Year: 1881
The waterfront district smelled of salt and palm oil. Akenzua walked the narrow streets in simple robes. His guards followed at a distance, weapons hidden beneath rough cloth.
The trader's name was da Silva. Portuguese by blood, third-generation African by birth.
"Prince Akenzua. An unexpected pleasure."
"You know who I am."
"I make it my business to know everyone who matters." Da Silva gestured to a chair. "Sit. Let us speak as men of business."
"You sell weapons."
"Among other things."
"I'm not interested in palm oil."
"I suspected not." Da Silva set down his calabash. "Fifty Martini-Henry rifles. British army issue. Good condition. With ammunition to train with."
Da Silva whistled. "Those are restricted. The colonial authorities take a dim view of modern weapons ending up in African hands."
"I'm not asking the colonial authorities."
They negotiated. The price was substantial—months of carefully diverted funds. But manageable.
"But Prince—the British will ask questions if they learn Benin is acquiring modern weapons in quantity. Questions that precede gunboats."
"Let me worry about the British."
---
The first batch arrived as promised—twenty Martini-Henry rifles in unmarked crates. Transported to the hidden forge under cover of darkness.
Igue examined them with reverent hands.
"Machine-made. Every component identical. Precise tolerances throughout."
"Can we replicate it?"
"Some parts. The rifling—see these grooves? Uniform. Perfect. Our version is cruder. Each barrel slightly different."
"But effective?"
"Effective enough. Maybe eighty percent as reliable."
"What would improve it?"
"Better raw materials. More controlled processes. And time."
"We have time. But not forever."
---
The alarm came three weeks later.
Osarobo burst into Akenzua's chambers before dawn.
"Bandits. Attacking the northern charcoal supply route. Osaze's people are trapped."
Akenzua was moving before Osarobo finished speaking.
"How many bandits?"
"Thirty. Maybe forty. Well-armed. Professional."
"Not random bandits, then."
"Someone hired them. To cut our supply line."
Ten of his trained guards. Twenty rifles. Against forty men.
"Armor up. We ride in ten minutes."
---
The road to the northern hills wound through dense forest. Sound traveled strangely here—the crack of a branch could mean nothing or everything.
Akenzua's force moved in two columns. Standard patrol formation. Eyes sweeping the treeline.
"Contact." The whisper came from the lead scout. "Fifty yards. Campfire smoke."
Akenzua crept forward. Through the vegetation, he could see the scene.
Osaze's supply wagons. Overturned. Three bodies on the ground—charcoal workers, throat-cut. And around the campfire, the bandits. Laughing. Drinking. Dividing the spoils.
Osaze herself was tied to a tree. Beaten but alive.
"Count them."
"Thirty-two. Plus a leader—bigger man, sitting apart."
The leader wore better clothes than the others. A sword at his hip. Something about his bearing suggested military training.
"That's not a bandit chief. That's a mercenary captain."
"Osaro's money?"
"Someone's money."
---
Akenzua divided his force. Eight rifles on the high ground. Two circling to cut off retreat.
He waited until the mercenary captain stood to relieve himself.
"Fire."
The volley shattered the morning air. At fifty yards, the rifles were devastating. Six bandits dropped in the first second.
The survivors scrambled for weapons. Some died reaching for them.
The mercenary captain was faster. He threw himself behind the wagons, sword drawn, screaming orders.
"Second rank! Covering fire!"
A volley from a different angle. Three more bandits fell.
"They're flanking!" The captain's voice cut through the chaos. "Form up! Back to back!"
Smart. Adapting already.
Akenzua hadn't expected that.
"Hold fire."
The surviving bandits—fifteen, maybe eighteen—had formed a defensive circle. Shields raised. The captain in the center, assessing.
"Your men are dead." Akenzua's voice carried across the clearing. "Surrender and live."
"Who are you?"
"Someone with rifles and no patience."
The captain laughed. "Rifles aren't the only weapons that matter."
He pulled Osaze in front of him. Knife at her throat.
"Here's what happens now. You let us walk away. The girl lives. You follow, she dies."
---
Akenzua had a clear shot. The captain's head was visible above Osaze's shoulder.
Fifty yards. The rifle was accurate to eighty.
But Osaze would die if he missed. Or if the captain's reflexes were fast enough.
"Take the shot." Igue's voice, quiet beside him.
"I might hit her."
"If you don't, they walk. And next time, they'll be ready."
The general's training whispered calculations. Angle. Wind. Probability. The math said the shot was feasible. Not certain, but feasible.
Osaze's eyes found his. She was fifteen years old. A girl who had risked her life gathering intelligence.
"I won't take that risk."
"Then they win."
"No. They walk. That's not winning." Akenzua lowered his rifle. "Let them go!"
His guards hesitated. But they obeyed.
The bandits retreated slowly. The captain never took his knife from Osaze's throat. At the forest edge, he shoved her forward and ran.
Osaze collapsed. Akenzua reached her in seconds.
"You should have taken the shot." Her voice was steady despite the blood on her face.
"You're alive."
"Next time, I might not be. Next time, take the shot."
---
They carried Osaze back to Benin City. The three dead charcoal workers were buried on the road—there was no time to bring their bodies home.
That night, Akenzua sat alone in the forge.
The math had been clear. A seventy percent chance of hitting the captain. A thirty percent chance of hitting Osaze or missing entirely.
He had refused to gamble with her life.
But the mercenary captain was alive. Would report to whoever hired him. Would be back, better prepared.
Igue found him there.
"The men are talking."
"What are they saying?"
"That you could have ended it. That you chose not to."
"I wouldn't risk an innocent life."
"To soldiers, that's weakness."
"To me, that's the line I won't cross." Akenzua met Igue's eyes. "I've ordered men to die. I've sent men into battles they couldn't win. But I won't sacrifice innocents to make my victories easier."
"The British won't share your scruples."
"Then I'll have to be better than them. Smarter. More prepared." He looked at the rifles on the wall. "These weapons can kill. But if we become what we're fighting against, what's the point of surviving?"
Igue was silent for a long moment.
"The mercenary captain. He was professional. Trained."
"Military training. European, probably."
"So Osaro isn't just hiring local thugs anymore. He's bringing in professionals."
"Which means we need to be more careful. And better armed."
"The second shipment from da Silva arrives next week. Thirty more rifles."
"Good. And Igue—the next time we face those mercenaries, we won't be outnumbered."
---
The supply line was restored within days. But the cost lingered.
Three workers dead. Osaze traumatized. The mercenary captain escaped.
And the knowledge that Akenzua had refused to cross a line—even when crossing it might have been the tactically correct choice.
Osarobo's report came at midnight.
"The captain. I found out who he is."
"Tell me."
"Name is Barnes. Former British Army. Cashiered for brutality. Now he works for whoever pays."
Barnes. The same name from the conspiracy meeting.
"He's not just working for Osaro. He's working for the British agents."
"Which means the attack wasn't random. It was a test. To see how you'd respond."
"And what did they learn?"
"That you're willing to fight. That your men are disciplined. That your weapons work." Osarobo paused. "And that you won't sacrifice innocents to win."
"Is that a weakness?"
"To them, yes. To me..." Osarobo shrugged. "To me, it's the reason I follow you."
The night stretched on. Somewhere, Barnes was making his report. Somewhere, new plans were being made.
But in the forge, the rifles were stacking up. The training continued. The preparations advanced.
The line had been drawn. Now Akenzua had to figure out how to win without crossing it.
---
END OF CHAPTER ELEVEN