Justinian

EIGHT

On the night of his arrival in Gondar, the Negus — Ella Atsbeha — gave orders for a great feast to be prepared to welcome his Roman allies. Justinian and Valerian, together with a dozen of their senior officers (tribuni and their seconds-in-command, vicarii) were ushered into a great hall, part of the governor’s palace, down the centre of which was a long, low table, flanked by cushioned stools. When all the guests were seated (Romans paired with Aethiopian commanders clad in their toga-like shambas), the Negus rose and raised a goblet of tej — fermented honey and barley — and (via an interpreter, one of which stood behind each pair of guests) proposed a toast, ‘to Rome and Aethiopia — brothers-in-arms in Christ’. When all had resumed their seats after downing the sweet, fiery liquor, appetisers were served: curries from India, and delicious savoury balls (powdered locusts bound with fat, Valerian discovered after making enquiry), washed down with more tej.

An atmosphere of noisy cordiality soon prevailed, Valerian discovering that his hosts were surprisingly well-informed as to world affairs: relations between Rome and Persia; the German kingdoms which had taken over the lands of the old West Roman Empire; the religious divide between the Chalcedonians and the Monophysites; trade with China and the Indies. Then, to the accompaniment of agonized bellowing from outside, the speciality of the meal arrived: platefuls of raw red beef. His gorge rising, Valerian gazed in horror at the bleeding chunk of flesh before him, realizing that it had just been cut from a living animal! ‘Brundo — it’s delicious,’ the Aethiopian to Valerian’s right informed him. ‘A special treat, in honour of our Roman guests.’ With a forced smile, Valerian hacked off a sliver of the steaming meat and began manfully to chew it. Noticing that, in the next but one place, Justinian, white-faced and immobile, was staring at his plate, Valerian hissed, ‘For God’s sake try to eat it — some, at least. Otherwise, you’ll give offence.’

Justinian turned an anguished face to his friend. ‘I can’t, Valerian,’ he whispered. ‘It’s just not possible; I’ll be sick.’

Banishing the atmosphere of friendly jollity, a stony silence was spreading down the table as Justinian’s reluctance began to be observed. Cursing the other’s fastidium, Valerian tried to make excuses on his friend’s behalf, uttering some impromptu nonsense about uncooked meat being against Justinian’s strict religious observance. A small roast guinea-fowl was exchanged for the offending plate of brundo, and the feast continued — but in an ambience of cool and stiff politeness.

Then all tension was overshadowed by an event of greater consequence. A travel-stained messenger suddenly burst into the chamber and, hurrying over to the Negus, whispered in his ear. The young king rose, his expression grave. ‘Roman friends, fellow Aethiopians — the news is bad. One of Dhu-Nuwas’ generals has crossed the straits and, backed by our traditional enemies the Galla, has seized our great fortress of Magdala. Our route to the coast is therefore blocked.’

Whether resulting from his shortcoming at the feast, or apprehension regarding the news concerning Magdala, Justinian’s facade was beginning to crack, Valerian opined. Before Gondar, his friend’s mood had been positive and optimistic (sometimes verging on the manic). After leaving the city, he became silent and withdrawn, his contact with the troops now limited to necessary orders relayed through subordinates. It was as though he had awakened from a dream into a reality both alien and frightening. More and more the burden of everyday supervision of the Roman column fell on Valerian’s shoulders, to the latter’s disquiet and increasing irritation.

Swelling by the day as more and more warriors streamed in from outlying settlements, the united force pushed on to Lake Tana — a beautiful sheet of shimmering blue pocked by surfacing hippopotami, and fringed by stands of noble trees and flower-studded meadows filled with grazing herds of antelope and buffalo. Here, the expedition turned east, following the river Abai* past a stupendous arc of falls called Tisisat, to its junction with the river Bechelo. Following the latter, the force wound upwards through high wooded hills to a bare plateau broken by cliffs and ravines, the Bechelo here running through a rocky gorge. In this stony wilderness, the only sign of life consisted of large, aggressive monkeys with dog-like snouts,* which chattered angrily at the human intruders, their ‘sentries’ flashing up top lips to reveal rows of vicious fangs. Storm clouds now rolled up from the south, and the expedition found itself pushing on through squalls of hail and icy rain. Then, as suddenly as they had darkened, the skies cleared, revealing to the cold and sodden troops an arresting prospect: rising steeply from the tableland ahead, a series of dramatic, flat-topped heights, and beyond them in the distance a monstrous, towering cylinder of naked rock, crowned by the ramparts of a mighty fortress.

‘Magdala,’ declared the Negus to Valerian. The pair, who had ridden out ahead of the army, had formed a close bond in the course of the march. Intelligent and well-informed, Ella Atsbeha, in addition to his native Amharic, spoke several languages: Gez, the ancient aboriginal tongue with links to Arabic, now virtually a literary language used mainly by the clergy; Arabic itself; even a little Greek. Daily conversation with Valerian had improved his fluency in the last-named, to the extent that he could now dispense with an interpreter.

