Chapatrap
Timemaster
The first victory was at hallowed Adwa where the Roman dead fell
The second victory was at traitor’s Segale where Solomon did quell
The third victory was at British Eldama where blood spilled under shell
The fourth victory was at distant Fashoda under where the Nile dwell
The fifth victory was the honorable peace worthy of the stele.
-Nebiyu Eleyas, Court Poet of Iyasu V, 1922
Cairo, The Kingdom of Egypt
A plain black sedan rolled down Soliman Pasha Street in the heart of Cairo. Two motorcycles flanked it, fending off the mixed traffic like motorized Hussars. Inside the car, Taytu watched the city go by. She looked composed, a young woman in meditation. On the inside, she agonized. She agonized over her training. Over her mission. Over the first time she would write her name into the history books.
Learn the differences between peoples. She remembered the lessons of her old teacher: Man Chelot Wesene. She could see his eyes; eminent eyes, emanating his overpowering confidence, the confidence that had won him the Fifth Victory all those years ago at Rotterdam. To be in a room with him was like being in a room with Zera Yaqob. A man that radiated the energy of living history. Learn the differences between peoples. An African man, or an Arab man, or any of our likely neighbors, our values are the masculine values. Honor, respect, whatever whatever. You might find that in Europe too, but theirs will be awkward. Nuanced. They have a hard time accepting that an African man is also a man. This is a double-edged sword. They might take greater offense at what you do. Or they might take no offense at all. Sometimes it is easier for them to give a victory by pretending they are patronizing a lesser people. They do this for their ego. Know how to play it.
Soliman Pasha Street went by, a wide vein of modernity in a city layered with so much history. The paved road crowded with cars, and trucks, and bikes. There were still some camels and mules here, but they were not common. They weaved and avoided each other according to their own design. The buildings here were tall, the concrete and plaster of the twentieth century. These were smart hotels and modern hospitals. An oftentimes scattered web of electrical wires connected them and lit up the street. Buildings that could afford them used electric signs. Light bulbs advertised apothecaries, hotels, cafes, and even a gaudy nightclub whose oversized sign advertised it as the “Pharaoh Club” in English; the only sign lit during the day, flanked by plaster renditions of ancient Egyptian kings.
Beyond this were the layers of old Cairo. Stone streets winding into shadowy alleys. Adobe walls and crumbling arcades. And in the distance, the oldest reminder of where they were, the Great Pyramids rising like mountains in the haze. She caught sight of them around corners and between buildings.
The old empires have a certain pride. But their pride is desperate. They have the most to lose, and have already lost much. This can make them dangerous. But it can make them surprisingly easy to deal with too, if you know how to salve a bruised ego. Learn this skill.
She looked down at her muted khemis and wondered at her clothing. She was conscious the part her sex played in this. She was a woman. But a woman of royal stock. The daughter of the previous Emperor, and the sister of the current one. That came with its own air. Breeding still carried the mystique of the old world. But it presented her with a burden Man Chelot never faced. He could fire invective at the battered European diplomatic core at Rotterdam and they saw him as a man, a knight, imposing his rightful will. A King or a Prince could do this too. An Emperor. But a woman hardly could. What about a princess? That was murky.
The strangest beast you will find is the Anglo. For most men, there is honor and there is money. But the Anglo is worse than the Falasha in that the Anglo doesn’t know the difference between honor and money. He will let you impregnate his wife if he thinks there is a profit in it, and he will consider himself the winner in that affair. Know this. This can make them the most two-faced opponent, but it can also make them the easiest. They were the people to build an Empire from dirty deals rather than victories.
Who were the opponents she would be facing off against? The British. Anglos. European strengths and weaknesses. The Yemenis holding on to Aden. Arabic. Muslim. Desperate. Their brothers from the north, looking to gain Aden for themselves. Arabic. Muslim. Dangerous. The real threat. Britain was in a bad position. Their ability to project power here was almost entirely severed. The Adenites... a variable. In essence, rebels. They only had one chip, and that was the city itself, which was a chip they couldn’t hold forever. But the Kingdom of Yemen, that was a potential regional power. A potential enemy. And one that would be hard for a woman to conquer.
