Year: 1882
They came for Okonjo at midnight.
Akenzua watched from the shadows as Ezomo's soldiers surrounded the gate guard's quarters. No torches. No warnings. Just silent men moving with purpose.
"He's awake," Osarobo whispered. "Light under his door."
"He knows."
"Probably. Doesn't matter."
The door burst inward. A short struggle—something breaking, a cry cut short—and then Okonjo was dragged into the courtyard. Hands bound. Face bloodied.
He had taken the bribe that let assassins into the palace. Four men who'd come to kill Akenzua in his sleep. That crime alone warranted death.
But Okonjo wasn't the only target tonight.
"The others?" Akenzua asked.
"Already in custody. Ehaze's house is being searched. We found documents."
"What kind of documents?"
"Payment records. Correspondence with British agents. Names." Osarobo's voice was tight. "More names than we expected."
---
The prisoners were brought to a secure chamber beneath the palace.
Okonjo. Three merchants who had facilitated bribes. A minor priest who had passed messages. And Chief Ehaze himself—pale, shaking, his fine robes torn from the struggle.
Akenzua stood before them, flanked by Ezomo Erebo and Osarobo.
"You know why you're here."
Ehaze found his voice. "This is outrage! I am a chief of the realm! I demand—"
"You demand nothing." Ezomo's voice cut through. "You conspired to murder the crown prince. The evidence is documented."
"Lies. Fabrications—"
"The letters are in your own hand." Osarobo produced a stack of papers. "Your seal. Your signature. Instructions to the assassins. Payment amounts."
Ehaze's face collapsed.
"The question now," Akenzua said, "is whether you die alone, or whether you take others with you."
---
The questioning lasted three days.
Ehaze broke first. Names spilled out—chiefs, merchants, minor officials who had taken money or passed information to British agents.
"Osaro coordinates everything," Ehaze babbled. "He meets with Morton monthly. The British want Benin destabilized. They pay for chaos."
"We know about Osaro. Give us someone new."
"Adagunodo. He controls the western trade routes. Takes a percentage of every shipment that passes to British hands."
Akenzua signaled to Osarobo. Another name to verify.
"And in the palace?"
"I don't—"
"Don't lie." The prince's voice hardened. "Someone warned the assassins when to strike. Someone knew my schedule."
Silence.
"The name, Ehaze."
"Your brother's manservant. Idigun. He reports to Osaro's network."
Oronmwen's servant. The betrayal cut deeper than expected.
---
Okonjo was interrogated separately.
He was a gate guard—low-ranking, easily overlooked. The kind of man conspiracies used and discarded.
"Why?" Akenzua asked.
The guard's eyes were hollow. "My daughter. She was sick. The healers wanted payment I couldn't afford."
"So you took a bribe."
"I took what was offered. They said it was just... information. Where you walked. When you slept. I didn't know—" His voice broke. "I didn't know they would try to kill you."
"But you suspected."
Silence was answer enough.
"What happened to your daughter?"
"She lived. The medicine worked." Okonjo met his eyes. "I would do it again. For her."
There it was. Not evil. Not malice. Just a father trying to save his child, making a choice that led to assassination attempts.
"You understand the penalty for what you've done."
"Death. I know."
"Your daughter?"
"She'll be cared for. My brother's family will take her." A tear tracked down the guard's face. "I only ask that she not know what I did. Let her think I died honorably."
Akenzua was quiet for a long moment.
"She'll be provided for. From the palace treasury. And she won't know."
"Thank you. I don't deserve—"
"No. You don't. But your daughter does."
---
The formal hearing convened in the great hall.
Chiefs and nobles packed the galleries. Every faction represented. Every eye watching.
Chief Ehaze stood before the assembled court, chains visible beneath his torn robes.
"The accused has confessed to conspiracy against the crown prince," the court herald announced. "To facilitating assassination attempts. To corresponding with foreign agents. The evidence has been reviewed by the Council of Chiefs."
"Has the accused anything to say?"
Ehaze's voice was steady now. The shaking had stopped, replaced by something harder.
"I acted for Benin. The prince is touched by spirits—everyone knows this. His foreign ideas will destroy what our ancestors built. I tried to protect our traditions."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"The traditional penalty for treason is death," the herald continued. "Does the crown prince seek this penalty?"
Akenzua stood.
"Chief Ehaze's family has served Benin for generations. His own service, before this corruption, had merit." He paused. "Death would satisfy justice. But it would not serve the kingdom."
