Year: 1882
The palace woke before dawn.
Akenzua stood in his chambers while servants draped ceremonial robes across his shoulders. Heavy coral beads. The leopard-tooth necklace of the heir apparent. Each piece carried centuries of tradition.
"You look like a prince," Osarobo said from the doorway.
"I feel like a target."
"Same thing, really."
The wedding would bring every faction in Benin City to one location. Allies, enemies, neutrals—all watching, all calculating. Every word, every gesture would be analyzed for weakness.
"Security arrangements?"
"Erebo's men control the inner compound. Our people cover the approaches. Idia's network is monitoring the kitchen staff."
"The kitchen staff?"
"Poison is traditional at royal weddings." Osarobo's voice was flat. "Five attempts in the last century. Two successful."
"Comforting."
"The truth rarely is."
---
The great hall had been arranged according to ancient protocol. But protocol was politics, and the seating revealed everything.
Akenzua surveyed the assembly as he entered.
To the right of the throne: the Ezomo's faction. Military commanders. Border chiefs. Hard men with scars and direct gazes. They rose as one when he entered.
To the left: Osaro's coalition. Court officials. Priestly families. Wealthy merchants with soft hands and calculating eyes. Their bow was fractionally slower.
Center front: the neutral chiefs. The ones who waited to see which way the wind blew. Old Chief Obaseki sat among them, his face revealing nothing.
Behind everyone: the foreign observers. Portuguese traders. A single German merchant Schmidt had sent. And in the corner, barely visible, a man in British-style clothing who shouldn't have been there.
"The British sent someone," Akenzua murmured to Osarobo.
"Morton. Junior consul from the Oil Rivers. He arrived yesterday with a 'goodwill gift.'"
"Which Osaro accepted."
"Which Osaro invited."
A British representative at his wedding. Watching. Reporting.
The drums began. The ceremony started.
---
Esohe entered through the eastern doors.
She wore white—the color of transformation. Coral beads cascaded down her shoulders. Her face was painted with the symbols of fertility and strength.
She was beautiful. And terrified.
Akenzua saw it in the tension of her jaw, the careful precision of her steps. A warrior's daughter forcing herself forward through enemy territory.
Because that's what this was. Enemy territory.
The head priest stepped forward.
"Who brings this woman to the leopard's house?"
"I bring her." Ezomo Erebo's voice filled the hall. "My daughter, Esohe. To be wife to the prince and mother of kings."
"And who accepts her?"
"I accept her." Akenzua stepped forward. "As partner. As queen. As the mother of my children."
The ritual words continued. Ancient Edo phrases that bound two families into one.
But Akenzua watched the crowd.
Osaro's face was stone. Whatever he felt about this alliance—this binding of military power to the throne—he hid it well.
Obaseki leaned to whisper something to the man beside him.
The British observer was writing in a small notebook.
And near the kitchen entrance, a servant was watching with unusual intensity.
"The wine," Akenzua murmured when the priest paused for breath.
"What?"
"The ceremonial wine. Something's wrong."
---
The cups were brought forward. Silver, inlaid with coral. The ceremonial wine that would seal the marriage.
Akenzua's hand closed around his cup. He raised it toward his lips—
"STOP!"
The voice came from the kitchen entrance. A woman, pushing past guards. Amara—one of Idia's network.
"The wine! It's been touched!"
Chaos erupted.
Guards drew weapons. The crowd surged backward. Esohe's cup fell, wine splashing across the ceremonial cloth.
"What is the meaning of this?" The head priest's voice cut through the noise.
"A servant. I saw him add something to the wine jug. He ran when I shouted."
Osarobo was already moving, barking orders. Guards fanned out.
Akenzua set down his untouched cup. His eyes found Osaro in the crowd.
The chief's face showed perfect surprise. Too perfect.
"The wedding must pause," Chief Obaseki said. "Until this... accusation... can be investigated."
"The wedding will not pause." Ezomo Erebo's voice was iron. "If there is poison, we will find who placed it. But my daughter will be married today, or there will be consequences."
"Threats at a sacred ceremony—"
"Promises. There is a difference."
Akenzua raised his hand.
"New wine. From sealed stores. Watched every moment from cellar to cup." He turned to the priest. "Continue the ceremony."
---
The new wine arrived within minutes. Idia's people supervised every step.
The ceremony resumed. But the mood had shifted.
What should have been celebration became something harder. A statement. We continue despite your attempts.
Akenzua drank from his cup. Esohe drank from hers.
The priest completed the binding words.
"What the leopard joins, no man may sever."
It was done.
Applause came from Erebo's faction—genuine, relieved. From Osaro's side, the applause was proper but hollow.
And the British observer continued writing.
---
The wedding feast stretched through the afternoon.
Akenzua moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations, reading faces. The poison attempt—real or staged—had clarified positions.
"The servant who ran," he asked Osarobo quietly. "Did we catch him?"
"Found him in an alley near the eastern market. Throat cut."
"By whom?"
"Someone who didn't want him talking."
Dead men told no tales. Convenient for whoever had arranged the attempt.
"Osaro?"
"Possibly. Or someone who wanted us to suspect Osaro." Osarobo's voice was thoughtful. "The British observer has been talking to three different chiefs."