--
Leyla loved the feeling of power that came with mounting a motorcycle. It felt like a horse, but with an added danger. Speed. The heat of the motor, knowing at the back of her mind that what was happening there was controlled explosions. Fire. Horses were a kind of people almost, fellow living beings. But this was a bomb. Controlled violence.
They came up on the Abdeen Palace: a long building of solid stone, columns, and the fanciful embellishments of 19th century architecture. Security instructed them to unload at a side door nearest to where the meeting would be held. Her partner on the other motorcycle, Elias Zelalem, took lead. She followed the Princess’s car and kept watch for threats. There was a contrast between the Egyptian Palace Guard and the two Shotel agents. The Egyptians wore fezzes and pearly white dress uniforms with gold trim. The Shotel both wore loose black Habesha Suits, dusty boots, and sunglasses. The Egyptian Palace Guard wielded a decorative gold halberd whose head resembled a lotus of ancient Egyptian art, though both Shotel agents saw the bulge beneath their uniforms where they hid more practical side-arms. The Shotel had Lugers in black holsters. They typically had knifes, though they left this luxury behind due to a limit of one weapon per agent required by the Egyptian authorities.
The car stopped. Elias opened the door for Le'elt Taytu Yohannes. The Le'elt came out, an awkward and gangling figure, her hair in braids that clung to the back of her neck. She presented her femininity to the world through clothing and subtle make-up rather than through any physical attributes of her own.
Elias looked down at Leyla, subconsciously comparing his partner to the princess in their protection. Leyla was lithe except for her hips, and her hair was done in braids brought up into a bun. A youthful grin lit up her face.
“You look like a child that just snuck a fart out at breakfast,” he said, soft so it wouldn’t stand out among the politicians greeting one another.
“It was a pleasant ride,” she replied. She stood a head shorter than him so that her eyes met his chin. His broad shoulders made his smooth face look boyish.
“Be vigilant.” he said, “You never know with these people.”
“I am one of these people.” she reminded him. Her father was Egyptian. They’d moved to Ethiopia in her childhood when her father was recruited by a Somalian agent into the Ethiopian Shotel in its early days. In those days, little more than fifteen years ago, the Shotel was simply a network of spies and cryptographers. Since then it had grown into government bodyguards, saboteurs, specialists, and occasionally secret police. Leyla had started her career early. Her father’s connections had given her access to the special Furusiyya training of the Somali military elite. She was a natural, adapting to its martial arts practices as she grew into adulthood. At nineteen, she was young for an agent.
“Well if you still are one of these Arabic ferengi, you know what to look for.” he said.
“Do you think I’m one of them still?”
“No. You are a proper Habesha woman. Though you still have an accent.”
--
Taytu took care to hold herself as collected as possible as they entered the Palace. It was an ostentatious affair. Gold leaf and burnished copper-tile floors. Light shone out from massive crystal chandeliers and shimmered throughout the room. This first cavernous entrance led them to rooms of decreasing decoration, until they were in a hall of golden granite with statues of Ancient Egyptian Pharaohs standing guard. Here, the hall entirely went around and surrounded the room they entered.
There were four men sitting at a marble table. The first one she recognized as he stood up to greet her.
“A pleasure as always, your highness.” Sad al-Mir said, bowing. He was the Egyptian Ambassador to Ethiopia and had returned to Cairo to personally handle negotiations. He wore a suit, and his head was hairless except for a small patch of jet black on his chin.
The other three men stood up and bowed. “This is Angus Stevens, from the British Foreign Office, here to attend to British interests in this affair.” Sad motioned to a sickly looking man with thin grey hair and a bushy red and grey mustache. Angus stood up and bowed awkwardly before sitting down again.
“This is Saleet el-Baluch. He is a maternal nephew of Ahmad bin Yahya and represents the Kingdom of Yemen.” The man Sad motioned to was standard for an Arabic elite. Self assured, bearded, running a little on the fat side, with a white robe and black and white keffiyeh. He gave her a curt head nod.
“And this man” Sad motioned, “Is a representative of the Aden General Union of Workers, who has taken up the government of Aden in the absence of the British garrison there. Mahboob el-Sader.” Sad motioned to a thin, hollow eyed man wearing a three piece suit. He looked ill-placed in his clothes. He bowed, an obvious repetition of Sad’s.
