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Against Rome |
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Back to section iii of this chapter IV. Vendorix, Southern
Gaul, iv But
now Vendorix’s deception began to unfold. While Hannibal was camped in their
vicinity, Vendorix’s men and the volunteer women came and went with unusual
frequency, even now and again changing their clothes, trying to make the oppidum
and its farms seem fully occupied. Of course, Vendorix could see all the tasks
that weren’t being done, for running the place required every available hand.
Still, he thought the show he’d arranged looked plausible enough. Vendorix
visited Hannibal’s camp frequently to keep an eye on things, hoping to head
off any trouble that might arise. He had already noted the motley composition of
Hannibal’s army: a collection of mercenaries from a dozen nationalities. The
ones he could recognize by their features or their clothing and gear included
Celtiberians, Gauls, Greeks, Ligurians. And these were but a few of the total. He
marveled that anyone could recruit, train, organize, and deploy such a
jumble—of languages as well as nations—a real tribute to Hannibal’s
ability as a general—and more: his magnetic charm, his personal strength and
power. The
man looked confident, spoke confidently, mingled familiarly with his men and
seemed to know a great many of them personally. He even dressed much as they
dressed and slept as they slept—he did have a command tent, but it was an
office, not his quarters. He slept in a small one-man tent no different from
those used by his officers, and little different from those used by his men.
They loved him, Vendorix could see, followed him just because of his charm and
spirit, rapt like dogs following a bitch or boys following their hero. On
the second day, Vendorix and Geta, accompanied by all of their sons, happened to
be walking through the camp with Hannibal and a couple of his officers when they
came upon a fight that had just broken out between an African and some sort of
Greek or Macedonian. The
tall African pressed the Greek to the ground, holding the man’s throat with
one hand as he reached for a knife in the back of his belt. The Greek had both
hands on the slender but strong African’s wrist at his throat. Just as the
African pulled out the knife, the Greek fell back and then bucked wildly. Pulled
off balance, the African lost his grip on the knife, which sailed into the crowd
gathered around. Men dodged it quickly, then returned their gaze to the combat.
Meanwhile, the African managed to keep his grip on the Greek’s throat,
settling down to sit on the man’s chest. His powerful hands were slowly
choking his victim. When
the Greek passed out, the African shook him by the throat and leaped to his feet
with a jubilant cry. Beside
Vendorix, Hannibal laughed heartily, then threw back his head and howled like a
wolf. His men roared with laughter and began cheering their general, the fight
almost forgotten. Nearby,
Dorix howled too, eyes fixed on Hannibal. Although
Hannibal was clearly a man of the nobility, well educated and world-wise,
Vendorix also saw something else in him. He loved what he was doing, lived for
it. The ultimate soldier. And because he owned a wildness out of keeping with
his high birth, ultimately dangerous. Vendorix vowed to keep the peace. He
wanted nothing more than to see this wild, talented man departing his own humble
oppidum, the sooner the better. But
Hannibal’s response to the fight—and his men’s to him—showed Vendorix
once again what a vast animal force this man was in the eyes of his followers.
They thought him practically a god and would surely follow him into the
underworld—even into the Alps. Hannibal’s
stay in the area was blessedly brief, only four days. He was increasingly
anxious to reach the Alps, he told Vendorix. It was now already mid-September,
and he still had the Rhodanus to cross. He knew too that from the Rhodanus it
was still a long way into the Alps themselves. If
Vendorix could only keep things steady for a little longer. Just a little
longer. On
the last day before Hannibal’s departure, Vendorix sat comfortably with two of
his councilors. “It’s
working,” one of them said, beaming. “He’s
not gone yet,” Vendorix replied. But he smiled as he said it, for he too was
already beginning to feel the relief. The plan had always seemed a bit childish,
really, for how could a man as intelligent as Hannibal be so easily fooled. Yet
by all appearances, he had, and now it was mere hours—one night—before the
great beast would shamble on and the shroud of dust that accompanied it die back
to the earth. Geta
burst through Vendorix’s front door. “Trouble,”
he said. “What?” “It’s
Galdorus,” Geta said. Another member of Vendorix’s council. “Tell
me.” “Seems
one of Hannibal’s men raped his eldest daughter.” “Oh
no, the pretty one? When?” “Not
long since. I happened to be nearby when Galdorus heard of it. I couldn’t stop
him. He went storming into Hannibal’s camp, and there was a fight. It’s
bad.” It
turned out a tall Numidian cavalryman had raped the girl, one of the few
relatively young women who had remained rather than hiding in the caves. She was
pretty, unmarried, now ruined. In a rage, Galdorus, her father, had found and
attacked the Numidian, throwing him into the dirt where he leaped astride the
African’s chest and began pummeling his face. At
which point, one of the African’s mates had swung his great sword in a long
arc that ended in beheading Galdorus. Vendorix
sent runners to round up all of Galdorus’s closest kinsmen. This could get out
of hand in a hurry. And if it did— “We
will have revenge!” Galdorus’s kinsmen said when Vendorix had them gathered. “No.
We will let it pass,” said Vendorix. “Impossible!”
Galdorus’s brother said. The others nodded; some shouted their angry
agreement. Their eyes burned, and most of them carried naked swords, already
halfway down the road to ruin. “It’s
the only thing possible.” And
so it had been. A few hundred of Vendorix’s people, even though many were
seasoned warriors, against many tens of thousands of Hannibal’s men?
