Year: 1880
The candle had burned to half its length.
Osarobo sat cross-legged on the floor, speaking in fragments—short, precise, wasting nothing.
"Chief Osaro. Head of Iwebo. Controls palace administration. Twenty years building his position."
Akenzua took notes on palm bark. "His power base?"
"Traditional chiefs. Old families. The ones who fear change more than they fear enemies."
"Numbers?"
"Fifteen chiefs follow him directly. Another thirty lean his way. The rest wait to see who wins."
"And the military?"
"Ezomo commands the professional soldiers. Loyal to the throne, not to factions. But some officers owe Osaro favors."
"The guilds?"
Osarobo's eyes flickered. "Most nobles don't ask about guilds."
"Most nobles are fools. The guilds have skills, materials, organization."
"They keep to themselves. Own politics, own hierarchies. Most don't care about court matters until court matters affect their trade."
"What does Osaro want?"
"What all old men want. For things to stay the same."
"And what threatens that?"
The boy looked at him directly. "You do."
---
Oronmwen moved like a dancer.
Akenzua watched from the shadows at the edge of the training grounds. His brother practiced with a spear, driving through combat forms—quick thrusts, fluid dodges. At fifteen, Oronmwen was everything a prince should be: graceful, traditional, beloved by the court.
The training session ended. Oronmwen noticed Akenzua watching.
"Brother. Your form has improved."
"Has it?" Oronmwen's voice was cool. "You notice such things now?"
"I notice many things since the fever."
"The court is full of whispers about you. The prince who woke up different."
"And what do you say?"
Oronmwen's jaw tightened. "Before you fell ill, you knew my training schedule. You came to watch. We talked about what kind of Oba you would be. After, you looked at me like a stranger."
"The fever took things from me, Oronmwen."
"But not your ambition."
"No. That grew."
Oronmwen picked up his spear. "Chief Osaro has been kind to me lately. Teaching me about court politics."
A cold warning stirred in Akenzua's gut.
"What have you learned?"
"That the court is a battlefield. That some think a prince who woke up strange might not be fit to rule." His eyes met Akenzua's. "He offered me something, brother. A proposal."
"What proposal?"
"He said if I were to... raise concerns about your fitness. If I were to suggest to the council that the fever left you unbalanced. There would be support for an alternative succession."
The words hit like a blade.
"And you're telling me this because?"
"Because I haven't decided what to do." Oronmwen's voice cracked. "I used to love my brother. Now I'm talking to a stranger who wears his face. But that stranger just warned me about dangers I couldn't see. So maybe..." He trailed off.
"Give me time. Watch what I build. Then decide."
"How much time?"
"Three months. By the next full moon ceremony, you'll know whether I'm worth following or worth replacing."
Oronmwen hesitated. Then he clasped Akenzua's forearm.
Not an alliance. But not an enemy either.
A clock had started. Three months to prove himself—or lose his brother to Osaro's faction.
---
The Portuguese traders arrived at midday.
Three men in European dress, bearing gifts and news from the coast. Akenzua watched from the edges of the court as the Oba received them.
One trader spoke about trade routes. But something in his tone—a subtle probing—set off alarm bells.
The junior trader muttered to his companion. Too quiet for most to hear.
"O principe parece interessado. Cuidado com o que diz."
The words registered before he could stop them—decades of intelligence briefings, of learning Portuguese for operations in Lusophone Africa. The general's training surfaced like muscle memory.
Without thinking, Akenzua responded.
"Nao ha necessidade de cautela. Meus interesses sao puramente comerciais."
The silence was immediate.
Every Portuguese face turned to him. Eyes wide with shock.
"Your Highness speaks our language?"
"The ancestors were generous during my illness."
Chief Osaro appeared at his elbow. "The prince speaks Portuguese now. How remarkable."
"The ancestors are generous."
"One wonders what other gifts they've provided."
"Perhaps the diviners could answer that."
Akenzua walked away.
The risk had been calculated. The Portuguese would report to their superiors that Benin's prince understood their language—which might make them more cautious about private conversations near Benin ears.
The cost was immediate.
"Prince Akenzua." The lead Portuguese trader followed him into the corridor. His courtesy was gone, replaced by cold assessment. "I am Senior Factor Antonio de Melo. I represent interests in Lisbon that have watched Benin with care for many years."
"And?"
"And they will be... interested to learn that the prince has acquired unusual skills. They will wonder how. They will investigate."
"Let them investigate."
"You misunderstand." De Melo stepped closer. "Investigation by my superiors is not the same as investigation by your court. We have resources. Reach. The ability to make problems for those who interest us."
"Is that a threat?"
"It is information. Do with it what you will."
De Melo walked away.
Akenzua had made an enemy. One with connections to European powers, with resources beyond what Osaro commanded. One small win—demonstrating language ability—had created a new danger.
---
The Islamic scholars from Sokoto entered with deliberate ceremony. Five men. The lead scholar carried himself like the smartest person in any room.
Mallam Ibrahim.
The formal greetings began. Then Ibrahim produced a scroll covered in dense Arabic script.
"We have prepared terms. The Oba will wish to have this translated."
Benin doesn't have Arabic scholars. He knows this.
The Oba turned to his advisors. Silence. The court's weakness exposed publicly.
"May I examine the document, Father?"
Every head turned.
The Oba's eyes narrowed. This was a risk—if Akenzua failed, the court's humiliation doubled. But if he refused, the humiliation stood.
