Year: 1881
The training ground erupted in laughter.
Akenzua watched from the shadows as one of his recruits—a young palace guard named Idahosa—was thrown to the ground for the third time.
The man doing the throwing was Okonedo, a veteran warrior with thirty years of service. Graying hair. Arms like tree trunks. Face carved from stone.
"This is what the prince teaches?" Okonedo's voice carried across the field. "Boys who fall like rice stalks in the wind?"
The other veterans laughed. There were twenty of them—the old guard, warriors who had fought in real campaigns. They had come to "observe" the new training methods.
They had come to humiliate.
"Again." Okonedo gestured. "Show me this 'modern' fighting."
Idahosa rose. His face was bloody. His hands shook.
"The prince's method emphasizes—"
"The prince's method emphasizes talking." Okonedo stepped forward. "Our ancestors fought with steel and muscle. Not with ideas."
"Our ancestors died," Akenzua said, stepping from the shadows. "Against the Nupe. Against the Oyo. Against every enemy who found our weaknesses. I'm trying to fix those weaknesses."
Okonedo turned. His eyes were cold.
"The prince believes he knows better than men who have bled for this kingdom."
"I believe I've seen what's coming. And it doesn't care about tradition."
"Show me, then." Okonedo threw a training spear to the ground between them. "Show the old guard what the prince's methods can do."
---
Akenzua picked up the spear.
The general's muscle memory was vast—decades of combat training, hand-to-hand instruction at Fort Benning, sparring with special forces operators. But this body was young. Untested.
"The prince accepts."
They circled.
Okonedo moved first—a testing thrust. Akenzua parried, stepped left, counter-thrust.
The old warrior blocked. His eyes narrowed.
"Not bad. For a fever-touched boy."
They circled again. This time Okonedo committed—a rapid combination that would have ended most fights.
Akenzua dodged the first strike. Deflected the second. Used the momentum to spin inside Okonedo's guard.
The spear tip stopped an inch from the veteran's throat.
Silence.
"The prince's methods," Akenzua said quietly, "emphasize efficiency. Using the enemy's strength against them."
Okonedo didn't move. His eyes were fixed on the spear at his neck.
"You could have killed me."
"I could have. I chose not to."
"Why?"
"Because I need you. All of you." Akenzua lowered the spear. "The techniques I'm teaching won't replace what you know. They'll add to it. Make it stronger."
Okonedo was silent for a long moment.
"The old guard will... observe further."
Not an endorsement. But not opposition either.
It was a start.
---
A week later, the doctrine proved itself.
A trading caravan from the Ijaw territories—three wagons of palm oil and ivory—was attacked by bandits on the road north of Benin City.
The escort included six of Akenzua's trained guards. And Idahosa.
The bandits expected easy prey. Twenty men with clubs and machetes against six guards and some traders.
They were wrong.
Idahosa's report came that evening.
"They hit us at the river crossing. Standard ambush pattern—half blocking the road, half coming from the trees."
"What happened?"
"We formed the defensive square you taught us. Overlapping fields of fire. Covering sectors."
"And?"
"They didn't know what to do. Every time they charged, three rifles were pointed at them. We dropped four in the first volley. After that, they ran."
"Casualties?"
"One trader scratched by a machete. Nothing serious."
No trained guards lost. No significant injuries. Against a force that outnumbered them three to one.
"The doctrine worked."
"Better than worked. The traders are telling everyone. The prince's guards—they fight like demons."
---
Idia's summons came at dawn.
No explanation. Just four words delivered by a servant who wouldn't meet Akenzua's eyes.
"The Queen Mother waits."
Her chambers smelled of palm oil and something bitter. Shutters closed against the morning light. She sat facing the window, her back to the door.
"Close the door."
He did.
"Sit."
He sat.
"Don't call me Mother until I decide whether you've earned it."
---
She turned.
Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry.
"I've watched you for a year. My son—the boy I nursed, taught to walk, guided through this court—become a stranger. A stranger who speaks like an old man. Who plans like a general. Who wins fights against warriors with thirty years of experience."
"The fever changed me."
"Stop." The word cut through his explanation. "I've heard your stories. The ancestor visions. They explain nothing."
"What do you want me to say?"
"The truth. However impossible. However terrible." Her voice cracked. "A mother deserves to know what happened to her son."
Akenzua was silent for a long moment.
"Something happened during the fever. I don't fully understand it myself. But when I woke, I carried knowledge that didn't belong to me. Skills I'd never learned. Memories that weren't mine."
"Whose memories?"
"A soldier. A general. Someone who spent his life studying war and preparing for enemies exactly like the ones we face."
"Is my son still in there?"
"I don't know. I feel his emotions sometimes. His love for you. His connection to this place. But the person thinking these thoughts, making these plans—I'm not sure how much of him remains."
Idia walked to the window. Pushed open the shutters.
"I've spent a year mourning a son who walks and breathes. Weeping in private. Trying to understand how to love someone who is and isn't my child."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She turned back. "I've decided to stop questioning what I don't understand and start protecting what matters. Whatever you are now—you're fighting for Benin."
---
Hours passed.
They sat over maps and reports. For the first time, he shared everything. The rifle production. The training programs. The strategic plan.
"Your doctrine worked against the bandits."
"Small scale. The real test comes when we face Europeans."
"The Oba has given you resources. Quietly."
"Osaro doesn't know."
"Osaro suspects everything. But suspicion isn't proof." Idia studied the maps. "The vassal territories—the Itsekiri at Warri, the Ijaw, the Urhobo. Have you reached out?"
"Intelligence networks. Supply arrangements. But nothing formal."
"You should. Consolidation requires reinforcing those relationships. Reminding them why they owe tribute to Benin."
"You sound like a general."
"I've been running this kingdom for thirty years. Through your father. Through networks you've never seen." She rolled up the map. "The difference now is that I'm playing to win something that actually matters. Survival."
"Will you help me?"
"I already am."
---
"One more thing. Oronmwen."
Akenzua's face tightened.
"I've approached him. He won't—"
"Try harder. He attended one of Osaro's meetings."
"I know. Osarobo told me."
"Then you know he's being pulled toward the enemy. Family matters. Even when it's complicated."
"He doesn't trust me. He thinks I'm a stranger wearing his brother's face."
"Then prove you're not. Make new memories. Show him who you're becoming."
"And if he's already chosen Osaro?"
"Then you lose nothing by making the attempt." She gripped his arm. "A kingdom divided cannot stand. Neither can a family."
---
Akenzua returned to his chambers as the sun rose.
A knock at the door. Osarobo.
"The training doctrine. Word has spread."
"The caravan ambush."
"Everyone's talking about it. The old guard—they're not laughing anymore. Okonedo himself asked to observe your next training session."
"What changed?"
"Results. Your guards fought outnumbered and won without losses. That's not theory. That's proof."
"And Osaro?"
"Worried. His people are asking questions. If your methods work, his argument that you're a fever-touched fool falls apart."
"What about my brother?"
"Still attending meetings. But..." Osarobo paused. "He's asking questions. About you. About what you're really building."
Not yet an ally. But not solidly in the enemy camp either.
"There's something else." Osarobo's voice dropped. "The priests are mobilizing. Osaro's called in favors. They're planning a formal accusation—heresy, spirit possession, something that requires religious trial."
"When?"
"Within the week."
The timeline was accelerating.
Sixteen years until the British expedition.
But first, he had to survive the enemies within.
---
END OF CHAPTER NINE