They sat. Water was served. Sad spoke again.
“So the situation is thus at present, and we will see if we all agree on these basic realities. The British authorities claim that pirates are active in the Gulf of Aden, and that captured pirates have admitted to serving the Mahra and Qu’aiti sultanates” Sad looked at Stevens. Stevens looked satisfied.
Sad looked at the rest. “We understand that the British, Yemeni, and Ethiopian governments condemn these pirates. What is the position of Aden’s provisional government?”
Mahboob adjusted his tie and spoke. “These pirates have murdered sailors and fishermen from Aden, so of course we do not like them, though we see them as caused by British failures.” Mahboob did not look at Angus. Angus shifted in his seat but remained quiet.
Sad nodded and continued. “We understand that Arabia, the Sunni population of Yemen, and the British will not support the Kingdom of Yemen annexing Aden for its own protection, even though his majesty Ahmad bin Yahya has made several appeals for this very move?”
“The city of Aden is a city of the world” Mahboob said, “But we sit between the eastern desert and the Mutawakkilites.”
“The Mutawakkilites being the Kingdom of Yemen. For the purpose of the record.”
“Right. This placement means we would become the... the axis which a war in Yemen would revolve around. We do not want this! The city of Aden wants protection assured by the other nations of the region. In return we will continue to serve as a... a world city. A fortress of trade.”
“This is an unnatural state” Saleet spoke up. “How would the world deny Ahmad bin Yahya his own city? In practice Aden has served as a port for our Kingdom despite English rule. Its only natural places is either with us, or as a city of pirates.”
“We know the solution that Ethiopia has presented.” Sad said.
It was her cue. Taytu squared up and smiled. “I understand Britain is looking to other affairs and can no longer protect Aden. His Majesty Sahle is naturally interested in the safety of his own coasts and is confident our government can provide the same role for the city of Aden that Britain has filled in the past.”
“That would be unacceptable, trading another foreign, Christian power for another,” Saleet said coldly. “Understand this would be a provocation.”
“The Foreign Office is willing to support this exchange.” Mr. Stevens said, ignoring Saleet. “On the condition that the Commonwealth retain the privileges its members had under our own rule.”
It fit the pattern. Retreat for profit. Taytu smiled. “This would be best for all markets involved. His majesty agrees it would endanger the economy of the entire region to withdraw these concessions.”
Mr. Stevens sunk back into his chair. “To be frank, this is the only concern the Foreign Office has. We will agree to a transition of power...”
Sad spoke up. “I understand this is a problem for your patron, Saleet, but we can…”
“We will not be traded like this!” Mahboob interrupted. “I know you look over us because we are one city. But we know that if we bend to Ethiopia for safety, Ethiopia will make up what they lose from concessions to the other ‘powers’ by taking from us! We are Aden! I don’t represent a city, or a religion, I represent people! The men who work on the docks and at the oil refinery. Our own fishermen! Can you tell me that Ethiopia won’t bleed us to pay back their losses?”
It was quiet for a moment. Sad spoke up. “We have more to talk about...”
--
“Is it true you received furusiyya training?” Elias asked his partner, cutting the silence. They stood still in the gilded hall.
“I did,” Leyla replied.
“I knew you dabbled. Who hasn’t? I know they want all of us to know it eventually. But I always wondered how much of your knowledge was rumors. You know, my last partner told me about it. But I thought... well, they seem to think that all Muslims know furusiyya. Which is ridiculous. They tell ridiculous stories like that about anyone close to Hassan. They say he learned it from an old man from Japan...”
“China,” she corrected.
He looked down at her. Her expression didn’t crack.
“China?”
“Táofàn,” she said, struggling with the name, pronouncing it something like ‘Dow-fun’. “He’s an old man. But he is from China. An interesting man. He knows just about every language you can think of before he joined Hassan’s court. I saw him once. But he doesn’t teach much anymore.”
“So furusiyya is Chinese?”
“Well, I think its a mix of things. I mean, old Arabic warrior ideas. The swordsmanship of the Dervish. And Táofàn’s body training… but really, its just…”
The door in front of them swung open. Two men entered, not noticing Elias or Leyla as they carefully worked to shut the door behind them. When they whirled around, they met their eyes, surprised. These men looked out of place. Arab robes and keffiyehs, sure, but their expressions were... wrong.
