|
|
Against Rome |
| Home Chronology |
Back to section ii of this chapter I. Hannibal, Spain, 221 - 218 B.C. iii It
took time for word to come from Carthage. More than two months. Because Rome
controlled the sea, the messengers must ride to Gades, cross at night to Africa,
then ride seven-hundred-fifty miles from Mauretania to Carthage. Then
politicking—Old Hanno!—and the same trip back to New Carthage. But
as the end of a third month loomed, the messenger arrived with news that
Carthage had ratified Hannibal’s selection to lead the Carthaginian armies in
Spain. “War
is inevitable,” Hannibal said, striding out into the center of his gigantic
map, so huge he could find nowhere else to lay it out but on the floor of
Hasdrubal the Handsome’s dining hall—the very place where the Handsome One
had wheezed his last, and a place Hannibal had vowed not to revisit. Maharbal
was on his guard despite the map’s grandeur—really impressive at twenty feet
high, thirty wide, a patchwork of finely tanned hides with the various lands
drawn upon it in black and the countries, rivers, seas, and mountains done up in
reds, blues, and yellows. One grand Hannibalic gesture—the map—surely
portended other, grander gestures to come. Grandly unwise, Maharbal suspected, a
depressing thought. Hannibal
had stripped the room of its couches and its heavy brocaded hangings, thereby
exposing a bank of tall windows in one wall and admitting good natural Spanish
light. The
rest of Hannibal’s lieutenants had gathered in the map room and gotten past
their awed responses to it by now. Hannibal stood in the middle of the map, near
New Carthage in southeastern Spain. The others hung back on its edges, chary of
stepping on so fine a work, which Hannibal had just revealed to them all for the
first time. “War
is inevitable because of Saguntum,” Hasdrubal Barca said. “For
that and many reasons. Rome agreed with my late brother-in-law to stay north of
the Ebro River, but she’s violated that agreement, among her many other
transgressions.” Hannibal took several steps, unsheathed his sword, and used
it to point to Saguntum, south of where the Ebro River cut eastern Spain neatly
in half. Indeed,
a year or so before the death of Hasdrubal the Handsome, the Saguntines had
fallen into a dispute with their neighbors, the Turboleti. The pro-Carthage
faction argued with the pro-Rome faction over which power to ask for help. By
now Saguntum, originally a colony of Massilia, had become by extension of the
Roman friendship with Massilia a friend of Rome as well. The pro-Rome faction
preempted the local dispute by sending to Rome for help, and Rome sent
emissaries to adjudicate the issue. This the emissaries did by putting several
Saguntine noblemen who supported Carthage to the sword. As clear a provocation
as one could ask for, in Hannibal’s opinion. Saguntum lay eighty miles south
of the Ebro River, deep in Carthaginian territory even by Hasdrubal the
Handsome’s treaty with Rome. “We’ve
lost too much at Roman hands,” Hannibal continued, now pacing across the map
before his listeners, clad in a simple white tunic, sword now erect in his fist.
“And even if we hadn’t, we’d continue to run afoul of one another in the
western sea. They’ve taken Sicily and Sardinia from us.” He strode to each
island in turn. “It’s only a matter of time before they move on Spain as
well, and then perhaps even Africa.” Carthalo
rubbed his square chin and asked, “Where will the next war be fought?” “In
the last war, Rome tried to take the war to Carthage.” Hannibal crossed the
Mediterranean to stand on Carthage, on a promontory of the African coast. “She
failed, but she might well succeed under a better general than Marcus Atilius
Regulus. That must not happen. “Two
battlegrounds remain to consider. The first is Spain—and that must not happen
either.” He stepped on Spain again. “What’s
the other possibility?” young Mago asked Hannibal
looked into each man’s eyes, one by one. Carthalo. Hasdrubal Barca. Mago.
Hasdrubal, son of Gisgo, yet another unrelated Hasdrubal. Bostar. Hanno, son of
Bomilcar. Maharbal. “Italy,”
Hasdrubal Barca said before Hannibal could reply. “Italy!?”
chorused several of them at once. Maharbal frowned, but he said nothing. “It’s
obvious,” Hannibal said, smiling now and recrossing the sea to Italy. “If
we’re to prevent them taking the war to us, we take it to them first.” He
stopped at Rome and punctured the hides with his point, which rang on the marble
underneath—at the very spot where Hasdrubal the Handsome had perished. Hannibal
looked squarely at Maharbal, who returned his gaze evenly. It
was as Maharbal had expected. “But
take it to them how?” Mago wanted to know. “Not
by sea,” Hasdrubal Barca said. “Rome has too many ships for that, and we too
few.” “That’s
why it must be by land,” Hannibal said. He
waited a moment for all of them to think it through. Gradually face after face
broke from the clouds into understanding. “But
the Pyrenees—and then the Alps!” Carthalo said. “Difficult,
of course, but not insurmountable, provided we cross them in warm weather and
have good information in advance, and good guides when we get there. And perhaps
the element of surprise.” He returned to New Carthage, walked up Spain,
crossed the Pyrenees, strolled across southern Gaul, then stepped over the Alps
into Italy. There he waited for objections. Hannibal
had named a long string of ifs, but Maharbal was not ready to voice his
concerns. “Ye
gods!” exclaimed Hasdrubal, son of Gisgo. “When
do we mount this invasion?” asked Hanno, whose father had been Shofet, the son
himself no doubt one day in line for the same highest office in Carthage, her
consulship. As the son of a powerful leader in Carthage, Hanno understood
Hannibal’s political situation. He spread his large hands questioningly. “In
time,” Hannibal said. “There’s much to do first, and many obstacles to
overcome.” Maharbal
kept his counsel. Time enough later, he judged. * * * “Hannibal,
you’re mad,” Maharbal said. He’d chased the general heading for the
latrines, catching him beside the elephant paddock, where the big animals stood
placidly raking hay into their mouths with their flexible trunks. Hannibal
stopped walking and looked at his lieutenant as if Maharbal were the madman. “Your
plan is the most audacious I’ve ever seen, Hannibal, but it can’t possibly
succeed.” “Oh?”
