The Wrath of the Unchained-Chapter 119 - We are the Stage

In the candlelit war chamber of Fort São Miguel, high above the bustling port of Goa, the Portuguese High Council of the Indies gathered under vaulted ceilings draped with naval banners. Rich tapestries hung like trophies, reminders of past glories—from Melaka to Mozambique, from Hormuz to the Cape.

Governor-General Gaspar de Sousa stood at the head of the table, his silver beard immaculately combed, his eyes sharp and calculating.

"All of you have read the latest dispatches," he began, gesturing to the documents on the polished teakwood table. "Ottoman expansion continues unchecked along the Red Sea. Their grip over the slave and gold routes grows stronger each year. And now, word comes of a rebellion near Kilwa—one that threatens both Ottoman and Adal interests. Ships have been getting lost at sea, especially slave ships. We’ve been loosing shipmets as well."

He paused, letting the words settle.

Bishop Rodrigo sighed. "So? Let the Ottomans choke on their arrogance. Their empire is bloated. They can’t hold the coasts forever. The second they falter we will raze their ports and take everything. Loosing a few ships is nothing compared to future profits."

"Yes, but neither can we afford to let them grow more powerful. If they manage to completely take over Abyssinia and the entire trade routes, they will definitely push us out," Sousa replied.

Captain-General Vasco Pereira, a hardened veteran of the East African seas, leaned forward. "What about this so-called ’Kingdom of Nuri’? They say it’s some upstart kingdom of black rebels. Supposedly they took out the sultan and took over. They have created blockades, planned ambushes, even defeating Adal privateers. Is that verified?"

"Several reports confirm it," Sousa said. "They’ve severed Ottoman slave routes, disrupted merchant traffic, and established naval control near Kilwa. The Ottomans are furious but hesitant to retaliate. Their current efforts are focused on various countries. They are spread thin."

"Interesting," said António de Braga, the young but shrewd Secretary of Trade. "If true, Nuri has not only cut into the Ottoman purse, but created a wedge we can exploit."

Rodrigo scoffed. "We are to side with Abyssinia now? With tribes who still fight with bronze spears and barefoot warriors?"

"Abyssinia is primitive, yes," Sousa admitted. "But they are Christian. And they hate the Ottomans more than we do. Considering the Ottomans are funding their greatest enemy."

Pereira shrugged. "So do the lions of the Savannah. Shall we negotiate with them too? Those people from Nuri."

Braga smirked. "Let’s talk about real options. We should also send an emissary to Nuri, perhaps we can get them to resume the slave trade."

He stood, tapping the parchment before him.

"Option One: We align with the Ottomans."

He began ticking off with his fingers.

"They control lucrative ports from Zeila to Massawa."

"They offer security for our own spice routes—if begrudgingly."

"A treaty with them could give us access to slave markets and gold once more, now that Kilwa is locked down."

"But," he added, "we become their junior partners—dogs eating scraps under their table."

The room murmured in agreement.

"Option Two: We approach Abyssinia," Braga continued. "They are desperate. Surrounded. Betrayed. But they are building something new with this so-called ’Nuri.’ A united front of rebels, tribes, and kingdoms that detest foreign rule. If they succeed, they could become the gatekeepers of southern trade, and we can swoop in as saviours and get all the benefits."

Bishop Rodrigo looked unconvinced. "And if they fail?"

"Then we lose nothing but words," Braga replied. "But if they succeed, and we were their first allies..."

Sousa nodded. "We could demand exclusive trading rights. Missionary access. Control of certain ports. Maybe even a naval base along the southern coast."

"Like Kilwa?" Pereira asked, eyes gleaming.

"Precisely," Sousa said. "And better yet, we undermine the Ottomans without shedding a drop of Portuguese blood."

Rodrigo crossed his arms. "But we risk empowering pagans."

Braga sighed. "They are not pagans. They are Christians. Surely you’d prefer them over Muslims. We don’t know what religion is practiced in Nuri, but its something easy to send missionaries. "

That silenced the Bishop.

Pereira tapped the table. "So we speak to the Abyssinian Emperor?"

"We send envoys. Cautiously. Quietly,"

Sousa agreed. "We offer them weapons, perhaps advisors. We make no promises. But we hint at support. Enough to sow doubt in the Ottoman heart."

Rodrigo grunted. "And if Constantinople (The capital of the Ottoman Empire in this period) finds out?"

Sousa’s eyes glinted. "Let them. Let them scramble. Let them divide their forces further."

He looked around the chamber.