One drew a knife, the other drew a gun. As fights so often do, it started all at once. They lunged.
Leyla roundhouse kicked the knife out of her attacker’s hand and whirled into him like a storm.
(Optional musical paring for scene)
Seeing his friend so suddenly disarmed, the man attacking Elias paused, giving Elias time to go for the man’s weapon. The two of them began to wrestle. Elias’s mind was now focused on the gun in his opponents hand. Where was it’s barrel? That barrel was a straight line promising death. Where was it? He was so focused on the gun that he didn’t have any warning before being struck on the back by an unseen attacker, sending him tumbling to the ground. He heard a gunshot go off.
--
“My word, was that gunnery?” Mr. Stevens asked. All of the Excellencies looked nervously at the door.
“You cannot treat us like cattle.” Mahboob said. Taytu met his eyes. They were watery. Inflamed. “We cannot be traded. We demand our independence and protection of that independence. It is our rights. Inevitable rights!”
The Fifth Victory. His speech brought it to mind. And that thought brought with it a tinge of respect. And jealousy. It was her job to carry the power of mind and speech that this khat chewing dock worker was commanding.
“We will work it out to your advantage as well as ours.” she said.
--
The gunshot hung in the air. He heard it like his eardrums were an inch from the barrel. It was like the bones in his ears were exploding TNT. For a moment, he saw white. A man had struck him in the back. He saw Leyla and her target disappear around a corner. Another body went around the opposite corner. Elias realized instantly it was his opponent. There were still only two men. Leyla’s opponent must have been thrown into him. He quickly searched the ground around him. There was no gun on the polished marble, only the dull reflection of movement on the stone. He jumped back onto his feet and pursued.
When he turned the corner, another shot rang out. He instinctively dodged. A light cloud of dust now wafted through the room, coming from a Pharaonic statue. Its nose had been shot off.
His gun was in his hand. He had pulled it without thinking at some point in the action. He saw movement somewhere around the next corner. He fired twice, running into the direction he was firing. He heard something. Movement? Fighting? Grunting?
He came around the corner and surprised the man he’d been wrestling with earlier. He tried to pistol whip the man at the same time he tried to fire at Elias. Both missed. Another shot rang. He grabbed for the intruder’s wrist to try and disarm him. They began to struggle.
He saw Leyla slide into view, seemingly thrown, gliding on her back along the polished floor. She sprung up just as her opponent attacked her.
Elias grabbed his man by his Keffiyeh and managed to grasp hair underneath. He slammed his head into the wall. He heard a crack, solid and deep. He repeated the move and the man’s eyes rolled back into his head. He slid down the wall as his keffiyeh soaked dark red blood.
One down. Elias looked over just in time to see Leyla’s intruder tossed into the door. The door held solid. Elias went to help, but in what felt like an instant, he saw the door swing fast open and both Leyla and her opponent seemed to get sucked in.
--
More gunshots made the room quiet. Something slammed into the door. Their Excellencies eyes were all on that one door.
It slammed open. Taytu’s eyes went wide, and she heard the shouts and cries of indignation from the other parties as a man in Bedouin dress threw one of her bodyguards onto the table. It was the small girl, who went sliding across the smooth stone service of the table, sending papers and folders and glasses of water flying in every direction.
“My word!” she heard Mr. Stevens exclaimed.
“This is a violation of Egyptian sovereignty!” Sad yelled.
They went quiet when they saw the Bedouin looking man aim a gun at the prostrate guard on the table.
The sound of a gunshot exploded through the room. The Bedouin man fell to the ground, a hole erupting from his eye and splattering gore across the table.
Sad reached out to check the woman on the table and see if she was okay. Mr. Stevens looked at Taytu.
“You have the Foreign Office’s support. Deal with this vexatious region! But make sure the interests of my government and of Europe are attended to!”
Egyptian guards filled the room. They looked awestruck at the bloody scene. Sad looked at them. “You should thank these Ethiopians, they did your jobs! Now find out how this happened!”