Hannibal arched an eyebrow. “Can’t?” “Besides
Hasdrubal the Handsome’s treaty, which forbids our crossing the Ebro to wage
war, the march is too long, through too much hostile territory. The Alps are too
formidable. Gods, the Alps, Hannibal. And Rome is not just one city but the
whole peninsula.” “I
see you’ve given it some thought, Maharbal.” “I
have—have you?” Maharbal stepped over the line, but that was nothing new. “More
than you can know, Maharbal. Everything you say is correct, yet I’ll do it
anyway. There are resources in Italy that you haven’t mentioned: the Gauls in
Italian Gaul, who hate Rome; many of the Italian tribes, whom Rome has trod upon
too hard for them to forget; Rome’s own incompetent system of generaling her
legions.” “But
can you count on any of that?” “Hard
to say. But it’s still worth doing.” He paused and shuffled his feet
impatiently. Somewhere at the back of the paddock an elephant bellowed. “Therefore,
I will do it,” he said. “How
can you be so impractical? How is it possible to invade Italy and not simply be
crushed, as Regulus was when he invaded Africa?” Maharbal looked so distressed
that Hannibal felt pity for him. After
a moment’s thought, Hannibal said: “Come with me, Maharbal. I’ll show you
something about possibility.” He
led a puzzled Maharbal on a long walk, out of the camp towards the city, then
off to the city’s north side. It was a quiet walk, for neither man spoke much
except that Hannibal returned the numerous greetings of those who passed. “You’re
taking me to the lagoon?” Maharbal asked. “I
am,” Hannibal said. “Why?” The
lagoon along the northern wall was large, probably larger than the part of the
city itself that was enclosed within walls. A slice of the lagoon was visible
from the camp, but now Hannibal rounded the wall and brought Maharbal to a point
where they could see the whole flat expanse of it. Trees grew along the far
shore. The water was a wispy gray, reflecting the sky. Hannibal
kept going along a narrow path beneath the city wall beside the water until he
reached the lagoon’s midpoint, which was actually its narrowest part, less
than a thousand feet across. “All
right, Maharbal, I want you to cross the lagoon here.” Hannibal extended his
arm to point across the water in invitation. “I
can’t.” “Can’t?”
Maharbal
looked uncomfortable, not meeting Hannibal’s eyes. “I
can’t swim.” “Well
then,” Hannibal said, glancing up at the sun, then wetting his finger and
holding it up to gauge the wind. “Observe.” With
Maharbal watching, his face a mask of shock, Hannibal stepped into the water and
began wading straight out. Hannibal
kept wading. Fifty feet out—the water was up to his waist. One hundred feet
out—now it came to his throat. Hannibal
glanced back occasionally to watch the expressions on Maharbal’s still stunned
face. He
kept wading. So far he had not used his arms, had not begun to swim. Two
hundred feet—still up to his neck. Three
hundred—the same. In
a little while, his lower body reappeared as he began to near the far shore.
Soon he stepped out of the water onto dry land and stood gazing back at
Maharbal, who was distant enough now that his face was unreadable. “Come
on across,” Hannibal called. “Are
you serious?” “Yes,
come on.” Hannibal laughed. A handful of fishermen and some women picking up
oddities along the shore had stopped to watch this amazing performance. Goaded,
Maharbal sucked in a breath and stepped out into the water. But,
as Hannibal had experienced, the water came no higher than his chin, though he
had to hold it high. And, in only a few minutes, he stepped ashore beside
Hannibal, who still dripped water from his immersion.
Maharbal was visibly shaken. “How
did you know?” Maharbal asked. “It’s
my business to know as much as I can. Did you think I’d never wondered how
defensible Hasdrubal the Handsome’s city is? I don’t like the place myself,
but it does fortify my seat of government, and it does so very well. “Just
one weakness: at a certain time of day, depending on tides—which do affect the
lagoon slightly through the waterway connecting it to the bay—and depending on
the wind, the lagoon becomes barely shallow enough to do what we just did. “An
attacking army could exploit that—if they knew of it, of course. Most
unlikely.” “So
your point is?” “My
point, Maharbal, is that whether or not a thing is possible depends more on what
you know about it than on what you guess simply by looking at it. If I give
proper study on Italy, Gaul, the Pyrenees, the Rhodanus, the Alps, I’ll know
what I can and cannot do.” “And
you’ve done this, er, ‘proper study’?” “Only
started. I’ve winnowed what I can from the minds of the most knowledgeable
people available. Now it’s time to put agents—a great many of them, I
think—into the field to gather information and make useful contacts. This
I’ll do tomorrow.” Hannibal
smiled at the water still sluicing off Maharbal. “Have I decreased your
misgivings, or only gotten you wet?” “Mostly
wet,” Maharbal replied. “I still see many obstacles that will be obstacles
no matter how much you know and how well you prepare. It’s incredibly
dangerous, Hannibal. Italy is vast and brimming with people. Rome mounts some of
the best armies in the world, no matter how uneven the performance of her
generals. You’ll be cut off from reinforcements. And I doubt, frankly, that
Carthage has the will for this. Will they really support you?” “Pah,”
Hannibal said. “You understand me perfectly well, yet you refuse to see. I
give up.” He
started back across the lagoon, then turned with the water up to his knees and
smiled. “For
now.” Next section of I. Hannibal, Spain, 221 - 218 B.C. Back to Top
|
