The air in Harar carried the smell of spice and dust, the mingling scents of trade that had traveled from the Red Sea to the far corners of the Horn of Africa. Young Tafari Makonnen, fifteen now, had grown into a boy whose eyes held both the brightness of youth and the shadows of a man twice his age. He was still lean, but his movements carried a quiet poise. In court, whispers followed him — the boy who listened more than he spoke, who remembered more than others forgot.
And already, enemies had begun to notice.
That summer, his father Ras Makonnen had entrusted him with a delicate task. A letter had been written to the court in Addis Ababa, a correspondence meant for Emperor Menelik II's advisors. Tafari was to act as a courier and witness, ensuring that the message — concerning the allocation of land revenues — arrived untouched.
It was meant to be a small responsibility, a test of trust. But in the empire, small things often revealed larger truths.
Tafari had always suspected envy from the sons of other nobles. He was, after all, a governor's son — well educated, fluent in French and Ge'ez, and a favorite among priests who saw in him a boy unusually devout. His seriousness made others uneasy, particularly those who preferred laughter, wine, and the easy spoils of privilege.
Among them was Gebru, a cousin through distant ties, two years older and already nursing ambitions beyond his station. Gebru smiled often, spoke sweetly, but Tafari had learned to watch the eyes, not the lips.
When Gebru volunteered to "help" Tafari carry the sealed letter to the capital, Tafari's heart tightened. He wanted to refuse, but he was young, and his father had taught him to avoid unnecessary insult. So he agreed.
On the road, the betrayal unfolded.
At a caravan stop near Awash, Gebru slipped away under the pretense of tending to the horses. Tafari, alert, followed at a distance — and saw him crouched near the firelight, breaking the wax seal of the imperial letter. His cousin's fingers trembled as he unfolded the parchment, eyes greedy for the words within.
Tafari felt his throat tighten. This was not mischief. This was treachery.
"You dishonor yourself, Gebru," Tafari said, his voice cutting the quiet.
Gebru flinched, then turned with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Little cousin… you misunderstand. I only wished to make sure the letter was safe. Surely your father would not entrust you with such matters without another's guidance."
Tafari stepped closer, each word chosen with care. "My father entrusted me. Not you. What you do now is theft — and worse, betrayal of Menelik's trust. Do you wish to stand accused of treason before the court?"
The older boy sneered. "You speak like a priest, Tafari. Always so holy, so clever. Do you think they will praise you for this? The court does not reward purity. It rewards strength — and those willing to seize what they desire."
Tafari's chest burned, but he kept his face calm. "Strength without honor is rot. And rot eats from within."
For a moment, silence. Gebru's hands shook as he folded the letter again, sealing it clumsily. Tafari took it back, his eyes never leaving the boy's face.
That night, sleep did not come easily. Tafari lay awake beneath the star-pricked sky, his mind replaying the scene. He was fifteen, but within him, the memory of another lifetime stirred — the echo of Dawit Mekonnen, the old historian who had once watched Ethiopia fall apart under betrayal after betrayal. He remembered the Red Terror. The executions. The way ambition and greed had consumed a nation's soul.
And now, here it was again, not in the future but in the present — in his own family's blood.
This was his first true betrayal. Not the careless lies of childhood, not the petty cruelties of rivals. This was treachery aimed at the empire itself, a willingness to sacrifice the greater good for personal advantage.
The pain stung, not because Gebru had been close — but because Tafari realized how common this would become. If at fifteen he was betrayed, what of thirty, forty, fifty? Could one ever rule without being surrounded by daggers in the dark?
The caravan reached Addis Ababa without further incident, and the letter was delivered intact. Tafari spoke nothing of Gebru's treachery, not yet. He merely noted it — etched it into memory.
But that night, alone in his quarters, he wrote in his small leather-bound book: "A man without loyalty is dangerous. A nation without loyalty is doomed. Trust, once broken, cannot be mended with ease. I must learn who is faithful — and who is not. This lesson I shall never forget".
His hand trembled slightly as he closed the book, but his heart grew steadier. He was only fifteen, but already, betrayal had taught him a truth his father had not spoken aloud: to rule Ethiopia, one must know not only how to inspire loyalty — but how to survive treachery.
And as he stared into the flickering light of the oil lamp, Tafari swore silently:
Never again would betrayal catch him unprepared.