‘Impossible!’ breathed Justinian, riding up to join the pair. ‘That place has to be impregnable. Only a lengthy siege could hope to bring about its capture.’

‘It can and must be taken, sir,’ rapped back Ella Atsbeha, whose relationship with Justinian, in contrast to his friendliness towards Valerian, had become notably cool since leaving Gondar. (The cause, thought Valerian, had more to do with impatience on the Negus’ part towards Justinian’s mood of passive introspection, than over any slight he may have felt regarding the latter’s conduct at the feast.) ‘Magdala has enough reserves of food and water to last for many months. Were we to spend time investing it, Dhu-Nuwas, with Persian backing no doubt, would secure his grip on Arabia Felix. Permanently.’

‘I don’t suppose we could just bypass the place for the nonce,’ suggested Valerian tentatively. ‘Sort out Dhu-Nuwas first, then deal with Magdala later?’

The Negus shook his head. ‘That would be to invite disaster. You don’t know the Galla, my friend.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘A southern tribe of unreconstructed savages, they’re my subjects — officially. But they’ve never wholly accepted Aethiopian rule, or for that matter, Christianity. With our army absent in Arabia, the Galla, like angry locusts, would swarm out from Magdala, also from their homeland in the south, and devastate the land with fire and slaughter.’

‘I see,’ rejoined Valerian. ‘Then our only option is to take the place by assault.’

‘But even if that were to succeed,’ put in Justinian, ‘and it seems to me a very big “if”, the casualties would surely be horrendous.’

‘Not necessarily,’ objected Ella Atsbeha. ‘You Romans have brought engines with you — capable, you say, of breaching the most powerful defences. Below the rock on which the fortress stands is a plain called Islam-gee. If you could site your engines there. .?’ He looked enquiringly at the two Romans.

‘A good point, Your Majesty,’ Valerian responded. ‘I was wondering myself how best to deploy our catapults. All right, suppose we manage to batter down the gates, or knock a hole in the curtain wall; what then? From here, the rock looks unclimbable.’

‘Not so. There is a path, steep and narrow certainly, but not an impossible approach for an attacking force, provided it is well-armed and determined. That said, getting in is bound to be a costly business. Something we just have to accept, I’m afraid.’

‘The loss of life will be appalling, if we go ahead with this crazy plan of storming Magdala!’ Justinian protested to Valerian over dinner in their tent that night. ‘Anyway, it’s almost bound to fail. We ought to call the whole thing off, and besiege the place instead.’

Something seemed to snap inside Valerian. ‘For God’s sake, Petrus, stop being so negative!’ he heard himself shout, unconsciously reverting to his friend’s old name. ‘If you’d been listening to what the Negus said, you’d know a siege was off. You’re supposed to be in charge, not me,’ he went on, weeks of pent-up resentment at the other’s inaction spilling out like a lanced boil. ‘I’m tired of taking responsibility for everything, of carrying you, in fact. Call yourself a Roman! Since Gondar, you’ve been worse than useless. It’s high time you started pulling your weight.’

Justinian stared at Valerian, taken aback by his outburst. Then, as the significance of the latter’s words registered, loosing the cords of inhibition that had been holding him in thrall, he shook his head as if to clear it. As with Paul on the road to Damascus, the scales seemed to drop from his eyes, enabling him suddenly to see his recent behaviour objectively. ‘You’re right, old friend,’ he acknowledged quietly. ‘Thanks for that — I needed putting straight.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘Tomorrow, what say we recce Islamgee and decide where to site those catapults. All right?’

‘All right,’ replied Valerian with a smile, gripping the other’s proferred hand. ‘And — welcome back.’

The great machines — till this moment mere strangely shaped and innocent-looking pieces of timber and metal transported in sections by muleback or on carts — were duly being assembled on the plain of Islamagee, facing that titanic pillar, the rock of Magdala. Carrying out the task under Valerian’s supervision was a team of engineers, who had, despite frequent squalls of driving rain, been working steadily since dawn. Behind the engineers and to one side stood a small force of Roman cavalry and native spearmen, commanded by Justinian with an Aethiopian officer as his second. This was more of a routine precaution than anything else; vastly outnumbered by the expedition’s strength, Magdala’s garrison was hardly in a position to sally forth and offer battle.

Justinian was almost happy. On coming to himself following the exchange with Valerian, he had experienced a hot flush of salutary shame which had left him feeling purged, his outlook once more positive. An image of himself, long-cherished, as a real soldier in charge of men in a combat situation, was now being realized, he told himself with quiet satisfaction. Even the weather, gusty with icy showers, was something to be relished; indifference to physical discomfort was the mark of a true soldier.

