Malik, the first grand chief of the tribal alliance, addressed the other chiefs with authority.
“Before we decide on our future direction, we must first name our alliance.”
Until now, the term “tribal alliance” had sufficed.
They gathered as little as once a year, or at most four to five times, to discuss boundaries or offer minor mutual aid during crises.
But now, as their survival depended on one another, it was time to formalize their group with a name.
“To survive, we need a nation.”
“Each of you, write down your suggestions for the name. The one with the most votes will be chosen.”
The name chosen from among the suggestions was "Masai", meaning "people."
It was a name that Fabio would’ve approved of, praising its democratic spirit.
“From now on, we are the people of the Masai Union. I, Malik, am the chief of the Botswana Tribe and the grand chief of the Masai Union.”
The naming of the nation wasn’t a matter of great concern to the chiefs, so Malik quickly moved to the next topic.
“Let us now discuss our next steps. Chief of the Zulu Tribe, would you like to speak first?”
As grand chief, Malik was essentially a king over all the tribes.
However, the Masai Union was still just an alliance; the grand chief’s authority was confined to wartime.
‘It’ll be a long time before he can rule over them like a true king.’
Not that Malik minded—his thoughts harbored no discontent.
If Baron Pierre, or rather Fabio, hadn’t intervened, his tribe would’ve already been enslaved by the Nador forces.
Now, he was on a journey to establish dominion over them for generations to come.
“As Pierre suggested, we must expand the Masai’s territory and bring more people under our influence. We need more muskets, more gunpowder, and more rum, which means acquiring more gold. Without it, we’ll be devoured by the lion that is Nador.”
Their unity under the name Masai was solely for survival.
Thus, no one present voiced any objection to Malik’s words.
“And let us speak plainly.”
The Zulu chief lifted his rum-filled glass for all to see.
“How much longer must we live as mere tribal chiefs? Don’t you wish to be like Baron Pierre, leading hundreds across vast seas and becoming wealthy?”
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There’s no one in this world who doesn’t want to be rich.
Naturally, the other chiefs listened intently.
“To survive, to become wealthy, and to keep drinking this delicious rum, I believe we must expand our power. In doing so, we could all become grand chiefs, each with several tribes under our rule.”
Among those who rise to the rank of chief, there isn’t a single one who doesn’t crave power.
They had fought tooth and nail since their youth to reach this position.
“What does the grand chief think?”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Malik replied, grinning.
And then he shared an idea not taught to him by Fabio, but one born of his own scheming nature.
“However, instead of integrating an entire tribe under our control, it would be better to split them into smaller groups. Those who surrender peacefully will farm, while those who resist will mine gold.”
In West Ifriqiya’s tribal culture, hunting and fighting were considered honorable activities.
Thus, giving weapons to subjugated tribes was seen as excessively generous.
‘How could we trust those people with weapons?’
Handing them weapons would only invite rebellion.
“Of course, if they work diligently over the years, we can gradually improve their treatment.”
For example, those who show loyalty or excel in their work could be accepted as warriors—a move that would inspire effort and devotion.
Everyone agreed with the proposal.
“A fine idea.”
“People aren’t livestock; they need motivation to work.”
Malik then declared:
“There are ten tribes near the Masai Union. Let us start by showing our strength to the nearest tribe, the Lima Tribe.”
Everyone agreed to this plan.
The meeting ended, and the chiefs celebrated with meat in one hand and rum in the other.
The rum, intoxicating at first sip, quickly became addictive.
It wasn’t as if they couldn’t live without it...
‘But they just can’t stop thinking about it.’
This time, they had requested three times the amount they previously ordered.
“I’m worried it still won’t be enough,” Malik muttered, regretting not ordering four times as much.
Soon after deciding to invade, the Masai Union gathered over a thousand warriors and marched toward the Lima Tribe.
Although it was a war against another tribe, Malik and the others seemed relaxed.
“With our muskets, what’s there to worry about?”
Muskets didn’t guarantee victory, but they could break enemy morale and secure an overwhelming advantage in battle.
As long as they didn’t get complacent, they were likely to win.
At the end of the march, Malik’s forces encountered the Lima Tribe’s army.
With practiced ease, Malik stepped forward to request a parley with the Lima chief.
“Before we fight, let’s try to find a constructive resolution through dialogue!”
Asking for “constructive dialogue” while armed with muskets, bows, and spears was absurd.
But across the world, international diplomacy often boils down to “the stronger party makes the rules,” while the weaker party’s words are ignored.
Thus, Malik’s request wasn’t met with ridicule.
The Masai Union, armed with muskets, was clearly stronger.
The Lima chief, however, protested.
“How can someone seeking a constructive resolution come armed with muskets? And what have we done to deserve this war? If you have something to say, then speak!”
The Lima Tribe had done nothing wrong.
From their perspective, the “constructive resolution” Malik sought was nonsense.
Even without hearing the terms, it was clear they’d be extorted with outrageous demands.
Malik didn’t bother addressing the chief’s complaints.
“I’ll give you two options.”
He held up two fingers.
“Die here, or join us.”
“What kind of choice is—”
“If you don’t decide quickly, I’ll take it to mean you’d prefer to die.”
At Malik’s signal, drums thundered, and Masai warriors raised their muskets skyward.
The crack of gunfire followed, filling the air with acrid smoke and flames.
The Lima chief trembled at the display.
Even without understanding muskets, anyone would quake at the sight of sticks that spat fire like lightning.
But the Lima chief, having learned firsthand from Nador forces how devastating muskets could be, knew better than anyone:
‘We can’t win against them.’
“I surrender.”
“Welcome to the fold. From now on, your tribe is part of the Masai Union.”
That day, the Lima Tribe vanished into history.
The Masai Union was steadily expanding its reach.
Meanwhile, back in Florence, Fabio was summoned by Duke Visconti.
The Duke grabbed my shoulders the moment he saw me.
“As you know, His Majesty has decided to dramatically scale up your wedding, and it’s driving me mad. I’ve pulled together every bit of the family’s budget, but it’s still not enough.”
Even though I’m his grandson-in-law, isn’t he sharing a bit too much?
Having married the Duke’s granddaughter, I’m bound to his faction and incapable of betrayal, yet this was still shocking.
“Selling off artworks and jewelry has only gotten us so far. Combining all available funds, we’ve managed to gather about 40,000 gold coins.”
Forty thousand gold coins—twice what I’d made in Ifriqiya—might seem like the Duke’s family was poor.
But that would be a grave misunderstanding.
No matter how extravagant, nobles never spend their entire treasury on a wedding unless it’s for the heir or the young head of the house.
‘They’re clearly staying within reasonable limits.’
The Duke’s contribution, including sales of artworks, probably amounted to just 10% of their total finances.
Some money would also be borrowed from merchants, but with an annual budget of 400,000 gold coins, they could manage.
“How much have you prepared?”
“Since the engagement, I’ve saved 20,000 gold coins, and I earned another 15,000 from Ifriqiya.”
In truth, I’d earned closer to 20,000 but set aside a portion as seed money for future ventures.
“You’ve gathered ten times the usual budget for a baron’s wedding. Excellent. Get to work immediately. I’ve entrusted Baron Conte, your restaurant advisor, to handle the preparations. You’ll learn the etiquette under his guidance.”
I answered with the resolve of a soldier heading to war.
“Yes.”
The Duke nodded and added:
“His Majesty will attend the wedding, as will that Sforza bastard. You cannot afford to show any weakness. This is war.”
A political war without gunfire.
Ha, being a noble is exhausting.