Unthinkable. Eventually
he got them under control, made them see the reason of it. This was no squabble
among neighbors. This was baiting the bear—or thousands of bears. Vendorix
did take the grievance to Hannibal. “I’m
sorry,” the Carthaginian said. He took Vendorix’s hand in both of his own
and squeezed sympathetically, the man called Maharbal looking on. “What’s
to be done?” Vendorix asked, withdrawing his hand. “I
know my men were in the wrong. They’ve been deprived of women for months,
though that’s certainly no excuse. They will be punished.” “I
want them.” “That
I cannot do. But I will punish them myself. Perhaps not with death, for I need
the good will of my men. I have to allow them considerable latitude as to their
dealings with the people we encounter. But I have made you assurances of their
good conduct, and I aim to see your people well compensated. The rapist and the
one who killed the girl’s father will be flogged.” “Unsatisfactory.” “It
will have to do,” Hannibal said, not losing his sympathetic smile. “He
speaks rightly, Hannibal,” Maharbal said, speaking up for the first time as
Vendorix, angry beyond words, turned to go. In
the end, Vendorix accepted Hannibal’s solution, much as he felt it
inadequate—and much as it would be thought despicable by his own people.
Really, there was no choice in the matter. And
that had to be that, though the sting of it still lingered, and Vendorix still
harbored the anger he’d had to swallow in the face of necessity. His own
people’s hard looks only made him angrier. But
at last Hannibal’s great army did strike its thousands of tents, load up its
mountains of gear, and march off to the east. Vendorix and the others stood
watching the immense cloud of dust Hannibal raised, visible for hours after the
departure, which itself had occupied nearly half the day, though it had begun
before dawn. When Hannibal had gone, a path over a mile wide lay in his wake—a
vast quagmire of destruction, over which the dust slowly settled. “I
could happily kill that man,” Geta said. “We
were lucky,” Vendorix said. He turned on his heel to start the process of
bringing back the women, children, food, and gold stored across the river. *
* * When
next Hannibal stopped to camp, Maharbal came to him in his tent. “You
should have turned those men over to Vendorix,” Maharbal said. This had been
on Maharbal’s mind since the men in question had raped the daughter of one of
Vendorix’s councilors, then killed the councilor. Maharbal considered himself
a civilized man, and this had not been civilized behavior. Perhaps an odd
attitude for a warrior, he knew, but he did not wish to be part of a barbarian
horde. Hannibal’s army of mercenaries threatened to be just that if not well
controlled. “So
you said in Vendorix’s presence, which I did not appreciate. Why?” “Because
our business is in Italy. We placed enough burden on a good host without adding
the death of one of his people.” “You
know how much—or how little—control I have over my soldiers, Maharbal. What
happened is regrettable, but such things happen.” “I’m
not saying they don’t. But when they do, you ought to take the
responsibility.” “I
do take responsibility. I told him I would punish the offenders. And I will.” “But
you make excuses for their actions. Are we barbarians, Hannibal?” “Have
a care, Maharbal,” was all that Hannibal said. *
* * Fear
gripped Vendorix without cease as he rode east in the company of his
brother-in-law Geta and his dogs on the 26th day of September.
Missing! His two and only young sons were gone. Now he cared nothing of what
might happen between Hannibal and the Romans. “Missing?”
he had asked dumbly when his sister Alla told him the boys had gone missing. To
Alla and her husband Geta had fallen the obligation to rear Vendorix’s twin
sons—just as he and his wife Borva were rearing Alla’s three boys. It was
the custom of their people. Thus it had not been Vendorix who noticed their
absence but Alla. “Gone
since several days,” she had said, weeping. “I thought Dorix and Borix were
with Geta, who was with you this past week since Hannibal’s departure. And he
thought they were with me.” Alla
had already cried many tears, and was as frantic as Vendorix. So were their
spouses, and from Borva Vendorix felt cold anger as well, and aimed at him. The
whole community had turned out to search. Hannibal?
he speculated. After
a day-long search, Vendorix realized that the boys were sixteen, nearly men, and
self-sufficient hunters and campers, already well trained with weapons. They
could not be simply lost. They had gone somewhere—or been taken. Yes,
definitely Hannibal! They must have followed the army, their young red heads
filled with dreams of war and glory. Vendorix struck his limed shock of carroty
hair with the heel of his hand for not having foreseen this possibility. He’d
been congratulating himself on the success of his plan to minimize Hannibal’s
impact on his people—despite one death among his own at the hands of
Hannibal’s men—and now this. Or, he continued to think, letting fear run
away with him: Had the boys been kidnapped? When
he questioned Alla’s slaves, Vendorix soon learned that the boys had been gone
for four full days now. Gone too were their horses, their weapons, and some food
from Alla’s pantry. Not likely a kidnapping, then. Two foolish boys off on an
adventure, impatient to become warriors, seduced by a man half wolf. In
an hour, Vendorix and Geta had saddled their best horses and loaded their gear
onto pack mules, ready to head east, fully armed, the two mules and two extra
mounts tethered behind. When
the men leapt into their saddles, Borva gripped his leg just above the knee.
Hard eyes stared up from her dirty, tear-tracked face, and her farm wife’s
body was rigid. “Bring
back my sons—or don’t come back yourself,” she said. She tightened her
grip on his knee until it hurt, then released him. “I mean it, Vendorix! It
was you who told them tales of Hannibal, the size of his army, how it looked
stretched out in the valleys of the Pyrenees. You filled their heads with
visions of glory and Hannibal’s great march.” She spat. “I
know,” Vendorix said, booting his horse in the flanks. He had. End of Chapter 4 Back to Top
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