"Proceed."
Akenzua took the scroll. The Arabic came easier than the Portuguese had—years of working with Middle Eastern allies, of reading intelligence reports from Cairo and Baghdad.
Trade rights. Passage authorization. And clause four—"goods of strategic value shall flow freely between signatories."
Treaty language. The general had seen a hundred versions of this same ambiguity.
"Honored scholar," he said in Arabic, "clause four troubles me. Does this include military materials under Caliphate interpretation?"
Dead silence.
"The prince... speaks the language of the Prophet?"
"The question stands."
Ibrahim's eyes narrowed. "The phrase is traditional. Trade goods of significant worth."
"And if those goods include iron ore? Finished weapons? Information about European movements?"
A slight smile touched Ibrahim's lips. "The prince interprets aggressively."
"The prince interprets accurately. Ambiguity in treaties favors the party with greater power to enforce preferred interpretations. I would prefer clarity."
The Oba watched this exchange with an expression Akenzua couldn't read. Pride? Fear? Suspicion?
"We will discuss the specific terms in private council," the Oba said finally. "The prince will assist with translation."
Afterward, Ibrahim caught Akenzua in the corridor.
"You humiliated me in front of your court. Deliberately."
"I protected my kingdom's interests. If that humiliated you, perhaps your terms were unfair to begin with."
"Perhaps." Ibrahim studied him. "Or perhaps you are exactly what the rumors describe—something that woke up wearing a prince's face but carrying knowledge no prince should have."
"What do the rumors say I am?"
"They say many things. Possessed. Blessed. Cursed. What interests me is what you might become."
"And what might that be?"
"An ally. Or an enemy." Ibrahim produced a folded paper. "This arrived from agents in Cairo. European diplomatic communications."
Akenzua unfolded it. French text.
Conference proposed. Berlin. Major European powers to establish rules for African territorial claims. Timing: within the year.
"Within the year," Akenzua said quietly. "They're moving faster than I thought."
"The Caliph would be interested in comparing visions."
"What would such sharing look like?"
"Information exchange. Warning of threats. Perhaps more, if trust develops."
Akenzua met Ibrahim's eyes. "Tell the Caliph that Benin remembers who its true enemies are. The Europeans are coming for all of us. Everything else is negotiable."
---
"Portuguese. Arabic. And you spoke of Berlin in open council."
The Oba's private chambers were smaller than the throne room but somehow more intimidating. No audience. No witnesses. Just father and son.
"The fever—"
"Stop." The Oba raised his hand. "I have heard enough about the fever. The son I knew before couldn't speak formal Edo without stumbling. Now he debates Islamic scholars in their own language."
"The ancestors—"
"The ancestors do not teach languages. Whatever happened to you during those three days, it was not divine instruction in grammar."
Silence stretched.
"Chief Osaro says the fever touched you with dark spirits," the Oba continued. "The Portuguese factor sends reports to Lisbon about an 'unusual prince.' The Sokoto scholars are asking questions I cannot answer. You have made yourself visible in ways that invite danger."
"I was trying to protect the kingdom."
"You were trying to prove your worth. Those are not the same thing." The Oba stood. "The Berlin document Ibrahim showed you. The conference. What does it mean?"
"It means the Europeans are about to divide Africa among themselves. Draw lines on maps. Claim territories they've never seen. Anyone who doesn't prepare will be swept away."
"How long?"
"The conference will happen within the year. After that... maybe a decade. Maybe two. Eventually, they'll come for us."
The Oba was silent for a long moment.
"I'm going to give you room," he said finally. "Not authority—not yet. But room to work. If your visions are true, we need what you know. If they're false, your failures will expose you."
"And Osaro?"
"Osaro will do what Osaro always does—watch for weakness, wait for opportunities. He is my check on ambitious sons as much as on external threats."
"He met with foreign agents. Europeans. I have witnesses."
The Oba's expression didn't change. "Evidence?"
"A boy who watched from the shadows. Credible, but young."
"Not enough. Not yet." The Oba moved to the door. "Bring me proof I can use, and I will act. Until then, we are all playing a game where the rules are still being written."
---
Akenzua walked to the bronze mirror in his chambers. The same face he had always known. But the eyes carried weight they had never carried before.
Osarobo was waiting when he turned.
"The Portuguese factor left the city this afternoon. His ship sails for Lisbon tonight."
"How long until his report reaches Portugal?"
"Six weeks. Maybe eight."
"And from Portugal to other European capitals?"
"Another month. By the end of the rainy season, every power in Europe will know that Benin's prince has... unusual abilities."
The clock was ticking on multiple fronts now.
Three months to prove himself to Oronmwen before Osaro claimed his brother as an ally.
Eight weeks until European powers began investigating the strange prince of Benin.
One year until the Berlin Conference formalized the scramble for Africa.
Seventeen years until the British came with guns and fire.
"We need to move faster," Akenzua said. "The forge experiments. The intelligence network. Everything."
"You can't build an army in eight weeks."
"No. But I can build enough to survive the first tests. And that's all any of us can do."
He looked at the mirror one more time. The stranger who stared back was no longer the boy who had lived in this body. But he wasn't yet the man who could save a kingdom.
He would have to become that man. Fast.
The rainy season had already begun. The deadline was coming.
And he was running out of time.
---
END OF CHAPTER THREE