The task of creating a breach fell to the aptly named onagri — ‘kicking asses’. Each onager consisted of a long beam powered by the torsion of twisted sinews in a frame, and faced by a padded retaining bar to absorb the shock when the arm was released by a trigger mechanism. Attached to the end of the arm was a sling to carry the missile — a large ball of stone or iron. Delivered with terrific force, these projectiles were capable, by a series of repeated hits, of smashing through stout wooden gates, or, given time, reducing stone walls to rubble. The other type of artillery was the ballista — for killing men. A cord connecting two torsion-powered arms mounted in a frame was cranked back by a ratchet device. When released by a catch, it would hurl a bolt (resting in a wooden trough) whose impact could skewer several bodies at the same time, or punch through shields or armour like a nail through putty.

Though no doubt warned by their Jewish allies (to those below, distinguishable from the tribesmen by their helmets and pale faces) of the destructive potential of the Roman catapults, the Galla — jeering and catcalling from the ramparts, seemed more amused than intimidated by the operations of the engineers, as they slowly pieced the great machines together.

‘When you’re ready, ducenarius.’ Valerian nodded to the sergeant in charge of Onager Primus.

With six artillerymen bending to the winding levers, the ratchet clanked, bringing Onager Number One’s throwing arm back to its loading cradle, when a heavy iron ball was placed in the sling.

‘Jacite!’* ordered the ducenarius. The release catch was thrown and the arm flew forward, slamming against the retaining bar and sending the missile whirring through the air in an arcing trajectory. The ball struck the breastwork above the gatehouse tower, sending up a spray of stone chips. A cheer arose from the catapult crew.

‘Good shooting,’ called Valerian. ‘Fire at will.’

‘Down one,’ ordered the ducenarius; this time the crew counted one less click of the ratchet before loading. The missile smashed against the woodwork of the gate itself. As if suddenly realizing the very real threat posed by the catapults, the Galla on the battlements fell silent. Soon, all four onagri were in action, inflicting visible damage on the gate and its flanking towers, while volleys of bolts from the ballistae forced the enemy to keep their heads below the ramparts. Watching from his station, Justinian wondered just how long the entry to the fortress could sustain such unrelenting punishment.

Without warning, a sudden burst of heavy rain swept across Islamgee, instantly blotting out all vision beyond a few yards. Having found the range, however, the engineers continued their bombardment uninterrupted.

Then, as quickly as it had commenced, the rain cleared — revealing to Justinian an appalling sight. A large party of Galla (who must have descended the path from the fortress to the base of Magdala, under cover of the squall) was charging towards the catapults! Justinian stared in horror at the rapidly advancing mass of warriors — immensely tall men with pitch-black skins, and beardless faces surmounted by monstrous globes of fuzzy hair, their delicate, almost effeminate features contorted with battle frenzy, vicious-looking spears poised to strike. He opened his mouth to give the order to charge — but no sound came. He was aware that instant action was imperative, but seemed frozen in the saddle.

‘Ras!’* exclaimed his second-in-command, turning to him with a desperate expression. The urgency in the man’s cry jolted Justinian out of his immobility; turning to his men, he shouted, ‘Charge!’

The Roman cavalry, the Aethiopians racing at their side, swept down on the Galla; but too late — just — to save the engineers, who perished to a man, skewered by those terrible spears. Justinian saw Valerian go down, a reddened blade projecting a hand’s-breadth from his back. Then the horsemen were among the Galla, cutting them down with lethal swipes of their long spathae. The encounter was brief and bloody. Despite displaying ferocious courage, the Galla — incapable through temperament and tradition of presenting a defensive ring of spears against the cavalry, the only tactic that might have proved effective — fell by scores, before suddenly turning and retreating pell-mell back to the citadel.

In an agony of grief and self-recrimination, Justinian, in conjunction with the Negus and both their senior officers, now threw himself into organizing the assault. The Galla in their sortie had not had time to damage or destroy the catapults; fresh teams of engineers resumed the bombardment, and by noon the main gate had been battered down. After bitter hand-to-hand fighting, a storming-party then managed to clear the entrance long enough for a large contingent from the expedition to gain access to the fortress. As was usual in such circumstances, no quarter was shown to the defenders, who were hunted down and killed like rats.

After the fall of Magdala, the remainder of the campaign came almost as an anti-climax. Without further incident, the expedition proceeded to the coast, where waiting Roman transports conveyed it across the straits to Arabia Felix. Dhu-Nuwas and his army were duly brought to battle and decisively routed, the Himyarite leader being killed in the fighting. With Aethiopian rule and Christianity restored to the Sabaeans, the Negus and his warriors returned to Africa, and Justinian — victorious but sick in soul — sailed back with the Romans to Constantinople.

* The Blue Nile.

* Could these Gelada baboons be the origin of the legend of the ‘dog-faced men’ — a belief that stubbornly persisted throughout the Middle Ages?

* Shoot. Orders in the East Roman army were still being given in Latin.

* Lord.