Taytu looked at Mr. Stevens. “It will be managed,” she said simply.
The second victory was at traitor’s Segale where Solomon did quell
The third victory was at British Eldama where blood spilled under shell
The fourth victory was at distant Fashoda under where the Nile dwell
The fifth victory was the honorable peace worthy of the stele.
-Nebiyu Eleyas, Court Poet of Iyasu V, 1922
Cairo, The Kingdom of Egypt
A plain black sedan rolled down Soliman Pasha Street in the heart of Cairo. Two motorcycles flanked it, fending off the mixed traffic like motorized Hussars. Inside the car, Taytu watched the city go by. She looked composed, a young woman in meditation. On the inside, she agonized. She agonized over her training. Over her mission. Over the first time she would write her name into the history books.
Learn the differences between peoples. She remembered the lessons of her old teacher: Man Chelot Wesene. She could see his eyes; eminent eyes, emanating his overpowering confidence, the confidence that had won him the Fifth Victory all those years ago at Rotterdam. To be in a room with him was like being in a room with Zera Yaqob. A man that radiated the energy of living history. Learn the differences between peoples. An African man, or an Arab man, or any of our likely neighbors, our values are the masculine values. Honor, respect, whatever whatever. You might find that in Europe too, but theirs will be awkward. Nuanced. They have a hard time accepting that an African man is also a man. This is a double-edged sword. They might take greater offense at what you do. Or they might take no offense at all. Sometimes it is easier for them to give a victory by pretending they are patronizing a lesser people. They do this for their ego. Know how to play it.
Soliman Pasha Street went by, a wide vein of modernity in a city layered with so much history. The paved road crowded with cars, and trucks, and bikes. There were still some camels and mules here, but they were not common. They weaved and avoided each other according to their own design. The buildings here were tall, the concrete and plaster of the twentieth century. These were smart hotels and modern hospitals. An oftentimes scattered web of electrical wires connected them and lit up the street. Buildings that could afford them used electric signs. Light bulbs advertised apothecaries, hotels, cafes, and even a gaudy nightclub whose oversized sign advertised it as the “Pharaoh Club” in English; the only sign lit during the day, flanked by plaster renditions of ancient Egyptian kings.
Beyond this were the layers of old Cairo. Stone streets winding into shadowy alleys. Adobe walls and crumbling arcades. And in the distance, the oldest reminder of where they were, the Great Pyramids rising like mountains in the haze. She caught sight of them around corners and between buildings.
The old empires have a certain pride. But their pride is desperate. They have the most to lose, and have already lost much. This can make them dangerous. But it can make them surprisingly easy to deal with too, if you know how to salve a bruised ego. Learn this skill.
She looked down at her muted khemis and wondered at her clothing. She was conscious the part her sex played in this. She was a woman. But a woman of royal stock. The daughter of the previous Emperor, and the sister of the current one. That came with its own air. Breeding still carried the mystique of the old world. But it presented her with a burden Man Chelot never faced. He could fire invective at the battered European diplomatic core at Rotterdam and they saw him as a man, a knight, imposing his rightful will. A King or a Prince could do this too. An Emperor. But a woman hardly could. What about a princess? That was murky.
The strangest beast you will find is the Anglo. For most men, there is honor and there is money. But the Anglo is worse than the Falasha in that the Anglo doesn’t know the difference between honor and money. He will let you impregnate his wife if he thinks there is a profit in it, and he will consider himself the winner in that affair. Know this. This can make them the most two-faced opponent, but it can also make them the easiest. They were the people to build an Empire from dirty deals rather than victories.
Who were the opponents she would be facing off against? The British. Anglos. European strengths and weaknesses. The Yemenis holding on to Aden. Arabic. Muslim. Desperate. Their brothers from the north, looking to gain Aden for themselves. Arabic. Muslim. Dangerous. The real threat. Britain was in a bad position. Their ability to project power here was almost entirely severed. The Adenites... a variable. In essence, rebels. They only had one chip, and that was the city itself, which was a chip they couldn’t hold forever. But the Kingdom of Yemen, that was a potential regional power. A potential enemy. And one that would be hard for a woman to conquer.
