: the eyes upon him were no longer only Ethiopian.
That year, Harar hosted delegations from Britain and France, both eager to secure influence in the Horn of Africa. Ras Makonnen, trusted general of the Emperor, was tasked with negotiating trade and security. Tafari was allowed to observe, sitting silently at his father's side.
The British envoy, a stiff man in a pressed uniform, spoke with careful politeness. "Ethiopia is a proud kingdom, but without modern weapons and railways, she cannot defend herself against less… benevolent neighbors."
The French envoy, not to be outdone, leaned forward. "Our friendship is older, and France has no interest in conquest. Only in cooperation, in the exchange of culture and goods."
Tafari studied them both, noting their posture, their tone, their choice of words. Both speak of friendship, but both smell of ambition. He remembered his past life, the treaties signed in desperation, the betrayals that followed. Ethiopia had been carved at the edges by such smiles.
Later that evening, while the court dined, Tafari whispered to his first follower, "The British push weapons. The French push words. Both seek control. Record this."
The boy nodded, scribbling Tafari's observations on a scrap of parchment. By morning, those notes had found their way discreetly to Ras Makonnen, who adjusted his negotiations accordingly.
When the envoys next pressed for exclusive concessions, Ras Makonnen replied with calm strength: "Ethiopia will take from both of you, but we will not be beholden to either."
The British frowned, the French smiled thinly—but Tafari saw the truth in both faces. They will not give up. They never do.
In the weeks that followed, Tafari began studying European languages with greater intensity. He practiced Italian and French phrases until his tongue could mimic their sounds. His first follower often acted as a partner, repeating words back until Tafari perfected them. "Language," he explained, "is not only words—it is power. A man who understands your tongue cannot be easily deceived."
The nobles noticed his diligence. Some muttered that he wasted time on foreign books; others whispered that his talent might one day match his father's. Tafari let them whisper. He knew that every page read, every phrase learned, was another weapon sharpened.
One afternoon, during a break from lessons, Tafari was approached by a young officer in the service of Ras Makonnen. "Prince," the man said cautiously, "some of the court say you watch too closely. They say foreigners will see you as a rival before you are even a man."
Tafari studied him, then replied in careful Amharic, "If they fear me now, they will respect me later. And if the foreigners notice me, it means they already see Ethiopia's strength."
The officer bowed, unsettled by the boy's composure.
That evening, Tafari confided in his first follower. "The foreigners come with smiles, but their eyes measure our weakness. We must learn to measure theirs." Together, they reviewed the envoy's gestures, tone, and word choices, decoding hidden intentions. It became their new game: reading the masks of men.
By the year's end, Tafari's reputation had grown. He was no longer just Ras Makonnen's son—he was the boy who listened to foreigners and understood them better than they liked. Some nobles began quietly seeking his counsel, disguising it as curiosity, while others grew jealous.
One night, Ras Makonnen summoned him privately. "Tafari," his father said, his voice heavy, "I know what you do. Your notes, your whispers, your eyes upon men—they guide more than you admit. This is good. But it is also dangerous. Remember this: foreigners will use even a boy if it suits them, and destroy him if it does not. You must be sharper than their knives."
Tafari bowed deeply. Father, I was born in another age. I have already seen their knives.
As he lay in bed, staring at the flickering lantern, Tafari reflected: The world beyond Ethiopia stirs. Its claws reach for us through envoys, merchants, and treaties. If we are not vigilant, we will be swallowed. I will not allow it.
He clenched his small fist beneath the blanket. Ethiopia must stand not as prey but as a lion among jackals. To achieve that, I must grow faster, sharper, stronger.
The boy closed his eyes, already dreaming of the day when he would face foreign kings not as a silent observer, but as the voice of Ethiopia itself.