More murmurs. Surprise on some faces.
"Exile. Permanent. Beyond our borders. His lands and titles forfeit. His family name struck from the rolls of nobility for three generations."
"That's—" someone started.
"That's mercy," Akenzua cut through. "Mercy that should not be mistaken for weakness. The next conspirator will not receive the same."
---
Not everyone received mercy.
Okonjo was executed at dawn, along with two of the merchants. The priest was remanded to religious authorities—his fate their concern.
Akenzua watched the executions from a distance.
Three men. One who had taken a bribe to save his daughter. Two who had done it for simple greed. All dead because the conspiracy had reached them.
"You could have spared them." Esohe stood beside him. "Exile, like Ehaze."
"Ehaze is a chief. His exile sends a message. The others..." He shook his head. "Their deaths send a different message. That rank doesn't protect conspirators."
"That sounds like the general talking."
"The general knows how to protect what matters."
"And the prince?"
"The prince knows that some prices have to be paid."
Okonjo's body was taken down. His daughter would never know he had betrayed the crown. Small mercy in a brutal calculation.
---
The backlash came within days.
"Three incidents last night," Osarobo reported. "One of our warehouses burned—no casualties. Graffiti on the market walls calling you a tyrant. And this."
He handed over a piece of parchment. Crude writing. Direct threat.
"'The prince who kills chiefs will die like one.'"
"Source?"
"Anonymous. But the paper quality suggests wealth. This isn't street anger—it's organized opposition."
Akenzua studied the threat. "Osaro?"
"Probably. The executions gave him ammunition. 'The mad prince executes loyal servants to hide his own failures.' That's the narrative spreading."
"How widespread?"
"The eastern quarter is sympathetic. They see Okonjo as a martyr—a common man killed while chiefs got exile."
"That's not what happened."
"That's what people believe. Perception matters."
Idia arrived with her own reports. "The noble families are frightened. If a chief can be stripped of everything, what about them?"
"Ehaze tried to kill me."
"Ehaze is an old man from an old family. The court sees a precedent being set, not justice being served."
"So I should have let conspirators go unpunished?"
"You should have handled it more quietly. Private justice, not public theater." Idia's voice was sharp. "Now you've united your enemies and frightened your allies."
---
That night, Akenzua met with the inner circle.
"The situation is worse than expected," he admitted. "I thought decisive action would deter future conspiracies. Instead, it's created sympathy for the conspirators."
"The common people saw one of their own executed while a chief was exiled," Erebo said. "They don't understand the political calculation."
"Then we explain—"
"You can't explain executions. You can only justify them. And justification sounds like excuse."
"What do you suggest?"
Silence around the table.
"We absorb the backlash," Osarobo finally said. "Let the anger burn itself out. Stay quiet. Don't respond to provocation."
"And if provocation becomes action?"
"Then we respond to action. But not to words."
"The warehouse fire was action."
"A warning. Not an attack." Osarobo shrugged. "If they wanted to hurt us, they would have chosen a target that mattered."
"So we wait."
"We wait. And we prepare. Because the next time they move, it won't be a warning."
---
Later, alone, Akenzua sat with the weight of his decisions.
Okonjo's face haunted him. A father who had made a terrible choice for love. Dead now because he had been caught in something larger than himself.
The general's training said it was necessary. Mercy to one traitor invited betrayal from others. The calculus of deterrence demanded visible consequences.
But the prince—whatever remained of the prince—felt the wound.
Is this who I become? Someone who executes fathers because their deaths serve a larger purpose?
The door opened. Esohe entered without knocking—a habit now.
"You're brooding."
"I'm thinking."
"Same thing." She sat beside him. "The backlash will fade. The executions will be forgotten."
"Okonjo's daughter won't forget."
"She won't know."
"I'll know."
Esohe was quiet for a moment.
"When my father commanded campaigns, he lost men. Sometimes because of his orders. Sometimes because of his mistakes." She took his hand. "He told me once that the weight never goes away. You just learn where to carry it."
"And where do you carry it?"
"Somewhere it makes you careful. Not somewhere it makes you paralyzed."
Outside, the city was quiet. But the quiet felt fragile.
Enemies had been made. Not just the conspirators—they had always been enemies. But the people who saw a prince willing to kill. The nobles who saw precedents being set. The whispers that would grow into rumors, into movements, into opposition.
The circle had been tested. It had held.
But the cost was higher than expected.
And the backlash was just beginning.
---
END OF CHAPTER SIXTEEN