--
Leyla loved the feeling of power that came with mounting a motorcycle. It felt like a horse, but with an added danger. Speed. The heat of the motor, knowing at the back of her mind that what was happening there was controlled explosions. Fire. Horses were a kind of people almost, fellow living beings. But this was a bomb. Controlled violence.
They came up on the Abdeen Palace: a long building of solid stone, columns, and the fanciful embellishments of 19th century architecture. Security instructed them to unload at a side door nearest to where the meeting would be held. Her partner on the other motorcycle, Elias Zelalem, took lead. She followed the Princess’s car and kept watch for threats. There was a contrast between the Egyptian Palace Guard and the two Shotel agents. The Egyptians wore fezzes and pearly white dress uniforms with gold trim. The Shotel both wore loose black Habesha Suits, dusty boots, and sunglasses. The Egyptian Palace Guard wielded a decorative gold halberd whose head resembled a lotus of ancient Egyptian art, though both Shotel agents saw the bulge beneath their uniforms where they hid more practical side-arms. The Shotel had Lugers in black holsters. They typically had knifes, though they left this luxury behind due to a limit of one weapon per agent required by the Egyptian authorities.
The car stopped. Elias opened the door for Le'elt Taytu Yohannes. The Le'elt came out, an awkward and gangling figure, her hair in braids that clung to the back of her neck. She presented her femininity to the world through clothing and subtle make-up rather than through any physical attributes of her own.
Elias looked down at Leyla, subconsciously comparing his partner to the princess in their protection. Leyla was lithe except for her hips, and her hair was done in braids brought up into a bun. A youthful grin lit up her face.
“You look like a child that just snuck a fart out at breakfast,” he said, soft so it wouldn’t stand out among the politicians greeting one another.
“It was a pleasant ride,” she replied. She stood a head shorter than him so that her eyes met his chin. His broad shoulders made his smooth face look boyish.
“Be vigilant.” he said, “You never know with these people.”
“I am one of these people.” she reminded him. Her father was Egyptian. They’d moved to Ethiopia in her childhood when her father was recruited by a Somalian agent into the Ethiopian Shotel in its early days. In those days, little more than fifteen years ago, the Shotel was simply a network of spies and cryptographers. Since then it had grown into government bodyguards, saboteurs, specialists, and occasionally secret police. Leyla had started her career early. Her father’s connections had given her access to the special Furusiyya training of the Somali military elite. She was a natural, adapting to its martial arts practices as she grew into adulthood. At nineteen, she was young for an agent.
“Well if you still are one of these Arabic ferengi, you know what to look for.” he said.
“Do you think I’m one of them still?”
“No. You are a proper Habesha woman. Though you still have an accent.”
--
Taytu took care to hold herself as collected as possible as they entered the Palace. It was an ostentatious affair. Gold leaf and burnished copper-tile floors. Light shone out from massive crystal chandeliers and shimmered throughout the room. This first cavernous entrance led them to rooms of decreasing decoration, until they were in a hall of golden granite with statues of Ancient Egyptian Pharaohs standing guard. Here, the hall entirely went around and surrounded the room they entered.
There were four men sitting at a marble table. The first one she recognized as he stood up to greet her.
“A pleasure as always, your highness.” Sad al-Mir said, bowing. He was the Egyptian Ambassador to Ethiopia and had returned to Cairo to personally handle negotiations. He wore a suit, and his head was hairless except for a small patch of jet black on his chin.
The other three men stood up and bowed. “This is Angus Stevens, from the British Foreign Office, here to attend to British interests in this affair.” Sad motioned to a sickly looking man with thin grey hair and a bushy red and grey mustache. Angus stood up and bowed awkwardly before sitting down again.
“This is Saleet el-Baluch. He is a maternal nephew of Ahmad bin Yahya and represents the Kingdom of Yemen.” The man Sad motioned to was standard for an Arabic elite. Self assured, bearded, running a little on the fat side, with a white robe and black and white keffiyeh. He gave her a curt head nod.
“And this man” Sad motioned, “Is a representative of the Aden General Union of Workers, who has taken up the government of Aden in the absence of the British garrison there. Mahboob el-Sader.” Sad motioned to a thin, hollow eyed man wearing a three piece suit. He looked ill-placed in his clothes. He bowed, an obvious repetition of Sad’s.