"Which ones?"
"Obaseki. Adagunodo. And Ehaze."
Ehaze. The man who had coordinated the assassination attempt.
"He's rebuilding his network. Using the wedding as cover."
"Everyone uses everything as cover. That's politics."
Across the hall, Esohe was speaking with a group of noble women. Her smile was perfect, revealing nothing. A performance as careful as his own.
They would need to discuss that. Among other things.
---
The feast's high point came with the traditional toast.
Custom dictated that the eldest chief present would speak first. That should have been Chief Iwere—a neutral who had supported neither faction.
Instead, Osaro rose.
"I claim the speaker's honor."
Murmurs rippled through the hall.
"On what grounds?" Iwere's voice was sharp.
"Grounds of service. Forty years advising the throne. My voice has earned precedence."
It was a calculated insult. Not to Iwere alone, but to everyone who understood what Osaro was doing—asserting dominance at a ceremony meant to celebrate Erebo's alliance with the throne.
Ezomo Erebo stood slowly.
"If we measure by years of service, my family has served since the kingdom's founding. If we measure by blood shed, my scars speak louder than your words."
"The Ezomo mistakes ceremony for battlefield."
"The chief mistakes courtesy for weakness."
The two men faced each other across the hall. Neither moved. Neither blinked.
Akenzua rose.
"Both voices have earned respect. Both will speak." He gestured to the servants. "Bring another cup. My wedding will have two toasts."
It was an improvised solution. Tradition demanded one speaker, one toast. But tradition also demanded the wedding not end in violence.
Osaro's smile was thin. "The prince is generous."
"The prince is practical. Speak your toast, Chief Osaro."
---
Osaro's toast was elegant and poisonous.
"To the prince and his bride. May their union bring stability to a court that has known... uncertainty. May the wisdom of our ancestors guide them through the changes that have confused so many. And may the kingdom remember that true strength comes from tradition, not innovation."
Applause. Polite, measured.
Erebo's toast was shorter.
"To my daughter. To the prince who will protect her. And to every enemy who thinks this marriage makes either of them weaker."
He raised his cup and drained it.
The message was clear. Attack my daughter, and you attack me.
Akenzua caught Osaro's eye across the hall. The chief's expression hadn't changed.
But something had shifted. The poison attempt had forced positions into the open. No more pretending. No more careful ambiguity.
The war had entered its next phase.
---
The bridal chamber was lit by oil lamps.
Esohe sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing her ceremonial clothes. Her hands were steady, but her eyes were watchful.
"The poison attempt," she said. "Was it real?"
"The servant was real. The poison—probably. The intent to stop the wedding—definitely."
"Who?"
"Osaro. Or someone who wanted us to blame Osaro. Or someone using Osaro's name without his knowledge." Akenzua sat across from her. "Welcome to court politics."
"I grew up in my father's house. I know politics."
"Not like this. Not where the stakes are the kingdom itself."
Silence stretched between them.
"There's something you should know," Akenzua said finally. "About me. About what happened during the fever."
"I know you changed. Everyone knows."
"You don't know how much."
He had planned this moment. Calculated what to reveal, what to conceal. But sitting here, in the lamplight, facing the woman who had just bound her life to his...
"The fever showed me things. Visions. Of what's coming."
"Ancestor visions. Your mother mentioned them."
"Not ancestor visions. Not exactly." He met her eyes. "I saw a future where Benin falls. Where the British come with thousands of soldiers and burn everything. Where our people are scattered, our culture destroyed, our kingdom reduced to a memory."
Esohe's face had gone still.
"That's why you've been building. The weapons. The training. The alliances."
"I'm trying to change what I saw. To build something strong enough to survive."
"And do you believe you can?"
"I don't know. But I have to try."
She was quiet for a long moment.
"My father thinks you're touched by spirits. My mother thinks you're ambitious. The court thinks you're mad or dangerous or both." She leaned forward. "What should I think?"
"I don't know. But I'm telling you the truth—as much as I understand it myself. Because if this marriage is going to work, if we're going to be partners, you need to know what you're partnering with."
"A prince who sees the future."
"A prince who's seen one possible future. And is fighting to create a different one."
Esohe stood. Walked to the window. The city stretched out below, dark except for scattered torches.
"My father prepared me for a political marriage. Alliances measured in soldiers and territory. But this..." She turned back. "This is something else."
"Is that a problem?"
"I don't know yet." She returned to sit beside him—closer this time. "But I appreciate the honesty. It's rare in this palace."
"It might be the only thing I can offer consistently."
"Then offer it. And I'll offer the same."
She extended her hand. Not a romantic gesture. A compact. An agreement between partners.
Akenzua took it.
"What did you see?" she asked. "In the visions. About me?"
"Nothing. The visions showed battles. Politics. Destruction. They didn't show... personal things."
"So you don't know if we'll be happy."
"No."
"Good." Her smile was unexpected. "I prefer building something to inheriting it. Even happiness."
Outside, the wedding celebrations continued. Music and laughter and the careful performances of a court that had shown its divisions.
But in this room, something had shifted. Not love—that would come or not come as it would. But understanding.
Two people facing an impossible future. Together.
---
END OF CHAPTER FIFTEEN