‘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.