They sat. Water was served. Sad spoke again.
“So the situation is thus at present, and we will see if we all agree on these basic realities. The British authorities claim that pirates are active in the Gulf of Aden, and that captured pirates have admitted to serving the Mahra and Qu’aiti sultanates” Sad looked at Stevens. Stevens looked satisfied.
Sad looked at the rest. “We understand that the British, Yemeni, and Ethiopian governments condemn these pirates. What is the position of Aden’s provisional government?”
Mahboob adjusted his tie and spoke. “These pirates have murdered sailors and fishermen from Aden, so of course we do not like them, though we see them as caused by British failures.” Mahboob did not look at Angus. Angus shifted in his seat but remained quiet.
Sad nodded and continued. “We understand that Arabia, the Sunni population of Yemen, and the British will not support the Kingdom of Yemen annexing Aden for its own protection, even though his majesty Ahmad bin Yahya has made several appeals for this very move?”
“The city of Aden is a city of the world” Mahboob said, “But we sit between the eastern desert and the Mutawakkilites.”
“The Mutawakkilites being the Kingdom of Yemen. For the purpose of the record.”
“Right. This placement means we would become the... the axis which a war in Yemen would revolve around. We do not want this! The city of Aden wants protection assured by the other nations of the region. In return we will continue to serve as a... a world city. A fortress of trade.”
“This is an unnatural state” Saleet spoke up. “How would the world deny Ahmad bin Yahya his own city? In practice Aden has served as a port for our Kingdom despite English rule. Its only natural places is either with us, or as a city of pirates.”
“We know the solution that Ethiopia has presented.” Sad said.
It was her cue. Taytu squared up and smiled. “I understand Britain is looking to other affairs and can no longer protect Aden. His Majesty Sahle is naturally interested in the safety of his own coasts and is confident our government can provide the same role for the city of Aden that Britain has filled in the past.”
“That would be unacceptable, trading another foreign, Christian power for another,” Saleet said coldly. “Understand this would be a provocation.”
“The Foreign Office is willing to support this exchange.” Mr. Stevens said, ignoring Saleet. “On the condition that the Commonwealth retain the privileges its members had under our own rule.”
It fit the pattern. Retreat for profit. Taytu smiled. “This would be best for all markets involved. His majesty agrees it would endanger the economy of the entire region to withdraw these concessions.”
Mr. Stevens sunk back into his chair. “To be frank, this is the only concern the Foreign Office has. We will agree to a transition of power...”
Sad spoke up. “I understand this is a problem for your patron, Saleet, but we can…”
“We will not be traded like this!” Mahboob interrupted. “I know you look over us because we are one city. But we know that if we bend to Ethiopia for safety, Ethiopia will make up what they lose from concessions to the other ‘powers’ by taking from us! We are Aden! I don’t represent a city, or a religion, I represent people! The men who work on the docks and at the oil refinery. Our own fishermen! Can you tell me that Ethiopia won’t bleed us to pay back their losses?”
It was quiet for a moment. Sad spoke up. “We have more to talk about...”
--
“Is it true you received furusiyya training?” Elias asked his partner, cutting the silence. They stood still in the gilded hall.
“I did,” Leyla replied.
“I knew you dabbled. Who hasn’t? I know they want all of us to know it eventually. But I always wondered how much of your knowledge was rumors. You know, my last partner told me about it. But I thought... well, they seem to think that all Muslims know furusiyya. Which is ridiculous. They tell ridiculous stories like that about anyone close to Hassan. They say he learned it from an old man from Japan...”
“China,” she corrected.
He looked down at her. Her expression didn’t crack.
“China?”
“Táofàn,” she said, struggling with the name, pronouncing it something like ‘Dow-fun’. “He’s an old man. But he is from China. An interesting man. He knows just about every language you can think of before he joined Hassan’s court. I saw him once. But he doesn’t teach much anymore.”
“So furusiyya is Chinese?”
“Well, I think its a mix of things. I mean, old Arabic warrior ideas. The swordsmanship of the Dervish. And Táofàn’s body training… but really, its just…”
The door in front of them swung open. Two men entered, not noticing Elias or Leyla as they carefully worked to shut the door behind them. When they whirled around, they met their eyes, surprised. These men looked out of place. Arab robes and keffiyehs, sure, but their expressions were... wrong.