"We do not play to be loyal. We play to win. If Nuri and Abyssinia survive, it opens a door to an Africa not ruled by Ottomans or anyone. That leaves us to take it all."

Braga smiled. "Then shall we open it?"

The Governor-General raised his goblet. "To new empires... and old enemies."

They drank.

Far across the sea, the winds of politics shifted again—quietly, carefully—but inevitably toward fire.

The highland air of Gondar was crisp, carrying the scent of juniper and freshly burned incense through the open halls of the Imperial Palace. Gold-trimmed banners of the Lion of Judah fluttered gently, casting shifting shadows across the mosaic tiles.

Inside the Grand Hall, lined with obsidian columns and Abyssinian lion guards, Emperor Gelawdewos sat upon his throne—an ivory seat beneath a painted canopy of saints and kings. Beside him stood Prince Tadesse, hands behind his back, eyes sharp. On the Emperor’s left sat Khisa Lusweti, wrapped in dark ceremonial cloths that carried the symbol of Nuri—a golden sun over the horizon. Towering behind him was Ndengu, silent and vigilant, his arms crossed like iron gates.

A hush fell as the ornate double doors opened and the Portuguese emissaries were led in by palace servants. Robed in fine velvet and lace, the delegation strode forward: Dom Estevão Ferreira, the lead diplomat, flanked by two assistants and a priest.

The emissaries bowed stiffly.

"Your Imperial Majesty," Dom Estevão began in polished Amharic, "we bring greetings from the Portuguese crown and an offer of strength in these dark times."

"This is my ally, Prince Khisa of the kingdom of Nuri. They have been a great help in our war effort." Emperor Gelawdewos introduced his court one by one.

"It is an honor to be in your presence Prince Khisa." Dom Estevão said bowing slightly.

The Emperor nodded politely. "Speak, Dom Estevão."

Ferreira stepped forward, placing a scroll on a gilded table before the throne.

"Our offer is simple: weapons, gunpowder, and naval support to bolster the Abyssinian war effort. In return, we ask for priority access to your trade routes, cooperation along the Swahili coast, and—"

He paused delicately.

"—the resumption of slave shipments through Kilwa, as is customary."

The chamber chilled. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

Tadesse narrowed his eyes. Khisa’s jaw clenched.

The Emperor’s voice was steady but edged with frost. "We are not in the custom of selling our own people, Dom Estevão. Nor do we consider slavery a matter of mere trade. Our people have already suffered enough because of this. It is time to put a complete end to it."

Ferreira smiled with diplomatic poise. "Of course, Your Majesty. But the slave trade is the cornerstone of East African commerce. With Kilwa restored under friendly control, you could enrich your empire—and your allies—tenfold. It is more lucrative than gold or minerals. We speak only of what is already in practice."

Khisa stood.

"My people were sold in those chains," he said, his voice low, resonant. "My sisters. My brothers. My blood. If you came here thinking we would sanction such evil again, you’ve mistaken this kingdom for the ones you once bought with beads. Nuri and Abyssinia will not be blinded by your silver tongue."

Ferreira’s smile faded.

"This is a matter of politics, Lord Khisa. Trade is not personal—it is survival. Our offer is generous. Your enemies are vast and with our help, you will have a higher chance at victory."

Khisa stepped forward.

"And yet you are here, not the other way around. You came because you need our gold, our ports, our spices. Without African ivory, incense, copper, and salt—your empire loses its edge. If you want any part of the Indian Ocean trade, you’ll take it on our terms."

Ferreira’s jaw tightened. "We offer you the chance to join the world stage. Don’t make the mistake of pride."

"No," Emperor Gelawdewos said calmly. "We are the stage. And we are already reshaping the world."

There was silence.

The priest muttered a curse under his breath. One of the Portuguese aides shifted uncomfortably.

The Emperor leaned forward. "We will discuss trade. You will have access to select ports, of course under Abyssinian officials, on condition of fair exchange. But there will be no slave trade. Not now. Not ever."

Ferreira’s voice dropped. "You’ll regret this."

Khisa’s gaze hardened. "No. You will regret betting against Nuri."

With that, the Emperor stood, signaling the end of the audience.

"The Empire of Abyssinia does not deal in human flesh," he said. "And neither does Nuri."

The Portuguese emissaries were escorted out in silence—faces red with fury, their promises unraveling like old sails in a storm.

As the doors closed behind them, Tadesse let out a long breath.

Khisa turned to the Emperor. "They’ll come back. Maybe under another flag, maybe with more guns."

"I know," Gelawdewos said. "Let them come. We’ll meet them not with chains but with fire."