One drew a knife, the other drew a gun. As fights so often do, it started all at once. They lunged.
Leyla roundhouse kicked the knife out of her attacker’s hand and whirled into him like a storm.
(Optional musical paring for scene)
Seeing his friend so suddenly disarmed, the man attacking Elias paused, giving Elias time to go for the man’s weapon. The two of them began to wrestle. Elias’s mind was now focused on the gun in his opponents hand. Where was it’s barrel? That barrel was a straight line promising death. Where was it? He was so focused on the gun that he didn’t have any warning before being struck on the back by an unseen attacker, sending him tumbling to the ground. He heard a gunshot go off.
--
“My word, was that gunnery?” Mr. Stevens asked. All of the Excellencies looked nervously at the door.
“You cannot treat us like cattle.” Mahboob said. Taytu met his eyes. They were watery. Inflamed. “We cannot be traded. We demand our independence and protection of that independence. It is our rights. Inevitable rights!”
The Fifth Victory. His speech brought it to mind. And that thought brought with it a tinge of respect. And jealousy. It was her job to carry the power of mind and speech that this khat chewing dock worker was commanding.
“We will work it out to your advantage as well as ours.” she said.
--
The gunshot hung in the air. He heard it like his eardrums were an inch from the barrel. It was like the bones in his ears were exploding TNT. For a moment, he saw white. A man had struck him in the back. He saw Leyla and her target disappear around a corner. Another body went around the opposite corner. Elias realized instantly it was his opponent. There were still only two men. Leyla’s opponent must have been thrown into him. He quickly searched the ground around him. There was no gun on the polished marble, only the dull reflection of movement on the stone. He jumped back onto his feet and pursued.
When he turned the corner, another shot rang out. He instinctively dodged. A light cloud of dust now wafted through the room, coming from a Pharaonic statue. Its nose had been shot off.
His gun was in his hand. He had pulled it without thinking at some point in the action. He saw movement somewhere around the next corner. He fired twice, running into the direction he was firing. He heard something. Movement? Fighting? Grunting?
He came around the corner and surprised the man he’d been wrestling with earlier. He tried to pistol whip the man at the same time he tried to fire at Elias. Both missed. Another shot rang. He grabbed for the intruder’s wrist to try and disarm him. They began to struggle.
He saw Leyla slide into view, seemingly thrown, gliding on her back along the polished floor. She sprung up just as her opponent attacked her.
Elias grabbed his man by his Keffiyeh and managed to grasp hair underneath. He slammed his head into the wall. He heard a crack, solid and deep. He repeated the move and the man’s eyes rolled back into his head. He slid down the wall as his keffiyeh soaked dark red blood.
One down. Elias looked over just in time to see Leyla’s intruder tossed into the door. The door held solid. Elias went to help, but in what felt like an instant, he saw the door swing fast open and both Leyla and her opponent seemed to get sucked in.
--
More gunshots made the room quiet. Something slammed into the door. Their Excellencies eyes were all on that one door.
It slammed open. Taytu’s eyes went wide, and she heard the shouts and cries of indignation from the other parties as a man in Bedouin dress threw one of her bodyguards onto the table. It was the small girl, who went sliding across the smooth stone service of the table, sending papers and folders and glasses of water flying in every direction.
“My word!” she heard Mr. Stevens exclaimed.
“This is a violation of Egyptian sovereignty!” Sad yelled.
They went quiet when they saw the Bedouin looking man aim a gun at the prostrate guard on the table.
The sound of a gunshot exploded through the room. The Bedouin man fell to the ground, a hole erupting from his eye and splattering gore across the table.
Sad reached out to check the woman on the table and see if she was okay. Mr. Stevens looked at Taytu.
“You have the Foreign Office’s support. Deal with this vexatious region! But make sure the interests of my government and of Europe are attended to!”
Egyptian guards filled the room. They looked awestruck at the bloody scene. Sad looked at them. “You should thank these Ethiopians, they did your jobs! Now find out how this happened!”
Taytu looked at Mr. Stevens. “It will be managed,” she said simply.
